“Boys, I have a phone call with a publisher.  Do you remember what publishers do?”

“Yes, they make books.”

“Right.  And I need to be uninterrupted until I am off the phone and I come out of my office.  Deal?”

“Got it.”
“Yes.”
“I promise and I swear.”
“And this time we really mean it.”

Excellent.

Insert writer in her office for closed-door conference calls with agent, editors, negotiations, promises, questions, and answers.

Meanwhile, I hear “Mommmy!  Mommmmmyyyyyyy!  Mommy!”

(That last one is staccato.  All of them are shrill screams that I choose to ignore in lieu of the most important phone calls I’ve had – ever.)

Tyler storms into my office, and I wonder why I never asked Robb to install a lock on the inside of this door.  Oh, wait.  Because this office used to be a nursery.

“Mommy!  Why are you not answering us?!”

I turn my swivel chair to him, bear my teeth, and point to the phone.

“Oh, that’s right.  I forgot, Mommy.”

He quietly leaves, only for the revolving door to open seconds later for Tucker.  The older and wiser of the two, he mouths his words to me.  But I can’t read his lips, I don’t know what he wants, and also – I asked not to be disturbed at all, for any reason, barring blood.
And it would really need to be a lot of blood.  That would be the only reason I would leave this phone call right now.

I give Tuck a silent nod that says, “Whatever.  Whatever it is.  Whatever.  Yes.  Or no.  I don’t know.  Dude, please.”

He holds up two snacks, asking me to approve one.  And this is when I point to the door.

Out, my precious child.  Out.

I wonder how many authors have such conversations, actual turning points in their dreams come true, during which she must also manage the children’s snacks, movie choices, and ceaseless interruptions, all the while maintaning a firm hold on her inner professional voice.

Surely I am not alone.

I finish the phone calls (which went well, by the way – these discussions are the very definition of ‘beyond what I could ask or imagine’) to find my little men sitting in the living room, eating yogurt and blueberries, watching Garfield.

Score.

I kiss each boy on his head.  Thank you, I whisper, to my sons and to our God.

I slip up to my bedroom, and I turn on my ipod so I may worship the God who is faithful, holy, mighty beyond comprehension, and worthy of my entire life’s work.  This literary, professional excitement can only be attributed to the unstoppable forces of the gale winds of the Holy Spirit.

How great is our God.
Sing with me,
how great is our God.
And all will see how great – how great – is our God.

The song ends with my eyes closed, my hands raised, my heart enraptured.

Before I can open my eyes, two little boys squirt me in the back with a water gun.

There is no season quite like this one.

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