A mother or a pervert? Yes. I'm a one handed typer. I like to envision a woman, mid thirties, with three small children inventing the "smart phone" - a device that actually demands single digit dexterity and that is easily operated while breastfeeding, diapering, and cradling.
My son is my agent, editor, and humorist. Laying across my lap, he looks up, smiles, frowns and directs my virtual pen. Writing stops at his command, inspiration flows from the sleep washing his cheeks, and he suckles to the beat of my imaginary keyboard.
Growth is relentless. He squirms and grunts like the engine of this mother son machine, his eyes fixed to my armpit, pupils tracing the shadows on the wall behind us. I can't put him down or the circus music stops, he screams as though ripped from the story, and I place him quickly to breast again. Yessir. Sorry sir. Writing commences.
Love is what fuels this three legged dog and the one handed typer. I will tell you more as long as my son approves my message.
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