Countdown

in less than one month my oldest will begin his auspicious academic career.
I'm planning on being on a first name basis with the principal within the first week.
Right now, I don't know if child two will be joining him, in which case, I might as well camp out in the principals office.
I am in awe of how far my oldest child has come since he was driving me batty in utero.
Before, I couldn't imagine him not being home with one of us everyday.
I couldn't imagine turning him over into the keeping of strangers.
I couldn't imagine letting go.
And, in less than one month, as they pry my clutching fingers off of him, I will let go.
I'm sure there will be tears--mine, not his--and excitement--both of ours--as I leave him in the care of his teacher and hope for the best.
And I know I will spend the day worrying. Is he having fun? Is he behaving? is he safe?
Because when I'm not with him, that's what i do.
And then I worry about all the little people he's with and hope they are surviving him.
Time has moved so fast. Only yesterday i was laughing at him trying to roll over or walk or talk. Only yesterday I could carry him in my arms without feeling my sockets stretch under his weight.
Only yesterday, he was my baby and I was his world.
As he is still mine.

P.S. HE GOT IN! BOO GOT ACCEPTED! NOW ONTO YALE!

Nothing

Absolutely nothing is occurring in our Workman's comp case.
Oh yeah, we have a pre trial date to see if we are even ready for a trial, and that's a month from now.
Then they'll set a trial date, which some helpful clerk at the court office told me would take quite a while.
So nothing is happening.
Except we're waiting.
Still.
We were told a court date within four to six weeks was normal.
We get two months for a pre trial date.
Then we have to wait for a court date.
Because, for some reason, this is the way the Universe works for us.
Everyone else can get in and done in a timely fashion.
Not us.
Our attorney was making a settlement offer before she left for vacation last week.
We've still heard nothing.
The Man is living with daily pain. And we're either going to have to foot the cost of treatment ourselves or wait since the company doesn't have to pay on anything until the court decrees--because we don't have a fracking court date yet!
We can't move on to any forming of retraining for a new job--because we don't have a fracking court date yet!
We can't get closure because . .
We don't have a fracking court date yet!
So we're stuck, all because . . . well you get it.
It's like being stuck on a ride that makes you puke up your guts and you can't get off.
It's like being eternally nine months pregnant with a a nine pounds baby.
It's like having a cavity drilled and the Novocaine doesn't entirely work.
It sucks. And there's nothing we can do about it.
Which sucks even more.

Morality and ethics

Why is it so hard to do the right thing?
My Christian friends would state that temptation and roadblocks are set in our paths to make us work harder to do the right thing. So we learn.
Screw that.
My former boss has his own code of ethics that had nothing to do with what was moral or right.
At least not for anyone but himself.
And I watched him maneuver his ethics to suit his own purpose for six long years.
Which gave me a great example of what I don't want to be.
I know what is right, and I strive daily to walk that path.
I make mistakes. I take detours. But I always end up back where I should be.
I think.
But after the year we've endured, it would be nice just to have an easy, well manicured path to walk instead of the one with the fiery pits and craggy rocks and distracting salespeople hocking their goods.
I want to do what is right.
I want to live a moral life.
I want to be able to look myself in the eye and know I've done everything I can to insure my soul is as taint free as possible.
But I stumble and fall when faced with temptation.
And some days, I don't want to get up.
I want to sleep.
i want to press my cheek to a cool rock and not get up.
And then I remember.
I have three little faces looking to me for guidance.
And that sets me back on my feet and trudging forward.
Because I refuse to let my kids down.

The logic of a child's mind

Yesterday, I took the heathens clothes shopping.
It was a unmitigated disaster.
Bug tried to open the door. He was strong enough to open it a bit, but not all the way.
So I reach out to pull open the door.
Disaster strikes.
Bug's foot, in sandals, was under the edge of the door and his big toe was damaged.
Cut, scraped, and falling off (according to him).
The nice ladies at the store gave us bandages and ointment, as Bug sobbed about his hurt toe loudly enough for the entire store to hear.
For the fifteen minutes it took me to grab some jeans, pay and leave.
Then he declared it my fault.
And that I did it on purpose.
In his mind, my helping open the door was a malicious attack designed to maim his innocent big toe. And I cackled malevolently as he suffered.
Because that's the kind of mom I am.
And I wonder about the workings of my child's mind.
I wonder if he's forgotten the nights holding him while he was sick.
I wonder if he's forgotten about all the times I've bandaged him up from his own accidents--and those happened when i wasn't anywhere near him.
For him to state I deliberately hurt him hurts me.
And he's oblivious.
Whereas he can hit me in the face and state it was an accident, in his mind, I'm not allowed to have accidents.
I am deliberate.
Intentional.
And I hurt him on purpose.
But I did get some nice jeans out of it.
For him.

