Settling in with my evening pot of coffee(yes, a whole pot), I stare blankly at my half-finished manuscript, hoping to squeeze in a fresh page or two before the last of the day's chaos ensues. I've left my son reading peacefully in the living room, while my daughter has decided to "help" my husband give the dog a bath.
I figure I have at least half an hour before the nightly ritual of not-wanting-to-brush-the-teeth and "No! I will not go potty!" begins. I silently and hopefully stare at the flashing cursor before my eyes, praying that the words will come quickly.
Ten minutes in I'm typing away; the words flowing so fast that my fingers can barely keep up. I'm totally into the story; feeling the angst of my character as she struggles to hang on to her new-found love; sobbing with heartache as he leaves her with just a short letter of goodbye. Just as she dramatically throws herself to the floor, pitiful and overcome, I am bluntly forced back to reality by the sound of what can only be a wet dog sliding across the floor.
I run to the kitchen to find not only my wet beagle, but a dripping wet two-year-old in tow, yelling happily as she slips and slides right into the dog. Not far behind, is my clearly frustrated husband, with a towel. After promising not to let my daughter soak herself, he just looks at me and shrugs; angrily stuttering and beyond comprehension.
"She got into the bubble dumper!"
I had to laugh. Clearly, he wasn't aware that he didn't make sense, which angered him more.
"The what?" I racked my brain, trying to think of what he might be talking about. No clue.
"You know, the bubble dumper...I mean the bucket thing." Ah, the bucket thing. Because that made more sense.
My daughter returns, water dripping from her chubby face, holding her little pink bath bucket.
"See mommy? Bubble dumper," she laughs as she dumps the remaining water on the poor dog. Now my husband is laughing, as I just shake my head and look longingly at my manuscript from a distance, knowing that I will be drinking another pot of coffee when the kids go to bed.
I figure I have at least half an hour before the nightly ritual of not-wanting-to-brush-the-teeth and "No! I will not go potty!" begins. I silently and hopefully stare at the flashing cursor before my eyes, praying that the words will come quickly.
Ten minutes in I'm typing away; the words flowing so fast that my fingers can barely keep up. I'm totally into the story; feeling the angst of my character as she struggles to hang on to her new-found love; sobbing with heartache as he leaves her with just a short letter of goodbye. Just as she dramatically throws herself to the floor, pitiful and overcome, I am bluntly forced back to reality by the sound of what can only be a wet dog sliding across the floor.
I run to the kitchen to find not only my wet beagle, but a dripping wet two-year-old in tow, yelling happily as she slips and slides right into the dog. Not far behind, is my clearly frustrated husband, with a towel. After promising not to let my daughter soak herself, he just looks at me and shrugs; angrily stuttering and beyond comprehension.
"She got into the bubble dumper!"
I had to laugh. Clearly, he wasn't aware that he didn't make sense, which angered him more.
"The what?" I racked my brain, trying to think of what he might be talking about. No clue.
"You know, the bubble dumper...I mean the bucket thing." Ah, the bucket thing. Because that made more sense.
My daughter returns, water dripping from her chubby face, holding her little pink bath bucket.
"See mommy? Bubble dumper," she laughs as she dumps the remaining water on the poor dog. Now my husband is laughing, as I just shake my head and look longingly at my manuscript from a distance, knowing that I will be drinking another pot of coffee when the kids go to bed.
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