I want to wake up early and start writing.
When you try to carve out time to yourself – especially in the midst of chaos and little personal space –the alone time becomes an essential service onto itself.
But, trying to get up early in the morning has proven to be as easy as firing a cannon through a hallway.
Today, I tried.
I sneak out of the bed that now houses my son, who has been crippled by nightmares and climbs into our bed most nights these days.
My husband’s sleeping in the spare room because when he drinks Pepsi at night before bed, he ruins both our sleeps with caffeine-induced tossing and turning.
I tiptoe downstairs, avoiding the floorboards that creak.
Coffee’s on. I sit down. Read my horoscope. Take a deep breath.
Now, it’s time to write.
As I reach for my computer, my shoulders suddenly tighten:
My son just woke up and didn’t find me in the bed.
I run upstairs to settle him. He settles back down with his dad.
“Mommy, what happened?”
For fuck’s sakes.
Our five-year-old daughter, wakened by the commotion, must know what’s going on.
“Your brother had a nightmare,” I lie.
We argue for 45 seconds about why she can’t wake up at 5:30 a.m. Even though I’m awake.
I march downstairs, knowing she’ll likely follow soon. Yet, I remain hopeful for a couple of minutes of quiet. And warm coffee.
Somehow, she doesn’t come down and falls back asleep. I’ve written this piece, while sipping my coffee, tucked under a blanket on the couch with the laptop nestled on my crossed-legged lap.
My favourite writing position.
For 45 minutes, I get the alone time. And a chance to write.