I'd become more discontent with writing for other people. When could I find a voice for myself?
As I lay in bed last night, the feeling grew stronger. My 6 year old son had crawled into bed next to me, an army of stuffed animals in his wake. His impossibly adorable face, relaxed in repose, is stuck between babyhood and boyhood. How many more times can I expect him to come to me seeking solace? Soon he'll decide he's too old to need Mommy or stuffed friends. Change is affecting him as well.
Doc, my perpetually sunny toddler is approaching the terrible twos with great gusto. No longer content to sit and watch the big kids play, he aspires to become one with the pack. Woe betide the Mommy who tries to hold him back. Even a babe isn't immune to time's incessant march.
So it's with an embracement of change in mind that I'm moving forward. For myself. For my own words.
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