Two Sirius

How We Operate

S went to the dentist yesterday.  She x-rayed the teeth that were growing in behind his baby teeth, and got right to the point: Three of the bottom front baby teeth REALLY needed to come out.  Ideally, all four should.  When?  Well, we can do it now, or we can do it later.  The sooner the better.  And we were there, so what the hell?

So S left the dentist yesterday afternoon with four fewer teeth than he walked in with.  Or, technically, not...since he did walk out with them.  They just weren't in his mouth anymore.

He did great.  The novocaine shots were pretty hard on him.  I don't even know what the point is of that numbing gel they use, except to give the patient a false sense of security...it sure as hell never worked for me.  Novocaine shots HURT, and that's a fact.  At least he was sucking down happy gas like his life depended on it.  He got pretty loopy on it, so I guess it probably helped some.  But not a lot, because he kept yelling as the needle started to go in, and they couldn't finish because he couldn't hold still.  My poor baby...I had such a hard time not crying for him.  I finally told him to squeeze my hand, which he was already holding, as hard as he could instead of yelling.  That worked, and they were finally able to numb him. 

That was the worst part for him.  After that, it was smooth sailing.  For dinner, he had a bunch of different soft foods, and today and tomorrow, I'm staying home with him to make sure he gets plenty of saltwater rinses, but he's totally fine.  He's even got a school friend over right now, which is great...he's a really nice, polite boy, and is welcome over at our house any time.  The thing is, though, his mother doesn't even KNOW me, and she's willing to just drop her kid off over at my house for a couple of hours?  Didn't come in for coffee, didn't talk to me long enough to at least pick up whatever crazy-vibes may be present...is that the norm?  Because no way in hell would I just let S go hang out at the home of some random kid he knew from school without knowing anything whatsoever about their parents.  Call me overprotective if you want.   

However, I digress.

Anyway, S did fabulously with the tooth extraction, and the Tooth Fairy paid up BIG TIME.  This evening, we're off to buy him a new game for his Nintendo DS.  Which seems to have pretty effectively wiped the whole Novocaine episode from his mind.  Thank god.

Lucky, our foster dog, also had body parts removed from his person yesterday, which I'm pretty sure he would also have much rather kept.  They were considerably lower on his anatomy, though.  He's also recovering really well, and - thank the Holy and Almighty Powers that Be - he's GOING TO A NEW HOME TONIGHT!!!!!

I have put considerable effort into not getting attached to this dog.  Ok, maybe not considerable, because I frankly haven't really had to try all that hard.  He just annoys the crap out of me.  He's a good dog, but I like them calm, intelligent and mature.  Lucky is not the quickest fly on the shitpile.  Also, he's a total fucking spazz.  I've never seen him move without running FULL TILT.  Doesn't matter if it's 50 feet or 5 inches, he is compelled to sprint it.  With the number of times he's run into the dining room wall, I can't believe he hasn't gone completely through it.  Then, too, he's a hardcore, card-carrying butt-sniffer, which I can't stand.  If there's a reason I'm more naturally inclined to cats, it's probably because of the butt-sniffing thing.  You will never see a cat trying to catch a whiff of ass.  Lucky, however, would walk around with his nose firmly lodged in my crack for hours at a time if I let him.

So on he goes...to greener pastures, and friendlier buttcracks.  Maybe being neutered will calm him down some.  I hope so, if only for his new family's sake.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

S is home for the week.  I'll be taking him to the dentist on Wednesday about those teeth.  It's very, VERY good to have him home.  I hate summer, though...everything is so screwed up, and as far as routines go, all bets are off.  As soon as we get into our groove, it's time for him to go back to his father, or he goes to Cub Scout day camp instead of regular day camp, or there's a long weekend, or 4th of July falls in the middle of the friggin' week, or teeth start growing where they shouldn't and plans have to be changed to accommodate dentist apointments.  At least during the rest of the year, there's school, and everything revolves around that.  There's a reference point.

I ran 7 miles this morning.  My recovery time after a long run is getting shorter - today after I ran, I went to Starbucks for coffee beans (they're cheaper at an actual Starbucks than they are at the grocery store...around here, anyway), and now I'm taking a break from doing some cleaning.  I haven't been as tired after my run as I usually am, but I did crave a steak, which I do a lot after my long runs.  Wonder what that's all about.  I gave S's room and bathroom a thorough douching out last night - no doubt they'll look just like they did before I cleaned them about 24 hours from now - and today I'm vacuuming, doing laundry and giving the kitchen a good scrubdown.  I also need to put a few things away in my closet and find S's lunch tote for tomorrow when he starts at day camp.