Connections

I am a firm believer in connections.
Just not to people I don't like.
Since I realized Punk was a girl, she has always been Punk to me.
Okay, she has also been Evil Little Miss Piss Pot, but that was an affection name born out of frustration and sleep deprivation.
My boys have always been Boo and Bug.
But Punk. Her nickname has a story I hope one day she will appreciate.
As the youngest out of a litter of children--last check, I think we were still counting my father's progeny. the man went forth and multiplied!--I was always his Pumpkin, later shortened to Punk.
It was my special name, and as he told me, "There was only one Punk."
it was a sign of affection, and at times, exasperation, when he said it. And I always knew it was solely for me. That none of the other kids was given that special of a name.
And, with Daddy's passage, I also knew I would never hear it said that way again.
So, when I was cursed, er, blessed, with my daughter, I knew in my heart she was Punk II.
And it's fitting since she is a mini me, complete with temper and looks and attitude.
I know Daddy would be proud.
And I know he'd approve.
And I know he'd be laughing his butt off when she blows and lets loose a banshee scream.
mostly because he survived it before, and I have to take Punk II home with me.

Boys will be . . .stinky

Bug came up to talk with the Man and tooted.

The Man: That was pretty good, buddy.

Boo approaches. That's nothing, Daddy. Listen to this!

Did you feel the ground shake. That was my 3 1/2 year old, just so you know.

His dad was super proud.

Makes you wonder

Some things my children do makes me wonder why I ever thought being a parent was a good idea.
Last night, at the grocery store, Boo decided to assert his independence in a remarkably stupid way.
He didn't get something he wanted, so he sat down in the middle of the floor and refused to budge.
I tried all the tricks.
The Bye trick:
"Bye, Boo. I'm gonna miss you! Hope you find a nice new family!" and then wander around a corner to peak at him as he waves bye to me and looks at the stuff at eye level.
The "Get over here now or your ass is grass" threat:
He knew I was bluffing--public place, lots of witnesses. He knew i wouldn't beat him senseless.
The "Use your big brother to get my way" trick:
I sent bug to reason with him. No avail. I'm lucky Bug didn't join him.
The "look at the poor man you're blocking with this silliness" trick:
Boo grinned at him, waved jauntily, and didn't move.
So I broke down. I grabbed his arm, hauled him up, and muttered threats under my breath while we paid and made our way to the car.
I am a word class guilter, and by the time we left the parking lot, I'd received countless apologies and I still didn't feel a bit better.
Until this morning.
When The Man had a chance to talk with his wayward middle child.
And Boo got it.
When you make Mama unhappy, not only do you have to deal with her, which is bad enough, but she has back up.
And when Mama ain't happy, Daddy really isn't happy--cause who do you think I'm taking it out on since the law frowns on murdering my children?
Yep.
The Man.
*snicker*

Baby-itis--Man style

The Man has realized our once cute and cuddly babies have become children hell bent on world domination.
And watching our spawn try to overtake the world has left him feeling a bit sentimental.
And he's started listening to my biological clock.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Not that he wants another baby--much--but he misses the fact that our children's childhood is speeding by.
Bug is racing headlong towards school and commitments and new friends, and Boo is right on his heels.
Punk is getting far to big and will soon be keeping pace with her brothers.
And it's just slipping away. Like sand through the hourglass.
These are the days of our lives.
*snicker*
And he realized yesterday that we would never have any of it back.
Not the pregnancy excitement and worries.
Not the soft feel of a newborn in our arms.
Not first steps, first words, first anything.
They are gone.
Before long, we will be greeting our sons, Dr. Bug and Dr. Boo, and our daughter, President Punk, and watching as they struggle with raising their own families.
Our babies are growing up and starting to grow away inch by inch.
In a few years, they won't even want to be seen in public with us.
And, while exhausted and frazzled, both The Man and I know, this is the sweetest time in our lives, when we have our children to hold and they want to be held.
Facing our children's continuing growth and independence makes parents ponder their own mortality. And not just because I think our kids are trying to kill us.
And makes us want to do what anyone facing death wants to do.
And the answer is not pray.
Thank the Gods for my Essure!

