Spilled Milk

8 am~

I wake up to singing birds and glorious thoughts of book promotion. With a smile, I slowly rise from bed and stretch. Then I hear my two year old, in her sweet little voice say quietly, "Mommy!". It always starts slow, and cute. "Mommy! Mommy!" The sweet little sound becomes a loud ringing in my ears. My eight year old walks in casually amid the noise. "Hey Mom. Whatcha doin'?" The madness begins.
I change the baby, pop a waffle into the toaster for the eight year old, and give a hopeful glance toward the coffee pot, praying that my husband thoughtfully made the coffee. Nope.
I look at the clock. 8:20. I get the baby a bowl of cereal, and settle her into the highchair. If I'm lucky, I can get in a good ten minutes of writing. I settle with my coffee still brewing into the chair in front of my computer. Silence. Ten seconds go by.
Just as my fingers grace the keyboard, "Mom! Look what Emma did!"
I run to the highchair to find my daughter, spoon in hand, with the last of her cereal on her head, along with the bowl.
"Mommy look! Hat!"

In my head, I can hear the sound of a 2 a.m. writing session calling my name.