In that I seem to have a bronchial infection.
Even the word muffin sounds like how a muffin looks, all puffed up at the top.
Another snowpacalypse. The little one is sick, but has managed to find part of the Super Why game on the iPad she hasn’t seen before, so that should occupy her for another eight or nine minutes. Only seven more hours until someone else can take over.
It’s fun to enunciate the p. Slop-P-P-P-P-P.
There is only one medically interesting thing about me and that is that I had precipitous labor, which was unpleasant. Nothing like going from fine to insanely massive amounts of pain in thirty minutes.
So few fiction books talk about labor honestly. The first book I read where it wasn’t He paced the hall, listening to his wife’s cries and unable to come to her aid. Then the nurse opened the door and there was his baby. was The Breakwater House by Pascale Quiviger. I understand somewhat why books don’t go to the labor place: men don’t want that, child-free women don’t want that. Still, the longer piece I’m working on talks about birth. Let’s narrow the prospective readership even further!
I’m really digging hard g‘s and onomatopoeia lately. Also, silent h‘s remind me of the sort of silent h in my own name.