Sunday, January 10, 2010
Full Court Press
Tell the truth, friends.
Who sent the mass summons out that I might receive FOUR messages from friends in the past week that they miss the contemplative chaplain's musings? Who masterminded the plot? Who decided to try to lure me out of my safe cave of writer's block by leaving a trail of baked doritos and dangling a bottle of chardonay?
However it occurred, whether through community organizing or the random hand of God using Her messengers to send a pointed sign, it's allowed me to emerge from the cocoon of parental ennui enough to pen a few sentences.
So, thank you, thank you. It feels good to be missed.
In the time that it took to write this entry, however, I frustratingly must note that I have been interrupted no fewer than eight times from a wee chocolate-faced interloper who pleads, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (long whiney noise) I just need my Caillou [his favorite PBS show...which was already on]." And then, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, (uses toddler headbutt for emphatic punctuation squarely into parent's solar plexus) I just need some apple juice." And not long after, "Mommy, mommy, mommy (throws self on floor for maximum dramatic effort) Where is my Mo-Mo [the cat]?"
Bloggage will come. You have been fairly warned. But it will have to come after the offspring's bedtime. Toddlers simply don't understand the creative muse.