Soon after I posted The Entry That Proves Amy Could Probably Discover The Fountain Of Youth And Still Find Something To Complain About, Like Maybe The Fountain Is A Tad Over-Chlorinated For Her Tastes, I got an email from the always-eloquent Blue Poppy:
Listen kid, you are ill. Your baby (okay, he's a toddler, but I'm not ready for him to grow up so fast so baby it is) has been SICK SICK SICK and all of that is deeply wearying.
It can cause a loss of morale and energy. It can cause you to think everything in your life is fucked up. But it is not. You are simply sick. Your baby is sick. You are tired and spent and need a good long week at Canyon Ranch.
And behold. She was right. I'd underestimated the Impact of the Sick. (What Is With The Random Capitalization Today? Perhaps My Possessed Pinkie Finger Is Having An Affair With The Shift Key? Oh My God, Intrigue!) I'd forgotten just how deeply wearying it is when the primary focus of your day is wiping snot off a cranky, protesting toddler and then, when you finally have a few minutes to write about your day, all you can type is: SNOT SNOT SNOT SNOT ALL SNOT AND NO WINE MAKES AMY A DULL SNOT.
It is, indeed, deeply wearying and deserving of its own paragraph for emphasis.
But the good news is that we are no longer sick. Noah's molars haven't cut through yet -- but at least the swelling has gone down and the black and blue gums are now a nice shade of purple. I like purple. The maintenance and upkeep of his bodily fluids require a more reasonable level of effort, PLUS I've discovered that he really, really likes hummus and he now perpetually smells like garlic. I also like garlic.
Of course, today is...Wednesday. Which means...oh, God. And I still haven't gotten my damn car fixed which means... Although I did sort of make a friend who offered to give me a ride but she's not returning my phone calls, probably because she found out that I lied when I said I was a freelance writer because please, I write about snot on teh Internet, la dee fricking daaaaa, or maybe she doesn't like babies who smell like garlic and oh, God, I have to take the fucking bus to Gymboree again blah blah snake eating own tail vicious circle blah blah SNOT.
Wait. Here. You don't even have to imagine kicking me in the head. I've got it covered:
You are welcome.