A couple years ago, when I first starting thinking about becoming a writer, I carried a notebook with me as I followed my son around, taking advantage of any time spent waiting to write a few things. I found my notebook a few days ago, and re-read an entry I made. It's how writing while being a mom really is. I think some of you have been here too, so I thought I'd share a bit of what I wrote.
I am cooking a steak in a frying pan and writing at the table. I hope my son will play for a few minutes.
He takes a toy firetruck and spins it in circles on the edge of the table. As it spins, he sticks his tongue out and makes the noise of the engine.
When I look back up, he's stuck between a chair and the table legs. He starts crying. I free him, and he wants to sit in the chair next to me. I give him a pen and notebook. Sometimes, he likes to draw. This time, he puts the pen in his mouth and chews. Maybe he is cutting teeth. I get a wet washcloth for him to suck on. He compares it to the pen. Its a toss-up. He goes back and forth between the two. Then he drags the wet cloth over the notebook, soaking it.
I finish writing a sentence. He returns the cloth to me and asks for more water. I try to put him off, but he puts it to my mouth and smacks his lips to feed me. When I keep writing, he waves the washcloth and hits me in the head. A small spray of water shoots everywhere.
I stand up to flip the steak. The washcloth flies through the air, landing in the pan.
I grab it and rinse it out, turning in time to see him crawl onto the table and steal my pen. He tries eating it too. I save him from falling between two chairs and wonder if he knows its only been five minutes since I started trying to write.