A morning.

February 8, Saint-Ismier.

We are all sick, the kids and I, a virus or another, nothing to be done except wait and try not to worry too much, and sleep at night.
It is hard to work even when nobody's sick and the kids go to school; Nicolas stays home in the afternoon, there is the buying and the cooking, the getting them to and from school, there are the errands, the humdrum of life as a mother, between homes and countries, and so precious little time to work, work at trying to get The Mud Show Diaries published, by anyone, anywhere, in any form, at trying to get started online, proofreading, editing, writing - just to write these miserly words has taken me more than an hour, Mom can I get an apple, Mom can I get more apple, Mom I need help with my painting, drink your juice, Dylan, you need to drink more, Nicolas don't throw that, where was I, yes, an email from that publisher telling me they do not accept manuscript submissions anymore due to budget conditions, yes, but there are still N, O, P all the way to Z in the list of independent publishers, yes, but Dylan wants me to help him with his puzzle, full of dragons and furious unicorns, and I think Nicolas needs a nap.
Me too.
Three emails sent, call it a morning.