I wanted to write this blog about writing but as I sat at my laptop my newborn – apparently he is only classed as a newborn for the first month so I am coining the phrase while I still can – began to cry. This lead to my breasts leaking, which is one of the worst aspects of breastfeeding if you ask me. I calmed my baby, cleaned myself up and re-settled. Low and behold the train of thought has left the station and I remain standing on the platform with babe in arms but no concrete thought in mind.
I must have known somewhere along the line that this would be the case. I pushed myself so hard to finish my manuscript before Harley was born. I thought I was tired during my pregnancy, I thought that I suffered baby brain – little did I know that this was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. What lurked beneath the calm waters was endless feeds in the middle of the night, continuous worry about this tiny human that I now am completely responsible for, and a list of physical changes to occupy my otherwise fog riddled mind.
I no longer wake in the middle of the night eager to tap out another chapter but instead pass the breastfeeding hours in contemplation of burping techniques, feeding regimes, how best to capture this snippet of newborn time and of course simply marveling at the beauty of my child.
Another week has past and as Harley sleeps peacefully beside me I again attempt to write. Now though, my thoughts wrestle with the idea that my laptop is emitting harmful signals to my wi-fi wired house and that perhaps I should move a little farther from this delicate baby brain.
I have resettled, with as much distance between my computer and baby as my protective Mother Bear instincts will allow. Where was I? Oh right… writing.
I am tempted to pull my manuscript from the bottom drawer of the cupboard. It was set to marinate for at least two months but my eager writer’s brain can hardly wait to see if the words I scraped together in the middle of the night really sound as good as I remember them. I longed to type ‘The End’, now it seems I am longing to read it.
I want to immerse myself in that fictional world that I created and languish in the character’s flaws and traits, and watch them take the bait. Simply, I want to read what I wrote.
But perhaps it is too soon. Maybe after the fog has lifted. After I have learnt to cope with broken sleep and the mornings are again clear. Maybe only then I will be ready to relax with my novel as my little man sleeps.
I am learning patience from my son. He teaches me everyday. Perhaps I should employ this in all areas of my life and just wait a little longer in anticipation. Besides, there are plenty of classics for me to catch up on…
“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best,” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.”