By Kellie R. Stone

Before they publish our novels and we moms even think about hiring a personal assistant, and definitely before that plush private office, we endure writing with children. Now, let me clarify that statement; I don’t mean writing about children, or writing as they write with you; no, it’s much more complicated than that. My favorite description of this endeavor entails sitting in my living room chair (the seasoned, comfy one) while my one-year-old crawls into my lap (on the laptop) and proceeds to precariously hit ten or so keys that somehow equal delete in the high tech world of Word 2007.

The first time I experienced this profound milestone of my toddler, I chucked and merely restored the escaped prose that probably should have been left in the recycle bin anyway.  However, I was truly thankful for the option to keep it, even if a ruthless editor with a red machete and a heavy finger on the backspace key was stalking just around the corner.

Well, let me tell you; I got smart after the fourth (maybe fifth) time she lovingly helped me with my book. I enticed her with her own computer keyboard, a broken cell phone, a talking penguin, and, my favorite, a Pilates thingy that has never seemed physically possible to use. I was psyched; she was happy with the thingy. The words flowed like the mighty Mississippi; I was brilliantly finishing the chapter that I had already rewritten at least ten times…then, I hear it.

It couldn’t be; no, not my child. Oh, but yes, it was with great pride, I walked into the kitchen to witness my offspring chowing on kitty kibble (at least it was the healthy variety).  And, as with her attraction to Dell electronics, she was drawn back many times to the Purina-filled bowls as some sort of right of passage — the graduation from the class How to Make Mom Wish She’d Been on the Pill.  I was miffed.  My heroine, stranded on page 155, and with no promise of a timely rescue, waited…and waited.

The Mississippi had waned to a mere babbling brook. I needed a nanny…or aspirations that didn’t require more concentration than you need to understand a lengthy Sarah Palin speech. Oh, but wait; I have older children. They’ll watch her! A sigh of relief; I could finally get some work done…or so I thought.

Silly me, I had forgotten that the other three semi-grown products of my womb (teenagers) had passed — with honors — the previously mentioned class. After all, writing my “stupid novel” wasn’t nearly as important as surfing My Space, beating Halo, or making macramé bracelets. I begged; they refused. I bribed; they caved.  This hiring, of some sort, ended up costing me almost as much as a nanny, a personal assistant, or the private office would have.  An Ipod, a new cell phone, and five video games later, I had produced a finished crime thriller— “Bahahaha,” it laughed devilishly, “Finished, you say…not even close you foolish amateur.”

Now, to the moral of this quaint, little story; there really isn’t one.  It’s just another day in my life as a writer with children. You should have seen what I went through just to get this post done. And, just in case that any of my children ever read this; I was just kidding about the “pill” thing. I love you unconditionally. On to the next project…

Kellie R. Stone is mama to six children. If she can make time to write, we all can. You can see read more of her experiences and insights at Women’s Life Link. Thanks for the inspiration (and the reality check) Kellie!

Photo by See the Duck.