The Boy and I have both been fighting colds since the weekend. He picked some bug up whilst sharing baby slobber at Gymboree and passed it along to me. His face is covered in snot. I’ve got a killer headache. We’re both rattling the walls with our coughing. It ain’t pretty.
Life goes on though, and, despite his congestion, he can still concentrate on his alphabet flashcards for a half dozen letters . He also still thinks that all animals, not just pigs, say oink, but never mind.
About the big push to start using my brain again, I’ve actually started reading Madame Bovary, despite my dad’s protestations that it’s depressing drivel. I gotta say, at only 40 pages in I already feel like it’s going much better than the populist book club crap I tried too get through at the start of the year.
I’ve been reading Beatniks by the divine Toby Litt at bedtime when I’m not too tired to keep my eyes open. That’s, admittedly, not very often, but I’m slowly making my way through it. That said, I count Mr. Litt’s books as my kind of brain candy, so I can hardly feel like I’m benefiting from too much intellectual growth by reading his work. Love him though.
The Boy has just bought me the fixin’s for a cloth diaper. That’s a first. If it’s a sign that he wants me to change him there might be hope that he may one day be receptive to potty training.
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