They really Love each other

With the end of April rapidly approaching, I can no longer take my ostrich approach to getting my taxes done. It is time to get my head out of the sand and dig in to the mess I call my financial papers. Generally, I am a keener, the first in line to get my taxes done, the first to brag about getting a refund back. This year, however, the thought of sifting through all the papers and receipts is almost too much to bear. I fear any reminder of the child I lost could set back all the progress my hubs and I have made. But the tax man waits for no one, grieving mothers included. So I did what any responsible citizen would do, I grabbed a bottle of the good stuff and a box of kleenex, and attempted to tackle the mountain of paper which I had heaped in my closet and ignored since October.

Now normally, I am hyper-organized. Much like Monica on Friends, I like everything in it's place. But things quickly got out of hand after the funeral. Instead of bills and receipts being filed away in their appropriate folders, they were stacked on top of condolence cards, homework, junk mail and basically any other piece of paper that found it's way into my home in the last six months.

A bottle of vino, and a few tissues later, I had it all stacked and sorted. And it wasn't near as painful as I thought it would be. (That could be attributed to either my iron-like fortitude, or the fact that I was downing a fifty dollar bottle of wine. Who knows.) In the end, I was left with all of my tax related papers, a stack of well wishes and one or two reminders why I chose to have children in the first place.

Amongst various poetic ditties and Picasso-like art pieces, I discovered my son's ode to his sister. Perhaps I should worry. But I think, unless the eggs start disappearing, we will survive.