When I started this {what I love} series, I had two goals: try to blog every day, and try to capture some everyday stuff that I love. Of course, being me, I gave that first goal my best shot knowing I probably wouldn't accomplish it, simply because I can't always fit blogging into my day. And there are several everyday things that I meant to blog about but didn't, namely my affection for:

• the perfect chocolate chip cookies (a blog post wherein I meant to share all my CCC secrets)
• listening to entire albums instead of a playlist
• my favorite facial products
• my dermatologist
• specific things about each of my children
• the extra shelf Kendell built for me in my kitchen closet
• my pretty spot
• anything caramel related

(if you add it up...I did 21 posts and had 8 more topics to go, so I at least did have 29 things to blog about!)

Failures aside, I always meant to write today about the things I love about my life right now. This is different from yesterday's post in that I was going to look at my life from a wide angle lens and point out the highlights: these things are awesome and I am so glad my life has given them to me.

But as I sit down to write them, I find I can't do it.

This is because some recent developments have left me doubting these wide-angle highlights. Yes—these things make me happy. But if I were unselfish, perhaps I would be able to give them up in order to make my family more happy. For example:

I love my job. It makes me happy knowing that I get to work with, write about, recommend, and otherwise interact with books. I love the people I work with. I love just being able to say: I am a librarian.

BUT: my job is only part time. With budget issues and the economy, there isn't a whole lot of room for advancement. And it doesn't really pay very much. Am I being selfish by staying in a job I love when I really could find a different full-time one that paid me much more? If I did that, I could provide my kids with things and experiences I cannot do now.

I love that I work part time. Not working full time means that I can take my younger kids to a charter school because I am here to drive the carpool. It means that on at least half of the school days, I am home when the kids get home to talk to them and see how their days were. It means that if they get sick at school, forgot their lunch money or gym clothes or physics book or violin, I can usually help. It means I can go grocery shopping on a day that isn't Saturday, I can do laundry at 9:45 on a Wednesday morning, and I can spend a day cleaning out my pantry (like I did on Monday). Those things all help my family, I think.

Working part time also helps me. It gives me solitude. It gives me time to do things like scrapbooking, quilting, and writing. It means I can be fairly dedicated to exercising without having to get up at 4:30 every morning to fit it in. It means that twice a week I go to a gym class nearly in the middle of the day. None of those things help my family—they only help me. They provide little peaceful pockets that I draw from when things are not peaceful.

BUT. Again—if I were being unselfish, wouldn't I be willing to give up the solitude and the little peaceful pockets? Shouldn't I be willing to do whatever I can to make my kids happier? Things like extra violin lessons, karate class, a bigger house so everyone has their own room, an extra car, fancy vacations: those things are out of our financial reach right now. I'm not really about accumulating extra things, like more clothes and more video games and more stuff. But the experiences that money can buy? I want to be able to give my kids those experiences. Is my selfish devotion to solitude keeping those things out of our reach? There isn't another answer to that question except for "yes."

I love that I am starting to work on my writing for real. These have been baby steps, but they are moving me forward nevertheless. I am starting to find some of my old determination and dedication. I am starting to not feel as silly as I have felt, working on an essay or a story. Starting to work through the process of submitting.

BUT. Isn't this simply a pipe dream? How many people want to be writers and how many people actually accomplish it? Is it just another way that I am being selfish and failing to provide everything I can for my family? The odds of me becoming a successful writer are ridiculous.

And so on it goes. I'm finding myself doubting nearly everything I could rightfully say I love about my life. Feeling like I am being narrow-minded and, here's that word again: selfish. Maybe it can be traced all the way back to the day I decided to be an English major instead of taking the nursing route. I was determined to get my degree in English because it was what *I* loved, not because it was what would help my family the most.

So I don't know. This is a fairly morose way of ending my supposed-to-be upbeat {what I love} series. I'm just finding I can't fake it today. I'm finding that I just need to think about my options and my choices in a more critical light, one that takes what I need less into consideration than what my family needs. Knowing that what I would love right now is finding answers.