Tomorrow I go off the grid and to my borrowed writing-house, get-away-pad, writing-retreat-with-fountain for a few days. Since there will be no wireless connection, I will revise sans the usual distractions (Facebook, The Pioneer Woman, Yahoo “News”, hulu) while my son eats his meals, naps, plays with his Made In China plastic fossils under the crepe myrtle tree, and certainly whenever he sits on the potty with a book. The rest of the retreat will consist of inundating the inquisitive, energetic preschooler with beach, natural history museum (and its live, aggressively friendly butterflies), and botanical gardens in a city far, far cooler, less crowded and more interesting than the one we currently live in. The only thing missing? Daddy. You thought I was going to say a nanny, didn’t you! Shame, shame. Shame…
Besides, my mom lives in the same town. She is requesting priceless grandma-grandson time. I plan to honor this request.
I cherish spending time with my son. I am excited about our outings, always.
However, a solo beachwalk never fails to solve plot conundrums, bring fresh inspiration, put a vital pink back in my cheeks and feed me—well–infectious joy. For me the beach is Museland. Spa. Eco convention with free dolphin show. Bliss.
I am looking forward to my beachwalks—and showing up again later with my son’s hand in mine—and seeing the ocean through his eyes.
I may be a struggling artist, but these are the best days of my life. I hope someone throws this post in my face the next time a rejection has me wailing at the stars. Silently wailing, so I won’t wake the boy. Or upset the needy dog. Or freak out the cats, causing them to pee on my bare leg in the dead of night—again.