Down, but not Out

My darling husband, Boo, is in the hospital.

Respiratory Illness.

I won't be posting until my world is rightside up once more.

But I will be lurking about, like a bad ghost....


Afterall, what else is there to do in a hospital?


Update: Boo will be fine. If he quits flirting with the damn nurses he should be home tomorrow. Where he will start whining and bitching and driving me crazy from the confines of our bed. Should be a good time. Maybe I can sweet talk one of the nurses to come and take care of him while I go do something productive. Like drink a martini and shop for shoes.

Afterall, he looks mighty cute in powder blue hospital jammies. Brings out the blue in his eyes. Along with the sexy stubble and the husky voice, this might not be a hard sell. Hmmm...

A Fairy Is Born

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful lady who gave birth to her fair haired darling. People would stop by her room and gaze upon this lovely golden child and then ask "Where did she come from? Is she the milk man's daughter?" The beautiful lady would finger her own raven locks and serenely reply, "No, she must have fairie blood in her." And to prove this point, the beautiful lady would point to the golden child's right ear, which is indeed, the pointed ear of a fairy.

Well, mother, I do believe time has shown it's hand, and I'm no fairy. But I do still believe in them. Especially today, the day of my birth.

So as I sat and pondered, I thought to myself, how do I celebrate my 31st birthday? Do I get another tattoo? (Not if I wanted to keep my husband) Do I do more body modification? ( The only parts left to pierce are a tad sensitive. Ouch.) Do I throw myself a birthday party, grab a bottle of vino and sit in the corner, rocking out and mulling over my life? (Too depressing. I'll do it for my 37th.)

Then it dawned on me: In my bloggy absence I missed my dearest friend, Jojo's birthday. I had big plans for that post. So why don't I kill two egos birds with one post?

You see, I met Jojo when I was twelve. I was this awkward, gangly misfit who would cry at the drop of the hat. I walked into my grade 7 class and the only damn seat left was the seat directly in front of the teacher's desk. Any hope for becoming a cool kid quickly disappeared as I took my seat and fought back tears. As I looked around, I saw other sniveling, nervous kiddies but in the back of the room a girl quickly caught my eye. She was wearing makeup. Heavy green eyeliner and frosted pink lipstick. She was sooo cool. We were destined to be friends.

She took pity on me, and I charmed her with my superior wit and sharp intellect. And we became fast friends. Bus rides home, shopping at the mall, bike rides back and forth between houses, and scary seances in the spare room complete with candles. Jojo was the only friend who would rent Friday the 13th movies for me and then provide me with a pillow to scream into and headphones to tune the sounds of torturous screams out of my mind.

Then her family moved across the damn country. And it broke our hearts. But every summer she would come back.

Jojo was my only friend in the city who knew and loved my parents. My dad's redneck ways amused her and my mom's shrew-like anger amused her. Some how she managed to do what I never could do. She charmed my parents. Her easy laughter and stupid jokes made them love her even more. And I would wish the summer would never end.

Together we were so cool. Even when we put pillows on our heads and walked around like goobers, we rocked. Even when Jojo got so drunk that she hurled all over the inside of my dad's brand new truck, we rocked. Or the time that we stayed up until 6 a.m. thinking that my dad wouldn't notice, and snuck back into my bedroom, we rocked. Although, when he woke us up at 8 a.m. and told us to get our asses in gear and paint the fence, we didn't rock so much then.

And then there was the time my dad, while wearing nothing but a pair of dirty tighty whiteys, chased my boyfriend down the block, we alternated between hysterical giggles and overdramatic tears. But we rocked.

And when my beautiful son, Shalebug died last October, she flew across the country to spend ten days with me. She mourned the little man she never knew. She looked at endless photos and listened to me sob. She held my hand and wiped my tears. She made me laugh. She made me watch Survivor. (Could you tell I was in shock?) She charmed my kids and swept my floors. She reminded me it was okay to laugh while I cried and to remember the dead by telling silly stories. And when she was convinced I wouldn't walk off a bridge or neglect my kids, she hugged me hard and flew home. Like a pillow-wearing angel.

