I realized that I was coming down with a cold at 3:47 am, Saturday morning. I was sitting on the couch, trying to rock my 15-month-old teething toddler back to sleep when I got that all-too-familiar itchy swallow feeling. By the time he was nestled back in his crib, my nose was clogged. Needless to say, I succumbed to the germs. So, now I’m lounging in sweats, drinking honey-infused tea like it’s going out of style, and enjoying the fact my husband stayed home from work to give me some R&R.
My brain is a muddled mess, so I figured I would take some time to cut out the pieces for the Halloween costume I need to start sewing. Turns out, cutting faux fur pattern pieces creates a TON of little fiber particles that make being congested exponentially worse. I got through about 80% of the pieces before calling time-out. At least I still have 16 days to finish. Plenty of time.
I also whipped up a chicken pot pie. Not soup? you ask. No, not soup. Because soup means admitting I’m sick, and despite the amount of tea and tissues I’m going through, I am not yet willing to admit that I have a cold. I will state, for the record, that the pie crust was purchased. Hey, if I can’t make it when I’m 100% me, why would I even attempt it under germ-brain?
So, with cup of tea in hand, I will retreat to the couch and curl up under a giant blanket, snuggle with my husband, baby boy, the beagles, and the cat (thank goodness we have a big couch) and watch some movies. That’s about all I have the energy for.