I could feel this latest virus coming on last night, and I knew it was trouble. My son became afflicted over the weekend and spent most of Sunday vomiting. These are the types of winter colds that toddlers spread like wildfire. I've learned from nearly four years of being a parent that there is no way to avoid it, besides living in a bubble. And living in a bubble does not lend itself to good parenting.
I did the smart thing today and called in sick to work. I knew that if I tried to spend the night on my feet then I would feel worse tomorrow. Besides, did they really want me spreading the plague to our good customers? I didn't think so. So, after having lunch with Justin and his mother, I came back home and spent the afternoon on the couch, reading Invisible by Paul Auster. If it hadn't been the enjoyable page-turner that it was, I would have ended up dozing off. After the pleasure of finishing the novel, I laid in bed, trying to get comfortable for a couple of hours, never really sleeping.
So, now I have the evening to continue to nurse this cold, and browse through possible titles to read next. I've been dipping into a book of macabre short stories by the Russian author, Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, for a few weeks now. Mainly I started reading them for a change of pace from Descartes' Error. It's a slim book and the stories are all pretty brief. I'll probably continue to read it off and on, but I also have the urge to start something new. Ah, the reader's life!