Priorities

I have been struggling a lot today over what to write. I started to wonder why some days I feel so inspired and some days I loathe myself for trying to be a writer. All day I questioned my abilities as a writer. Maybe the times I write well are just fleeting moments of good fortune. Maybe this is all a waste of time.

Then I reflected on my day. Owen has a high fever that was caused by his MMR vaccination last week. When I wasn't worrying about him getting better, I was feeling guilty about allowing the doctor to give him the vaccination. This morning I worked at Josie's preschool. I came home and dealt with a fussy Owen who sobbed for an hour instead of napping and an overstimulated Josie who screamed nursery rhymes in bed for an hour instead of napping.

They both finally slept for a combined 45 minutes during which I tried to write something but spent more time pressing the delete key than actual letters. But how could I have a word to write when I haven't had a minute to think?

My first moments of peace came as I was rocking Owen to sleep tonight. Usually I am a firm believer in letting him cry himself to sleep. But I have a soft spot for babies with high fevers who just vomited all over me.

I walked around the room in circles and rocked my son to sleep. As I stared at his sweet face, different ideas, different writing topics came to me one by one, all with complex levels of intrigue and observation. I was a writer again.

I continued to pace around the room giving Owen ample time to fall asleep and giving me ample time to solidify my thoughts. As the ideas in my head grew, my hips must have shrunk because slowly and quietly my pants began to slide down my legs. With each step they fell further and further. I tried to stop walking and hike them back up. Owen stirred and started to cry. So I kept walking. And my pants kept falling lower and lower until they gathered around the tops of my Ugg boots. I shuffled around the room like an old lady playing musical chairs until Owen was ready to be put soundly in bed.

This was my true moment of inspiration. There could not be a more perfect metaphor for my life as a mother. Even in independent moments of peace and self-reflection, I am above all else a mother. A mother who would rather walk around a room with her pants at her ankles than wake her sleeping son. I can have the greatest ideas in the world. I can be the greatest writer in the world. But all of those things will have to wait until I put my son in bed and pull my pants up.