They tossed their backpacks and lunch bags on the floor mats before tumbling into the mini-van in a flurry of sneakers, skinned knees and gangly limbs.
“So did you finish it yet?” my son Noah asked, as he slammed the door shut. It was a question I’d come to expect at pick-up time from one or the other of my two boys. Each day, Noah or Rowan asked me if I’d finished writing the book I’d been working on for months. Each day I looked at their expectant faces in the rearview mirror and answered the same way: “Nope. Close, but not yet.”
“What number are you on?” Noah asked. I was writing a compilation of biographical profiles entitled 50 Women Every Christian Should Know, and the boys liked to keep tabs on my progress. My editor didn’t have to worry that I would miss my deadline. Two micromanaging task-masters lived under my own roof.