My typing wakes up the baby.
Hoover is fine.
Leaf-blowing is fine. Revving up a motorbike repeatedly (I hate you, whoever
you are) is fine.
Typing, not fine.
When I was eight
months pregnant, we moved to the flat next door. It had one more room, which
became my office. An office beside the baby's room. Perfect. A sunny, cool,
uncluttered room where I could snatch moments to write while my little one
snored softly in her crib next door.
I typed like mad while
I was pregnant. I wanted to finish my novel before my due date. Perhaps the
sound now reminds my baby of humbler times, when she lived in a cramped flat
and survived on a liquid diet.
"What are you
doing out here?" my husband said, when he discovered me writing on the
terrace one early morning, "you have a wonderful office now."
I thought of my big
white desk, my notebooks within reach, my selection of biros, my view of the
pine trees. Was my typing really
waking her up? Or, was I just being paranoid?
I returned to my
office and began to type:
C-H-A -(I heard a
stirring...) P-T-E-R ( faint mewling) O-N-E (loud cry)
I stopped typing. Silence.
I picked up my laptop, charger, notebook, biro, phone, cup of
tea and tiptoed down the corridor, passed her room and out onto the terrace. The cicadas buzzed,
the leaf-blower grumbled, the motorbike revved, baby snored, I typed and all
was well in the world again. When it comes to writing dreams and babies, you have to adapt to survive!
_____
Pregnant and looking for a positive account of pregnancy and childbirth? Check out the diary I kept while I was pregnant! It's available from Amazon.
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