I am a machine

According to someone at work.

She probably thought she was giving me a compliment--saying that I work hard, fast, and reliably. That has translated into project managers giving me lots of tasks outside of my "typical" editing work. It's nice to know that someone appreciates my speed and accuracy; being called a "machine" is probably not the best way to acknowledge that. But the woman in question is not an editor and probably doesn't choose her words as carefully as I choose mine.

I know--shut up and take the compliment, right?

Some days I wish I could be a machine and get by on less sleep. These days, I find that I am at my best after nine hours, which isn't always practical with my life and schedule. I was asleep by 10:30 last night and I woke up on my own, without an alarm at 5:15 this morning. It was too early to really be cognizant of anything, so I rolled up and was rudely awakened by the beeping of my alarm at 6:45. I was so groggy! That leads me to believe that perhaps I slept too much--my circadian rhythms are off. Maybe they will reset when we stop saving daylight.

Enough navel-gazing.

My children have two completely different noses. Neither nose is one to be envied. I don't recognize either one as being mine. My son's looks a bit like my husband's. Maybe he'll grow into his nose. I suppose there is always rhinoplasty, if it bothers him. I think it's cute--now. Trying to imagine my four-year-old at 12, or even 10, is tough.

The machine has had its break and must now resume operations.