Who the Hell Am I?
I haven’t written much here lately. In fact, I’ve only written one early morning post since early November, and that was simply to get an idea down that I’d like to revisit for academic work. Since early November, I’ve not really written much of anything at all.
Of course, I have a wonderful excuse for not writing. Since Jack was born, on 9 November, I’ve had my hands full. This isn’t anything special; it’s an experience shared by every new mother. Having a baby does change everything, in ways that you would never possibly expect. Yes, there’s all the emotional stuff, but there are also very practical changes. You lose days, forget the most basic things, and generally have no ability to do anything other than whatever it’s taking to keep that baby happy at any particular moment.
At 16 weeks old, Jack is an awesome little kid. He’s a baby, but he’s already developing enough of a personality to be classed as a little kid in my mind. I’m happy with this. The blob stage of baby-ness was horrible and frustrating. While I loved Jack as a newborn in that instinct-driven way, I wasn’t all that into the new baby thing. It’s been the development that I’ve enjoyed. I like that he’s getting older, bigger, stronger. I like that he’s responsive and rolling over and showing actual preference for certain things. I like that he’s become a person rather than just a human.
That said, I think it’s time for me to take back some of my own self. I’m still on maternity leave, but that shouldn’t stop me from writing. With that in mind, I’m going to ease myself into things and set the goal of taking part in the BlogHer NaBloPoMo for March. The theme is ‘Self’ and that strikes me as the perfect prompt for me at this point. I need to remember who I am, and what I do. I also need to adjust to this new self of mine — as a writer, as a mother, as a wife, as a pet parent, as a cook, as a collector, as whatever else I actually am these days.
This is the big thing that changes when you have a baby. You change. Your sense of self changes. It takes writing every day for a month to figure out who you might be.