Up Late

I can’t sleep.

Mr. C is out of town for the evening, and I find slumber elusive when he’s not here. I’m watching late-night TV, meandering around the Internet, sneaking milk chocolate-covered caramels furtively, looking over my shoulder even though no one is here to see me.

The children are asleep in their beds. The Poo fell asleep holding her book. I found her, “I Can Read!” chapter book tented over her face and her little ladybug flashlight still shining on the pages. I kissed her and closed her door.

Out went the hall light. Down the stairs I went.

I am thinking tonight about mythology, the markers in our lives we point to and say: This was the day I became who I am.

So many chapters in my story—and in yours. Wedding days, birth days, days when we bury those we love when the sun is shining, mercilessly cheerful in the face of our sorrow.

Defining moments are few and far between. I am nearing one.

Something in my life has been shifting, as slowly as the plates that move under the crust of the earth. I heard the grinding underneath my feet, felt the tremors of change shake me from complacency.

I am abreast of a moment that could define the rest of my life as a writer, and therefore as a wife and a mother. For I am none without the other; the three strands bond to make a silken cord around my wrists. Today I was all three, a rare moment of complete happiness and fulfillment that felt like a gift.

A gift.

For the first time in my life I am not afraid to say that I have a gift. I am humbled by the road I see ahead of me, with its promise of milk and honey making my nose twitch with the sweet scent of anticipation.

My mythology is taking shape right now, tonight on a night when I can’t sleep, tucked into a little house set back from a cornfield.

Tagged as: daily, motherhood, writing life