Toast

I am hovering just below the halfway mark on my writing project. After today, the number of words left to do will be less than the number of words already done. Last night, I hung out for a few minutes chatting with a couple of women in my writing class. I came home feeling excited, completely immersed in the whole experience, writing, talking to other new writers, thinking about my short story for class, thinking about the novel project.

I got home, it was late, around 11 PM, to find that Little Guy was wide awake. This is a rare occurrence, in fact, I can't think of the last time it happened. He's starting to sleep without diapers, the final stage of the whole potty training saga, and he'd had an accident. I paid the sitter, and then changed sheets, changed him, found him a dry pillow (no idea why that was wet too), and then shuffled myself off to bed much later than I'd hoped. Too late, in fact, to get up as early as I needed to today. So I am behind on the writing goal.

Being a parent means buttering the perfect slice of toast for yourself and then handing it to your child who has just informed you that he or she is, after consuming a huge breakfast, still hungry. I get that. I can't expect to come home and bask in the glory of the writing thing every time. I have small children, little human beings who have accidents and nightmares and fevers.

So, as is often the case, I'm still a little hungry. I want this writing thing to work for me. Today I'll have to pop another slice in the toaster (or another video in the DVD player), and just keep trying.