What do you do when all the voices of your family are spastic-excited about their new toy--the one that has twin engines, and turns by differential thrust, and is way, way tougher, and way, way better than the last one they had, you know, the one that just up and flew away one day--and they begin to plead,
"Come watch us fly it, Mama! Mama, can you please come watch us?"
There is some writing that you need to finish up, but you also can't miss the chance to watch your aviators, and you can't resist their pleading eyes and long, dark lashes pulling at you for all they're worth.
So, you grab your journal and fall in step.
Everyone gives his best performance, even the little guy, who throws glances over his shoulder, just to make sure you're watching.
But then, the real fun begins when Daddy takes the controls and dive-bombs the three moving targets he sees.
Watch out, my targets! Duck, dodge, cut right, cut left, and laugh until you're all out of breath.
I sit.
I watch.
I write.
