A lie that played in my head since I learned that I was pregnant: there will be no more time to make art. Ever again.
So from Week 13 to 20 of my daughter’s life I painted everyday: while she was napping in a wrap across my chest, after she had gone to sleep for the night, while my partner was watching her, while she was playing on the floor next to me, and once or twice even while breastfeeding. I assembled the necessary tools in a box lid to pull down at a moment’s notice: paper cut into 3 inch squares, a portable tray of watercolors, a pill organizer filled with water to use a different color every day without changing it. I found myself finding more and more pockets of time hidden throughout the day, interrupted but full of purpose.