Oh, how I long to be witty!
How I yearn for creativity to spontaneously erupt from the recesses of my mind,
at the very moment they are beckoned.
I crave for my heart to pour out all over the page.
To write with fervor and gusto!
To capture the hearts and minds of my readers so that their lives are forever changed!
But alas, as I type, the air-breathing fruit of my womb [who currently has a scent floating from her behind that reminds me of an out-house] dabbles and scribbles on the window-sill with a brightly colored pink pencil. A constant experiment in boundary testing, in spite of my daily and incessant warnings.
The clear, sharp focus that once dominated my thinking has been over-run.
Visions of cleaning products and diapers dance through my head.
A tantrum will shortly ensue causing my veins to pulse and my skin to crawl.
In the end, I am rendered useless by her chunky pink cheeks and sweet-heart smile.
And for reasons unknown to the human condition, even the boogers won't bother me.