I forget myself sometimes.
Forget that I am not just a mom, a wife, a sister, or a daughter.
I’m not just the referee of remotes, the apology police, or the kisser of boo-boos.
I am me.
I’m not just the cooker of meals, the cleaner of snotty noses and sticky fingers, the fixer of broken hearts, or resuscitator of gold-fish.
I am me.
I’m not just the chauffeur to the party, the stroker of egos, or the knocker down of high horses.
I am me.
The real me is reading books, writing stories, making art, and planting gardens.
The real me prefers the company of animals over people, and being outdoors over the four walls I find myself surrounded by too often.
Yet, somewhere jumbled in all the labels, I forget myself. I lose myself in what has to be done, what needs to be said, and how those things will get that way. And, I just forget…
to be ME.
– B. Clary
Sarcastically Cynical 