The day after I wrote the previous post, one of the things I've been waiting for did come to fruition in the form of an admission offer to a PhD program. I was so happy for about 24 hours and then the doubt started creeping in. How was I going to do this? When would I find the time? Was I totally delusional? I've spent the rest of the week, trying to navigate my way out of this state. The problem is that I've always believed (and spouted) that a happy mum equals happy kids. If you want to go back to work because that's what makes you tick, then that is totally acceptable, and if you want to stay at home with the kids, then that's great too. We're all different and one person's decision needn't mean that they condemn an alternative path to the one they have taken. It's just that I've never managed to apply this to my own life. Every time I've been on the cusp of arranging some childcare to enable me to concentrate on writing or studying, I've talked myself out of it: they're too little; it's only another year or two; we can't afford it; I'm the one who should be looking after them, not some stranger; I can just work at night time... Yet, I've come to realise that I'm not completely fulfilled being at home all the time, and that I need something else to stop me losing the plot. I guess I'm a little slow because I only really came to accept this late last year! It seems greedy to want anything else; it feels like a betrayal of sorts. But I know that I need more, and so I'm going to have to find a way to make it happen, one that works for us all.