Making Room

So, I turned 30 yesterday. It really wasn't terribly eventful, but it did lead me to a few resolutions:

1.) I will quit pulling out my gray hairs. It will be better to face my 30s with some sparkle in my hair than no hair at all.

2.) I will not hide my cooky faith from my unbelieving friends, and neither will I hide my screwy life from my believing friends. They're equal parts of who I am-- take it or leave it.

3.) I will write. I spent my 20s giving birth to babies; now I have something else to give birth to. I won't write novels, and I probably won't even get published. But by God, I will write.

I spend most of my day carting my three big kids around, refereeing their fights, and trying to spend a few happy minutes with them when I can steal them; feeding, changing, chasing, and playing with my twin babies, then repeating the pattern throughout the day until they're wiped out, long after I am; and when I can manage, I clean up our new, big, gorgeous house that I have no idea how we've been so blessed to land, and I throw together a dinner for the bunch of us; then my husband and I plop down in front of the TV to relax, and on a good night, we get to talk a little. And I love this madness, this mundaneness, because it's my life.

But ever since I was a little girl, I have needed to write. We would have writing time in first grade, and I would turn out a story that my teacher loved, so she'd send me with it to the principal to share it with him. I'd come back from my visit and report to my teacher that the principal had requested another story (and this may have been true the first time). So back to the writing center I'd go, churning out another great work of first-grade fiction. Back to the principal, and then back to the teacher, again and again, telling each that the other had requested more writing. I don't know how long I got away with it, but did it ever get me high. I was getting to tell my stories and share them.

I try not to bullshit people too much anymore because I discovered that when I did, I often forgot what was the truth and what was the lie, and that's a pretty confusing way to go about life. (Plus I think God really disapproves when I lie, and after all He's done for me, I really hate to disappoint Him when I can help it.) But there is still that little girl inside me, the one who needs to tell her stories and share them. Virgina Woolf said in A Room of One's Own that "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." She needs her space, even if it's not enclosed by four walls. So now that I'm all grown up and 30, have my family made if not fully raised, I'm going to make a little room for myself.