Sometimes I wedge myself in my bedroom where the keyboard lies. I stare at the screen, I ponder, I sip coffee and on occasion I clank at buttons and letter appear on the screen.
I wonder if my children will come to understand why I took time to do this. At lesser minutes I attempt to forecast if the value of what I have written will be worth the time I could have spent with them.
It make sense for me not to carp but continue stealing moments to press the letters and form the sentences. I know not what else to do.