Sick, oh, and F. Scott Fitzgerald

Sooo, Thing's sniffly nose turned into a case of croup. Yuck. I know I was a little surprised to hear it when I brought her in today, " Um, Hello 1892 called (or wrote a letter as it were) and wants its croup back." I didn't think kids still got that these days.
But has it she does, and I feel simultaneously like the big bad meanie (who has to give her the nastiest medicine, prompting a sort of Dumbledore-Harry-drinking scene in the kitchen) and Florence Nightingale here to save the day with all my banners flying! 
But as thrilling as it all is, I'm beat...and off to attempt a nap or more realistically, read in bed while thinking about how desperately I need a nap, and telling myself that the next page is really the last. 

But before I do, I have a dapper young man that has been waiting to be added to my authors collection.

My idea is always to reach my generation. The wise writer writes for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward.
-F. Scott Fitzgerald