Last year, on my 30th birthday, surrounded by Boo and friends, I toasted that my 30th year would be my best year ever. 24 days later, my world crashed and I lost a piece of myself I will never get back. It has taken me all of this year to put the pieces of who I am back together. And like a broken vase, hastily mended with glue, the pieces don't all fit perfectly. Some are missing altogether. But I'm mending, with the glue of friendship.

So today, on my 31st birthday, instead of mourning this past year, I choose to celebrate some of the best times of my life. And show you, dear internet, my awkward geekiness. Which has morphed into this Redneck Mommy. Today, I celebrate what these three decades have brought me. And instead of looking toward the future, I want to pay homage to my past.

Because in my 31 years I have only been blessed with a few kindred spirits. Boo, Roxylynn, and Jojo. All three must be fairies too.

I love you all.

Battle Weary

As a parent, I have had to get used to the idea that dishes will be broken, milk will be spilled and a variety of household items will just simply vanish. As a parent, I have been introduced (and since become good friends with ) the invisible gremlin known as Not Me.

It is always Not Me's fault at our house. Even when I catch poor Fric and Frac in the act of wrong doing, they still try to pin the blame on poor old Not Me. But now, as they are aging, and maturing, they have stopped tormenting sad little Not Me. You see, dear internet, they have found another fool to pin the blame on. Each other. Now they just simply respond. "Wasn't me, must have been Frac," and vice versa. And then they go to their private little command posts, go over the battle plans and tighten up their strategy. All in the efforts of winning this war I like to call :Operation Drive Mommy Mad.

I must admit, at times I've found it amusing. Others, maddening. And in the morning, when that beautiful yellow school bus, driven by my very own angel of mercy, stops at the bottom of my driveway and picks up my soldiers, I am relieved. And grateful. For I have survived yet another day, another battle. (Let them practice their skills of seemingly innocent sorcery on the school teachers. For at least they have been prepared for such battles. This mommy needs a break.)

Because I have a new battle to face. A war which must be won. No matter the cost.

Redneck Mommy versus Nixon. World's. Greatest. Dog. Ever.

And I will sadly report that Nixon has better battle plans than I was prepared for. He just bends his puppy ear back and looks at me with his puppy eyes, and I'm lost.

It doesn't matter that he was raping my oldest, most precious teddy bear from my childhood. Mr. Pink Elephant. It doesn't matter that he discovered the joys of the garbage can. What's a little piddle between friends? Right, dear internet?

Until I walked into this scene. Charles was terrorized, raped and then eviscerated. My Charles, sweet Charles, the first teddy my darling Boo ever won for me at a carnival.

It's not right dear internet. I will avenge my dear Charles. Bring it on Nixon. I'm not scared of you. Fric and Frac have a battle hardened mommy.

Just keep your damn ears pointed up, and your tongue in your mouth. Then we will see whose the boss around here.

Pass the Puns, Please

It is amazing how the quiet dripping of the coffee maker can seem so loud when a person is hung over. Also amazing is how quickly a person tosses back a few alcoholic beverages with little thought to the consequences of her actions.

Like how early her children would rise. And want pancakes for breakfast. Or how her head would feel like it will burst like a cheap balloon at the slightest noise louder than the sigh of a baby fly. Or, better yet, how her brother- in-law would phone first thing in the morning and she would find herself, along with her hubby, pushing his dilapidated van out of the bog hole he drove it into while trying to bury the family dog that had died, in our north pasture. (Picture me, bleary eyed and cranky, cussing a blue streak while being yelled at by both men, to push harder. Like I was in labour or something. Bastards.)

Yep, dear internet, those drinks were certainly worth it. Because (besides all evidence to prove otherwise) this Mommy had a great time last night shaking her booty with her girlfriends.

So it is with great pleasure that I pass onto you, yet another cheesy pun.

Now I'm off to shower to get rid of the damn mud that splattered all over me and find me some aspirin....



Two painters, one an old man and the other a youngster, were painting a very large home. It was getting late in the day when they reached the second floor.

There ahead of them was a very long corridor. The older painter said, "I've had enough for one day. I quit. How about you?"