Bed hopping

The Man discovered yesterday that our wee little midget baby Punk can climb out of her crib.
And she did it several times, in succession, just for him to see.
So it was time to turn our baby bed into a toddler bed and hope for the best.
Punk thought it was fantastic to have a "big girl bed" now. And she climbed in and out of it for several minutes while the Man and I watched all hopes of sleep dash again the rocks.
We knew we were in for a long night of chasing a rambunctious toddler enjoying her new found freedom.
We waited until her brothers were asleep so she would have no one to party with, and then brushed her teeth and put her in bed.
Then I stayed away. simply because every time she saw me, she threw a world class fit.
So i let her dad do battle.
"Punk, no, no. you have to stay in bed," he crooned in the most nauseatingly saccharine voice imaginable. Her shriek was enough answer. "Now sit down before you fall. No. No."
I channelled my inner bulimic to rid myself of the cloying sweetness.
After about fifteen minutes, there was silence.
I figured she was regrouping for the next attack, but The Man came to bed, smiling proudly and like he expected a reward, and announced she was asleep.
There was no reward, because, in my mind, it was just round one.
I expected to be up all night chasing a deranged spider monkey on crack as she toddled through the house defiantly. I expected battles and tears (mine) and bribes and pleading.
I expected to find her staring at me in the middle of the night when I rolled over. (Both boys love that game!)
I expected not to sleep at all.
And you know what happened?
She slept.
Like a champ.
And never got up once.
Meanwhile I tossed and turned, listening for her chubby footfalls in the hallway.
Evil little imp.
She's well rested and I'm a walking zombie.
I played right into her hand.
Damn it!

P.S. Punk got her toddler bed privileges revoked after an especially busy weekend of bed hopping. the Man saw his little girl flouncing from bed to bed and called it quits!

The rescue of Bug

Today, I called home on break and was greeted by my oldest boy.
As I greeted him cheerily--cause you know I love work!--his response struck fear in my heart.
"Mama, I'm scared."
"Bug? What are you scared of? Where is your daddy?"
Whine.
"Where are you?"
"Up high."
"Did you climb a tree?'
"No."
"Where are you?" My voice was increasingly becoming more shrewish as visions of broken boys danced in my head.
"On a shelf. In the garage."
"DON'T MOVE! Where's your daddy?" I screamed. So much for reassuring him it was fine and handling a crisis in a calm, controlled manner. Nope, not my style. I shot straight to panic and skrieking.
"Mowing."
Okay, I had one of those moments when I had to sit down because I just couldn't handle standing up any longer. All of the shelves in our garage are high, and we have a hard concrete floor guaranteed to result in a trip to the emergency room and a cast or two.
My uterus clenched, my heart rate quickened, and I saw spots flashing before my eyes. I think I even had full on vapors.
My baby was in danger--yes, because of his own stupidity, but mama hormones don't care. At that moment. Later, I'm sure I would care.
Anyway, back to the story. I'm sure you are rivetted.
"Here's Boo."
Great. Bug handed me off to his brother, I guess assuming that the 3 1/2 year old was the cavalry. Bad assumption. Child has never heard of sibling rivalry or culling the herd. Boo's probably just looking for the chance to move on up to number one child. We're a survival of the fittest kind of family.
Pulling back from detour.
"Boo. Where's Daddy?" As if I hadn't already gotten that answer.
"Mowing."
"GO GET HIM NOW!"
I swear I heard the sound of him settling in to watch the ensuing chaos. I think he even popped a brewski.
So, while on the phone with Boo, I'm speed dialing my neighbor.
"Mr. R. I'm sorry to call you but I have Bug on the other line and he's in the garage and stuck on a shelf and The Man is out mowing and I don't know what else to do!"
Mr. R (whose known me all my life and whom I genuinely adore), replied, "Well, darlin', I see the Man in the front yard. but I'll go find Bug and make sure he's okay."
"Oh thank you!"
Right at this time, Boo got tired of talking and said, "bye, mama," and hung up.
So i tried calling back.
Four times.
Until I had to call my neighbor and have the wonderful Mrs. R (who bakes my kids yummy cookies) call over that the phone was off the hook.
I finally heard a wonderful ringing sounds, only to be answered, "Hello, little darlin'. He's fine. He just got himself stuck. We're all all right now."
I love that man.
Which, right now, is more than I can say about my own husband, who waited for what he thought was the cooling down period to call me.
It wasn't. I was still lit.
My umbilical cord is stretched tight and I was two seconds from leaving work to rescue my child and he calls me doing a guilty chuckle.
When my foot finally gets out of his ass, he may be able to sit down.
But I doubt he'll be chuckling any time soon.

