Which I am physically incapable of being right now, because I have strep.
I am no longer feverish, but I still feel like utter wretchedness-in-a-robe.
Still trying to swallow around rocks, pebbles, and shards.
My boy is streppish, too, but seems much perkier today. Whatever will we do all day?
I lay in a semi-conscious stupor on the couch most of yesterday while movies played. Bless his heart. He wanted to watch "Rattle and Hum." I love seeing the boys in their younger years. I love when Bono goes ballistic during "Sunday Bloody Sunday." They were performing on a day when thirteen parade goers had been killed by bombs in Enniskillen, Ireland. Here, I'll copy and paste it from Wikipedia:
"Let me tell you something. I have had enough of Irish-Americans who haven't been back to 'their country' in twenty or thirty years come up to me and talk about 'the resistance,' 'the revolution' back home and the 'glory' of the revolution and the glory of 'dying' for the revolution. Fuck the revolution! They don't talk about the glory of KILLING for the revolution! What's the glory in taking a man from his bed and gunning him down in front of his wife and children? Where's the glory in that? Where's the glory in bombing a Remembrance Day parade of old age pensioners, their medals taken out and polished up for the day? Where's the glory in that? To leave them dying or crippled for life or dead under the rubble of the revolution, that the majority of the people in my country don't want?"
Young Son didn't blink. I don't know if he knows what the f-word means or not, but it seems that wasn't a conversation we were destined to have yesterday.
Later when I was less half-dead, I put in a bid for "Pride and Prejudice."
He watched with me ... mostly puzzled.