I have this happy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's there along with the wine (red, French) and the jambalaya (with andouille, natch, from Montage). I'm thinking about ideas, about feminism and the way schools deal with boys, for the better or for the worse. My mind is really going and I'm happy.
My good friend Aliza wrote me to say that she was a little jealous of my freedom, as she put it, "you get to write, you get to love your children, you get to raise your children, and you get to co-parent with millions of other moms and dads who are experiencing similar situations, frustrations, and tendernesses..." Wow. No wonder I'm so happy. I love seeing myself through others' eyes and thinking how amazing it is to be able to write, think, react, and engage with you wonderful people who read these pages.
Sometimes, despite the very slight carpal tunnel I'm experiencing in my pointer finger, despite my not-quite-ergonomic chair, true happiness is just sitting down at my laptop, throwing myself into the world of mamas and daddies out there, and just typing.
I adore the writing life. I wish I could do oh, so much more of it. As I sit at my computer at 9:13 p.m., at 11:20 p.m., at 3:04 a.m., every minute, though I'm tired or distracted or wish that I could read more books to Everett, I'm always called back, by the siren song of the keyboard. Happiness is being on a mental tear that won't quit. Happiness is typing.