This is my baby. He's one week old today. Okay, he lives in Texas, so he's not really my baby. I didn't make him or grow him or birth him. BFF did. But ain't he cute? I'm his proud auntie. Auntie M.
It's killing me that I haven't met him yet. But I have to wait until he goes home with mama and daddy. He's still in the hospital, but they've moved him from the heated bed, and if he can maintain his temperature, he'll get to go home this week.
I'm so glad BFF has had a baby for me. I'm reading a book
about how few published women writers there are and why. It's kind of a bummer, but it has also validated my life. It's very difficult to be an earner and a creator at the same time. And it's even harder to be a mama and a worker and an artist all at the same time. Damn near impossible. Especially without outside help.
And so it is for good reason that I am not married and not having babies. It's for annoying reasons that I hold something like 8 jobs to keep afloat, but I'm just paying my dues. . . .
The point is I'm reminded that I'm giving birth to myself. Again and again. That writing for me is breathing; it's as essential, although it doesn't quite come as easily. It's what I do, it's how I live. And thank God there are magnificent human beings such as my BFF and her huzzie birthing and rearing children right now. So I can write my book without guilt or pressure to propagate the species.
And I can't wait to see what path Tyler chooses for himself, although thank God he won't have to struggle with being only one out of 12 writers on the shelf. I pray he learns the power of his privilege and does nothing but good with it. From the look of things, he's already on his way. . . .
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