Part of the reason I’m doing this effort of NaBloPoMo is to get into the habit of writing. I have a box in my craft closet that is full of the pieces for albums – our wedding, Gummi Bear’s first year, my college pictures and ones that go back even further in time. Part of my anxiety is that I know the finished project will sit on the shelf and be dragged out from time to time to be looked at by me and that may be the only one who sees it. But for that, I want perfection. And in waiting for perfection or just the right moment or just the perfect phrase, I might never finish. I have to remind myself that these memories in pictures will fade and if I don’t record them, though the words may be imperfect, will I remember?
I confess: I cannot remember Gummi Bear’s first word. I can tell you what we were doing when she took her first steps on her own but I don’t remember when she began to crawl. It has only been three and a half years since she was born and I’m already glossing over milestones and memories because I didn’t find the perfect word. How much longer until I lose hold of other memories? How many years in the future will we be sitting on the couch, with family & friends, and look through a photo album of smiling happy coeds and Gummi Bear asks “who is that laying on the back of the couch? and why would she do that?”
I don’t have a writing space. I don’t really have a place that is mine (and just mine). Then again, technically nobody in our house does. The aforementioned craft closet resides in the children’s room and is full of my stamps & paper, photos & patterns. The Bald One built in shelves to store things and a counter that folds up on a piano hinge or is supported by a chain when down. I can quickly do a little thing in there, but any major efforts end up being done on our kitchen table – where they have to be packed up in between to avoid children and cat destruction. Our home office is a shared space that is more his than mine and everything else in the house is a shared space. Pre-kid, I’d curl up on the couch and read or write on my laptop. Post-kid if I’m curled up on the couch, it is usually with a tiny human or in the event that they are sleeping, my cat comes to demand a few minutes grace. Both cat & kid are equally uncaring that a tablet in my lap means that I’m doing something that does not involve them. But that is the way of cats and kids.
Some days I think of the place we will have next where there is an actual office that can have a section for the office things and an area for the music to spread out and a wall for me to have a work surface and cabinets galore for my craft inclinations. And in the corner, there would be a chair and a half that I can sink into to write, long hand, in a journal or read a book. Until then, I write where I can and when I can so that the little things aren’t forgotten. Even when it is just the chaos of bedtime punctuated by the giggles of an almost three month old boy as he’s tickled.