A white sheet decorated with streets, houses, trees, and railroads that my father made for me to put down on the floor and run my cars on. [Edit: My mother says that perhaps she was the one who made the sheet. We are unsure.]
My paper about Lancelot.
My AP Physics B folder.
My Discrete Math folder.
A metric buttload of dust.
The house, this house, is mulched in front. I have begun moving boxes and furniture to the garage. Seller's agent wants to walk through in about 10 days (panic).
We tore up carpet in the spare room today; I need a crowbar to peel up the tack strips and some eye protection. It took about 15 minutes for the whole room, sans tack strips. No call from the installers yet; we are measured and ready there.
I have resigned myself that my free time, and all of it, will be dedicated to getting this house ready to sell. I want to do this thing. I was up and mulching when Angel left at 0815. I have been working ever since. I have a veritable cornucopia of welts on my arms from my work; I have found my AMA membership card; I am exhausted and drained and all I want to do O Best Beloved is sit and stare at the computer. Or read. Or just stop getting up in the morning.
I have to do this. It is keeping me going. The approval of my mother when she came over last night - "Your house looks so cute with the new mulch!" is keeping me going. The slow progress of one more box on the pile of boxes is keeping me going. Bit by bit.
In the allergist's office, I have participated in child torture.
You see, O Best Beloved, allergy testing has evolved. Most doctors do not use the scratch test that so many of my allergic friends seem familiar with, wherein a scratch is made in the skin and a drop of the offending solution placed on it. Instead, they use the prick test, involving tiny plastic claws that pinch but do not tear. In children, Dr. N has an eight-legged applicator that allows 40 tests to be put on in less than twenty seconds. It pinches; it does pierce the skin to a specified depth. But it is fast to apply.
The problem is the fifteen-minute wait.
Those of you with little ones: imagine with me a two-to-five-year-old being told to remove his shirt and lie on his stomach. Now pinch him in the back five times over twenty seconds. Now tell him to lie down, lie still, and stay right there for fifteen minutes. Don't touch it, don't move, don't wriggle, don't sit up. This usually involves pinning the child down. And if the child is indeed allergic, these things begin to swell up and itch. No itching. No moving. No sitting up. No touching.
Yesterday, I saw a three-year-old-boy who not only failed to scream for the prick testing; he fell asleep lying on the table. An amazing display, as usually the entire office is filled with the screams of a furious darling.
"Some children," Dr. N says to me, "take it better than others."