When a writer or artist chooses to become a mother there’s this thing that happens. This place inside of your brain – which previously existed solely for intellectual thought, collecting ideas and colourfully spinning them into processed, subjective versions of reality that one dreams will become fodder for scholarly conversation and inspiration – is commandeered by all sorts of stuff that pretty much render any creative type …well, dry.
Case in point: the above paragraph took me almost 90 minutes to write.
I’m not exaggerating. Dad’s in charge, but that doesn’t stop the parade of whine (clearly not the good kind) and attempted mommy-manipulation that comes along with wiped-out kids at the end of a very long, long weekend. They’re under-slept from sleepovers, had too much sun, and to top it off neither one arrived at the dinner table when they were called so it was put away for tomorrow – what gall!
But I digress. It’s hard to keep a train of thought when you are a mother…
Where was I? Right. Lately, I have been reading quite a few good essays (because what parent has time to complete an entire book?) on the particular subject of being a writer and a mom.
Turns out I’m not the only person who has theorized on the insanity of attempting to simultaneously raise predominantly irrational and dependent human beings and have some sort of satisfying experience of turning thoughts and ideas into something others might want to consume on some level.
How else would you explain the inundation of mommy blogs?
Author Kim Brooks recently penned a piece titled “A portrait of the artist as a young mom – is domestic life the enemy of creative work?” In it, she riffs on the concept with mother-writer-pal Gina Frangello, who suggested: “The point of art is to unsettle, to question, to disturb what is comfortable and safe. And that shouldn’t be anyone’s goal as a parent.”
To which Brooks added: “People make art, in other words, for exactly the opposite reason they make families.”
She argues that the ultimate conflict is the selfishness of the artist and the selflessness of a mother. The issue, however, being time rather than a “metaphysical conflict” between the two.
But it’s far greater than that. It’s less about time, and more about the finite emotional energy one has for creativity, which quickly gets edged out in favour of contemplating the dangers of giving one’s pre-pubescent child unsupervised freedom by the river, and question like how much screen time is acceptable, and is her stubbornness going to be her greatest asset or biggest downfall?
Being present to nurture and help our children develop into the best people they can possibly be takes oodles of energy. It’s downright exhausting. On the flip side, if I leave them to their own devices – providing them with inherent growth benefits to which I subscribe – to write, I’m often left feeling neglectful and self-indulgent. Mommy guilt.
What helps put things into perspective is the simple matter of choice. If we trust that in every given moment we are choosing whatever it is we are doing, this stress is instantly relieved.
I’m choosing to write, I’m choosing to do the dishes, I’m choosing to read with my daughter, I’m choosing to meet a friend for a coffee, I’m choosing to spend three hours making a meal that will be inhaled in 10 short minutes. And, ultimately, I choose to become a mom in the first place.
We all know that mothering is the ultimate sacrifice of one’s time, body and for some, a hard-won career. It’s choosing to accept what is. To paraphrase Byron Katie, the discomfort only arises when we argue with reality.
So for now, I’m choosing to parent with intention – and I’m taking steps to carve out time to be a writer and an artist.
When I’m with my kids, I’m choosing them. When I’ve got them covered, I’m choosing my creativity.
And it might still be hard, but that’s OK. Because it’s my choice.
