By Mary C.M. Phillips
You have to decide what your highest priorities are and have the courage — pleasantly, smilingly, nonapologetically — to say "no" to other things. And the way to do that is by having a bigger "yes" burning inside.
~Stephen Covey
Discipline is a trait that does not come naturally to me. But as a mother and writer, it's something that I cannot do without.
You have to decide what your highest priorities are and have the courage — pleasantly, smilingly, nonapologetically — to say "no" to other things. And the way to do that is by having a bigger "yes" burning inside.
~Stephen Covey
Discipline is a trait that does not come naturally to me. But as a mother and writer, it's something that I cannot do without.
I purposely push "writing" up a notch or two on my priority list, making sure that it never falls below "walk the dogs." I love my dogs, but there's a perfectly good back yard in which they can run.
Balancing motherhood, family life, and writing is not easy. With the stress and duties of daily life, it's hard to find the time to sit down and write. And I sometimes feel like the world has enough writers. We don't need one more. Nobody needs to hear my words.
Because who am I? Why should my words matter?
Well, my words do matter. All of our words matter. They tell us who we are.
But words will never see the light of day without discipline. Devoting time. Putting the word "write" onto an actual schedule to give it validity.
Your words represent who you are, and sometimes the duties of life can hide that person.
I cleaned out a drawer full of my son's old schoolwork the other day. I hold onto anything with sentimental or artistic value: drawings of George Washington; "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essays; and, of course, every Mother's Day card.
I came across an essay in which my son had to write about his family, proudly noticing his neat penmanship even in the third grade.
He wrote of his love for baseball and music and Star Wars. When the subject of my husband came up, he wrote about his father working for a baseball team and playing awesome guitar in a rock group and worship band.
My heart swelled with the sweetness of it all. Then came my turn.
"My mom makes good pasta."
What? Good pasta?
I'm a writer and a musician, and all he writes is that I make good pasta?
What on earth was going on? Who does he think I am? I thought about this for a while, and it dawned on me that through his eyes, I am the one who makes dinner (the "good pasta"), and picks him up from school. I'm the one who makes sure he practices piano. I'm the one who puts out his clothing the night before so "things match."
I pondered this for a bit, and then made this decision: "He needs to meet his real mother."
The one I know. The one my husband married. And so that's why I now make sure that I make time to write.
I still consider myself a good mother. Okay, maybe my housekeeping skills need some improvement. But it's not fair to my son to not really know who his mother is.
His mother still feeds the dogs and still puts his clothes out and makes a mean pasta, but she also writes. She writes her beliefs and her ideas and her thoughts that become real words.
And his knowing "that mother" will make him a better person in the long run.
Balancing motherhood, family life, and writing is not easy. With the stress and duties of daily life, it's hard to find the time to sit down and write. And I sometimes feel like the world has enough writers. We don't need one more. Nobody needs to hear my words.
Because who am I? Why should my words matter?
Well, my words do matter. All of our words matter. They tell us who we are.
But words will never see the light of day without discipline. Devoting time. Putting the word "write" onto an actual schedule to give it validity.
Your words represent who you are, and sometimes the duties of life can hide that person.
I cleaned out a drawer full of my son's old schoolwork the other day. I hold onto anything with sentimental or artistic value: drawings of George Washington; "What I Did on My Summer Vacation" essays; and, of course, every Mother's Day card.
I came across an essay in which my son had to write about his family, proudly noticing his neat penmanship even in the third grade.
He wrote of his love for baseball and music and Star Wars. When the subject of my husband came up, he wrote about his father working for a baseball team and playing awesome guitar in a rock group and worship band.
My heart swelled with the sweetness of it all. Then came my turn.
"My mom makes good pasta."
What? Good pasta?
I'm a writer and a musician, and all he writes is that I make good pasta?
What on earth was going on? Who does he think I am? I thought about this for a while, and it dawned on me that through his eyes, I am the one who makes dinner (the "good pasta"), and picks him up from school. I'm the one who makes sure he practices piano. I'm the one who puts out his clothing the night before so "things match."
I pondered this for a bit, and then made this decision: "He needs to meet his real mother."
The one I know. The one my husband married. And so that's why I now make sure that I make time to write.
I still consider myself a good mother. Okay, maybe my housekeeping skills need some improvement. But it's not fair to my son to not really know who his mother is.
His mother still feeds the dogs and still puts his clothes out and makes a mean pasta, but she also writes. She writes her beliefs and her ideas and her thoughts that become real words.
And his knowing "that mother" will make him a better person in the long run.
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