With that, the younger painter headed toward the corridor and said, "Not me. I'm in this for the long hall."

Romeo

As parents, we all want the very best for our children. We want them to love, be loved, to succeed, and ultimately, to be happy. I like to think that Boo and I are doing alright. We don't beat our kids (I prefer useless threats i.e. if you don't do the dishes I'm not going to feed you for a week. How do you like them apples?) We take time to foster a rapport with them. (Generally by having conversations about which boy or girl they like, while hoping fervently that when they say "date" they mean holding hands or tugging pigtails.) We spend quality time with our kids. (Granted, it may be in front of the boob tube, but they do cuddle with me on the couch. That's gotta count, right?)

Boo and I want to give our kids the all the opportunities that we didn't have the luxury of when we grew up. That means soccer games, skating lessons, basketball, and swimming. We allow them to pick a sport a season, so that I may have the privilege of sitting (and usually shivering), watching and enjoying my offspring develop.

I know I am a good mother. I don't need anyone to tell me. I know this just by seeing the love reflected in my children's eyes. I know this because, quite simply, they haven't been carted off to the funny farm or locked behind steel bars. (Yet. I know they're still young.)

So why is it, when Fric's teacher, Mr. H, phoned last night and left a message saying he had to speak to me regarding my son, terror struck deep in my soul. Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Revealed to be the lousy parent I secretly fear others think I may be. And when he said the issue was of some sensitivity, why is it my mind raced to every bad scenario possible? Was he a bully? Was he a crybaby? Was he hiding school schematics and downloading pictures of automatic rifles?

Suddenly, it was like I was fourteen again, and I was in the principles office awaiting punishment for organizing a protest rally that resulted in vandalism. (There's a post for another time.) What could I, as his mother possibly have done?

Turns out, nothing. This one is on his father's head.

It seems my boy is somewhat of a Casanova. A ladies man. And he's into inappropriate displays of public affection. Damn him, for trying to kiss the cute ten year old girls on the playground. My own little Romeo.

His father is soooo proud.

The Gift That Will Keep on Giving

My darling Boo has been gone for more than two months. I have seen him twice in that time. It's been a long, dry spell, for this Mommy, if you catch my meaning. Wink, Wink. Really, to all you wives of soldiers or really, to any wife whose husband is gone for extended absences, I applaud you. Because this ain't easy. Besides the fact that I'm missing my husband, I am the sole parent. My kids see this, acknowledge this, then go to their bedrooms and have a powwow to discuss the many ways they can slowly drive their mother into a drooling, rocking shell of a human. They're like little hyenas, circling their prey, laughing all the while.

My darling Boo, says I can handle it. That, dear internet, is because the bastard doesn't have to deal with his offspring. If I have to listen to any more arguments over who didn't flush the damn toilet, who stole my pencil crayon (heaven forbid they need that exact one, when there are literally hundreds more) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes, I'm gonna go kamikaze on their asses. Just so you know.

Then there are my inlaws. I love these people dearly. Really, I do. (My mantra, I'll just keep repeating it.) But why should I have to deal with my darling's mother if he won't? Why do I have to explain, over and over again when Boo will be home. Phone them your damn self, dear husband.

But alas, I know I do all this, because I'm a sucker I love him. And it is this passionate love that I have for him that drove me to a moment of insanity. I thought I was being cute, I thought I was being a good wife.

What did I do? Why, thanks for asking, dear internet. I actually posed naked for pictures to my goon.

Not Hustler pics, no,no. I wouldn't want to scare the poor man. Or make him cry. No, these were tasteful nudies. Black and whites, taken with all the skill and patience I have acquired as my years of a journalist.

Read: A lot of fucking swearing and cursing, repositioning so a tit doesn't hang out, and the kids knocking at the bedroom door, wondering what's going on to make mommy so angry.

Hours later, and every single muscle in my body limp with exhaustion, I had the final product. So I sent the package up North with cookies, and a love letter and eagerly awaited his response. All the while, feeling immensely proud of myself. I had gotten past my low self esteem and did something nice for my hubby. Something tasteful that I could be proud of.

