If we were having coffee right now, I would sit across my desk and watch you sip a stout cup of dark roast with the envy of an underage drinker, while I gulp down my watered down version of Dunkin Donuts decaf before a new bout of crying starts.
Instead, my four-year old sits across from me fully charged. Not from a cup of Newman’s Own mind you, but a good night’s rest. While I stare at a blank screen and contemplate writing something, anything, even if it is just one sentence, he keeps my company. It has been months since I’ve written. I’ve been a little busy creating a new life.
With the baby snuggled and swaddled for a morning nap in his crib, the low static of the baby monitor hums a quiet chorus between us. The four-year old makes up for the peace by offering a constant discourse in “bad guys” and “good guys”. Every gel pen within reach becomes a projectile missile.
The chatter, while maddening, does a sufficient job of distraction. I have yet to write one new word. Power Rangers, samurai, robot defenders and washable Crayola markers litter my desk where the pages of my novel should sit.
How about another cup?