Annabelle is home sick.

She, Sophie and I all caught colds (a record — school’s barely been back two weeks) and while Sophie and I are fully functional though snuffly, as often happens, Annabelle’s went straight to her chest and she was up at 3:30 this morning, coughing that terrifying croup-y cough. I don’t think it’s technically croup, but close enough. She and I stayed home.

I dragged her to Safeway for milk, then put her in front of the TV and made her favorite egg and rice dish; there are artichokes steaming right now, another favorite. I was really proud that I remembered to cancel my lunch appointment, only to remember that I forgot I’d double booked when the phone rang at 11:45. Damnit.

The edges of my facade are peeling up — more than usual. I’m off to the Genius Bar at the Apple store when Ray gets home tonight (that’s why I haven’t posted any photos lately; my IT problems have snowballed) and I’m schizo in that way I always am when I work at home: I have plenty of real work to do, but the house is a sty and I know I’ll be so much more productive on the computer as soon as I reorganize the VHS tapes. (I actually just did that; it only made me want to tackle the DVDs.)

As is so often the case, Annabelle’s the one who cut through the cobwebs, reminding me of what I should really be doing.

Pretending to eat her rice, she mentioned — out of nowhere — that when she’s on Project Runway (not if but when) she’ll be sure to do it before she has kids, since otherwise they’ll miss her while she’s gone.

And then a few minutes later, she asked if we could please please please bake. And use the fondant. I paused to consider it. If we do that, there goes any hope of any more cleaning or working — and it’ll make a giant mess. We’ll waste the last of the fondant I made her promise we’d save for a special occasion.

It was a no brainer.

“Yes,” I said. “We can.”