Four years ago, in a surge of nesting hormones or something, I decided to crochet a baby bunting (that's a little baby-sack sort of thing with arms) for the impending arrival of D1.
Three years ago, I pulled it out again and worked on it a little longer for the impending arrival of D2.
When books began to pall this time around, I took it out again. I remembered why I never finish this sort of thing. First I crocheted several rows, then I discovered a three-year-old and dozens-of-rows earlier error that required ripping out the entire front side. I crocheted along for a few days, got almost to the previous ripping-out point, and discovered another error about two-thirds of the way down the part I had just repaired. Meanwhile the ducklings have discovered the joys of poking spare crochet needles into balls of yarn (and dropping them and seeing them roll across the floor).
The only consolation is that it's really easy to pull out crochet stitches. There is a reason I never attempt cross-stitch at all.
Getting better is like that. I feel better one day, try some grand venture like sitting up for a half-hour straight, and find myself fighting all my meals the next day. I really am feeling better, but definitely not to the point of dancing around like people in pharmaceutical commercials. (On the other hand, I've gotten thus far without pharmaceuticals. I don't care how safe they are. I do not like putting strange substances into me, especially not when there is someone else in there.)
Wondergirl has very wonderfully agreed to stay on an extra two weeks, in hopes that I can rebuild my strength enough to reclaim the helm by then. I am doing my exercises and taking my vitamins and trying not to worry.