maybe...

Maybe I have become one of those people who goes to the gym to workout for only fifteen minutes before snagging some towels and heading to the shower so that she can have thirty minutes alone while someone else makes sure her son isn't grabbing plastic garbage bags from the trashcan and putting them over his head.

And maybe I've become the person who uses the handicapped shower stall so that she can sit down and close her eyes for a few moments and pretend the warm water is actually a hot tub and imagine she's somewhere warm and not in a rainy swamp forest that causes every pine needle and piece of dirt in western Washington to be tracked through her living room, and subsequently on her son's clothing as he tears across the house in an army crawl.

And maybe I am now the person who just wasted five minutes typing all this on her tiny phone because, as much as she enjoys writing, it is nearly impossible to do with a 8-month-old who wants to copy everything his parents do, and insists on sitting in her lap and banging away on the laptop keyboard to the point where his mama's laptop screen is upside down and everything is in Spanish.

Maybe.

Or maybe not.