Welcome to my Mexican upbringing

Every time I want to sit down to blog, something comes up. Like my sisters' car breaking down and me having to go pick them up. Like having to play chauffer to my other sister for her college classes (come on, license!). Or like the laundry, the dishes, the last-minute family dinner at the in-laws, and you get the general idea.

I've been meaning to sit down and write (read: work) and blog (read: not getting paid for it) forever now, and get pissed when my time gets pushed aside for Everyone Else's Needs. Sure, I could have told my sisters that I was working instead of going to pick them up, but that's not so easy when the only boss I have to sweet talk into letting me out of the office early is, well, me. And it's even harder when said office is my house and my work attire consists of yoga pants and yesterday's T-shirt.

Add that to the fact that I had family-loyalty beat into me by my father and every one of my Tias and Tios (read: aunts and uncles) and you've got yourself one bona-fide Mexican-American push-over who bitches and moans when she has to drop everything to do for others, but does it anyway, no questions asked.

So where does that leave me for work? Nowhere, really. I'm kind of coming to terms with the fact that for now, freelancing is kind of what I get to do when I have time. I guess I can't exactly call myself a Work at Home Mom at the moment, unless I change the definition to mean: "Make Dinner, Clean House, Rock the Toddler to sleep for her naps, and whatever YOU need comes FIRST before I get to work at home Mom."

But that's just too damned long to say.