I have heard the song Loser by Beck repeatedly over the last few days. It’s a catchy tune with a rhythmic beat and it’s repeated lyric was stuck in my head. The lyric that serenaded my thoughts were… I’m a loser baby so why don’t you kill me. It’s a bit morbid but catchy. Today I was excited to see the new Writer’s Digest nestled inside my mailbox. My mood quickly changed when I came to page eighteen. I wasn’t expecting to see the announcement of the Writer Mama’s contest so soon. I didn’t think it was going to be announced until October but then realized The Writer’s Digest I was reading was the October issue. Needless to say I did not win or even place for that matter. I am not bitter and truly offer my sincerest congratulations to the winner Kristin Carlson whose article was perfectly written. I am bummed out simply because rejection is a hard pill to swallow. We send our literary masterpieces (as we would like to think of them) out into the sea of boundless words and hope they will be returned with a gold star. We wait for days, weeks even months holding onto the cliff of our mind called wishful thinking.  When it is confirmed we weren’t even close to the brass ring disappointment rushes through our soul and we question why we tried in the first place. I have chosen to accept rejections as progress. The fact that we are being rejected means we are putting ourselves out there. And that’s better than having a desk full of manuscripts never sent. I have decided I will wait patiently for my gold star. I will take other’s accomplishments and make them my own. Because if someone else can do it so can I. I may have not won the Writer Mama’s Contest but I did have a fun time writing down my moment of when parenting and writing collide. I have decided to share it with you.  Though I was a loser this time around I still feel confident that one day I will be the winner.                                

WHEN PARENTING AND WRITINGCOLLIDE    

  When you are a parent the sound of silence is both soothing and suspicious. I have spent a great deal of time deciphering which one I should take it as. Doing so has caused many interruptions in my writing career. I check on the kids. The boys are in my son’s room playing X-box. My daughter is sleeping beautifully on my TV room’s couch.     Excitement floods through me. I gather my slippers, journal, pen and thoughts. Sink down into my comfy leather chair, turn on a little music and prepare myself to create a piece of literature; I am sure will be a masterpiece. Before my pen could graze the paper I am presented with the first disruption.  Standing before me is my four-year-old nephew. His days are spent at my house while his mother works.                 

 “Aunt Mar,” he says smirking. My stomach twists a bit, Already, I think. “My bud needs you,” he states. By bud he means my son. “What does he need?” I ask. A twinkle of embarrassment illuminates his giant blue eyes.  “For you to wipe him.”  I jump from my chair and trudge upstairs to my one and only bathroom. Hunched in front of the toilet is my blonde curly haired little man bent over. His bare dirty butt is greeting me. I grab some toilet paper and continue doing what we Mothers do. After washing my hands and escorting them back to his room. I race back down the stairs. Hoping my thoughts can still be retrieved. After all I didn’t have time to write them down.  I let out a deep breath and plop back into my chair. It gladdens me that most of my original thoughts are still fresh in my mind. But, this time I will be better prepared for the next hindrance. I grab my pen and journal and furiously jot down my vision of words.     A stampede of heavy footsteps can now be heard above me. I pause and listen. It is obvious the x-box game has been abandoned. Maybe they will go in and watch the movie that is still playing from their last trip downstairs. I am thrilled when I peek in and see them sprawled across the floor intently watching the movie they begged me to buy. At last, I can finally start writing. I scribble down the clever title I came up with. Oh, this is sweet; I visualize myself drafting, escaping, creating, and then… reality hits.  The whaling of my two-year-old daughter is my wake-up call. So, once again I vacate my cushy chair and enter back into the world that inspires the very thing I write about.  

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