Four is a fun age, linguistically. I'm able to have in-depth conversations with the Pea, and he's grasping nuances of the English language while still making adorable mistakes.
For instance, instead of "I need to get dressed," he says, "I need to get my dress on." No, child, I'm actually not raising you to be a cross-dresser.
And Han Solo pilots the "Millenium Falconon." Adorbs.
My personal favorite is the way he describes how challenging an activity is. "Mommy, I need your help with this puzzle. I'm hard at it. You're easy at it." And can I just say that whoever invented lenticular puzzles should be dragged out into the street and mangled?
It's gotten me thinking, though (a dangerous past time, I know). I'm walking through a stage in my writing right now that "I'm hard at." The words aren't coming easily, and when they do finally come, I fear they're the wrong ones. No, I know many, if not most, of them are the wrong ones. It's a first draft. It's supposed to be sucktastic. I realize that. But, still, I peer around, wondering if others are "easy at this."
Then there's this huge looming deadline floating out in front of me. Not one assigned by any agent or editor (of which I have amazing ones, thank goodness). Nope. I have a tiny human being scheduled to arrive this spring, and something tells me he is going to have slightly less than zero respect for any writing schedule I set up. And I know that I'm going to be "hard at that," too, looking around and wondering how so many mom-writers seem to make it look as if they're "easy at that."
What it boils down to is something that one of my crit partners and I have had to text each other on what seems like a bi-weekly basis lately. Hey, Karen, show yourself some grace! This writing thing is hard. This Momming thing is hard. Together? HARD.
One thing I'm totally easy at right now? Downing leftover Super Bowl Ham & Swiss sliders.
See? Everybody has a hidden gift, even if it's definitely not working those dang lenticular puzzles.