Can’t Complain

got to maintain

There are times when there is seemingly nothing to write about, but there are people reliably paying $5/month to read how my neurons fire. So, I sit on a floor pillow at a glass coffee table that I’ve designated as a desk in the corner of my room and hope that the humbling seat will immediately offer insight into the proper organization of an engaging update on motherhood—preferably one that’s relatable and witty. But too often, the confronting thought of a written recollection of the past few weeks leads to a cycle of sitting, typing, backspacing, sighing, typing again, backspacing faster than before, sighing again, and slouching, before standing to walk away defeated another day. [Maybe] the repetitiveness of mothering has taken bucket fulls from my well of publishing potential. Or maybe it’s the laundry that has caught up to me again. It started in an already overflowing IKEA basket and began spilling onto the hardwood until all of the hangers in my closet were left bare. Its reach met the opposite wall, making every entrance and exit a hilly excursion. I haven’t seen my clothes pile that far ever. I estimate that at least a quarter of the mass was twice worn—the denim, thrice. My inability for upkeep this month could be framed as a styling challenge: if all my first round picks are unavailable, can I style the second and third rounds just as well?