Looking A Gift Horse in The Mouth

I have found myself in a writing drought. It's not the writing's fault, actually. It's my life, which is normally my bottomless source of exasperated inspiration. My life is in a rather uninspiring rhythm right now. I'm so used to chaos that I feel awkward about the fact that my life consists of going to work/coming home to a happy family/doing chores/sleeping. I've started out entries and deleted them after the third paragraph, squinting at the computer screen and stumbling upon the realization,"HOLY SHIT BALLS, that is BORING!" Stablity sucks, man. No conflict in the plot.

I haven't been BEING ME very often lately. I feel like I am scrambling all hours of the day trying to please people, and well, come on, we alllllll know that I am not the People Pleasing type. My husband needs this...my kids need this...my work needs this...hustle hustle hustle. I do EVERYTHING that I do out of a sense of obligation. I know a lot of adults live in this state for years, my mother especially, doing The Right Thing morning noon and night, but I wanted to have more of a sense of freedom and joy.

Things are fine.

Have I defined myself by my disasters? YES! Without a disaster, what am I? So unused to a calm sea, I wonder if that flat, peaceful blue expanse is actually The Doldrums, gleefully waiting to kill me with thirst.

Is this ok, this safe, peaceful, repetitive life?

Damned if I know.

My cat, in heat, escaped the house somehow. "Oh, shit, she'll come back pregnant,"I said. She did return, all wet paws and cold ears. My little daughter, the animal lover down to the cellular level, cuddled her sweet kitty and, grinning widely, said,"Aww, Mommy! I could be holding five cats right now!"

My cat has a more interesting life than I do right now.

I am stretching myself to inhabit my safe little box. It's a new world for me. Climate controlled and artificially lit, I feel ungrateful even mentioning that it makes me itch.