It was 8:32 p.m., which meant I had 28 minutes to get my slice written and posted before the clock struck midnight on the East Coast. I plopped down on the couch with my iPad to write. “Can you help C get ready for bed?” I asked my hubby. “I have to get this written.”
As my hubby cut up some apples for C’s bedtime snack, C curled up next to me, peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Who are you writing about today?” he inquired.
“All of you,” I responded. “Well, you and your sisters. Not Daddy. I haven’t written about Daddy at all so far this year.” My hubby sat down on the couch with us, handing C the bowl of apples.
“Am I C?” he asked, pointing at the screen.
“Yep,” I responded as I kept on typing, aware that the minutes were ticking down.
“I should be Big C and you should be Little C,” my hubby said.
“No, you’re Hubby,” I told him.
He nodded, then smiled. “Maybe I should be Chubby.”
I burst out laughing and my son dissolved into giggles between us. “Tomorrow you could write about Beauty,” he chuckled, patting his round stomach. At that, we all started laughing even harder. “Beauty” is the name my four-year-old daughter A calls her Daddy’s tummy.
“I’ll do that,” I said as our laughter subsided. “Now go get ready for bed. I have to write!”