So… I have 6 year old twins. I think I’ve mentioned that.
The horror known as summer break has descended upon me. I’ve contracted a 13 year old to help twice a week with child herding as we attempt wild and crazy places like the natural history museum, the aquarium, roller skating, the park,
the looney bin to visit Mommy between the hours of 10-2, and such places.
Writing, if any occurs, will be minimal, at best. And that slow erosion of my personal goals/time began several months back.
Daddy began selling the idea that Mommy is an Author. Not “is in training to be an author,” not “trying to be an author,” not “working towards a goal of author-like things,” no. He’s been selling it to the kids that Mommy’s job is to write stories and one day publish them. “Mommy is an Author.”
I love him for that. I do. But it has raised a few unforeseen problems. Constant. Non-stop. Interruptive. Inquisitive. Problems.
“Mommy, are you done writing your story, yet?”
“Mommy, why aren’t you finished writing your story yet?”
Mommy writes really, really long stories.
“Mommy, will you read me your story?”
Not just no, but hell no. No.
Sex. Violence. Bad people. Adult jokes. Adult perspectives. Sexist attitudes. It’s a story only Mommies and Daddies would understand, honey.
“Mommy, I want to write a story.”
“Right now. I need your help.”
*sigh* What do you want?
“Once upon a time there was the Cat in the Hat who met the Joker and Batman had to save the day. The End.”
That’s a great story, honey.
“I want you to write it down.”
How about you write it down? It’s your story and school is teaching you how to read and write. You should write it so you can be an author, too.
“Okay!” *** “Mommy?”
*cringe* Yes, baby?
“How do you spell ‘Once’?”
This is going to be a long summer.