Last night after his bath, my 3-year-old came streaking down the steps naked (as all the best streaking is done) to find me and tell me he wanted me to put his clothes on for him. His father was upstairs already, and normally I would have sent Ivan back up with instructions to hand his underwear and pajamas off to Daddy. But I was at a good stopping point in a paper I was editing, so I stepped away from the computer and chased my son up the steps and into his room.
After he was fully dressed and decent again, he smiled and said, "I want to keep you."
Which is a pretty good thing, I think, considering the fact that I don't know a lot of other kids out there who would take me on at this point. I've been busier than usual, trying to tackle new editing clients (not literally, of course, although I've had one or two that require me to wear a football helmet so I won't damage my head on the table as I bang away) while still writing, revising, and submitting my own work. The house isn't fit for company any time soon unless they want to clean it themselves, and we've lived off the same pot of chili for the past 5 days. With Ron out of town now, we're looking at a few evenings of cereal, apples, and popcorn for dinner. Mother of the year I'm not. Nor wife, nor housewife, nor editor, nor writer, for that matter.
But my 3-year-old wants to keep me. So I have job security. For now.
And such periodic affirmations remind me that regardless of how soul-sucking the world of writing I'm trying to break into can be (numerous exceptions aside), it will never define who I am.