Three times in my life I have been ridiculously sick. Not sick like major illness, scary life-threatening disease sick. Sick like ridiculous.

The first time was twenty years ago. I got sick over Thanksgiving and I stayed sick until February. It was the first Christmas after my grandfather died. We spent it in Florida, and I can remember being absolutely miserable, trying to be a good tourist, visiting Disneyworld, shopping at flea markets and so on, but with the energy of a sloth. I went to the doctor when I got back home with a fever of 103. She told me I had the flu. I said, “but you don’t understand, I’ve been sick for six weeks.” She said, “you’ve probably caught every flu going around.” Gee, that’s helpful.

The second time was the summer of 2000. We lived in a second-floor apartment. The laundry room was down the stairs, across the parking lot, and down another flight of stairs. I sat on the steps and tried not to cry between loads because I was so tired that the walk felt like a marathon. At one point during that summer, I called to make a doctor’s appointment. I wound up spending an hour on the phone with the nurse, because she was very committed to the idea that I should go to the emergency room right away, and I was very committed to the idea that I was much, much, much too sick to go to an emergency room. After about two months of being miserable, I was watching television and saw a commercial for my allergy medication that said “side effects can  include flu-like symptoms.” I promptly stopped taking it. I promptly got better.

The last time was in Santa Cruz, right before we moved to Florida. I got sick in March. I went away on a business trip. I got better. I came home, I got sick again. After about a month, I went to the doctor, was diagnosed with a sinus infection, started antibiotics, went on another business trip, got better. Came home. Got sick again. More antibiotics. Went on vacation, got better. Came home. Got sick again. Then got seriously sick with shingles.

Some people apparently have mild cases of shingles. I was not one of them. The pain from shingles felt like bolts of electricity zapping my side. It was … well, I did natural childbirth. I’ve got a pretty good pain tolerance. One time, I twisted my ankle and four days later a friend — a former professional biker who’d quit because he’d injured himself so badly — told me it was the worst-looking sprained ankle he’d ever seen and he couldn’t believe I hadn’t gone to the doctor. (I did after that; it was just a sprain.) I’m not really tough — I hate pain, I do my best to avoid it. But I’m reasonably stoic while experiencing it. Not with shingles. Shingles was hell.

After that, I put two and two together and figured out that my house was making me sick. We had a mold problem, I have allergies, it was a bad combo. We moved out, and I got better.

All of this leads us to now. R and I have both been sick — with ups and downs, but more lows than highs — since he came home on New Year’s Day with a cold. I am very, very tired of it. I’ll be better for three days, start to feel like life is in my control again, and then, pow, back down. I’ll have a day or two where I think, eh, I’m just a little allergic and then I try to get something done and have to take a nap halfway through. But it’s most frustrating not to know for sure what the problem is. Is it 1) flu leading to colds leading to flu and back again, the viruses simply winning or 2) a reaction to my current allergy pills or 3) allergies or 4) something else entirely?

We are both on antibiotics now. I have a horrible history with antibiotics, absolutely horrible. Emergency room visits and side effects that lingered for months. And yet I’m desperate enough to take the chance because in nine days, we are getting on an airplane and going to Belize. And damn it, I am not going to be sick.

My resolution of last year was pretty simple: be kinder to myself and others.

I’d say I didn’t really do so well at it. Not that I was unkind to anyone else, but then I’m generally not–it was more of a mental change I was looking for rather than an actual behavioral change. And mentally, wow, was I hard on myself last year. C’est la vie. I should probably keep trying, but it’s not going to be my resolution again.

No, this year, my mental goal is to try to appreciate the moment. I started with “remember to appreciate the moment,” but that’s very in-your-head. I don’t want to be thinking, “Enjoy this, this day will never come again.” Instead, I want to be enjoying it. So that’s the goal. Appreciate where I am. (At the moment, the dog is licking my foot with deep concentration. It tickles.)

On a few more practical goals, I’m going to start tracking word count. I made myself a little Excel spreadsheet. I’ve never done this before: I’ve never liked the focus. What good is it write 1000 words if the words go nowhere and do nothing? But in the interests of seriously cultivating better writing habits, I’m going to give it a try. (Resolution failure waiting to happen is when you say you’ll “give it a try!” So maybe I’ll be a little more specific–for the next two months, I will track my word count and if it’s helpful to me, I’ll continue.)

