This Year, Man. I Swear.

Resolved:

• Lose more weight
• Write more sentences
• Make more money
• Do more dishes

I have been walking five miles a day — at least — ever since Ed returned to work after Mary’s birth. That’s five days a week for ten weeks for a grand total of 250 miles. I walk with a baby strapped to my chest and a three year old in a stroller and I walk fast. I walk fast and hard and my muscles ache and my shirt gets drenched with sweat. I walk up and down hills and have worn a hole in the heel of my left shoe. And I have not lost a single pound. NOT ONE LOUSY POUND!

So, as much as I love aching muscles and sweaty pit-stained shirts, I’m going to have to take this in another direction. From January 1st to February 10 (which is 1.5 weeks before Lent when I’ll give up something again) I’m staying away from sweets. That means no more cookies, cakes, tarts, pies, squares or anything full of empty calories that I’m tempted to grab because I haven’t had time to feed myself properly. And, in anticipation of the annual deep freeze, I’m swapping my daily walk for a thrice weekly go on my parents exercise bike. Guys, I had better lose a pound, or thirty.

My dad would always say he needed to write a sentence and then we could go to the park, the grocery store, my grandparent’s house or wherever. In fact, he still does. Because you can’t write a novel in any given moment, but you might be able to manage a sentence. I have three young kids with no child care and no housekeeper; I’m lucky if I can hammer out a blog post in one sitting. I just need to focus on using the time I do have, naps and evenings and weekends, to write one sentence at a time. I’m not working on a novel at the moment, but I may get there yet.

I was able to find the New Yorker fiction issue cover on the right thanks to the miracle of the internet. It’s from 1995, so I was just 17 when it came out, but it made a lasting impression. Here it is, New Year’s Eve, and while everyone else is partying, the writer keeps writing. I can hear my neighbours partying, their recycling bin slamming shut and laughter and music wafting, as I type. Someone once said on Twitter (and I paraphrase): If you can imagine doing anything else at all besides writing, you should go ahead and do that. If you cannot, then write.

Just one more nugget about writing as it pertains to parenthood. I had a grad student friend with an infant who said Margaret Laurence did all her writing between the hours of 10pm and 2am, after her children were asleep. My friend was lamenting her own inability to get by on so little sleep. I actually do all right burning the candle on both end, so maybe I should really considering knocking off a couple novels in the middle of the night rather than watching Law and Order reruns and tweeting shit out to my two followers in Australia. I couldn’t find a quote from Margaret Laurence talking about writing around her children, but I did find this one:  “When I say “work” I only mean writing. Everything else is just odd jobs.”

I suppose it would look better for me to resolve to spend more time cuddling with my children. Or, to give more to charity. Or, to take in sick puppies. But guess what? I can’t do any of those things unless I make more money. Money, money, money, money! Being a grown up adult with a house and children and a car (omg, the car) is expensive and I really need to clock more than two or three billable hours per week. Mary’s almost four months old *sputter* and I should be able to get her settled into a more predictable nap routine. It’s time for me to hustle up more paying gigs — as many as possible — and give this professional writing thing a real go. (See above. As though you just skipped to this paragraph.)

That last one was just a joke. It’s not physically possible for me to do any more dishes than I already do. Nothing short of starting to express milk into bottles and having to make my own baby food in the near future could possibly create more dirty dishes than I already have. I’m so screwed.