It’s that time again… lunch time. Normally I only give myself 30 minutes because I leave early on Monday’s to take my son, Thatcher to his occupational therapy appointment. But today is different. Everything about today has been different. Monday, OT was cancelled due to a paperwork issue, imagine that. Then I came to work and there was a problem with the computer that is the powerhouse of a three computer network. It’s a small company. Just before I went to the back for my lunch, I heard my boss say that this is all because it is Friday the Thirteenth. That is superstitous, but I understand why she’d say that. And now, because I have my full lunch hour, I am sitting in the room that we refer to as the conference room and wondering what I should write about today. The muse just doesn’t want to be here today. Honestly, I’d rather be somewhere else and resting, too, but that is not an option. Bills must be paid, despite my wish to spend my days doing nothing but writing and advocating for Thatcher and other people like him. He has been my world since the day that I found out I was going to have him, perhaps even before then. I’ve been told not to consume myself with my child’s diagnosis, or in his case, diagnoses. How does one do that, though? How does a parent, any parent not consume themselves with the best interests of their child(ren)? How do you separate who they are as a person from the diagnoses that make them who they are? I’d rather try my best and push for what is best for Thatcher. Now, if only I could find the muse and the time to write at the same time because the muse and time often despise each other and prefer to be separated.