Strange people muttering in my mind, please stop. Or at least slow down. I don’t have time to pay attention right now. I’m busy.
Giggle, whine, scream. Yes, little one, I hear you. I will tend to you. Don’t ever worry. You will always come first.
Sometimes I feel like I’m being torn in two. Guilt when I write. Guilt when I mom. Guilt. All. The. Time.
My four-month-old son is the best excuse not to write yet he’s the most important reason to do so.
I wish I could accomplish both with ease, that there were more hours in the day, that I could survive on less sleep than he allows me. But there isn’t, and I can’t. I can only wait patiently for longer naps, ponder plot twists and character arcs as I monitor tummy time, and read books on craft while breastfeeding. I can wake earlier and squeeze in a few words before he rubs his baby blues, and cut out the TV shows that became mandatory during the days and nights he refused to sleep, when writing was the furthest thing from my mind.
But now that our household has settled after the new addition, I’m desperate to write. For him. I want to be the mother he deserves, and I’m at my best when diving deep into a story. I feel whole and happy and energized. I want to teach him how to be the best person he can be, which for me is when I’m writing, so I need to lead by example and find a way. I want to demonstrate that following your dreams is important, and I want to try to provide for my family, for his future. I want him to grow up knowing that a woman is capable, strong, and driven. And I want him to be proud of his mama.
And because of all of this I will find a way. I will do this. Because I have to.
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