My hero(ine)
Araceli is away for a long weekend visiting her newborn niece. I’m in charge of the three amigos, one of whom has pinkeye and a cough. All I can say is, “Mommies—no substituteskys.”
In addition to growing in my admiration for the heroine I married, I’ve had a moment or two of spare time (punctuated by the flush of a toilet) to think about another amazing person, Antonín Dvořák. I thought of Dvořák because, whereas I made an attempt at songwriting (such as it is) today despite my feeling like Michael Keaton’s character in Mr Mom, Dvořák managed to compose some of the world’s most beloved and admired music in similar or even more distracting circumstances.
Patrick Kavanaugh writes the following about Dvořák in The Spiritual Lives of Great Composers:
In no way did he fit the stereotype of the eccentric composer. He cherished his wife and many children and savored their company even as he composed. Instead of retreating to the solitude of a private study, Dvorak [sic] often worked at the kitchen table. Surrounded by the aroma of bread baking in the oven and the din of children chasing noisily through the house, Dvorak did some of his best composing.
A revealing picture of Dvorak’s home life is given by a student who recalled, “His children were permitted to invade his studio at all times, even while the composer was at serious work. My daily lessons were usually taken with the accompaniment of grimacing boys and girls hidden behind articles of furniture, or appearing at unexpected moments in doorways out of their father’s sight.”
I’m in awe of people like this. 
