The Stench of Inspiration

You haven’t lived until you’ve smelt the raw stench of a three-year-old’s dirty diaper. What about that subtle, sour scent of baby spit-up that sneaks up on you throughout the day, until you finally notice the blob of white resting on your shoulder, drying ever so slowly.

I’ve just changed my three-year-old boy’s diaper. His gift to me is a shade of deep dark greenish black, a shade that can only exist here, created and packaged for this very moment. (And, yes, we’ve tried to potty train him. He’s stubborn. I’m sure he’ll figure it out before college)

I’ve burped and bounced my two-month-old baby girl to sleep. And my six-year-old daughter is begging me to print out a coloring sheet.

All the while I am trying to figure out the right words for my character to say to his dying son.

I used to need quiet to write. I used to have to be

“in the zone” as they say. If the time wasn’t right, the mood, the setting, my mental Viagra not kicking in, I would simply use it as an excuse and not write.

Boy has that changed. The silence now is almost unnerving. I’m not used to it anymore. And that’s okay. I like the noise. I like the smells, despite their brutal assault to the senses. Because they are signs of life. Signs of family. My family.

Someday I won’t get interrupted with, “Joey’s got poop!” Someday I will end the day without a spit-up stain on my shoulder. Someday the door will stay closed during my entire writing session. Some day.

I just hope it’s not too soon.

Until next time,

MC