Time Bandits

“The following classrooms do not have anyone signed up for Teacher Relief tomorrow…” 

I scanned the e-mail sent from the school for the list.  Glaring at me like my mother catching me French kissing a boy on the porch, was my son’s teacher’s name.  I hadn’t signed up beforehand because I had scheduled myself as writing this week.  I couldn’t stand the guilt.  I immediately decided I would go in to staple flip books and sharpen pencils.

As luck would have it, I woke up this morning with a huge brainstorm and was frustrated I couldn’t sit down and explore my thoughts.  Hemmingway was able to write the great American novel because when he got out of bed with a hot idea, he could pour himself a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, and write until he had dug deep enough to feel satisfied.  I, on the other hand, had to make breakfasts, pack lunches, shuttle blood relatives to school, AND, now, kiss away a few hours of my time.  Gratis.

Then, I was thrown a bone.   The Professor offered to take the boys to the basketball game this afternoon.  (Our public high school was playing the top team in the county.)  Instead of homework, play dates and doling out snacks, I suddenly found myself with two free (quiet) hours.

I was at a crossroad.  Sort of like when bathing suit season is around the corner and every fucking corn chip is a crossroad.  I had an empty afternoon in the middle of the week.  What was I going to do with it?  Straighten up the house.  Catch up on e-mail. Return phone calls.  Schedule the handyman.  File Aetna claims.  No.  No.  No.  No.  And hell no.  Pour myself a glass of wine and write.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

It was pure chance that I got my two hours back today.  I realize novels aren’t written by being squeezed in on a to-do list.  Time to beef up my watch dog skills and guard myself against the time bandits!