Love Ya, Hate Ya, Love Ya, Hate Ya...

My husband goes around telling people that writing is my hobby. It is. Well, it was. Now that I write part-time to earn some extra cash, it has become a giant millstone around this rather puny neck. Whoever said they didn't think of their job as work because they loved what they were doing was up to their own neck in mushi.

I love the money, though. There's that, at least.

A couple of years before this, I was surfing write-to-ean websites looking for a tried-and-true-this-is-not-a-scam writing opportunity Last year I found two, and now I am neck deep trying to keep everything afloat: my day job, my family, my household chores, this little sideline.

I would have said before then that I loooved to write. My blog attested to this fact, and I filled pages upon pages of this and that. I wrote my husband's job applications, my supervisor's memos, my colleague's school papers (he's graduated, thank God!), my mother's office correspondence. Now, I am hard pressed to even document my own sons' lives.

But the money comes in, and that makes it ok, right?

I am way way way behind. I have missed several movies I've wanted to see. The downstairs blinds have gone a week without a dusting. I have cheated on my obsessive scrubbing of the toilet bowl. I may have added a couple of millenia to my sleep debt, as well.

Still.

Doing what I believe I do reasonably well has its perks. Apart from the moolah, that is. I may have had to conform the way I write to the client's standards, or ruthlessly edit an article to the barest 200 words (Oh paaaain!....oh agon-neee!), or type at harrassed red-eyed caffeine-loaded speed to meet a deadline. But the research I've been required to do for the pieces I've submitted have been toothpicks to prop up these weary eyelids.

I now know how I can “cheat” U.K. banks from levying bank charges. I am conversant on the properties of several Ayurvedic herbal cures. I will never willingly expose my skn to the sun again for fear of acquiring solar keratoses. Ask me about Medroxyprogesterone, Colorectal cancer, and Oral chelation, or about content management, Peritonitis and online speed dating. I can, in actual fact, hire myself out as a property manager in the state of Illinois. I know everything I need to know, truly. All I need now is a license. Hire me?

*Sigh*

I'm going to check my two email accounts in a while, and I know I will get off on the thrill of the feeling of dread that the presence of writing assignments glaring at me from my inbox gives. Am I making any sense? I love it, but I hate it.

I am a candidate for a bipolar disorder assessment, truly I am.

I have a goal, though: my sons are going to have their long delayed, long overdue kickass birthday party in two months. With a clown. And magic tricks. And fireworks (if Atch will let me). Ha. Send those assignments in, dusty blinds and late blog entries and scummy toilet bowl be damned.

Right Here Right Now

It is a Saturday afternoon and I am busy on the computer. The graphics program I am working on is defying my powers of manipulation and I sigh in impatience as I wait for each picture to load.

I have finally found a sliver of time to work on something that has been much delayed and much put aside: updating my children's pictures for printing at the developers. While Woog has three full albums dating from a much simpler, less hectic time in our lives, Eli has not a single printed photo to his name. My poor deprived second-born.

Outside, the late afternoon sun is preparing to set and the muggy air squeezes itself like heavy syrup through the blinds. The boys are in the courtyard, slathered within an inch of their lives in insect repellent, making the most of the remaining daylight like all little boys under the age of 60.

I can see that Woog is finally getting up the gumption to give his bike another try. His Tatay has removed the training wheels almost a year ago, and after one nasty near-spill, my nervous balance-challenged son declared himself officially unfit for his scarily unfamiliar two-wheeled contraption.

Apparently the humidity is starting to affect his brain somewhat, for he is enthusiastically mounting upon his monster, giving it another chance. My breath hitches in my throat the first few times he tilts alarmingly from side to side, but the last several months have seen his spindly legs lengthen and his reflexes improve. He jumps away agilely just as the bike falls on its side. After this happens several times in succession, I relax and return to my work.

I am carefully editing an image when Woog shrieks, “Mom! Mom! Look at me!” causing my mouse hand to jerk and sharpen a photo all the way to white noise land. After a quick irate glance out the window to reassure myself that his knees are still completely covered in unbroken skin, I call out a cursory “Yes, Woog, ok.” before returning to a shot of him and Eli wrestling with each other on the big bed.

He keeps up a loud and steady litany of “Mom! Mom! Look!” until the sound fades away in my ears like so much background noise, and I lose myself in billions of pixels and RGB adjustments.

A little while later, he decides to pump up the volume: “Mom! Mom! Look! Look!” I sigh in resignation and prepare to tell him off for bothering me. But as I stand up to do so, I catch a gloriously heartbreaking sight of Woog pedalling a few unsteady meters before losing his balance, jumping off and landing like a cat. Eli is cheering him on, laughing and skipping dangerously close to his wobbly bicycle-bound brother.

Oh, Woog.

I run outside just in time to see him do it again. “Mom!” He laughs excitedly. “I know how to ride my bike!” And the wide wonderful smile on his sweaty face is an accomplishment in itself.

He shows me, again and again and again. And I clap my hands each time he manages to stay on a little longer. Here is a milestone happening right before my eyes, and I am a nincompoop for nearly missing it.

“Great job, Woog!” I salute my budding cyclist. He is tired and streaks of dirt are smeared where he has swiped away at his sweaty skin. But he is insanely happy, and I am intensely proud.

Collating my children's pictures suddenly seems so trivial. And I feel the urge to hit myself on the head for placing more importance on preserving memories over a more vivid present happening right in front of my nose.

Lord, may I remember this lesson each time. Amen.