"Who am I?" is perhaps impossible to answer since I'm not the same person I was a few months ago. Or even a few weeks ago. Suffice it to say I'm a 44-year-old writer, aspiring novelist, blogger, housewife, mother of three children under the age of 9. Five years ago, describing myself as a housewife would have mortified me, and I would have passed out at the mere idea of having a newborn at my age. Come to think of it, fear would never have allowed me to admit to having a novel or two inside me. But here I am, fingers itching to pound out a best-selling story about what I don't know yet. Who am I? The best I can say right now is that I'm a mid-lifer aspiring to live instead of merely staying alive.
