Normally I wouldn't repeat a previous blog, but the one I wrote for the Ladykillers site a couple of weeks ago is still so appropriate to what's going on in my life right now, that I thought I'd share it again.
I'm in prison.
Not the literal prison with the bars and cellblocks and a giant, muscle-bound weightlifting roommate named Tiny. No, this is a virtual prison called the Potty Training Prison. I won't go into details about potty training my youngest. After all, this is a mystery blog, not a horror blog. But suffice it to say that my little one has gotten clingy with all these Big Kid
changes. Attending the Left Coast Crime conference didn't help. Here I abandoned the poor guy for three whole days while he was trying to figure out how to pull his pants up and down and sit on a little plastic chair. I'd keep a close eye on me too, if I were him.
But this constant companionship is getting a bit ridiculous. Even if I tell him I'm only going upstairs to switch out a load of laundry, he comes with me. Even if I explain that I have to run downstairs for the phone, but that I'll be right back, he comes with me. If I manage to hop the gate and slip into the bathroom without him, he stands at the gate and hollers until I
come out. If I sit down, he sits in my lap. If I sit down with a book in my hand, he'll take the book, close it, and sit in my lap. Heaven forbid if I sit down and put the laptop in my lap. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fit a laptop and a thirty-pound toddler in one lap? It's next to impossible, which is why Potty Training Prison isn't the place to get any writing done. It's simply too hard to type around the kid in my lap.
Sometimes his older brother will distract him so I can write a few words, but it doesn't last long. Within five minutes, he has to come find me to make sure I haven't tied the sheets together and rappelled out the window or built a secret hiding place in the wall with a spoon and some duct tape.
I know this can't last forever. I know I'll eventually be paroled in September when he starts preschool two days a week (only five more months, but who's counting). And once I kick him out of the car -- I mean drop him off at school -- I'll look back on this time wistfully, missing that big cuddly kid who just wanted his mom to love him all day. But until then, I'm
hoping for solitary confinement. At least I'll get some writing done.