"I think I'm in the process of dying," I told Mr. Keller yesterday morning, as I was trying to peel open my eyes. If you think I was being dramatic, I was not.
If I've had a worse virus, I don't know when. All last week I fought it off and thought I was in the clear, and then Sunday came, and bam! Bam! And bam again. (Got it?) And all I could think about all day long was how much I wanted my mom. Instead, Mr. Keller brought home Cafe Rio and bathed the kids and put them to bed. I slept propped up, with a cough drop in my mouth (really safe), stripped down to my undies, with the humidifier ten inches from my face. And I felt slightly better. Slightly. I'm calling in sick, alright?
I hope I get fired.
Danny seems to have changed himself overnight. He's taller, more slender and grown. He's almost walking, but it's more than that. What was baby has began the inevitable, forever retreat, being replaced rather magically with independance and growth. It can't be stopped, I know, and I feel entirely undecided on whether to embrace it or let it break my heart. The great divide of motherhood, it seems.
Morg, as always, is present. He's always playing on his own, singing songs and make-believing. His such my companion wherever I go. And such a help. With only slight streaks of naughty three year-old business, we almost always call him our good boy. He's always just what I need. But you know that. I've said it so much before.
Otherwise, we move from couch to bed, and bed to couch, changing out movies every now and then. We got a few new Baby Einsteins in the mail yesterday, along with a new book for me, Guernsey Literary "so and so and so", which I can't wait to dive into. (Is it good?)
And there's laundry to do and toys like tornado all through the room, and please don't ask what's for dinner because I really don't know, and Mr. Keller hasn't thought that far ahead yet.
Mom, are you on your way?
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