I'm sick. Sick flick mick pick wick sick. And perhaps slightly delirious.

The problem with being sick (trick hick) these days is that there's nobody around to take care of me. It's just me and the baby, all day, no breaks, and he's not inclined to give me any slack. No, in fact, he's using the day to explore and get into even more mischief than ever before. He's yanking frying pans out of the cabinets, pulling cans from the pantry, and using a yardstick to explore and sweep under the chest freezer (who knew you had to clean there?). When he's not going on safari, he's climbing me to chew on my chin and fingers, pulling my hair and poking my eyes. It's a busy day for him.

But I'm sick. I sound like Barry White on quaaludes. My head feels like a pinata, full of cotton balls, being attacked by hordes of screeching kindergarteners. I'm going through Kleenex faster than air molecules - no easy feat when the ankle-biter wants to taste-test each one before alowing me to blow.

I want my mommy!

I want anyone, really, who'd be wiling to give me a hug, tuck me into my bed, and let me rest for a few hours. Volunteers?

Nobody but me to take care of me.

Tonight I'll make soup for dinner. I'll crawl into bed next to Sammy and pray to God that he nurses to sleep without problems so that I can NOT go to sleep myself, but sit next to him and try to write something that doesn't sound as though it was written by an incoherent idiot trying to fight off wild wolverines (molverines) at the time. After that, I'll try to sleep, though I know it'll be another night of tossing, turning, and snuffling through a blocked nasal passage in a futile effort to draw enough air for comfort.

Take care of myself? I don't even have time to properly feel sorry for myself. But I did take the short time to make myself this lovely message; the sentiments don't quite make up for the actual acts, but it's all I can do for now.