I’m a total space cadet right now…. Rascal had a 104.2° temperature on this morning of his THIRD day of fevers. For three days, my little blond-haired blue-eyed Swedish boy (Sven!) has had a major fever….

It’s been extremely taxing. My heart. My heart is in my throat. I feel like it’s going to escape and BURST every time I open my mouth to speak. My poor little baby won’t eat and won’t leave my arms without crying.

I took him to the doctor, and doc says he’s fine — that it’s just another baby virus. But, I have to strap him down first thing tomorrow to take a pee sample just to be sure. GOOD. TIMES. Nothing like a pee sampling first thing in the A.M..

That’s about all I have to write today. Isn’t this brillers? Does it not just SCREAM “Pulitzer”?

See, I try to write a little something every day. It’s supposed to be the best writing exercise you can do if you want to be a great writer. So many great writers say that. Natalie Goldberg, Julia Cameron — all the best writing teachers — tell you that. So, even though I’m a total space cadet and afraid to open my mouth lest I lose my fragile heart forever, I still have to sit me down and write.

I’m not even sure what I want with this writing thing. I mean, why write every day? Why do I have to be the best writer I can be? If this blog is in part a record of my writing exercises, maybe I should figure out what kind of writer I want to be.

I went to a psychic once. Everything she told me came true. EVERYTHING. And, she told me “there’s a book in me.” I asked her if it was fiction or non, and she said “fiction, definitely fiction.”

I could MAYBE see myself writing nonfiction…. But fiction? With what characters? What story?

Maybe I could take a lesson from the monkey, who, lately, has been spending hours with her li’l imagination….

Maybe I should start thinking more about this writing stuff and less about the master cleanse I’m debating going on TOMORROW (after the pee sampling) to jump start some weight loss asap. I just don’t know.

So many possibilities in one little speck of a life….

Back to the patient. He smells a wee bit like vomit and/or Cheesies (?), and he may just crap on me again, and still I run to him with kisses and breastmilk (the only thing he’ll eat). And more kisses. And more advil. This DEFINITELY qualifies as one of the myriad “joys of motherhood”….