The coolest thing happened to me this week:
I had sneaked off to the office to steal 10 minutes to write while the girls hosted their 13th Barbie wedding for the day. Not having any formal ninja training, my attempts to slip away are usually quickly thwarted. I heard the wedding break up (something Ken said wrong, apparently) and little voices checking the bathroom for mommy (I hide there a lot.)
Four feet pitter-pattered up the steps, and I was found before my chair was even dented.
But they decided to play together in the office, so I kept working. They were playing "see who can scream the loudest." I'm not sure who was winning, but I know I was losing. Once that game was complete (thankfully prior to my stabbing myself with a #2 pencil,) they moved into a pretend game. One was the mommy, and one was the baby.
|(paper image by Billy Alexander via sxc.hu)|
At one point, the baby turned to me and asked "Mommy, can I have more milk in my bottle?" To which the other mommy said, "Sweetie pie, that's not the Mommy. That's the writer."
That's the writer.
My heart melted. My shoulders rose. I let the words bounce happily in my head. That's the writer. I was so pleased, I nearly turned into the Tickle Monster. But I stopped myself. If I was playing the writer, I was sure going to put my best into the role.
So I kept tapping away at the keyboard, rustling papers, and saying "what's the right word for..." I performed magnificently, if I do say so myself, with the exception of a smile which was slightly too big.
I was the writer.