Stretch

I watch him stretch his little fingers, barely able to touch the object of his attention. With a surprising tenacity, he continues to try, going back, again and again, until he gets it. I think to myself, why don't I have that kind of attention, that kind of dedication to my writing?
He is an epic reminder to go into the world with my blinders down. To approach every situation with fascination.

And then he sits in front of me and grumps to screaming because I am sitting here writing and not giving him his toys. Sorry little guy, if I have to reach, so do you.

Does that make me a bad mom? A bad mom AND a bad writer? Or a bad mom and a lazy writer? Or a lazy mom and a currently uninspired writer? Or a boring mom and a writer needing to move from the darkened den and back to her office (which she now shares with the baby -- mom office/baby room -- city living people).

Okay, little guy, your sad song is being heard. Time for a change in diaper and perhaps a nap... a nap for us both. Maybe then, we'll both have the sunshine we need to face the rest of the day.