A Bad Case Of Adultery

Since starting to blog three weeks ago, I feel like I have been cheating on my home.  I no longer have time to keep my house spotless and dust-free.  By the time the shopping, the dishes, the laundry, the cooking, the carpooling, the cuddling of my kids and the twice daily copulation with my husband is completed - there is only time enough left in the day to either write or wipe baseboards.  Which would you choose?

Like the thrill of a first love, my new found writing endeavor has consumed my every waking thought, stolen my appetite, and reset the beat of my heart to a much more stimulating pace.  I have actually missed several meals this past week.  Having been a thirty-two time Weight Watcher's flunky, I can assure you that missing a meal means I am seriously whipped.  Even when I am not blogging, my writing passion has spilled over into any place willing to welcome it with praise or criticism.  I have adopted a new behavior of furiously writing everything from emails to old high school teachers, to updating my Facebook status more often than average or what should be considered polite.

Did I mention I have missed several meals?

Just this second my daughter Valerie, who is in kindergarten asked me, "Mommy why are you on the computer SO much today?"

"I'm writing Sweetheart. It is my new job." I responded with eyes glued to the screen.

"New job?  Does that mean I get to go to Extended Care after school?" she asked.  Get to go, mind you, not have to go. 

I have been a stay-at-home-mom for the past 6 years.  Like most good mothers, since the moment I conceived my firstborn I have sacrificed too much to mention and dedicated my every waking moment to nurturing this miracle of life and her 4 year old younger brother, Helmut.  Now she basically wants to break up with me because I take ONE break from her, and call it a job.  Since starting kindergarten this year Valerie is obsessed with "that special room at school where a select few classmates go when the other kids head home."  Little does she know how much those "select few" wish they were transitioning into their parent's arms versus "that special room."

So now my house is a mess and my daughter is ready to move out and buy her own condo, all because I have fallen in love.  With writing.  And I hope this affair lasts forever.

P.S. My husband and son seem to be immune to my recent unavailability.  But they are male, so I will forfeit the wild goose chase of trying to figure them out, and agree to let sleeping dogs lie.