What You are Like: The Cost of You
From the time I was ten years old, the two things that I most wanted to be were: Mommy, and Writer. When I quit work four months ago, those were the two reasons. Whenever I explained what I was doing to someone, I always put the one in front of the other - but in all honesty, my darling, that is a very, very narrow distinction.
Now you are making me feel like I must choose between the two - at least for now. Your behavior - your temper, your willfulness - has been so terribly bad lately that I am forced to perceive you as a “special needs child”. I see now that I cannot be an effective mother to you at this critical stage while my attention is divided.
I can’t hold you completely at fault for this. You are small, and I cannot expect you to understand - yet - the impact your behavior has on the lives of others. (That is, in fact, the point of the journey we are about to undertake together.) I realize now that it was unfair to expect you to fall neatly into the schedule blocks that I erected for you - and frankly I’m not sure I would want a child who could.
On the other hand, I do not think that exorcising demons from a raving, spitting, willful little monster is a fair consequence for making you wait until 11am to play games, rather than starting play time the moment I open my eyes in the morning. I think your behavior is extreme, it is appalling, it is cruel and unusual, and I tell you, my dearest, I do resent you.
I am proud of what I have accomplished so far. I have become disciplined with my writing in a way I never managed before: I have been writing daily, meeting the goals I set for myself, and working regardless of whether inspiration decided to visit me or not. I am pages away from the end of this revision, which means I am within sight of a finished product, which is something I’ve been striving for for years. YEARS, Baby Boy, years longer than you have been alive.
Now you make me feel like I must choose. I have to let go in the midst of my stride, I must marginalize my craft so that I have more of myself to give to you.
If you ask me to choose, you will win. You are more important.
I have made many sacrifices on your behalf. I will make plenty more. I have never begrudged them of you.
I know that this is not permanent - there will come a time that I will have to let go of your hand so you can make your way in this world, and you won’t need me by you every minute. It may take a year, maybe more, but there will come a time when I can sit uninterrupted in front of my computer again, and have a shot at my other precious goal.
But it’s not going to be easy to wait. I’m not getting any younger.
I promise I will never consciously hold this against you. But, my dear, dearheart - I cannot promise to forget it.
Now you are making me feel like I must choose between the two - at least for now. Your behavior - your temper, your willfulness - has been so terribly bad lately that I am forced to perceive you as a “special needs child”. I see now that I cannot be an effective mother to you at this critical stage while my attention is divided.
I can’t hold you completely at fault for this. You are small, and I cannot expect you to understand - yet - the impact your behavior has on the lives of others. (That is, in fact, the point of the journey we are about to undertake together.) I realize now that it was unfair to expect you to fall neatly into the schedule blocks that I erected for you - and frankly I’m not sure I would want a child who could.
On the other hand, I do not think that exorcising demons from a raving, spitting, willful little monster is a fair consequence for making you wait until 11am to play games, rather than starting play time the moment I open my eyes in the morning. I think your behavior is extreme, it is appalling, it is cruel and unusual, and I tell you, my dearest, I do resent you.
I am proud of what I have accomplished so far. I have become disciplined with my writing in a way I never managed before: I have been writing daily, meeting the goals I set for myself, and working regardless of whether inspiration decided to visit me or not. I am pages away from the end of this revision, which means I am within sight of a finished product, which is something I’ve been striving for for years. YEARS, Baby Boy, years longer than you have been alive.
Now you make me feel like I must choose. I have to let go in the midst of my stride, I must marginalize my craft so that I have more of myself to give to you.
If you ask me to choose, you will win. You are more important.
I have made many sacrifices on your behalf. I will make plenty more. I have never begrudged them of you.
I know that this is not permanent - there will come a time that I will have to let go of your hand so you can make your way in this world, and you won’t need me by you every minute. It may take a year, maybe more, but there will come a time when I can sit uninterrupted in front of my computer again, and have a shot at my other precious goal.
But it’s not going to be easy to wait. I’m not getting any younger.
I promise I will never consciously hold this against you. But, my dear, dearheart - I cannot promise to forget it.