I tried to get the kids to clean. I tried to get the kids to stop fighting.

I tried to get them to stop using foul language.

I tried to get them to bring home all A’s or at least all A’s & B’s.

I tried to get them to choose their friends wisely; I tried to have people always treat them fairly and never be hurtful to my babies.

I tried to have my kids pick the perfect life partners, and to understand the rules of a good marriage.

I tried always to encourage my kids to pursue their goals in life and above all, to follow their heart.

And in the midst of all the children, all the teachings, all the hopes and dreams to be realized on their behalf, there, too, was my life. I was a writer in my heart, but not on paper. Okay, on paper, too, but not on glossy magazine pages, or in books on bookstands or in stores–just in personal diaries, in letters and e-mails to family and friends, in random pages scattered all over the same house I was trying to get the kids to clean.

They had tried to see their mom be published.

They had tried to get their mom out of unwanted 9 to 5 jobs; they knew she wasn’t happy there.

They had tried to applaud her works so hard their hands became raw.

They had tried to suggest it could be easy.

They had tried to suggest it could be absolutely fun!

They had tried to convey there was more to life than just talking the talk, and that it all was truly possible.

I knew all that, really I knew all that, I even had the courses and the books to study, I even had a desk set up just for writing. Real writing. Published writing. Paid-for writing. The dream fulfilled of being an independently wealthy writer.

Competition was on the table now, the kids were writing, they were bubbling with ideas…they had story ideas like a faucet had just opened in their creative heads and the juices just kept flowing. They had become that which I was needing to be. It was their gig. Would they beat me to the finish line?

Here I am! Kids? Kids! Where are you off to now?