I know I promised to shoot off a post last Friday, but I didn't. I was in mourning. Kid C, who can not be held responsible for his actions, killed a large portion of my manuscript Thursday afternoon. It's gone. Disintegrated into nothingness with a few clicks of my mouse.
But I have back ups, right?
I've been feverishly working on a major rewrite, and in my addled state, I didn't back it up for several days. Several long, productive days. That sound you hear is me hitting myself in the forehead repeatedly. Oh, and crying. Gobs of crying.
There was also a fair amount of yelling. That is how I became Inigo Montoya. Except, I have way less chest and facial hair.
And, I'm a girl.
While my son's life wasn't in danger, he apparently thought it was. Maybe. After I calmed down, I asked him if he was ever going to touch mommy's computer again. He shook his head and pretended to slit his throat with his finger. Then, he pretended to slit his stuffed elephant's throat, too. Why? To show me what he thought would happen if he did touch my computer again.
Yup, send me the mother-of-the-year award right now. Just label it: Inigo Montoya--Super Mom.
I feel like I should slip into some leather pants and a frizzy wig and yell, "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my manuscript. Prepare to die."
But seriously, Kid C and I made up. I gave baby elephant CPR, mouth-to-mouth, and a band aid. I gave kid C a big hug and some ice cream. He's steering clear of my computer, and I'm busy trying to reconstruct my pages. Sigh.
Now, all I have to do is find the six fingered man. Wink.