I talk six-year-olds and diets and body image and well-intentioned but poorly executed bedtime stories on Owning Pink. If you have a wound child, I urge you to stop by and read this.

You can also find my essay, P is for Patience, on the Bob Books blog. I discuss my recent adventures with Buttercup as we both get used to new roles in her road to reading. I’m the teacher. She’s the student.

Or is it the other way around?

That was my call out to the Powers that Be last night. Not sure if God has a twitter account yet, but if He does, I really hope He saw my little tweet.

I was on a kickin’ writing streak with my memoir, getting pretty into my kid lit projects to prepare them for publication, and my writing exercises that I’m supposed to be trying to do daily. And I was doing awesomely, I might add, until I got smacked in the face with Other People’s Crap (or My Mother, no license, and doctor appointments up the wazoo for five-too-many medical issues.)

I love my mom, but hate the fact that because of the killer schedule, plus laundry cleaning house cooking dinner shopping for tomorrow’s dinner taking care of Buttercup and this whole Mommy thang Life, I’m back to no time left at the end of the night and trying to decide between working out, sleeping, and writing. (And yes, there is a reason Writing went last in that list.)

When I don’t have shit to do the next day that requires waking up before noon (Thanks, Mom! Yeah…guess we’re even, huh?) I will gladly stay up until 3 a.m. to have a nice little creative session with my Muse. But until then? I’m pretty much fucked.

So either I hire a personal trainer to kick my ass, or I have to learn the art of patience.

*tapping fingers on desk*

Yep, personal trainer it is…wait…they cost money and I haven’t sold the book yet.

Is this what educated-types call a “conundrum?”