With every bit of writing that occurs, what becomes more clear to me is how this decade of my life isn’t about writing. That’s been quite a fact to acclimate myself to, but it’s not merely due to the grandkids. Once again I’m reminded that once a mother, always a mother.
When I began exploring prose, my youngest was still in high school, the elder two off to college. Maybe my husband and I still had a child at home, but honestly, how much parenting happens when kids are teens, not as much as one desires. As drafts emerged, that daughter graduated, then joined her siblings, and I had all the time I could wish for, time I used well in crafting a multitude of tales, then beginning my foray into independent publishing. Even when my dad’s battle with cancer heated up, writing was a mainstay, keeping my mind focused.
But eventually Dad’s fight waned, and my daughters were expecting their own bambinos. I was in the early stages of The Hawk by then, learning to quilt as well. The Burrito arrived, Dad passed, Little Miss entered the fray, and writing dwindled, although not the spark. Plots continued to emerge as babies don’t require more than a solid grip, ears accustomed to tears, and a burp cloth over one’s shoulder.
However as infants turn to toddlers, a grandmother’s assistance becomes more vital, and I find myself going between the roles of mum and abuela. Little Miss calls me Ma-ma-ma, a shortened version of Momma’s Mama (Grandpa is Momma’s Dada, funny what she decided for our names), and with Lil’ Sis due in less than a month, I’m truly feeling like someone’s mother in helping out my very pregnant daughter. Youngest daughter often tells her son that I was her mother first, ha ha ha! It’s great being needed by others, old and young. I just wish I had time to….
I know, I know, these days won’t last forever. Before I know it all those nietos will be clamoring for their own phones, Grandmaster Z included. He’s almost three, talks in full sentences, yet wasn’t he just a wee one, weren’t all of them babies, and what about my own kids? Didn’t my eldest just twist my arm to do NaNoWriMo when she was a senior in high school? She’s pushing thirty now, good grief! Where has the time gone?
What I have to remember is how fluid is time, and only becoming more brief. It’s November, for instance, and while I wanted to complete The Hawk by the end of this year, more important tasks have muscled that novel out of the way. Yet, I am writing, it’s not gone completely. It’s simply a different method now, as how life is always evolving. But the constant is the husband I adore, our children, and their children too. Motherhood came long before the word count, and will probably outlast it; for as much as I love creating new existences, the ones I made with my beloved matter most. This seems to be a rather difficult element for me to learn, but sometimes the best lessons require a fair bit of angst, or at least substantial rumination. Goodness knows I put my characters through the wringer, guess now it’s my turn.
Today’s word count: 1,752