Somewhere, under all that happy din, is my voice. It's somewhere buried in my head. It is speaking, or trying, with too many thoughts to even be coherent. It is trying to get out, but most days I simply cannot find it.
Such is the problem with writing while being an at-home parent. Finding the opportunity to construct a coherent thought let alone actually write it down is challenging at best. And it's frustrating, knowing that there are potential posts, articles, goodness knows what else, locked inside, simply waiting for the chance to break free and come to life.
I may need to start having weekly Bridgehead wifi dates with myself in order to get the words out. I adore my girls, but it's important to listen to - and speak with - my own voice, too.