Wednesday, December 13, 2006
My kids are not allowed in my writing space. It's the one corner of our house that is exclusively mine and I guard it.
Two nights ago, I stayed up late, cleaning “my room.” I turned it upside down, rearranging the furniture, shelving piles of books, throwing stuff away.
This morning, I had to run downstairs for something, and I let Seth tag along. I was just going to run in and out.
He ooooed and ahhhed about the “new room” and then he plopped down on the floor, grabbed the marker and the poster board I was going to use for something else, and without asking, went to town.
My mouth opened to tell him to stop. That’s mine. I’m going to use it for something, but for some reason I didn't speak?
He worked quickly, completing his task in about 90 seconds. It looked like he’d ruined my board with just a bunch of random scribbles.
“I made a picture for you!” He beamed.
“Wow Seth.” I said, still a little irritated.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s you, holding me.”