Writers often struggle between writing clearly and writing creatively. In this moment, writing clearly should be faster. And time is something infinitely more precious now that it was two months ago.
I used to complain about being busy, in those days when I could visit the bathroom at my leisure, eat on a whim, and engage in such hobbies as styling my hair.
My daughter was born at the beginning of August; since then, I’ve gained a new appreciation for how much time basic tasks take up, especially when you have only one hand and little else of your body free to complete them.
I’m breastfeeding my baby, an activity that boggles my mind with its effective simplicity. I mean, by feeding myself, my body makes a complete baby formula. Just add water, into the mother’s mouth. An issue with this wonderful process is that my daughter is a languid eater. She likes to take all the time she can get to nurse, managing to sleep or play in the meanwhile.
Some babies her age eat half an hour for every two or three hours. Mine insists on spending an average of an hour for every two hours at the table, so to speak. That’s counting morning, afternoon, evening, and night. The rest of the time, when we’re not changing her diaper or swinging her around in her car seat on our way to an appointment, she wants to be held.
I’m actually a bit disoriented when she’s not in my arms. She has me trained.
Of course, working on my stories has been little more than a dream these days. (Gee, didn’t someone imply that would happen?) I still want to; the itch to write has been returning. Writing clearly, concisely, or confusedly, I would like to spend some of my precious time doing it. Somehow.
My break is over. The little girl is crying for attention. Until next time.