133 Weeks

i didn't know i was making a time capsule

Some weeks I wanted to stop. Some weeks I didn’t feel creative. There were a few weeks, an idea flowed and the craft felt smooth and easy. Most of the time, it would have been easier to punt, to push it off, to procrastinate until I had something more polished.

But if I stopped writing, I’d miss the details and the moments I’d otherwise forget. I’d speed forward with “another week gone,” “another season passed.” I would have missed the chance to document weekly that no one is—or has been—sleeping through the night.

I worry that my writing hasn’t gotten better, that I’ve just gotten better at caring less. I worry that I’ve fallen into repetitive prose because my mind is tired and my tank is empty.

But if I would have waited for when the kids were older, or work slowed down, or when I had the perfect desk set up and a warm cup of tea- I’d still be waiting.

If I had never started, I would have forgotten the time I burned my pump parts in the dishwasher. When Caroline made breakfast. How I met Charlie’s Bleecker. When I broke up with daycare. When Kate stuck her tiny pink shoe into my $18 airport quinoa bowl. How I felt when the third baby arrived.

If I had never started, I would have missed writing over 83,000 words detailing out the last 2.5 years.

Today I wanted to stop. The kitchen was a mess, the baby was fussy, and the proposal needed refining.

I’ve been writing and sharing online for 133 weeks.

I thought for a second, should I stop?

No. I won’t.

I want to remember.