I Wish I Were a Writer

I wish I were a writer, but I’m a mom.

For years, I cried tears of grief for children that would never be. I spent days hiding from the world in my bed. Under covers of quilted down and of darkness and of sorrow. I was trapped, thick in the misery of never holding my baby in my arms.

Now I have my babies. They are both crying for me now. I want to be alone, to be in quiet, to be writing. I want to rest my tired arms from holding their sweet bodies close to me. I want to rest my ears from the whining and fussing. But one precious child is on my lap as I type this now, and the other is fussing for me in the next room instead of sleeping.

Like a writer, I sit down with my water, my coffee, and the desire to pour words onto the paper. I pull out my journal and sit down eager to get down the thoughts that have been milling around my mind. But I often bring another tool to the table as well. A breast. A breast exposed and ready to work. A breast prepared to feed and pacify a baby who needs me. The integral tool that affords me five minutes to put words on a page. Currently, my lap doesn’t merely hold my computer, it holds my daughter who blessed our lives nearly two years ago. But part of me – a part I feel rather ashamed of and annoyed with – only wants to be holding the computer.

I want to be a writer. But even more, I want to be a good mom. I want to appreciate my good fortune and especially my children. I don’t want to want to be alone. I don’t want to wish for silence. I had silence and I wished for babies.

I want to feel only grateful and joyful.

Even as I write, I feel the negativity slipping away. I want to hold my daughter and this computer. If it came down to it, I would instantly trade my computer and all my other belongings for just one moment with my babies … so why do I linger over feelings of discontent?

Why do we do this? Why don’t we accept and breathe and appreciate?

We are human. We are animal. We are imperfect.

I am grateful that my almost-two-year-old is here with me, spilling water on the floor, crawling after an unsuspecting bug, licking the spilled water off the terrace, spitting on the floor next to me and squatting to poop in the diaper I will soon remove from her silken, chubby body.

I am grateful for the baby boy who (for the moment) sleeps on my bed, but who will soon fuss to be held and fed and loved. And I will love him. The best that I can. Always working towards improvement.

And with that I will hit “publish,” so that my daughter feels loved and not ignored or neglected. So that I feel like a better mom than a writer.

(Note: Written on Thursday, August 28. I didn’t hit “publish” when I said I was going to, because Baby Boy woke up right as I was typing the last sentence and I didn’t have time to check the settings and add the photo! This paragraph is written with Baby Boy nursing on my lap while Little Girl naps 🥰 )

One Reply to “I Wish I Were a Writer”

  1. Oh Dianna! They say it is so brief but eleven years into it I still wonder what their definition of brief is. Ask me in eleven more and I may agree! But you are so right–the joy is more joyful when we look at it, and sometimes we only look at it when we are wondering why we want quiet enough to think a thought. You are already enough! And your little ones will need to know that it is okay to take care of themselves one day…by seeing you do it. There is no doubt of your love and gratitude. Ever.

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