Hush Kids, My Imaginary Babies Are Crying

I think a writer’s mind is more overpopulated than others. It’s way too hard for us to let go of whatever story is cooking up in our heads.

Now, this is hard enough when you’re making up your own stories. Imagine if you just signed up to Netflix and discovered it has ALL the episodes for Once Upon a Time and Hart of Dixie (my latest obsessions). **major minute-long gasp** If I let myself (or didn’t have kids), I’d never go back to the real world.

But that’s the great thing about having kids: they FORCE you out of your cocoon. It’s healthy for me, because I tend to get too into fiction, made up by me or others. I imagine anyone with a creative job might struggle with the same. Once something excites you, it’s like a drug: you can’t wait to be done with boring actual conversations and go back to your imaginary friends. You worry about them and become addicted to trying to guess what might happen.

I wonder if that’s why God gave me 3 kids so early in life. They’re my little alarm clocks; I have no choice but to wake up. To live and embrace the joys of the moment. Like when Andrew and Melissa want to “bond” with Holly – by shaking her hands, her swing, and if I don’t watch it, her head.

They think she’s a toy

Speaking of her, I’d better go feed my littlest but no less loud alarm clock… Which is how I end most of my posts (whether I say so or not :).


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