Darn it!

My middle child has a potty mouth.
Which isn't entirely his fault, because, like the sailors of lore, I like's me a good swear word.
But i admit to being a bit taken aback when Logan didn't get his way and yelled, "Damn it!"
At least he used it correctly.
So after a long time out to allow me to compose myself--he was in time out, I was in the bathroom trying not to bust out laughing--we had a long talk about grown up words and little people words.
I explained that just because mama says it doesn't mean he should, and if the word sounds bad, to ask me before using it to make sure.
Then we settled on a compromise.
While "damn it" was definitely out for another couple of years, he could say "darn it!' to express his frustration when the need arose.
Fast forward to yesterday.
He'd done something. I don't even remember what the infraction was. But the resulting time out had me listening to "Darn it! Darn it! Darn it!" for several minutes.
The Man, horrified, whispered to me that he didn't think that was an okay term for a 3 1/2 year old to use.
At which point, Boo, being a helpful little imp, changed it to "Dang it!" just for his daddy.
And while I laughed, the Man muttered "damn it!' and walked away.

Where's the soap when we need it?

The Man to Bug: Go clean up your room and pick up your toys.

Bug: No.

TM: Excuse me? You don't tell me no.

Bug; I said no. Whatcha gonna do about it? Cry?

I need good strong soap and a child's mouth washed out right about now.

Those things we do

As a parent, we do a lot of things we'd never have thought we'd do in life.
Wiping runny bottoms, holding sweaty heads while our child heaves dinner into the toilet, chasing a naked poo covered child through the house, sewing a beloved bear, and giving up all our pillows and bed space to a three foot bed hog, just to name a few, are things I never thought I would do.
I also never thought I would have crabs.
No, not the crabs that involve the joke about shaving, lighter fluid, and an ice pick.
Hermit crabs.
We have three, auspiciously named Spongebob, Mr Krabs, and Squidward.
We have had Spongebob for almost six months now, and we have a previous Mr. Krabs that turned up shell after a few weeks. He was a wimp and not suitable for our house.
The Man and I kept his shell and rotated it in the cage so boo would never know his crab went to the great sandbox in the sky.
So yesterday, I went on a foray for crab goodies--food, substrate (bedding to us okies, or dirt!), shells (cause they change shells every time we turn around!) and such.
The Man put together a crab-itat worthy of three hermit crabs. It also met with the heathens precise requirements.
The end result provided lots of squeals of delight as the boys ran around the crab-itat as the boys detailed every action undertaken by our hermity friends.
I never thought I would have any crabs in my home that weren't served with butter.
But I have to admit, they are kind of cute.
In a creepy sort of way.

Virgin Territory

As a parent of a preschooler, I'm a virgin.
Yep, me and my cherry farm have no idea what we're doing.
Being a mother to an almost five year old is a daunting task.
It's akin to having Bug and being handed this newborn with no real instructions and no way to back the hell out of the deal.
No. Strike that. It's a hell of a lot harder.
I mean really, shouldn't there be a lemon law? So the kid could look at me, declare me not a keeper, and return me to the pool of people who might one day make good parents?
I had a panic attack and PPD when I was given Bug, and I'm still having panic attacks today when I realize I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FRACK I'M DOING.
Bug is my test child, the one I try out new parenting tips and styles on. the one who does everything first, dragging me along with. I drop to my knees every day and pray I'm not screwing him up too badly because I can't afford the therapy bills.
Some days, I look at him and know I'm a big, fat failure. I'm short on time, patience, and parental skills. I'm not what he needs. If the Man hadn't hidden all the damned towels, I'd be throwing one in.
Others, I go in after he's asleep and curl around him and apologize for not being good enough, patient enough, just enough.
And some days, when I outsmart him, I congratulate myself with chocolate and liquor.
That doesn't happen very often.
Bug, and my other two heathens, rolled the dice and got me. Teach the kid not to bet in the future.
I understand babies now. You feed them, hold them, change them, and talk to them (or in their general direction since they can't see clearly for a while) and they are happy. Been there, done that. Babies I can handle.
I'm fairly adept at toddlers. Chase them. Keep them from killing themselves. Keep their cage locked. Yep, got that down pat.
I don't know shat about preschoolers.
So I sit here, staring at my oldest child, and wondering what sort of torture we will go through next. He's given up peeling the eyebrows and blood curdling screams. He's moved onto psychological warfare now. He plays games with my mind, loving and obedient one day, toilet papering his bedroom the next.
There is no rhyme or reason except that of an all too smart almost five year old bent on world domination. He's already conquered The Man and he's moving on to me.
I am the last barricade keeping him from the world at large. If I fail, you're all screwed.
Just remember that I tried.
Just remember that I stood firm on my bed of quicksand.
Until some dumb shit unlocked the door and I escaped, crying, "He's all yours now!"
I am mom.
Watch my ass jiggle as I run away.

