Birthday Alarms

I was wide awake before Monday’s morning alarm chimed, plotting what errands I would accomplish, in what order–

IMG_7450

RBG action figure b’day present. Right. On.

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.

 

 

About PB Rippey

Writer, wife, mother, fortunate. Fiction, memoir, poetry, kidlit (MG), member SCBWI. pbwrites.wordpress.com
This entry was posted in books, Children's Books, Faction, Fiction, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Birthday Alarms

  1. Gosh, I mean, I know they are supposed to grow up and all. I mean, that’s the whole point of this parenting trip, but dang I miss my boys being that age.

Words do not escape you

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