where the writers are

As a mother of two I find myself feeling guilty before I even put down any words about happiness. Wouldn't everyone who knows me expect me to write about my children when faced with the topic of happiness? Wasn't being a mother my number one goal in life before I ever dreamed of being a writer? Yes. But if I'm going to be honest, I have to say that true happiness for me is an hour to myself in a bookstore with my journal close at hand and a warm coffee resting between my toes. Either that, or sitting on my front porch on my favourite pillow with the sun shining over me and a few birds flying by to check me out. A pile of library books are at my side and I'm nose deep into one that could change my life forever. Where are the children? They're nestled under their blankies watching a dinosaur movie for the next 41 minutes. Should I feel guilty? No, I've done a good job today. I've read them stories, drawn hippos and reindeer, played cars, and a game of hide-and-go-seek. This moment is for me. I am happy. I am alone. Just me and my books and my coffee and perhaps a pen or two. This is bliss.