Writing a novel while raising small children is like trying to run a marathon uphill, through the mud, barefoot. At least it is for me.

Then again, I’m not supermom. I’m not the woman who exudes effortlessness with her perfectly applied makeup, homemade organic cranberry muffins in her purse, and children who look like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad.

I’m the mom who calls it a win when she takes a shower. Or when her kid manages to make it to lunchtime without snot in his hair and applesauce on his shirt. So perhaps for those supermoms out there, writing a novel is no big deal—just one more endeavor to squeeze between work obligations, PTA meetings, and Pilates.

But for the rest of us mortals, how in the world do we manage it? We become multitasking ninjas.

We story plan while we cook dinner, shower, or run errands. Basically any time less than 100% of our attention is required, we’re plotting. Imagining our characters, playing out story ideas like movie reels in our heads.

Daniel Tiger time becomes copy edit or research time. But with an ear to the TV so when the show’s over, or our kid loses interest, we can talk about the episode and maybe sing a song.

We get up extra early or stay up late to squeeze in an hour or two of actual writing. And when it’s time to write, there’s no easing into our projects; no dawdling for 45 minutes before we type anything new. It’s off to the races. We capitalize on each precious minute we have to write because there tends to be so few of them in a day.

Our lives are stripped to the barest essentials; frivolity goes out the window. Monthly pedicures become yearly pedicures. Must-watch TV becomes maybe-watch-next-month/never TV. No more casual hobbies (farewell, half-knitted scarf). Life is family, work, writing. Friends on the weekends. Reading the occasional book. Enough sleep to function, but rarely as much as we’d like.

Some days I want to quit. My life would certainly be easier if I gave up writing, but I won’t. Why? Because I’m not just writing for myself and my own goals and dreams, but for my son.

I imagine him witnessing the milestone moments in my writing career as he grows up—the day I land an agent, sell a book, hold my very first, or tenth, published novel in my hands—and I hope with all my heart that he internalizes my struggles and my joy.

Because there will come a time in his life when he wants to quit: to throw in the towel because something is too hard. When that day comes, I want him to remember the hours his mother spent relentlessly pursuing a goal and her immeasurable satisfaction at achieving it. I model the tenacity and passion I want for him.

Success isn’t earned any other way, after all.

So I keep going. I write in spite of the challenges of motherhood and I write because of them. I’m a writer, but I’m a mom first.

I’m a writer mom.