Creativity as a career?

It's funny how sometimes my mind wanders and pondering about different subjects can converge into one idea.  I was thinking about writing a blog post today, then I was reading a story from a Disney Princess Collection that stars the princess, Belle, and her friend, Claire, who works in a bakery and is struggling to find something creative that she's good at.  Then I was musing about the recent announcement at work that at the end of March somewhere in the ballpark of 500-600 people will be notified that they are victims of the "restructuring plan".  The unlucky hundreds will be gone by mid-April.  It's probably a huge jinx-ola (as Stu would call it) to say/write this out loud but I don't think I'm going to lose my job.  Nevertheless, all of these thoughts muddled together in my brain and I remembered the book that I started writing almost one year ago. 

I am notorious for beginning things that have to do with writing and then never finishing.  It's strange because, I take great pride in the fact that when I say I'm going to do something, I do it.  I want to be known as someone who is reliable and follows through.  But I started my first book, about a girl who wanted to own a horse, when I was in fourth or fifth grade and never got past chapter 2.  I've started countless diaries in my life and set them aside after, at the longest, a few months.  I started a pregnancy journal while Max was gestating and faithfully recorded the first 6 months or so of that pregnancy (I think I went back and quickly summed up the last few months and added his birth story).  I may have written about the first several weeks of my second pregnancy but poor Adam didn't get any journaling at all.  I vowed to jot down cute stories and memories of my children in a little purple spiral-bound notebook and was terribly sporadic about it and quit altogether when I started this blog.  Most recently, I've started two books and have an idea for a third.  I have about 27 pages of the first, a memoir, and maybe two pages of the second.

After thinking about what to blog about today, considering Claire and her desire to be creative, and wondering whether I'd have a job in two months I decided I'd better take a look at that memoir again and see if I could revitalize its existence - maybe I'll need to turn to my creativity if I need to embark upon a new career path and money-making venture.

Here is a snippet from my as yet unnamed memoir about having closely-spaced children:

The weekend prior to the fated Monday was the 4th of July weekend and Stu and I spent it with my dad, grandparents, aunts and uncle and some cousins at my dad’s cabin in northern Minnesota. Weekends spent at the cabin are meant for relaxing, playing on the lake and, after 5:00 pm (my dad’s rule), indulging in a few beers. On Sunday morning, Stu and I lounged in one of the guest beds listening to the birds awaken and start to call. Max was still slumbering deeply in his portable playpen at the foot of our bed. I languished in a state of semi-consciousness, feeling the pine-infused breeze wafting in the window just over our heads and then settling down the length of our bodies. Out of the slits of my eyes, I watched the mini-blinds gently bump the window sill in rhythm with the puffs of wind. The wind brought the sweet perfume of open water and I could hear small waves lapping the shore. Suddenly, my body stiffened and I was yanked to full consciousness as a terrified thought shot through my mind: “I was supposed to get my period on Friday! And today was Sunday! I’m never late!!”

Stu, sensing a change in me, rolled on his side and opened his eyes. “What is it?”, he asked.

“I think I might be pregnant”.

“You always think you’re pregnant, Sheri.”

Stu rolled his eyes and closed them again. Stu did have reason to doubt my assertion. I had thought I was pregnant on several occasions, while trying to conceive Max, when my period had the audacity to show up a few hours later than normal. I am as regular as a clock, almost to the hour.

“No, really, I’m two days late. And what if I am?! I had quite a bit to drink last night!!”

“You’re not pregnant, Sheri, you couldn’t be, go back to sleep”.

I tried to put the thought in the back of my mind and enjoy the rest of the day, packing up and making the nearly three hour drive back home. I tried not to agonize about the possibility that if I were pregnant, I’d just drowned the tiny shrimp with enough beer to fell, well, a 130 pound woman.

But, by the next morning, my period still had not arrived. After sleeping on it, my attitude had changed a bit. I was still worrying about my indulgence of the weekend but Stu and I knew we wanted a sibling for Max and I had thoroughly enjoyed most of my first pregnancy and was starting to feel excited about the prospect of being pregnant again. The stinging disappointments of all the negative home pregnancy tests while trying to conceive Max were quite fresh in my mind. In order to avoid a potential false negative, I decided I would leave the testing up to a professional this time. Shortly after arriving for work that Monday, I visited the clinic conveniently located in my office building and asked to take a pregnancy test. My body roiled with emotions ranging from complete and stark panic to moderate embarrassment as I peed in the tiny cup and slipped it into the brown bag I’d been provided. I walked as quickly as I could down the hall from the public restroom to the clinic area, clutching my brown bag at my side and considering the absurdity of walking around work with my pee in a bag.

The physician’s assistant asked me to take a seat on the hard plastic chair in her office and opened up my container of urine. She dipped the pregnancy stick into it and rested it on the lip of the cup. Somehow, I’d imagined the “professional” administering this test differently. Instead, I’d shelled out a $20 copay to have someone else dip the pregnancy stick, which appeared suspiciously similar to the home tests I’d used in the past, into my pee for me. I’m sure we made small talk for the 5 minutes you are supposed to wait for the result to appear but can recall none of the particulars of what was said. I do know I told her I didn’t think I could be pregnant. And I also remember vividly the visceral reaction my body was having. I can feel it again as I write these words. In the frontal cortex of my brain, I “knew” I was not pregnant but my intuition knew better. My entire body buzzed and burned as if filled with fire ants. I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I was finding it hard to breathe. The PA turned to lift the test and I began to really wonder if I were going to faint. She turned back to me and matter of factly but with a tinge of an apologetic tone because I’m certain I looked like a deer in the headlights stated,

“Well, it is positive”.