Hiding from my muse

I want to write about your birth, but that also means writing about your death. I haven’t been able to talk about those last precious moments with you. Only to your daddy and your grandmas. And even then, only a little, always with careful euphemism. I’ve sat down here just so I can write about that day, and I find I’m surfing to other websites, looking out the window, suddenly becoming absorbed in what’s on TV...anything but just write. Why would I want to write about this when I so obviously don’t?