My phone alarm chimes loudly on the nightstand next to me, and I fumble in the darkness to turn it off. I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes and then glance at the time. I only have about 20 minutes before the kids wake up. They’ll plod down the steps like zombies, still half asleep but awake enough to remind me they need breakfast. Twenty minutes, I coach myself. Twenty minutes to get something done. I do my own zombie-esque walk to the kitchen, pour my mug of coffee, and curse the fact that I’ve been trying to cut back on caffeine. This cup of half caffeinated coffee isn’t going to cut it today.

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.