My darling hubs got his package. He ate his cookies. He carried on. No response. Days later, I asked him if he received anything special.

He chuckled, and then said thanks. Oh, and the cookies were good, he replied.

The fucking cookies?? Slowly, I exhaled, and bite my tongue. I asked him if he liked the pics. (Bastard's already in the dog house. He looses points for making me ask about the damn photos.)

He chuckles again, says they were NICE. Oh, yeah, and thanks. Could I send him any more of those cookies?

As the steam is pouring out of my ears, I asked him what he thought of the photos where I twisted and contorted my naked body for hours so that I could give him beautiful, tasteful pictures of me for him to enjoy.

"Oh, you looked real pretty in all of them. But I couldn't see anything good."

"That's why they are tasteful Boo. You get a hint of what is there, and you are supposed to use your imagination." I reply.

"Well, it would have been easier if you just gave me a money shot."

And that dear internet, is the romance I share with my husband.

And just so you know, I didn't take the money shot. I sent him a Hustler mag instead. Pervert.

Casualties of War

I've had it up to my eyeballs with sibling rivalry and I don't know what to do. No, no, dear internet, not Fric and Frac. No, they love each other. I'm talking about my other children. You know, my dog and my cat. That's right, dear internet, I have a cat. I don't often speak of her, for reasons I will post in the future, but she exists. Her name is Fanny. Fanny dislikes Nixon. Nixon looooooves Fanny. See the problem here? Every time I let my beloved Nixon out to pee, my beloved Fanny beats the crap out of him.

Really, it was cute at first. Ever see a cat box? Fanny could win a championship belt, she does it so well. But now I worry that her claws are going to get one of Nixon's buggy out eyes and leave me with a one-eyed, slobbering mess. How gross is that image?

And to really make matters worse, Fanny has decided to dedicate herself to me. Every where I go, Fanny goes to. Ever try to dig potatoes with a cat winding around your legs? Good times.

And then there are the presents she leaves me. Yummy. This morning I found a dead bird (minus a head) waiting for me on the deck. Yesterday, she brought me a mole. Or vole. Something large and hairy and weasel like. Yuck. Worse yet was the time she eagerly dropped a dead baby rabbit onto my lap. Picture me screaming like a pansy and running away like a thoroughbred out of a gate.

I've tried to convince her I still love her. I bring her treats, I cuddle, I even refer to Nixon as "that Stupid dog" when she's around. (But really dear internet, he is the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.) But my words must be ringing false to her.

Because she is still leaving disembowelled mice all over my sidewalk. Picture me struggling to carry the infant carrier (stuffed with the fattest baby this family has ever seen), a knapsack my sister likes to call a diaper bag, a thermos bag carrying a day's worth of formula and baby mush, the bouncy seat that my devil boy nephew insists on sitting in, my keys, and a cup of coffee, all at once. Because I don't want to have to make two trips to the car. So, as I pack all of this up my sidewalk, I have a cat winding around my legs. And then I hear a crunch.

You betcha. I managed to step on a mouse head. A few steps later, I will slip. Because I managed to step on another mouse's entrails. I may or may not make it to my house intact. I will however, be bringing in several mice worth of DNA on the bottom of my shoe. Every damn time.

Getting to and from my house now entails a game of hopscotch. Complete with mouse parts.

It's always fun and games around here.

I'm beginning to get a rather scary reputation around my neighborhood. Kids who come over to play with my kids are now referring to our place as "the one with all dead animals."

My sister carries a small stick to push the carcasses aside, so as not to step on them.

Meanwhile, my beloved Fanny continues to preen and beat the living day lights out of Nixon.

And so, I suppose I will have to resign myself to telling visitors to watch where they step.

You never know what that crunch will be.

Crossroads and Choices

Before our Shalebug flew the coop and grew his angel wings, he was becoming quite the little character. He could hobble about on flat surfaces, he could crawl quick as you could blink an eye and he was an expert at giving high fives. After years of watching him be nothing more than an eating and pooping baby machine, it was thrilling to watch him finally "get" things. As Boo said, it was like watching someone turn on a light switch.

