Hello Pagers,
I’ve been doing some reflecting.
My daughter is unwell and after writing about how my grown children don’t need me anymore, it turns out that sometimes they do. (Be careful what you wish for.) I’m sure she’ll be fine by the time I publish this (I’ll include an update.1) but this last week has reminded me of my days spent parenting toddlers. I’ve been thinking about the nine-year gap between my second and third books. Yep. Nine years. Nine. Years.
I’m tired, you know? I’ve been up in the night, listening for coughs and changes in breathing. Daylight hours feel tentative. I sit down, then she’s awake so I’m up. I’m preparing food, administering medicine, clearing messes. She sleeps for hours but I’m alert all day, on call. This is what it’s like when you have small children, isn’t it? Time is never solid. You snatch up moments but always with ears pricked, poised like an animal sniffing the wind. I hadn’t forgotten but I’d grown accustomed to something different.
I usually blame2 my babies for the nine-year gap in my publishing credits, but the reality is publishing is not necessarily a linear career.