The truth is, I have no stories.
I only have moments.
There was that moment before we left for my cousin’s wedding. I walked out of my bedroom, my hair in loose curls and my perfume spritzed delicately on my wrist. Maddie pleaded, “Please don’t leave again, Mommy” and I felt like I could cry.
There was that moment after we scrambled to get the girls to their early morning soccer games. I sat on the sidelines, cold and tired, watching Katie play. I noticed how she scampered, rather than ran down the field, her brown curls blowing wildly in the breeze.
There was that moment when my mom stopped in for an unexpected visit and I had to temporarily suspend my grocery shopping and laundry plans. I sipped my coffee and chatted and laughed, ignoring the heap of dirty clothes in my peripheral vision.
There was that moment when I sat in my car in the parking lot of my school, wondering if women really can have it all. I sat and stared out the window and took a few deep breaths. I wondered if I’m the only one who finds this ‘working mom’ gig nearly impossible.
I have these moments that hold the potential for stories. But I am not living like a writer, not savoring the details, not slowing down to look for the stories in my life. I am just chasing moments, trying to catch them before they disappear.