That is not to say he was learning how to tie his own shoelaces or suddenly knew his ABC's. Cripes, he still hadn't uttered a word in his almost five years and I was fairly sure he never would. He couldn't put the pieces of a baby puzzle in the holes and I shudder to think of how hard it would have been to hold a pencil. All that aside, he was learning, in leaps and bounds.

And it was fun to watch. Just like it was when Fric and Frac learned how to walk and talk. Or finally master toilet training. (All though, we still haven't managed to not pee all over the freaking toilet. And it has been nine years, dear internet. That's a lot of pee to be wiping up.)

Somehow, with the Shalebug, the rewards were all the more sweeter. I think it was because I had been around this block before. I was older and wiser and more aware. And I saw my boy struggle to accomplish the very same things his siblings mastered with nary a thought. t was a hard fought battle, and victory was often denied to my boy. But when he mastered something, the world was an amazing, brighter place. For all of us.

We miss that. Not just me, but his father, and his brother and sister. We miss the joy we felt when he accomplished a small task. We miss him.

Part of the reason I took the summer off blogging was to find me. Suddenly, at 30, I found myself at a crossroads, with no visible path. All of a sudden the world was my oyster, no longer confined by the constraints of having a handicapped child. Suddenly, I was free to leave the kids, and just hire the 15 year old neighbor to babysit. I didn't have to worry about car seats and wheelchairs and feeding tubes. Medication schedules or teacher aides.

I could get a job without worrying about finding a daycare to suit my child. I could go back to school. I could do anything - except take care of my Shalebug. Which is the one thing I want most in the world.

It didn't bother me that one day I would have to let him go, perhaps put him in an adult facility. I couldn't predict the future, and I refused to imagine the worst case scenario. I refused to bind him by my imagination. Nor was I living behind rose colored glasses. I fully accepted that I would be chained to a grown up child for the rest of my days, as would his siblings.

But none of this mattered, because of the love we all felt for Bug. It was, and still is, staggering.

Leaving me at this crossroad, scratching my head, and wondering what the hell am I going to do with my life?

So, here in my piece of paradise, I have watched Fric and Frac grow and develop. Laugh, cry and argue. I have sat and spent hours researching jobs, careers, educational paths. I have been offered a reporting position at the local television news station. My career as a professional gardener has flourished into what could be a very lucrative career if I choose. The school where Bug went to has offered me an aide position.

I have options. I have the finances to pursue those options. I have more choices than I could shake a stick at. And the only thing that interests me is being a mommy.

But getting preggers again is an option that can't be placed back on the table. Which leaves adoption.

Many hours of soul searching and nose sniffling have been devoted to the idea. Could we do it? Is it fair to Fric and Frac? Would the rest of the family accept a child that didn't have albino white hair and sky blue eyes? It was a hard battle for Boo and I, to have the extended family accept Bug. Could we ask them to do it again, with a child that had none of their blood running through their veins?

Did we want to?

The answer is simply, yes.

So we have started the adoption proceedings. And our application is being fast tracked because we have applied for a special needs child. None of those healthy kids for us. No sirree. We only want the broken ones, Ma'am.

So I, the Redneck Mommy, who am not a redneck at all, am expecting my fourth child. I'm scared terrified of what the future holds for us. But I haven't been this exhilarated in, well, ever.

We have faced our critics, and been embraced by our supporters. Sad to say, the numbers are even on both sides.

No, we are not trying to replace our dead son. Yes, I'm sure I want another handicapped child.

Why? Why not? I counter. Because the love Bug gave us, and the skills he taught us was a gift I want to be able to share with the world. The strength we gained as a family unit has cemented our bonds of love. It has made us all into better people. He shaped his siblings into very special kids. I don't want to spend the rest of my life just remembering those skills.

I want to use them. As a tribute to my boy, who was the strongest person I knew. He taught us to how to love.

Thank you, Skjel. Mommy loves you.

