Scene:  The kitchen, 8:30 am.  School starts in 10 minutes.  Daddy’s gone to Italy.  Mamma is on her own.  The dog is pacing, Ferd’s pink eye is back, and mamma’s lungs feel like they have been the floorboards for dance trials featuring concrete boots.  Mamma can’t find the eye drops or a pair of socks.  Ferdinand can’t find the stickers that the doctor gave him.  Mamma remembers she is on a massive dose of antibiotics and reaches for the bottle which is set just over the sink.  Mamma had never filled the sink with dishwater before, but she was trying to immitate the kind of people who are enviably organized and fill a sink with hot soapy water in the spirit of “let’s be ready for anything.”  The pills sunk to the bottom of the sink pit;  $150 dollars worth of uninsured pressed powder soaking with the breakfast dishes.
Mamma: (in her best Janis Joplin)  MY PILLS!  Oh my God, my pills, my pills.

Ferdinand:  They’re all wet Mom.  There’s soap and pancake stuff on them.

Mamma:  They’re fine.   I’ll put them in the oven.

For dinner I made Ferd potato cakes with the leftover mashed from my job on Tuesday.  I had baked antibiotics and a piece of cheese.