Something cuts through the fog of dreams, a distant sound. Some part of me knows it will only grow closer, more insistent. I try to shut it out anyway.

“Dad.”

“Hmmn?”

“Dad.”

A little hand grabs my shoulder and shakes me as violently as a seven year old can manage.

“Is it time to get up yet?”

I fumble across the floor for my cell phone and manage to thumb the magic button that makes it light up. My phone plays alarm clock and pocket watch more than communications wonder, which makes me hate it all the more.

5:37 AM

Jesus, I think. When did I get to bed? Midnight? One?

“Is it time to get up?”

I try to speak but I can’t make words. Some kind of sputtering nonsense comes out and my daughter giggles. I swallow, knowing this will be another Catch-22 morning where I need to have had coffee in order to make coffee.

“Sure,” I say. It’s all I can say. If I send my daughter back to bed and the scene will repeat in ten minutes. Is it time yet? How about now? Is it time now?

Alex skips out of the room to turn on her morning dose of cartoons and I struggle to coordinate the movement of my limbs so I can get dressed, hit the bathroom and try to make a pot of coffee without setting the house on fire.

At least she let me sleep in.

Despite my near zombification at the hands of an adorable seven year old–who I suspect is conducting a long-term psychological experiment on me–I’ve gotten a lot done these last few days.

I’ve written the first draft of nine articles I’ll be submitting to a site that lets writers post material for sale. I’m not naming the site or writing much about it until I’ve had a chance to really explore the options there. For now, just wish me luck.

Research has also been high on the list of things I’ve managed to sorta pull off this weekend. Freelance writing is like any other kind of writing: much more than composing words on a page. How you sell it, where you sell it, the whole process of breaking into the trade–it all takes time to sort out. The style is different, the rules have changed and most everything I know feels wrong.

That sounds more dramatic than it actually is, but it’s as close a description as I can manage with half an eye open and only six wakeful brain cells to rub together.

This whole “work” thing will be easier when Alex goes back to her mom’s place–as I write this, my girl is tear-assing up and down the hallway while making whoosh sounds–but I’m trying to make the most of the time I have now.

Still, spending all this time with my daughter has been amazing and awesome. We’ve had a lot of fun, still are and the weather people say we’ve got another wonderful day ahead.

Let’s see if I can brew enough coffee to enjoy it.