I had a friend, a new mom, who ached for another child before her newborn had learned to roll-over. When she shared this desire, I listened, curiously nodding my head and masking the fact that I had no frame of reference for that kind of yearning. I spaced out my children by nearly four years, partly for medical reasons and partly because I preferred not to have two kids in diapers simultaneously. It was all I could handle as a working mother. Only one poop-machine at a time, thank you. ;) But now, as I read COMMITTED by Elizabeth Gilbert, the non-fiction compilation of her global research on the nature, history, and cultural variations on marriage, I can finally understand my friend's craving.
I've birthed a hefty 62,000 word memoir, A KISS WITHOUT A MUSTACHE, and in the editing process, I'm swiping clean the bits of placenta and birth gunk. It needs to be fed strong verbs and burped the excess. It needs an agent, publisher, and an audience, for goodness sake, yet my conscious is sneaking off to jot notes about my second book--the memoir of being in a polygamous marriage with my husband and his depression. I may have to divide my attentions a little bit. And (side note) this is, I believe, the only acceptable version of twins I could manage.