The Writing Mom

Yesterday, my alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. But I was already up (stress). By 6:10, Demon Baby had arisen. Demon Baby, for the record, does not greet sunrise with joy. He doesn't babble at the rays as they form a dappling pattern across his crib. He wakes up, and his first instinct is to pretty much let the world (in particular, me) know his sheer displeasure at everything about it, which means whining or crying for about 5 minutes, sometimes 10. Yesterday, I scooped him up at my desk, and we rocked in my desk chair for about 10 minutes. I was struck by how wonderful, actually, this is. See, I used to DREAD the whining routine. I used to say, "My darling Demon Baby, greet the sun with happiness." But now I realize it's the only 10-minute period in which he will cuddle and hug me and we have pure alone time (since no one else is nuts enough to be awake at that hour).

The day pretty much was a blur from that moment. I got in a fight with Oldest Daughter. I got the other two off to school. New contracts came (announcement soon!). I called my agent, signed them. I wrote. I took phone calls. I cleaned. I did four loads of laundry. I wrote. I cleaned UP after Demon's nuclear disaster of toys, and persuaded him that soap bubbles really ARE an outdoor activity. I did another load of laundry. I cleaned my desk. I actually threw out an entire garbage bag of clutter and crap (mostly papers---but yes, I recycle). I vaccumed (don't want to know what Demon did with some cereal and my carpets). I made lunch for Demon (mac and cheese). I ate an apple. I paid bills (ugh!). Then the OTHER kids came home. Oldest Daughter and I made up from our spat. Oldest Son got a stern talking-to for his grades. Baby Girl felt the need to rub her easy "all As" in his face. I made dinner. We went to Oldest Boy's concert (plays horn). It was wonderful. However, if you can imagine CONFINING Demon Baby AFTER the "wtiching hour" (which around here is approximately 5:30). I was--I have proof--I was in Dante's Third Circle of Hell. I spent over half the concert in the LOBBY (though I did see Oldest Son play). Then we went home around 9:00. I put Demon to bed. He got back up. I put him in again. I sat down to write at 9:30. Demon started shrieking (has night terrors). Oldest Daughter offered to hold his hand and help him settle down. I hugged her and said, "BLESS YOU, MY CHILD." She got him to sleep. It was quiet. I did a "little work" before I realized I was too exhausted. I went up to bed at 10:30 after, essentially, being on the go as a mom or writer since 6:00 a.m. that morning. I ate dinner standing up at some point (potatoes--kids had chicken . . . I ate another apple . . . I had green tea). AND THEN . . . once in my bed, I called my Mom.

I have a writing point, I swear to you guys.

I have two best friends. My best friend, Pajamala (not her real name but . . .). And my mom. My sisters are in there too, but especially my mom. I usually call her once a day. We usually talk for over an hour. Sometimes I call her twice. I hadn't talked to her in at least four days, which felt hugely horrible. It was a gaping hole in my routine and life, but I've been SO busy. So I called her at 10:35 (she's up late) and said, "You do, indeed, have an oldest child. I haven't hurled myself from the second-story window." (She knows how stressed I am.) We talked until 11:45. About everything and nothing. About how I spent $70 in groceries and got NOTHING. ($4.58 for milk???? WTF.) How four kids is a LOT of groceries. About how I am so busy. About Demon Baby. About the concert. About Obama. About the election and politics. About the state of health care in this country. About my dad. About their visit (coming to stay next Wednesday--for a month . . . OH, there will be stories). About Oldest playing the KENNEDY CENTER next month! About Oldest's OTHER concert next Friday (which she wrote some of the arrangements for). About life.

And so today, as I opened up a file to write . . . I realized . . . there are SOME relationships in books that are difficult for me to write about. I mean, a tried and true literary theme or relationship is the difficult mother-daughter one. And I have a very, very hard time writing about it. It's like writing about this totally foreign entity. I wouldn't know what it is like to have a mother undermine her child's confidence, or belittle her daughter, or CRITICIZE her. I wouldn't. My mom's not without her opinions . . . and once in a while, she'll tell me something she thinks about x or y. But criticize me? Never happen. And I have to say, dammit, my writing SUFFERS for it. LOL! Because in women's fiction, you often explore that . . . and so I have to try extra hard to wrap my head around a difficult mom.

Now, my mother-in-law? Slapped her own grandchild. Hasn't seen any of them since--10 years. I've offered. I've written her. But she says she's not interested in them--and that I've just made her out to be the bad guy (I suppose there's a good-guy way to portray striking a 2-year-old, but I haven't found it yet). So it's not like I can NOT find a relationship to write about. But that's a one-note performance. I have to work hard to write about it . . . because I didn't GROW UP with it. I don't know all the threads that would make a woman essentially uninterested in her own child or grandchildren. Uncaring. Cold. I don't KNOW that woman. I don't know what makes her tick.

Sisters (see yesterday) I can write with ease. Fun, real grandmothers. I know them. Complicated, criminally inclined dads? I think I can do that justice. A close, loving relationship between a woman and a gay man/best friend? Sure.

But others? It's harder. I have to really imagine myself in that position. As I have shared before, I am a "Method" writer--I really do go through some process where I become the character inside. And some . . . trickier than others.

So . . . are some relationships mirrored on your own? Or do you have to work to create it all? Are some harder to create than others?