"I am writing a book." I told them in the car, this week.
"Like, a real book? A book that will be at the book store?" they asked, voices glistening with intrigue.
"I hope so." I smiled.
Telling the kids about this was a big step for me, which in hindsight sounds silly to even say. I wanted to communicate to them that just because I am mama, doesn't mean I don't have things I want to pursue, or should be able to pursue. Dreams. Hopes.
I have spent the better part of the last decade putting these small people first. I will continue to do so in waves, however I think there is something to be said about them seeing their mama put HERSELF first, too. Her hobbies, her passions.
Beyond that, saying it out loud, even if only to my children, solidifies it for me. That terrified part of me that thinks the idea of finishing this manuscript is pointless. That there are thousands of other authors out there, there are thousands of other new books out there. Saying out loud, "I am writing a book." means, I am, writing a book.
Later Danny came to me as I typed away, and he leaned in like he often does.
"So, what is your book about?"
I paused, not sure what to tell him exactly. I began to explain the general idea of a memoir, about how I am writing not only about Nana but about how life has changed since she died. About all the awesome things she taught me, and about how we survived losing her. He thought for a bit, and then nodded his head.
"Mom?" he whispered.
"Nana would be really proud of you."
Yes, I think she would.