A week ago, I signed up at Conversion Diary to blog for seven days straight. I thought this was doable. I thought this would get me back into a blogging and writing groove. When Thursday arrived and it was time for me to write that day’s post, I decided to take my middle child, Joel, to get ice cream instead. I could have written the post before or after ice cream, but I didn’t.
My post that day was eating apple pie ice cream after a thunderstorm while my fifth child ate pumpkin chip. As we ate, classic old-school Christmas tunes played while big red bows flapped in the wind. Our favorite ice cream joint was celebrating Christmas in July with their holiday flavors. As I devoured the sweet cold cinnamon-swirled concoction, I wrote about middle children and how they need to hear Silver Bells, alone, and go down a slide, alone.
On Friday, I did laundry and fried tortillas for a cheese tostada lunch with tuna salad on the side. The post I wrote as oil sizzled on medium was how that lameness was a sign I’m ready for summer break to be over. At the beginning of summer break, our lunches are planned out with precision on the white board. The main entree is accompanied by fresh fruit and milk or lemonade. Two kids are designated Official Lunch Helpers. They help prepare and serve lunch, then the rest of the gang cleans up. They rotate so everyone gets to enjoy arranging apple slices to look like daisy petals on plate. But by late July, the beautiful lunches and organized labor pool deteriorates to me frying tortillas in my pajamas and dumping canned pineapple in a big bowl, alone. “LUNCH!” I bellow up and down stairs. The post I wrote as I topped crispy corn with shredded sharp cheddar was in sonnet form.
I met tortilla from Mexico land
Who said: “Please top me with cheese on the dish
After burning yourself from the oils-panned,
then inexplicably serve me with fish.”
Saturday’s post was written while riding a small red plastic train. I was one millimeter tall and competing against four others in a quest to establish rail dominion across the United States and Canada. The theme of my post was “Do not judge the player by her age, life experience, or grasp of geography.” Beatrix of the Blue Trains played Ticket to Ride against three adults and one teenager and nearly won. Second place, yo! She was patient, smart, and strategic in her empire-building. The most hilarious part was when it was her turn, she’d always say, “I’d like to waste these cards…” as she’d fan them out. They were never wasted. Ever. Unlike me, who misread “Montreal to Atlanta” and then promptly started my route in NASHVILLE. I was red. I came in last. I’d been honestly schooled by a six-year-old and I loved every moment of it.
Sometimes, the best writing is done in our heads.