I’m Here, Dammit

So, today’s my day to share on Hevria, and I really don’t feel like sharing.

Some days, I don’t want to write. I’m spread too thin, I’m too tired, I’d rather watch Criminal Minds or Scrubs reruns.

Some days I don’t want to take the time to dig deep in the first place and find that little spark of truth and nurture it into something that can live outside of me, something both stark and vulnerable with a life of its own.

Some days are like that, like today.

But Hevria doesn’t run that way.

We have a schedule to organize our creative universe here, and if I don’t share on-time, then why should the other writers share on-time, and if they don’t share on-time, and I don’t share on-time, then what’s the point of being part of this community?

And besides, I love being part of this lovely, dynamic creative community.  Hell, I love writing.

So, I am writing.

Hi.

I’m here, dammit.

And I’m digging.

You know, some days, I don’t want to go to work.

Some days, I’m all like “stop the world! I want to get off!”  I’d rather power down my iPhone, jump on my purple  bike, and ride as fast and as far as I can from my laptop straight through to the other side of the horizon.

Or I’d rather sit in a smoky bar and drink single malt and listen to Johnny Cash.

Or charge through the gates of my daughter’s elementary school holding a boom box (wait, do they still make those?) blasting Pink Floyd’s we don’t need no education, and take her to the flea market in Jaffa.

Some days, I don’t want to be accountable, I’d rather just BE.

But work doesn’t work that way.

My work needs me to show up.

And I need my work, too — the challenge, the people, and oh yeah, the paycheck.

So, I plug in my laptop and check the news feed.

I clock in.

Whats up.

I’m here, dammit.

And the coffee is really good.

Ok, I’ll dig a little deeper:

Some days, I don’t want to be the grownup.

Some days, I don’t want to get out of my warm bed,  and stumble bleary-eyed into my kids room, and wake them up early because we have a bus to catch in 42 minutes, so I can drop them off at school, so I can get to work on-time.  (See above.)

Some days, I don’t want to pull a comb through my daughter’s Rasta-curls while she stomps her feet, or find that missing Spiderman sock for my son, or pour Cheerios into two glass bowls,  or zip up jackets or walk down the dirt road to the bus stop.

Some days, I don’t feel like grocery shopping, or cooking dinner, or helping with homework, or supervising showers, or reading a bedtime story and then another one.

But my kids don’t roll like that.  My kids need me to show up.

My kids didn’t ask me to be the grownup. I chose to be the grownup when I had kids, and I’ll never quit that, not ever.

So, I set my alarm clock.

(I only hit snooze once.)

F$(dakjfa#T^3

I’m awake, dammit.

And when my son says, “Kick ass, make it a good day and be kind to your friends, mama,” OR my daughter gives me one of those hugs that throws my heart flat on it’s back, OR I realize that being the grownup means I get to decide that tonight we’re going to order pizza for dinner and have two helpings of ice cream, then being the grownup is totally awesome.

The dishes. The laundry. Cooking. Writing. Working. Parenting.   Sometimes, I really don’t want to do it.

The thing is, once I’m doing it, and I’m in it, I’m actually glad I’m there.

Because these things are all part of my life.  And my life is one hell of an experience I don’t want to miss.