Redhanded loser, in which eternity is two minutes, give or take a billion.

I love to read, and I also have children, 
and those two things are not always ultra-compatible, in a simultaneous sense.

Fortunately, I have been proud, up until today, of my innovative solution,
which is basically to simultaneously work my way through a 
combination of 6-8 books and magazines strategically placed throughout 
the house so that at any given point, I am within twenty feet or so from something to read,

whenever there are moments to be stolen,

or borrowed.

I know, multitasking at its worst. But I am also a rather fast reader and synthesize large amounts of information rapidly, so it's a solution that lets me rip through content quickly. Malcolm Gladwell for two minutes here, ninety seconds of Wired there, four minutes of Speaker for the Dead, skim through a page of Sophie's World...

...I'd like to think my time estimates are accurate. However...

my theory and solution got shredded earlier:

BATHROOM SINK.

Washing my hands,

where I had a copy of a Neil Gaiman / Al Sarrantonio anthology* 

splayed open a foot away.

Scrubbing and QUICKLY soaking in the 

relentless verb-laden prose of Chuck Palahniuk for a few seconds,

while I quickly washed my hands

for somewhere between two and twenty minutes,

and then

my little girl,

my exasperating spy,

my accountability partner for truth and accuracy in measurements and time-keeping,

burst in,

burst in,

hurtled in,

and,

eyes widening in shock; melodramatic horror,

arms spread up and wide in universal frustration language,

& shrieked:

"Daddy!

is a BOOK REALLY 

more important than 

YOUR CHILDREN?!?! 

You are taking SO LONG!"

I hung my head,

shame a little,

but mostly disappointment

at being caught

and called out.

Masterful. 

Just masterful,

our protege,

evolving spymaster and life coach.

Tonight, I guess I will try to finish.

Shouldn't take more than three or four more minutes.

I am tired of being outwitted by children.

It's my turn to win.

Probably tomorrow,

or a tomorrow in a future decade.

Goodnight, Mr. Palahniuk, and Messieurs Gaiman and Sarrantonio, and 

children.

Sleep well, and long,

childless writers.

____

*

Stories (2011)