Time is a funny thing. Before Violet was born, I had a conversation with a two-child parent about the time you have before children are born and the time you have after children are born, and they made the offhanded comment, “I can’t remember what it was like to have the time to read a book.” That comment seared into my brain, and it scared me. A thought just kept repeating in my brain - forlornly, “..but I like reading books.” And I thought of this blog, too. Looking back over the list of posts, I feel a little stab of pleasure when I see a post that meant a lot to me – a post that helped me work through a thought – a post that touched on something worthwhile. Most of them I wrote during the summer, when I’m afforded the luxury of time. Some people can think on their feet. I am not one of them, so days without multitasking are usually the days when some sprout of a thought germinates in my head early in the morning, and I can pick at it all day long, coaxing it into blossoming into a paragraph or two by the time bedtime rolls around – a paragraph that satisfies me on some level I can’t really describe. It was harder to get into that frame of mind once school started. Once in a while, it would happen, but it was rare. Now that Violet is here, it doesn’t even seem like an option. Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s early on. I haven’t even been a parent a month, but I’m getting the inkling of an idea that becoming a parent is a crucible – the lack of sleep and the sundry demands of this little person burn away all the unnecessaries in your life, and you don’t really care. I may not get to read a book for awhile (a non-baby-related book, that is) but Violet’s presence just wipes away any shade of regret that comes with that thought.