I have been thinking lately about the fact that people write poetry and songs about love and love lost, but not about having children and the everyday disasters/chaos they cause (though poetry and songs are often written for children).
My husband’s theory is that parents and caregivers lack the energy and/or time to write poetry. While I suspect that is partially true, the fact remains that children and their difficulties are not particularly poetic or romantic. Add in the fact that I believe my children’s stories are theirs to tell when they are older, not mine to tell nor to live through vicariously right now, and the fact that when I do get a chance to write, I want to write about something other than the awful morning I had, and I don’t write a whole lot of poetry about having children.
Writing is one of my adult spaces, a space where I don’t have to think about screaming children, naughty dogs that eat everything in sight, and disgusting things in the fridge that absolutely must be taken care of and then make an even worse mess in the middle of the morning chaos. Writing is a place to think thoughts about the world I live in, the world around me and the world far away, people I meet and people I only read about, and then take all that and turn it into something that makes people think. Perhaps I will write about these days full of children when these days are long past and I am feeling nostalgic.