This morning, the hubs took my oldest to Kindergarten, allowing me to wallow in
the luxury of not rushing out before eight o'clock. My four year old son started
swimming lessons today, but not until ten, so I was able to move at a sedate
pace while getting ready. At nine-thirty, I walked by the mirror in the hall
where we place our keys. Mine? Not there. Again. This is a subject worthy of its
own lengthy rant. I quickly surveyed the most likely locations for the missing
keys. No. No. No no no no. Looks like we are walking to the pool. It's a mile,
no biggie. I have time to get there, so I load the baby and the boy in the
stroller and head out. Our heatwave has ended, and in its place, the air was
tinged with a crispness that made me want to take big strides and breathe deep.
Oh, and wear tweed. But that is another subject worthy of its own entry. My son
spent the entire 20 minutes of our walk asking questions. "Are we going to
Grandma's? Are we lost? Where is the egg-plant? Are we going to school? Are you
going to hop like a bunny?" Gah. We get to the pool, unload, boy swims, baby
squirms on my lap and yells "WIM! WIM!" and flails herself toward to edge of the
pool. At the end of the lesson, we dry him off and dress him warmly, then start
the walk back home. Miraculously, both kids fall asleep within a minute or two.
Then it was just me and my thoughts. Okay, granted there was some sort of
motorcycle rally going on, and the street I was walking down was full of
traffic, but I saw the sun shining and heard the creek babbling and the trees
rustling and even with the noise from the surrounding cars and businesses, it
was just ME. And I was THINKING. About STUFF. About a year ago, I had a dream
that I had taken up oil painting. I was pretty good too. But in my dream, my
three children kept snatching my canvases and smearing them, and try as I may, I
could never get away. A startling moment in that dream found me curled in the
fetal position while my children pummelled me, literally knocking the urge for
creativity right out of me. I woke in a cold sweat, but had to laugh. I have
always been a creative person, but lately I just can't get started. Not even a
little. I have come to the conclusion that if I want any vestiges of creativity
of my OWN making, I am going to have to fight for it. Being a parent makes for
an interesting dilemma. I nurture my family, but allow myself to wither. There
is no easy answer, either. Someone is always going to think you're a martyr or
selfish. Or both.