by Harold McMillan

As for me and how I generally fit into this issue, I got problems with writing fiction and poetry for the (small) masses to read. Yeah, I write the stuff, but it takes guts to do that, sign your name to it, and expect a lot of strangers to read your guts. And understand it, and like it? I'm a wuss. Can't do it. Admire those who can. And wonder what it is about them that makes them able to do that.

There was a time when I thought I had the gift. I thought I had stories to tell. I made notes. I hung on my every word. Thought that my creative (read: cra-tiv) juices were really flowing and I simply had to sit down and open the flood gates to my generous and ample waters of insight, wisdom and candor. After all, I'm a son of the rich cultural deposits, splendiferous gems of homespun Northeast Texas real folklife that crystallize and evoke awe for the sparkle of truth and humanity found in our down-home, quaint tales. I thought I had it. I was just logging my ideas and notes until I had the time to devote to "writing." You know, screen plays, novels, narration for cultural history documentary. I was just waiting for the right time.

Then I became a parent. Then Hayes came along. Then I had a little boychild. Then I changed my name to daddy. I got cooler, then I changed my name to dad.

OK. Time for a show of hands out there. You're sitting in Little City reading this. I'm the guy in the back section, with the two and a half year old kid. Go ahead, look. We're in the back. He's really cute. Got a crocheted skull cap on, multicolored (the hat and him). Hyper. He's talking -- to all of the other people in the section -- about the difference between a viola and a violin. He knows the difference. Nobody else here, but me, knows the difference. And he is right, again.

That issue handled in his usual "damn right, I'm right" manner, he moves on to query the assembled coffee drinkers: "who knows the difference between a tractor, a bulldozer, a front-end loader, a back-hoe, and -- get this -- a tractor with a combination front-end loader/back-hoe rig attached? Yeah, the three foot tall cute one. That's him, that's us.

Now that you see us. Gimme a show of hands: How many of you parents, folks who always felt that you had all of this cra-tiv juice, how many of you parents feel like you somehow lost your connection to your muse once the kiddie came along? Used to sketch out movies in your head. Kid came along, and poof...gone. Used to outline novels in your sleep. Kid came along...poof, gone. Used to want to learn new music. Kid came along...poof, gone.

I need a show of hands because, I'm serious, I think I've got a new theory for behavioral science. I think I've learned something from my boy, Hayes. And I need some confirmation from other parents, especially cra-tiv leaning parents. I think our little lovable rug rats suck our creative energy right out of our souls. That's my new theory. Maybe it ain't new. I just need to know what you guys think.

So, now, if you're sitting in Little City with me, raise your hands if you feel like all, most, or a significant some of your cra-tiv energy juice has somehow escaped you, but seems to be coming out all over the place through your kid. Am I alone in this?

I can't seem to come up with that piece of music that for years I heard in m head, but my kid, at 22 months, could name 16 orchestra instruments by sight and knew all of the words (and sang them, thank you) to "Summer Time," "Moon River," and could identify Etta James' version of "You've Changed." I can't remember the cord progression to the ditty I wrote last week. I only take gigs now that allow me to make up my lines. My kid hears music on the radio, identifies the instrumentation, and tells me it's a blues that sounds like Joe and Margaret Wright. It was B.B. King. Joe loves to sing B.B. King tunes. What up with that? I can't conjure a new tune, but my boy is scat singing along with Nicholas Peyton and Christian McBride, doing a cool counter to the melody that Nick is screaming out of his trumpet, Hayes syncopating his patting littleboy foot all the while.

Those of you who know Hayes, know I'm just reporting the news. Others will doubt. But those, and you guys are the ones I'm really trying to talk to here, who fancy yourselves as cra-tiv and have bright kids, probably have a clue of what I'm talking about here. I can't clear my head to create for love or money. I struggle with tasks that once were easy. I am tired all of the time. I feel that my creative juice is just being sucked right out of my heart and head, have no energy for it. It is my son, however, that seems to be the repository for everything that I can't seem to hang on to for myself.

Am I alone in feeling this? Can I get an amen out there somewhere?

Has/have your kid(s) zapped access to your muse and hoarded it for themselves? Is there a way to get it back? I have to ask these questions because some of you know what I'm talking about, have experience that I don't have yet. I just got started, once I turned 40. I'm new at this parent thing. Will I ever be able to write that opus, that novel, make that movie? Or will I just have to ask Hayes to do it for me?

Oh, by the way, he's about finished with his second (since Christmas) Kodak one-use camera. That's 52 color exposures. Last night we were at La Dolce Vida talking to some other folks about our recent artistic output.

Hayes looked up from his steamed milk, swallowed his last bit of biscotti, and said, with much conviction and forethought, "you know dad, although I realize I've not worked in color for an extended period of time, considering the limitations of my age and all, I really feel like my muse, my vision would be better served if I move on to black and white now. The inconsistencies found in commercial color processing just don't deliver what I see in the viewfinder. I'd rather just allow the composition to speak for itself, without taking the risk of allowing someone else to soup and contact the images I've burned. I need to print my own! You know what I mean?"

The waitress was right next to the table at the time. I shook my head, took a deep breath, ordered another steamed milk and biscotti for Hayes, a Jameson and coffee for myself. In a silent "damn" to myself I thought , "yeah, he's Grace's son, too."

"It is time for black and white. Yeah son, I do know what you mean."