Put a paintbrush in your mouth for family art time. Take a deep breath. No matter how many times you’ve cleaned up today, this will be the biggest mess. I can’t wait to see more fun at Studio Friday.
Back with a Bang!
He’s back. He’s finally back. I am picking up plastic pretend syringes off the floor, the ones the pharmacist gave the kids for their pretend medicine chest, and removing them out of sight along with all other bottles and measuring spoons. I’ve placed them in a wicker basket and set it all high on the shelf in the bathroom.
I have packed a picnic bag, loaded the bike and trailer, applied sunscreen and breathed a sigh of relief into the mirror. My reflection reminds me that it’s time for some self-maintenance: a brush and lip gloss will do, for now. We are off to the veloway, to weave in and out of the post oak savannah and meadows laced with wildflowers and a fresh litter of rain lilies. It’s gorgeous out there!
So how do we warm up for a day away from home? We try on the pants that Kath sent us. The cuffs encourage lots of kicking and running. I love them! Thanks, Kath.
We have been battling Ford’s immune response since late Saturday night, alternating doses of ibuprofin and acetominophin, but his fever is stubborn. I’m watching him toss, waiting for a drop in temperature (without relief, it has climbed as high as 106 F). He is frail and hot. As if laboring in his sleep; his breath has a heavy effort, and occasionally he will mutter dreamspeak: stifled pleas dampened by the weight of sleep. All I can do is lay beside him, sleeplessly rubbing the deep furrow in my brow. These are long nights, half slept with the lights left on. All countertops are cluttered with discarded plastic safety wrap, barely-sipped glasses of water, sticky syrup syringes, half-empty analgesic bottles. In limbo, I’ll eventually round up and declutter, after I spend ten minutes trying to focus my thougths, after I’m convinced the fever is low enough to condone sleep.