Hey there all, it’s Drollerie Blog Tour day again, and this time around we’ve chosen as our theme an October holiday. No no, not the one you’re thinking of; we’re writing about Sweetest Day, and by extension, people who have been helpful, kind, or encouraging to us about our writing, or as the case may be, to our various characters.
I’m hosting the inimitable this time around, and without further ado, I shall turn the floor over to her!
The living room looked as if a Babies-R-Us had exploded in it. On the dining table, three baskets of clean laundry waited for someone to fold them. The kitchen floor was still smeared with finger paint, how many days after the painting incident? We weren’t really sure anymore. And our son wanted to experiment with the potty, which meant somebody would have to spend the next hour reading him those same damn potty training picture books. Between my students’ return from vacation, Dan’s work deadlines, and Gareth’s obsession with wearing big-boy underpants, we had completely lost our grip on the chores.
It was the fourth night in a row that I’d planned to get out of the house and write, only to conclude I had no right to the time. Yet again, I rolled up my sleeves and headed for the sink. The pile of dishes threatened to topple down onto the counter at any moment.
“Go write,” said Dan. “I’ve got it under control.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Under control?”
“All right, nothing is under control. Go write anyway.” He picked up the picture books I could not stand to look at one more time that day. “Gareth, give Mommy a good-night hug. She needs to go to work now. Sarah, I don’t want to see you back here until they close up at Barnes & Noble.”
Nothing was under control, of course. Three hours later, I came home to a house Dan had been working on ceaselessly since the moment he tucked our son into his crib, and the place still looked like it merited a visit from a reality television crew from the Home and Garden network. It’s amazing how effort disappears into the vortex of parenthood.
I’d written my five hundred words, like a person or something, like a writer, like the self I remembered being. It was the sweetest day.