I spent almost all of Boxing Day in a benadryl-induced fog, sleeping cozily beneath piles of blankets with my mucous. My few waking moments were very nice, though. I ambled out to the kitchen for some cereal in the mid-afternoon and found that the table was covered in drying art work that the Lone Star Baby had done with her new Christmas art supplies and that the Lone Star Girl was busy weaving with her new butterfly loom.
Lone Star Pa got me my long-desired Mexican lime tree for Christmas and he offered to plant it, as well as the loquat tree that I won at a craft fair drawing awhile back. He and the Lone Star Baby worked industriously at planting the trees while I puttered about the garden weeding and re-potting and fussing over the succulent nursery. It was ever so nice.
I read the first chapter of The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe to the Lone Star Baby for a bedtime story - Santa brought her the Chronicles of Narnia. Late at night, I watched a couple of episodes of Dr. Who with the Girl, in honor of Boxing Day, but then she was too scared to go to sleep alone (Don't Blink) so I tucked her in to her sister's bed and they always look so sweet when they are snuggled up asleep.
Written like that it seems like a great day, not a lost day. Maybe I should spend more days under the covers.
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