Writing just to write

We live in a new apartment now. In a different part of the city.

All three humans in the house have strep throat, although if the medical forums are to be believed (and, really, they never are), the dog could easily be carrying it, too. Pacifiers, sippy cups and toothbrushes will be discarded and replaced on Monday, when I should also finally be not contagious.

All three humans in the house have spent a LOT of time in said house these last 4 days.

We've done an awful lot of hanging around, random art projects, building with A's new cardboard blocks that my mom brought over for her, bathing, taking medicine, running out of things to do, and going to sleep and starting all over again in the morning. Voluntary quarantine gets old. Then again, losing friend with kids because we went out and had playdates anyway, would be worse, so we chose the former.

You'd think, with life being this slow, I'd be writing all the time. But I'm not. I'm also not reading, or ever in the mood to watch a movie after A goes to sleep. I may have gotten on this kick when my mom and I started packing up the old apartment and there was no time for anything. I've been mentally stimulated to my limit a lot, and imaginary-decorating a new apartment in my head ranks right up there. I downloaded the new issue of Oprah and couldn't do more than look at the shopping pages. I could hardly read the half page little snippets of interesting people and their interesting lives. The book section didn't even merit a stop to read titles. Too overwhelming.

But I've also done a lot of hanging out with my daughter these last 5 days, and that has been a good thing. We are both sick and slower. And I'm getting to practice just being around. And letting go - she was back in diapers for a few days - and I did my best to just let that go.

That's about all I've got right now. I thought I should write something before I just stopped blogging altogether.