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Thursday, February 2, 2012
Stretch
I watch him stretch his little fingers, barely able to touch the object of his attention. With a surprising tenacity, he continues to try, going back, again and again, until he gets it. I think to myself, why don't I have that kind of attention, that kind of dedication to my writing?
He is an epic reminder to go into the world with my blinders down. To approach every situation with fascination.
And then he sits in front of me and grumps to screaming because I am sitting here writing and not giving him his toys. Sorry little guy, if I have to reach, so do you.
Does that make me a bad mom? A bad mom AND a bad writer? Or a bad mom and a lazy writer? Or a lazy mom and a currently uninspired writer? Or a boring mom and a writer needing to move from the darkened den and back to her office (which she now shares with the baby -- mom office/baby room -- city living people).
Okay, little guy, your sad song is being heard. Time for a change in diaper and perhaps a nap... a nap for us both. Maybe then, we'll both have the sunshine we need to face the rest of the day.
He is an epic reminder to go into the world with my blinders down. To approach every situation with fascination.
And then he sits in front of me and grumps to screaming because I am sitting here writing and not giving him his toys. Sorry little guy, if I have to reach, so do you.
Does that make me a bad mom? A bad mom AND a bad writer? Or a bad mom and a lazy writer? Or a lazy mom and a currently uninspired writer? Or a boring mom and a writer needing to move from the darkened den and back to her office (which she now shares with the baby -- mom office/baby room -- city living people).
Okay, little guy, your sad song is being heard. Time for a change in diaper and perhaps a nap... a nap for us both. Maybe then, we'll both have the sunshine we need to face the rest of the day.
Monday, January 23, 2012
and we're back
Once upon a time a prolific amount of jazzy stuff spilled from my brain with an effortlessness that anyone would envy. Was it Pulitzer material? Hells no, but it wasn't total crap either. What it was... practice. At least I was writing. I could stand on my soapbox and bellow to my brother that his incredible gift with words was being wasted on procrastination. After all, you can't call yourself a writer if you don't write, right?
Then, I peed on a stick.
Then, I didn't write because I spent more time than I care to admit surfing the internet about what it is to be pregnant, what it will be to be a mom and what I should buy in preparation. I realized two things: one- my brain's capacity to multitask diminished 10 fold, so "baby" was all that computed. two- I am evil with the pregnancy hormones (a story for another monday). Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that I would have plenty of time once the baby comes. After all, the thing babies do most is sleep, right?
Er... We will take a momentary pause for all the parents to collectively laugh at me right now.
Okay.
Needless to say, it's been almost six months since the beast was born and I have yet to write so much as a few words here and there... Mostly in brief emails sent to family. My soapbox is in storage and hidden behind the cardboard boxes we saved for the carseat, the stroller, the crib, the exersaucer, the playpen and my sanity.
Leaves a gal wondering if her inspiration is sagging as much as her boobs.
We'll see, I suppose.
Then, I peed on a stick.
Then, I didn't write because I spent more time than I care to admit surfing the internet about what it is to be pregnant, what it will be to be a mom and what I should buy in preparation. I realized two things: one- my brain's capacity to multitask diminished 10 fold, so "baby" was all that computed. two- I am evil with the pregnancy hormones (a story for another monday). Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that I would have plenty of time once the baby comes. After all, the thing babies do most is sleep, right?
Er... We will take a momentary pause for all the parents to collectively laugh at me right now.
Okay.
Needless to say, it's been almost six months since the beast was born and I have yet to write so much as a few words here and there... Mostly in brief emails sent to family. My soapbox is in storage and hidden behind the cardboard boxes we saved for the carseat, the stroller, the crib, the exersaucer, the playpen and my sanity.
Leaves a gal wondering if her inspiration is sagging as much as her boobs.
We'll see, I suppose.
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