Welcome to . . . March!
(Two weeks days until my birthday, in case you were wondering. Ahem.)
Everyone says that time speeds up when you have children, and I have to agree that's true -- minus the first two years of my son's life, which seemed to drag on . . . and on . . . and on . . . When you're dealing with tantrums every two minutes, the days can seems fairly torturous.
But now that he's four and generally much easier -- not to mention in school full-time -- the months seem to be spinning by crazily fast. Before he was born, I used to write two novels a year. I had grand delusions of how much I'd get done once he was in school, but so far I've managed, well . . . not a lot. When I have the time, I'm pretty good at sitting down and putting in the hours. But ever since January, it feels my writing has been sandwiched between chicken pox, flu, and holidays. Oh, the holidays! I never realised just how much time off my son would have from school! And while I love the time with him, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about managing to stick to my writing goals. I'd aimed to have a new book done by the end of this school year, but so far, it's looking like that might not happen.
I'm lucky I have such flexible hours that I can be here with him on holidays, and I've no idea how working mums and dads manage to get through the plethora of school breaks. But dare I admit that sometimes, I wish I had an office to escape to? A regular place of work-ship, where I can put my head down and crack on? Writing demands concentration. It demands absorption. And sometimes, I wish I had that every day.
But then . . . a little head will poke around the corner of my mind. A little bit of my heart will squeeze with longing for my son. And I know that, as a mother, I'll never have that total absorption again, office or not.
And I think I'm okay with that.