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Why Writing While Raising a Toddler Stinks

I have a two year old. And she is evil. Not evil as in spawn-of-the-devil-type-evil (although, there have been times when I wonder), she is just… well… evil. She has two older siblings and they never acted the way she does. Well, perhaps they did and I repressed it. But, I digress.

In a perfect world, ideas and thoughts for writing would come to me only during naptime or when she goes to bed at night. But unfortunately, for me, ideas tend to form during awake time and/or tantrum time. Which for my two-year-old is pretty much the same thing (awake time = tantrum time).

This makes it difficult for me to write like I want to, which is all the time. I would love to write all of the time. But I am a full-time mommy, and so I must share my time with my love for writing and my three babies. In truth, the raising of my kids is my most important role, and I work every day at making this my most important role… even when I sometimes would rather get in my car and drive far, far away.

This means that the bulk of my writing has to be done at night. When everyone is asleep. Namely, evil toddler. The only problem with this is now I have to ignore my husband because nighttime is our time together. Lately though, our time has been spent with him on the couch doing something work-related on his laptop, and me ten feet away writing in the office. Our conversations consist of yelling things back and forth to each other. It’s very romantic.

I sometimes dream about having a clone of myself who could spend time with my family, while I write. But then the real me would miss out on all of those wonderful things that happen while my babies are growing up. Things I can never get back. Like today when my evil toddler stripped down completely naked and went streaking through our back yard. That kind of stuff.

So for now, I will be a mommy during the day, a writer at night, and somewhere in there I will find time to be a wife too. I’ll continue to be haggard from the kids and sleep-deprived from the writing. It’s my life, after all. And it’s a great one. Even with the evil toddler.

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