Low blood sugar, you know. In addition to the crazy prednisone. So that’s what I’m going to blame the following random thoughts on, if pressed. But don’t press me; I prefer to be gently squeezed. (Also blaming that last statement on the lack of food, because it reads a lot dirtier than I intended, but I am too lazy to rephrase or delete it.)
Chickadee fell asleep on me while we were reading in my room before bed tonight. That hasn’t happened in… ummm… I couldn’t even say. Years. She grinds her teeth in her sleep. She is six-and-a-half years old and she grinds her teeth in her sleep. I sent Monkey to wait for me in his room and carried Chickadee’s leaden, sleep-warm body down the hall to her room. Once there, I sat on the edge of her bed, just cradling her in my arms with my lips barely brushing her forehead. She makes my heart ache.
Monkey and I have a bedtime kissing ritual which must follow a strict pattern. I kiss him, first. Cheek, other cheek, first cheek again, second cheek again. Forehead. Nose. Chin. Then a nice loud *smack* on the mouth. We giggle, then he does the same to me. Except he is laying in bed, and I am leaning over him, so I pretty much have to “offer” the proper spots for him to reach. If I’m feeling very silly, I keep offering my cheeks in rapid succession, over and over, until he is laughing so hard that he can’t kiss me any more. Most of the time I just offer both cheeks twice. Sometimes I do something inbetween. No matter how many times I offer my cheeks, no matter whether I offered each one the same number of times or not (usually I do), when I try to offer my forehead Monkey will scold me for not having the same number of kisses on each cheek. And then whichever cheek he kissed last he will shove to the side so as to kiss the other one once more. Usually this drives me batty. Tonight it was exactly what I needed.
In an effort to shake off my melancholy, I retreated to the basement to do some more organization. I figured I’m on a roll and should go with it. Several minor heart attacks later, I concluded that once you’ve had a mouse problem, every scrap of insulation said mice have torn down is masquerading as a twisted rodent corpse. Gah.
Is John Edwards kinda sexy or have I just experienced too much trauma this evening to think straight? Or perhaps my vision is colored by the fact that I have to look at him next to Dick “Pod Person” Cheney? This is way more entertaining than the presidential debate was.