So. A quick update. About a week ago, I had to go to the Dr. Now when I say I ''had'' to go to the Dr. I don't mean for a scheduled follow up or routine maintenance. No, medical attention was needed because I was seriously (NO, REALLY) thisclose to killing someone (nobody in particular just...whoever) in this house or myself. My moods were OUT OF CONTROL and while, sure, I tend toward ....mmmm let's be kind and say DRAMATIC on my best day but I was swinging wildly mood-wise and having a few other symptoms that were eerily reminiscent of about this time last year. Abdomen feeling full and bloated all the time, legs like rubber after very little exertion, horrible, awful crying jags followed with hostility chasers.

Let me first tell you the false hope I was given. Ovarian cancer is known to recur at a very high rate. But but but but but I was told that because the cancer I had was so aggressive and spread so quickly and was subsequently battled with oral chemo, IV chemo, isotopes AND em effing radiation the likelihood of recurrence, for me, was slim.

Well. Let's all thank our lucky stars that I listened to my body the first time around because yes, hello, one pelvic exam with a dildo cam, bloodwork and an ultrasound later, I have cancer. Again. Some more. Or still. There are three ways to classify this time of relapse so to speak and they are graded by when the growths are found following being given a clean bill of health (less than 3 months, within 6 months and after 6 months). Because (thankfully) the growths appear to be slow growing it could be remnants from the last time or something that has formed in the last three months. Meh, whatever. It really doesn't matter, treatment is the same either way.

Obviously, this has been a kick in the junk (oh, haha, the junk, see what I did there). Best part though, hands down, was that I found out from a message being left on my voicemail. On our landline. That any of the kids could have accessed. Yeaaaaaaah. Going about my business, I see the message light flashing and keep thinking, mmmmm I need to get that, see what's up. And it was, I shit you not, like getting a goddamn weather report, ''Yeah, hi, Shannon, looks like it's a go, it's positive, cancer is back. Give us a call in the morning! Talk to you soon!''  ..................Need I even say, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!!

So. Yes. Cancer. Chemo. Radiation. Part 5000 begins Monday. I sent D's step-mom a two line e-mail that night and when I woke up this morning that woman had e-mailed me her google route and itinerary with a note that just said, ''Packing my van, leaving in the morning, see you in a few days''. Angel doesn't even begin to describe that woman, no shit. As far as we can plan for now there will be little disruption for the kids and I will be able to stay at home. This could turn out to be the treatment I was initially promised last year, 3 go-rounds and ALL DONE. I sure as fuck hope so because, you know: DAMMIT, MAN.

Now. All that said, let me tell what I have been thinking about all day. No, let me show you.

This is the purse my friend's mother made for me on my last birthday (35th). It's not designer, it's not fancy but I love it because it was made for me with love. It is perfect. In this purse I carry a few things to remind me that I am loved and some days, I really need that reassurance.

Last December, when it was cold and my head was newly balding from the chemo, this awesome friend sent me a box of awesome (and warm) hats and some divine lotion. Neither of us could have known that December would bring me back to Vancouver during the worst ice storm in 40 years to bury my father. The hats were practical and awesome, the lotion made me feel cared for and I have refilled that container and kept it with me since then to remind me: People are great and yes, they care. There aren't enough words for me thank Lala because that care package from a year ago has carried me through many, many days.

Looks like a regular key ring, it came with the purse and was monogrammed by the same woman who created the bag. I love it for that but also notice the four leaf clover. The now empty four leaf clover. My dad carried it for years until the green whatever filling came out but he still thought it was lucky so I remind myself of that when I pick up the keys to head out: Lucky enough for him, good enough for me.

I don't have slightest idea what this ring is made of or what kind of stone it is but it too was my dad's. It is huge and a little gaudy and....so was my dad. Sometimes I wear it on a chain but I always have it with me. It makes me feel closer to my dad and again is a reminder that even when I doubt it, I know that I am loved.