God, my life is glam and exciting.

I'm trying to save up for and plan a Disney World trip for us in the spring.  Part of my divorce settlement included Disney Vacation Club points from the timeshare that The Ex is keeping, and spring should be a fairly good time to go.  Not ideal (which would be the weeks leading up to Christmas), but pretty good.  I can't seem to get excited about it, though, which is NOT like me.

I've been very restless lately, and moody.  Among other things, it's probably got a lot to do with my grandfather's death, and I know that's not something you just snap out of, but I'd really, REALLY like my old self back.

Isn't She Lovely

KathyHowe, just for you...a picture of the infamous and much-celebrated tote:

She needs a bath and will get one this weekend if I have time (with leather cleaner and moisturizer...not an actual, literal dunk in the tub), but she's gorgeous, no?

I find that in general, I take much better care of my things if they're nicer to begin with.  I'm pretty sure that hell would freeze over before I'd bother with cleaning a Target bag, which is what I mostly used to carry, but now there's no turning back.  I want bags that are classic and will last me years instead of months, and this particular one is definitely in it for the long haul.

God.  I feel like I should name it or something.  And guys, I know you don't get it, but we mostly don't get your thing for red sports penises - I mean cars - and jet skis, either, so I guess we're even (or not, since handbags are usually less expensive than man-toys). 

Sucking it Up

My Papa's still dead.  I know that sounds really stupid, but it's just the weirdest damned thing that he's not going to be there the next time I go home.

It's probably no coincidence that the Saturday after he went was my absolute worst run ever.  I was supposed to go 6 miles.  But it was humid, and I was probably dehydrated, and I know for damn sure that I was exhausted.  I was also still recovering from my half-marathon the weekend before.  I just didn't have it in me.  And then for some stupid reason, on top of all that, I decided to hand myself another crapload of emotional baggage.  A few months ago, my grandma sold her house.  If there was a house I grew up in, it was that one...she'd lived there since I was about 3 years old.  Until the day she sold it - and maybe it's still there - the screen door from the kitchen into the garage had a spool nailed to it, near the bottom.  There was a step down from the door into the garage, and the handle had been too high for me to reach when I was small, so I'd pull the door open by its edge and my grandparents were afraid I'd pinch myself, so they nailed the spool there so that I could use it as a door handle.  All the other grandkids used it too, but it was my spool.

When I started running Saturday morning, I pretended to myself that I didn't know where I was headed.  Turns out that it's 3.1 miles from my parents' house to my grandparents'.  Along the way, I passed the hospital where my mother was born.  I passed the house my high school boyfriend lived in, and the house that another boy I had a crush on lived in, too.  I passed the house where my aunt used to live, and where I spent many weekends parked in front of the TV playing Super Mario Bros. 3 on her Super Nintendo and drinking all of their milk.  I passed the Baskin Robbins where my grandparents used to take me for ice cream, only it's a flower shop now.  I passed the Kwik Shop where my favorite cousin and I used to go for popsicles in the summer.  It's a small town, but it's hard to believe that all of that is encompassed in just a few miles.

When I got to their block, I slowed to a walk.  I wanted to see the house.  It looked the same, except that the new owner, a young guy in his 20s, had planted some flowers in the flowerbed out front.  It looked well-kept, but the rocks that my Papa had lined it with were gone, which made me sad.  I bent down and touched the grass for a second, then I circled around to the alley so I could see the backyard.  The swingset that my grandparents had put up for us was gone, and the tree I used to climb had grown so much it was unrecognizable.  The lilac bushes that my Papa loved were gone, but the honeysuckle still grew along the west fence.

I was pretty much spent at that point.  I mostly walked back to my parents' house, jogging very short distances here and there just to maintain my self-respect.  The fact that I'm running again now, after such an extremely shitty run, has to mean something.  I'm not sure what...but something.  I'm even looking into my next half-marathon, which will probably be October 20, in preparation for the full marathon on December 9.

