Last night our houseguest (College student living with us for the semester) announced that she could entertain the 4yo this morning and afternoon.
Huzzah! Writing Time!
Right?
Well… this is what it’s looked like so far.
Both the 4yo and I slept in a little. That was nice. Then I dressed her and sent her downstairs to play with Ichy, our houseguest.
I got in the shower, only interrupted a couple of times by a 4yo bouncing between Mommy and Ichy.
I looked at the computer in the workroom… all set up and ready for me. I’ve moved my WIP to Dropbox, so that I can log in anywhere and work. I don’t have to be on my laptop. I considered sitting down and diving in, before even getting dressed, but I realized that besides the simple fact that I was hungry, I have medicine I’m supposed to take in the morning, and I need to take it with food.
I did have the foresight to hide some puffcorn upstairs last night. And our tap water is quite good. But I wanted more…
Dare I risk going downstairs?
I decided to risk it. OK, yes, the cats demanded breakfast. Fine. That takes about three minutes. No big deal. I found some leftovers that were easy to reheat… a simple brunch.
Then the dog needed to go out. Only a few seconds of time, but the back door is by Ichy’s room, so my 4yo needed to show me the game they’re playing. Oh… and she wanted chicken nuggets.
Well, since she’s supposedly hanging with Ichy, I asked whether I should heat up some nuggets or if Ichy would. Her answer? She didn’t think the 4yo was hungry…
All right. I’ll fix something. The 4yo may not be saying “I’m hungry,” but she hasn’t eaten since last night. (Ichy’s not exactly a childcare expert… she’s great fun to hang out with, and generally very responsible, but some nuances are beyond her.) We’re out of chicken nuggets, so I fix a peanut butter sandwich for the 4yo. I also fix myself some toast to take with my medicine, since the leftovers from the microwave are still too hot to eat, and I really want to get upstairs before something else comes up.
Too late.
Ichy and my 4yo appear in the kitchen (It’s a large space, and connects the front rooms to the back rooms.) Ichy needs to do laundry, and she’s not sure what to do with the clothes that are currently in the washer or dryer. Fine; I’ll go downstairs and take care of it.
What awaits me in the laundry room reeks of teenage laziness, sprinkled with the cluelessness of a 13yo with special needs. The white clothes from the dryer are piled on top of the washing machine. Apparently Ichy did that since my 13yo left one or two little things in every basket in the room. I spend some time figuring out just what these items (all dirty) are, and put them where they should go, waiting their turn to be washed. I put the dry whites in a basket. I move the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, taking care to remove my husband’s shirts, since they are not allowed to go in the dryer.
I carry the whites up to the kitchen, with the two wet shirts, leaving Ichy in the laundry room. I manage to take a few bites of my now cold toast, and I take my medicine. My 4yo decides she wants to eat what I’m eating, so I get out a small bowl and scoop some into it for her, to go with her peanut butter sandwich. Ichy comes back upstairs, and I manage to see them both settled in her room.
I take the basket of laundry upstairs, and take a few minutes to hang up my husband’s shirts. It’s a pain, but if they accidentally get in the dryer, they’ll shrink so they won’t cover his stomach.
Back downstairs again, I eat some more cold toast, and decide it’s not worth re-re-heating the leftovers. They’re still lukewarm. Good enough. I take the food and a large glass of water up to the workroom, where I’m less likely to be interrupted than if I attempt to sit in the living room with my laptop.
Finally, I sit down. I actually eat something, and begin writing. OK, it’s just a blog post, but at least it’s words on vaper. (Yes. “Vaper.” I’m officially coining the word now, to mean “virtual paper.”)
The phone rings. It’s my 13yo’s school, so I can’t ignore it. The joys of parenting a child with special needs. “Your daughter said ____ is happening tomorrow. Is it?”
Huh? “No… where the hell did that come from?” Yes. I said “hell” to my daughter’s school.
We discuss where she might have got this latest wild idea. About half the time, we can find some grain of truth that got twisted and stretched beyond recognition. The other half of the time we remain clueless, even after thoroughly discussing and investigating with the entire team, or “village” as I like to call them.
OK, so now not only have precious minutes been taken away from my writing time, but my brain has been derailed. As I set down the phone, I realize that there is voicemail. Of course, I am the only one in the house who ever checks it or erases it, no matter how many times I ask my husband to do so. What’s a few more minutes out of my writing time? Fortunately, the two messages are deletable, and I turn back to my blog post.
Almost a thousand words? Well then, that’s something. It’s not #1k1hr, it’s not progress in my WIP, but it’s real, and it’s there. And it’s… only about two and half hours since I got out of the shower.
It’s not much, but it’s progress.
I’ll take it.
