I am in the final throes of editing my ebook for new moms. Every day I tell myself it is my last; I will hit submit. Still hasn’t happened.
My day is short. It goes by with a whiz bang pop. Well, not quite. The first few bleary-eyed hours grudgingly putter along with the invaluable help of my dear friend, coffee.
I get some writing done and it’s time for lunch in the form of cold handfuls of leftovers shoved down the gullet. Then I pick my kids up from school.
My writing (or in this case, editing) mostly happens in the late morning/early afternoon and at night. The rest of the time my kids are around and while I never can shake my pie-in-the-sky delusions about what I think I can accomplish while my kids are home, shit just doesn’t get done.
Today it was pouring when we left school and I knew they were hungry for food and attention and fizzing with pent-up energy. So, I thought, instead of trying to work right away when they get home, I will give them a healthful snack with my full attention and then they will go to their rooms and play quietly for two hours while I finish this.
But they needed more. Of course they needed more, when do they not?
Okay, I’ll read them one story curled up on the couch and afterwards they’ll run upstairs with the promise of a show at the end of playtime.
Then my daughter started singing “Let It Go,” from Frozen, the endless soundtrack of our lives at the moment. She cocked a hip, twirled in a circle, and belted it out. My princess had red marker covering her face; a thick gold plastic hip-hop chain around her neck, medallion hanging at her waist; and a straight-billed Marvin the Martian cap tilted sideways on her head. Her bling flashed and she sang.
I laughed and clapped.
Then my son presented me with a note folded every which way, “Top Scrt. To Mama From Sebastian.” His smudged letter (mostly consonants, hardly any vowels) asked me if we have any fun plans we for tomorrow on his early release day from school. We plotted together and then my time was up.
Shit didn’t get done.
Now it’s late, the perfect writing time for this night owl and instead of editing my book, I’m writing about them. Writing, with kids… I feel stymied, frustrated, haunted. I never have enough time, never do anything as well as I want to.
They also make me stop, laugh, sing, and pay attention. I can’t live in my head quite as much. I have to let go.
The snacks are good, too.