I’m guessing that distraction doesn’t work so well for those of you over the age of eight or so, but wouldn’t it be nice if it did? Like if, instead of trying to explain to a client why that press release won’t be coming today or to your significant other why you haven’t yet — even though you said you would last week — made an appointment to have the snow tires put on the car, you could just say, “Hey, look! A raisin! Do you want one? No? How about two — one for each hand? Yummy raisins!”
Yummy raisins. Whatever.
In my defense, my doctor told me last Saturday that my gunky sinuses and fluid-filled ears were the worst specimens she’d seen in the past six months, which made me feel sort of proud, in a warped kind of way. I like to overachieve, and the past few weeks have not felt so stellar in that regard. Not being able to hear or breathe or sleep properly will do that to a girl, I suppose.
Honestly, possibly my biggest triumph in the last few weeks has been ridding the fridge of several near-empty Tupperware containers, thus contributing to the overall organization of the house. I’d eat that final half-square of polenta or Isaac’s container of rejected cottage cheese and I would feel a disproportionate sense of accomplishment.
Hey — did you notice that the dinosaur pajamas glow in the dark?
I thought about blogging. Really, I did. I had lots of half-formed ideas, imagined how I might have turned a dozen just darling things the kids did into full-fledged posts, and then I went to bed. In, of course, the basement, every second night, so that Rachel wouldn’t keep me awake with the hacking sounds of her, oh, pneumonia. (Which, unlike my ear/sinus infection, did not respond so well to the first round of antibiotics and inhaled corticosteroids. Now I’m mostly better and she’s, well, not. Thank God for socialized medicine; you guys in the States should try it sometime.)
Thank God, also, that my mother-in-law arrived yesterday. With matching dino PJs in tow. She spent much of today bustling about and tidying things and making cups of tea and comfort foods (including custard and chicken soup; yes, really) for her daughter and then accompanying me to various children’s end-of-year activities. Like Rowan’s class play — an inspired, French-language rendition of Chicken Little. (‹Oh, non! Le çiel tomb!› But you have to clutch your face like you’re in Edvard Munsch’s The Scream while you say it VERY SERIOUSLY.)
And now Rachel’s mom is asleep in the basement, and the boys are asleep in their beds, and Rachel is asleep in our bed, and I’m going to turn in on the couch. So as not to be awakened by the coughing.
I’ll be back — I promise. The sky isn’t quite falling; it’s just that it’s taking a little bit more work than usual to hold it up.