The funeral is over, and S is back in school.  I'm co-planning the recruitment rally for the Cub Scout pack next week.  Tomorrow after my run, I'm taking the foster dog to be shown to prospective families, and the Beagle to get his nails trimmed.  Then I'm picking up a graduation present for our neighbor, and J and I are going to her party, which is a crawfish boil.  Last night, J and I went to see a touring broadway show, and we both really enjoyed it.  Sunday is Mother's Day.  There's an immense pile of laundry staring me in the face, which I'll have to tackle tonight, and vacuuming to be done, and groceries to be shopped for.

Life is going on, but I'm still not sure when I get to cry.

How

My grandfather died a week ago today.  I was there when he went, standing on his left side, stroking his arm and shoulder.  My grandma was on his other side, feeling the last of his heartbeats under her hand.  It was peaceful, he was in no pain, and he was surrounded by his family.  I've never seen anyone die before.  I was exhausted because I'd spent the night there in the room with him to keep my grandma company and take care of her if she needed anything, so I hadn't slept much.  I thought it would be horrifying to watch him die, but it wasn't.  Afterward, my uncle held me while I cried - the only real crying I've done so far. 

I haven't been blogging in that time because I've been busy doing things like trying frantically to get my deployed cousin home for the funeral, or spending the day with my grandmother screening her calls and looking after her, or practicing the song I sang at the funeral, or calling my grandfather's oldest children, whom I met AT the funeral, to keep them posted, or doing the same for my uncle George, whom I likewise barely knew, or going to the nursing home and clearing out my Papa's things because I couldn't stand the idea of my grandma having to do it.

I haven't had much time to be sad.  It comes in drips and drabs, but I still have yet to sit down and breathe long enough to have a really good hysterical, hiccupy, red-nosed cry.  I haven't lit a candle for him.  I've been talking to him, and I've been listening to his music, but neither one have anything to do with acknowledging his death or my loss.  And it's a HUGE loss.  I was the first grandchild, and my mother had me when she was 16, so he half-raised me.  He's a father more than he is a grandfather.  Basically, I've lost my daddy.

I kept staring at him in his casket.  My little sisters and cousins did, too, occasionally touching him and talking about how cold he was, wondering what his hands felt like and not having the nerve to touch them.  I stroked his shoulder and the arm of his navy suit, the way I was doing when he went.  I couldn't stop touching him.  I kept putting my hand on his chest, or trying to smooth back those few stray hairs on one side of his head.  I knew there would be stray hairs, just because of how particular my Grandma was about his hair.  She didn't care what songs were played or what the order of the service was, but she did make it clear that if anyone tried to cut his hair or comb it any way except a side part from left to right, they'd draw back a nub next time they went to shake hands with her.  So knowing my Grandpa, of course he'd have stray hairs that couldn't be smoothed down.  He'd want to get a rise out of her, one more time.  And I thought about this, and noticed the little smile he seemed to have on his face.  And I didn't tell my sisters and my cousins that all I really wanted to do was to climb in there with him, put my head on his shoulder and hear him tell me not to worry, everything was copasetic.

The funeral home did a very good job with him.  Too good, really, because they made him look more like the Papa I knew than he'd looked for several years while he was alive and living in the nursing home.  It made for this odd disconnect, because I had that much harder a time wrapping my mind around the fact that he was dead.  It was like showing me the Papa I knew and loved again, but from behind a window where I couldn't get to him.  I almost resented how good they made him look.

Before the funeral started, his oldest daughter talked about how amazing it was to her that he was 92.  She said she'd never felt older than she did that day.  I was the exact opposite.  I felt five years old.  I didn't know how I was going to get through the song I was supposed to sing.  I thought I might throw up.  I didn't, but the song sucked (other people told me I did a beautiful job, but what the hell else are you supposed to say to someone who just sang at her grandpa's funeral?).

I haven't had a lot of experience with death.  What little death I have dealt with has taught me that one of my more odd reactions to losing someone is that I go into a panic about the future and where my life is going.  Basically, I have a mini-midlife crisis whenever someone dies.  My marriage had been basically kaput for a couple of years when my biological father, whom I barely knew, died, but the courage to actually get out of it and get a divorce was a direct reaction to dealing with the fact that he was gone.  So this panic thing I do when someone dies is not to be taken lightly.  Which, let me tell you, is going to be utterly fantastic should anyone close to me die while I'm already in the middle of my ACTUAL midlife crisis.  Seriously, I should just lock myself up until I'm 75 if that happens.

