Music is playing, the soft sounds of Etta crooning from my radio. The kids are already in bed, kissed goodnight way too late in favor of a little more time promising that tomorrow will be interesting. We have another early morning due to one of the last band practices of the school year. The house is clean, unlike the wreck it was just an hour and a half ago. As soon as the light was off, I moved mechanically around each room, picking up the remnants of the day off the floor and clearing the dishes out of the sink. My computer stared at me wistfully, begging for some attention, pleading to write something, anything.

“Later,” I told it, and went about sweeping the floor and throwing in another load of laundry. And later finally came. It’s amazing how the words come at me like wildfire when I haven’t anywhere to put them. But as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard, they scatter like sand in the wind. I had a poem worked out, but it’s gone now. A story had started to develop, that disappeared as well. But the least I can remember is the present, and I can write about that, if not for just writing to write.

Writing has been my passion since I first learned to read. Stories held a magic for me. The very first book I ever read was a childhood version of Peter Pan. It’s funny the things that shape us. Peter Pan is still my favorite story to this day. The Lost Boys, Tinkerbell, flying to a land where no one grows up. The story holds a childish magic that I long to cling to in days when I just feel too grown up, days like the past few weeks where work has taken precedent over everything else, including being a good mom to my kids. Sometimes I come home so stressed and wiped out that I can’t even fathom making my kids a decent dinner, keeping on top of the laundry, asking them about their day. And writing? Forget it. There just isn’t enough time or energy.

The hectic week gives us all something to look forward to in the weekend. Fridays roll around and we are all suddenly in a better mood. Saturday comes and my son asks what day it is to make sure that Sunday hasn’t crept up on him when he wasn’t looking. We spend the morning in our PJ’s, eating long breakfasts over the newspaper (comics for the kids), and then watching movies curled up on the couch. Then I usually torture them with chores so that our Sundays will be free and clear. Sometimes I even get a nap in over the weekend. And I’ve had to reserve my writing days for the weekend as anything I produce during the week is rushed and forced.

It used to come easy to me, telling stories. They used to just flow out of my pen. Description was as easy as coloring a picture. I loved the art of the metaphor, sprinkling them through poetry and mini novels. Now I have to fight to not call a chair a chair, and try to find the perfect way to give life to the regal platform that holds me up nobly, sighing at the monotonous task it performs day in and day out, so incensed by its job that it actually looks forward to those moments when it is used as a ladder to change a light bulb.

The washing machine is humming now. When it is done, I will be too. One last load of laundry and then it is time for me to go to bed as well. Guy Clark is serenading me now, my iPod a constant shuffle, the playlist never ceasing to amaze me in its random selection. The weekend is almost over. As soon as my head hits the pillow it will be done. And then it’s back to work on Monday for another week that will fly by at the speed of light with deadlines and editors, angry designers and revisions to already finished work. And the time will pass so fast that the weekend will be here again before I know it, making me wonder where the time really does go. Two more weeks and the kids’ summer vacation officially starts. Two and a half months more and they’ll be back in again. 6 more years and my daughter will be asking me for the car keys. 11 more years and my son will be packing for college. 20 more years and I’ll be rocking a grandchild. Several more hours and I will be waking my daughter first and have breakfast with her before rousing my son and easing him out of his cranky morning mood.

Madeleine Peyroux is singing softly. The rest of the room is quiet now. The washer has stopped, and the dryer has stilled. The clock tells me it’s time to end the weekend. And my laptop is heaving a satisfied sigh in the form of a whirring fan before I close it and turn out the lights.

Good night.

Email me at winecountry.singlemom@yahoo.com