Photo courtesy of http://paulclarke.com
Funny old thing, time … One minute there you are with a newborn baby wondering over every minute, every detail of a new person, and then woosh – suddenly you have a three year old, grey roots in your hair and no idea where the last three years went.
In fact, it’s impossible to believe that your exuberant, fiesty, glorious small person was ever a tiny newborn, a baby crawling at the speed of lightning down the hall or a toddler wobbling along on chubby little legs, arms up in the air trying to balance.
Somehow in the wink of an eye your child has become an all-consuming, time-eating, high-speed and even more demanding individual with strong opinions on everything and an all encompassing zest for life (and love of sticks, mud and trampolines).
When I was pregnant, and even more so once she was born, I found I could write. I wrote … words flowed. They slowed a little due to tired eyes and broken nights, but still they came. The first birthday passed, she learnt to crawl, to walk, to chatter, to sing, to dance; all her milestones were meticulously documented. Articles poured forth on everything from breastfeeding to pubic hair. And, then she hit two.
My word flow became a trickle, a dribble and then all but dried up. Every ounce of time was dedicated to fulfilling her needs, earning a living and keeping us in clean clothes!
When I did sit down to write I felt as if I had nothing to say, the words just wouldn’t come.
Suddenly my writing felt dry, not witty, it didn’t sparkle and flow in the way it once did. Had she taken my confidence? Had the oxcytocin dried up? I was still breastfeeding so it shouldn’t have. Maybe, I’d overdosed on it and the rose tinted glasses had become so much a part of me that nothing seemed particularly challenging or worth writing about. After all, there are only so many articles you can submit on being happy with a small child.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t creating, I wrote a book, well, I created a book – a children’s book, about breastfeeding. It always annoyed me that all her books showed bottles and jars of mush, never breasts being used to nurture, as nature intended.
I found an artist, she became a friend, a patient one, who meticulously detailed the ever shifting contents of my mind, and helped translate my vision to paper. I wrote rhymes for children. I changed the plan for the book. I made it interactive and fun with a bear to hunt for on every page. I found a publisher; I signed off proofs. But, I didn’t write about it. Not at all … it didn’t seem the right thing to do.
So, now the book is out of my control and at the printers; somehow the rest of life is back in full colour – if rose tinted.
The three year old who wakes me with a cheerful “Morning Mama” every day before dragging me out to face the world is even more demanding than the two year old was, but my words are back, bubbling out. My mojo has returned. I want to write again.
I do feel reborn. Or, maybe it’s just the spring sunshine, the daffodils and the promise of a thick slice of granary bread at the end of a bread-free Lent.
