Yesterday The Girl was standing pinkly in her bedroom, post bath, one sock on, one sock off. She looked mighty pleased, faintly guilty and was holding a red marker pen in one hand. Didn’t bode well. “I’ve writ my name!” she said. Hmmm. Writ large as I saw she’d written her own name on the wallpaper. I stomped off to the bathroom, grabbed a handful of wet wipes, hoped that the marks would come off, marched back to the Girl, opened my mouth to Admonish when it struck me. She was four years old and she’d written her own name. I should have been more pleased. Instead, I just sighed at the thought of something else to wipe up/clean off/scrub.
Or maybe I was jealous. Because she’s being more productive than me. Going through a real writing slump at the moment. You know those jars of peanut butter where you have to turn it upside down and use a knife to scrape out the last vestige of peanutty gunk? That’s my head that is.