glorious, glorious

I have a typewriter under my bed. It is dusty, and blue, and probably a breeding ground for spiders of all shapes and sizes (tho all feared with equal severity). It does not breed creativity, as previously imagined. As previously imagined when I lugged it down King Street, 30-dollars poorer and pregnant, no less!
Countless nights, clicking out abstract poetry and tinkering with ink tapes, thinking about time-lines... my pregnancy was a creative upheaval. Hopefully, this means I've birthed the next John Lennon. (I'll settle for Heath Ledger) Where did that Lillian go?
No time or free space for projects, she rationalizes. Babies need lots of attention; the rest of the time is for rest or productivity.
But there is always time. I literally will fucking kill myself if I have to spend the rest of my life being domestic. Being selfish is a luxury.
I'm tired and need. more. time. But it's not all terrible; I am being totally melodramatic.
I have had time to knit baby pants and write in my journal enough to have nearly calmed my brimming soul. I have had plenty of time to think, just not enough time to create!
Idle hands do the devils work, you know.