We've been battling a mean cold here since our weekend away (I believe we got it from the carrier monkeys--my neices--in Chicago), and although Nate and Clementine seems to be faring fine, I'm flat on my ass. Today I sent them off to work and daycare respectively and spent the whole day on the couch moaning and reading and sleeping and feeling sorry for myself. I felt a little guilty for not keeping C. home with me, but I got over it quickly when I realized I haven't been alone in my house for more than an hour in almost one whole year. I decided to delight in it as much as I could between coughing fits and sneezes, dizzy spells and naps. It was heavenly, and I may just be feeling better. I also started a book, finished another, read three days' worth of newspapers, caught up on the stack of magazines at the base of my stairs and watched Continental Divide with Blair Brown and John Belushi (total cheese). I am so damn productive I can't believe it. Of course I didn't get any work done, I didn't clean my house or do any laundry. I know I'm not supposed to do that shit when I'm sick, but we're bordering on crisis here. I need to get in gear.
Things have been so crazy at work that I forget how important it is to have some time to oneself. Time with Clementine is non-negotiable, so I need to be better about either getting up early or using the evening for more than just vegging out. I need to get back to my writing, despite the odd ways my job keeps pulling at me, and I need to be vigilant about keeping creativity alive in my house. In fact, I need to take more sick days...only not when I'm too sick to enjoy them
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