Normally when people ask me, “Oh my Lord, how did you ever manage to write a book while balancing babies on your hip?” I never really know how to respond. I just…did it? There was a rhythm there that I had to find, in between changing diapers and taking my oldest to therapy, but writing is important to me and this was a story I wanted to tell, so I made time for it. Because that’s what you do. If something is important to you, you find the time to do it. You give up sleep. You hide in closets with a laptop. You balance and dance and juggle. You split yourself into different people, jump back and forth between writer and mom, and you just do the damn thing. I don’t know how I did it, but I did, because not doing it wasn’t an option.
I don’t think there was any point where I stopped and thought, “you know what? I can’t do this.” There were times I thought, “I’m never going to get this done” or “I can’t think around the Bubble Guppies right now” but I never considered packing up laptop and shelving my story half completed. I’m not saying it was easy, but it also wasn’t hard. It just…was.
But then that story was done, edited, revised, and sent in to Carina Press, who made an offer to acquire it (which one day I swear I’m going to sit down and talk about.) And suddenly, I’m getting developmental edits and now I’m not operating on my own time frame. There’s deadlines. I have expectations. I have people waiting on me to get things done and sent back. Now switching back and forth between mom and writer and wife is not something I’m just doing, it’s something I have to do. There’s no down time. There’s kids and a husband and a house that needs managed and sorry, kids, no home cooked meal tonight, here’s a sandwich, Mommy has to edit. There’s no switching between these roles anymore, no swapping hats. I’m wearing them all at once, stacked on top of each other. I’m trying to parent small children, one of which has special needs, the other a toddler, and knock out these edits. I have kids sitting on my lap, bugging me for drinks, and I’m swatting them away, brow furrowed, reworking a sentence for the tenth time. It’s crazy, is what I’m saying here. Utter madness, but, my God, it’s such a magical madness, that I’m amazed that it’s happening and so grateful that it’s my reality.