Inspiration Vacation

Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.

                                                        ~ Pablo Picasso

Pablo frowned on me as I fell asleep on the couch beside my daughter watching Nick Jr. Strains of the Bubble Guppies floated in and out of my consciousness as I fought to open my eyes. It was not a restful sleep.

I’d already tended to the water needs of my newly transplanted shrubs and vegetable garden. We’d seen her two elder sisters off to the bus stop. I’d ordered groceries online. I’d done stuff. But I hadn’t made my cup of tea and parked my keister at the writing table.

Which makes me nervous for this summer.

Right now it’s only one kid; in a week and a half, it will be three.

How do I write when they’re all here? Or to distill it even further – how do I keep them busy to buy myself writing time?

Don’t want to plop them in front of TV – because I still have that whole ‘rotting their brains’ hang-up and they’ll most likely pinch and poke each other while they watch and I don’t want Donald and Daisy counting their Toodles options as a running soundtrack to my work.

I’d rather have them invested in a somewhat productive, independent venture – but what would that be? Or to distill it even further – what would actually stick and buy me a solid chunk of uninterrupted time?

Writer moms and dads – preach! Please!

I have a feeling it will take a little bit of neglect, ignoring, and nasty sugar-laden treats. Or a trip to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Only hot, sticky summer days will tell.

What I’ve Learned in a Week

The selection of cheese at Wal-Mart is appalling. images-2

Wal-Mart has apparently been accepted into more than just our vernacular as spell check just corrected me with hyphen placement.

We look like tyrannosaurus rex when we walk along the road texting with our little tiny arms.

My nearly four year-old is a yes-woman, flashing her smile at all the right times to attempt an early release from time-out.

My six year-old is perfecting well-aimed barbs in an attempt to make the world run her way.

My eight year-old is stuck between an attitudinous pre-teen limbo and a cuddly, sweet girl.

I’m taking the life of my already tenuous midsection into my own hands when I dare lie in savasana with a three year-old lurking.images-1

Namaste is not in a three, six, or eight year-olds vocabulary – at least not in its proper use.

It is near impossible to find board shorts with an inner liner.

Aloe is a wonder ‘drug’.

Fall is coming.  I can feel it in my bare shoulder peeking out from under the quilt in the morning.

You can still go to the playground in the rain if you stay under the trees or in the big wooden ark.

Whole-wheat o’s covered in honey are like crack to the playground set.

The amount of times I’ve been told to ‘not get old’, apparently it’s not advised.

Even if a story is wholly written in your head, it’s still not easy to get it down on paper.

Those plants with the pointy seedpods in my garden are butterfly weed. images

Firefly larva eat slugs, hunting them by their slime trail.

Even though I hate slugs, I still find that fact revolting.

A week, while packed with infinite moments, goes by in an infinitesimal flash.

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