I’ve started my fourth
class: Biological and Developmental Psychology. Oh man. I can’t believe people warned me about having to do statistics, but no one mentioned biology. BIOLOGY. Aaargh. Give me numbers anyday,
at least they don’t mess with my head while I’m learning about them (unlike
neuroanatomy; I’m using my brain
to learn about brains – like, whoa, man). Here’s a picture of my
textbook, with all of the concepts I’m still unclear about, despite having read
each of these paragraphs approximately 17 times, circled in red:
In other news, have I told
you yet that my medication is awesome? Last time I mentioned my meds I think I was
a month into the new ones and they hadn’t started working their magic, but now
they’re working their magic. I feel normal and content. Normal and content feel amazing.
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Hazel’s a month away from
turning two, and Mo’s a month and a few weeks away from turning five. Hazel has
a cold, and instead of sleeping a lot, like normal sick people do, she’s waking multiple
times during the night and having stupidly short naps during the day. Mo had
the flu last week, and was so sick he refused to eat any sweet foods, which had
me convinced he was dying (he said no to a biscuit! He never says no to a biscuit!). When he’s well he sometimes tells me
he’s feeling sick and needs some medicine (by which he means Panadol), and I
tell him that Panadol’s not for feeling sick, it’s for pain, and he replies,
“My arm hurts…?” and I tell him he’s not getting medicine. He thinks Panadol’s
like any other sugary treat he craves, except special-er thanks to its rare appearances.
Then last week, when he
actually needed Panadol, he didn’t want to take it – it was too sweet. The doctor
also prescribed a cherry-flavoured syrup, which smelt like red Starburst
lollies and made me want to drink some for myself (YUM!), but, according to Mo,
it was too sweet, too, and each time he saw see it
coming he’d flip out. For his last
dose, Alan and I belted out, “Here’s to Moses, he’s true blue,” and after our
“Drink it down! down! down! down!” Alan said, “If singing drinking songs to your
kids is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.”
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As for Alan, he’s started
his own business, which was a decision I was on board with until he actually
resigned from his job, at which point, fearing bankruptcy, homelessness, or, at
the very least, a curtailing of my café-going habits, I completely flipped out
(Mo and I have a lot in common). Anyway, it’s been going for about 6 weeks now,
and there’s too much work rather than not enough, which is nice, even though it
means he now spends most of his free time in front of his laptop trying to get
everything done. (He also paces the bedroom/his office speaking importantly on
the phone in his deep, ocker man-voice, reserved for male tradesmen, drillers,
and other engineers: “Orright, no worries, mite. Yip, that’s foin. Orright. Boi,
mite.”)
His website’s here, but it’s
not yet finished, and I told him I wasn’t going to link to it on my blog until
he expanded the picture to include
the bottom of the clover and removed that awful blue bar across it, but apparently he has “more important things to do”
and obviously knew I’d give up eventually and just post it. Well played,
husband.
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