Conflicted

Well, I’ve gone and let a couple of weeks pass without another blog entry. I must admit being a bit distracted with the shenanigans playing out in Wisconsin and — to a lesser amount of national coverage though potentially more disastrous — here in Michigan, as well. That is not the purpose of this blog post, however. Rather, it is another item which has kept my attention in recent days.

My daughter’s birthday was a success, even though her beloved cousins were sick and unable to do more than stop by to drop off her present. She had a friend over, another little girl just two weeks younger than her. Together they laughed and played, both here and then again at the local aquatic center’s kiddie pool.

My daughter is three years old now, and just as outgoing, engaged, and world-gobbling as she ever was. I would say she has no fear (she’ll walk up to just about anybody, adult or child, and start talking to them as if, as good King Longshanks said, ‘as if they should hear what she has to say’), but then I remember a recent episode as we were coming out of our public library. An elderly man with a bushy, yellow-white beard waited at the bottom of the ramp to get in the front door, allowing my daughter and me to descend so we wouldn’t have to watch out for him or he, us. Faolan didn’t notice him until we were just about in front of the man. Then, with a sound reminiscent of a frightened Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, she climbed up into my arms.

“Daddy,” she said a few moments later, her eyes still on the man as he climbed the ramp, “I don’t like beards.”

Got it, sweetheart. We’ve all got our crosses to bear.

So, having gotten through potty-training with our daughter some time ago (the last obstacle standing between our daughter and a preschool enrollment) my wife and I decided that Faolan could use the socialization and structure of the preschool environment, even to begin now, with only a couple of months left in the school year. Today was her first day.

It isn’t much, just three hours in the afternoon, but we know it’s in Faolan’s best interests. The learning, the sharing, the exploration, all of it. Not to mention, it gets daddy three extra hours in the day to write. And yet, I feel like a crappy parent when I realize that. It’s as if I’m trading time with my daughter for my career.

Don’t get me wrong–I know everyone has their own situations and their own priorities, and that everyone is going to do what they think is right–but when it came time for my wife to return to work after having Faolan (Tonya is a teacher, and we were coming to the end of summer break), we had a choice to make. Neither of us wanted to put Faolan in daycare. That would feel too much like we were having someone else raise our child for us. So I quit my job and stayed home.

That was two and a half years ago.

AJ Hartley recently wrote a post on magicalwords.net, where he argued against quitting your day job to become a writer. His reasoning is sound and militantly unromantic. It is a wake-up call to any who would approach writing out of any motivation other than you just have stories to tell, and that you enjoy the hell out of telling them. However, it doesn’t really apply to me.

I already quit my job. My wife and I are surviving (interpretation allowed) the cut down to one income. I have health insurance through her. Most importantly, I have a loving wife who supports me and sees the talent in what I do.

And now, with Faolan going to preschool, I have a chunk of time carved right out of the prime-cognitive-functioning part of the day where I can write.

Faolan loves her school. I get to write. Everyone wins. So why do I feel so conflicted over this?

I am a parent and a writer. I know I’m not the first person to have blazed that trail, or to have faced the sometimes opposing requirements of those two jobs. Maybe the inner-parent in me just needs to relax and let go a little bit… you know, stop giving the inner-writer the old stink eye from across the table.

Yeah, we’ll work on that one.