I always get a bit depressed in the winter: I don't like the cold. I feel shut in.
The blah-ness of life is exacerbated by being department chair (too much to think about), and my recent lengthy bout of pnuemonia which was just last week followed by a minor but demoralizing head cold.
Then there's some familial drama at a distance about which I can do nothing but which makes me wake up with my teeth sore from grinding: my mother (perpetually and hyperbolically ill since the 1980s) is in the hospital, at death's door, again. She's in Vancouver; I'm in Baltimore; this is not the first time for a near-death scenario by any stretch. No, I am not going out there. Yes, I do feel bad.
In addition my brother, who also has a lengthy track-record for dramatic illness (generally drug related), is also in hospital, also in Vancouver. (A different hospital; an OD on some new ecstasy w/ a poisonous twist).
At Barnes and Noble this morning (our weekly ritual of treats and books while Husband buys groceries at the Trader Joe's next door), Clara wanted to know how to spell "My light has burnt out," a phrase she diligently wrote down on a napkin, with help just for spelling not forming the letters. She then presented me with the napkin as a gift. Comment on her night light or perceptive insight into Mummy's mental health?