Not Much to Report

Not much going on here, but I thought I'd check in anyway.

The Boy is finally pretty much over the plague that seems to be knocking his classmates down like Ten Little Indians. His cough is nearly gone, and he spent the last few nights sleeping like a log for 12+ hours. Finally! He's lost five pounds, which wouldn't even be noticeable on me, but which makes him look like a POW--I've made him promise to commit to shoving calories in his face at every opportunity. Ice cream before bed? Do you want chocolate syrup with that?

Other than that, there's little going on. Work has me in the middle of a fund drive, which makes for some busy times, but this is a mercifully short drive for us, so everyone remains rather un-frazzled.

I'm making some progress knitting my first sock. I misjudged my gauge, so it's going to be bigger than I'd planned, but I will be satisfied as long as it ends up looking like an actual sock--even if for a giant. Behold:



Also, like BB, I was hit hard by the suicide of David Foster Wallace, so much so that I realized I needed to do something about my ever-worsening panic attacks and the depression they inevitably bring. I'm not saying I'm ever suicidal, but the panic and anxiety that plague me limit my life in a way that, when I'm in the throes of it all, makes me wonder if the strained, sick, half-life is worth living. I'm back on my Zoloft and can now drive the car without tears or fears. I'm not quite back to "normal," but I'm on my way to being able to stand myself again, which is very, very good. So thanks again, DFW. You've contributed to my life yet again.