So, last Tuesday I was felled by an illness which I am 98% sure is the flu. I'm mostly past the body-aching/feverish stage, but I still have congestion and one heck of a cough and I feel like I swallowed a ball of sandpaper. Since this is day eight of I-want-to-die, I'm educatedly guessing that my germy attacker is not a mere cold, and that this is the real flu, albeit a fairly mild case.
Somewhat tangentially: it drives me crazy when people refer to stomach bugs as "flu," as if influenza, the virus which has killed so many people even in recent history, is indicated by a couple days of digestive discomfort. I feel like people should know better. Then again, my assessment of what constitutes basic lay knowledge of medical topics may be skewed by my experience as a child. My mother was fully conversant with her Merck Manual (until she had to give it up because it exacerbated her hypochondriac tendencies) and I'm pretty sure she was the only mom in town who responded to her kids' complaints of headaches with, "Did you take an analgesic?" She referred to drugs not only by their categories but by their specific names as well. Since she passed this tendency to her children, I can tell you without consulting the box that the Dayquil-knock-off I'm currently taking is in fact a mixture of three drugs: acetaminophen (analgesic), dextromethorphan (cough suppressant), and phenylephrine (decongestant).
Hmmm. We are a nerdy family, aren't we?
I'm not sure where I was going with that tangent, but knowing the real names of drugs is the sort of ability that is really no good unless you've got a blog on which you can show it off, so there you go.
Back to the topic at hand: I'm beyond ready to be done being sick, but I really can't complain, because thanks to the kindness of my sister (bless her) and my husband (double bless him) I got to sleep in three days last week, I haven't had to cook dinner a single time, and my house is still quite tidy. Were it not for the exponential growth of my laundry pile and feeling like it'd be perfect if I could just dig a hole *in the actual mattress* and never come out again, this would have been one of the best weeks ever.
Despite my illness, the world does go on. Billa has barely noticed than I am under the weather, and with callous disregard for my sore throat remains dedicated to the all-important task of ensuring that we meet our reading quota of 87,000 books per day. She loves to crawl up onto the kitchen table, and seems genuinely surprised (and dismayed) when I make her get down every single time. She continues to make unorthodox clothing choices, such as wearing Daddy's socks on her feet and her own socks on her hands.
Our current family project is the summer vegetable garden. We started small last year growing grape tomatoes, basil, and banana peppers in pots on our deck, and it was a smashing success, so this year we are aiming higher and having big garden boxes in our backyard. Bryan and my brother-in-law built them on Saturday. Here's a before picture of the lumber and the trillion bags of dirt:
For my sick self, the best part of the project was that the children - who love to be outside almost more than they love their own mothers - "helped" all afternoon, and I got to take a nice long nap. I did miss a little bit of cuteness:
Okay, a lot of cuteness.
But I'm fairly certain that my nap will result in my recovering 5-6% earlier, so it was worth it.
Waaah. I need some more analgesic. I'll be back soon-ish, k?