When the Writing Distractions Are Funny Not Funny
I was supposed to be writing, but everything else happened.
Sunday mornings. The day that I am supposed to have to myself. Husband gets up with the kids, gets them breakfast. I shower, grab my coffee, and head out to my writing desk in the sunroom. If I am lucky, I might have two or three hours to myself. Yet I cannot escape the house around me, and sometimes I just have to shrug my shoulders and laugh because, well, I tried.
There is a sliding glass door between the living room and sunroom, so the baby can see me. She crawled over and pounded her hand on the glass, in an attempt to get my attention. I tried to ignore her. She hoisted herself up on her knees in a more fervent attempt, then fell over and clonked her head on the glass door. Began bawling.
Even though I always tell everyone to “pretend I’m not here” I still commanded the two older kids to go downstairs and get dressed. The six-year-old appeared at my side wearing a white button-down shirt he calls his “lab coat” because I am apparently the only person in the house who knows how to button and he needs help.
Minutes later, I hear someone screaming bloody murder from the basement playroom. Not murder. Just the same six-year-old wanting the lab coat to be REMOVED but won’t let his dad…