Waiting

"Between the wish and the thing life lies waiting.”--anonymous

I'm stuck between. We're stuck between. And I don't wait well.

"There was a time when Patience ceased to be a virtue. It was long ago." --Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Living with boys

I knew from marriage that the male sex was a stinky, noisy, strange group.
But I didn't expect my boys to join ranks quite so quickly, or, well, so rankly.
Bug has become a consummate belcher. On command, with no provocation, and with the proudest look on his face as he chuckles, "Excuse me," post emission.
Boo is jet propelled.
This morning, as I sat at my desk and he curled to my side for what I thought was a sweet snuggle, I patted his bottom.
And he farted.
on my hand.
And I could feel the ripples.
After sanitizing my hand to the sounds of gleeful giggles and a song about toots, I realized my babies are becoming little men.
I should have expected it. Laying in bed at night, The Man emits noises and aromas that keep my hair curly--even my nose hair has a jaunty wave thanks to him.
Although he can't belch, he does applaud our boys efforts to break the sound barrier and to belch the alphabet. Bug is up to G, I think.
I always knew my boys would become men one day, but I just never expected them to foray into the world of manly funk quite so early in life. They are precocious boogers, I know!
So I'm investing in air fresheners and dousing lit candles and holding my nose for the next . . . 50 years. "Cause even when they have moved on to make fragrant homes of their own, i will have the original left with me.
The Man.
In all his stinky glory.

Out of the mouths of heathens

Bug: (sitting on the floor with stickers and Punk's Wonder Pet's toy)

The Man: Whatcha doing, Bug?

Bug: I'm pimpin' Sissie's flyboat!

Lovely

While I think my heathens are some pretty fine looking kiddo's, I don't dwell on their appearance.
Well . . .
I do occasionally measure their noses while asleep to make sure they aren't getting their Daddy's nose behind my back. The Man started out with a cute button nose, too.
But I don't' dwell on if my kids are better looking than other peoples. And overnight it went from cute to WOWZER!
Anyway, my kids.
I mean, they just are damned nice looking, so why dwell on it, right?
Seriously. I'm almost oblivious.
As a mother, I occasionally get glimpses of what lovely children I really have.
In the shape and color of my Boo boys blue eyes.
In the way Bug moves his hands or looks when he's thinking about something.
Or the smile on my baby girl's face.
We are raising our children to be minds first and bodies second, because we know that physical attributes are fleeting and unimportant.
But sometimes I see them how others must see them.
When they are clean and dressed and not crying or screaming, that is.
And I am proud that they are pretty children.
I'm just petty and shallow enough to admit that.
And then to hand them a book to read or start drilling them with flashcards.
A mom has her priorities, and pretty doesn't a doctor make!

Last week

Last week, The Man was released from the care of his surgeon.
There was the happy cloud.
That just dumped a freaking monsoon on us.
According to Dr C, the pain will most likely just get worse over the course of The Man's lifetime. He said there's nothign surgically he can do. So we're now thrown into the world of pain meds and maintenance, and I'm looking into alternative therapies.
If I have to sit on his ass to have some little Chinese man put tiny needles in him to ease the pain, just call me blubber butt.
No, on second thought--don't.
Dr C recommendations, combined with another doctors, has made us wonder what the future will hold for us.
The work The Man has done all his life? He's not to do any longer. So we look at retraining. But to do what? We don't know. Because everything he's wanted to be when he grows up involves having two fully functional hands.
And no pain.
The concept of a lifetime of pain, most days severe, is enough to dampen anyone spirits.
Knowing there is nothing more to do to stop it is even worse.
As long as there was a possibility of improvement, their was hope. but we've now basically got a slim thread to hold onto to, which is tough to do with a badly damaged hand.
And some things, such as wearing a wedding ring, have taken on new significance.
He's always worn a wedding ring. Me? I have metal allergies, so I only wear it at work.
But now, because of the injury and the pain, he doesn't wear it any longer. He's still married, but I like to stamp my property as . . .well, my property. A wedding ring that the Man is terrified to remove did that quite nicely.
Holding hands? Not that we do it that often, except with a heathen, but it now requires me to be careful of how I hold it for fear of worsening the pain.
The hand is what it is. I know we could be worse off. A moment earlier and this blog would be about missing my husband and the father of my babies. Got it. And while the loss of some fingers is minor in comparison, it will be with us for eternity.
It will be in every picture from this moment on. It will be a reminder of the accident and of the pain that he lives with.
Playing ball with the boys will require adjustments to minimize The Man's discomfort.
Tossing Punk in the air means being more careful to catch her due to loss of hand strength and control and to not hit the damaged hand.
One moment of carelessness by another man has changed my family's life forever.
And, thanks to him, we can never go back to what we were before.

