A blank page. Most times when I stare into its […]
A blank page. Most times when I stare into its vast, stark-white presence, I feel a tinge of intimidation. Even after nearly a decade as a professional writer (I started when I was 11. Ahem), I still get the same feeling of nervous anticipation when I sit down to fill a blank page.
But maybe never so much before as today. The empty space before me now represents so much more than the possibility of a good story—or a hefty pay check. This one is full, pregnant, if you will, of the promise of hundreds of good stories.
This blank pages represents a new little life. (Read: I’m “knocked up,” again and back for my second stint of blogging here at P&N!)
Having welcomed our first little one into the world just 492 days ago, we’re about to do it all over again. In just a few short months, we’ll be cradling a brand new bundle of gurgles and coos and utter innocence in our arms. But, enough of the sentimentality, at least for now.
I’d be lying (and we can’t have any of that!) if I didn’t admit this blank page also represents something else entirely. Namely, a streak of craziness that must be lurking somewhere in my body. (My appendix?)
Having gone through the roller-coaster of new mama-hood before, and not so long ago, I still can’t quite believe I willingly chose to do it all again. It takes a special kind of person to do that. And, I mean the kind of “special” that’s accompanied by italics, raised eyebrows and discreet elbow nudges. Or, if you’re in Southern circles, the expression “bless her heart.”
The new mother is full of blissful, zen-like expectations of her impending pregnancy and first year of motherhood. Of course, she imagines there will be tough times, but that’s just it, she only imagines them.
The second-timer doesn’t have the benefit of such lucky naivety. She knows full-well the pain of pregnancy and labor, the sleepless nights, the never-ending supply of smelly diapers and spit-up-soaked shirts. The girl’s got cold-hard facts. Yet, she does it again.
You can’t tell me that’s not just a liiiittle bit crazy.
Of course, if that were all there was to it, for any woman to go down procreation highway more than once would be more than a little crazy, it would justify calls of “Lock-her-up-in-the-looney-bit-STAT!”
But behind the pain of labor, the sleepless nights, the dirty diapers, the spit-up, there is a gorgeous little person. (In our case, one with a bright blue eyes, a cap of cornsilk and a Three Stooges sense of humor.) A little person with a smile that can light up the gloomiest days. A little person who is a walking ray of sunshine and proof positive that every minute of motherhood is worth doing—and doing over again.
And, at least not completely crazy.