This pen was included in another care package from last year and it is monogrammed as well but that isn't what makes it special to me. The note that came with it told me my words mattered, to keep writing, to tell my story. I have teared up every single time I thought of that note and carrying that pen is again something tangible that outside of myself, I matter. And some days, that means the absolute world.

It's hard to see but there is a small bottle of perfume there and while I don't wear it everyday, it's always in my purse. My mother gave it to me last year, last December when my dad died. She believes firmly that everyday can be made better with a little lipstick and perfume. And most days, she is right.

 I know what you're thinking. Holy shitballs is that an ugly wallet. And it is kind of but I adore it. I got it at Goodwill for $2 when D threatened to throw out my other wallet which was literally held together with duct tape (spending money to hold money just makes me angry; am insane, I know). It may not be the prettiest but it's sturdy, it's functional and it's practical, all things that I dig like a ditch and aspire to be everyday (ok not so much with the sturdy, exactly, but you know what it is I'm saying).

So in my purse I carry the memories of my dad, the knowledge that a little luck never hurt anybody and that people care about me and my words, a little bit of smell good to brighten a bad day is a good thing and sometimes the best you can be is functional and reliable and there are certainly worse things to have ascribed to you (especially for $2).

WOW. If you have made it this far, good job and thank you for hanging in there with me. Deep breath, next week starts it all over again but let's hope this time has a very, very different ending. If so, maybe I will break down and get another purse, HA!!!

Ganked from a mass e-mail I received. Today, I just wanted to share something good. Something sweet.

Here is to a better day for all tomorrow. Because Thursday has blown goats.

===

The orangutan was in a rescue and not doing well.  This old hound wandered in absolutely emaciated and the orangutan snapped to attention - like his buddy had arrived.  He stayed with the hound night and day until he was well and in the whole scenario, found a reason to live.  They are now inseparable. 

 

Doggy paddle's the order of the day here for the couple who live at the Tigers sanctuary in Myrtle Beach , South Carolina . 



Suryia and Roscoe spend hours together every day - they're particularly keen on swimming. 



The two mates see the funny side of most things. 

There's always time to chill. 

 

The three-year-old orangutan goes everywhere with Roscoe. 

A dog's not just a man's best friend, he's an orangutan's too.

Three years ago, this happened. Then a few short weeks later, this happened.

And some days, I am okay. I mean, relatively speaking. Fuck nut crazy everyday but it's manageable. But some days, a lot of days, his death just clings and sticks and colors everything and makes it so goddamn hard just to be, just to exist, just to not give in to my baser instincts and tell any and everyone to fuck right off because, seriously, I don't have the time or inclination for social graces.

But I don't do that, not often anyway. Not often enough, in my opinion because some things and honestly some people are so egregious that really the only true response is fuck you and everyone that looks like you and did I mention: FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!! YOU!!!

And then I realize that yes, people are appalling but really no more or less than they ever have been before or after Jackson came and went and then oooooh then, my brain gets all twisted and butt-hurt with well, what purpose did his birth and death serve if everything is the same as it ever was and people, society just keeps spinning along like my son never existed, as if he isn't dead. Why do you do that world, why do you refuse to acknowledge my small boy?

Even on my craziest days, I know none of that is truth. I know my son mattered, I know he made a difference and I know of all the preshus speshul snowflakes in the world, he was in fact the best. I cannot make anyone else know this or acknowledge it but that I know it is true is enough, should be enough and again, many days it is and I am fine.

The days that his loss sits on my chest, sticks in my throat and wraps around me as a physical presence though, they are long. And painful. And maybe as someone a shit-ton smarter than me pointed out, maybe it's because death came so perilously close to me, personally, this year, that is why his loss is echoing so loudly. Maybe it's that we have lost nine people this year, fucking a seriously, no shit, NINE. In a year. Plus cancer. Eff me all up in the a but it all seems a bit excessive.

