Dream desk

My entry into a contest my mom is having at KindredHeartWriters.com.

My desk is in a room where my baby sleeps.

It's a thing of beauty, dark wood built into a beautiful bookshelf containing precious items out of reach of inquisitive little fingers. Lovingly installed by my husband, my desk is a dream come true. But to be honest . . .

My desk is the dining room table, where I referee my boys driving matchbox cars along the hardwood floor. It is the kitchen counter, swept free of cracker crumbs and crayon bits. My desk is a pillow, precariously perched on my lap as my three-year-old squeezes next to me on the couch to watch me pay bills. It is my legs, as I lean against the wall on my bed, sharing my day with my husband and checking email.

But my real desk, my dream desk, is in the room where my baby sleeps.