Before I was a mom, I used to attend an annual writer’s conference for fun. Another friend I met there was also a teacher, and together we fantasized about what life would be like out of the classroom. We would have some babies, quit our day jobs and become best-selling authors, naturally.
One perk of the conference is that famous professional presenters dine with conferees. During one of these lunches, a popular author asked my friend what kind of writer she was. She shyly shared her dream of becoming a writer when she became a stay-at-home mom. The author gave a harsh laugh. “You’re clearly not a mom yet! If you don’t have time to write now, you will never write when you have kids,” she snarked. Though it wasn’t directed at me, I took it personally.
Afterwards, my friend and I debriefed and admitted we thought the writer was rude for dashing down her (our) hopes. In secret, we both maintained that it was our dream and we could keep it if we wanted to. Besides, it’s not like she knew us.
I still think the author’s delivery was insensitive, but a year into parenthood, I get it. I’m not writing 10,000 words a day while my child quietly plays by my feet. I’m not swilling large gulps of coffee in between pounding out chapters of my novel while she takes a nap. And perhaps even worse, I’m not taking advantage of those night owl hours to do my best work when she is safely asleep for the night. None of it.
The early days of parenthood were difficult, definitely not the ideal launching pad for a writing career. Paige would nap unpredictably, mostly in my arms, and I would lament that I couldn’t get even basic household chores accomplished. I had to invite my mom out for 3 full days to watch Paige so I could grade a stack of research papers that got collected after I went on maternity leave. I thought, this is just a phase. It will get easier.
Now I have my hands back, but I am unable to do even the smallest task that requires concentration during Paige’s waking hours. If I try to run to the basement to put in a load of laundry, she wails for the entire 5 minutes I’m gone. While I tidy up the bedroom, she unloads our drawers. When I’m cooking dinner, she alternately goes for the toaster or clings to my leg that is way too close to the hot stove. Note I haven’t even delved into the myriad of things I would LIKE to try that involve concentration. Say, writing a simple e-mail.
At the end of some days – TODAY – all I want is a small win. Just ONE accomplished task. I am so lucky and happy that I get to stay home with my daughter, but I have never stopped missing the feeling of being productive. I still have professional dreams I want to actualize, even if not in the classroom. I feel guilty complaining about the downsides of a luxury (staying home) that some women can’t afford. But it is hard. I pre-judged motherhood. And I’m sorry to all the women who were stay-at-home moms before me, victims of my quiet judgment. I guess it was my own form of snark, just a silent kind.
Relaxaby 