I had my second child this summer. A happy, chubby little guy who’s already four months old.
I haven’t had two seconds to myself to write or even update this blog or Facebook or god forbid, Twitter (which I’m supposed to do for work but I’m not really doing because I’m no good at it.)
Before I went on maternity leave, I thought I’d get so much writing done. I had high hopes.
But then this little guy came along and I realized — this is it for me, my last baby, and if I don’t spend it holding him, I’ll always regret it.
I did a lot of writing with my first baby. I put him in his bouncy chair and would jiggle him with my foot while I wrote.
But you know what — not one word of that ever got published. Maybe it will be one day. Or maybe it won’t. I subscribe to the school of writing thought that “nothing is ever wasted.” But my time with the baby is limited.
I still have a day job. Maternity leave is three blissful months that I get to spend with the baby. Going back to work, as most working mothers will tell you, is pure hell.
So this time around, I thought, fuck it. I’m going to hold this baby.
So that’s what I’ve been doing. And I will be honest — I’ve loved every single second of it.
I’m still scared to death that writing and motherhood (and having a day job) don’t mix. Because it’s purely impossible at the moment. But I have to put that thought out of my head. I have to believe there will be time. That I will get my writing time again. That this is baby time. And I’ll take every minute of it I can get.