And then too, it all seems irrelevant because sure enough, do not misunderstand, cancer sucked harder than I will ever be able to convey. The funerals we went to and eulogies we wrote and for the love of fuck burying my dad (MY!!! DAD!!!!!) all mattered. Deeply. Some moreso than others (see also: DAD) but still in all, they were meaningful losses and everyone in this house is, I think, perpetually still grieving.

But my son. My child. My baby. I can't shake it. I can't get out from under it. For another day with Jackson, another hour, I would attend a funeral a day for life. I know, such typical drivel of loss, oh what I would do for another day, another moment but the English language is sadly lacking in conveying grief, it's depth and breadth and all consuming power.

Really, it's simple, I guess. I miss my son. The end.

Here is the thing, or if not THE thing at the very minimum A thing. When D does super sweet things like post a super sweet song and leaves a super sweet message and the only reaction I can muster goes something along the lines of, ''yeah yeah pretty words, pretty song, whatever jerkface, just get home'', it's not ALL because I am a butthole. Mostly, yes but not completely.

I am tired. My husband has been gone over a month. All four, ohyessssma'am, all four kids have the flu. The swiiiiiiiiiiiiine flu. Fortunately thus far it hasn't been any worse (or better) that the regular old flu but fuck me gently with a chainsaw, listening to four sets of lungs hacking and four set of lips whiiiiiiiiiiine with the swiiiiiiiiiiine has made me a bit, oh let's say, EDGY. And buttholish.

Don't get it twisted, I love these punks. Oh how I love them. In fact, I was just being a different kind of butthole on Twitter by saying, oh WOW, how I do love having the baby (3 year old) home with me while all the big kids are now in school all day. Cannot FATHOM putting him in daycare, he is MAH BUDDY. That same kid? Would now sell him for a nickel a pound to the first roaming band of kid wranglers that swung by and knocked on the door. Him and the oldest actually because YE GODS the complaining, it burns mommy, IT BURNS.

This is, I'm sure, in some way karmic payback for all of the wonderful care that was taken of me for so many, many months. But I much preferred the ratio of four or more people dedicated to my care than this effed in the a equation of my ability to care divided by four. Nobody wins universe, NOBODY WINS.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. D should, everything crossed, be home by Tuesday. And while I was initially planning to leave this sick house as soon as he crossed the threshold, I am now convinced that I too will be sick by the time he makes his way home and therefore will be unable to escape the insanity. But hopefully at some point we can get away together for at least as long as it takes to have a meal (or a cup of coffee? please universe, just a damn cup of coffee?). I miss my husband. I mean, yes, it would be nice to have a second set of hands on board with everyone sick but whatever, it's crazy here on a good day and I can handle it. I really, truly just want my husband home for a few days.

On to better news. The girls are rocking the new school year. They have great teachers, they have made awesome new friends and reconnected with friends from last year. We have had some bumps in the road, thankfully almost all clothing related and therefore easily quashed because: No. No, you aren't going to leave MY house wearing a single thing that leaves nothing to the imagination. And believe it or not, this has been a bigger issue with THE SEVEN YEAR OLD than the teenager. Post blasting parents who dress their little girls like little street walkers coming soon, I guarantee.

My Bear has had a harder time of it with school. There was no public school option that offered half day kindergarten and as we already kept him home an additional year (he will be 6 at the end of this month) and kindergarten is compulsory in Mississippi, off he went to full day kindergarten. He loves it. I mean loves loves loves it, would marry it or at the very least hold it's hand and bat his eyes at it. Srsly.

However.

He has a speech delay. A pronounced one. Several lovely people who read here can attest that when he insists on, ''needing to talk'' when I am on the phone with them, unless you are accustomed to his patterns, it is hard to catch more than every third word or so. Well, no, that is too harsh. That WAS true before this summer but he really has improved a lot. But he still isn't where he 'should' be according to his age. I explained this to his teacher and every administrator I came in contact with prior to the beginning of the school year. And they all said, ''NO PROBLEM!!'' I am sure you can see where this is going.

