You better have a book done by the end of this shit, I tell myself. 

No, seriously.  I’m giving YOU and order.  Right now, house quiet.  No kids, time to write.  But I’m tempted with a nap.  Why, pulled from sleep this morning with overly excited wee humans.  Went right to coffee then the stories I wrote about earlier….  Now I’m thinking, what if I just write about them, the two, little Kerouac (Jack, who I’m sure, more than sure and quite serious when I say is the best friend I’ve EVER had), and Ms. Austen (my sweet little Emma, the baby)….  I have to capture everything.  I want them to read this book, the quarantine collection of pages I rush-wrote.  Or maybe I won’t have to rush.. I mean who knows how long this shit’s going to last.  Who knows if I’ll have any work other than my writing when it’s done.  Can’t think like that, I know.  Keep writing… I have to admire both of them, neither showing any indication of dismay or despair.  I mean yes, a couple times they’ve said “I’m bored”, or “What do I do now?” For the most part, thought, honestly, I’m impressed with the two little Madigans.  Honestly, how do they do it? How are they not losing it like their father?