Oh my friends. The past few weeks have been a maelstrom of nose wiping, forehead kissing and night wakings. And I’m just talking about my husband. Ba-dum-bump.
In combination, the three of us have been sick for at least two weeks. Maybe more — it’s hard to remember. Nothing serious, just colds that have made us tired and snotty and unmotivated. In the middle of all that, we had Christmas and New Year’s (we stayed home from a party, thanks head colds!) and an expected but still very sad death in the family. Oh, and the Polar Vortex and anxiously looking out windows and wondering if the plowing company would ever show up since at least one of us might need a trip to the doctor if and when they ever opened their offices again.
All that to say I’ve missed writing, but every time I had time to do it, all I felt like doing was napping, or watching trashy TV, or cooking something more complicated than ravioli. But I’m back now, I’ve done what you’re supposed to do as a writer and sat down to just write something, anything.
In this case, it seems I’m writing about winter. Dark winter with icicle teeth and definite ideas about what you should wear and when the entire city should troop out to buy milk and bread and eggs. Or maybe illness, that unexplained, unscheduled stop that makes your baby a piteous bundle of snotty coughing and knocks everyone’s sleep schedule (almost) back to newborn days.
But hey, my Christmas flowers (above) are still going strong and a neighbor just made it up the freshly plowed communal driveway, so things are looking up.
Mama-Come-Lately 