What it means to a mother who writes!

A life-changing epiphany struck me this afternoon as I tackled, armed to the elbows with at least 300 baby-wipes, the task of changing what had to have been the HUGEST poo-bum in the history of motherhood! And this, slap-bang in the middle of a moment in which I, and my writer’s ego, wanted to fully glory. (Sigh)

To be constantly interruptable is something you become the very minute your child is born. Like getting older, it is something you make peace with, but never quite get used to. And to be a mother and a writer/artist who works from home is virtually a case of the impossible. And if you do manage to pull it off, you’d definitely be allowed to call it ‘magic’. Honestly. I’m not exaggerating. But perhaps my situation is a little different. We live in a remote little English village, isolated even more by the absence of buses and the fact that my husband uses our car to drive to work. (Sharing the car in itself is a mean logistical feat comprised of too many, very un-green miles driven and juggling nap/meal/cranky times with Layla Rose, just turned a gorgeous but very spirited one, whose least favourite place is buckled firmly into her car seat!) Not having my mom, sisters, trusted friends or hired help leaves me with no spare moments to do very much else other than jot down a few lines here and there on my blogs. And even that leaves me breathless with frustration! It can sometimes take me three days of crazed, sporadic snaps of writing to get a little blog post done, and then it is fragmented and a bit dull, at best. (Those are the days when your bub’s gums throb and pain from teething so that you have a baby permanently super-glued to your hip and/boob for what feels like days on end.) It’s then that I wish someone (maybe YOU are reading this, Mr Inventor/Pharmacist?) would invent a plaster-like patch that releases painkillers through the skin – instead of having to endure the hours ominously counting down until you either have to a) face your child’s pain come roaring back after the paracetamol’s worn off, or b) face your roaring child who HATES to have the nauseating stuff syringed down the back of her throat… (To tell you the truth, I am such a softie, that I can do nothing for my child without trying to make it as pleasant and happy as possible. i.e. we make a game about the syringe and muti, and there’s plenty of singing and clapping and affirmations such as, “Good girl! How yummy is that?!” Hence why she usually takes her paracetamol uber-nicely – but if her pain is raging out of control and she’s plain pissed off, then THAT’s when I have a problem.)

So – where was I? Oh yes. Trying to explain why I find it hard to get anything done with no support. For example, it would be glorious beyond comprehension if my mom could play Proud Granny and whisk Layla away for even just an hour once a week. Or if Aunty Julz could steal her for a picnic on the beach or whizz her round the aquariam. (Would I even know what to do with that spare time if I was actually given it?! We all get so used to coping, that when something comes along to ease the pressure, we sometimes don’t have a clue of how to use the time in a way that blesses our bodies and souls. I’m sure, though, that it won’t take me too long to get used to some extra help! Hence why we’re heading back home to South Africa ASAP! Bring on July – rain and all: it’s got to be better than this grey and lonely little life we’ve got here!)

Aah – I digressed from my point: blameable on being interrupted. My darling husband, as sweet and magnificently kind as he is, cannot bear to change nappies – so when he should’ve been playing with Layla so I could focus on my writing assignments with a bit more vigour than normal, upstairs the two of them waltzed for me to ostensibly change her bum, but then caught Craig sneaking a peak of the rugby scores on my laptop!! But that epiphany I initially set out to tell you about? My child is the most important thing to me. Above and beyond anything to do with my writing, my art or my ego. The growing frustration I felt each time Layla needed me rapidly erupted into full-blown anger, until I found myself snapping at my little bub – whose tears flooded my heart with remorse — and the realisation that my writing could always wait. She, my precious rose, would be a poutingly hormonal teenager in the blink of an eye and desperate to not need me: so why was I writing this incredible time with her away?

(This post was written in memory of my incredibly brave and magnificent friend: a mommy whose 18 month old baby-boy died, with absolutely no warning, in his sleep on the 6th of March 2010.)