The Season

Reflection by Renee Beauregard Lute

It isn't writer's block, exactly. It's a three-year-old and an almost-two-year-old and this tiny baby I'm gratefully carrying right at this very minute, who makes me vomit more frequently than I'd like. It's school board meetings and exhaustion and trying to keep up with housework. I haven't been writing. I have nothing to submit to my critique group for the month of December, and the guilt is chewing me up. I'm not feeling guilty because I'm letting anyone else down — I'm feeling guilty because I'm letting ME down.

Didn't I pride myself on doing it all? Don't I always write “writer and mother” in the occupation line on various forms? It doesn't seem honest, these days. What have I written lately?

This is the thing that has been like a rock in my shoe all season. A couple of days ago, I sent an email to an old critique partner. She wrote back this morning, and it was everything I needed to hear.

“The writing will come. Let yourself off the hook a little. I was listening to a podcast about our lives having “seasons” and how our focus shifts with each one. It's been helpful for me to remember— this season of taking care of little kids will go by relatively (the operative word!) quickly.“

Winter always seems like the longest season, but it is as quick as the others. Advents and Christmasses from years ago seem like they lasted a half-second of time. She's right — this is the season for taking care of little kids, and growing our third and very last baby. It's the season for ordering take-out too often, because the smells of cooking are too much for me a lot of the time. It's the season to be wrapped up in my children, and perhaps, when there's time, whether I find it or steal it or pay a babysitter and make it, it's the season to write just a bit.