The Return of Pass the Puns, Please

I have a whole new appreciation for mommy bloggers. And to who I was ten years ago. Last night, my five month old nephew stayed the night so his mommy could eat, drink and be merry with her girlfriends. (And because I am a sucker for a bald-headed baby with cheeks so chubby you just want to chew them.)

However, I failed to take into account how many times a youngster of this age would like to eat in the middle of the night. (Those cheeks just didn't happen you know...) Nor did I factor in my age, or the fact that it has been six years since I last had to rise to feed a youngster.

And somehow, I managed to overlook the fact that those cheeks aren't nearly as adorable when they are contorted with rage because his sleepy aunt can't manage to heat up his midnight, four a.m. and 6:30 a.m. feeding quick enough. And my darling little devil boy nephew didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed when I did manage to stuff the bottle in his screaming mouth after walking into a wall, bumping my big toe on the door frame and walking into the square edge of my coffee table. Conveniently located at knee level so as to ensure maximum amount of damage, pain and cursing in the middle of the night.

Never have I been so happy to see the tail lights of a car leaving my drive as I was this morning.

(Yes, we all know that when I see the headlights of same said car tomorrow, I will be back to my cheek chewing, gushing aunty ways. But that's tomorrow after I sleep in peace tonight, with only the soft snoring of Nixon, World's Greatest Doggy, to keep me company.)

Onto the business at hand. Please enjoy, and no complaints to the chef.


What did the grape say when it got stepped on?

Nothing - but it let out a little whine.

The Difference of Ten Years

Good morning dear internet. It is amazing how sunny the world seems when my darling Boo is home. Also amazing, is the fact that he likes the look of green nipples. Who knew? But, alas, today is the day my darling Fric turns ten. It is hard for me to reconcile the image of her as a baby with the image of a pony-legged, blonde hair beauty that she has become.

Just think, ten years ago this morning, my boobs were being mutilated by angry little gums. Ten years later, she has big beaver teeth and is oohing and ahhing over her new ring that Daddy gave her for her birthday.

Ten years ago, the idea of bringing home a small infant scared the bejesus out of me. Today, the memory brings a smile to my face.

I wonder what the next ten years bring.

I can't wait.

Morphing into a Metal Momma

I have a secret. Well, technically, I suppose I have many. But I only have one today that I am worried about. Let me explain, dear internet. You see, we all have different ways of dealing with our grief. Mine has been to do some slight body modifications, blog and cry. My husband's has been to abandon me, chase the almighty dollar and work himself into oblivion. (Aren't we the picture of health?) I forgive Boo for wanting to work out of town. I understand his reasons, I even agree with them. Sometimes. It is hard to remember that I agreed to this in the middle of the night and the only thing I have to snuggle up to is the damn dog who keeps letting out puffy little farts while his butt is a mere inch from my nose. But I digress.

Boo has been gone now since July 31. It's been a long stretch. He has managed to make it home twice in the seven weeks he has been gone. For a day at a time. It's not much, but it is certainly more than military wives receive and I am thankful. But in between his sporadic visits, I am left alone to fill my time and putter. And cope.

And let's face it. I'm not always so great at the coping part. There is only so many blogs and books I can read. Only so many shows I can watch on my three whole channels. And now that the kids are back in school, well that leaves house cleaning. Ahem. I mean, that should leave house cleaning, right?

But in my newly found understanding of life, I have decided life is much too short to worry about the dust on the mantle. So I ignore it and focus on the big things. Like babysitting my five month old nephew every day for ten hours a day. And when I don't have the devil baby himself, then I'm left alone trying to fill my days using my twisted imagination.

Somewhere along the way, about a week ago, I decided it was time for some more body modification. (My therapist sees the hole poking as a way to release my pain. I disagree. I think it just looks cool.)

So off to the piercing place I went. And out I came with two more spectacular holes. One in each boob.

They are healing, but my nipples are slightly green from bruising.

I haven't told my darling Boo. Who is a mere four hours from walking through the front door, tossing down his bags and wanting to reunite. Wink, wink.

Imagine his surprise when he finds his wife with a few new holes and oddly colored nipples.

Good times, dear internet, good times.