The shortlink for this post is http://wp.me/p1qnT4-Vo
Stay tuned for my updated #ROW80 goals
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AmyBeth Inverness 
Writing Time
Huzzah! Writing Time!
Right?
Well… this is what it’s looked like so far.
Both the 4yo and I slept in a little. That was nice. Then I dressed her and sent her downstairs to play with Ichy, our houseguest.
I got in the shower, only interrupted a couple of times by a 4yo bouncing between Mommy and Ichy.
I looked at the computer in the workroom… all set up and ready for me. I’ve moved my WIP to Dropbox, so that I can log in anywhere and work. I don’t have to be on my laptop. I considered sitting down and diving in, before even getting dressed, but I realized that besides the simple fact that I was hungry, I have medicine I’m supposed to take in the morning, and I need to take it with food.
I did have the foresight to hide some puffcorn upstairs last night. And our tap water is quite good. But I wanted more…
Dare I risk going downstairs?
I decided to risk it. OK, yes, the cats demanded breakfast. Fine. That takes about three minutes. No big deal. I found some leftovers that were easy to reheat… a simple brunch.
Then the dog needed to go out. Only a few seconds of time, but the back door is by Ichy’s room, so my 4yo needed to show me the game they’re playing. Oh… and she wanted chicken nuggets.
Well, since she’s supposedly hanging with Ichy, I asked whether I should heat up some nuggets or if Ichy would. Her answer? She didn’t think the 4yo was hungry…
All right. I’ll fix something. The 4yo may not be saying “I’m hungry,” but she hasn’t eaten since last night. (Ichy’s not exactly a childcare expert… she’s great fun to hang out with, and generally very responsible, but some nuances are beyond her.) We’re out of chicken nuggets, so I fix a peanut butter sandwich for the 4yo. I also fix myself some toast to take with my medicine, since the leftovers from the microwave are still too hot to eat, and I really want to get upstairs before something else comes up.
Too late.
Ichy and my 4yo appear in the kitchen (It’s a large space, and connects the front rooms to the back rooms.) Ichy needs to do laundry, and she’s not sure what to do with the clothes that are currently in the washer or dryer. Fine; I’ll go downstairs and take care of it.
What awaits me in the laundry room reeks of teenage laziness, sprinkled with the cluelessness of a 13yo with special needs. The white clothes from the dryer are piled on top of the washing machine. Apparently Ichy did that since my 13yo left one or two little things in every basket in the room. I spend some time figuring out just what these items (all dirty) are, and put them where they should go, waiting their turn to be washed. I put the dry whites in a basket. I move the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, taking care to remove my husband’s shirts, since they are not allowed to go in the dryer.
I carry the whites up to the kitchen, with the two wet shirts, leaving Ichy in the laundry room. I manage to take a few bites of my now cold toast, and I take my medicine. My 4yo decides she wants to eat what I’m eating, so I get out a small bowl and scoop some into it for her, to go with her peanut butter sandwich. Ichy comes back upstairs, and I manage to see them both settled in her room.
I take the basket of laundry upstairs, and take a few minutes to hang up my husband’s shirts. It’s a pain, but if they accidentally get in the dryer, they’ll shrink so they won’t cover his stomach.
Back downstairs again, I eat some more cold toast, and decide it’s not worth re-re-heating the leftovers. They’re still lukewarm. Good enough. I take the food and a large glass of water up to the workroom, where I’m less likely to be interrupted than if I attempt to sit in the living room with my laptop.
Finally, I sit down. I actually eat something, and begin writing. OK, it’s just a blog post, but at least it’s words on vaper. (Yes. “Vaper.” I’m officially coining the word now, to mean “virtual paper.”)
The phone rings. It’s my 13yo’s school, so I can’t ignore it. The joys of parenting a child with special needs. “Your daughter said ____ is happening tomorrow. Is it?”
Huh? “No… where the hell did that come from?” Yes. I said “hell” to my daughter’s school.
We discuss where she might have got this latest wild idea. About half the time, we can find some grain of truth that got twisted and stretched beyond recognition. The other half of the time we remain clueless, even after thoroughly discussing and investigating with the entire team, or “village” as I like to call them.
OK, so now not only have precious minutes been taken away from my writing time, but my brain has been derailed. As I set down the phone, I realize that there is voicemail. Of course, I am the only one in the house who ever checks it or erases it, no matter how many times I ask my husband to do so. What’s a few more minutes out of my writing time? Fortunately, the two messages are deletable, and I turn back to my blog post.
Almost a thousand words? Well then, that’s something. It’s not #1k1hr, it’s not progress in my WIP, but it’s real, and it’s there. And it’s… only about two and half hours since I got out of the shower.
It’s not much, but it’s progress.
I’ll take it.
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About AmyBeth Inverness
A writer by birth, a redhead by choice.