Today my snow-encrusted mailbox held a wonderous thing: my first paycheck as a published author.

<and this is where the chorus bursts into song and the heavens shine down their golden rays upon me>

It’s not a lot of money, but it’s money, real honest to betsy monetary funds which I have received in exchange for my written words. And there, between the covers of a glossy and delightful magazine, are my words. There is my name on the page, under my title. YES!!

<more song, more golden rays>

I have worked many years for this moment. Many years. I have a desk drawer full to the brim with many papers, including dozens of rejection letters and cards I’ve been sent over the years. (If, however, I want to include my acceptance letter in their company, I’ll have to print it first. Times change.)

I have wanted to be many things in my life. Wildlife biologist, horse trainer, veteranarian, architect. But always, always, I have wanted to be a writer. I am a writer - this I have known for some time, despite being unpublished, but now I have a voice to the outside world.

As I held Jules in one arm, the check in the other hand, and we danced around the kitchen, I looked at my little daughter and wished she could remember this moment too. Me, her mommy on the one hand and a creative being on the other.

When I drop the girls at daycare on their two days each week, we go through the list of where everyone is for the day. 

“Where’s Daddy?” I say.

“At work,” they answer.

“Where’s Eddie?”

“School!”

“Where’s Davey?”

“He at school too.”

“And what’s mommy going to do while you’re at school?”

A pause. Then, “Mommy go working!”

Yes, sweeties, Mommy go working.