But I think it may have improved my writing.
Maybe. Sort of. I am, at least, more intentional with my writing. Each sentence I produce feels like a miracle now. To be able to sit down and formulate words with the insurmountable responsibilities of parenting constantly looming over my head.
I used to write in the mornings. Prior to December 2021, my mornings were sacred. My husband has always loved a lie-in and I love time alone, and what a compatible pair that made us. Weekend mornings were spent on the couch under a blanket with a warm drink and either a book or a blank document on my computer. Words flowed effortlessly, with occasional breaks to refill my mug or grab some breakfast or pet the dog. I could use up three hours in the most delightful, creative-filled, uninterrupted way. My cup was always brimming with the possibility of another morning to do the same.
And then I had a baby.
And I was served the reality check of all reality checks when I realized these babies and toddlers, they do not sleep in. Not only do they not sleep in, they need something every minute of every hour of every day. And even when they reach the point of being able to play independently (my child is now honing this at 2.75), he still needs me nearby and good God can he sense when I pivot to computer work.
He, too, needs to see what I’m doing on the computer even when it’s a blank word document and I’m simply typing.
Can he, perhaps, type too?
And there it goes. Pop. That fleeting moment of excitement about a plot point or character detail or book review. Gone in a second. I’m now wiping sticky fingerprints off my screen and deleting the random characters added to the document and did he say snack again? For the second time since he ate a full lunch? And also he needs water and for me to help him with this toy. And a bike ride, too.
I traded creativity for the baby who became a toddler.
I chose this, of course. A beautiful, humbling truth that I remind myself often living in a nation where half the population doesn’t believe women deserve a choice at all.
But despite my choice it’s still hard to grapple with the loss of self. An utter rewiring of my brain chemistry. The lack of alone time and free-thinking and loss of persistent creativity I’ve had since I first began writing stories in elementary school.
I’ve talked about motherhood ten times over, so let me spare you on that front.
I want to talk about what I’ve lost, and what I fight for, day in and day out three years into this gig. Those evanescent moments of the flow state that line up with nap time or a morning when my husband takes our son to the grocery store. When my brain and body and free-time are all aligned and I can crush a few pages of writing.
It’s euphoric, really, since having a child. Better than any drug (not that I’ve tried many, but reaching my writing flow is as close to meditation as I think meditation can be).
I traded creativity and a sense of self when I made the decision to raise a kid. And as I wrestle with the decision of maybe one more or maybe this is enough, I find myself tightening my grip on what I’ve gained back in three years. The ability to write this damn blog post, for one. The completion of another manuscript, for another. Easy reviews of books that feel light and fun, and hopefully influential. A short story here. A cover letter for a dream job there.
Every little piece of creativity I wrote and took for granted in my childless days.
But as (one of) my all-time favorite books reminds me:
“If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless.”
Though it would change nothing for me. Even if I knew what I’d lose. The choice to be a mother was written in the stars. I had dreamt of and hoped for it long before it was made a reality. And I feel no need at this point in my journey to defend my love for my child and all the joy he’s brought to my life. It was a decision I am content with.
And yet I traded my creativity for it.
Two truths that can be unsettling to sit with, and likely unhelpful to anyone on the fence. I’ve read of women writing bestsellers with babies at their breast and those finishing dissertations with multiple toddlers running through their legs, but it could not be me.
I claw and scratch and dig for my creativity every day that I am a parent. My dream of publishing a novel feels farther away than ever before. A distant thought. One I almost want to pack into a box and put away.
But I am too goddamn stubborn. More than ever, actually. I am bound and determined to publish one of these manuscripts. Hilarious really, that I ever wonder where this toddler gets his strong-will.
He fights me over the angle at which I open his banana in the mornings and I fight for fifteen minutes alone to write a shaky paragraph.
I traded my creativity for a baby, and yet, I would do it all over again.