Yes, we have continued him with the same speech therapist he was seeing previously and of course, gaaaaah OF COURSE, we work with him at home. And now the school wants him to see 'their' speech pathologist, which we have no issue with, at all. What we do take issue with is the fact that his teacher, grrrrrrrrrr, sends home a 'note about behavior' every.single.day. Oh, yes ma'am, every gottdang day.

I get it, he is rambunctious. He is aggressive. Oh and also? HE IS FIVE. I know, I know I sound like the parent of every preshus speshul snowflake in the world but honestly, he is a good kid. Heart of gold and so, so smart. Prone to dramatics? You bet. Yearning for attention, especially in a new environment with all new 'friends' (everyone and I do mean everyone is a friend to Bear)? You got it. And I have no doubt difficulty understanding him adds a challenging layer to teaching him but I also know that he came into kindergarten knowing how to read, well above his 'grade' or age level and how to write far more than his name. So if takes you a few back and forths to have an exchange with him? Consider yourself lucky that for the most part he really only needs you there to direct his day and not actually teach him because I can only IMAGINE how big of a disaster that would be on all fronts.

I don't mean to sound anti-teacher or anti-public schools as I am neither. But the fact is, none of the three youngest had the experience of either pre-school or daycare so yeah, being in a room with 20+ other kids their age is as close to mind blowing as life can get for a five year old, particularly very social and vocal five year olds. And no, I don't need to know everytime he interrupts or talks out of turn. Eeeeeeeesh, I really do sound like, ''stop picking on mah angel-boy'' but srsly? STOP PICKING ON HIM. We're going to give it to the end of this month and if there continues to be a clash, I will request to move him to one of the other kindergarten classes because honestly, helicopter-stop-picking-on-mah-baaaaaybeee-parenting or not, his first dalliance with education should not be such a soul crushing experience. Oh that's right, I said soul crushing. Because if you spend 7 hrs a day with someone continually voicing their disappointment in you, that is 7 hrs too many as an adult much less a child still in single digit age range.

Alrighty then, on that note, I have runny noses and barking seal coughs to tend to and oh by golly is that an exciting day waiting to play out. Cross your EVERYTHING D gets home in the next day or two and more importantly that everyone makes it until then alive and in one piece.

So, like a million years ago when I last posted an uplifting little ditty about cancer, cancer and oh looky there more cancer, some people took notice.

Like the awesome and beautiful Schmutzie who runs the equally awesome Five Star Friday which is meant to highlight the best of what is being thought and said on the web. I KNOW, RIGHT? Lookit me, all up in my fancy pants shaking my ass up in that piece.

And then, you are not even going to believe this shit but these kind people (tho she is currently taking a catching-up-with-life blog break) do a weekly radio show about the posts on Five Star Friday and holy shit balls was THAT a nice experience.

You are thinking I have to be running out of braggadocio right about now but lo, would you be betting on the wrong horse. Because plus and also and furthermore and in other news and this just motherfucking in*: BlogHer of the Week. Oh, that's right. You can look but no you cannot touch perfection like you're looking at right now, yo.

Oh, what's that you say? Chandra at Mommys Who Blog thinks I rock? I KNOW!! Oh you can read all about it right here and click around please and read about some more kick ass blogs.

Now, for a moment of complete seriousness. I have went back and forth about posting this last bit but end of the day I would feel like an asshole for not spilling it. I have googled the shit out of the e-mail AmyC******@aol.com trying to discover some sliver of who it may be as this person sent my family $250 via PayPal. Now, if you're blessed enough that $250 is no big deal to you, that is fantastic. To my family, it's a chunk of the mortgage. It's the light, gas, water AND car insurance bills. It's a helluva lot of groceries for our family of six. It was honestly a blessing, a sure enough out of the blue blessing from an anonymous stranger and AmyC, whoever you are, thank you sincerely from my heart. 

