And Daddy, it seems, was not comfortable with taking her into the men’s room. And hell no, I did not offer to take her to the women’s room. Daddy continued to browse books, whispering “Just hold it for five more minutes,” and Little Girl kept informing the world that her bowels were 4.5 seconds away from evacuating involuntarily.
I could no longer concentrate on my work, not with them standing behind me. I don’t think it was the noise of his whispering and her trying to get him to understand that she was very close to a personal emergency; I think it was the idea that at any moment I was going to be directly in front of an oozing toddler.
My mental choo-choo didn’t even hit the brakes. It just sailed off the rails, and into a mountain of Oh Dammit, where it exploded in a mass of unfinished thought bubbles.
They left before she reached critical mass, but it was too late. I could not pick up where I left off, so I now have this mediocre-ly constructed, half-finished paragraph and I can’t figure out where I was headed with it. All I know is that it was damned good, probably the best stuff I was ever going to write, and now it’s gone.
So I’m packing up my spiffy NEC Mobilepro 780 (all writers, drool now) and heading home. I thought about detouring to Jamba Juice, but that wouldn’t be fair to the Spouse Thingy, who might want one, too. I’d call to see if he wants me to bring one home for him, but he still might be asleep, having worked the night shift.
But dammit, that was some good chit I was writing, but now the world will never know...