And as a side note, when some one tells you that you may feel a slight pinch. Don't believe them. Instead, you are about to feel as though someone is ramming a dull butter knife through your boob. Just so you know.

It Would Appear I Have Some 'Splaining To Do...

First off, any one who is looking for some funny, you might want to keep on looking. Come back tomorrow. I have some goodies I have been saving.

That said, I offer my apologies for my absence for the blogosphere. You see...

Once upon a time, I was a woman with yellow and brown hair, who had stripey lines on her face and saggy boobs (all thanks to her darling children) who was extremely happy. I had the man of my dreams and the three best kids in the world. And then one night, suddenly, my youngest baby died. No explanation, no preparation. Just 'Poof!'

We grieved. We cried, we hugged, we tried to heal. And on the surface, that is exactly what was happening. My husband was doing his best at coping and my kids bounced along like little rubber balls. I began to use my computer to make new friends and try to remember the joy I once felt. I knew I couldn't be swallowed by the darkness that threatened to pull me under every day.

So I blogged, and read other blogs, and I gardened. I poked holes in my nose and painted my backside with a memorial. I ran. I did everything except mop the floor. (Really. I would beg my girlfriend to come and do it for me. I hate mopping.) The one thing I didn't do was let go of my baby.

Then school let out and my children were around every day. Wanting to do the things they did last summer with their baby brother. And it became too much for me. You see, I am an outdoorsy type of gal. Which meant my kids are outdoorsy types of children. Even the handicapped ones. But it seems that I hadn't made peace with my twenty acre paradise. Every where I looked I have memories of the Shalebug. And it overwhelmed me.

I had a mini breakdown. I screamed and cried and railed against the world. I pounded on my husband's chest with my fists so that he could feel the pain that was tearing my soul apart. I am ashamed that I treated him so poorly. That I diminished his grief just because he was actually coping better than I was. That night no one slept. The kids cried and Boo and I cried.

The next morning I went to see a therapist. I couldn't behave this way and help my kids. I couldn't behave this way and expect my husband to stand by my side. Or not kill me. So I sought help. Which was the hardest thing I have done since I buried the little guy and walked away from him for the final time.

Things got better, but I became overwhelmed at the idea of blogging. I avoided my blog like the plague. I didn't check the mail, nor did I read any other blogs. I felt guilty that I abandoned you dear internet, but at the same time I just didn't have the energy to come back to you.

Not only did I let blogging go, but I let my garden go. Funny the two most important hobbies I have, writing and gardening, I just couldn't face. My poor garden looks like a jungle. The upside to it, is the moose are very happy with me.

Along the way, other things happened. The dreaded bridesmaid dress was worn. Shudder I survived. I managed to mend fences with my parents. I lost a friend and found a new one. I pulled my family close around me and tried to enjoy the life I have been granted.

And I grew stronger. Don't get me wrong. I still feel the pain of his death like it is a chain being yanked around my neck. I still wonder if I will ever really feel joy without feeling guilt. Without wishing he was with me. And I know hard times lay ahead. His one year anniversary is right around the corner. But now I can sit down and smile. Flex my fingers and find my funny.

Imagine my surprise, when last night on a whim, I decided to check out my mail. Over a hundred messages awaited me. And only five were junk mail. I just about fainted. I absolutely did not realize any one would even miss me. Ironically, I get more hits when I don't blog than when I do....I'm trying not to look too deep into that.

If you will still have me dear internet, I am back. I'm lurking about, doing my best to take it one day at a time. Please don't be offended if I don't comment regularly or at all, just know that I'm here. Living and breathing. Surviving. And now, blogging.

I promise not to go away with out letting any one know that I am okay.

And if something happens to me that prevents me from blogging, I promise to have Boo peck out a message with his two hammy fingers to let you all know what's up.

My Sincerest and Deepest Apologies

Yes, I am still alive.

At least that is what the throbbing in my temples is leading me to believe.

And if my freaking dog hadn't just shit in the middle of the kitchen two seconds ago, while my back was turned, I would tell you where I have been in the last few months. And beg for forgiveness for causing any worry.

But since poo can't wait, blogging will have to.

What's one more day, right dear internet?