So I wrote about not being able to write and now I can’t stop. That advice I was throwing out there? That was for my own good.
But writing when you’re embroiled in the work of motherhood can be tricky.
I set aside time to write. It rarely happens that I’m available for that appointment with myself.
I’ve tried changing the appointment. It doesn’t matter.
Unless I’m willing to forego sleep and write into the wee hours of the morning, when the sun is up (and even for a while after the sun disappears below the horizon), I belong to my children.
Never mind that I’m engrossed in editing or re-working a piece that I’ve written, and to disturb me would be to crush the very thoughts and inspiration that I am seeking to express, my children call to me. They need me. They want me. They want my input into their games, their activities, their crafts. Never a dull moment at our house.
I am in constant reminder mode that my children think they are important to me and so that makes them important to me. (Of course my children are important to me. I know that. I feel that. I love that. But they really and truly believe that I exist only for them. They have not yet grown into adults who can comprehend that Mommy has needs and wants and desires and passions of her own. That day will come and I will be a little bit sad that they no longer live under the assumption that they are everything to me and I everything to them.)