The Cowgirl and I are having trouble getting to sleep lately. I am reading her one of my favorite books from my childhood, the 21 Balloons by William Pene Du Bois.
Every time the clock rolls around to 9 and I know we both need to call it quits we are in the middle of an explosion or invention or crash landing. She begs me to keep going. She doesn't have to beg much. I don't really want to stop either.
But last night I finally declared a stopping point and as she groaned I flipped to the front of the book.
(The book I am reading is a 9th edition from 1966)
I blinked away tears, surprised by the force of the realization.
Do you know when a dream comes true it hits you almost as hard as when it doesn't? I never suspected that.
For the first time ever I realized what the last year has meant to me.
I am a Viking author now.
The Cowgirl asked why I stopped talking and I just said, "This book is from Viking."
She watched me wipe my eyes and asked if that was bad.
"No," I assured her. "It's really, really good."
The Artist smiled at me through the dim glow of the nightlight, across the bright heads of our sleepy daughters.
I leaned back in my rocking chair and let the truth glide over me, like a little Viking ship over the ocean.
Really, really good.