Lately I have been walking the edge of a very narrow cliff. On one side -- the safe side -- lies hopefulness, optimism, and resilience. On the other side, yawns a dark abyss at the bottom of which lies the Pit of Despair. I have my good days and my bad days (usually my bad days are the ones I have spent fruitlessly searching the real estate listings online), but the stress of maintaining my footing on that crumbly edge is really getting to me. Wednesday we had some of our stress removed when the ultrasound of Katie's kidneys came back fine. Then yesterday morning she came down with a sore throat and a fever. The poor kid can't seem to catch a break. We've been here about three weeks and already she's had a cold, an ER-worthy kidney infection, and now yet another virus. The housing situation makes me glum and worried if I don't actively battle it, but adding worry about your kids into the equation is another thing entirely.

From my teenage years into my early twenties I suffered from the kind of depression you can come to think of as your normal state of affairs until it either kills you or you somehow dig out of it and realize how not normal depression really is, that life is not supposed to be that gray, painful, and … lifeless. Since I have no desire to go back to that place, I have learned to be aware of my early warning signs and have developed a few guerilla tactics for improving my mood. One of those tactics, probably the oldest one and the one I use when I am most in need of a lift, is to read a meaningless novel.

I stayed up till 1:30 AM last night reading a Johanna Lindsay romance I picked up off the rack at Walmart. It certainly wasn't great literature, but then I didn't want great literature. I wanted a story I could read and not think about. One with no great "themes" or hidden meanings. Nothing edifying or classic. Nothing your English teacher would make you read because you were supposed to.

There is a lot of debate in the homeschooling community about what kids should and shouldn't read, and what the parents of these kids should or shouldn't read, too. There's a line of thought that says you should fill your mind only with the best, the purest, the highest quality. To some extent, I think that's true. Little House on the Prairie is definitely more enjoyable to read to your kids than one of those Berenstain Bears chapter books (not the picture books), and because it is so good, kids love to listen to it. And I refuse to buy my daughter Disney princess books. (Her grandmother takes care of that for me, unfortunately.) But sometimes you are just too tired for the good, the true, the best. Sometimes the good, the true, the best is a little depressing. Sometimes you want the fun, the so-so, the mediocre. Sometimes that's all you can handle.

Johanna Lindsay is actually one of the better writers in the romance genre, and I think, somewhat shackled by the conventions of the genre. (Maybe she wouldn't say that, it's just an outside observation about the norms of the genre.) Romance isn't about exciting action scenes, so she had to gloss some of the most exciting parts in the book -- parts I was actually reading toward -- to get to the romantic "after" scenes. I did attempt to shove my inner writer back into her corner while I was reading, though, because nothing ruins a literary escape more than a running internal critique.

The problem is, I read the whole thing last night as soon as I got it home. And now I'm left with nothing to read and a sick kid.

I may actually be forced to read it again.