I haven't written anything fiction-wise since Monday. I think I can forgive myself, though. I woke up Tuesday morning, went straight to the hospital, and had my baby boy in the wee hours of Wednesday morning. He's doing well and we're all home now. I won't be posting his name or any pictures of him to this site, not because I'm afraid of people coming to hurt him, but because he's his own person and I want to leave it up to him how much online exposure he wants in life.
That isn't to say I won't ever talk about him, but I'll choose my stories carefully. You won't read about the silly thing he said the other day or the embarrassing situation he got himself into or the thing that I just thought was soooo cute that he did. I hope to have a long career as a writer and blogger and what is cute today is just flat out embarrassing to an older child.
I vividly remember my own childhood, as in I remember what kind of diaper pins my mother used on my cloth diapers and what my first day of preschool felt like (I didn't talk to anyone, just wandered around carrying a picture of a horse that my cousin, Sarah, drew for me out of magic marker). While I have a hard time remembering what someone said to me five minutes ago, I can clearly recall how much it hurt my feelings to hear an adult quoting some mistake I'd made or something "cute" I'd done (really, it isn't fun to be called cute when you're not trying to be), to another adult and laughing over it.
The thing about childish mistakes is that they're genuine mistakes; kids have an odd view of the world sometimes because they lack experience. Their emotions and their intentions, though, aren't all that different from anyone else's. And like anyone else, they don't like being mocked. Thank goodness there was no internet when I was growing up - I don't know that I'd ever get over it if someone had posted stories about me, because even now I wouldn't look at the story and chuckle. Odds are, I'd remember exactly how it felt when the situation happened. The memory thing runs in my family, so there's a chance my son may inherit it. I hope to be one of those adults that my child can trust implicitly, knowing that I'll never make light of him and never make public his shortfalls and setbacks. (And no, I don't expect the same from him. I expect his teachers, his friends, and anyone who reads his social networking pages will know all about the stupid things I do. I think that's just the way it goes.)
So, if I do talk about my son, I'll try to keep it to life lessons he taught me or help he's given me on my writing or how I figured out how to juggle caring for him and writing - provided it doesn't demean him. We hit a huge milestone today, which is that he weighed in big enough to use the Baby Bjorn. Now I can carry him around the house, cuddle him, and have my hands free to type. I also have the added benefit of having my husband home for the next six weeks, which is wonderful. He's a very involved, hands on father.
I have a novel to finish editing. I've set Monday as the first day to tackle it. I was two days away from being done before I went into labor - may take me longer than two days now, given I can work on novels any time but these days with my son are precious and won't come again.