The world has changed since I last posted. At the time, I was gearing up for traveling to Virginia, Maryland, and the Chicago area in June and and July. And I was still (naively) hopeful that I could get back into a writing routine (as is always the case) before an auspicious date in August. That auspicious date was the due date of my first baby.

I was pregnant, still driving a two hours to work and back, and increasingly tired and uncomfortable. At work, I prepared myself for maternity leave, and believed I had plenty of time to leave a trail of instructions for whoever was going to take over my duties. That was July. In a flash, we’ve arrived at September and things look different than I’d imagined.

My water broke early on July 18 (rupture of membranes), and my son, Mark, was born the next morning. He was born at 36 weeks and 4 days, premature by almost a month. This meant he was in the NICU for all of our hospital stay while the fluid in his lungs cleared, and he learned to eat. Meanwhile, I practiced with a breast pump and waited for my post-partum high blood pressure to go down. By the time we were discharged five days later, I was flooded with hormones that made me weepy and exhausted.

The day my water broke, we thought we had more time to prepare. The nursery was in boxes and gift bags in the living room, my last baby shower having been the Sunday before. My notes at work were unfinished. I had no “go-bag” packed. Any thought of writing–blog, novel or otherwise–was shoved away indefinitely. Luckily, my in-laws were already heading into town and set up everything for the baby, and they and my parents took care of the cats.

There were new-parents challenges when we got home. Mark was stressed from the change of venue and too many new people and couldn’t regulate his temperature. The pediatrician sent him back to the NICU less than two days after his homecoming. (It did take three nurses to put in an IV. Babies are strong.) Daily trips to the the hospital were long and surreal. I was still healing from giving birth and sleep deprived. As a result I was more stressed and weepy as I practiced feeding him (he seemed to like the bottle better), worrying that the staff thought I was a terrible mother for not sleeping overnight in his room. I begrudgingly filled out the post-partum depression questionnaire several times.

But I persevered. We all did.

When we finally got him home after five days. I was so exhausted from the overnight feedings that I sleep-walked into the kitchen and did a few dippy things, and Dan had to wake me up with cold water to the face. And then a sudden storm (a bow echo) blew through the city, and we were without power (and a means to pump) for close to 12 hours. Trees across the stress and all over town had been blown over, some on powerlines and roofs. Stress upon stress upon stress.

But the storm–both the physical and circumstantial–has diminished and returned to calm. We have watched Mark grow from a tiny 6 pound bundle to a chubby 10+ pounder who is getting better at holding his head up and can roll off his dad’s chest. I have about a month to go back before I head back to work and we figure out the new, more permanent normal.

Aside from journal entries written when I have a spare scrap of time, I have not been writing. Nor have I spent much time at my new desk with the cats. While I do go down there to give them attention and food, etc, it is brief. I don’t want to stray too far away from the baby until he is a little bigger. Then, I can use the video monitor to keep an eye on him. My “office” right now is the kitchen table.

My novel–more specifically, the overhaul and reimagining of it–has not been touched. Of course, I’ve thought about it, mulled over scenarios and new elements, but none of it has yet made it to the page. I must be honest with myself this time; I don’t think I’m ready for it. And that’s okay.

It was a struggle to actually make peace with the idea: I’m not ready, and that doesn’t make me a failed writer. Over the last year and a half I’ve gotten married, moved cities and houses, and, now, had a baby. This isn’t just change, it’s an entirely new vantage point. I’m still trying to regain my balance from this seismic life shift. And that takes time.

Back in December and January, I’d written up a detailed plan for the brand new vision of my novel. On paper, it seemed entirely possible that I could churn out a draft before the baby came. The hope to do so wasn’t foiled by an early birth, however but chipped away over the last the year. My two-hour long commute, being the chief culprit. Increasing fatigue from pregnancy, too. The plan, the hope, did not pan out, and the novel was increasingly lower on my priority list.

You have to understand that writing novels (this would be a rewriting of just one of three that I’d planned out in the last ten years), has been my dream for decades. During COVID isolation, it saved my sanity. I worked on and improved my craft during that chapter of my life, ensconced in my apartment with one, then two cats. Work was a short walk away. It was productive solitude.

Productive. What a whip-crack, cattle-prod of a word. When did my writing become a mere “product”? For a long time, I felt I was coming up painfully short, and the joy of being in my own creations steadily waned. Burned out.

Productive is not a synonym for meaning.

I’ve realized now that I’ve approached writing as if I’m still in COVID mode, a single 30-something who could spend hours over the evenings and weekends in the hopes of finally establishing a writing career. Time flows differently now. Time is designated to the people I love, to caring for a brand new human. That is no small thing. I am wife and mother, as well as myself. As well as a writer. Nothing can change that.

The moment I started composing this post I felt like myself again. Say what you will about the popularity or effectiveness of blogs these days, I’m always drawn back to writing on this platform… despite SEO readability suggestions (I don’t always need subheadings, dude). It’s my words posted to the world, not hidden in a notebook. It’s a challenge to write something other eyes will see, to labor over a piece and move on. It’s not about productivity or a career. It’s about the art, the nourishment of my soul.

It does not matter what I planned to do this year. I’m going to leave that behind and begin again.

The goal is and always has been joy… rekindling joy in my writing. It’s a journey, not a race. And I’m so glad it is.

Until next time…

💖