Mr. C is taking a writing class for two weeks. "Young writers and readers" is held in West Chester, around 45 minutes from here.
It's made for a rather insane schedule. Drop S off at her drama camp, held at a local repertory theater. Then find something else to do for three hours, because it doesn't seem sane to drive home, when home is so far from her camp.
In other words, mom doesn't get home much on the days when she is a chauffeur, most weekdays.
Nor does she get her hair cut, her laundry done, or the writing she needs to do to pay the bills.
There are times the route can be very stressful.
But at day's end, I'm thrilled.
C is excited about writing. It doesn't scare him. I've heard so many adults approach writing with fear and loathing, but for C it is fun.
He comes home and sits down at our living room computer, ready to write another chapter in his fantasy. After oh, about each ten sentences, I get called into the room to read what he's written.
Watching him learn, having him ask me questions or demonstrate his new knowledge of literature or science or history, has got to be one of the big pleasures of my life. I'm not sure why that is-I sometimes wonder if its in part because his sister is a more recalcitrant learner.
Today, I don't care. I'm just over the moon that he's allowing me and his dad into his world. I hope he continues to keep that fabulous door open for us-as we try to keep it open for him.
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