I have been sitting here, for what seems like days, staring at a blank screen, much like I picture writers-of-old sitting, staring blankly at the crisp, white paper wound around the typewriter roller, waiting.
Waiting for the ideas to flow, magically making their way out the fingertips, words fluttering gracefully across the
page screen, in anticipation of being read.
Because as if that ever happens.
Because Mommy! Mommm! Mommmmmmm!
Mommy, what are you dooooing? Can I sit on your lap? I’m huuuungry. Can I have a snack? Can I go outside? Can I come inside?
During the course of a day it seems I have no less than a dozen touching, funny, annoying, inspiring, dysfunctional ideas about which to write. I do, after all, have four kids. And it’s summer vacation. And, well, Lord help me.
Stop jumping on your brother’s head or else!
No, you can’t watch TV! (Because I’m not going to be that mom.) Find something constructive to do! That’s right. Constructive.
And forget working outside on the patio because, naturally, it’s fourthousanddegrees and whocanworkinthisbloodyheat?!
And because, these days, unless it’s covered in sunscreen or drippy popsicles, sidewalk chalk or sweaty, sticky kisses, it’s just not on the schedule.
Nope, these days it’s about growing strawberries on the windowsill and rescuing injured butterflies. It’s reading the Hardy Boys under the shade of a tree and learning to ride a bike on two wheels for the first time. Shooting hoops and swinging hula hoops and skipping rope. And drawing the solar system in chalk in the driveway.
So I’m still waiting.
But I’m smiling. And laughing. And playing.
Pass the popsicles.