The voice has returned. I think.

I’m sitting in bed, still wearing my pajamas with the laptop propped up on a pillow in front of me. Little A is laying in the bassinet to my left, wiggling and grunting, apparently deciding if she wants to fall asleep or demand a larger breakfast. The clock on the dresser reads 9:27, but it’s fast, so I suppose it’s really around 9:15.

It’s raining outside, the type of rain that follows a mild thunderstorm. Steady and peaceful and refreshing. I went downstairs a couple of hours ago to feed the dog and grab a bowl of cereal and realized that with the thunderstorm came a 10+ degree drop in temperature. On my way back upstairs I clicked off the AC and reveled in the fact that I will get to snooze and snuggle and check my email for the rest of the early morning with the windows open, listening to the rain and breathing in the scent of fresh that accompanies it.

It’s been 18 days since the little one came into our lives. 18 days of my new role of Mommy, 18 days since oh wasn’t that the most darling grunt ever ouch do not do that with your mouth IT HURTS I think her eyes are turning a lighter shade of blue with each passing day look at me I can type with one hand!

I’ve barely written anything in those 18 days. Three weeks ago I was in the midst of a wonderful streak where story ideas and blog ideas and writing project ideas of all kinds were pouring out of me. I use a basic text editor to initially record snippets and ideas and my desktop was so overrun with text files that I spent an entire afternoon while I was in the hospital opening and re-reading them and filing them away.

I haven’t touched my journal – not even a one-line “She’s here!” entry – for three weeks. I think about it daily but it just doesn’t appeal to me. It feels like it would take too much effort. If it feels like it would take that much effort, well, isn’t that NOT the point of journaling? It didn’t require effort or even thought before. It flowed. It just happened.

So this morning when I returned to bed, set down my cereal bowl, and picked her wiggling buns up from the bassinet, bending carefully to avoid angering the back that I have already ruined by nursing and carrying her around with terrible posture, it took me a while to realize that I was narrating again.

The writing voice had popped back into my head.

I was narrating the sound of the Friday morning raindrops on the window sill and the feeling of happiness and contentment in the room and the look of the messy bed and her white and pink striped one-piece with the zipper that’s still a size too big but oh isn’t it cute she looks like a girly convict.

I was putting words to my thoughts about time freedom and flexibility and its true purpose in life, its true purpose in my life. I was making mental notes to write down ideas for blog posts from those two emails I received that triggered that cool idea. I was outlining the guest post for that blog that I love that hmm maybe I could give something to their audience like they have given to me?

The voice had very much returned.

So back into the bassinet she went and back downstairs I went and back up the stairs I returned, laptop in hand, to begin awkwardly yet effortlessly listening to the narrator and recording as demanded.

And that’s what I’m doing now.

I’m excited to see where this goes.
AS

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