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, activist, fortunate.
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.

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