What am I? (Not G-rated)

"Mom! Dad says you  have to put sunblock on me."

I was outside with the lad for an hour, a full hour so he could play and have fun. I didn't want to be out there-I wanted to be alone and write, work on the novel that I have been struggling to find time to finish this whole summer. Instead, I talked with my son, watched him throw a tennis ball up- bright yellow contrasted against deep blue then skillfully landing in a worn, black baseball mitt. I talked with him and watched while rocking in a chair and glancing at a book that someone else got the time to write. I did what I have done all summer and am grateful that I get to do but am feeling a bit resentful that I have to do it- I spent time with my kids instead of getting lost in the words that are screaming for attention from inside my own head.

"You were outside with him," he said when I confronted him, "you couldn't put sunblock on in that time? I thought you had."

So it's my punishment to be hauled away from what I was doing to do something he could have easily done, I don't say.

Not even ten minutes to write before I got interrupted by something that, apparently, only I can do despite the fact that there is another fully capable adult in the house.

I give up.

I don't want to give up. But who am I? This is what I am struggling with right now.

I don't get paid to do this, so it's a hobby, I hear.

But it doesn't feel like a hobby.

It's an itch. A desire that needs to be fulfilled.

I'm mostly venting and it's hard to relate to. But maybe think of it like sex. Being a housewife- while I'm ironing and cleaning and cooking, and driving kids everywhere, taking care of all the pre-business and getting and things in place? Foreplay. It's required and necessary and the main event wouldn't feel right, wouldn't work right without it. I tease myself and imagine what I will do when I get alone. The words that will be spoken, the emotions that will be felt, the different paced actions that will occur- fast, slow, build-up, and up and... I lustily dream about it and whip myself into a frenzy of anticipation.

But too much foreplay isn't wholly satisfying and at some point you have to get down to business or the moment has past and it's forced and not at all as good as it could be.

Being told to put sunblock on a kid ten minutes after getting down to business killed the moment.

And I have no reason to get back to it.

So I'm going to iron.

Because I'm a housewife.

Which, technically, I don't get paid to do either.

My whole life is a hobby.

I should feel more grateful.