"When I Grow Up..

I want to be a mother, and have a family. One little, two little, three little babies of my own."

I would guess that not many of you are familiar with this sweet little ditty from my childhood. Though I'm sure it never made Billboard's top anything, it is still a classic in my book.

I held on to this Eve-instinct from my days of playing dolls to become a professional diaper-changing, garbage-handling, kisses-giving, fight-breaking, meal-making, owie-healing, party-planning, schedule-coordinating, book-reading, story-telling, home-making mother.

Clearly, building up my family is my most important work, but I have recently faced a nagging question:

"What am I doing to build me?"

As a blushing young twenty, I remember only fragmented details of my wedding day, and even less of the encouraging words of the man who married us. But I do remember his counsel to us to help each other build our talents. Have I followed this counsel in supporting Dave? Have I sabatoged Dave's efforts by discounting his compliments and encouragement over the years through eyes of self-doubt?

Like many moms who choose to stay home, I have been known to muse about what I might be in my LAC (Life After Children). Would I be an ultrasound tech? Would I get to star in infomercials? (How I would LOVE to be the clumsy actress unable to form an edible pancake without the Perfect Pancake!)

And then after the birth of Number Five, the thought came to me, though not all at once, but like a distant siren that approached from afar before driving right up my street:

I can't wait until my LAC.

My Mom, now in the throes of her LAC has left the musing stage, and has come to begrudingly accept that she will never have endless free days to pursue whatever musings she kept secret in her 39 years of single-minded devotion to raising children. I feel for her.

Yes, raising children has presented challenges which have built my talents. I am a VERY talented diaper changer now. I can create dinner out of whatever is in my pantry, while nursing a baby, and reading another round of Dinosaurs Galore. I can extract teaching moments out of every experience. I have learned how to apply Girl Scout patches, catch ants, and construct apartments out of clementine boxes. I can make peace with disgruntled toddlers, which is no small feat. But have I hidden another candle collection under my secret bushel?

Once upon a time I was the most popular peer editor in the second grade. Rather than simply exchanging papers with a neighbor, each student in our class could select any other student to review their writing. I thrived in the large stack of papers piled high on my desk during writing workshop. And I relished the process of working over the words in front of me, determined to clarify, rather than squash, the voices of my peers.

I would go on to edit for school newspapers, and work professionally as a college textbook editor, in addition to the casual editing I offered to friends and family.

And yet my secret growing desire since the second grade has been to become a writer in my own right. I have wanted to stop baby-sitting other people's words, and give birth to my own. And somehow I have finally found the courage to move forward.

Do I want to write for money? Sure. If it works out that way. But money is not the motive of my pen. Putting words on paper is where I make sense of what happens to me, evaluating my response to the experiences life throws my way. It is where I process and release the negative memories, savor again the beauty of my simple blessings, and look onward with hope.

My passion for writing has given rise to my biggest hurdle: being willing to judge something so personal in approaching my own work as an editor, or in allowing someone else to edit for me. But I am finally ready to make that jump. I finally know what I want to be when I grow up.

May the writer in my heart find her way to the surface, inspiring those who read her work to not only find joy in the journey, but to create for themselves a journey of joy.