“I am grateful for my life, my blessings, husband and children, my home, and my writing.” I continue my daily mantra instinctively but faithfully. Except my words lack the enthusiasm insisted by Tony Robbins. “I’m grateful for finding my passion, although my time is restricted. My life’s full with every second consumed by one being or another seeking my attention. I’m grateful for it all until insanity kicks in.” I suck in a much needed breath and glance at my two little homeschoolers working diligently at the dining room table, my third sits playing with the spice rack. A sudden gush of happiness washes through me, cleansing all remnants of sarcasm and discouragement that taint my mood.
I’ll survive the drudge of today, with its typical formation. I’ll follow yesterday’s steps, same as the day before. I’m not alone. I prepare a snack, send out the dog, clean the kitchen, and change a diaper. My only interruption is to grab a scrap of paper, napkin, piece of gum wrap, anything obtainable for me to safely transfer a soon-to-be renowned phrase or idea from thought.
Finally, I’m onto my beloved chore, staring at my impending bestseller while my boy plays by my feet. The older two are in bed and my time has come. I read prewritten words in an attempt to transform my mind into one of a novelist’s. Distraction comes soon, however, when I feel little hands grabbing at me. I try to type faster, frantic to finish a thought. What was it, again? It’s too late. I’m no longer a writer. I’m a mountain that must be scaled. Little grunts indicate the magnitude of his mission and it’s too endearing to ignore.
I surrender to his command and drag him onto my lap, hoping he’ll be entertained by the words appearing before us. I regain my literary composure, but soon my sleek lines of literary genius are tainted by an intrusive ‘g,’ followed by a roguish ‘p.’ The meddlesome letters continue appearing, accompanied by impish giggles, and my only response is a desperate, ‘no sweetie,’ ‘don’t touch,’ while maintaining as much patience as my deteriorating mood allows.
It’s too tempting for those tiny fingers, however, and again I’m compelled to surrender, save my potential masterpiece and spin away from the screen, causing a squeal of delight. I lift him into the air and he looks down at me, eyes wide with the anticipation of my next move. Who knows what that will be? Even with routine comes uncertainty, but in the sparkling eyes of my child is a promise of something extraordinary, and for that I am always grateful.
3 thoughts on “A Day in the Life of a Catholic Novelist”
Definitely can relate to this post.
I’m a writer too, and a mom. I can totally relate.
Haha, that’s funny.