Thursday, May 01, 2008
:el corazon:
One of the weirdest, and sometimes nicest, things to me about being an at-home mother and a writer - is that sometimes I go about the domestic routines of my day - spooning cereal into Magnus’s mouth (quite old enough to feed himself, but likes to stay baby), washing dishes, pulling weeds, making beds - and in my head can be the most esoteric, theoretical or emotionally-charged thoughts to do with things I’m writing or reading. It’s a strange juxtaposition, but in some ways it works, too. (Of course, often it is frustrating beyond measure, but I’m having a day of finding it amusing, so let’s roll with that.)
But to the outside viewer, I would appear to be just drudging away - thanklessly cleaning up other people’s messes and spending hours creating food which is wolfed in minutes.
This morning in between entertaining the kids, baking with feijoas and the usual round of cleaning and tidying, I wrote a long overdue letter to a friend in quick, scrawled bursts. While floodgates were opening, and scribbled revelations were taking place - Willoughby played with playdough and Magnus made a train track around my feet.
Err - what was my point? I forget now. Something about motherhood, creativity, mess, the small daily dramas...I would try to make this post more cohesive, but I have to go and make the children lunch instead.
(Maybe that was my point?)
