Novelist Carola Lovering on the car accident that made her rethink the motherhood/work/life juggle.
It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving, and I’m rushing out the door. I’ve signed up to volunteer at the church my family and I recently joined—selling wreath kits to parishioners—because I’m making an effort to do more of that. That being: volunteer, give back, get involved with the community.
I miss having the space that’s required to create something. I yearn for it; I’m homesick for that solitary, uninterrupted expanse. It’s a seven-minute drive. Seven whole minutes, just for me. Instinctively, I venture into the creative recesses of my mind. I think about the new book I’ve been working on. It’s my fourth novel, and it’s a mess. Lately I haven’t had enough time to think about this book, let alone write it, and I miss having the space that’s required to create something. I yearn for it; I’m homesick for that solitary, uninterrupted expanse.
My thoughts have shifted from writing, a stream of unconscious musings flood my mind.
I don’t remember much about the collision. The left side of my head strikes the window. The front of my leased Subaru flattens like an empty aluminum can. And then it’s over. , is my first thought, steam hissing from the crushed hood, tears dripping down my face like rain. A pedestrian has called the police. A car shows up; the cop climbs out, strides towards us. I fumble in my wallet for my license and insurance, hands shaking, mascara smeared. It’s barely 10 in the morning, but I realize I must look like I’ve been drinking, so I confess to the cop, too, that I’m newly pregnant. He glances at my steaming, leaking Subaru, sees the car seat through the back window, the Costco diapers in the trunk. He doesn’t question it. I blink.
“It’s a piece of crap,” she declares, her expression morphing from tender to indignant. “A tin can. Look at the bumper, it peeled right off.” “You don’t need to come here,” I say, when he finally phones back. “They say I can go soon. My mom can drop me off.”My husband and son arrive as I’m finishing up with the police. It’s late November and the baby’s feet are bare—not ideal. But I say nothing; I just wrap my arms around the two of them and weep. “I lost my mind today,” I whisper. “God, it could’ve been so much worse.” I close my eyes and try not to imagine how much worse.
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