There’s a great line in the book ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ by Patrick Gale, about family life with a woman artist. The children recount a childhood of talking to a mother who, although she replied to their childish chatter, they knew her mind was never really with them but always with her next piece of work. This saddened me when I read it. I’m not sure if I could say I enjoy my work. I’m well aware that it fills up my mind and pulls me away from my children often, not so much physically but mentally. I’m not sure I’m ever really theirs in the way other mothers are.
We didn’t sleep last night. My husbands back to work today and the pressure of life resuming is building up for both of us. It’s early still and I should be packing to take the children to Kent while they sleep but instead I’m scribbling down thoughts about a piece of work which is filling my mind up. I wonder is there ever a way to balance all this?
