Seven years ago, a psychic told me that my firstborn would inspire me to write. She didn't actually specify writing, but speculated it was something creative to do with paper. I was too shy then to fill in the blanks, though thrilled inside that my writing was showing up in my aura or whatever. Back then, writing was my private craft that I held close to my heart, my artist-self too fragile to expose to the elements or the critics.
For a while after that reading, I worried that my first born might have something seriously wrong or different about them, ala Jennie McCarthy and her autistic child. I imagined motherhood bringing a certain level of suffering and sacrifice from which I would draw inspiration. This terrified me and thrilled me at the same time. Perhaps then my writing would be worth putting forward for others. Beyond my own meandering observations, I might have something important to say, to share.
Once my baby was born, I found myself stunned at my lack of freedom to write at all, but managed to negotiate ways to keep up my craft. In the early days, despite my exhaustion, I gave up sleep to write my birth story, knowing both were equally integral to keeping my sanity. Later, I scratched notes sitting on park benches and coffee shop armchairs, with my infant snoozing in the Bjorn carrier strapped on my chest. The writing at the time was rough, quick, and at times, non-sensible, definitely not something I would share. But it was a lifeline for me, a place for me to interpret my new existence as a mother.
Now, as a mother of a toddler, I find I’m rushing to the page every evening to capture and interpret our daily interactions. By that, I don't mean I am touched or elevated by every experience we share. Our times together frustrate me more often than they fulfill me; they make my cry as much as they make me laugh. In the act of mothering a fiercely independent little toddler, I am pushed, humbled, and made to feel uncomfortable. In the aftermath of a struggle, I am forced to rethink my certainties, to explore his perspective, to put myself in the (orthopedic) shoes of a two-year-old.
I write too of juggling mothering with a career. There are days when I leave him at daycare crying as I race to get to a meeting and wonder what I am doing. I find myself conflicted, wracked with guilt, and questioning each decision I make. In fact, every action I take as a "working mother" seems to be a choice and a sacrifice to one or another piece of my life. Despite the common adage that women can, I have discovered that I certainly cannot -- do it all or have it all.And then there are the moments I must write about when my boy and I connect. Sharing a swing at the playground, drinking tea and milk at Starbucks, playing in the bath together – suddenly, we get into tune. The connection we share is ours and ours alone. Whatever struggles I've had internally or with him disappear. We are one again, and our shared joy is palpable.
Indeed, motherhood offers much raw material. But life so often does. What makes things different for me now is that I am actually writing, and yearning to share what I’ve composed. Before, writing was often something wished I was doing more of. Publishing was a dream, something I’d try in the future when I had achieved some superior quality to my craft. But now that I have even less time, am pulled in every more directions, I find myself stealing time away from sleep and relationships for my writing. Like an addiction, I am called to it, and will sacrifice much to find the space in my life for it. Once my words are down, I crave to share them, get feedback, see if they resonate with anyone beyond me.
Becoming a mother has unleashed this unquenchable desire to write. I write to understand my evolving self, my evolving mothering, and my son and my evolving relationship together. I write to become a better mother and to become myself at the same time. I write to exist, to bear witness to our struggles, to give my revelations permanence. I write to capture our interactions, interpret what they mean for both of us, and explore feelings they inspire. Most recently, I write to share. Slowly, I gain the desire and the guts to share my work, in the hopes I may touch others, other mothers, other writers, others like me and not like me at all.
Early this year, I realized how true the psychic had been. She predicted, not only my writing, but also the strength of my firstborn son and his influence on me and my craft. Recently, I felt the urge to visit with another psychic. This reader told me that I am on a path to success and healing in terms of my art, which brought me a great and unexpected sense of relief. I hadn't realized how much fear I had over my desire to dedicate myself to my writing. Fear of taking away from my family, potentially risking our finances, and being too selfish paralyzed me from attempting to publish, from allowing myself to take too many steps down the path of my dreams. During the reading, I noticed a tarot card that depicted a pregnant woman, which I assumed to mean my second child. However, the psychic explained that the card was not about being pregnant, but about giving birth to your inner being. I realized it was referring to the writer inside me.
So long I've shielded her, the writer inside. I've hidden her for fear of rejection or judgment, from the feelings of inadequacy and inappropriateness. I've ignored her and busied myself with everything else I'm supposed to have done -- education, career, family, and everyone else I'm supposed to be caring for – husband, son, students. But I'm letting her out now. We're taking baby steps on our path, but with each step, we walk a little faster. We're too excited, we've been held back for so long, we can't wait to move forward.
So it is that in giving birth to my son, I have in fact, birthed my other baby -- the writer inside me. I am bringing the psychics' predictions to life.
