I suppose it was always building to this. Ever since I was 12 and scribbling bad poetry about the "wind of longing" in my My Little Pony notebook, I was dreaming of being a "real" writer. An actual author. Legit and official, with a book deal to prove it. Well, I still don't have a book deal, but the dream continues and has entered the next stage of semi-officialness.
I am writing a book. An actual Awkward Mom book. At least, I am sorta writing it. I may be writing it a word at a time somedays, but words are getting put down. Ever so slowly. The problem is that I seem to be so busy living my awkward-mom life that I am left with little time to write about my awkward-mom life. Which is a lovely problem to have.
A problem that I don't have right now. Right now. Here. At Awkward Manor.
Right now, Super Kindergartner is at school and Awkward Dad will be picking him up. So, no responsibility there.
Super Preschooler is doing this:
And has been for the past hour.
I think Invisible Grandpa is pushing him around when I am not looking.
And they seem keen to continue for a good while yet.
This would be the perfect time to work on my book, and yet, I'm not. Well, of course not, I am writing to you guys. But after that, I am not sure I will rush to the computer full of purpose and drive. I kinda want to watch my babies sleep. And goof around with Super Preschooler in his "magical motorcycle that can fly." And hang out with Super K. when he gets home all gleeful and happy to see me.
I'm torn. I want to capture their amazingness right now. Copy down everything they do and share it with the world. Follow them around with a notebook like some amateur anthropologist. Write my book in a flurry of inspiration and fire. I could; the Supers are very good at inspiration.
But, they are so little. And they won't be forever. They are so happy to see me. And they won't be forever. They are so willing to envelop me in their swirling imaginations. And they won't be forever. They won't even be much longer. I suppose I could watch them sleep any time, but someday soon that will involve breaking in their homes and freaking out in-laws.
So, you see the villain. Write the book that I have waited 36 years to write. Or just enjoy the children who are inspiring me to actually write that book. I suppose it isn't really a villain at all. Or if it is, it's just a B-grade villain with no major firepower.
I'm off to watch some babies sleep; that book deal can just wait for me.
Does the world even want an Awkward Mom book? Please weigh in, Readers. If not, Awkward Mom can finally go back to writing those charming poems about the wind.