2018 is the year I didn’t write.
Or read, really.
2018 is the year I had emergency surgery to deliver my fourth child, a gorgeous son we named after a comic book character.
I guess I’m extra like that.
2018 is the year I accepted I don’t really understand the current slang “the kids” use.
I use it anyway… sparingly.
2018 is the year our new business nearly lost us our house.
It’s also the year we were able to pay for a week long trip to Hawaii for four (five, if you count the baby). I can’t wait – we leave in a few weeks. A proper vacation? I’m giddy.
2018 is the year I didn’t get my book finished. The year I didn’t update about it. The year I promised to write, read, review, beta read… and couldn’t do it.
I’m sorry.
I think it’s the hormonal birth control I’m on. Making me more anxious, more depressed, even as our financial circumstances are turning around. It’s also made me gain a ton of weight while breastfeeding which has never happened to me before. But the anxiety made me unable to call to get it removed until this week, even though I knew what the problem was.
Sorry, I know I’m oversharing.
2018 is the year my mother-in-law had another stroke, surgery, and we thought she wasn’t going to make it.
It’s also the year we helped her get a realtor (after the medical emergencies) and make offers on a few houses. No new house yet, but it’s a new year!
2018 was better than 2017.
2019 will be better than 2018.
2019 is the year I’ll finish my book and turn it in to the publisher.
2019 is the year I will read more.
2019 is the year I will find my creative spark again.
2019 is the year I turn 40.
It’s now, or never.
