My week with Pixfish was going swimmingly (you know you loved that pun) until the unthinkable happened: I got bitch-slapped by a summer cold.

You know who I thought didn't get hit by colds this hard? Vegetarian joggers. Because not only do we have strong hearts, but all the little animals think warm thoughts for us as they're not being sent to their deaths because of our food choices. All that karma and cute shoe wearing should really pay off, right?

Wrong. So wrong that we've come full circle and are almost at 'right' again. For the last five days I've been going through tissues like I used to go through booze, whining more than I normally do (unfathomable to anyone who has to deal with me on a regular basis) and sleeping the broken sleep of only the very sick or the very new parent.

And who has been by my side every step of the way? Who has been putting her delicate plastic hand in mine as I suffer through this torture? Who has let me play with her creepy straw-like hair in between hacking fits?

Not that old best friend of mine, What's-Her-Face. She was off visiting relatives while I was dying on my couch. She was sending me maybe a text message every two days about something random, like being on a beach, while I was wheezing so loud I couldn't hear the romantic comedy I was trying to watch.

The nerve. What kind of friend isn't there for you in your darkest moment?

I've come to realize that if she were any kind of friend at all, What's-Her-Face would have a perfectly realistic magical psychic connection to me, where she could sense I was coming down with a cold the day before it actually struck, leaving her enough time to wake her children up, excuse her early departure, and whip down the highway in time to get here for my first sneeze. That's a real friend for you. I don't think it's asking too much to meet my needs first, you know?

The one who sat with me through thick and thin this week was none other than Pixfish, my sweet little bundle of foreign toxins. That bi-mythical beauty got me through a tough time, showing me how lovingly co-dependent she is, and earning herself a place in the heart of The Maven for years to come.

Or until one of the dogs uses her as a chew toy. Whichever comes first.

With the plague behind me, I'm anxious to get back to running. It's been just over a week, now. I yearn for the sweat to pour down my face and to hear myself gasping for air again.

Actually, maybe I should take up knitting.

No! Back, fowl beast of slackerdom! I will run again. Just not this weekend. And why is that?

Get ready for it. Get ready...

... You might want to be sitting down for this one.

...Because Geekster took Gutsy and Intrepid camping for four days!

Four freaking days!!

"But wait a minute, Maven. Don't you still have Spawnling?"

I do, but I'm still happier than a free-range pig in free-range shit. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, my lambs. It's a good one, so pay attention:

Having only one child is easy. Easy, easy, easy. Don't ever let anyone with an only tell you otherwise.

It's not that they're lying. In the parents-to-an-only mind, it's a tough job raising just one little ankle-biter to the age of 18. And why is that? Because they lack perspective.

See, before raising Junior they were only raising themselves. It is technically harder, but not as hard as what they could have. Once you've had two crumb-snatchers you start to reminisce about how simple your life was with Junior before you gave birth to Junior-er. And, in the case of the truly insane who end up with Junior, Junior-er and Junior-est, going back to the days of only Junior sounds like winning a garbage bag full of money.

See? Perspective. And from where I sit in my crazy chair, having just a Spawnling around sounds like the makings of a pretty quiet weekend. I'm positively stoked!

I am now waiting for the mothers of four to start telling me raising three children is easy. Save your breath, ladies: you're absolutely right. So right, in fact, that I drove my husband to the pee-pee doctor last year to make sure there were no more Geekster Juniors in our future. I believe I have more than enough perspective now. Most days I would say my cup runneth over with perspective and I choketh on it.

The good news is that I should theoretically have more time and energy for blogging over the next couple of days. It's almost like having the older gremlins back in school again; all day and all night school.

I believe that's called a 'boarding school', and it's usually reserved for rich kids who's parents would rather go skiing after dinner than practice the times tables. Since I'm neither rich nor a skier, I'll take this limited opportunity for near-solitude and report back ASAP with how our weekend is going.

Pixfish, I promise to make up for this week of sucktitude with some most excellent social frolicking. Onward!