Balancing Motherhood & Artistry

Balancing Motherhood & Artistry

This Wednesday, while hiding in the bathroom, I tried to call local libraries and bookstores to line up book events for The Alliance, but my girls (four years old and nineteen months) couldn’t stand being separated from me.

So, they pounded on the door and twisted on the handle until I had to open it and usher them inside. The three of us stood in front of the sink, looking at each other in the mirror, as I continued to wait on hold.

A few hours later, I received an extortion letter that required me to sit on the floor while a stranger told me how much I (allegedly) owe.

Needless to say, Wednesday was not my favorite and had my husband praying before dinner, “Thank you for this . . . day.” And then he opened his eyes and grinned at me across the table because, in that pause, he’d purposefully omitted the word “good.”

But then, as my husband and I were tucking our eldest into bed, she looked at me and said, “Did your book camed out?”

I titled my head. “My book?”

She nodded in the dark. “The one with the plane. Did it camed out?”

I touched her chin. “No, not yet.”

“But your other ones camed out?”

I smiled at her, my throat tight. “Yes. two.”

My husband and I looked at each other across her pink comforter, and the stress from the entire day just melted off me. I could tell by my his smile that it had melted off him too.

Sometimes, if I’m just honest with you (and what’s the point of all this if I’m not?), I wonder if I’m making the right choice by pursuing an author career while my children are so young.

I wonder if, otherwise, I’d do more macaroni crafts, read more books, be more patient, bake complicated, raw-food cookies that my children actually like.

What if–once my daughters are grown–I look back at this season and realize the time I spent in front of the computer, writing, was time I should’ve spent with them?

But then, on Saturday, while I was making peppermint tea for our girls, there was a little tag on the bag with a quote from Vincent van Gogh. I explained to Miss A that he was an artist.

Her eyes widened, and she placed a hand to her chest. “Like me?” she said.

I looked at her–this beautifully unique child–who weeps if a song is “too sad”; who sees the image of a goat in the frosted glass of a door; who keeps her pockets filled with “treasures” (buttons, pennies, nuts, and vegetables pulled soft from last year’s raised beds); who is so attuned to her environment that she will immediately ask me or my husband, “Are you happy?” when our youngest has just had an accident on the floor, or I’ve tipped a tray of chicken on the bottom of the oven, or the sky’s been gray one week too long.

“Yes, Honey,” I said, putting the tea bag in the pot and cupping her sweet face. “Vincent von Gogh was an artist just like you.”

And, in that moment, I understood that, not only do I take time to write for me, but I also take time to write for her. For in this day and age–when we jot and jot down on our to-do lists, but never seem satisfied with what we get done–it is important for my highly perceptive child to see her mother taking time to process the world in order to understand it.

I want my daughter, when she has children of her own, to take time to cultivate her artistry, for whenever she does that, she will find herself refreshed enough to tackle the puddle on the floor, the chicken burning on the bottom of the oven, or a gray, rainy day when the children (and mother) are antsy from being trapped inside.

And then, maybe, her children–my grandchildren–will see the benefit in pursuing their artistry, too.

How about you? What are your thoughts on balancing parenthood and creativity?