One of the most touching things about my husband is his unfailing enjoyment of my writing and his crazy belief that I have an inexhaustible supply of good ideas.
This isn’t even remotely the case. What I have is five children whose actions are sometimes so arrestingly alien to me that I have to quickly write it down, just to figure out what the heck just happened.
Normally, this works just fine for me. However since I’ve started this whole NaNoWriMo business, my home has been for the most part, drama-free. No one has buried anything of mine in the yard, children who shall remain nameless (cough *Miss Teen Wonder* cough) buckled down to bring their grades up before the final day of the quarter, and even the cat is on the mend.
Honestly! It’s like they don’t even love me at all.
I mean, sure, I could spend my alloted daily 1,667 words talking about how the twins are liking Spanish and that Parent/Teacher conferences were very complimentary and how the kids have taken over cooking one night a week (Next week? Pancakes!)…but who the heck would want to read that? Geez.
I guess this is a “be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it” situation. (note to the universe, I’d like a million dollars and this: )
So, don’t get me wrong, I’m not really complaining. It’s just ever so much easier to write about the screwball things that they do, as opposed to, well….something.
All I know is that in order to hit my mid-month word quota, I need someone in this house to screw up to the tune of 6,902 words by this Sunday. Otherwise, I’m going to have to start relying on my fuzzy memories of their toddler days. They way my memory works nowadays, I’ll probably end up mistakenly remembering plots from the Cosby Show as my own.
Wait a minute….
Fine, I won’t do it. Besides, there’s always the topic of marriage.
Nope, dang it. We’re good there, too. I’m telling you, people, I just can’t catch a break.