I keep thinking about writing a nice, long update. Every single day I think about it. Sundays happen and I say to myself “Tomorrow I’ll post a Margot Mondays.” Then Mondays go by and I say to myself “I should really have posted a Margot Mondays.” By now I’m used to these fleeting pangs of guilt.
I have to ask myself when writing became a second job (and one that I’m failing at miserably). Though I know it’s how I seem, and possibly even who I already am, I’m weary of becoming the New Mom Who Dropped Her Hobbies When Baby Came Along. It’s a hurtful cliché and not at all what I want for myself.
Instead I want to seize my free time triumphantly and pledge to bird and hike and practice yoga and write and maybe see a concert and drink nightly cups of jasmine green tea with my feet up. Trouble is that none of it rings true for me just now. I’m lucky to cobble together enough time for a quick workout or jog through the neighborhood, a few moments in the garden, and a couple of chapters of a good book each evening as I drift off to sleep.
That’ll have to be good enough for the time being.
It’s been a hectic summer, even more so than I’d expected. We spent 10 wonderful days in Michigan and Indiana with family in mid-June, visited my dad outside Sacramento for the 4th of July holiday, and are gearing up to send Mike back to Greece for six weeks at the end of this month. This is all by way of saying that I really haven’t found time to reflect and decompress.
I’ll start at the beginning, with home: