After four days of being confined to bed, feeling as though one’s lungs are collapsing under the weight of a thousand stepdancing leprechauns who, when their legs get tired, relax by stabbing one in the ears with the pointy end of the rainbow, it’s hard to avoid feeling glumly reflective and moodily obsessive about, say, what many things have I failed to accomplished, lo these long years? and what will be my legacy, whensoever I am dragged from this bed, a bedraggled, lung-crushed heap? and shouldn’t I have a better mattress at this stage in my life? and why are there cracker crumbs in this bed? and why won’t anyone bring me tea in a nice china pot, with biscuits and sugar lumps on the side?

I grow old, I grow old.

I am consoled, only, with this, the knowledge that my children may someday find their place in the firmament that is Awkward Family Photos:

And that Jasper is destined to one day have his own late night cable talk show, on which he invites all viewers to accept Jesus Christ as their personal lord and savior:

(I had nothing to do with these photos. I send the kids to the local Church of Scientology daycare, and then, one day, they come home with these. Huh.)

Back to my medicines, and my sleeps.