I’m also going to try to do a 20/10 every day. (If you’re not a #UFYH follower, that means 20 minutes of cleaning, followed by 10 minutes of rest.) Every single day. There’s always plenty to do–there are some deep goals, like cleaning out closets and the spare room and the garage that I never get to because they seem so overwhelming. So this year, when things are in shape, I’m not going to say, “well, it looks pretty good, I think I’ll skip today.” That way lies the descent into “ugh, how did this place become such a disaster area?” Instead I’ll use my 20 minutes to tackle one of those seemingly irretrievable areas and/or to drive to Goodwill and donate.

Last, but not least, I’m going to really teach myself how to format ebooks. I’ve trusted in the software process so far, but I’m tired of never really feeling certain what’s going on behind the scenes. I want to feel safe that my books are as perfect as I can make them and–okay, it’s a little obsessive of me–I’ll feel that way not by paying someone else but by knowing how to do it myself.

Do I have writing goals? Probably. Finish A Gift of Time for March release, finish A Gift of Grace with less pain and suffering than Time has already caused. Maybe write a couple more Akira short stories for the fun of it. I have to think that their wedding ought to have some associated drama. But I’m not going to stress too hard on those.

This year might be the very last year that R lives at home (or it might not, life is long and strange) and I want to be sure that my focus is on having a healthy life/family/work balance. I don’t get these days back again. If I’ve spent them all grinding away trying to become a successful writer…well, honestly, I still think it seems really unlikely. Most writers can’t earn enough to live on by writing except by making the 18-hour day commitment that JA Konrath and Bella Andre talk about. And for me, making that kind of commitment now means giving up something that matters more to me. Maybe it’s worth it if being a professional writer is the only job you’ve ever wanted, but I’ve had plenty of other jobs I’ve enjoyed. Every job has trade-offs. The writer trade-off tends to be that it has to be the only thing you care about and for me, right now, that’s just not how it is. Maybe in 2014–especially if R is living elsewhere–it will be.

So! 2013, here we are! May it be a joyful and lucky year for all of us.

On 9/11, I was in California. By the time my alarm went off, the first tower had already collapsed. I heard at most ninety seconds of radio news before my five-year-old said, “What’s a terrorist? What happened?” and I shut the radio off.

For most people, the next few days were non-stop televised tragedy. For me, it was the completely surreal attempt to shield my boy from the entire thing. My most vivid memory is of watching his kindergarten class play on the playground while adults stole away to listen to radio reports in the school director’s office as furtively as if we were shooting up in the bathroom.

I asked him yesterday what he remembered. He thought about it then slowly shook his head. “Nothing. Not from when it happened. I remember a ceremony, some kind of memorial service, but I think that was later.” Success!

I didn’t realize this at the time, but by shielding him, I shielded me, too. It was years before I saw and heard the sights and sounds of that day. I wish I had done the same this weekend. I know that whether or not I put up the Christmas tree has nothing to do with anything that’s happening in CT, but it feels so wrong.

Ironically, on Thursday, I was really happy. I’m working on a very fun secret project (not to be secret for long!), and I got my hot water heater fixed. It’s been semi-broken for months, which is not that big a deal in Florida, really–cold showers are not usually a problem when it’s 80 degrees–but oh, it was fun to have hot water again. I think I shall pretend to go backward in time to Thursday and work on being happy about hot water and being entertained by my secret project. Wouldn’t it be nice if time could rewind like that?

I walked into R’s room and said, “I know you hate it when I rant about television. I know. But do you mind if I do it anyway?”

He said, “What show?”

I said, “Sherlock.”

He said, “Yeah, I don’t like that one anyway. Go ahead.”

I said, “Forget the sexism. Take it for granted that Steven Moffat is completely insanely sexist, doesn’t understand that women are human beings, whatever. Assume that and let it go. The show is still completely maddening.”

He wrote something on a note card. I think he was prepping for his drama class.*

“It’s like World of Warcraft, really. Irene Adler is a rogue. So, whatever, she’s an evil female character, yeah, so what? Really, she’s a rogue. Everyone hates rogues. They’re annoying. But they are what they are and when they’re played well, they kick butt.”

He says, “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t care whether Irene Adler is sexist. Yes, women tend to be rogues. They learn how to manipulate and back stab and stealth, because what the hell, those are useful skills when you’re small and weak and somewhat defenseless. And they’re really annoying skills when you’re PVPing against them.”

He blinks.

