Both harder and easier to take, simultaneously

I can't be the only writer who has wished for an extra 4-8 hours a day, just for writing, but here I am, unoriginal and frustrated about responsibilities and the lack of a changeable space-time continuum. My job is currently stressful enough that my right eye hasn't stopped twitching in weeks. I dream about the children throwing pretzels and other small, distressing missiles at my head. I've had my first worker's comp claim, ever, from a student-related injury. Teaching is not about the money, and anyone who ever thought that likely had their eyes opened within the first two weeks. You have to have the heart for it.

My heart is elsewhere right now.

I am a rare creature for my generation and among my friends. I liked being a stay-at-home mom. I like having the time, and gladly traded the extra responsibilities for it. I miss my garden. I miss my writing binges. I miss hanging clothes out on the line.

I even miss the bean burritos we ate to stretch the grocery dollar a little bit further. (My husband doesn't.)

I miss baking, sewing, and lately, smiling.

I miss writing until my hands went numb. I miss obsessing over plot points, living, breathing, loving the process.

I miss long phone calls with my mother while folding laundry, elaborate dinners, a semi-sparkly house and a cheerful disposition.

I am actively unhappy. I want, I want, I want, like a two year old, and I can't have it, I won't get it, I am otherwise engaged.

I am feeling sorry for myself.

It's time to toughen up, buttercup. Ignore the panic attack, and do your job, handle the next crisis. Rob Peter to pay Paul: trade self-expression and happiness for a little money in the bank.

Five more rejection letters. Each one is both harder and easier to take, simultaneously.