Everything but making things

It’s the most important thing in my life, making things. Much as I love my husband and my children, I love them only because I am the person who makes these things.

AS Byatt, interviewed in the Guardian, 2009

***

“You’re always getting ready for the next thing,” my sister remarked a few weeks ago after supper. I was enjoying ten minutes’ respite on the couch before embarking on my late-evening drudgery (literal bottle-washing, preparing night feedings, scouting lunchbox fillers in the fridge) after completing my early-evening drudgery (kitchen sorted, baby bottled, bedtime hugs dispensed). It’s true. There is always a Next Thing, and I like to be ready for it, even though this often comes at the expense of Other Things I’d rather be doing, hence the long silence here and the fact that so far I’ve read just six books this calendar year, two of which were slim volumes of poetry.

I finally replaced my computer that died a sudden death at the end of November, right around the time I was organizing Christmas, dealing with a child’s head lice, and losing out on a lucrative editing contract that would have paid for a new machine. I thought that buying a new one would cure the feedback loop of drudgery and turn me into someone who makes things again. But I find myself climbing into bed at night thinking of all the things I’d have liked to have done during the day, none of which I’ve had time to do.

I know that the time is coming, but it seems far away. Six months. In six months Mr. S will begin school, there will be no preschool fees, and I will hire a sitter for Baby L two or three mornings each week. It shouldn’t be hard to find one, and as she’s the chillest baby in the universe, I don’t think she’ll mind much. I will no longer be pumping milk five times each day. I’ll probably not be faced with a counter full of used bottles to scrub daily. There will still be supper (there will always be supper), laundry, deep breaths, but there will be space in each week for making.

Before then, forms of sustenance:

* The landscaper came back to us with a plan for our sad, bare-earth front garden. It is glorious. Come May, we will no longer have the ugliest yard on the block.

* I submitted a story to the CBC Story Prize this year (not for the first time), and I was proud of it. Its existence is all the more miraculous because I typed it out in fifteen minute bursts over the baby’s head as she slept on me in the sling. The word limit is paltry, so lots got cut, but not to the story’s detriment. I don’t really think I’ll be longlisted, but I look forward to seeing the longlist in April.

* Several good friends from different times and places in our married life will congregate under our roof in three weeks for a conference hosted by A’s department. Seeing everyone together will be a bit mind-bending, but in a good way.

* My birthday is approaching. Bring on the cake.

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