I walk past the office a hundred times a day. I could go in and type even if it's just for a few minutes. There must be a story I have to tell floating around in my brain. I'm going to do it.
Maybe if I ignore the call, they will figure out their issue on their own. It's possible, right? Other people's children do it, why not mine?
"MOMMA!!! He hit me."
"Momma! I neeeeeeeeeeed you."
"Momma! I miss you."
"Momma? What are you doing?"
"Momma. Can I play a game on the computer?"
No. Not now. The time isn't right. I'll get to it. Later.
Later becomes tomorrow. Tomorrow becomes soon. Soon becomes next week. Next week becomes ...
There are stories, beautiful stories, I want to share. They dance like fireflies on a summer evening. I chase them, laughing. I hope to catch one and put it in a jar so I can watch it's glow.
I put the jar on a shelf so you can see it when you enter the room. It is so beautiful. I think about it, the glow lighting a spark in my imagination. Posts are composed in I head.
Yes. This is it. It's time. I head towards the room hoping to open the door without anyone noticing. Hoping for a few minutes in which to share my story with the universe.
But I can't. The chorus starts again. I save it for later, hoping against hope that the story will still be there.
The next time I see the jar a few days later, there is no glow. The firefly has escaped and gone back to that summer evening. Maybe I can catch it again. Maybe. But most likely it is gone forever.
So I wait. Wait and wonder will my fingers ever get the chance to dance over the keyboard. Will my words ever be heard. Will I ever share a story, a piece of my soul.
"Momma! Momma! MOMMA!!!!"