Tag Archives: baby

What I thought would never happen – did.

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When I was younger, I never babysat. I am the youngest of three children, and both of my parents are the eldest in their families, so I did not have the advantages of growing up by taking care of the “little ones,” neither siblings nor cousins. To my teenage mind, babies and toddlers were disgusting, gooey creatures that were constantly wet at both ends, and I steered clear of them.

Although far from being a neat freak (all right, I was a downright slob) I did like to have my things in order. No sticky, grubby hands were ever allowed to touch my things. My toys, my books, my art supplies – heck, even the TV remote control. As I grew older, the list grew likewise. CDs, DVDs, game controllers, and, most importantly, my laptop.

My laptop. One of the truly sacred articles of writerly life. The keyboard must be kept clean. The air vents must be kept free of dust. The screen must not get too cold, or the innards too hot. Use a surge protector. And eating anywhere near it – out of the question. Nothing like a full can of Coke to wreck your wpm rate.

Now I am a parent.

The youth director at my mother’s church is the best example I can think of to illustrate the transformation that turns the kid-haters into, well, pretty darn good parents. Doug really is a neat freak. He doesn’t like mess of any kind, and especially doesn’t like to dirty his hands. But when his daughter started vomiting over the living room rug, he acted on instinct: He stuck out his hand, cupped it under her chin, and neatly caught the puddle of sick before it could ruin her dress, shoes, or the carpet. He got her calmed down and, like all good daddies, feeling better. Then, white-faced, he related this tale to us the next day and cried, “What’s up with that?” as he pantomimed vomit pooled in his hand. Gross, right?

Things aren’t much different in my house. When Jade discovered that he could climb onto the couch, the next thing to learn was getting down again. When he decided to go over the arm, I dropped my laptop directly onto the hardwood floor in order to make a diving catch of my son before he broke something important. Like his skull, or one of his tiny, chubby arms.

He wanted to show me how, by turning his bottle upside-down over my keyboard and shaking it, milk came out the top. I explained that he was supposed to drink the milk, and grabbed a paper towel. He wanted to push the buttons on my mouse. I unplugged it and let him go to town. He wanted to point out pictures on my screen. I added Windex to the paper towel and kept typing.

In the face of discovery, or safety, my laptop comes in a screaming second to my baby. The really weird part is that’s okay with me. As long as I remember to save my writing often, on two or three different removable media, I can enjoy these early years with Boyzilla and his mostly-accidental destructiveness. After all, a notebook and a pen are an option.

Look, Jade! It’s a puppy! Banana! Rubber duckie! Racecar!

Finding Time To Write

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In my experience, simply talking with friends, fellow writers, and fellow parents, Finding Time is something like finding buried treasure. Acquire that map (calendar). Decipher it (try to remember all the things that should go on the calendar). Then, avoiding pitfalls (fights with the spousal unit because we rarely see each other), false trails (the baby figured out how to screw on and unscrew a jar lid – how cute!), and that nagging feeling there are pirates on my tail (good night, can’t anyone besides me do the dishes?*), to fight my way to that big X (jackpot! free time to write!).

And let the celebration commence.

Time isn’t something I can stumble across without a lot of hard work. I have the feeling I’m not alone.

For me, the best time to write is in the morning. My job consists of housework and caring for Jade. The trap there is, I can become so involved in housework and caring for Jade that I completely forget about caring for myself. Even after a year as a mother, I still have days that I don’t manage to take a shower. A shower. Seriously. How can that not happen? Jade is clean, and fed, and entertained, and I’m shuffling around in my pajamas with bed head.

That’s really awesome when people come to the door, by the way. Too bad I’m not a bestselling author who can pull off I’m Rich and Famous So I Can Look However I Want.

SO! Without time for a shower, how do I ever find time to write? A schedule. A tight, no-nonsense schedule that doesn’t give way to anything. Get that shower taken. Get Jade and feed him breakfast. Make tea for that warmth and caffeine boost. Set Jade playing at my feet. Turn on the computer. Open my document – and write. I have two hours where I’m not allowed to get out of my chair. If Jade takes a tumble, chances are good he’ll get right back up again without my help. The rest of the day I can (have to) devote to chores and errands, but for those two hours in the morning, it’s me and my keyboard, baby.

Sometimes, not everything outside of the schedule gets done. I’ve learned that I have to be okay with that. I have to be able to rearrange my to-do lists for another day, or else I’ll go crazy and eliminate my writing time.

And that is crazy. Writing is just as important as the shower. Never let your over-practical side tell you that it isn’t.

It’s your time. Your treasure. Get out there and fetch it.

*My husband is good enough to help with dishes every once in a while, but three people dirty a hella lot of dishes every single day.

“What are you eating?”

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Writing has become something of a guilty pleasure since I became a stay-at-home mom. My son, Jaidan, has earned himself the nickname “Boyzilla” because of the deliberate, matter-of-fact havoc he wreaks on my concentration.

Before Boyzilla, I used to sneak frenzied writing in during my fifteen-minute breaks at work, concealing a two-gig thumb drive behind my keycard. At home, I’d shut myself into my office and write until the spousal unit complained. I loved every minute of it.

Many things have changed, heralded by those first four months of stupor that came with a new baby.

The office is now the nursery. I do not have the luxury of a closed door. My position at work was eliminated last November.

So where does that leave me?

A stay-at-home mom, with a son who checks on me every few minutes to make sure I haven’t forgotten that my world revolves around him. He appears like a tiny monster from the sea, laboriously pulling himself to his feet by my robe or pant’s leg, drumming and slobbering into my thigh or placing a choice toy or two in my lap, until I assure him of my undying devotion, and then he crawls off for more interesting pursuits.

I can get from a sentence to a paragraph written in between these checkups, but sometimes, it’s a lost cause.

In fact, writing this post has been a battle of divided interests. “Jade, stop playing with the trash can.” It’s hard to keep a train of thought all the way through completion. “What is that in your mouth?” Some days, I only manage a pitiful word or two – “Don’t stick your hand in the VCR, okay? Come on, let’s play with your phone!” because of the constant – “Be nice to the kitty. Pet the kitty. Don’t pull her tail.” interruptions. “JAIDAN! CAT LITTER IS NOT FOR EATING!”

I used to think that I would be able to relax when Boyzilla takes his naps, but I’ve found that I do other things, like shower, and clean my house, and pay bills – all the grown-up, real-life stuff that won’t get done otherwise. So here I sit, sneaking frenzied writing in until my baby’s curiosity gets him into trouble.

And I love every minute of it.