After five pleasant days in Hawaii with my husband, I should feel settled and ready to write, clean house, return to my routine.
I don't. And it's not that I want to return to the sunshine and water and good food.
I don't. I'm glad to be home. I'm happy to be back with my kids, back to the mountains. I want to be motivated and productive and focused.
I'm not. My arthritis hurts. I'm stiffer than I've ever been. Sometimes I feel like an old woman, but I'm not. If I were an old woman, my children would be through with school.
They're not. And I hate school more as a mother than I did as a child and I'd never have imagined that was possible. But I'm torn because as much as I'd like school to be over, I don't want my children to keep growing up. I'd put up with another dozen years of school to have my little kids again.
But I can't. And I really don't want to because as they grow up, they're becoming people I'm proud of, people I admire, and people who are good friends.
Sometimes I think I want to move. I'd like to live closer to my extended family and a house with less stairs would be heavenly. But I like the north part of Provo a lot. And I like some parts of Salt Lake. And every time I drive home, I can't believe how beautiful it is where I live and I like looking out my back windows. I have a really nice view. And sometimes when I take the stairs and it really hurts, I get to the top and I feel proud of myself.
I miss Veronica. I sat in the Seattle airport Saturday morning and wanted to walk outside, rent a car, and go searching for a beautiful sister missionary in Carkeek Park.
But I didn't. I sat there and said a prayer for her and then got on the plane.
Sometimes I miss Bruce and Savannah and Joe even though they live with me right now. Because I know in the blink of an eye, they won't.
I have so many stories in my head. I think of a new idea and I write it down. Some of them are ideas I want to run with, but I have stories I'm working on and if I ran with it every time I have a new idea, I'd have a dozen works-in-progress. Sometimes finishing what I start stinks. Why does it take so long to write a book?
Why is laundry never finished?
It's not, you know. I can focus and move the loads through and fold them and even put them away and then I look down and see that my jeans are dirty.