Motivation. It alludes me these days.
When I was a teacher, I stayed late, tweaked lesson plans, and served on committees. I endeavored to be professional, knowledgeable, and vibrant.
Then, for awhile, I was that mother. Extended breast feeding and homemade baby food. No TV. Daily enrichment activities and age-appropriate sensory experiences.
This then morphed into writing. I was going to become a freelance writer, a la David Sedaris, Malcolm Gladwell, or Erma Bombeck. I would work from home, crafting words and emotions while my children napped.
And now? It all exhausts me. I've given up on writing being anything more than a hobby, because those that want it work really, really hard. And I don't. (Also, my kids don't nap anymore).
I am a loving, considerate, caring mother. But I cannot get excited about making fun snacks for preschool or planning parties for my older son's classroom.
When I drop off my kids at camps or school, I don't linger. I don't make small talk with the other mothers, exchanging chit-chat about sleep habits or the best deals on chicken breasts. I keep my sunglasses on. Or I text.
That fire within--to be the best, to be noticed, to be liked and have lots of gold stars--has become a flickering warm light.
I take pride in smaller things. A solid four-mile run. The paint roller gliding across the wall. Knobby knees. A soft hand clutching my thumb.
I don't know if my motivation is hibernating or forever dormant. Perhaps, in light of all the other things going in my life right now, this is the best I can do.
Or maybe, this is what I've always meant to do.
Maybe life is teaching me to care less, so I don't become careless when it really matters.
Does this ring true to anybody? Please share your insights.