Sometimes it's hard.

Sometimes I feel like my family doesn't understand that what I'm doing is actual work. Sometimes I think they see it as me screwing around on the computer so I don't have to spend time with them, and sometimes the guilt becomes too much, so I set my writing aside, spend days on end catering to their whims. Yesterday we decorated the house for Christmas, for example.

Our schedule is weird here. Since my husband's dad is the CEO, Andres can take off work pretty much anytime he wants. He stands to inherit five different companies; one day he'll run the pharmaceutical empire. This week we've spent a lot of time together, did lunch together yesterday and the day before, we had a proper date without the kids, lunch and a movie. The Departed was very good. But here's the thing: when he takes off work, I feel like I shouldn't write. He's home, so I feel guilty ignoring him. I sit with him and watch TV (shows like What Not to Wear and Changing Rooms) and we talk. I enjoy it but then when the kids get home from school, I can't shut myself away to work; they want to see me too. So I spend the whole evening with the family and by the time the kids are in bed, all the pets are dealt with (we have two new mixed Siamese kittens, named Dulcinea and Don Quixote, we call them Dulce and Don for short, and the puppy would like nothing more to eat them), I've made dinner, supervised baths and homework and what-not, I really don't feel like writing. I just want to sleep by that point.


You'd think having two kids in school would mean I have all this time for myself, right? And sometimes it does. But more generally it means I'm doing something for them that's related to school. I'm supposed to hunt down special glass jars, black turtlenecks, all kinds of supplies they need for projects at school. I'm supposed to come to school for this bazaar and that charity function. Hat Day, Sports Day, the International Fair. There are extracurricular activities, presents to purchase and wrap and parties to which they need transportation. Sometimes I'm actually nostalgic for having them underfoot because there was, believe it or not, less to do.

All of this means I'm a trifle frustrated. I think they'd see it differently if I had, at this juncture, some tangible token of success. I need to sell something. I'm tired of feeling this vague guilt for devoting so much of my time to what my family sees as a hobby. I want to be able to point at the income I'm generating (not that we need the money, but it's the principle of it) and say, "See? It's my job, my career, my vocation." I'll write anyway, I don't have a choice. It's in my blood, but I want it validated in their eyes by some measure of commercial success.