Better Late Than Never. (And Other Empowering Thoughts)

Two years and 5 months ago, the woman I was disappeared. Somewhere in the space of 12 hours (in which I had needles injected into my spine, magnesium pumped into my veins...introducing a sense of stupidity that has somehow remained with me ever since), a tiny new life pumped out of me, and my old life was completely and irretrievably lost. Looking into my little ones eyes for the first time, I sensed an intense feeling that could best be described as a challenge. “Here I am”, the eyes seemed to say. “Now what are you going to do?”

For the first five months, the answer to that question was simple. I was not going to sleep. I was not going to even try to think. I was going to breast-feed, change diapers, cuddle and sooth, and then start all over again. There was constant worry. (Why won't she stop crying? What am I doing wrong? I Don't have any damn clue what else I can do here. Except maybe cry.) It was a long five months. There was no time for anything other than just making it through the day. I had no idea where the time was going. I still don't know where it went. But it passed, and now I have a wonderful little girl running around amusing herself while I write. She sleeps through the night, laughs more than she cries, and can tell me what she wants in her little dictator way, with the occasional “pwetty Pweeeeze” to take the edge off.

Somewhere towards the end of that first year, I realized through my sleep deprived stupor that I could to do something for myself or remain in a state of solitary misery. So I began to write again.

Blogging has brought back a part of myself I thought I had lost. The part that communicates with words rather than sound and expression, the part that desires to lose myself in a chain of thought that can take me to a deeper understanding of myself and the world around me. The part that needed to vent and scream and bitch and moan. I'd read a few blogs, and they had comforted and uplifted me. I thought maybe I could try to give a little back.

Starting out was like calling out tentatively into a black hole. I had no idea who was out there. No sight or sound or smell to direct my words at. I was liberated by this lack of direction. I could write about anything,(in the comfort of anonymity). Someone might hear me. I hoped it would be nice someone.

If not, I could still send out my posts, like a homemade SETI program, and let my words and ranting be sucked into that seductive black hole to disappear among the millions of other words.

You can imagine my astonishment when lo and behold, someone was actually out there. Who took the time to comment. And so it began. A relationship with the not-quite-so-black hole. Which eventually began to look more like grey matter, then morphed into a world where I began envisioning the people I read, and the people who read me. I realized I was looking at a community, but was still wary of committing myself to it. It was virtual, not real. But then I realized it was real. Here was a group of women who were sometimes but not always like minded, but who had one thing in common. They, as mothers, didn't know what they were doing either. Suddenly I didn't feel quite so alone. When I posted, my words were no longer vanishing into that black hole.

But as community emerged, I perceived that my role as a writer was changing. I now felt obligation, and pressure to create, where before it was merely an outlet. I had to step back and let a balance come. I have my child, my husband, my friends. They must come first. So it is that whenever I lean over this keyboard I wonder if I am doing the right thing. Should I be spending more time with the Impling? Should I be occupied with the endless errands and chores? Making sure the pasta doesn't boil over?

Be right back.

The question of what I should be doing with my time is a universal one. It all comes down to understanding myself. I am not solely a mother. If I was, I would be able to be with my child without ghosts of stories and posts occupying part of my brain. But since I have started writing, I find that the times after I post are much richer...that I am truly with the Impling. Not thinking of other things, but delighting in her, cuddling her, enjoying her smile, her laugh, her songs. Kissing her “bruises” and bumps without a thought for anything but the beautiful little girl in my arms. I am a better mother because I write. I am a better person because I write. And for now, that is empowerment enough.

Remaining true to form, nursing the Impling through her cold took precedence over deadlines.

But here it is, HBM.