It's four in the morning, the end of December. A minute ago I heard someone whistling; I thought they were out in the hallway or in a neighbouring apartment but it's quiet enough that they might be outside.
Two little white ridges have breached the offspring's gums and he has settled back into a routine again, thank heavens. Am sleeping reasonable amounts again, more or less. (Tonight being an exception. I hope.) Trying to write during morning naptime but more often than not it is taken over by dish-washing, laundry, groceries and/or other errands. Oh, and actually feeding myself. The part of my brain that queues up short-term tasks is fried. Now I see why people say to not have kids if you want to be a writer. But I'm not convinced it really makes a difference. Plenty of writers have kids. You find a way, you set realistic goals. And it's me, not the offspring. I was single for three years and it was the least productive period in my life (so far).
And the offspring just woke up in my arms. Three new stories and a novel in progress since he was born. I should not complain. I have put him down in the crib as he's no longer fussing. I can hear him babbling to himself in the bedroom, figuring out language through play. He is a new story trying to find its narrative.
Goodbye, 2011. Upon reflection it was a productive year, in more ways than one.
