Monkey hopped in bed with me at 8:30 this morning (much later than usual; divine) after making a very wide circle around the bed while soliloquizing as only a four-and-a-half-year-old can about how he was going to be so very careful not to touch my ouchie belly and be very gentle with his nice Mama. Then he got in bed and snuggled up and patted me for a while.

Chickadee spent her day alternately mouthing off to me and clinging to me. I think I would like to understand what’s going on in her head, sometimes, but then I realize that with this complicated little one my heart is better off not fully getting it.

My skin hurts. Even in places it doesn’t appear to be bruised. I am aggravated with myself for not healing faster (as if I could control that, because dontchaknow I don’t have nearly enough reasons to beat up on myself; not being in control of my body’s rate of healing is a failure worthwhile of my concentrated self-loathing).

In the midst of what seemed like a very long day, I mustered what felt like my last ounce of energy, and walked down to the mailbox. I had six pieces of mail. They were all junk. I almost cried.

After I got the kids to bed tonight, I collapsed into the sofa and finished the first book I’ve read since before the surgery. It may not have been my best choice, but I finished it (which felt good) and it’s certainly a must-read for anyone feeling like life is hard or unfair. (Moral of the story: it could be much, much worse.)

Although I am still doing too much, it is heavenly to not have to cook meals or clean up after them. And better still to have other adults around.