There's hope yet. I got more done on my book yesterday with a near-5 year old in my midst than I've done all year. Something about having to squeeze the minutes makes you do so. Productivity becomes the sweet nectar of time well spent, instead of the excessive laze of time well wasted. Between play time, dinner time, snack time, game time, and bed time, I wrote 4 pages of details, revisions, and ideas.
My editor, by way of her noted comments, ran around my brain and switched on lightbulbs, gleefully and sweetly showing me the glaring holes in my manuscript. All the while, for that entire half hour of effort, the near-5 entertained herself, and I sat stunned; my muse, or my heart, showed up. I wrote.