Around here we write for five minutes flat on Fridays.

We write because we love words and the relief it is to just write them without worrying if they’re just right or not. So we take five minutes on Friday and write like we used to finger paint. For joy in the process. No matter how messy the result.

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Got five minutes? Come and write with us; it’s the best kind of free therapy.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in. Find out how over here.
3. And don’t forget to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes on: CROWD

GO:

I’m sitting with head phones on and trying to ignore the piles of shoes and plastic guns littered like so many bright blue flower petals of chaos on the floor in front of me. I’m wrapped in the old grey blanket and there’s a slab of chocolate cherry next to me. The rumpus from the bedroom doesn’t die down and Pete, he invites those rowdy three back to the big bed.

One by one they wander into the sheets and blanket and they each bring their own pillow. Glasses of water. Opinions. And I watch as they grin wide at me before padding through the door they’re banned from entering after lights out. They are at home in the middle of our lives and I smile at him from down a short hallway and we dance right there with our eyes before our kids block out the view.

Those boys in their teeny little precious tightie whities. Pete says as long as they want to keep coming it’s not time to tell them, no. It’s time to teach them that we will always be a safe place when the darkness comes. When bad dreams threaten childhood and grownups are still a safe place to take shelter we will be that shelter.

Even if it means fart jokes and someone’s dirty foot poking into the small of someone else’s back. And the bed shakes under all the joy and there’s no such thing as a crowd when you’re a family. There’s just sharing pillows and rolling into the tiny sliver of space left for me down the left hand side of the mattress. Under cover of soft snores, there’s kicking off your socks and slowly peeling yourself into the gaps that children leave for the parents who breathe a welcome sign. Even at the end of long days.

He teaches me that. He teaches us all. And we crowd in under it together.


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