Spent the last half of last week feeling progressively more physically run-down, culminating in actually succumbing to the Princess’s post-AP-exam cold. She got better just in time for me to get walloped. Saturday afternoon was the worst of it, and I couldn’t take my long run yesterday, which means I’m twitchy as fuck right now as well as feeling dried out and weird from waking up several times to unload a cargo of nose-mucus.
Isn’t that a glorious mental image? You’re welcome.
To add to that, the Little Prince is subject to hormonal storms the likes of which I haven’t seen since the Princess was his age. I’m left shaking my head and trying to keep a straight face. EVERYTHING is an important, LIFE OR DEATH battle for him. No perspective means everything is a mountainously big deal. And, of course, I alternate between being BEST MUM EVER and WORST HARRIDAN IN HISTORY. It’s enough to give one whiplash, but really, it’s much worse inside his skin with the chemicals raging. Poor kid. My outright laughing at some of his drama probably makes it worse, but I can’t help myself.
Miss B and I are both longing to run, but it’s best if I give it another day. She’ll have to settle for herding me about and playing fetch. That is, if I can get her to bring the flung toy back to me, instead of just prancing around the yard shaking it once she’s caught it. Once it stops moving, she loses interest, just like a cat.
They’re saying thunderstorms this afternoon, which will no doubt be massively entertaining. And the contractor is to finish caulking everything in the upstairs loo, so I can call the plumbers back to put the trim on, then the children can take showers upstairs again. I should look into prep for painting. I’m tired of the nasty goldenrod color of the walls in there, and as a first painting project, a small bathroom isn’t that bad. I’ll just need drop cloths. Lots and lots of drop cloths.
But that’s a consideration for another day. Right now I need breakfast, and I’ll steal an hour of writing on a trunk novel before I get down to real work for the day. A salutary throat-clearing, as it were.