The last month has been so busy, that I realized it’s been over three weeks since I put fingertips to keyboard here on my little blog. It hasn’t been for lack of trying, but it has certainly been for lack of time and inspiration. And that lack of inspiration is affecting me from what to make for dinner to how to finalize a project at the office to figuring out WTF I’m going to write for my weekly blog posts at Bodega Boutique. (Luckily, clothes help.)

The truth is that I’m like the very last bit of butter rescued from the inside of the jar, spread dangerously thin across toast because you ran out of time that morning and this is all you have. I don’t want to be inadequately buttered toast anymore. And that’s exactly how I feel and also what I’ve been eating for breakfast lately, and nothing good comes of a disappointing breakfast.

And even fewer good things come from a worn out and uninspired mama, which is why I’ve decided to scrape my proverbial plate.

There was a time not so long ago when I really believed that the more gigs I was taking on, the more successful I was. But then the projects became too great and my work stopped being great and I felt my anxiety rising to frightening levels because it was 1 am and I needed to be in up five hours. My perception of “successful” has changed a lot.

Letting some of my projects, gigs and partnerships go has been hard – much harder than I had anticipated it to be. As deadlines were barely met (and, OK, one was missed…) and I felt myself struggling to make it work, an overwhelming sense of guilt began to weigh on me. I’m letting them down. I’m letting them down. I’m letting them down. And then, last week, I realized that I was concerned about letting the wrong people down. Sure, I don’t want to disappoint my boss or the brands who work with me – but I’ve been letting the most important person in the world down.

It was almost bedtime, and I was still glued to my computer trying to get to the other side of a whack of emails. As I directed F to go  get into his PJs and brush his teeth, he stood and stared at me. When he asked if I was going to come with him, I explained that I was working.

You’re always working, Mama, he said through tears. I thought you were going to read to me but you’re just working just like always.

It was a bad feeling and, while I know there will be more than one night in the future that I need to work until bedtime, I refuse to let that be every night. And so, here I am with a scraped plate. It’s a little daunting. I feel a little emptier. I’ll have to resist the urge to fill it up again, mark my words, but it’s worth a million dollars to no longer have that awful weight of guilt on my chest.

And maybe now I can blog here more often, too. For fun. For the love of it. For me.