I’ve been resisting the urge to sit in my little office space for a while, ignoring the desire to click open my laptop and just waste time pottering around on there. Reading snippets of articles, editing photos, browsing around. Things that I sometimes enjoy but lately it has just been something that I do so that I at least feel a little productive when I’m not really. I’m prone to glancing at the wall clock before settling in, only to look up again and wonder how the time passed without my noticing.
My physical space has noticed my absence and has been reaching it’s arms out for me in the form of dishes collecting on the counter space, laundry piled in the hamper, approaching deadlines, work needing to be done, and a little boy that needs to be snuggled with.
So instead of sitting in front of my computer, working after he wakes in the morning, we’ve been outside throwing snowballs at one another or inside crafting elaborate play-scapes out of toys and imagination. The deeper we sink into each activity, the less we want to return to the real world.
Instead of writing with the glare of a computer screen as company, I am here with pen in hand. I am seated on the floor, have fresh white paper on the coffee table in front of me and one arm circling this tangle of long legs and arms that is the little boy in my lap. He writes his own wobbly letters on the paper beside mine, thoroughly enjoying this ritual of pen to paper.
Write some words to read to me
He asks and pushes his orange paper towards me. I pause to write him a little tale beneath his own tall and brightly coloured crayon writing. He smiles and I recite it back to him as his fingers follow each word of my strangely swirled left handed script.
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