On a recent Friday, my 9-year-old stepson was home from school while both my husband and I were working in the home office. Between running reports and sending emails, I made toast and baked potatoes, refilling his water bottle with Sprite.
“I thought you were supposed to be working,” he said, as I made his second baked potato of the afternoon. After the morning of lying on the couch watching cartoons, he had started to feel better.
“I was working this morning, but I only work until noon on Fridays,” I told him. It was partly true. My primary job with a time clock and set hours ended at noon. The freelance editing and writing work I do usually fills my afternoons. My laptop sat open next to him on the table as he watched me pull his potato out of the microwave and begin mashing it with a fork. I reached for the butter.
:: CONTINUE READING ::
Today I am writing a Mother’s Day reflection over at The High Calling. Join me there?
Photo by TheHungryDudes, via Flickr, used under the Creative Commons License.