I woke up today feeling better. Not exactly well, but better. Alas, the plans were already cancelled and so I ended up with a few hours alone in the house. Alone! Not only that, but with the expectation that I would rest!
That's been the hard part today, the resting bit. It's hard to put your feet up and do nothing when you feel only partially sick. Essays, lovely, meandering essays are the answer. I've spent the day in compromise: read an Anne Fadiman essay, then do a little something (like unpack the suitcase from our last trip to NY and put it away so that when I start packing again on Wednesday I don't indulge in any extreme self-loathing for my lazy ways). If only I had the yarn and pattern I want for the next knitting project . . . but since I don't, I've just enjoyed the house being still, and in a relative state of order (all basements, closets, and cupboards obviously excluded from this claim).
I've basked in the sun outside and read essays. I can't really ever read enough well-crafted familiar essays to satisfy my craving. They are my favorite form. I've re-potted some plants. I've straightened rooms, but not really cleaned. I framed a rather ethereal photo of myself at 4, blowing bubbles among the late summer zinnia and cosmos. I've strategically positioned chairs near open windows in the sun room expressly for my fresh-air-deprived kitties. I can't tell you the last time I did something like that to cater to their needs, poor babies.
I think this is what I meant by wanting mama-time. Perhaps the glitch in the plan has always been for mama to "get away," when really I enjoy puttering around my own little spot without an agenda or a list of MUSTS. It actually helps that I am a little under the weather-- keeps the day's expectations low.