To sleep, perchance to breathe..

Well, we made it back from Colorado on Saturday night, the luggage making a fashionably late appearance, three hours after us. Fortunately because of my husband the air-mile king, it was taxied to us. That still didn't stop the little one grieving the potential loss of his beloved Sponge Bob pyjamas.

Although we love skiing and Copper Mountain, I am very thankful to be back at sea level. Copper is 9,712 feet (2926m) at the base and 12.313 (3767m) at the top. In preparation, we drink double the amount of water the week before we go, but it still doesn't stave off the hangover-type headaches I get. This time we didn't have bloody noses, but the wee one did throw up mid-week. Two years ago my older son had such bad altitude sickness we had an oxygen tank rattling away in the bedroom for three nights. (Guess who got to sleep with him to make sure he was okay? Or rather didn't sleep a wink.) We finally summised that his consumption of half a large pizza followed by about 8 snowboard hours on the first day had a lot to do with it.

For the first time, hubby developed night time breathing problems, substituting the world's loudest "PAH" for normal exhilations. It was like sleeping with a Shire horse, and was enough to blast me against the bedroom wall. (I realise I should have made the Arabian stallion comparison, but there's still some residual anger.) When elbow jabs to the lumbar region produced no positive results, (by which I mean cessation rather than death itself), I took refuge in the unoccupied bedroom. Next night, little one discovered the empty bed next to mine and promptly "kept me company" for the rest of the week. Now he always has night-time breathing difficulties up in the mountains, so I spent every night but the last, ministering to his snotty nose, cracked lips and dry mouth. On our last night I found the solution with a plug-in menthol thing plus a powerful humidifier in the room. We both slept like babies, at least until the snow cats started ploughing and raking at 5am!

Now we're back panicking about homework, violin practice and what to take for show and tell tomorrow morning. ("Something old" is the theme - but not a parent alas! That would be too easy.) Little one is currently vascillating between a photo of himself last July and a 90 year old golf club; both euqally old in his eyes.

Fortunately for me, the TV segment producer misread the release date of "The Other Boleyn Girl", which means I have a week to decide whether my self-trimmed fringe/bangs really do need expert intervention. It's only an 8 minute segment but the last time I got lazy about my hair, thinking that no one would see the un-quaffed back, they shot at least 40% of the segment over my shoulder.
This week, now that I can breathe properly again, I am going to take it slowly, get myself organized, find something that will make me look skinny and about 30 on camera (ha, ha, ha) and try to remember something from my A level History syllabus -1485 - 1601 or thereabouts. (That would be the period I studied, rather than when I studied it.) At some point I will also tackle the Everest of laundry that the "fairy" seems to have over-looked once again, pay a mountain of bills, buy three birthday presents for people of varying ages, start organzing a Spring sponsored walk for a school in Ghana, finish knitting a lovely cardi for the school benefit, and perhaps even pluck my eyebrows. Ah yes, - living the good life. At least I can breathe