Sunday, March 22, 2009


Next week is a busy one. I have my writing workshop on Tuesday night, at which I'm reading as many pages as I can finish from my noir re-write of "In Montauk." A screening of shorts on Wednesday night that I was invited to gratis because I shared festival advice with one of the filmmakers. On Sunday, a tentative screening of "Weeki Wachee Girls" and a rough-cut screening of a friend's documentary that he's been working on for two years.

With two young children, I can't possibly pursue all of the networking opportunities or attend all of my friends' shows, but sometimes it feels impossible to attend even one. Every time I go out at night I hear the inevitable question "Why do you have to go?" And if I'm out more than usual, it's followed by "But you go out all the time. I never see you any more." And more often then not, I hear, "I need more Mommy time," which means alone time with that particular child. And usually, they are both saying it at the same time.

I try to reason with them. I try to explain that because I don't go to a job every day, they actually see me a lot more than other kids see their mommies. I'm the one that takes them to school, picks them up, makes sure homework is done, takes care of them when they're sick and most of the time, gets up in the middle of the night with them. It doesn't matter. It never seems to be enough. My sister, who has a 21-year-old son, tells me to appreciate it while it lasts. Before long, they won't want to be with me at all. And maybe she's right. Last week, my daughter's Friday After-School class was canceled, so I picked her up early to spend time with her while her brother was in his class. What did she want to do? Go to the park and play with her friends. Afterward, she and I came home together and played cards. It was lovely, stress-free and enjoyable for both of us. And those are the moments that make it hard to make the choice to go out. So I try to keep the going out to a minimum and carve out a little extra time for the kids when I do. And I try to remember that they won't be seven forever.