I'm here, I swear, but this is really the first day that I have felt up to doing anything besides lying in bed feeling sorry for myself. Thanks to the beautiful weather, I spent all day with the windows open and the fans running, trying to serve an eviction notice on all the germs squatting in this house long past their welcome.
One of the hardest things these past few days has been to force myself to just take it easy, to tackle only what needed my attention and let the other things go. This has been somewhat of a challenge. I had my beginners knitting class on Saturday morning: I managed to make it through that, but my mind was on the fuzzy side and I am afraid that I sounded like an idiot to my students, thanks to several mathematical errors and misstatements. I was scheduled to attend an all-day workshop on Sunday, but I was forced to cancel: I didn't know how I would drive the hour there and back, let alone pay attention in any meaningful way for six hours straight. That one hurt, as I had been looking forward to the workshop for two months now.
The Yarn Harlot recently posted about motherly self-sacrifice in her usual inimitable way. When I wasn't passed out, I pondered about the same sort of sacrifice that goes on even when we are sick. Our default mode seems to be "I'm not that sick; sure I can still do that laundry/attend that soccer game/(insert task here)." Why do we find it so difficult to admit weakness and just announce (not ask or plead or beg, mind you, just ANNOUNCE) that we are feeling a bit weak and shaky, and need to rest, for our own good?
It should go without saying that it's for the good of others, as well, but for some reason that's the hardest part for me to remember in this whole equation.