1st day - 500 or so words short of target!

Fortunately, I was awake all night with a sore throat - the kind that causes swallowing to be painful but provokes swallowing at the same time. A very sadistic sore throat. And so, when the alarm went off at four o'clock, I was not averse to crawling out of bed. What difference did it make, after all? Besides, there was coffee waiting to be brewed, and the thought of the warmth on my throat was soothing and hopeful.

I wrapped my garish hot-pink hippie bathrobe around my Christmas p.j.s, wrapped a vellour orange and burgundy scarf around my throat, topped my head with a pink and yellow toboggan, pulled blue fuzzy socks on my feet, and turned the computer on. And sat there.

But, really, I only sat there blankly for five or six minutes. Nonetheless, for a single mother with a child jealous of creative endeavors, five or six minutes can be critical. He's in there, only ever half-asleep, be quiet, tap softly at the keys, don't wake him, if he rolls over and senses I'm not in bed, he'll wake and ask in a baby voice, "Mommy working?" It is an accusation. It ends any attempts to write. Must be quiet.

And I manage for half an hour, which I waste in trying to locate the right scene of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" in which to begin scene one of chapter one of my own novel. I finally, haphazardly choose a random scene and begin. I had hoped to insert lines for the actors, just to beef up the word count, you see, but no such luck.

And then, "Mommy, you working?" There it is. I try to lull him to sleep, scratch his back, kiss his head, hum and sing and coddle. But he senses that mommy is doing something that mommy is not supposed to do, something entirely self-indulgent. Something that she crawled out of bed to do in secret.

I put the tiny DVD player in bed with him, hoping to bribe him with extra tv time. It works for a while. I throw out 500 or so words, just any words, I have to hurry!

The gig is up. "Mommy, come watch wif me." "No, baby, mommy's working." "No, mommy, watch wif me."

I bribe him with funny-face pancakes. I let him sit on the floor in the living room and watch the big tv, heedless of syrup or whipped cream on the rug.

500 or so more words, between broken conversation about Blue's Clues and the Wiggles, wiping the nose, bringing a second pancake, adding butter, washing hands.

Finally, there's no denying time. Must shower, dress, dress the child, turn off the coffeepot, drop the child off at Mimi's house, drive to work, sit here, type this, and now, run to the bus lot and watch children emerge, fresh from their beds and pancakes.

But, still that's 1000 words.