And I was doing so well. This latest interruption involved my three year old entering the family room where I was typing away while on the L-shaped bench in the corner. She was holding her pyjama pants in her right hand and told me that she wanted to whisper something in my ear. My husband and six year old were watching a borrowed copy of a Hannah Montanna episode in the same room but I’m always the “go-to” person when it comes to well, anything and everything. As she approached me with her sweet little smile, pants dragging on the floor, she said she had tried to turn on the light in the bathroom and had called to me but I dismissed her calls while “working” on my computer. Consequently, by the time she retrieved her stool from her bedroom, likely stopped to see if her clip-on, plastic earrings were still in the Winnie The Pooh box dedicated to her bookmark and jewellery collections, she ran to the bathroom but didn’t make it in time. I thought maybe she was going to tell me her pants were wet from “drips of pee” which had happened once or twice before but instead she opened to the crotch of her pants and explained that a small amount of poop had landed there before she could make it to the toilet and that I should both take care of the mess and find her a clean, dry, fresh smelling pair of p.j. bottoms to wear–pronto. Why haven’t I had time to write a book again?