Creating in the margins
One ear is listening to melodic bluegrass while the other ear is at the ready, waiting for the napping toddlers to wake with needy cries. My protruding, pregnant belly rests on my laptop while I type scattered thoughts onto the blank page. Although the small mountain of dishes in the sink behind me begs to be washed, and crunched goldfish crackers form a path in the carpet to my favorite couch nook, I choose to create in this precious time alone.
The unwavering feeling that I should choose a much-needed, uninterrupted shower instead of writing is outweighed by the longing in my soul to put pen to paper; or more accurately: fingers to keyboard.
*
It was another no-nap day for both of the girls, and I haven’t written anything in a week. I feel the ache to create again but am unsure how to squeeze in the necessary time amidst the incessant calls of, “Mommy, watch me!” or “I need a snack” five minutes after lunch ends. Next in line is a nagging pile of laundry impatiently waiting for me on the sofa, then it seems that all of my clients simultaneously need a reply “at my earliest convenience,” or my foggy pregnancy brain keeps withholding words that would otherwise come simply.
I start to feel entitlement and bitterness rise. I go to the all too familiar place of dramatic discontent.
I deserve for them to nap.
I deserve time for myself.
Sure, a third episode of Bluey and another bag of fruit snacks won’t kill them.
I give into self-pity; knowing full-well that I may regret this reaction within the hour.
*
Six-thirty comes, and their eyes have the same glazed-over look that signals me to prepare for an emotional hurricane. The girls won’t stop spinning and wrestling. Their whiny voices tell me that early bedtime is a must; for all our sakes. I pull them off of each other and carry them back to the bath, because water has this magical way of making everything better. They redeem the day with happy bath time play, thanks to the color drops and sea creatures I bought during an impulse Target trip last week. I scoot the damp, foam bathmat against the wall and stretch my legs out toward the tub. Their giggles and splashing, combined with a chance to sit while the children are contained, inject new life into my spirit.
Who knew that the bathroom floor could be such a place of refuge?
*
Finally, the wrestling match that ensues during pajama time ends. Matt brushes Camille’s hair into a slicked back hairstyle that resembles John Travolta’s character in Grease. She looks silly and adorable and I can’t help but grin. Maisy simultaneously jabs my thigh with her boney elbow while climbing onto my lap and insisting that she won’t squish the baby in my belly.
After a squirmy story time, the girls request to, not walk, but skip, back to their bedroom tonight. While we make our way back, Camille surprises us with a deep-voiced rendition of “Jesus Loves Me.” We all burst out in laughter and mimic her tune as we make our way down the hallway. They release their hands from ours and sprint the rest of the way.
Although they fight sleep most nights, tonight is different. They seem eager to crawl under the covers. Almost as if they have given in to the comfort of their routine. Matt and I shoot each other a quick glance and shrug in awe, but quickly move on just in case our hopes of a smooth transition are dashed.
Without a second thought, we start the nightly checklist. The twinkle lights strung on the ceiling need to be plugged in so it’s not too dark. Their stuffed animals, which got lumped together in one big pile during playtime today, get tossed one by one back to their respectful owner’s bed. Both girls help direct this process to make sure not one stuffy sleeps in the wrong place. Maisy enthusiastically jumps onto her bed and begs Matt for one of his best stories. I lift Camille into her crib and let out an “oompf” because both her and my belly are getting bigger by the day. She quickly nestles in and looks up at me with a sleepy smile and sweet voice, “lub you, mama.”
Their desire for “one more song” and “one more kiss,” makes all that bitterness subside and overwhelming gratitude take over. The thoughts I believed earlier are replaced. All I can think now is, “I get to be here for this?”
These girls are truly a gift. All of these days and moments make up a life and a family. The weight of the grace and privilege of it all hit me and helps me find patience until the next window of opportunity to create opens again.
*
After a quick tidy up and setting the coffee timer for the morning, Matt and I didn’t have to say a word. We high-fived to celebrate the girls going down smoothly and then took our alone time. I needed to write and decompress, and he needed to go to his “nothing box” or do some Youtube research on the latest hobby he was into.
Being apart isn’t something we do well or often. He is by far my favorite human, and next to him on the couch watching our favorite show is the best place to be, hands down. But tonight, it just seemed fitting and I know we were both grateful for the space.
I sneakily walk back to our bedroom and find the desk nestled in our odd-shaped closet from the 1950s. This makeshift office isn’t spectacular by any means. It’s mostly a place for the pile of preschool art and old bills to live among the unorganized earrings and half-wrapped gifts, but tonight it represents so much more. In this moment, it is a space for solitude and hope.
*
I breathe deep. I stop to be thankful for a night that Maisy didn’t come out four times asking for water or needing help going potty. I reflect on the day, praying and seeking a better attitude tomorrow.
Why am I so impatient and quick to get angry?
What moments have I missed by fretting and worrying about all that needs to get done or longing for my own time?
Why do I question if I will get time to pursue my passions?
Why can’t I just be flexible with my plans and go with whatever the day brings instead of forcing my own agenda?
I lean into the voice that offers grace to cover my anger, impatience, and discontent. I quickly realized that I had missed the point all along.
*
Inspiration doesn’t just happen in the blocks of time I carve out to be alone or when I have ample time to write quietly at my desk with candles lit and the perfect playlist. It comes through making time to say yes to a bug hunt and jumping in crunchy leaf piles. Creativity isn’t limited to the captured thoughts on a page or the paint on a canvas, it is found in appreciating the intricate design of a bird’s nest, or seeing the sheer joy on a child’s face when they learn to swing on their own for the first time.
I also realize that creating, and art in general, isn’t about me. What is art for, if it impedes my ability to be present with my children and love them well, or if it makes me miss these few, fleeting years I have with them?
*
Tired from the day, but with a refreshed perspective, I dig in. I start to write, to think, to shake off the day and move forward toward another one coming around the corner.
Exactly when I needed it, hope was restored and the purpose I needed was revealed. By waiting for a natural moment of stillness to arise instead of forcing a window of opportunity open, more inspiration came. There was more room for beauty in my words because it was time given, not time stolen with a hardened heart.
I still haven’t gotten my shower for the day and the sweaty gym clothes from this morning’s workout are ripening by the minute. Another day, another delayed shower, but the thirst to create has been quenched in the margins of motherhood, and for that I am grateful.