I don't know why I am feeling tight and clammy again, but there we are. It would make more sense if there were a nice predator around, you know: grizzly bear, man-eating shark, Mitt Romney campaigners. Then the panic would have a purpose. A nice, let's-get-the-heck-out-of-here-NOW purpose. Instead, it seems only to rob me of sleep. And of course, it's occurring because I am moving into a larger, nicer house. Oh, yes, it's all coming clear to me now... I AM AN IDIOT.
I've had a day in which I could not get motivated to do anything. I basically drove kids to school, put the baby down for a nap and proceeded to lie on the couch for nearly 2 hours. I slept a little, thought a lot, read for a bit. Could have been packing boxes, could have been making lists of things we need to do tomorrow during the do-or-die work day, but didn't.
And Tim is now on the couch with a migraine, so I will be single parenting tonight. How dare he have a genuine illness which prevents me from being the basket case? How am I going to have my panic attack later if he's writhing and moaning in pain? I guess it's an hour on the treadmill and a 12-hour antihistimine instead. I hate having to be the bigger person.
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