My Couch is an Island.

I am feeling the kind of sick that requires a retreat to the island of my living room couch. My shield is a queen sized comforter with puffy crocheted roses all over it. My landing strip is a pile of pillows. I am also feeling the kind of sick that requires copious amounts of cranberry juice (IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN) and an equal amount of mindless magazine reading. My insides feel blech.

No leader's retreat for me. Boo. I am under the weather. Ezra is suddenly convinced my stomach is a trampoline, and this is not helping things ONE BIT.

My husband picked up the latest 'Lucky' magazine at the store for me as he was filling a prescription or two for himself, for what appears to be... shingles? Maybe? Doc said it was either that or a bug bite. Chris has been complaining of an itchy back/side for DAYS and DAYS now- begging me to scratch his back softly and listen to him talk about HOW MUCH IT ITCHES for long periods of time. Every day begins and ends with a recap of his itchy plight- how it has moved a little to the right, or is getting more intense. I smile politely and nod. I find that listening to someone talk about an itch for multiple days in a row reminds me faintly of Chinese Water Torture.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

I try to be supportive. My poor hubby is in a lot of discomfort. I try to suppress my inner punk. Meanwhile, my insides feel like they are slowly turning into what's left behind after the tide goes out. So I sip more cranberry juice and hunker farther down into the blankets, counting the hours to Ezra's naptime.

While at the store, Chris also picked up a cool new plastic gun toy for Ezra. It shoots these colorful foam discs, and Ezra thinks it's the best thing since sliced cookies. I am grateful for the entertainment it provides for him as the rainbow discs buzz by my head every now and then.

Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.

It is finally nap time. Ezra gathers up his disc gun, his yellow school bus toy that he is borrowing from the neighbors, and a mini light-up sword. These are the toys that will have the honor of sharing his bed with him this afternoon. The "chosen ones", if you will. He lines them up just how he wants them on his blanket, and then proceeds to shoot at all the people in the bus with his disc gun. Then he pokes them for awhile with his sword.

Poke.
Poke.
Poke.

I sneak out of his room and fall back into the couch. Sweet relief. No more trampoline tummy. I think I'll put in a movie. It will most likely be 'You've Got Mail' (because that's the movie I ALWAYS put in), or 'Sliding Doors'. I could watch these movies over and over again. These, and also: 'Elf' and 'The Royal Tenenbaums'.

I shake out my comforter to re-position it on the couch. As the blanket billows, it pushes three colorful little foam discs upwards in the air towards my head- like confetti left over from a New Year's party.

****

In other (equally riveting) news, this is what I wore yesterday:



I liked it because it was comfy, and it had the perfect light layering pieces for the Fall edge in the air.