And here's my last whiny post of 2005.
December 30, 2005Oh, but I am feeling low.
I could blame the chocolates my mom bought my husband--my delightfully Jewish husband who is all, “I do not understand you Christians and your strange Christ-birthday; who is this ‘Christ’?” and then insists that my family only give him presents that he can consume. So we get these damn chocolate confections that are incredibly delicious; one of them makes you feel that you require twelve more, and then the second one provides you with the sensation of needing to tear your skin from your face and set your pants on fire. I ate three.
Also, Henry is sick. We put him in preschool and he fought off every virus that came his way, but one weekend with my family was all it took to bring him down. The night before last he had the CROUP, and we immediately rushed him into the steamy bathroom and sat there until the ceiling melted. He continued to whuuup and hurrk far long than he ever had before, but then as we discussed our imminent trip to the ER, he decided hospitals were not his thing, and the episode passed. But now he’s all drippy and crusty and feverish, and when I’m not worried about him I’m worried about how I’m going to keep from killing him.
He is moany and whiny and needy and I can understand why, but he’s not needy in a way I understand. Lying on the couch requesting blankets and tea—this I can understand. Running around and throwing toys while wearing nothing but socks and screaming at me to take off his socks—this is his version of being sick, and it makes no sense to me. No he does NOT want soup, take that blanket OFF him, he LIKES shivering, and don’t THINK about giving him Motrin, on second thought the Motrin tastes like candy so give him EXTRA, what do you MEAN extra is bad for him? THE NAKED BOY WANTS EXTRA MOTRIN.
When he isn’t demanding that I overdose him, he wants me to play, except what he really wants is not for me to play—he wants me to sit next to him and watch him as he plays. This way lies madness, as we know, but I am not given much of a choice in the matter. If I try to pick up an action figure and join him in playtime, I am berated. If I attempt to rise and get a glass of water, or maybe use the bathroom, there is much screaming and pleading for my company. If I sit right next to him and read a book, the book is torn from my hands. My attention is demanded constantly, but it’s only to acknowledge whatever it is he is doing. “Look, Mommy!” he announces, holding up Batman. “I am holding Batman!” Pause. “Look! Look! Look! Look! Look! Look!” and so on, until I respond, “Yes, that’s Batman, all right.”
Repeat this with every one of his two hundred figures.
I am bored out of my mind. Literally, I have no mind.
So maybe this is not the best day to take stock of my life. But whoops, too late.
Waaaay back, I got an MFA in creative writing and I told myself I would have a novel published before I had a child. Ha, ha! No really, I did! I know! Then when I was pregnant I downscaled my ambitions to, “Hmm, I should really get a short story published before I give birth.” I didn’t make that goal either, but I did eventually get two stories published. And a poem. Which, okay, more than zero! Not so bad! But really if I consider myself a writer, I should have more than two stories published in my lifetime. Two stories (and a poem) would make a crappy collection.
So now I’m working on a book. Which is nice, to have an idea, to be working on something. To finally, after years of struggling with rock-bottom expectations and crippling self-doubt and blar de blar twelve years of therapy blar, be doing what I’ve always want ed to do. Except! I have no time! Ever! Because there’s this child! Whom I think a great deal of, who’s really a great kid, but who demands every second of my time! And I may be just a wee bit resentful about that!
I’ve been getting up at six in the morning to write. I am not a morning person. But Henry isn’t either, and as he gets up at 8 at the earliest, it seemed the perfect time to get some things done. But by the time I get a cup of tea, turn on the lights, find my robe, use the bathroom, stare at my freaky morning hair in the mirror, turn on the computer, and try not to throw up as I see what I wrote the day before—by the time I’m ready to write it’s 6:30. So the most I can do is an hour and a half of writing. And it’s not enough. I need that much time just to remember why I’m sitting there, what brought me to that place and what it was I wanted to say, again.
Today I made the mistake of reading an interview between Paul Auster and Jonathan Lethem, and they were talking about the five or six hours each day they devote to their writing, how satisfying it was to have SO MUCH time to write! Devoting those hours to their Art infuses the rest of the day with a “kind of grace,” they agreed. And I thought, if I see you fuckers on the street—and there’s a good chance I will; they’re both around here somewhere, I’ve seen them before—I am going to kick you in the shins. Six hours! Hey, Jonathan: once we were at the same party and you were dancing and you danced like a moron and I laughed. And then you went home and wrote a masterpiece. Wait, that didn't make me feel better. Asshole.
