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Play?
Worked on copy edits today. Will work on them tomorrow right up to the wire. I’ve written, rewritten, and erased the rest of this blog three times. It’s been a good day. I spent a wonderful few hours with Trinity out doing some serious mother/daughter bonding. It was great. If I’d skipped it, I’d be farther along on the copy edits, but there comes a point when you get tired of giving away pieces of your life that may never come back to you. Trinity still thinks I’m fairly cool, and my friends with older children tell me it won’t last, so while it lasts I want to enjoy it. There will be other deadlines. God knows, there will be others, but I will never get back this afternoon with my daughter. I find at the end of the day that I am content with my choices. I try never to do anything that I will regret, and I would have regretted this afternoon spent at my desk and not with my kid. The hard days are when I am truly torn between family duty and work obligation. Balance, it’s all about balance, and I’m a writer, we’re creatures of extremes, but to make my life work I need balance. Balance between family and work; balance between work and play; balance between myself and all the rest of my life. I spent so long worrying only about family and work that I neglected play, and I find that my muse has decided to rebel. She’s not on strike, but she’s demanding her reward up front, no longer trusting me to reward either us after the work is done. Yes, my muse has cut off my credit line, and is demanding payment before services are rendered. This afternoon with Trinity counted as play. The dinner just Jon and I at a nice restaurant while Trinity was out with her friends, counted as play. Jon wore his tux, and I wore something under my dress that we got at Trousseau’s when we were visiting our friends out of town. Serious formal wear is one of my things. I like other things, too, but it had been too long seeing him in his tux. He sat me at the table so I could watch the door, normally that means I watch the door, but tonight with him sitting across from me in a nice black tux and crisp white shirt, bow tie that he’d tied himself, and all that wavy hair framing it all, well, good thing I didn’t really need to watch the door, because I couldn’t take my eyes off my husband. That counted as play. But it never seems to be enough play for my muse. What does she want from me? Ah, the cry of every man in the world. What does she want? To play, is the echo in my head. How much play? I ask. Her answer, "More."
Copy edits tomorrow, but for tonight, I’ll try to figure something out that my muse and I count as play. Hmm, let me think, Jon in a tux, the kiddo in bed, me still in my little black dress; I think I’ll think of something to do.