From the misty haze of Vicodin comes a mostly coherent blog post.

Last week my back started hurting, just on the lower right side, and I assumed I had pulled a muscle. I didn't remember having pulled a muscle, but that's what it felt like. And it didn't go away, and it didn't go away, and then I started feeling achy all over and having the chills. By Saturday evening, I was curled up in the fetal position in bed, sure that I was dying, and Eliot was yelling, "I NEED juice!" and I was moaning.

He came into the bedroom and said, "Wake up, Mommy!"

I groaned, "Mommy is sick."

He replied, "You're not sick; you're Mommy!"

Yeah, I wish it worked that way. Somehow, my mother-in-law swooped in to take care of the small boy, and as soon as I heard her hit the door, I succumbed to a pain-induced coma. Or I might have just fallen asleep. Whatever.

Sometime in the night, I woke shivering and begging Eli to layer more quilts on top of me.

Then, at 5:00 a.m., no longer able to sleep, I finally admitted I needed to go to the emergency room. I was sure I had swine flu. Oink.

Two hours later, after peeing in a cup and settling back on a hospital cot watching reruns of Law & Order, I found out I had a kidney infection.

The good people of the E.R. pumped me full of intravenous antibiotics and painkillers and sent me home. We were all relieved that I didn't have anything contagious.

Grandma stayed to take care of Eliot (Eli was working 12 hour shifts this weekend), and I was free to sleep and wake to take more Vicodin, play with Mog, sleep...

We built a state-of-the-art parking garage for Mog's cars.



Unfortunately, a monster fish came and ate part of the garage, and some of the cars got lost in the block forest trying to escape.





But luckily, the fort lick was able to move blocks, clearing a path to freedom for Lightning Keen.

What, you've never heard of a fort lick before? Sure you have! It has prongs and it lifts pallets. It looks like this:



It's so much fun to watch Eliot's imagination grow. He has begun playing differently, making up storylines to his games, having his cars talk to one another.

I couldn't help but be cheered by him, even yesterday in the midst of a Vicodin haze, battling a wicked painful



We talked about the blocks, what colors they were, what letters they had on them, what words we know that begin with each letter.

And just maybe, that little boy will grow up to be a real



just like his mommy.

"No," he says, "When I grow up, I'm gonna be a farmer."