I don’t know how anyone who is a mother is also a writer. I suppose you have to achieve a certain level of success so that you can hire a nanny without killing yourself from the financial burden or from the guilt or choosing your nonexistent career over your child. But if I don’t have the time, then I can’t write the book, so I can’t get the money, which I need to, um, have the time. I go around and around like this, and then I want to throw up. Or maybe that's the chocolates.
I am sorry to end the year like this, so I will say Happy New Year, and then I will go to bed, and maybe tomorrow, the last day of 2005, will suck a tiny bit less.
Reader Comments (107)
I concur - I can't fathom how moms find the time to write anything anywhere. But, if it means anything - I love to read what you've written here. I'll keep coming back until the book is finished 1.5 hours a day or not.
When I have days like this, I remind myself: you are not limited by your ability to raise your child nor your inability to finish a book...YOU are FAR MORE VALUABLE than any of the things you do that attempt to define you.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Blessings, Stacey
Hope the Henry recovers quickly, and that you find moments here and there again soon that you can string into at least a dirty limerick. Happy! New! Yay!
P.S. Continued supportive thoughts on your weaning. Your initial post came just when my doc was blithely offering Effexor in response to a crisis instead of actually getting me the kind of help I needed, which turned out to be the joy of firing an ineffectual psychologist after two meetings. Without having read your story, I might not have been able to prioritize my options as appropriately for my situation as I did. Thank you.
"She worked on the book for several years, finding quiet moments while her daughter napped."
HAHAHAHAHA!
Well, at least it took "several years."
I would buy your two stories and a poem. Just double-space.
A few years ago I read an interview with Barbara Kingsolver where she talked about writing while her kids are at school. Why, she sends them on their merry way, makes a cup of coffee, sits down at the computer and quite often, when the children return home, her cup of coffee is still by her side because she was so productive she forgot to drink it.
I want her dead.
I have 5 children ( the youngest is 2 and I homeschool )and they have all been sick for over 2 weeks !!!
I used to write songs , now I write verses .I have so many- started - songs with tunes and everything but no completed songs in atleast 6 years .
I would love to learn photography and the bass guitar and take my singing to another level . Not going to happen anytime soon !!!
Your time is coming ( a lot sooner than mine !!! )
But also, my dad has told me that until your kids get into school, you basically have no life. None at all. Ever. And Henry will be in school in the blink of an eye - in what, 3 years? That's nothing. I have probably sprent more that three years total of my life picking my nose. Not, you know, in a row, but you know what I'm sayin'.
I can't stand hearing about the people who can write in little bits here and there. What! How do they do that!
No, unadulterated blocks of time are hard to come by. And if you've had to spend the day exclaiming over Batman figures, you need even more time, just to reactivate the brain cells.
It really does get easier as they gte older, though. They start spending more time on their own. Also the Batman figures (in our case Bionicles, God Help Us) start to disappear. Slowly. Over time.
But really. they do.
Don't take this as patronizing, but you have published a story: FINSLIPPY! and I enjoy reading every chapter.
I set myself moderate word goals (2,700 words per week, or a little over 5 pages - your average novel in regular font being about 500 words, give or take) and work when I can. First thing in the morning, while my daughter's napping, late in the evening when my husband's at his gaming group.
Sometimes the best thing to do is just sit down and write, even if it's complete crap.
I admit, though, I'm lucky. My daughter's fairly independent and doesn't want supervision to play, she's mostly happy playing in the same room as I am, but does her own thing.
Seriously, though, if you can afford it, you might see what your local day care can do for a few hours once a week, if H. is really that needy.
I would not have completed my novel without my husband's agreeability to giving me full days on weekends (not all of them) to work. I find after one of these that it's a lot easier to stay focused on daily work, because I have a much better feel for the material. Or I would if I didn't have the work for hire stuff demanding my attention alongside the 2-year-old.
The secret is trying different things until you find something that works... which you must keep doing, because they are constantly changing the rules. Nothing ever works for more than a week because they clue in and switch it up. Dang kids.
Oh, and it's not as easy as just "neglecting" my kids for a bit--they actually do entertain themselves here & there quite fine, & I don't spend my day entertaining them. But--as you know--there is also the meals, and the neverending laundry, and the mess mess mess, and the 2yo who loves to write on everything with markers. And the exhaustion, physical AND mental. It's not like I can send them to their rooms to play video games for hours every day.
Seriously, I wish to echo the others who say you are an amazing writer. I would gladly pay for the privilege of reading your writing, whether it be a blog or a book or an article. I look forward to continuing to read your writing, in whatever form it takes.
After the kid goes to bed at 8 pm. is when I write. Admittedly, some nights are better than others (I'm no Barbara Kingsolver).
Alice, I hope you find the time to write. I will buy your book (or collection of 2 stories and 1 poem!)