Sometimes decisions come to you quickly, in waves of intuition that you know are correct and require no reconsideration. Sometimes they take years of occasionally-returning thoughts before a final realization is made. Sometimes they languish for years, waiting for an impetus, a catalyst.

One such catalyst came for me today.

Jeff doesn't always like it that I write a journal for an audience. I do try to respect his privacy, but I don't always manage it to the level that he would like. It's all too easy sometimes to forget that things that are important to me are important to him too—but may not be things that he wants to share with the world.One of the things we've talked about that falls into a gray area is our discussion about whether or not to have children. I know that I have much more strong feelings on the subject than Jeff does or ever will—partly because I'm the female in this relationship, and thus a lot of the burden would fall on me.

The urge to wrap up the year is a persistent one in humanity. Send out the old, send in the new, remember who we were, make plans for who we want to be. We're sentimental calendar-based critters. Even the most jaded among us tend to take stock of their lives in late December.

I might or might not post that sort of thing today. I haven't decided.

As I grow older, I find that I prize my time alone more and more. Thus, here I sit at six a.m., tapping away at a keyboard. The computer room door: open just a crack. One of my curious cats could use an inquisitive front paw and a quick headbutt to open the door if they really wanted to, but this way Jeff won't be disturbed by the light coming from this room.

Well, I certainly got my Christmas present today.

I should've figured out that something was up when Andy wasn't on ICQ last night. I know good and well that the only time he completely shuts down his computer is when he's not at his house.

You can probably guess who, along with Heather, showed up on my doorstep this morning. With the Christmas present (a signed copy of Orson Scott Card's book, Ender's Game) of course.So much for a quiet day of getting the house clean. Instead, we went grocery shopping, team-cooked a nice dinner, and socialized. We watched the Penguins game. I didn't do much, but I'm still wiped out.

I'd write charming pithy commentary, but my brain's starting to fuzz over from the antihistamines that I took. Hopefully they'll help me sleep, too.

I really shouldn't have taken that nap earlier this evening, but it felt wonderful to lie on the couch with the cats stretched out on me and drift quietly to sleep while Jeff was watching Iron Chef. I vaguely remember opening my eyes once and seeing something about an unusual preparation of fried rice, and then sliding softly back into sleep.

This was a good thing; I think I need the rest. My concern over my general health is starting to nibble at me a bit. First, a serious bout of stomach flu and strep throat within a six-week period, and now a week after finishing up my medication to treat strep, I appear to be coming down with a cold.I rummaged through our horrendously messy kitchen table this evening and found the cold medicine Jeff bought a few weeks ago. It seems to be helping a bit. If nothing else, it will probably help me sleep—once I get sleepy, that is. My nap has thrown my internal clock for a bit of a loop.

A joyous season to you, reader. It's good to be home.

I woke up this morning with a maddening snippet of lyric in my head. Somewhere in the last dream I had before wakening, I heard the song phrase, "Every time you walk into the room…" Some quick googling told me that what I was hearing in my head was a snippet of the chorus from Stevie Nicks' "Rooms On Fire."