The last post I wrote here was from 2014. It’s now 2017. It’s been a while, to say the least. And I don’t know why I’m back since I don’t expect anyone to be reading this. But that was never the point really.
Three years. A lot can happen in three years.
IVF. Lots of needles, lots of tears, lots of joy.
An embryo. A baby. A toddler. Crazy times with my boy – he’s one bundle of energy!
Very little writing or reading or time to myself because the child is active and demanding of my time. I give it willingly sometimes and grudgingly other times – after 18 months of early mornings, sometimes not even coffee hits the sides and keeps my eyes open.
I am slowly reclaiming my space to read and refamiliarising myself with the keyboard. It’s no joke to say that it’s difficult to find your own space and self as a mother. I see my mother in myself and I wonder at all the things she missed when we were growing up. But of course, I grew up in a society with maids and nannies so there was always help, which was a good thing and a bad thing (obviously, not a society I want to bring up the child in). Reading – and, by extension, writing – is one way for me to carve out quiet time for me. Just me. Even if it does mean reading in spurts outside daycare.
And writing? What of writing? What shall I test my keyboard skills with? Perhaps reviews and rambles about books. Perhaps thoughts on my No Buying Crap year? Perhaps thoughts on why the hell marriage and parenting is so hard. Perhaps everything and nothing. Who knows. My writing skills are rusty and dusty and all things unhoned. And they need honing.