The unfamiliar, gutteral screams coming from my son when I took him to his first "Play Pals" group yesterday could not have been more painful had they been the result of being sawed in half with a paring knife.
I had to do it. Working from home--at some point--has to mean actually working. My toddler spends his day unfolding laundry, spilling drinks on brand new leather furniture, and saying "Nooooo!" to his mother. One morning a week, he will have to wreak havoc elsewhere so Mama can write.
When he's with me, I find that I do minuscule jobs all day--fold two laundry items, wash one dish, put my shoes on. There have to be chunks of committed time for writing; otherwise, I have to re-read and re-group every time I sit down.