Between Baby and the Blank Page: A Creative Mother’s Life (4min read)

My 7 month old, Kaja, is napping next to me. I need to shower, my coffee is already going cold, and I want to sigh away the sadness that comes with this sentence. Always starting the same - with so many cliches.

We’re in a phase where we’re lucky if she sleeps for more than 30 minutes. That's not enough time to describe the gorgeous view outside my living room window. At least in a way that would do it justice.

So I won’t.

Another sad sentence.

Nor will I have time to relay the cruelty of my eyes being more preoccupied with the mess on my kitchen counter.

Or how glorious it feels to be in front of a blank page. Catching words bubble to the surface, seemingly of their own accord.

Followed by the contradictory, yet all too familiar, feeling of regret. For coming to this blank page in the first place. Because just thinking about the inevitable snap-back whiplash of being pulled away makes me feel sick.

And Snap.

Kaja wakes up. I check my phone - 33 minutes. I’m sure it was just 3.

She looks up at me and beams, a radiant delight. My heart lights up and shines back at her through my own eyes and smile. Then I sit for a moment, in suspension between the pull to pick up my love and the grief of leaving this one behind.

This is what I came to write about.

But we never have time.

A deep sigh. A deep smile. — Motherhood as a creative.

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A few hours later. Another tantalising, fragile nap time. Once again my hands hover over this blank page in a paralysis of pressure to “make the most".

I am not a writer in need of ideas.

My current first-world curse is that I have an abundance of ideas and desire but never feel like I have enough space to put them somewhere. So they fill me up on the inside instead. A static, noisy energy, shouting to get out. In what feels like competition with my kids, my husband, my day job, my home, my friends, and even just basic self care.

Often leaving me in this feeling of suspension between all the noise. All the needs, all the big complex feelings.

Feelings around wanting to connect more deeply with my children. But also pulling away in want to connect with myself. Alone.

Around liking my job and wishing I had more time to give it. While also wishing I could immediately quit and focus on goddamn literally anything else in my life.

Missing my friends. Feeling called to build more community around me, but also a desperate need for more time by myself.

Feeling both the desire and burden of making a home.

Being pulled towards the city, to the countryside, to a different country. But also this place, this sofa, exactly where my feet are.

The drive to be doing more while also overwhelmed by how much there is to do right now.

All the shame. All the inspiration. All the love. All the fear.

And in the suspension of the in-between, my hands grasp at tasks that stack up to a busy every-day.

And Snap.

Kaja wakes with an understandable impatience to go experience the rest of her day.

33 minutes exactly. Again.

I catch the smell of my coffee and hold it with eyes closed for a moment. Bliss.

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I sometimes wonder if my busy mind is one of the reasons I adore writing. An exercise of breaking out of being suspended in the middle of it all. To look these complex experiences right in the eye and synthesise them into something tangible. To make some sense of the states of us that we barely get to touch.

And the gift of sharing those words with others, so that they too can have the moments of “Aha. Yes! That’s it. Oh my god that’s it.” A moment closer to feeling what it’s really like to be you. To be human. To be capable of feeling all these big, complex things.

And still somehow pick what socks to wear in the morning and pay your bills on time (-ish).

Kaja had found her pacifier and put herself back to sleep.

My husband calls. He might have to change jobs. The cat pukes.

I quickly check - It’s still a beautiful day outside.

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This life of mothering children, yourself, and the need to create… it’s…wow. Aways feeling pulled in different directions, yet somehow holding all of it within you.

Maybe our work isn’t to fight for more time or less noise, but to figure out how to be in the in-between. To let the tension be part of our story, not something to burn ourselves out on trying to fix.

This is what I came to write about.

And I’ll keep putting it into books for you, whenever I can find the time.

Ruth xx