Write four lines of prose that have something to do with: the motorcycle.
Went for coffee/snack time and then groceries with the little man this morning. Probably should have reversed that order if I wanted a less hectic time in the grocery store. The longer he's out, the more comfortable he is being out.
Which leads to things like insisting on having his own basket to carry around and wandering off to 'check something over here'.
We managed to get most things we needed in the end, at any rate.
This afternoon I managed to make a little more progress on my novel revisions. Tiny step by tiny step.
The roar of the engine as it starts reverberates around our neighbourhood almost every single morning. We all know where it's coming from - it's almost comforting in its predictability and reliability. I suspect more than a few homes use its rumble as their alarm clock.
The little boy calls his four wheel ride on toy his motorcycle, and who are we to argue - especially when he's become so good at the sound effects that go with it?