20151117.0650

I did not feel well over the last few days (I am better now, thanks, although not quite up to full), so much so that I took a sick day yesterday. Those who know me know that I do not often do such things; I have long disliked having to get caught back up on things. (That I recently had a bout of having to get caught back up on things reminds me of why.) Those who have known me for a while know that I tend to work even on sick days, albeit less well than I normally do; true to form, I pressed ahead with grading as much as I could stand to do yesterday. Two classes are done; two more remain. Students already complain about their scores, but that is to be expected; the scores are my complaints about the reading I was obliged to do for them. Why I should be expected to reward students who have not addressed the assignments given them--particularly when they have been given models to follow, explicit instruction as to what theses to present and how to structure the arguments supporting them, and time in class to get answers to questions (which they then decry as "wasted" because "we just say the same things over and over again")--eludes me.

For those students who do pay attention to things and at least try to write the essays assigned, I am grateful. Even when they do badly in the attempt, they show that I am not spending my time in front of the classroom to no good end--and I often feel that I am.

To turn to other things: The Mrs. and Ms. 8 seem to have avoided whatever it was that took me for a ride this weekend, which is good. As has ever been the case, the Mrs. has been remarkably solicitous of me, doing much to ensure my comfort and helping to make sure that I do not lapse into failing to care for myself (something of a tendency of mine, unfortunately, although how much is innate and how much is social conditioning is unclear; I get tired, but there are things I power through despite fatigue--which may account for some of the problems of the weekend...). I remembered not to complain about the soup this time, which is not so much to my credit as it is not to my detriment. (I remain apologetic for the early lapse, my love.) Ms. 8 continues to bustle about, making mischief as she learns what is and is not fit for doing about Sherwood Cottage. How she has such energy, I do not know; I envy her it. Her life burns brightly yet, her lamp not sooted over as mine has too much been; I can only guess what she sees in its light, but I think it must be glorious when I see the joy that is so often on her face and hear it bubble up in her laughter.