“I’m serious. Irene Adler is a rogue. Which is fine. Rogues suck, but it’s a legitimate character class. But then — then — then he turns her into a pally. What the hell is up with that? Rogues don’t act like pallies. Rogues don’t do front-on confrontations. Rogues don’t call people ‘junior’ and get all triumphant about defeating them. Rogues that do that kind of thing get their butts kicked.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying that the ending of episode one of season two of Sherlock isn’t annoying because it’s sexist — although god knows it’s sexist — it’s annoying because it violates character class rules. It’s annoying because it is absolutely crappy characterization. It’s annoying because turning a rogue into a pally for ten minutes because it helps your script is lazy, lazy, lazy screenwriting.”

He writes something on his notecard. “Done?”

“Yep. And I feel much better. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I will probably have to give up watching television when my boy leaves home.

*He doesn’t read my blog, but I was writing when he came into my room to say goodnight. It was government, not drama. Also, he doesn’t think he said, “Done?” which he felt sounded pejorative. He thinks he said, “Feel better?” This could be true. But it would be unduly repetitive and he was willing to grant that it was okay as is.

1) I’m a terrible manager of myself. If I was a good manager, I’d fire me for being a rotten employee.

1a) If I was my employee, I hope I’d fight my firing and try to get disability for depression instead.

1b) If I was a really good manager, I’d make my employee-self get treatment for depression.

I have a really long post half-written about depression. Not so much fighting it, because I’m not fighting it very successfully, but about the ironies of needing motivation to fight an illness when a symptom of the illness is lack of motivation. Actually, it’s not really about that at all, but that’s what it will get to eventually if I ever finish writing it. I promised a friend that I’d get medication in August. It’s now December. Time moves very quickly when you sleep through it.

I suppose that counts as a random thought, but that wasn’t where I was going with my randomness.

2) UFYH had a post about how doing one dish was better than doing none, although technically the person posting had done ten. For a brief moment in time, I found that motivating. Then yesterday I looked at the kitchen and did the math. If I wash one dish but use three, I am on a path of inevitable decline. My lackadaisical dishwashing simply staves off the moment when there are no clean dishes left and makes the misery of a mostly dirty kitchen last longer. Possibly much, much longer. So we did a 20/10 and Rory did the kitchen.

3) Walked the dog after dark yesterday. Not my usual habit. Instead of chasing lizards, she chased frogs, and instead of terrifying squirrels, she frightened a rabbit. My neighborhood has just as much animal life at night, but totally different. This morning I saw a hawk, sitting high up on a street light and I wondered whether an owl took its turn on the same post the previous night. I should walk the dog at night more often.

4) I was seriously considering skipping Christmas entirely this year. My entire gift budget disappeared last week in a — wow, so I wish it had been an electrical problem, so I could write “crackle and pop”, but no, it was more of a “thud” — when R dropped his computer. Or dropped something on his computer. Or possibly both, I’m still not sure I understand the story. But the computer was dead and he needs a computer for school and thus, he has an awesome Christmas gift — relatively, that is, it was the cheapest laptop we could get — and there will be no other Christmas presents.

And Christmas was my mom’s holiday. Last year I cried through decorating the tree and took it down the day after Christmas with relief. Why put myself through that? Then I read this post on Momastery. You know how sometimes you read something that doesn’t really fit your circumstances but still strikes a chord? That’s what happened. There’s no line or sentence I can point to that was the meaningful one, but as I said there, “You’ve reminded me why I should care (about the holiday). We celebrate the light in the darkness. If it was just light in light, what would there be to be thankful for?”

I have a lot to be thankful for. (But I should probably still figure out how to get some anti-depression drugs.)

We were in the car on the way to school when Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream played on the radio, right after Taylor Swift’s We Are Never, Ever Getting Back Together. I mentioned to Rory that the singers singing about infatuated romance two years ago have now moved on to bitter break-up songs and something about his expression — first thoughtful, then mildly horrified — made me laugh so hard I almost choked. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. I’m sure whenever it was he was the one who made me do it and we were also in the car, because it felt like such a familiar experience, but wow, it felt rejuvenating. I think I’ve felt happier all morning long because of it.

I wrote yesterday for the first time in weeks. Literally, weeks. This morning, I expected–somewhat gloomily– to hate everything I wrote last night, but  in fact, I quite liked it. Whee. I haven’t yet written any more today, but I’m trying to make a pact with myself that I’ll write 1000 words a day of something. If not Time, then a short story or a letter or a blog post. Anything that lets me get back into the habit of fingers moving across the keyboard. This counts as a couple hundred words, but there will be more to come later.