No. It's not our home. But it *used* to be. If you go back far enough. Like, 300 years enough. Welcome to Codmore Farm, near Chesham, Buckinghamshire, England. It belonged to an ancestor on my mother's side, and if I may say so, it it exceptionally cute. Quite what I picture when I imagine my English cottage estate. Not that "cottage" that the hoi polloi own, but an honest-to-God one, white washed and all.
Then again, we have reliable birth control and antibiotics, so I shouldn't go pining for the past too deeply. Still. Wouldn't I look fetching in the front garden with a wide straw hat? Of course I would.
Today is my birthday and I spent it fighting off the Mongolian Death Plague. Again. Dude has something but it is only manifesting itself in gallons of snot so things could be worse on that front. On the downside, it makes nursing an ugly aural experience, I must say. sucksucksuckssssnnnnnnnngggggxxxxxxxx *gasp* sucksucksuckssssnnnnnnnngggggxxxxxxxx. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Now that Holidailies and NaBloPoMo are (finally) over and I can actually ruminate on things, I have a few interesting things to talk about, but right now I'm off to my death bed for another 12-hour stint. Can you believe it? I went to bed after the kids and got up once to snort Dude at 4, then back down until about 7. God, I don't know why I don't do that more often. AND? I got a bit of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell in to boot. I only wish I could stay up longer. It's quite good.
Last night I dreamt that we were in line for food somewhere that had those steam trays, like a quickie Chinese place. The woman who was serving us took liberal samples of everything she was serving, just munching the food she had gripped in her silver tongs. And no one thought twice about it! Apparently living off of the kids' leftovers is taking its toll.