Scribble Over My Head

Today, I wrote a short story, but I'm still in a "scribble over my head" sort of mood, just like Lucy from the Peanuts. I am scuffing my feet in a house that explodes with dirty dishes and puzzle pieces and smudged windows. I am a run-on sentence, which is my favorite thing to be, and I take comfort in words, no matter how awkward, that tug and stretch and buzz and tumble, like lottery balls, in the hot air chamber of my mind. When I was a teenager, working the 6am shift at the donut shop, I would draw a skull and crossbones on my styrofoam coffee cup. I would like to draw a skull and crossbones on my face today.

I went to a parent-teacher conference this afternoon and was told that my child is observant. He makes connections and can identify question marks and commas within tiny texts. He told the teacher that after the dish ran away with the spoon, a chicken laid some eggs on it. I thought--yep, that's my boy. He's gonna be a writer. But he might not be. He might work at Wal-Mart, in the cafe, and he might delight in the way that the nachos that he prepares are covered with equal amounts of Cheese. That's okay, too.

After the conference, I went to Borders and picked up a copy of "Letters To A Young Poet" by Rilke, and from the first letter, I have already gathered that there is a purpose in pauses. I have gathered that fuel is important. I feel fueled by the people who visit this site. I feel fueled by my favorite cashier at Borders, a lovely teenage boy, who, upon ringing up my Writer's Digest magazine, offered to critique my work.

I have company coming tomorrow--the sock lady and her lunch box carrying husband. They will wine and dine my children and I will sneak away with my husband for a meal, perhaps (hopefully) Mexican, out.

Hopefully, my scribble mood will replaced by little idea bubbles that float, float, float.

Just like the bubbles that my children blow, as they stand outside in their puffy jackets.

Float, float, float.

P.S. In the middle of "outside time" today, my two year old knocked on the door. When I opened it, he handed me a cigarette butt that he had found. I felt grateful, at least for a moment, that he wasn't smoking it.