So much

So much to do: work to turn in, appointments to keep
and a veritable mountain of disheslaundrysweeping lurking implacably.
And I want to write.

There is a baby who needs to nurse and coo and test the strength of his fingers
(and why oh why haven't I cut those nails of his, ouch they're sharp).
And I want to write.
There are three older children who are desperate for my attention
and for the love that I, as their mother, am desperate to give.
And I want to write.

There is that report I want to do for work.
There are novels I've carefully plotted for years now in my head
without setting down more than the occasional paragraph.
But that's not what I want to write.

I think it's been years since I thought long and hard
about my relationship with the Almighty.
It seems there's always something -- well, not in the way, exactly,
but in the foreground.

And that's OK, mostly.
I like my life.

Despite the juggling
despite the alphabet soup of developmental delays (hence the appointments)
despite asking myself over and over again when, exactly,
I'm going to clean this house
I like my life.

A husband, children.
Friends who seek out my company,
who see me. (Me!)
A job I like well enough.
Books to read.
A roof over my head.
Insurance. Electricity. Cars.
First-world problems.
Enough knowledge of history to recognize
that I have lucked out
(so much).

And I want to write.

Hashem, I miss you sometimes. (I want to write about that.)
Both in the sense of remembering what it was like
to be a single, childless woman whose mind was equally crowded
but with simpler things
and in the sense of being buried elbow-deep
in a pile of things so physical and immediate
(diaperstantrumstearsdeadlines)
(I need to breathe)
that every day I run up against my own shortcomings
against the difficulty of looking for You everywhere
(of knowing that You are there and sometimes just not looking).

I want to write.
And now I've written.

For today, maybe it's enough.