Times They Are 'a Changin'

For all those New Years Resolutions never kept, goals never achieved and boxes never ticked...

Last week I woke up and decided I was going to change.

I made myself a cup of coffee and I wrote a list.

Because I put things off. I procrastinate. I talk myself out of things. I over think. I under accomplish. Sometimes there's reasons... well, there's always reasons, but they're very rarely significant.

I signed up for The Sketchbook Project, I logged into NaNoWriMo (for the first time in three years) and promptly added it to my bookmark bar, I made phone calls, I entered competitions, and I completed chores.
And I'm re-designing my blogs.

I've been blogging (on other blogs and spaces) for years. It's an unrestrained place where I vent my woes and let slip my secrets.
When I was a few months pregnant (and reading more online than I had before) I vowed I wouldn't turn into a  Mummy Blogger and that I'd keep this space (cue tumbleweeds and crickets) as a sanctuary away from the dirty dishes and sticky hands of my real life; a place for my creativity to revel late at night when the house is still and my music's blaring through my Skullcandy headphones.

But this last week I've re-evaluated who I am. I'm a mum now, and that defines me... and I like that it defines me.
Every time I sit for a moment, with the keyboard on my knees, I want to write about who I am, not just that little skull-eyed artistic piece of me.
Because creativity permeates through my every waking moment, and beyond all other dreams and goals I strive for, I want my life, our life, to be filled with wild imaginings, with unruly daydreams and, as always, with a little dark ink.

In The Warm Winter Glow.

The days get warmer, my smile gets wider.
I used to be a cold creature, at home in the dark, dank and dreary. All year round I would crave that crisp autumn breeze that would whisk through the trees in May, tangling my wiry hair as it went.

Two years ago we spent our Christmas in Edinburgh. We slid down snow covered hills in flattened cardboard boxes and made a snow bear and clothed him in a singlet and beanie from Bundeburg.

In Prague I ran around catching snowflakes on my tongue, and we wore scarves and gloves and thick comfy socks while drinking hot wine and smiling.
I was in an ice coated heaven.
But ever since then I've felt in some way robbed of my summer.

What was once a season for me to dread and sneer at (in my typically teenage way): the sun, the heat, the beach with it's sand and crowds of bikini clad people.
Now I bathe in the sunlight that shines in through the Nursery window and finally touches the spot I sit at 7:48am. I ache for the warmth it brings to the morning. I breath deeply and feel at peace.
The warm days come and go on the edge of winter. They tease me into packing away my uggies and track pants, then surprise me again with their hot-chocolate weather.
I know by May I'll be pulling on my jeans with an enthusiasm reserved for reuniting with old friends, but this year I dream of hot, salty nights eating mangos and strawberries, wearing strapless dresses and listening to the summer rain.

My Late Night Routine.

I play around on Photoshop for awhile, instead of doing the dishes. I hate doing the dishes when it's cold. I say to myself that I'll do them tomorrow. I said the same thing last night.
I turn off the TV and the music. Then, finally, the lights - one by one.
I fish a pile of cords into my hands and carry them, dangling, into the bedroom. I plug everything in, trying to be mouse-like in my silence even though The Boy could sleep through a stampede if it were occurring outside the window.
The night vision picture on the monitor shows Our Archer still tucked neatly into his cot, so I resist the desire to sneak in and kiss him goodnight, again.
I kick off my uggboots, rearrange the pillows and snuggle down into the warm blankets.
The door is nosed open by a stealthy four-legged companion. I half-heartedly tell her to get out. She obeys, but I know all too well that I'll wake up in the early morning with her snuggled up at my feet.

Sleep doesn't come easily. I've taken to drinking coffee, as a habitual practise, while the mornings and nights make me shiver. I'd blame the caffeine, but I think it's more than that.
My creativity is restless again.

I contemplate returning to the computer. I smile. Just another hour in my own world, playing with colours...
...but the monitor lights up and the baby shaped pile of blankets begins to wriggle. I smile bigger.