On Writing Again

I haven’t been on a writing hiatus this long since I began writing with intention, sometime in early middle school.  I used to write all the time, about everything.  Writing, and art, were how I processed and made sense of life and my place in it.  Sometime within falling in love with Josh my need to write lessened, and since having our son it’s completely vanished.  It’s funny because I now have so many more joyous things to write about.  I realized recently one thing about having a baby is that suddenly everything is fragmented.  Nothing can be focused on solely for very long, if at all, because this beautiful new being is the primary focus.  Yes you have to take care of yourself, but you are no longer the center of your universe, you are an orbit around a new universe.  I sometimes think I’m pregnant again because I will need to pee with such urgency, until I realize my bladder has been telling me quietly I’ve needed to pee for hours now, I no longer have a choice.  It can take me three days to get laundry put away, not for a lack of trying; I’ve started to put it way twelve times.  It can take me an entire day to sweep the house.  I’m not complaining, just observing this funny new normal.  And writing so doesn’t fit into it!  When I write I like to do so without time in mind, without expectation and without interruption.  It takes me a long time to get the words out, even longer to widdle them down into something sensible and with proper spelling and pronunciation.  But I know at any given moment that the new sun, my son, will need me before I can get to any of that, so I leave it aside.  But tonight, hopefully, he’ll stay asleep a good stretch and I can pretend the night has no end and I can finally write.  He will be a whole year old in less than two weeks and it’s about damn time I got down the story of his birth. This is my rusty warm-up.