Putting all shit-talking aside, thanks you guys. Thank you thank you thank you, having your writing acknowledged by even one other person is incredible any old day in life; accolades like this after feeling shuttered away from life (literally) and humanity for so long, this was the best welcome back ever and I could have never even imagined it.

*When I was a young whippersnapper, when arguing (futilely) with my dad, when making another point IN MY FAVOR rather than saying, ''And another thing!!'' I would say, ''And plus, and also {insert inane point here}'' and after relaying this in my dad's eulogy, D picked up on it and started saying it to me in jest and it has now manifested into, ''And plus, and also, and furthermore, and in other news AND THIS JUST IN {insert still inane points here}. Oh, I know, the communication skillz, we haz them.

I promised myself I wouldn't turn into one of those people who get all, ''oh, my tortured psyche, let me show you it'' about cancer but well, when you're 35 and have endured months of chemo, radiation, various other indignities up to and including not one but two heart surgeries, sometimes it just feels WRONG to withhold all my new fangled WISDOM and LIFE EXPERIENCE from you great people.

Nah, there is no wisdom, at all. But my designer vadge is still not fully functional and whereas normally I would take advantage of an empty house to watch bad television and soft core porn and diddle myself senseless but in lieu of those fun-filled days, I will instead share my new-found want of kicking my own ass for not seeing the forest for the trees prior to a few months in the hospital doing battle with cancer. Oh, no, don't worry, YOU'RE WELCOME, in advance.

I learned that no matter how much my most secret heart believed that my sister was my mom's favorite kid (oh, worry not, I am still a big enough jerk face jerk to know I was my dad's favorite), that she loves us both profoundly and equally if not differently. She split her time between my illness and my sister's self inflicted drug drama without complaint; she held my hand, stroked my bald head and championed my kids at every turn. She was selfless in her sharing of the kids and trusting them to D's dad without getting territorial, without making it one bit about her. She is my hero and my newest best friend and it's nothing less than shameful that it took the one two punch of losing my dad and cancer for me to thoroughly trust in her love for me when in all reality she has never given me reason to doubt it.

I learned that my husband is capable of a love stronger than I thought possible in a marriage. We have weathered losing our son, infidelity and countless family dramas together. This cancer forced him to make decisions I am not sure I could have made in his place, it backed him into a corner that most people would have fled from with a quickness. He took care of our kids, he kept us above water, he wiped my ass more than once, and no, I don't mean that figuratively, he made me feel like I could exhale and let go because he had this and had it he most certainly did. Like my mom, he cared for me in a way that shocked me, touched me and shamed me. Of course he loves me like that and of course he's got this; he always has and not giving him credit for it is an oversight I will not make again.

I learned that my kids are as resilient as people always say but hopefully never have to find out for themselves. In the last year they have survived moving cross country (and in C's case, being moved from the only home she ever knew), then moving again, my illness and all that went with it and suddenly having their care shuffled from my mom to D's dad from home to the coast and now the Dominican Republic. And they have done nothing but thrive. When I was tubed and unable to talk, they e-mailed, they wrote letters, drew pictures and made every visit impossibly joyful, no matter how dire things seemed at the time. They refused to hear it, even when told, how bad it was or could be, they just sucked it up and soldiered on. Obviously, I am indebted to my mom and D's dad and step-mom for their unwavering support of us as a family but particularly with the kids. They enveloped them in security and adoration and convinced them no matter what happened, they would be fine. And they are. And I couldn't be more relieved and thankful.

I learned the internets is full of good hearted people. I knew this, of course, but sometimes it's easy to look at this whole blogging thing or community thing and remember the drama, the liars and shit stirrers and forget that the internet held our hands gently when Jackson was born so sick and hugged us tight when he passed. That same internet sent my kids Christmas presents, sent cards and letters and flowers when my dad died suddenly in December. That same internet, filled with you people, sent groceries to my house, sent amazing care packages, sent gift cards just in the nick of time to buy C new shoes and even more coveted cards for McDonald's and Subway, sent books to read and precious, sweet cards of encouragement and support. Internet, you're good people and we love you, we really, really do.

