We go to the toy store pretty regularly on Luc-Choose days. He loves that toy store. So last week, wandering around the toys, waiting for the kids to uncover today’s treasures, I found myself carrying around a little stuffed, um, bat?, creature, thingy. He was cute and I was bored and I ended up talking to it and having it talk back to me in a funny voice. The kids thought this was hilarious. I wouldn’t buy it for myself—I’m a grown-up, for heaven’s sake!—so they bought it for me.
Turns out his name is Lawrence. And he is a cookie ninja.
“Give me all your cookies!”
Seems all he eats is cookies, he hoards them in fact, flying around at night to raiding any cookie stashes we might have. Here is Lawrence, pondering the height of our fridge, and the container of cookies that lives up there, next to the raisin bran and honey O’s.
But cookie raids are not, it turns out, Lawrence’s only job. His other job is to kick me in my writerly butt. “Have you done your 1000 words today?” he says, swooping in to land on my shoulder and nip at my ear. “Those words you wrote yesterday were crap! Write better words today!” he adds, before flying off again.
I’m serious! He said this to me yesterday!
Okay, maybe it’s the kids, swooping him over, speaking his words in little high, screechy bat-tones. But so far, Lawrence is always right.
Honestly, I had no idea the kids have been paying any attention when I speak of writing, or of my 1000 words, or of how well, or disastrously, a given day’s work had gone. But they are. And they’re offering their support of this mysterious thing I do via a small black bat.
I love how playful my kids are! I love that they bought me this bat with their own money, to give to me, and then gave it a name, a personality, and a roll in our family, not to mentioned illustrated some of his adventures. How cool is that?
I don’t know about Lawrence, though. He’s a bit of an addict. I found him this morning in a tableau set up for my discovery, flat on his back, covered in cookie crumbs, one half cookie still dangling near his mouth. He said he didn’t remember a thing. Cookie black-out.
Nearby, Sophie and Luc were giggling.
But he merely staggered to his feet, refusing to admit to anything. “Do your 1000 words, lazy bones!” he screeched before flying, crookedly, away. Trailing crumbs.
“There are mine! Mine! You can’t have any!”
He’s like my evil alter-ego. Right now he’s perched on the window ledge above my computer in the writing room, preening and scolding. “Get to work, quit blogging and get your 1000 words.”
See? I needed this guy! I had no idea. My kids know me so well.