At every time of the usual childhood sicknesses there comes this stage: not well enough to send back to school; not sick enough to be docile and bed-bound (read, "undemanding").
Also not sick enough to convince Connor who is in a snit about it being unfair that Scott is home and why can't he, Connor, have a day off too? (And I'll bet he's sniffing out anyone with symptoms at school to zero in on and hoover up some germs so he can too have the pleasure of illness.)
Several days of fever-depression have to be made up for and the chatterbox is wound very tight. "How much does that cost? What does it weigh? I want Optimus Prime for my birthday. Get me a transformer toy."
I bought a little time by having the foresight last night to ask Gary to pick up a couple movies for today.
What to do with this gifted time besides anxiously watch it slip away? Catch up online with some fascinating news segments that were obscured by kid voices when I was listening to them earlier on the radio? Do the checkbook (subtracting this month's sunk expenses, how much of a margin do we have left til next payday?)?
I really want to write, but it's hard to let go and do some satisfying drilling down when I'm waiting for the other shoe of interruption to drop.