I know I already got schmoopy about the kids but indulge me in saying this again: They are amazing. Chrissie is an amazing and beautiful young lady; she has stepped up in a way that would cause most adults to hesitate but she has also trusted D and I implicitly to care for her and always have her best interests at heart. That is an amazing trust to have given the life she's led and I cherish it and her. Suzanne is my child of grace,  she is stoic beyond her years and so, so intuitive. She is well past the age that calling me Nannon is due to an inability to pronounce my name but she still does, especially when she's timid or vulnerable or when she knows that is what I need to hear. She mothers the boys, idolizes Chrissie and loves D with her whole heart. My girl, she is a precious gift. Harry vibrates from the minute he wakes until he falls asleep; he is constant motion, non-stop chatter and brilliant imaginative play. He is a hall monitor that never fails to  report the short comings of others but believes he is too cool for school and the rules are fully negotiable for him. My little lawyer, my miniature politician. That kid, he is going places. Last but never least, James. Named for my father and looking not a thing like him, he is an absolute joy. He laughs, he sings, he is way better at three than I could have ever dared dream and he has honestly never met a stranger. He just rolls with it, always. He is my reminder to slow down, take a minute, find the laughs where you can and if you can't, search harder. They are all individually and collectively, a blessing and I couldn't love them more if they were made of butter.

I have learned that when illness compromises those things we associate with femininity, or feminine sexuality, you have to focus on other things, other ways to remind yourself that you are no less a woman just because your girl parts are in revolt. I know you're already tired of hearing about my fancy place but fact is, it's jacked and will stay that way for the foreseeable future and you know, grand scheme of things, it really isn't a big deal. I mean, yes, dear gaaaaaaaaah I miss sex and D, he is quite good at The Sex, but I have also discovered that sex and intimacy isn't limited to wham bam thank you ma'am or even doing, ''everything but'' like we're teenagers in the back seat. It's wearing shorter skirts and thigh highs to feel sexy, it's buying boy shorts instead of regular panties because they hug your hips and make you more aware of your body and how it feels to shake your ass a little more because your husband is looking, it's spending a little more money on a little better wig not because your husband minds that you're as bald as he is but because it makes you feel better and more like a regular non-cancer ravaged woman. Being a woman has never been as important to me and as seemingly out of reach as it has been in dealing with these female specific cancers, and should you ever find yourself in this untenable position, don't lay down and believe the intrusive thoughts that you're ugly and un-womanly. Seek out ways to reclaim what makes you feel like a ''real girl'' and embrace them. Where it takes you may surprise you but wherever that may be, it's better than grieving what isn't actually gone. When you don't where you're going, any road can take you there. Genitalia is between your legs, sex and sexuality is all in your mind and cancer cannot take it.

Now, class, thank you for your undivided attention if you have made it this far and if you would, please share with the class in the comments some of the lessons life thus far has taught you. Bonus points if it involves your vadge.

Well hello there, buttercups. Long time, no post, right?

I got home last week and man, what an adjustment. I have been on lock-down since, can you believe it, MARCH. It is very strange being home, mostly because I am, shhhhhh don't tell anyone, home alone. D is back on the road (in ALASKA, you believe that shit?) and my kids are, wait for it, out of the country.

OUT OF THE MOTHER EFFING COUNTRY!!111!!

