I get two hours a day — three if I’m lucky — to do all that I need to do. I’m talking work, exercise, bills, writing, reading, cleaning — anything that I can’t do with the baby on my hip.
Three hours to feel like a person and not just a mother.
I try to use it to write because fuck, I need it. I crave it. But then the work suffers and so does my body and our home.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to AFTER/WORDS by Jessy Easton to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.