I can’t seem to write, these days. Inspiration dies hard in the face a sense that every day is the same and yet different. Get up, get Thing 1 off to school, chores, play, lunch, more chores, play outside, meet school bus, supper, bathtime, storytime, bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Some days it is so boring I could cry. CBC Radio 1 is my constant companion. I get exasperated with the callers to Maritime Noon, especially if it’s a sort of vague “what do you think” topic instead of a “call our painting expert with your questions” day. I flip to commercial radio, then back again five minutes later.
I find myself listening to the albums my parents listened to when I was a kid. Apparently John Prine will get a stay at home mom through the day with her sense of humour intact.
When I woke up this morning, things were lookin’ bad
Seem like total silence was the only friend I had
Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down… and won
And it was twelve o’clock before I realized
That I was havin’ … no fun
I’ve had days like that, days after nights of Thing 2 waking onetwothree times, demanding drinks of water or to have his blankets straightened or on one memorable occasion, to play outside in the backyard at 3AM.
And then I’ve had other days, days when the kiddos are pleasant from the minute they roll out of bed. Days when the chores are manageable, when the 9 month old I watch a couple of days a week is a delight, when the weather is crisp and perfect. Days when hubby gets through the entire waking period without once mentioning money, and where it will come from if I can’t find more kids to watch. Days when I am afraid to say how happy I am, in case someone notices and finds a way to take it all away from me.
But dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby,
Like sunshine feeding daisies,
Like the love hidden deep in your heart.
Either way, I can’t write. I’m stifled by the thought that it must be terribly boring to read about my days. I do sometimes have A More Important and Deep Thought about something, but I’m never free to sit and write it at that moment, and generally by the time I have the time it’s gone, lost in the ether of my days, buried under an avalanche of diapers and sippy cups and cheesestrings.
This post was inspired by Bon, and Kate – they both wrote about the same sort of feeling, although from very different perspectives and much more eloquently. This is I guess my attempt at showing solidarity, and also at getting down to what it is that stops me from writing as often as I should, if I’m ever going to get any better at it.