So, I became a mother. Yet, acquiring a new role does not automatically spare one from already existing duties. Considering the fact that maternity leave in Canada lasts for almost a year, I could abandon those existing duties in favour of the significant new one, and enjoy full submerge into motherhood. Nevertheless, by the time my baby boy turned seven months old, I learned to appreciate each hour of his nap that I can spend meeting with my old self, discussing great authors and scribbling some pieces of my own. Balancing, as a little juggler, sentences and diapers, words and teddy bears, coffee and baby cereal, I observed how the new role-which, I adore-affected my overall lifestyle and writing routine. That, of course, involved putting those observations into a blog post.
Suddenly, you discover yourself as if in the middle of a circle, surrounded by people for whom you are no longer invisible. You are no longer observed by idle glances as another woman doing her grocery shopping. Rather, you are a woman with a baby. Thus, they all ask, they all start with a mere question, how old is he. Some, later, stay satisfied with a number you declare. Others are more curious. Others who also have children in a stroller or hanging on their arms ask more. They stretch conversations and drag you into further discussions about the ups and downs of parenthood.
My creative writing class professor once asked us to eavesdrop or engage in a conversation and plot a short story based on an inquisitive dialogue. I regret I had no child back then. Call me a person egotistically centred on words I put into stories, but having a baby by my side makes completing such assignments a much easier task.
It is either an extra hour of writing or an extra hour of sleep. For life is full of choices I have mine now and they both are attractive, and I say, they coexist. A new mother cannot survive on a few cups of coffee. A writer cannot survive without. In those cases of contradictions, I successfully convince myself that a child needs a rested mother and a world needs an artist who, instead of writing for crossing off a task in a planner, creates less but better. Thus, I sleep. I sleep and dream in future sentences. In that case, even if I will never produce them into genius masterpieces, I still wake up rested and satisfied with my creative self.
There are approximately five feedings in a day. Each lasts half an hour. That means at least three chapters of reading. Nonetheless, my boy has blue eyes that focus on my face with an intense desire to meet my glance back. Thus, a book lies on the floor forgotten. Thus, I weigh which guilt feels heavier and find that "Madame Bovary" is more forgiving than a baby in a search of mother's attention.
Does one get a child only to find out what extraordinary, noteworthy in a writer's case, feelings, and emotions exist in a heart? Frankly, while it wasn't a reason for me, it was one of the questions I focused my musings on during pregnancy. To answer now, he now exists in every idea I put on paper, every page I write about certain issues that exist in families. He is both, an inspiration, the reason I read more of "Peter Rabbit" and "Black Beauty" than serious prose, and an excuse for stories that take weeks longer than before to finish.