Everyone's sick. Sebastian's laying beside me on the couch, sounding like a rock tumbler, in a lightly feverish snooze. Bea and Michael are curled up in bed upstairs; she's in and out of fevers, he's trying to crawl out of virus-induced lethargy. I'm still ill too, but I'm awake for some strange reason. I think I needed to twiddle about the internet, uninterrupted, for the first time in a week; Beatrice hasn't nursed this much since she was a newborn, and I'm astounded to find a laptop in my lap, rather than a feverish baby.
Some way to spend your 1st birthday; she was due on the 20th (yeah, yeah, 4/20, I know), but thankfully she was spared a lifetime of pot and Hitler-referenced birthday memories by having the good grace to come out on the 21st. Hopefully she'll be well for her big day, and I can take a ridiculous amount of cute pictures of my beautiful babe.
Just finished "His Dark Materials" book 3: "The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman; it was so very, very good, that I'm sad its over--but then, I'm happy for that, because I love it when a good book is so good that it makes me sad. I've moved on to "Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, and Oliver Reed." I first heard it mentioned on NPR, and to my surprise, it's not a new release, just newly paperbacked. It's astonishingly detailed and rather poorly punctuated and edited, but it's a riveting read about the naughtiest of the naughty British actors to ravage the screen/stage/pub/women...
Bleh. More coughing and sneezing. Not that this is vital information to a reader, but I think I'll mosey along, to blog again another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment