Mommy, Interrupted

If Samuel Coleridge had lived with a toddler (never mind the issue of opium use while responsible for small people, we’re none of us perfect)

In Xanadu did — no, honey, don’t put that in your mouth, Kubla Khan, no, not that either
A stately pleasure-dome — yes, I am sure it had a chimney. No I am sure there were no wolves in it. Decree:
Where Alph, come here and let me wipe your nose, the sacred river, ran — can I read to you when I am done with this honey? Through caverns measureless to man — hey, I should measure that wall there and see if the bookcase would fit there instead — down to a sunless, shoot, is the dryer buzzing already? Oh, sweetie, I know you didn’t want to interrupt me, but you really aren’t old enough to pour yourself a cup of orange juice. Let’s clean it up together.

Now, where was I?

You know, I just don’t believe in evaporative inspiration so much anymore. I answer the door and that gives me something I need to think about, need to write about. And after three or four days where my interruptions get interrupted, I find myself waking up an hour before everybody else to get the pent-up words out, the words that persist like moths at the kitchen screen. There is nothing so tantalizing as the interrupted dream, but the words that need to come out, the ideas that are tumbling, they work themselves out.

Posted by Mara Collins on Oct 3, 2007 | 5 comments

5 Comments

  1. sarah gilbert
    Oct 3, 2007

    this is so perfect and well-said. if only I could wake an hour earlier!

  2. Steve Lewis
    Oct 3, 2007

    A very good friend would invite us over on a regular basis to Share A Meal together, a rare treat for her because her small people just didn’t share her love of asparagus, blue cheese, etc. She needed to talk about the flavors, banter about creative combinations, discuss techniques, and what have you.

    Doing so proved quite challenging because the small people’s presence made adult conversation a game of TryToSaySomethingQuickly. Just as often, the conversation would end up revolving around, or be engaged with the children themselves. They were an undeniable force never discussed in college physics.

  3. unreliable narrator
    Oct 4, 2007

    I love the sacred nose that ran! :o D

    Do you know Stevie Smith’s “Person from Porlock”? Hang on, I find it:

    http://www.artofeurope.com/smith/smi4.htm

    It was not right it was wrong
    But often we all do wrong….

    I also love “interruptions get interrupted.” Can I steal it for a poem?

  4. unreliable narrator
    Oct 10, 2007

    Oh BTW–how did the art classes go??

  5. jenny
    Oct 13, 2007

    this is brilliant! I knew that coming to your blog would be a good thing to do (though I have to admit I was a little nervous about what I might read.) I’m sorry you haven’t been able to post the last few days. Would it help if I promised not to read it for awhile? : )
    Thank you for the laugh, and the picture I now have of you sitting at the table while R busies himself around the house and you write (interrupted interruptions not-withstanding). It’s a cozy picture and I like thinking of you there. Hope all is well…

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