Have you ever laid in bed, looking up at the ceiling wondering how you got to where you’re at? Thirty-eight, out of shape, exhausted all the time, nothing at all like those women who play “desperate housewives” on Desperate Housewives. Your chest has decreased so much that you have to shop in the girls department for a bra, or it now hangs down somewhere between your belly button and pelvis. Your hair is falling out, and you are growing new hair where it should not be grown. Your house 
is a disorganized mess, and you clean it constantly.
You pray daily, no minutely that your kids turn out okay despite the fact that they are being raised by you and that man you live with. Yes, he is your husband. You live with him and share a bed with him, but there is little time for romance, time to stay connected to one another. The main topics of conversation now are bills, the kid’s sporting events and the weather. Finally, as you look at your life you wonder what happened to all the hopes you had for your future when you were in your twenties. Those hopes are little more than a distant dream.
So you decide to do something, you decide to write about all your stuff and hope that there are other women out there who are going through the same stuff and they want to read what you write. Not because you have answers. No, they read because you don’t have any answers. You don’t make them feel like they are the only one out there with questions and doubts about their ability to be a wife and mother. They read you because every other mothering article they read, ever homemaking web site they go to and every “Desperate Housewife” episode they watch makes them feel alone. They read you because you PMS with them. You are transparent with them. You are them.
So I write, and maybe through writing I can reach other women who are thirty-eight, worn out, discouraged and opaque.
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