I cleaned the meds off my kitchen counter today. Returned the Children's Motrin and Tylenol to the bins in the cabinet. Put away the digital thermometer. Culled old med sheets. Inventoried the dosing spoons and syringes.
Packing away the meds must seem like such a trivial pursuit. Not in our house. Not over the last month or so anyway.
For an average kid a cold can last a week or seven days, whichever comes first. For E, a cold equals two weeks of sick time or more. That's why we've been out of commission for so long. Thanks to a cold that started mid February and morphed from one illness to another, I've been unable to clean the meds off the counter. A week or so ago, just about the time E started showing signs she'd finally beaten her bugs into submission (and I dared believe that maybe we were finally finished with the month from hell), P and I got the chest-cold-cough thing everyone else and his/her uncle seems to have had lately.
The bad news is I'm still so tired I could take a nap at the key board if I let myself do so. The good news is E's at school, I'm finally on the mend, and today, in addition to cleaning off the counter, I made progress working through the piles on my desk.
Two realizations came to mind while doing so:
1. My confidence level was high enough that when the phone rang I didn't expect the caller to be the teacher informing me that I should come get E because she couldn't make it through the day.
2. The number of meds on the counter (and the length of time they've been there) is a direct correlation to the quantity and quality of pages I'll be able to write during any given day.
3. Today, I'm in a much better position to commune with my characters, and leave the computer satisfied they were being honest with me.
4. Tomorrow will be a successful writing day.
Current read: Eoin Colfers's Artemis Fowl: The Lost Colony.