Never let it be said that cancer doesn't sometimes come with benefits, right. Not for me so much (a mangled vadge and two heart surgeries later) but D's dad and crazy awesome step-mom took the kids to the Dominican Republic, D's dad home of origin. I would like to be all righteous and posting pictures of the kids helping the less fortunate and volunteering at orphanages but fact of the matter is in this scenario they ARE the less fortunate kids and are essentially on a ''Fresh Air Kids'' scholarship, you know? I kid, our children are very blessed but this is definitely a vacation for them, not a trip of benevolence. They are soaking up the sun and water and experiencing being in the minority for the first time in their young lives which, to me, is the best thing about the whole trip because I am a white liberal full up on white guilt and angry at white privilege so you know I have to at least in gest (right) suck the fun out of the whole thing by making like it's a sociological statement.

Gaah. I need to not wait so long between posts, it makes me tend to ramble.

So, yeah. Home. Wow. I am still horrifically weak but I am being faithful and true to physical therapy because I know once the kids are home I am going to have to be functioning at something close to one hundred percent. And I'm getting there it's just taking much, much longer than I anticipated. But that is cancer, in a nutshell. Like reality tv, all you can expect is the unexpected and the only thing that is predictable is the unpredictability. If in fact there has been a silver lining to all this cancer that benefits me directly, it's that it has sucked almost all of the control freak out of me. No, seriously. Now, that is not to say that it won't work itself back after a period of time back in my own surroundings but I can honestly say that I hope that is not the case.

Being forced to give up control, relinquishing the need to micro-manage everything from laundry to the weather has been phenomenal for my spirit. I wouldn't recommend this route to enlightenment to anyone in particular but whatever, it has worked. Worrying and stressing over everything and everybody was not only exhausting, it's so terribly narcissistic. What, I am oh so important that shit will just STOP if I, personally, am not available to tend to every detail? No. And neither are you so if you have a tendency to plan your life and that of those around you weeks in advance, give it a rest and see how much better you will feel.

I mean, my beautiful husband will now be away for even longer stretches (but in return he will also be home for longer periods, so it's really a super awesome trade) and I will, of course, still be responsible for the day to day but now, having taken a step back, I think it will be much more low key and more importantly enjoyable for all involved. I miss my rotten ass kids so much I can't stand it and I cannot wait for them to get home so I can begin my new regime of benign neglect also known as, ''letting go''.

This is going to be a crazy good year for our family. Our girls turned, respectively, 15 in May and 7 in June and both finished their school years on the Honor Roll. They are stoked about getting back to school, one in 9th grade and one in 2nd. They have both read an insane amount this summer and have such incredibly curious minds, it takes my breath away. My little bear (5, will be SIX in September?!!) starts kindergarten this year. Oh my heart. He was supposed to go to camp this summer as a trial run for starting school but plans shifted and that didn't happen. Better things did though and his speech, which was the biggest concern in his starting school, has improved so freaking much. He has worked so hard and we are stupid proud of him. We are trying very hard to get him into the half-day program because I am still not convinced behaviorally he is ready for full day but whatever happens, I know that little super-hero will try his hardest.

And the baby, oh the baby. He is three and a half now so maybe I should stop calling him that but oh he is my heart, the stinker. His sense of humor has EXPLODED in the midst of all the chaos and he is the single best joke teller and mimic I have ever met. His laugh melts me and his uber-wide grin just makes everything okay even when everything is visibly and notably going to the shitter. I am not going to home-school him, per se, but I do plan to get more involved with my friend's co-op to keep him busy and learning while the big kids are out getting all their book learning.

What else, what else. Well, since I started this post waaaaay earlier this week and mistakenly published it before I was finished, I think re-posting now would be a great idea. Y'all have a great weekend and I hope to be around here a whole lot more now.

Shan is fine, coming home Monday if all goes according to plan and she should be posting something today or this weekend. Last few weeks have been busy busy but the kids are good Shan is going much better and things may get bacj to normal soon. My wife has been in the hospital since MARCH, normal has never sounded so fucking good, people.

All for now. Except that wehn Shan knows I am upset she calls me bunny, I dont know why or when it started but I know I have heard Oh Bunny, it's okay more than I ever wanted to lately. Cross evertthing she comes home Monday.