Sick.

I am not, let me tell you, a girl who skips a meal. Feed a cold, feed a fever, feed it all. But what I have put past my lips in the past 48 hours can be measured in slices (of toast),  grains (of rice), and sips (of ginger ale.) It’s getting kind of old. And I could also do without the chills and low-grade fever that has popped up every night for the past three just as the sun sets. If I look straight ahead and stay under a blanket, it’s ok. But we all know how well that goes when there’s a 6-year-old in the house.

Tomorrow, I’ll be better. Because I’m willing it so.

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