It’s past midnight and I’m avoiding bed.
I should be sleeping; I should be wrapped in warm blankets, gathering my strength and taking advantage of every single peaceful moment that a house with two young children can offer, because at this moment I can feel illness making its home in my body. Undoubtedly just a cold, just enough of a bother to slow me down the rest of the week.
Instead of doing the smart thing—allowing my body some rest before the storm—I’m writing, drinking too much Diet Coke and catching up on Downton Abbey. This is what private time looks like for me, and even though my nose is fast becoming a leaky faucet, the time is still nice.
It’s nice to feel the space of an empty room and to have a little scrap of quiet.
We’re looking at another snow-day tomorrow, and while I’m getting sick of hearing people bellyache about winter myself, I have to say that I’m exhausted.