I was wide awake before Monday’s morning alarm chimed, plotting what errands I would accomplish, in what order–
when my brain was hit with edits to my novel-in-progress.
I threw back the covers and staggered for the dining room table, where my laptop currently resides.
And there I stayed, auditioning edits until it was time to wake my son for breakfast.
“How’s your writing going, Mom?” my son asked as I placed his pancakes before him.
He is 11, severely pre-adolescent, forbids me to sing along to the minivan’s radio on the way to school,won’t let me give him even the quickest goodbye-kiss/peck at the school’s entrance, is mortified by his dad and I standing next to him in public, etc.
But he asked.
“Well, I like what I’m writing, so–I think that means my novel is progressing nicely,” I responded. “Thanks for asking.”
My son shrugged as he devoured a chicken and apple sausage link.
And then he said: “Why wouldn’t I ask?”
Best. Birthday present. Ever.