Sick kids, eye strain, and cocaine...just another Wednesday on the new planet

When my kids are sick, I feel like a bad mom. Like maybe I didn't do enough to protect them from the bugs or maybe I didn't drink enough water when I was pregnant so as to support healthy immune function once they were hatched. Or perhaps I don't serve enough immune-boosting foods (this is likely; if it's green, they pretty much won't eat it, unless it's mint) and thus are prone to inhaling and incubating all the detritus that floats around the classroom. Alas, MiddleBoy called me from the office again, just two hours after being deposited at school (late). Total hours done in school this week: 1.75. Size of brain: shrinking. I am worried. Why a headache in a 9-year-old? I'm Googling encephalopathy as we speak.

OnlyDaughter is working on Smallville today. So is her dad. Lucky me -- he drove her to set at 5:30 this morning so I didn't have to. Win! I received a text from Husband that wardrobe outfitted her and made her all purty, and the crew loves her. She's a good kid. Seventeen going on thirty. Mature, articulate, and oh-so-tiny-and-sweet. And it's great that Dad is there to pop in and check on all 4'8" of her. I worry. That's my job.

OldestSon, the Soldier called to talk about moving out of his house and into temporary housing in preparation for deployment. I think he's nervous. He won't admit it because he's all tough and soldierly. I'm scared shitless. I don't support this war, haven't ever supported this war, but I have to support my kid. Even though it scares me to death and his participation contradicts everything I believe in. Doesn't matter. It's not my life, and considering a lot of the boneheads he graduated with are still living in their parents' basements, unemployed and drinking too much and spending their days with their good friend X-Box, I am very proud of my boy. He's doing it, all on his own.

Received another ARC yesterday for a novel coming out in May called The Summer Without Men. Review forthcoming on Best Damn Creative Writing Blog (I gotta read the book first, a'course). And in continued support of my fight against overuse of adverbs, this fancy-pants book I'm reading right now contains the worst adverb I've seen to this point: unqualifiedly. That hurts.

Rachel from Books I Done Read finished Sleight (my book) and said she liked it. The review will pop when the book is available for purchase (April), but that's sorta nice. A thumb's up, preliminary review (I haven't received the official written version yet). Feels nice. My ego is happy, for the moment.

I am stumbling across blog after blog after blog of publishing advice and suggestions and marketing tips and OMIGOD, I now have eye strain. For real. My eyeballs hurt, vision is blurring, and my eyelids are swollen. Saw a medical professional yesterday (okay, FINE, it was my shrink, all right?), and she agreed that my eyes look a little funny. Sorta puffy and red. I should stop reading. But I might miss something! Gah! I feel like a little kid who is resisting bedtime because she might miss out on the Costco-sized bag of M&Ms (peanut, no less!) her mom bought but has been hiding because the children eat too many.
 
I wish someone would invent a pill/food that would take the place of sleep. Sure, there's always cocaine, but it's illegal, expensive, and it destroys the lining of one's nose (or so I hear). Funny thing -- in 10th grade, I had Mr. Clark Hoss for history, my first class directly after lunch. And every day, I'd get a bloody nose within five minutes of class starting, because I'm prone to that sort of thing (blessed genes), never mind the fact that I found history class to be a terrifying exercise in madness. Whose brain can remember all those dates and people? One day, Mr. Hoss pulled me aside and asked me if I had a cocaine problem. I guess it was because my nose was bleeding and I was sort of...hyper. Like Sniffles the Mouse. But, seriously? Mind you, I didn't talk back to Mr. Hoss. He played football for the Philadelphia Eagles at one point in his life. (I just Googled him--he played for the Eagles in 1972). He was a large, intimidating man with blond, curly hair and a no-bullshit policy. Of course I wasn't using coke -- first, my parents were broke, and thus, so was I. No money = no cocaine. Not necessarily a bad thing. A lot of my fellow classmates were using, though, because cocaine was the drug-du-jour back in the '80s (and the school district I was in was affluent. Not us. Just everyone else.). Nothing says "I'm ready to learn!" like a white powdery substance dusted across one's nostrils and upper lip after climbing out of your best friend's BMW.

But I was a scrawny, hyperactive nerd with an overdeveloped sense of moral responsibility and a raging guilty conscience. Accidentally stealing a pen from the library made me nervous. Coke wasn't my bag, baby.

Why the hell am I talking about this?

Oh. Yeah. Cocaine would keep me awake. Guess I'll have to settle for coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Ohhhh, my eyes are burning again! Make it stop! I think my eyeballs need a "me-day."

No time. There are M&Ms (peanut!) to be consumed.