I’ll never be the same writer I was just a few months ago. I’ll never get to sit and just write for a few hours. I’ll never get some quality time with a word document. I’ll never get to ignore the world while I type out my next great idea.
I think I’ve come to terms with that.
Even though my kid is still very young and very demanding, I have a feeling that, even as he grows older, I’ll still never get any peace. There will be pleas to play with him or take him somewhere. There will, one day, be sibling squabbles I’ll have to deal with. Then there will be teenagers. That should be self-explanatory. And then getting the kids ready for adulthood where they will, hopefully, not be living with their dad and I. Oh, and I long for the day when I can leave the house and go to a job where I can talk to adults and shed the baby talk nonsense that defines my vocal existence these days.
Finding time to write feels like trying to find a needle in a haystack. But I’m grateful. I get time to raise my son and witness many of his firsts. That makes up for it. While I long for uninterrupted writing sessions, my life is richer and maybe that’ll translate into what writing I actually get done.
I suppose I could be a writer and a mother. But, at some point, something’s got to give, and I know it’ll always be the writing. But that’s okay. One day I’ll be old and gray and letting my kids deal with their own kids while I get to spoil them as grandma. Then I can close the door, sit with a word document, or whatever exists at that point in time, and just write.
For now, I get some writing time at six-thirty most mornings. And that’s when I get to call myself “writer.” At least until the baby wakes up.