I have this dream that I’d be myself again, more fully than possible.

I’d write, and I’d keep writing. I’d have the night again, the way I do when I’m manic, that delicious slice of silence I can do what I want with. I wouldn’t be tired.

I wouldn’t be tired.

I wouldn’t be tired.

Motherhood takes something from you. It gives you so much, they say! So much.

Sure.

It also takes.

I’m homesick for silence, and time, and the ability to do things for myself without guilt.