I'm still working on my novel, over six months in, and it's tough.
On an average day now, during the summer holidays, I get up at eight, play with Michael a bit, try to make some time for him, try to stop him going off the rails. Spending time with him usually involves driving a train around an improvised track, and making bridges, big, big, big bridges, with Lego bricks. If he is playing well by himself, then I might make an attempt at the kitchen, clearing the clutter from the previous night and having a go at the floor.

At some point between nine and nine thirty, there is a cry and that's Melissa waking up. She usually smiles and coos when she sees me; her perfect mood spoilt only if I take my time in picking her up. And then, there's well, about ten hours of childcare ahead of me, and filling them my constant challenge. Sometimes we attempt extremely ambitious stuff, like a trip to the beach, and end up with a baby covered in sand and weed and a sun umbrella that blows away, because damn it, my husband always does this kind of thing and I have no idea how to. Other days we stick to the park and the film 'Cars' and the train track. Safe things are good. In the middle of it somehow we have to fit making lunch, having lunch, and tidying up afterwards. It usually works out one way or the other.

At six o'clock, my husband makes it home. By this point I have spent two hours willing the time to go faster, waiting, waiting, for him. Maybe he can do a nappy change or something, or take the children out for a while so I can lie on the sofa or raid the fridge, if it's been a really bad day. Then there's the dinner function, and once again I'm the star of the show. Laurie's not into cooking. And after dinner there's a quick round to the park, and then bath time, and then book time, and then some talking about how we need to stay in bed, and by about ten o'clock, after a little more cleaning, then it is finally time for writing.

I dream of a life where writing is a priority. Where I get up and writing is the first thing on the menu, right after breakfast, of course, and the house is peaceful and there's no noise and no one to disturb my train of thought. I dream of going up to get coffee, knowing I will have time to drink it, and of re-reading my first drafts and not feeling like I shouldn't, because I'm wasting time I might then not have for writing proper. I dream of a life where writing is my job, and is respected as such, and where I can give it the serious investment of time that it deserves.

Still, I'm writing something. A trickle of writing rather than a water fall, but something. And I wouldn't trade in my children for anything at all, not money, not literary success, nothing. Even as it's hard they have to be my first priority, and they are, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I know I will always be able to go back to my writing. But my children, now, here's a true time sensitive issue.