Okay, okay, so I’m being dramatic. A little. But here I am, official day 1 of my spring break, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m not supposed to be here. I was going to spend the last few days of this challenge reflecting on how soul-recharging the beach and sun and sand and palm trees were. How being in my home away from home with my fiance for 5 glorious days is just the best. But I’m at home. In cold Chicagoland. With my covid-sick soon-to-be 20-year-old Jake (aka BOY).
I know I did the right thing. He has hardly gotten out of bed in the last 36 hours and if I didn’t force it on him, he probably wouldn’t eat or drink anything. Not to mention we have an 8-month-old puppy and boy is in no shape to take care of her. I spent most of yesterday and this morning mourning the plans I had made for break and resigning myself to the downright crappy Chicago weather I would be experiencing the rest of this week. I have finished one book, am almost finished with another, and I’m going to make chicken noodle soup for dinner.
I wasn’t supposed to have to cook dinner this week. I should be dining out on the water, drinking tropical drinks and salivating over seafood. I should be living in a swimsuit and cover-up, then curling up on the couch later with a blanket because the air conditioning is cold. I should be getting ready for a day out on the boat. I should be…I should be…I should…
BUT…I GET TO be home with boy. I GET TO take care of him while he is sick. I GET TO look forward to another trip to my Florida home in a few months. I GET TO lounge on the couch all day and read as many books as possible while snuggling with my puppy. I GET TO see my brother for dinner this week while he is in town for 2 days; I haven’t seen him in almost 7 years.
Day 1 of my captivity probably isn’t so bad after all.