Very suddenly this turned into worst cough I've ever had in my life. Last night was horrible, and I'm amazed Jeremy didn't murder my coughing self in our bed.
Minutes after I wrote that last entry, my kids turned into magical fairies of care and concern. It was uncanny, almost creepy, even.
Grace brings me stuff constantly. She drapes blankets and sweaters on me (her sweaters; they're comically tiny lying there across my shoulders to keep me warm), brings me Kleenexes (I woke up this morning to Grace bouncing across the bed and laying a folded-up Kleenex next to my head), and periodically wanders over and pats me, cooing, "I hope you feel better soon. Can I bring you anything?" Emmy hasn't been quite so... caretake-y, but she's certainly been on her best behavior. I love how these evil little buggers can surprise me with such sweetness, just when I need it most.
Jeremy has done all the work around here for the last few days, despite being sick himself (we all got this stupid cold, but I got the most special version). He called into work this morning, took Grace preschool, and schlepped me and Emmy to Instacare, then all the way back in the other direction to the pharmacy and home again.
The rest has been a phenomenal Vicodin cough syrupy haze of weird, fantastical dreams and meditation on how much I love everyone. It's pretty amazing, and totally worth the horrible cough. I tell you what, 666 Park Avenue is a pretty trippy show when you're high.