That's the Writer

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 13^th 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.