I recently found some of my old high school creative writing assignments and remembered that I loved to write. I spent hours in my bedroom holed up with lined three hole paper and a bic pen, listening to ‘80s new wave bands and lamenting the future of man and woman kind. ‘Dancing With Tears in Their Eyes’ still gives me a creepy feeling down my spine. I joined Amnesty International and wrote protest letters to governments around the globe, much to my mother’s paranoid chagrin. I had penpals from all around the globe and we exchanged pictures and comparisons of our respective homes.
Now, I’m a stay at home mother and as my kids are getting older, I want to try and recapture some of that passion I had when I was younger. Not easy when you’ve spent the last few years writing nothing more thrilling than a grocery list.
I had a career before and after my first child. I worked for a high profile book publisher and got to meet all kinds of glamorous people (well, glamorous by literary standards anyway), attend parties, swan off to television and radio studios, escort some of our country’s top literati. But after my second, I didn’t go back (a whole other post entirely) and promised that I would be true to myself and what I really wanted.
Being a mum is distracting and all-consuming though, and as much as I and my other stay-at-home mummy friends joke about sitting on the couch eating bon bons, it’s damned hard work raising human beings to be productive members of society.
Still, its been almost 3 years since I’ve changed a diaper on one of my own kids and I find myself emerging from mummy mode and wondering what to do with myself. Any of you out there sympathize? Then let’s get going…