Entries from February 2009 ↓

I have this sense, a voice, even, that tells me that if I can just do this one thing that will mean that the next and the next will come easier. And all of the 127 other things that follow.

Truth be told, I’m trying to do two things right now: be a better mother and be a more profitable writer.

Wanting to be a better mom to Isobel should be a constant goal. But it hasn’t been. Much like any other aspect of my life, I’ve waxed and waned between fantasy motherhood and harsh reality. The yelling has returned periodically in response to her apparent ability to completely not hear what I’m saying, even when she’s looking directly at me. The challenging bedtimes. And, I admit it, the outside stresses and the internal concerns over her health, and the overall hassle of trying to keep her on this elimination diet for two weeks solid when other forces conspire to taint it…

I’ve slacked off. Put on Dora (and allowed it to repeat. At least once) more times than even I should be willing to share. I’ve shrank away, literally and figuratively from the whining whilst being climbed upon. I’ve snapped, “leave them alone!” when Isobel’s just trying to love on me by groping my boobs.

I don’t think she’s quite understood why I’ve been prone to speaking under my breath, “please, just stop touching me for five minutes,” but I know this – I don’t like to be touched and before a few months ago, she didn’t really care for cuddling. Now, suddenly, it’s like Mommy has no bubble. And, part of her new-found interest in touching me involves tickling and patting and stroking my face – if there’s one. thing. I. cannot. handle. it’s things being in or on my face.

{insert joke here}

So, I’ve sucked the big one, mommy-styles.

{insert another joke here}

The writing. Oh, geez the writing.

It’s been an amazing feeling to me when I’ve applied for a writing job and gotten it. Like, ‘wow. I don’t suck, maybe (or they have low standards, but it’s cool)’. It’s been even more rad when I’ve gotten an email response that was kind of a little…gushing – I totally took that for what it was: really low standards. But I was still humbled and awed and buoyed by it. Then, someone emailed me, asking me to work with them on a project. Then someone else. Then there’s that other one. Oh, and that deal, too.

The next thing I know, I’m tits-deep in projects related to writing and blogging and articles and the marketing thereof. Some if it pays (and kind of well, which is damn lovely), and some of is basically whoring myself out – so that when people are recruiting maybe my name or gravatar will stand out in their mind.

With the introduction of a few of these projects, it’s come to be known that I have a real name, and I’m a real person – not just the blogger known as Zoeyjane – with a kid with a real name – not just the tiny terror/nymph known as Isobel. Some of you know the real deal and some are still in the shadows of pseudonymity.

This will end soon.

It’s a lot of work, being three people (Mom, Me and Zoeyjane), and I’ll be completely upfront here, doods, I need help. I was a workaholic for a reason before – because it was that, or nothing. I have no concept of life/work balance. Especially when you add Isobel into the mix, I. Am. Really. Fucking. Sucking.

{there’s room for another joke here. Also, spam.}

The thing is: she’s in daycare two mornings a week, which gives me 2.5 hours to work each time. She’s with her dad for up to 10 hours, split between two days, every weekend. So, 9 hours, total, there. She goes to sleep around 8:30 and is generally kind of down for the count. That’s my non-Isobel hours that I could devote to work.

But there’s other stuff, too, right? Like cooking, cleaning, bathing, relaxing, oh and sleeping, myself. By the time her bedtime rolls around, I’m pretty drained for thoughts – able to lurk and be mindless on the Internet, but that’s a bit of a stretch, too, lately.

So work, then? Kind of hard to focus on.

I need help. I want you to give me your best suggestions for kicking my own ass into gear. How do I be a stay-at-home mom, who writes enough to pay the bills, without costing Isobel and myself a lifetime of therapy?

Because, if I can just get this one thing dealt with…

It’s so funny. This weekend, the past few days, however long it’s been…I’ve gotten a few bursts of energy.

So I decluttered, moving furniture around, again. Cleaning out closets, again. Opening more space in my living room and creating a bigger pile of got-to-gos, again.

And now, except for that looming pile of got-to-gos, it looks so minimal. It’s not done yet – books will be moved from precarious piles and shelves will be hung so that things that should live in the bathroom do, instead of on a bookcase in the living room (hello, collection of hell-week supplies and hair products, I see you, there) – but the overall design is fixed. (Now. For sitting space. Like a couch. Or fabulous over-stuffed chairs made for lounging upside-down with a book on lazy Sunday evenings.)

I got some work accomplished, too. Yet, though the surmounting virtual pile of it and it’s deadlines was too much a week ago, and I couldn’t even think of it without breaking into a cold mental sweat, today and yesterday and the day before, it became doable. Tasks to take to, not things to break me.

I turned a switch on, you see.

Instead of thinking, “Oh, my fucking gosh, I will never ever…” I thought, “okay, let’s just do this one.”

Simplicity. Why didn’t I get that, before?

Instead of a mound, I could look at individual compartments. I saw some books. Then some toys. Then some clothes and some shoes. Instead of at least six things to write, I saw one for each project.

Instead of needing Friday afternoon to relax from the heavy week of thinking that I was drowning in a sea of do-nothings, we grabbed some gluten/soy/dairy-free snacks from the store and on our way home, bought some for-the-fuck-of-it-Friday flowers.

With this, I’ve garnered a predictable feeling of success, sure. But more so, I gained some peace. I stopped freaking the fuck out, you know?

So instead of seeing the mess I’d have to clean up after Isobel disregarded my rules of where the open-topped cup half-full of water may go, I saw how humbled she looked after wearing half of it. And the beauty of the drops glistening on her chin.

It made me want to be a better photographer. With a better camera.

I guess I should add that to the to-do list.