Many (or most, I'm not sure, I joined this last minute) participants in this blogging challenge picked themes to base their posts on. Makes sense. Gives the writer some direction. But since I just wanted to make sure to write something, anything, each day, I threw that good advice away because I wanted to be unencumbered by "rules."
Here's the thing about rules, and directions, for that matter. They keep you from doing what most would agree are stupid things. Like rambling crazily on a blog originally meant to help writers become more professional and prolific. Ah, well. Life is funny that way.
So, my "rule" for this challenge: No theme, but stick to the 15-minute mark. This forces me to write. And, the words will come. Or not. It can be short. It's my blog. You are probably the only one reading it (thanks!).
On my way home from the gym tonight, I was stopped at a long red light. I could see the driver in the truck behind me yelling at her (?) child. (Child starts with C, I thought, I'll write about this.) I couldn't hear anything, but she had taken her right hand off the wheel and turned to her passenger and pointed her admonishment with her index finger and her mouth. Then she would turn back to look out the windshield and shake her head. Whatever the child did must have been pretty bad. The child, from what I could see, did not move, did not speak. She or he did not argue back, even when the next round of finger pointing and yelling started up. Or the third. (It was a really long light.)
Did this kid get in a fight at the gym? Was she feeling guilty? Or did he not perform up to par during the gymnastics practice. (I totally just changed genders of the child in the fight and the child in gymnastics; although either could be true, my first way seemed sexist. But I guess changing it just because it might look that way is lame too. Oh, well.)
I didn't know if this was a child learning a lesson, and for years to come remember this day as the time she did that really bad thing, and never did it again. Like the time in seventh grade I tried to be a bully and shoved a girl, and she had me down on the pavement so fast I barely had time to be embarrassed. That happened moments later when her mother yelled out the window: "If you girls are gonna fight, you better take your glasses off!" I was saved by my victim not wanting to deal with her mother in the off chance I freed my arms from her grasp and took a swipe at the girl's spectacles.
So, my time is up. After observing that moment of (presumably) mother and child, I decided to NOT write about children. Because it could get a bit heavy, as it sometimes does when explaining why I never wanted children of my own-- one reason being is that childhood can be really tough and I was never sure if I could help someone through it well enough.
So, when I got home and chatted with my husband, we giggled over our cat at the top of her kitty condo. She was rolling around, meowing happily, getting very excited. So excited that she rolled right off the platform. I went to catch her, but she caught herself and clawed her way back up. And started rolling around again.
A mistake. Funny. She isn't going to replay that almost-fall for the rest of her life. She's not going to feel shame at being reckless, or not good enough because she should know better at her age.
She's a cat.