Or at least that's the case in my house. It's the sign that Mummy is not only deeply absorbed in writing a new book, but that she's reached the very best stage--where the first draft is complete, she's already lived through a few painful rewrites, and now the book is starting to come together. Little coincidences pop up, things that made no sense now have a reason for being, and characters are taking shape as actual, well, characters. But this stage comes at a cost--it swallows up her thoughts day and night.
It's also at this stage Mummy realizes--with some guilt, but not nearly enough--that her children are heading off to school with t-shirts so wrinkled other kids may go home and report it to their parents. Which means other parents will think that things are somewhat out of control at the Cohen house.
Okay, maybe they are--if you consider fresh laundry and clean dishes and a fully stocked fridge to be a sign of mental stability. In our house, however, we're more than willing to forage for food and the least rumpled shirt if it means we can spend more time together writing, reading, making music, drawing, laughing...whatever. And if the mountain of clothes at the end of my bed waiting to be folded and put away is any indicator of our collective mental health, we're doing great.
What about you? What odd signs of happiness does your house reveal?