The reason that I wasn’t doing a very good job wasn’t just me being me. One of the blog police has been struck down with the flu. Curly is sick, poor thing. And it’s tricky to administer Tylenol, hold a girl’s hair back, take her temperature, sing her to sleep, calm her worried brother down and cook dinner. The whole time I cooked, I was concentrating on listening for any whimpers coming from her room, worried that she might wake. And, less maternally, I found myself thinking about the fact that I’m doomed to get this thing. Because all that snuggling and kissing and comforting was not done from across the room from the little sicko.
Still, the salad was lovely, and she rather kindly slept for a couple of hours while we had dinner and chatted about our days, and the kids. As we were picking up (minimally, to be honest), I saw some drawings Curly had done. Clearly, she found the crayon drawing I did of the shoe I covet, and it struck her fancy (and also: she's an awfully good copyist for a 5-year-old. Curls may have a future in forgery.). She and Mies Van Der Rohe would not have gotten along. She does not believe in less is more. Glitter, color and shine make, in her mind, a perfect combination. And, really, take a look at her sneakers. Over-the-top is pretty cute in a kindergartner, particularly when she wears it in a way that doesn’t prevent her from running around. My mom is fantastic on that front; a side effect of six grandsons has been that Curly receives some particularly fabulous shoes and clothes, but my mom buys her gorgeous things she can run, jump and play in, which is important when there are six boy cousins (and one 17-year-old girl cousin who is an ice hockey goalie) to keep up with. Those cowgirl boots pictured below? Have little decorations that can snap on and off, and have a rubber sole that allows her to run around with as much ease as sneakers would. How cool is that?
Anyway, poor kid has been lying on the couch, miserable, this morning. I've been tapping away, on and off, at the computer, talking to the doctor, taking her temperature, timing how long she holds something down for, all of that sort of mommy thing. She improved greatly (but unfortunately, only temporarily) when I got down three pairs of shoes from my closet, and allowed her to try them on over her thick, pink-striped athletic socks (quite the look). Apparently, there is some moral (or at least palliative) value in fancy shoes.