I like to write on Saturday mornings before two thirds of the kids are awake.
It’s quiet, and I love the solitude minus the occasional interruption from the 9-year-old daughter who likes to ask me complicated questions about life when I’m trying to concentrate.
Last weekend I curbed my imbibing into a manageable martini and a couple of beers and woke at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning, a good two hours later than my weekday schedule.
I settled into my comfortable writing spot on the couch, curled my legs under my body and hoisted my laptop atop my thigh to begin to work on a writing project that is currently in the creative stages but about to enter the dreaded editing and second re-write stage.
My phone rang around 8:30 a.m., about the time I was due for a short green tea break.
I didn’t recognize the local number, so I let it go to voicemail.
I picked up the phone a few minutes later and saw that the person had indeed left a message.
“Hello, my name is
redacted, and I’m here with your son. He got lost from his running group, and he’s shivering and cold.”