My little boy has been asleep for an hour now. I lay here in bed resting, because in the first trimester that is all I ever want to do. The cat breathes heavily, sighs. In the distance, the heater creaks and moans. In this almost silence, I feel like myself again. There is no list of things to do right now. No pressure to be or think or solve.

Being a mother is so challenging; some days I wonder how I ever thought it was a good idea. Some days I dream of daycare, waving goodbye to AJ, heading home to write and knead warm loaves of bread and listen to loud music. And then AJ giggles at something, something peculiarly funny only to those under the age of 2. His arms wrap around my neck in a quick, flickering hug. Those moments erase the memory of the tantrums, the trail of cereal, the annoyances of early morning wake-ups.

Now that I am pregnant with a second, I find myself longing for something to call my own. A creation that challenges me to be better, to strive for more. Yes, motherhood is that, in a nutshell, but in motherhood so much depends on the little person. I want something that is selfishly mine. And so, I will try this: writing in the afternoon.