I long for the day when I can rise with the sun – in both summertime and winter – and write my dreams and thoughts in the notebook by my bed without a child calling for me to shake cereal into a bowl and pour what’s left of the milk on top. And yet I dread the day when my youngest no longer hops onto my lap and sinks into my body, a fluffy blanket cradling him close; and my eldest stops singing film soundtracks on waking and showing me her artwork and the stories she’s written; and my middle one no longer climbs silently into bed with me in the dark of night, laying his little arm across my chest and staying close until morning.
On writing and motherhood
