Yesterday I attended my very own pity-party. I was going to extend invitations to you all today but the sun is shining, the nausea quelled, the barking cough reduced to a dull roar, and my father is winging his way here. Can you hear the trumpets sound as he rides in to our rescue? Ta dum ta dum ta dum!
Various medical clinics and institutions received a lion’s share of my husband’s wages this week in attempts to battle chipped bones, irritated throats and ears, and disgorged tummies. My beloved Dr. Wok was kind enough to throw antibiotics at us yesterday, even though our bodies were masking infection. The bloom is finally back in Thing 3’s cheeks after one week. Now the poor child has to face the task of fractions with her father and the casting of her foot on Monday.
I, having found my bootstraps, am pulling them on to go sell teddy bears for charity with Bea Long. I am doing it in honor of Kenny. He is my muse. For if a man who can rise amongst the ranks from hair sweeper to fabulous colorist, I can roll out of bed to sell some bears.
Rest up, folks, because the Beijing Adventure starts next week, walking cast or no.