Something at one of the nearby restaurants is wafting up through our windows, and it smells heavenly.  It’s after 6, and while I would normally feel guilty that I haven’t cooked dinner (or put much thought into it), I’ve been battling a migraine and its attendant queasiness.  Liking the smell of food is actually a step up from an hour ago.

M is finally on his way home, and will pick up takeout (hooray), so you needn’t worry on behalf of P.  You wouldn’t need to worry in any event, because she determined – when I was in the worst of my headache – that she wanted to get watermelon. Never mind that she was sick, barking cough and all.  She got herself together enough to allow herself – and the shark – to be pushed in the stroller (that she is too large for) to the grocery store.  I bought a watermelon, tomatoes, butter, and Pepsi Max (the necessities of life), hung the bags off the handles of the stroller, and pushed them all home again.

There was watermelon consumption and there was National Geographic Blu-Ray movie watching.

This is the sort of day that leaves me feeling like a failure, because I only did a little writing.  Because even after being home with P a year, I feel like there must be some product to show at the end of the day. Yes, there was a lot of domestic stuff (dishes-dusting-vacuum-clean shower stall-grocery store-trash-recycling). I know, I’m sick. The child is sick. The migraine intervened.

I still feel like I should accomplish something – well, if not quite tangible, then something I can point to and say, “I did this.”

I hate that I feel that way.  I hate that I didn’t do “enough,” whatever enough is.  I hate that I get migraines that derail entire days. I hate hormones. I hate that I can’t remember the really cool thing P did today that I wanted to blog about.

Bah. Hopefully tomorrow will be a much more enjoyable day.