The one where I’m a hypochondriac. Or Dying.

Little known fact:  I’m a hypochondriac.

Currently, I believe I have mono (I don’t), strep (no chance) and chronic fatigue syndrome (just lazy).

I do have narcolepsy, though.

That’s a real thing.  I know, because I fall into a deep, coma-like sleep every single time I try to read on my iPad.  I mean, every time.  Typically, I raise the iPad up to begin reading, scroll-scroll-scroll to wherever I left off the night before, and then:  WHAM!  There’s an iPad slapping me in the face.

That sucker’s heavy, too.  I don’t have the iPad Air, you know.  I have the full-on dinosaur, first-release, fat iPad.  The iConcussion.

Back to my (undiagnosed) narcolepsy.  Here’s what I’ve found on WebMD:

Several specialized tests, which can be performed in a sleep disorders clinic or sleep lab, usually are required before a diagnosis can be established.

Did you get that, Bloggies?  There’s a place I can go called a SLEEP LAB.  Where they would like me to SLEEP.

I’m in.  And I am really good at it.

My poor kids, too.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened my eyes to find Littlest staring at me, patiently waiting for a break in the REM cycle.

Goofy tooth and all.

Does this child look worried to you?  Do you think he realizes that I have the Ebola virus (not a chance)?  Does he even see the chicken pox, just itching to emerge from my Irish pallid skin?  Sometimes people with husky voices like me are hiding something.  Something like laryngitis.

He’s unconcerned, and that’s my gift to him.

That’s right, Bloggies.  Cry wolf and name names, because your kids will become (wait for it) immune to the whole thing.  You’re actively lowering their stress level because nothing seemingly stressful ever pans out.  Their mother is NOT having a stroke, she’s numb on one side because she’s sitting on the TV remote.

Parenting.  It’s just not that hard.

Man and woman are like the earth, that brings forth flowers
in summer, and love, but underneath is rock.

Older than flowers, older than ferns, older than foraminifera,
older than plasm altogether is the soul underneath.

And when, throughout all the wild chaos of love
slowly a gem forms, in the ancient, once-more-molten rocks
of two human hearts, two ancient rocks,
a man’s heart and a woman’s,
that is the crystal of peace, the slow hard jewel of trust,
the sapphire of fidelity.

The gem of mutual peace emerging from the wild chaos of love.

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