thoughts on life on a Thursday morning

I am sure there are some of you out there who harbor dreams of writing.
I have a deep love of putting words to paper or screen for that matter.
For years I dreamt of what it would be like to get published.
Let me tell you the scenario of how I envisioned myself writing books.
In a small cottage by a lake, with sun dappled hills and inspiration flowing
down from the heavens. I think I was wearing white. I'm not sure.
Unbelievably, there were no children included in this scenario.
But the other day, I called my friend Rene who is a seasoned writer,
15 books under her belt and I asked her,
"What the heck?" And that is strong language for me.
I am on deadline.
I have been sitting in front of a computer for hour upon hour for days upon days.
I believe my bottom is shaped permanently like a chair.
The laundry is overflowing. (What's new?) The only body of water close by
is the bathtub which I put Addison in to keep him occupied.
He is a little bit on the pruny side as of late.
I haven't hung out with friends in weeks.
I'm answering e-mails and trying to remember candy for school parties
and I have realized there is nothing sun dappled or inspirational about it
and I am wearing sweats and a pony tail....there is nothing white in my wardrobe.
Which made me say, "What the heck?"
So I told this to Rene, "I'm forgetting things,I have scraps of paper everywhere,
my clothes don't match and I've been wearing a ponytail for two weeks....I look...?
"Like a harried writer?" she cut in. "Welcome to the life of a professional writer."
Well, now this was a bit disheartening I have to say.
Could it be that I have unrealistic expectations of the writing life? Never.
Just like I've never had unrealistic expectations about marriage or motherhood.
Scott and I always communicate perfectly and the children are always tidily dressed
and obedient. Always. Okay, never.
So then I was talking to my cousin, Gretchen, this morning,
who recently had her fourth boy and she said that her expectations of what having
four children looked like were clearly delusional.
Her life looks nothing like she thought it would.
She is mucking it out at this point. That doesn't mean it doesn't have it glorious moments but somehow they often get lost among the dirty dishes.
So I guess that is what I am saying. It is life. It is messy.
How could I expect it to be otherwise?
There are no neatly folded corners in living.
It's all scrap metal and duct tape as far as I can tell.
We're just piecing it together the best we can.
Maybe the point is that we are living this out together and it doesn't look or smell or feel like we expected it to but every once in a while a tiny person hugs our neck with chubby arms just because they feel like it and we see what love is.
Or maybe the point is that somehow by some miracle a scrap of beauty, a nice turn of phrase, a God inspired thought crosses the page in spite of all the mess and then it is worth it.
Of course, it is worth it.
Even when you have been wearing a pony tail for half a month and you have a chair shaped rear, it is worth it.
So keep the dreams alive, girls.
Life may not be pretty but it means something.