writing and motherhood

On writing and motherhood

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.