A Mother’s Writing Routine

If I only have ten minutes, what should I write about?

Liz Sarb

If I only have ten minutes, what should I write about? I can describe my surroundings: the white brick sunroom filled with hand-me-down furniture; the space heater rumbling its warmth onto my feet; the Japanese maple outside one window and———my older daughter bursting through the door to tell me she needs more cereal. 

If I only have eight minutes, what should I write about? I can outline the sweet profile of my younger daughter, appearing now in my view into the living room. Her face is lit up by the TV and she smiles along with her friends on the screen. She’s getting so big, when did that happen? Just yesterday I was———walking into the kitchen to get her some cereal too. 

If I only have five minutes, what should I write about? I can try to remember a time when ———the older one is staring at me again. She can pour her own cereal. 

If I only have four and a half minutes, what should I write about? I can collect my scattered thoughts from where they fell. I was going back in time. I dive down through my memories. I watch myself three years ago, and then two years before that, holding my daughters in the morning light. I try to reassure my past self that this hard time isn’t forever, but I can’t tear my eyes off my babies. They’re who I want to see most and———here they are, asking for more cereal. How can they possibly eat this much cereal? I dive down through our grocery receipts, tallying up the hundreds and thousands of dollars———no. I’ll do that later. In this moment, I hug my daughters tightly. I want my babies back. My babies are right here. And they need cereal. I close my laptop and get on with my life.