7:01 and up with son. Says he doesn’t want to watch cartoons, only wants to play with cars. Can’t tell if this is a genuine shift in character or some 4 y/o pout. I look left and he seems to be pretty interested in the cars, arranging them in little colonies— some straight lines while the others are little circular tribes.
Wife and little almost-nine month old Emma upstairs asleep. Nice and peculiar peace to the downstairs province of the Autumn Walk Studio this morning. Made my first cup, but haven’t sipped. The writing father thinks about going for a run, and I didn’t have enough wine last night to inhibit such. I elect writing. “Before anything, you’re a writer.” I tell myself. But my test to Self today, and somewhat indignant challenge: no sips today at winery, even if I open a bottle and have to “check it”. Not interested. Tomorrow I need a fierce run, and only one hour, or 45 minutes. Hmm, just thinking about it and writing it there makes me want to just launch to the street, go for five miles. Five, I could do that quick. 41 minutes, tops. No. NO. Writer-father needs this time, this quiet, lessons on how to arrange cars on the ottoman afore the couch.
“Dada watch this!” Jack asseverates.
“I’m watching, buddy.”