Time to write

I’m a stay at home mom.  Coincidentally, that means I stay at home with my children. But the definition does little to define my job.

I’ve heard, “Oh you stay at home? You have plenty of time to write.”

Ex-friggin-cuse me?

Not only am I a domestic Goddess extraordinaire (if somewhat teetering on my throne), I’m a chef–triple that since these malcontents think they should eat three times a day–laundry wench, dish-scraper, toilet-scrubber, story-teller, boo-boo kisser and sarcasm dispenser. And until my youngest learned to attend his own backside, I was the official ass-wiper.

With these aforementioned priorities, I don’t have a moment to scratch my butt in peace. A prime example is my blog post from a year ago. Please enjoy.
HELLO???? Privacy!
Some things, people are meant to do ALONE. Many of such things are tended in a bathroom. I’ll allow you a moment to contemplate…
No, not that.
Jeez. Let me help you. I love baths, take them as often as I can. Usually at night, after children are snoring. Hot water, bubbles and a good book? Ah, Heaven.
I decided to bubble-bathe this morning as I needed a little picker upper. Just as the water warms my ripe, round cheeks (bottom not top), I hear it–the gong of Doom.
My head hangs in defeat.  I won’t answer. I. Will. Not.
“Mom!” Repeat 10 times.

By the time I hear the pitter-patter of stomping feet, I’m weeping into the water. Something blurry screeches to halt beside me. It be my oldest …angel.
I hold up a hand. Surprisingly, she is silenced.
“Is anyone bleeding?”
A perplexed frown forms on her face. “No.”
“Limbs missing?”
She shakes her head.
“Knife, scissors or pencil embedded in flesh?”
“No.” She sighs deeply.
“All are breathing?”
Exasperated. “Yes!”
She disagrees. Strongly.  “But mom! Nick took my pony!”
Wait until you see what I’m going to do with your pony…

Is it genetically ingrained in small children to ruin even the smallest of pleasures for their mother? And why the frig don’t father’s get this shit too?
I know for a fact that my mother did not face this. How do I know this, you ask? Because nobody with a quarter functioning brain crossed my mother. Ever. Should you utter a dissenting opinion, you’d find a stinging hand print on your face. And a foot in your fourth point of contact. And that’s before she got upset. It is easy to see where my lack of patience comes from. So, why don’t my kids know this?
They are far from stupid as they have my husband’s brains. I have in no way hidden my personality defects from them.
I tell my darling cherub that I’ll deal with the dissension among the ranks when I get out of the tub. She mutinously agrees, which is no agreement at all.  Hastily I wash and shave all that needs washed and shaved and get out, dry off and dress. What do I find when I step out of the bedroom? All are playing together nicely.
What a crock of shit.

This is my life. After a long day of loving, life and death battle with my offspring, I race to my computer for much needed sanity. I write after my children go to bed. Notice, I said go to bed, not go to sleep. I’m convinced they have a secret stash of Coke rock they chew on at bedtime to keep them juiced halfway into the night.

I can’t count how many times I’ve yelled, “Get your butts in bed or I’ll slap you so hard your grandmother will feel it!”  They have a grandmother that I would really, really  like to feel it, but of course, I don’t slap anyone but myself because that would pull me out of the story, and though my characters wait patiently through the long days for me to give them attention, they rule the night.

Only when they’re satiated can I turn off my brain and go to sleep. When do you get your writing (or reading, or painting, etc.) fix?

My darling beasts.


8 thoughts on “Time to write

  1. I remember those days! Now I that my darlings are grown, I have to contend with not knowing where they are every second of everyday. And I know I no longer want to know what they’re doing every second. But I still worry. Especially about my youngest who isn’t married yet. It’s much easier to kiss-a-boo-boo and fix than it is to mend a broken hearted young woman. I guess I could kick the ex-boyfriend’s ass…

  2. My “beast” is now 24 and self-sufficient. I think that’s the only way you’re going to get any true peace–wait them out until they’re grown and gone. Now, I’ve got a newly-retired husband disturbing the peace. At least he’s old enough to know bathroom-time is private!

    • Joan,
      You’ve just depressed me. Wait them out??? They’re only 8,7, & 5! I’ll be cross-eyed and drooling by the time they’re out the door! They need a job. I need to weep.
      My husband is a police officer and because of his constantly shifting schedule, he is sometimes home when the kids are in school. And he thinks he’s allowed to conversate with me! I’ve tried explaining that I’m WRITING and the voices in my head get top priority, but he rolls his eyes and chatters on. I refuse to contemplate his retirement (thankfully, he’s got a while before that’s an issue anyway. 😉

  3. I write in between visits to the grocery with no one attached to my leg, visits to the school to check up on said leg attachments (attend field trips, award ceremonies, holiday parties and the occasional PTA event), and distractions by husband that believes to save money he will work from home only when kids are in school.

    I am not a night owl. I have until 3 to 330pm to write. After that it’s either my brain is mush or I fit chats and email checks in between yelling at cherubs who scream mom because somebody touched them.

    • Beth,
      You’re allowed to grocery shop without a leg attachment??? I missed that memo!
      I refer to my lovelies as enemas, walkin, talkin, enemas because they are constantly up my…leg.
      My 5 year old is only in preschool, so I get 6 daylight hours a week to write. That’s it and if my husband is off on one of those days, forget it. Even when I tell him to shush himself, he thinks I’m teasing. I’m not sure why he’d think that as subtlety is not my strong suit and mistaking, “Get out or I’ll shave your face with the lawnmower!” as a joke is beyond me, but there ya go.
      If I don’t write at night, I don’t write. But my boy starts Kindergarten this fall and I’m gonna cuff my husband to the back deck (not for any deviant sexual practices, mind you. I just want him outta my hair. ;), and write like a maniac. It’s a plan I’ve been waiting to implement since that kid was born!

  4. I hear your pain! I’m counting the days until my youngest starts pre-school in the fall. It’s only 3 days a week so I’ll probably end up with less writing time than ever in between all those other things that just have to get done.

    • Lola,
      Oh thank the good Lord for pre-school! I’d be strapped down in a jacket that ties in back if not for pre-school. I’ve made it clear to my hubby that the days that Nick attends class are my days to write. Those foolish enough to interfere with that plan get bitten. A lot. And I refuse to do any housework during those hours! It’s my only time to myself and by golly, I rule it with an iron fist! lol.
      Thanks for chiming in, Lola. 🙂

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