Im just not ready

Pre story. This is important. Before I fell pregnant with my little boofer I was finally kinda climbing the ranks of creativity. Or at least giving more of a shit about it. After years of strange jobs, strange bosses and unpaid 'experiences' I quit full time work and took a teeny weeny 12 hour part time contract at H&M. I could still be employed but do generally easy work that didn't make me too outrageously tired to engage my brain. And staff discount yesssss. 

My desk was a dive which is always a good sign and I had things on the go. Portraits, magazines, personal commissions and published in a colouring book. Ker-notso-ching. But I was beaming. I was an illustrator. I had applied for tax forms and everything! 

Queue Christmas 2015, a babe did grow. (A very 'popular' time for oops conceptions apparently).

Queue 2016.. HYPER fucking EMESIS. Also a hen do and a wedding and moving home home spurred on by hospital inducing hyper-NEMESIS. EUGH. My desk became baron and the tax files got cancelled. The little bits I did I was so greatful to have. But my mong state and many life changes killed the dream a little bit. When I finally came round I had nowhere to work and a baby to study for, prepare for and then obviously take care of. As I think back now as a mum of a 7 month old I do cringe at how precious I was regarding my work. Always after the perfect idea and the perfect execution. Basically just DO IT . Think Nike and Shia at the same time. 

One way in which I think I have majorly let myself down and thus my baby is not being tenacious enough in making sure my creativity served our family financially before Leo was born. I was too nervous. And now after thinking it would all work out and I would get a years maternity I'm a skint cleaner. nearly 2 months into being back at work. But usually back at work means a strange familiarity. Friendly faces and catch ups. My back to work was a money led scramble for solo working , doing hours that we could negotiate as a family. Shit hours because I wake up at 4.30 am every weekday after a minimum of 2 night feeds. Boring job cleaning an office on a desolate airfield. I don't do the evenings much any more due to genuine fear of kidnap. I cleaned before so it was literally here's the keys, here's the magic sponge, GO. And I find myself just hating that I'm back before I'm ready, or less tired! Leaky boobs and sad smile. I hate that it stopped co sleeping. I hate that the tidier that damn office gets the messier our council flat gets. But the fire has been lit. My chemical burned fingers have started to pry open the ink again and approach illustration with a no bullshit get on and do it vibe. Now I don't have time to worry it has less room to be present in my life and in my slow growing livelihood. 

I feel guilty too because sometimes I look at my illustration as somehow indulgent. Because it makes me feel good. I feel like its a pipe dream and everyone around me is waiting for me to grow up and get on the rat race. I guess it all depends on how you rate success. Financially I can say NAH-AH. But I do have a shelf on the bureau dedicated to  my work in print. And my son is pretty happy. The village our humble little flat is in is bloody beautiful. Best I can do for now is show up. Show up, show up and do it. Because someone else always will. We all have our own little pathways. They might cross. They might be longer or harder that someone elses, but no one will never ever walk yours for you.