I found this piece (How Has Parenthood Informed Your Writing Life?) in The New York Times really interesting. This description sounds a lot like me:
"The writer is a muddy-eyed solitary, immersed in ungraspable moods. The
defect, the brain splinter that makes her a writer is anti-domestic. She
waits, yearning, for the moment when the imagination goes rogue and
love and duty go out the window. Not easy to live with. And children
need, require, deserve, must have attention. So what’s the answer? If you happen to find out, do me a favor and let me know." James Parker
But I also really loved this idea:
as a parent, I recognize I have something in common with everyone.
Everyone is someone’s child. So I have given myself permission to write
more widely, to range more freely in my selection of characters, to
imagine being people I previously steered clear of imagining, entering
them via our shared someone’s-child-ness.
this way, parenthood has expanded my sense of being human. It has made
me more porous. To be a parent is to be utterly dependent on the mercy
of strangers, to depend on humanity to do your children no grievous
harm." Mohsin Hamed
Read the whole article - it's a good one.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
So you know that you're not coping too well when you walk into the monkey bars in the playground, say "oh shit" very loudly in front of lots of children, and then burst into tears. Yeah, that was me today. This parenting gig is tough; it just seems to get tougher. It forces you to revisit all your own childhood angst, dredging up horrible emotions you'd long ago (somehow) forgotten. Then there's the guilt and the dabbling in amateur psychology to explain why it's all your fault. And all the time you're fighting your instinct to just wrap the kids up in cotton wool, move to the countryside, and start homeschooling. Oh my.