I miss him.  And I want him back, the way he was 25 years ago.  I want that so bad it's almost palpable.  My grandpa really is in a better place - I honestly do believe that - but for the rest of us, death pretty much sucks.

While the Cat's Away

S is on Spring Break.  He's spending it with The Ex, and while it's hard to be away from him for such long chunks of time, I know he's going to have fun.  He also gets to see some of his extended family on his father's side, so that's good too.  As batshit-crazy as most of them are, they're S's family, and the fact that they ARE his family is as much my fault as much as it is anyone else's, so there we be.

One small consolation - I get his Nintendo DS all to myself this week (I know...I'm awful!).  Lesson recently learned: Super Mario Bros. 3 is every damned bit as compelling as it was in the 90s.  God help me. 

Providing I'll be able to tear myself away from the crack vial that is Nintendo DS, J and I will get to concentrate on doing more grown-up stuff than we usually get to.  Tuesday night I'm going out with E - our good friend and S's godmother - which is something we've been trying to do literally for MONTHS.  And I know J and I have plans to go see a movie with one or two other couples sometime this week.  I will also be getting together with the current Cubmaster of our pack to plan out the upcoming Pack Meeting.  It's an important one, not because it's the first one where I'll be serving in any capacity as the new Cubmaster, but because S and most of his den have fulfilled all of the Tiger Cub requirements and will be advancing to Tiger Cub Rank.  I know, it sounds redundant...how it works is that the Tiger Cubs are working on their Tiger Cub Rank, after which they become Wolves who are working on receiving their Wolf Rank, and so on.  You'd think they'd be Tiger Cubs working on their Wolf Rank, but hey...I didn't make up the program. 

Our den will probably also be the Color Guard for this Pack Meeting.  Another big deal, since that's the whole reason S wanted to be a Cub Scout in the first place.  He thought the boys in their uniforms bringing the flags into the school assemblies and leading the salute were the Coolest. Thing. EVER.  If they get to do Color Guard, this will be S's first time with that, too.  So it's a really special Pack Meeting for several reasons.

Anyhoo.  Right after the Pack Meeting (and I mean RIGHT after), J and I will be leaving for San Antonio!  I can't believe I actually get to go - there were a ton of hoops to be jumped through in order to arrange it, but somehow it worked out.

I'm really excited because I've never been there, and it's supposed to be a very romantic city.  Also, though?  First of all...because of the way the trip is planned, I get to run not in one, not in two, but in THREE new places.  One of them I know for sure will be a gorgeous, serene, very private run, and I'm really looking forward to it.  Second of all...

There's a Coach outlet close to where we'll be.

I really, really like Coach bags.  I do have one - an insanely adorable baby blue suede hobo.  I even have the matching ballet flats.  By sheer luck, I got them both for a really good deal from completely separate places (and no, they aren't knockoffs).  The thing is, light blue suede with white leather trim isn't terribly practical for everyday, so I don't get near as much use out of them as I'd like.  I really want a Coach for my everyday "default" bag, and I promised myself I'd get one to celebrate the finalization of my divorce.  That went through in October (hallelujah!), and I've been saving pocket money for months, just in case I was going to be able to do the San Antonio thing.  Maybe I'll even get two, if I see anything I like and can swing it without breaking the bank.

Lots to look forward to.  Not the least of it being S coming home, and J and I coming home from San Antonio.  I'm glad there's so much going on to fill the time S and I will be apart, because I'd go nuts otherwise.  And I do want to go to San Antonio.  But having everything back to normal again afterward will be the best part, I think.

Things Are Looking Up

She's GONE!!! 

No, J's mom isn't dead.  And no, I wouldn't be happy about it if she were.  Lest I go to hell, I'm trying hard not to be too terribly relieved that she's on her way back home, but I'm having a tough time not looking like the jester in the Safety Dance video right about now.

I have my house back.  And it is very, very good.

I apparently strained the tendon under the arch of my foot due to overtraining, so I've been resting it since Wednesday.  Today I did five miles on it, and I had a really good run.  My doctor gave me a shot of cortisone in the ass,  and I think I'm more or less back in commission with a few extra precautions.  Thank goddess for that, too.  It turns out that I am far more prone to extraordinary bitchiness when I'm not running.  Also, I'd be pissed if my half marathon training got thrown off. 