Out of the mouths of heathens

Boo: "Mommy! I'm gonna go to school to get ed-u-kidded!"

Me: "Really? What are you gonna learn?"

B: "How to write my name and tie my shoes and kick some can!"

That's my boy!

Slacker

After an auspicious start, I've fallen off the potty training wagon.
No, not me personally. I am very well trained and still in control of my faculties thanks to religious Kegeling. (Come on, girls! Tighten those muscles! Flex it! Release it! your man will appreciate the effort! And think how hot you'll be when the other grannies are in diapers and your sporting your granny panties!)
Nope, I've slacked teaching Punk to pee pee in the potty.
The best time for her is the time when I'm dressed for work and don't feel like teaching her while clad in professional attire.
She gets distracted by my heels, especially open toed ones.
So I've let it slide, and now I'm thinking I need to hop back on the loo and get to work on it.
Especially when I'm in line buying diapers.
And I start to think how much money I've spent on things designed to catch pee and hold shit.
What a waste of money I could have used elsewhere.
So I am rededicating Punk's potty with a sippie of milk and renewed determination to have her potty trained before that aneurysm I've been threatening The Man with bursts and I drop dead, probably in the bathroom and in the most embarrassing position ever.
Ass up to the world.

Baby blues

My kids have the blues.
Every morning when I leave home, I see my baby girl standing at the window sobbing and mouthing mama. I know she's calling me, but I can't hear her through the window and the blaring stereo as I speed away to the world of sanity.
This is after I pry my boys off of my legs and remind them that I go to work every day and come home every night. Normally after circling the block a few times getting up the nerve to go home and face the chaos . . .er, music, but still, I go home.
They still have the fun parent, The Man, home with them every day. So you figure they'd be shooting rainbows out their arses with joy to see me gone.
Nope. they mope. They whine. They steal the phone when I call home to "chat."
Yesterday's chat consisted of Bug telling me to, "Blagger blagger boop and booh" whatever the hell that means!
Normally they are tattling on each other or on their father, which works out well in my book.
But, back to my original point, they only miss me when I'm leaving. When I'm home, they are all over their dad and wanting their dad --or to be fed, watered, walked, and washed!--not me.
But the Man reports the opposite during the daytime hours.
So I've decided, I'm my children's favorite parent when I'm not around, and the same goes for The man.
But at least we're in the running.
Right?

Out of the mouths of heathens

The Man: (flexing his muscles) Boo, tell mommy you've got guns.

Boo: Mommy, I've got bubble gums!

Hallelujeh

The end is in sight. Today should be The Man's last appointment with his surgeon.
Dr. C is a very nice man to whom I am eternally grateful, but if he doesn't release The Man today, I'm gonna be on his doorstep and pretty damned pissed.
So our attorney's office is gearing up to earn their keep. They are putting on their brass knuckles and ball busting shoes and preparing to make us--and them--some money. When I see the maniacal glint in our attorney's eyes, I am very happy--very afraid, but happy.
After more than a year of pain, suffering, tears, headaches, and heartaches, we are hopefully going to be receiving our just desserts.
In my case, hopefully paid bills and a new computer. A laptop--pretty and shiny and just for me. I will love it, and snuggle it, and call it George and keep it with me until its memory begins to fail and its hard drive sags--at which time, I replace it with a new, younger model.
Anyway. Lest I digress.
So we're heading into the territory of court dates and big checks and payola.
And I'm rubbing my greedy little hands together, praying the Universe is fair and just and takes the bastards for everything they have.
In a fair and equitable way.
Yeah.
That's it.
Right.
Fair.
That's all I want.
And a couple of pairs of balls for my rear view window. But I'll be fetching those myself.