The thing about being a writer and also a mother of young kids is that sometimes I'm standing at the kitchen sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves when suddenly an idea begins to circle my head like a NASA satellite finally entering orbit. I grab the dishtowel and hastily wipe my hands, rushing to my computer. With fingertips barely dry enough to activate the trackpad, I eagerly begin to record the words as they already seem to be wrestling an escape from my mental grip.
When I'm about six words in, a swift stampede of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" barges into the kitchen, insisting my attention. This is Murphy's Law: I am inspired to write therefore my children transform into demanding bullhorns. JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE I bark but it's already too late as my irritability has been roused. The words begin to slip like a gymnast who overcorrects, losing balance and falling from the beam and into the deep depths of the foam block cheese pit. My irritability leads to discouragement and soon I'm cursing my fate as a tortured artist who JUST NEEDS A MOMENT TO THINK STRAIGHT for crying out loud. I attempt to capture what little word remnants might still be lingering in the air, but eventually the "Mommy!" storm grows so thick that even the succulents on my countertop appear to be suffocating.
I surrender, closing my laptop and vowing to search for a passion that more strategically embraces the constant disruptions motherhood affords. Maybe hacky sacking or cigarette smoking. Then, when I conclude that I'll never possibly write another word ever again, I find myself in the unexpected quiet gifted to me by tiny happy nap fairies. I gleefully gather my laptop and settle onto the couch eager to cozy up with hot tea and my muse. As I tuck in my legs and breathe in the silence, I am giddy with the assurance offered by an unexpected writing window. I exhale and tap my fingertips on the keypad, breathe in, exhale and tap again. Postured generously to discover even the lousiest of ideas, my mind pulls a Judas, betraying me and becoming fixated on the lousy pile of toys that said children have left on the living room floor. Peeved and distracted, I say to heck with all of it and start picking up and cleaning house which leads me into the kitchen where I find myself again at the sink with sudsy water climbing up my sleeves.
