It's a writing morning this morning and I'm not writing because there was a sewage leak at my son's school and it's closed for the day. It is a beautiful day, at least, but I'm trying to write and edit anyway and he has a cough. He doesn't seem to know how to cough his cough UP, he just performs a half-cough that rolls the phlegm around in his throat and then does it again and again and I patiently explain that he has to cough harder and spit the stuff out and so he does, but he spits it onto his SHIRT instead of into, say, the toilet or a tissue.
I didn't know I had to explain THAT.
At least it's a beautiful day.
Every time I start to type, something happens. A minute ago, it was a bear. A big one. In the kitchen. There is screaming. A BEAR! A BEAR! I should probably go and kill the bear, but as soon as I stand up, the bear is gone. Luckily.
Now he is running around the house holding the phone and whispering (but not dialling) "9-1-1, 9-1-1". Then he's coughing, his little half cough and I say, sharply, "COUGH IT UP!" and then I feel bad for being so annoyed about the cough.
I write half a sentence and spread myself too thin and it's not even a good sentence and so I stop and build a truck out of Lego. I want to pay attention to you, kid, I DO, but I have work to do and work to do and work to do and I'm trying to think and I'll be right there in just one... more... minute.
It's a beautiful day outside. I am closing my computer and the work isn't done but that is what coffee is for and late nights and sleep is overrated.
Tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett would say. But then again, why would I take advice from her? She had appalling taste in men and pretty poor judgement all around.