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The Story of a Half an Hour

A few days ago we reached a new low in our parenting lives.  Or not.

Thing2, my first grader, is my social butterfly and my superhero.  He is a flitter and a flyer, particularly during homework time.  So on Thursday, after ordering him back to his chair for the thirtieth time, the Big Guy got a seat belt, plopped our wriggling six-year-old into his booster seat (which he doesn’t really need anymore), and looped the belt through the strap holes on the plastic seat.

The homework got finished in fifteen minutes.

I never thought I’d be belting my kid into a chair over a non-safety related issue.  But as I finally sat down to write at 5:26 AM (26 minutes late) this morning, I had to admit at least a little of Thing2’s fear of sitting was inherited.

I did get up at the appointed hour this morning, and, in my mental rule book, I had placed writing above everything except getting dressed (we’ll see what happens in the summer if the next diet resolution holds into spring).  Today I was even more efficient and decided my nightgown was fashionable enough for the back room.  But as I walked out toward the study and into the kitchen for a shot of caffeine, I had no idea what I was going to write.

So I stirred the coals in the wood stove.   They were nearly gone, and I decided a quick trip to the wood pile for a handful of kindling wouldn’t really cut into to my time too much, and I got my shawl and shoes and went out for a minute.  The cats greeted me, demanding a minute of head-scratching, and I obliged until the draft in my nightgown reminded me that my desk area was much warmer.  I got back to the kitchen at 5:08 and loaded up the stove, still wondering what I was going to write.

Thankfully, at 5:11 Nature called, and by 5:15 I was headed back to the kitchen for my caffeine.  The fire wasn’t catching, but as I bent down in front of the stove to play with it, I suddenly heard the Big Guy moving around down the hall in the bedroom.  I knew I had to appear productive so, instead of trying to start a fire that would heat the study by 7AM (when chef and chauffeuring duties call), I decided to pull on some warmer clothes.

At 5:24, I headed to the fridge again for my first infusion of caffeine.  I went back down the hall to my desk, shut the door to the study, still wondering what to write – let alone draw.  The light of my swing arm lamp illuminated the thermostat (70 degrees) just enough to let me know my fruitless quest for fire had been completely unnecessary.  But at 5:26 AM, as I was sitting down, I started to wonder if Thing2’s seatbelt would fit me.  And, suddenly, before the laptop screen had even lit up, I knew what to write.