Friday I had an meeting with my boss.  He apparently thought the working-from-home thing last week went so well that he wants me to do it once a week for the next 3 weeks and then submit reports to him about it, as sort of an example to the rest of the company that it's a viable option for people in contingency situations (sick kids, sick selves, etc.).  I also pitched an unrelated idea to him during the same meeting, which he was so impressed with that he sent an immediate e-mail to the Powers that Be and cc'ed me on it, saying that I had this suggestion, he thought it was an excellent one and fully endorses it, and if they will implement the program that I talked about he would put whatever resources behind it that he needed to.  It's amazing what a simple "good job" can do for the morale.

Also?  My mom says I'm losing weight.  I'd noticed changes, but I didn't realize that it was obvious to other people, too.

It's about damned time things start getting better.

Say It's Your Birthday

Yesterday was S's birthday party, which we had at a skating rink.  There was quite a good turnout, and everyone seemed to have a really great time. 

J's always complaining that he doesn't get invited to many birthday parties, with the unspoken reasoning that we shouldn't invite kids to his, either.  And it's true, he doesn't, but if we didn't invite the kids who don't invite him to theirs, who the hell would come to his party?  It's not because kids don't like him, though...it's because no one HAS birthday parties anymore.  Not around here, anyway.  If you ask the kids in S's class what they do to celebrate their birthday - and I have - they'll tell you that they go out to a restaurant and get a present from their parents. 

I understand this because, let's face it, kids' birthday parties are expensive and a pain in the ass, and I'm glad I only have to do it once a year.  But I can't see NOT doing it.  S is not spoiled by any means, and he's such a good boy.  I think I can handle throwing a party for him once a year.

I just can't believe he's 7 already.  It seems like there's such a huge gap between 6 and 7.  Like the easy part is over, and the real growing-up part is coming.  On the way home from his party, a song came on the radio that I used to sing to him when he was a baby if he was hurt or upset.  It would quiet him right down.  He still calls it "The Hurting Song," but he never lets me sing it to him anymore.  I already can't really pick him up and carry him, and I know the day will come soon when he'll be entirely too cool to let me hold him in my lap or snuggle with him anymore.  I'm about to cry just thinking about it. 

J's mother goes back home tomorrow.  Is it evil of me not to be all that broken up over it?  For one thing, the whole thing where she clues me in to little nuggets such as "J likes spicy foods," like we've only been together for a month, is getting a bit old.  We had a couple of friends over to watch a movie last night, and apparently she decided that she needed to teach us (read: me) a thing or two about hostessing.  Now mind you, we offered T and D something to eat or drink, but they're also good enough friends that we're fine with them just rummaging around and finding something if they want it, which D did when he got a beer or two out of the fridge.  We don't drink it, so it's there solely for guests, and he knows that.  I got up to get a glass of wine, and I did ask T if she wanted some, but she said no, she was fine, so I got myself a glass.  J's mom saw me coming back to my seat with it and very pointedly offered T some wine.  She IS hard of hearing and probably didn't know I'd already asked, but you know what?  Me...a full-fledged grownup.  Bills, boobs, wisdom teeth, motherhood, the whole shebang.  House...mine.  Even if she did think I wasn't taking care of our friends, it wasn't for her to say anything.  And then after that, she apparently decided that to make up for our horrible rudeness by offering them stuff we didn't even have.

Her: Would you guys like some cookies?

Me: Um, we don't have any cookies.

Her: Crackers? Cake?

Me: We don't have any cake, either (the dog had somehow managed to get to the leftover birthday cake while we were out to eat, which she knew perfectly well.  He almost didn't live through the weekend for that one...it was REALLY GOOD cake).

Her: Well, can we get you guys anything?

As I grit my teeth and think, "there's no 'we.'  Not your house, not your guests, and we whose house and guests they ARE already asked.  Watch. The. Movie.  Quit offering people stuff when you don't even know what we have, when they've very obviously been going back and forth to the kitchen on their own and we've very obviously been fine with that, and when they already said they DON'T WANT ANYTHING!"

It's a small thing, I know.  And I probably wouldn't have been near as annoyed by it if she hadn't already been treating me like I was a mentally challenged 12-year old since she set foot in the house.  Honestly, I don't remember it being this bad the other couple of times she's visited.  I guess she's decided that by the 3rd visit or so, I should be comfortable enough with her to be grateful for her sage instruction, or something, but you know what?  No. 

Just no.

Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho

With S still out of school today ("sick" is debatable, but his fever didn't break until about 11pm last night, so he still can't go back to school), I'm working from home for the first time ever.

I am fucking LOVING it.

At the office, I have a lava lamp and a cubicle.  At home, I have HDTV and a waterbed.

At the office, I have my teeny tiny fridge, which I adore.  At home, I have two full-sized ones, which I REALLY adore.

At the office, I have a creepy plastic baby from a Mardi Gras king cake.  At home, I have a non-creepy, non-plastic Beagle.

At the office, I have a public restroom.  At home, I can walk 8 feet to take a quick shower in between tickets to be processed.

At the office, I have a toaster that no one will touch because it's so skanky.  At home, I have a gorgeous 4-slice capacity toaster with a special setting for bagels.

At the office, I have to wear actual clothes.  At home, I can scrounge around in track pants and a t-shirt with no makeup on and my hair in a hideous but comfortable ponytail.

At the office, I have to sit in an actual chair.  At home, I can prop up my currently injured foot (I think it's plantar fasciitis - look it up if you actually give a damn) and ice the living shit out of it in the hope that I'll actually be able to run tomorrow.

At the office, S can be there with me occasionally, but is fairly restricted in what he can do.  At home, he's lounging on the bed beside me eating Goldfish, after which he'll probably go to his room to play for awhile.

Yeah.  This does NOT suck.

Cabin Fever

S is sick with a virus, and has been for a few days.  His birthday is tomorrow.  Since his temperature was 102 this morning at about 8:30am, he'll have to be in bed the entire time.  Fantastic.

He's actually not feeling THAT bad.  He's puny and wants his mommy (that'd be me, in case you just tuned in or have no reading comprehension skills whatsoever), and his stomach is bothering him a bit.  He has headaches sometimes.  That's about it.  But it's a huge cardinal sin to send your child to school when they haven't been over their fever for 24 hours.  And believe me...the other moms FIND OUT.  One little girl got sent to school last week before she'd been fever-free long enough, and got shunned like an Amish girl with an iPod.  The other parents who were there having lunch with their own kids were acting like she was Typhoid Mary.  Which is kind of understandable, but...kids get other kids sick.  It happens.

Anyway.  S is not going back to school before he's supposed to, because I just don't do that.

So we're holed up in my bedroom at the moment.  J's mother is visiting, and she's elderly so she shouldn't be catching viruses all willy-nilly.  She doesn't listen when we tell her to stay out of the room where S is, though, so I have us both barricaded in here with the door shut.  She might get offended, but I'd rather piss her off than live with the fact that she caught a virus from my kid that could seriously compromise her health.

Plus she's doing stuff like making constant comments about how she's going to teach me to cook, demanding to know how I clean the kitchen floors, and then wondering where the mop and broom are because "I see a lot of dirt here, and I don't want J to have to clean it up."  Also, we go through way too many clothes over the course of a week, and I shouldn't be feeding S macaroni and cheese, and I SHOULD be giving him aspirin (which young children are never supposed to have).  And she felt the need to ascertain that I actually possess a thermometer when I mentioned that S had a fever.  And she wants me to eat something.  And she wants me to put on some socks.  And she wants me to change into something warmer/cooler/more comfortable/whatever.  And she has actually used the phrase "no excuses, young lady!" While talking to me.  My OWN mother has never said that to me, for god's sake.  It's like I'm this child living with her son, whom she must take it upon herself to raise "correctly."  Because the fact that he is involved with me apparently entitles her to do that.

In the midst of all of this, and apparently in spite of my glaring ineptitude, she wants me to spawn, that I may present her with another grandchild.  I know.  Makes TOTAL sense, when she doesn't seem to think I'm doing such a bang-up job with the one I've already got, or with the way I'm running my life in general.

She means well...she means well...she means well...I know she means well.  She's still a cake-walk compared to The Ex's mother, and I know it's partly the idea that she's staying in her son's home, but I wish she'd remember that it's also my home, and even though J and I have been together for quite awhile, I don't know her near as well as I do him.  Even if I did, at 33 years old and having been raised by a fantastic mother, I'm not particularly in the market for another one.  I'm not really sure what it is about having a son that makes a mother do this kind of thing to the person their son chose.  And it does seem to apply more to mothers of sons than mothers of daughters, so I'm terrified that I'll be that way too.

What's everyone else's week looking like?  Calmer than mine, I hope?