Writing in this blog, exercising, reading, basically anything that involves ME time is either scheduled, or wrought with inconsiderate interruptions that one may simply ask, "why bother". I (rather painfully) woke up early this morning just to enjoy the quiet light and silence of morning, pour my DELICIOUS first cup of coffee only to immediately hear the scuffles coming from my bedroom of tiny 3 year old feet hitting the floor. MY bedroom you ask? Yes, always my bedroom. Usually between 1 and 3 am my toddler runs to my side of the bed where at this point I lift her up so instinctively to the middle of the bed that I'm now finding myself waking up in the morning and saying "is she here?". Oh yes, she's here, save some RARE sleep invoked accidental stay in her own room.
So yes, I get up early today, still quite tired and unwilling to look at any bright rays of sunshine for several moments, so I curl up on the couch and fall back asleep. Momentarily. This is all a part of my assault on the morning. I may have fallen back asleep, but it was on the COUCH, so therefore CLOSER to the kicking ass part of my day. I slowly pry open my eyes and in Dunkin Donuts-circa-1988-commercial style, I stumble in zombie fashion to the kitchen saying "time to make the coffee". Which I do, and it's delicious. And she gets up immediately. She sits next to me on the couch in a cuddle and falls back asleep in a cuddle (as the apple clearly does not fall far from the tree), and I try to engage in the chicken pecking typing of one hand while I love on my very cuddly kid who all of the sudden bolts up to run to the bathroom (which is now a very private affair) (yes!). In that rather long moment of absence I feel the creative juices start to flow and open the blank slate of unsculpted literary madness (aka new blog post) only to hear "mommmmmmmy, my tummy hwerts". I'm still engaged in said writing as I mindlessly yell "Sorry your tummy hurts honey, you just have to sit and wait for the poop to come out" as my fingers continue to fly. Soon thereafter she emerges victorious with a wipe in hand and her pants down to the ankles so I'm forced up from my throne to wipe her butt and offer words of encouragment, wanting so badly to go back to my creative writing process but first have to empty the poop out of the kid potty, tell my daughter to wash her hands, figure I may as well use this opportunity to put in my contacts, oh may as well wash my face and just get ready in general. Still, I have my thoughts brimming to the surface and I want to write SO BADLY so I try. I return to the beloved spot. Ellie starts working on decorating her thank you cards from three weeks ago (a record, in a good way!). I'm writing. Wheeeeeeeee!!!
"Can I watch Calliou?" "Can I have popcorn?" "Can I have a lolliopop?" "Can I have a popsicle" "Can I watch Calliou?"
After holding back the words I want to say ("can you please shut up!") I realize that I should probably feed my kid, something I shamefully have to remind myself as personally I'd be fine with a handful of nuts and 3 more cups of coffee. So I get breakfast which is not just "whipping something up" but instead is about providing moments of independence. I get a cup full of milk for pouring, a huge measuring cup filled with cereal, empty spoon and bowl (by God it better be the purple bowl), bowl of blueberries and have realized through much trial and error that THIS medley of independence making breakfast activities mitigates most breakfast related tantrums (for which there were many). I return to the couch, to the trusty computer to sink my juicy thoughts into whatever very important thing I was working on only to have to jump up with the paper towels at the first milk spillage and try to move the bowl that is literally filled to the brim with cereal laden milk. Area cleaned, clothes removed (from kid), new clothes placed, mild efforts of derision at trying to get her to NOT wear her warm long sleeved shirt on a proposed 90 degree day and we are BACK. She's at the toddler table. I'm at the couch. My work phone starts dinging with emails. I answer emails from said workphone, look up some numbers, tell my daughter that I'm proud of her for eating her breakfast like a big girl (ie NOT dipping her entire fist in her glass of milk). Conscientious of the ever slipping away time slot for my creative freedom I throw on some work clothes, clean up my daughter who already requires a washrag to wipe milk and blueberry stains off of today's outfit and finally get back to the couch. Ready to write. Ready to rock and roll. Phone rings.
Fuck this.
I think it may be the teenage years before I write anything poignant again.
(At least that's my excuse.)
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