Being an ambitious person is a funny thing. It’s a lot like climbing an escalator at a pace roughly equivalent to the rate at which the stairs turn around and start over again. You keep moving forward but you never reach the top because you’re not sure what you’d do if you ever got there.
Wes, bless his heart, knows and loves this about me. He knew it before we had kids, and he really knows it now as I keep taking on more and more projects that keep me busy and slightly stressed out and sometimes make it hard for me to sleep at night.
It’s possible I’d be a better mother if I didn’t have so much going on. I don’t write when the kids are awake, but I have been known to be preoccupied if I’m puzzling through a predicament or more annoyed than usual if I’m interrupted when the kids are supposed to be napping but, for whatever reason, aren’t.
Then again, if I ignored this drive to write write write and focused all this ambition instead on my kids, I doubt very much whether that would be a good thing either. I’m not sure my kids deserve the brunt of my ambition before they’ve even had a chance to develop their own.
I asked Wes the other night if he regretted encouraging me to quit my job so I could pursue writing. Writing is an expensive hobby, and I’d probably be a little easier to live with if I wasn’t constantly tackling bigger, more complex projects.
He looked surprised and replied that no, he didn’t regret it. “You’re a writer,” he said. “That’s what you are. I could never regret encouraging you to be who you are.”
And that, ladies and gentleman, is what love looks like.