But I am writing again (much much older writing still available for your perusal at Sapphic Voices), although I'm definitely having trouble admitting that I'm enjoying that, and more than that, accepting that that's okay.
And I've noticed here recently that I'm becoming ferociously jealous of my 4 hours alone every morning at Starbucks. Thoroughly annoyed when there is someone else sitting in my oversized purple velour chair in the corner. Devastated when the barista has to ask me what it was I wanted again. But just so anxious to open up my laptop and get going that when Chago sniffled and said his throat was a little itchy this morning, I just skipped the usual double leche and instead warmed up some apple juice and loaded him up with protein and an entire banana before packing him off to school anyway with hardly a second thought of whether I should keep him home today.
And even as I sit here, racked with guilt that I dumped my sickly child off at school, that I have no job when the unemployment rate continues to rise, that I refuse to downsize my venti even though I have no money actually coming in to offset it, I'm feeling like such a heel that I'm most irritated by the fact that I only have 10 more minutes of me time before I have to leave.