In the Beginning there was Art and Sleeping Babies

It seems like I've spent a lot of time sitting at the computer with a sleeping baby on my lap. Usually it's not too bad, but today is hot and muggy and the added weight of my heat generating youngest sprawled across my lap is not its usual pleasant experience. There are beads of sweat on his chin and his arms and legs are splayed out trying to occupy as much space (and my lap) as his young body can.

He turns one a week from yesterday.

I'm trying to balance him as I type over him, careful to not ram an elbow in his face. He's now at the age where if there's anything REMOTELY interesting (and sometimes it doesn't have to be that fascinating) he will fight sleep so that he can participate, despite his desperate need for sleep.

I ought to transfer him to a better place to sleep, but the thought of moving him so that I have better access to the computer (and my life), kind of fills me with a melancholy and a slight dread that I might jostle him awake during the move. It's not fun dealing with a crabby baby, woken before his time, when all you want to do is get on with the dailiness of your life.

Don't get me wrong. I fiercely love Colin, as I love all of my children. There are four total. But I like to delude myself into thinking that I am much more than my children's mother. And I'm not talking about being the chauffeur, the maid, the nurse, the coach, the teacher roles I engage in when I'm parenting.

I'm talking about something much deeper. Something that goes beyond my need to connect to my progeny. Something that reaches further than the embrace of my loving husband. I'm talking about the fire that burns at my core.

I have to create. It's as essential as breathing. If I don't create something in some way every day, I go a bit nutty. I get maudlin and crabby. It's a lot like being constipated, and if I'm not manifesting something from the bowels of my imagination then I'm physically uncomfortable.

But it's never very easy creating, daily. I have the business of running my household as well as ensuring my children make it to adulthood. There's dishes to do, floor gidgets to vacuum, kids to cajole and potty-train. There's cats to flea comb, bills to pay, meals to prepare. The dailiness of life intrudes upon my incessant need to create.

I can't give up the kids, because I need them. I can't give up the art, because I need it. I can't give up the housework (no matter how much I want to) because, well... then I'd be a slob.

It's a delicate balance. Giving too much attention to one will neglect the other. Life versus art. But somehow I manage to create my cgi art or write while holding a child or two on my lap, and slowly the apartment pulls itself into shape around us.

I guess if it's important, it will manage to find a place inside the turmoil of life.