I Can't Write (again).

or maybe I can?

I can’t write because even though it is a cold February day, the sun is shining brightly in the living room. Every shadow swaying on the floor, or dancing on the wall is a call to me. I must grab my camera and capture it.

I can’t write because once I grab my camera to capture the light I realize how badly the living room needs to be cleaned. Dog hair is embedded in the knitted blankets, and I can’t seem to get the marker off the table. It lives there now.

I can’t write because my oldest had a nasty reaction to a new med he was trying and while it wiped him out physically for a few days, he seems to be bouncing back quicker than I am. Emotions wreak havoc on my already fraught nerves when it comes to this particular subject. It’s not my story to tell, so instead I just play it out in my head over, and over, and over again.

I can’t write because I got sucked into a new audiobook and didn’t want to do anything that prevented me from being able to hear more of the story. I love getting lost in good books, so I’m not too upset about this one. However, listening to or reading the words of others does prevent me from writing my own for the time being.

I can’t write because I have to feed my sourdough starter. Then, figure out the best schedule to make a few loaves of bread this week. Should I let the dough bulk ferment overnight? Should I start the stretch and folds at 5 a.m. instead? Will I be home in time to get it in the fridge for the cold-proof? What new recipe should I try with the discard this week? Should I photograph whatever I make? I mean, how many photos of bread are too many?

I can’t write because I have to sit at the kitchen table with my daughter to help her with her homework. And after that, I’m too busy being annoyed that she has homework after sitting in a classroom for eight hours a day. She is eight. I can’t write because it’s another year of “please pick us up early” at every drop-off. And tear-filled “Can I please be homeschooled now?” at every pick-up. I can’t write because I’m preoccupied with trying to convince her that school is great when I’m not even convinced myself. Dreams of making pancakes together before cuddles on the couch during a read-a-loud fill my mind, as I rush them through breakfast and out the door again.

I can’t write because Perler beads aren’t just for kids and the five little chicks I’ve made so far aren’t enough and I should make a brown one too. And obviously, that rainbow unicorn bookmark made out of Perler beads is way too cute not to make.

I can’t write because I have to call insurance about Brady’s car accident that happened a year ago, again. I thought things would move faster.

I can’t write because I’ve gotten so in my head about what I should actually be writing. I have things I want to say, hospitality tips, creative ideas, and recipes. I know I want to encourage and equip mothers in the abundance God has for them, but I can’t get it out on paper the way it lives in my head.

I can’t write because I just remembered I need to help Brady submit his college application.¹

I can’t write because life is busy, crazy, messy, and so full. Because the bathroom doesn’t clean itself, and it’s been at least three months since I changed the kid's sheets, I should probably do that.

I can’t write because I’m busy making silly rules about what counts as “writing” and what doesn’t. I have at least four notes in the notes app on my phone from just last week about something the kids said or something I thought about in the shower, on the car ride home, or walking the grocery store aisles. I can’t write, besides the three pages at least three times a week, I’m writing in a notebook.

I guess, maybe I can write after all.

1. I actually stopped writing this piece right after this word so I could call Brady downstairs and we could complete and submit the application.