Finding Time to Write

When I was 33, (oh man, it feels like a thousand years ago), I had just finished my fellowship training program, and Adam got a job in Reading, Pennsylvania, and we moved.  I had two little boys, ages 3 and 1 1/2, and a new job at the hospital in town.  I somehow arranged to have the summer off, in order to unpack, acclimate to the area, and do a bit of writing.

I took the boys to the hospital daycare for a few hours a day, to get them used to the program.  I unpacked.  I cooked dinner, (I forget if it was palatable.  Probably not.).  I wrote.  Boy did I write.  I wrote until smoke came out of my ears and melted the apartment wall paint.  I finished a novel about a guy with bipolar illness who is accused of killing his ex wife while he was manic, but he can’t remember whether he did it or not.)

I won’t bore you with the story of that novel’s demise.  (It’s sort of a shame, because it was very cute and Robert Parkerish.  It turns out his ex wife made him manic by giving him a lot of potato chips, which made his lithium level drop.  Isn’t that cool?  It can happen.  I could have had the book sponsored by Pringles.)

The point I’m laboriously making, is that I was very prolific that summer.  Although I had two little kids and a new house to set up, I was able to write a novel.  My mental energy ranneth over.  My physical energy ranneth over.  (I was a very physical mom.  When the boys were awake, we played constantly.  When people commiserated with me for having two hyper little boys, I said, “It’s OK!” as I went zooming by like Road Runner evading Wile E. Coyote.)

I’m 45 now, my boys are teenagers, and I have a job.  I try to go to the gym to stay healthy.  (My family has a tendency towards pudgy wudgy.)  When I get home I am exhausted both physically and mentally.  Sometimes I crawl to the gym at night, and collapse into a little Robin Puddle by the weights.  (People yell, “Could someone clean up this mess!”  The gym owner yells back, “That’s a human!  Just step around it!”.)

Although my boys are no longer time consuming, they are emotionally draining. (I don’t have to crawl around on the ground pretending I’m a horsie, but I do have to explain why Kevin can’t sleep over his pot smoking friend’s house.)  They are mentally draining.  (I agreed to read The Red Badge of Courage to help Kevin with a big English project due next month.)   My marriage suddenly requires work (Adam and I go to marriage counseling to improve our relationship in preparation for the kids leaving for college, and us left alone, staring at each other.  This was my idea.  Poor Adam.  He’s like, “But I love you!  Our marriage is fine!”, and I’m like, “Shut up and spill your guts in front of a stranger!  You can’t have too much therapy!”)

Many nights I just don’t have the time or energy to write, except for maybe a short pithy blog.  I have the energy to watch a taped episode of “The Beast” with Adam.  I have the energy to teach Alex about finding the volume of weird shapes.  I have the energy to read my friends’ blogs.  That’s it.  I barely have the energy to sleep.

I read what I just wrote, and part of me thinks, “Duh, Robin.  Of course you’re worn out.  Don’t be so hard on yourself.  Write when you can.  No worries.”  But part of me says, “Suck it up, you baby!  Lots of people work and write and take care of kids.  You don’t see them whining like a 45 year old Baby Huey.  You read their nightly blogs.  You read their books.  Get up at 5 am and get some writing done!”

Then the two parts of me have a bloody battle.  “You’re a wimp!”  “You’re tired!  Get a nice massage today!”  “You’re lazy!  Get up now, and get the gym out of the way!  Then do some writing!”  “But Alex has a bunch of friends over from his sleepover.  Shouldn’t I take them to breakfast or something?“  “They’re 15 years old!  They can pour themselves some cereal!  Screw breakfast!”  “But I forgot to buy milk.“  “Oh, excuses, excuses.”

Pow!  Bang!  Punch Punch!  Front kick!  Round kick!  Spinning side kick!  (That was a good one.)

I won!  Go back to bed now, Honey.  You can listen to your new Charlaine Harris novel on your ipod.

OK.