A Place to Escape

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Oasis.”

There aren’t too many places where a person can escape when there’s a 4-year-old in the house. I can sneak off to get a hot bath, but 9 times out of 10 she ends up following me in to ask one of her endless store of questions, or to steal my bubbles to make a beard. I can quietly duck into the spare room where all my books are and try to read, but generally it takes about two minutes before she’s running up and down the hall screaming “MAMA! WHERE ARE YOU?!” I can try getting out of the house, but no matter what I say I’m doing – groceries, mail, picking up supper – she wants to come with me.

Don’t get me wrong…I love that my daughter loves me to pieces and always wants to be around me. But it means that I don’t really have a place to catch my breath. When asked to write about the place I go when “everything is a bit too much”, I really can’t, because I don’t have that place.

If I were to answer this question at all, I would have to say that my “sanctuary” is my bed, at night, with my thoughts to myself. I’ve mentioned this before, but when I go to bed at night I like to lay there with my eyes closed and play scenes from my stories in my head like a movie. It’s a way to flesh out the scenes in my head before writing them, but it’s more than that. For whatever reason this practice is relaxing to me. I actually look forward to going to bed just so I can do it. Is that weird? Maybe. But in lieu of a real, physical “oasis”, I’ll take it.

And I guess that's her plan too.
And I guess that’s her plan too.
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