“The years are short…

…but the days are long.”  

Normally, that saying is switched around, but today this is more appropriate.  I read this a couple of years ago, while sifting through a book on happiness.  While the rest of the book left my mind in about a week or so, this has stuck with me.  I try to remind myself as much as possible to live in the moment, let go of the past, and stop worrying so much about the future, but none of that really meant anything until I had my baby.  

That 5lb 13oz bundle of joy of mine, turns ONE tomorrow!  Never has a year felt so short.  It has definitely been one of the most difficult years of my life, and like a clique mommy, I admit, I could never imagine the amount of joy he brings to me every single day.  

Of course, my first year of parenthood I decided to start my novel on top of trying to figure out how the hell to raise a child.  While I sometimes feel guilty for reading over my manuscript instead of playing with the little one on the floor, I also have to give credit to him for giving me the “push” I needed to actually follow my dreams. 

I want my son to be proud of me and grow up knowing that he can be/do anything he wants in this life.  

For that reason, I write.  I dream, and I write some more.  

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