"M" in "Mom" Stands for "Magnet"

I quickly discovered that writers with families are faced with the challenge of acquiring that block of time necessary to compose works of art that are literally decipherable to the average reader. Imagine Margaret Mitchell composing Gone With the Wind in spurts of stolen time between tending to skinned shins, feeding the dogs, and locating missing car keys.

In order to keep my writing career going, I have to steal chunks of time when I can churn out as much creative energy as I can with a short time to do it. It was with this determination, that one afternoon, after making sure everyone in the house was fed, injuries were mended, nothing of vital importance was missing, and everyone had on clean underwear just in case there was an emergency (translation: the laundry was done), I set up camp in the recliner, opened up my laptop, shoved my ear buds into my ears, tuned in my iTunes, tuned out my family, and proceeded to write. 

Suddenly, I became aware of a pair of brown eyes focused on me. I looked beyond the screen of my laptop to find Beagle Bailey at my feet.

“Do you need to go outside?”

Of course, he didn’t answer.

I removed my earbuds, closed the lid to my laptop, got up and opened the door to let him out. His only movement was his eyes as they followed me to the door. His face was expressionless when I urged him to go outside.

“Fine,” I told him. “Be that way.” I closed the door and returned to the recliner to put the earbuds back in my ears, restart my iTunes, and try to recall where I was before being so rudely interrupted.

If I focused my creative energy, I hoped to create a force field out of the classic rock music coming from my iTunes to combat the dark forces within my household out to break my concentration.

Before long, there was a ripple within the force.

In the middle of a sentence, I looked up to see Tristan standing before me. His lips were moving. He was trying to communicate something to me. I removed my earbuds in order to receive his message.

“Can I use the igniter to build a small fire on the back deck?”

“No!” I snatched the igniter out of his hand and shoved it between the cushions on the recliner.

“Only a small fire.”

“No! You aren’t allowed to play with fire.”

“I’m never allowed to have any fun. Want to play a game?”

“Where is your father?” I knew where he was. He was in the basement working on his model trains. “I think he’s working with power tools. Go see if he needs your help.” 

With high hopes of playing with heavy electrical equipment, Tristan left.

Meanwhile, Beagle Bailey was still staring at me.

I put the earbuds back into my ears, opened the laptop again, and reactivated my force field.

I wrote one sentence before the lid was slapped shut by Ziggy, our six-month-old dachshund. At least, that is what the vet told us that he is. I have my suspicions though. At six months, he’s ten pounds heavier and stands two inches taller than the beagle. But the vet says that he’s a dachshund. That’s the story that I’m telling Jack, and I’m sticking to it.

In his demand that I play with him, Ziggy dropped his bone on top of the laptop.

After disconnecting all the cords that I had attached to my body, I got up, opened the door, and tossed the bone and dog outside.

Holding the door open, I turned to Beagle Bailey. “Go play with your brother.”

He looked at me without saying a word.

Slamming the door, I climbed back into the recliner, reconnected my force field and tried to resume working.

Meanwhile, Beagle Bailey was still staring at me.

Once again, there was a disturbance within the force. With the bone in his mouth, the mutant dachshund was throwing himself at the door.

After letting him back in, I sat down, shoved the earbuds back into my ears and turned up the power of the force field, but not before Tristan broke through with another message for the mother ship.

Yanking the earbuds from my ears, I responded to yet another attack from the dark side. “What?!”

“Dad wants a glass of orange juice.”

“You know where the orange juice is. Go get it.”

He disappeared.

Ramming the earbuds back into my ears, I reconnected the force field and tried to remember the words of the Jedi Master: “Focus, young Jedi. Concentrate on your mission. Don’t give in to the dark forces of the beagle and forty-pound dachshund.” I pounded out sentences between throws of the bone while urging Beagle Bailey to go play with his brother.

Tristan returned. “What’s for dinner?”

“Why don’t you go help your father?” I suggested while carrying the staring beagle to the door and setting him outside after shoving Ziggy out. Outside, Beagle Bailey continued his battle to break through my force field by staring at me through the window.

“Dad told me to come help you.”

Thus was my afternoon. I wrote four pages in four hours. At dinner, I asked Jack how his day was. He had spent the whole afternoon working in solitude down in the basement. Tristan, his sweet dear son, even brought him a glass of orange juice.

Why, I wanted to know, didn’t anyone go bother him?

“Because you’re the Mom. M-O-M stands for Magnet Of the Masses.”