Every so often, I realize that I am spending most of my downtime scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through Facebook. There is nothing interesting to see. Someone from AmericanPatriot.com thinks Bernie Sanders is the worst. Someone else from OccupyDemocrats.com has made another Donald Trump comparison to Hitler. It's boring.
Having a kid is so weird. On one hand, Charlie is 7+ months old and I really don't know anything about him. He spends lots of time babbling and chewing on things, and it's hard to tell at this point if he's gearing up to be a genius, or a psychopath, or a compassionate person.
I used to want a high-profile writing career that I could brag about. Now I'm just trying to do this thing--and everything else in my life--with a little dignity.
I did not expect to be this kind of mom.
I expected to be a mom who breathed a sigh of relief every night after putting a baby to bed. Not the kind who sneaks in his room to watch him sleep every time my husband goes outside or takes a shower.
Inspired by my friend Claire’s #freelanceanonymous post, I decided to do my own soul searching about what it means for me to be a freelance writer at this point in my life.
