There are a lot of purchases that I get excited about. Fall clothes. Rollerball pens. New lipstick. Something techie that I’ve been saving for, for 90 years. Books. Cheesesteaks. Milk. Laundry detergent. Stamps. I really just like buying things. Borderline problemish. But I’m still on the side of the border that doesn’t involve secret credit cards, so we’re straight.
I haven’t pulled the trigger on one purchase in particular, because I’ve been choosey and also because I don’t really have anywhere to put it just yet. Still living in Boxes Hell.
But very soon (so help me gawd these boxes better not be picking out curtains), I am buying a desk.
My very own desk that is mine.
I am going to buy a chair for it. I am going to buy something to prop up my laptop to eye-level so The Malleable Mom doesn’t fingerwag at me. I’m going to buy a little plant to put on it. Or a fake plant so I don’t have to add one more thing to the list of Things I Shouldn’t Let Die On My Watch. Maybe one of those little mats that the chair goes on so I don’t screw up my hardwood with all the excited spinning I will be doing in it.
As you may know, I’ve been published here and there over on Scary Mommy. A little piece I posted here was republished on Huffington Post recently. And I’ve been trying to get better about writing in this space for years, with small bouts of success at hitting the Publish button multiple times in a month. My longterm goal (but please, not too longterm) is to write for a living. I’d like to make it a career.
But here’s the thing about that– I am writing this on the edge of my bed because I was about to start unpacking us from vacation and instead, decided to procrastinate by writing a blog post. This is how the vast majority of my writing comes to be. I have an actual responsibility, don’t want to do it, and in fact I don’t want to do it badly enough that I prioritize writing for a moment.
Writing is usually way down my list of things I need to do, because I’ve got so much other crap that needs to come first. Family. Housework. Cooking. Errands. Appointments. Play dates. The occasional shower. I love writing. But I don’t have the time to really do it. Hell, I don’t even have a place to really do it. I’m sitting on the edge of my goddamn bed. This is the least comfortable spot of my bed. But it’s where I write.
While buying a desk doesn’t come with a coupon for two extra hours in every day that can only be redeemed as time for writing, it gives me a space. It gives me a cue that I have something important to do and something to say and I need to carve out time to put it down. It’s a visual reminder that no one is going to die if I sit down to type out a story I’ve been wanting to tell, even if it means I’m putting off finishing the laundry and we’re all wearing our bathing suits as underwear tomorrow.
One of my biggest struggles as a mother is maintaining my sense of self outside of my role as a mom. I’m always going to be a mother, but I’m not always going to be a mother to two small children. Eventually, they will grow and I will embarrass them and they will be home less and less. Significantly less if I don’t get this laundry thing under control. I’m going to wake up one day and there will be no children living in my house. And I don’t want to be grasping at who-am-I straws later that night when the booze and Klonopin wear off.
So I’m buying a desk.
*This post was brought to you by Things I Buy Because I Think They Will Fix Me.