Closed For Business...Until I Find Some Ammo

I had a big post planned for today. Why? Because I got the psych report back from the adoption peoples and I read it. I learned just how truly deficient I am as a functioning member of society.

I had planned on poking fun at the findings, arguing some of the finer points and generally finding some absurdity buried in the fine print. Because that's what I do. How I cope. Even if the psych man doesn't think it's appropriate.

Or classy.

Ahem.

But then something happened last night. Something that stopped my plans for some good ole fashioned blog therapy in their tracks.

There was an invasion. An invasion of little people who sat at my table, ate my food, destroyed my tidy house, drooled over my floors and walls and generally made themselves at home.

But these little people weren't alone.

No.

They had visitors themselves. Little invisible germs. And these little people spread their germs around my home and onto me with the glee of Santa Clause dropping off presents in the wee hours of the morn while hoping for of some cookie crack.

I woke up this morning wishing I for a different body. A healthy body. Wishing I could give back the germs so thoughtfully bestowed upon me by the little peoples in my life.



So after sleeping half the day away and thanking the good Lord Himself for not having to take care of any small people or husbands while I fight my battle with the common cold or bronchitis or strep throat or whatever germ has nestled itself into my body, I am finally upright and am now going to drag my ass to the doctor and the pharmacy and see about buying some artillery to end this infestation as quickly as possibly.

If that doesn't work, I'll stop off at the liquor store and just drown the little suckers.

Judgement Day Looms...Quick Take Cover

As most of you know, I started blogging shortly after my youngest son passed away unexpectedly. I was looking for a way to stabilize my world, to solidify my foundation after it was left tattered and crumbled. For a while, I wrote to try and bring my son back to life, to remember the minutiae of his life. To cling to him in whatever way I could. Even if meant trying to grasp whisps of a rainbow.

It wasn't long before I realized no matter how often I wrote about my son, he was never coming home to be tucked in at night. I would never plug him in to be fed again, nor would I ever have to worry about him letting a floater go in the tub, or pick at his never ending case of cradle cap or wonder whether his feet would look more clubbed when he woke up the next morning.

Because I realized there were no more next mornings. The tomorrows with my Shalebug were all spent. It was up to me to try and find a way to adjust and cope to this new reality, because no one could do it for me.

So I turned to writing once more, this time to try and remember the magic of the moment, the funny of life. I made a conscious effort to write about what made me smile or laugh in my day, no matter how trivial. It was a concerted effort to remember that life is what you make of it, no matter how many times you draw the short straw or go to bed wishing for a different ending.

It worked. I healed and continue to do so. My children survived intact and not the shattered, scarred souls I was worried my grief would turn them into. I lost one child due to circumstances beyond my control, I wasn't going to lose the other two because I was unable to deal with the loss.

It hasn't always been fun and games. Which has made it particularly difficult to blog some days. Sometimes, there is just no funny to make me smile and share with the internet. Sometimes, there is just an overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness that is too difficult to articulate into words.

Still, I press on and continue to try and find the funny. It's not always easy when all I want to do is talk about how my parents are still shunning me and how I miss them so. It's not easy during the times I resent my husband for leaving me alone to deal with our family while he is away at work. But then, life isn't always easy. So I plug on, waiting for the light to shine through the clouds of gloom that have momentarily darkened my sky.

When the hubs and I started our adoption journey, I decided to share the process on my blog. It hasn't been an easy affair by any stretch, but it has provided some entertaining blog fodder. Yet, like life itself, our journey hasn't worked out like the hubs and I imagined it.

Besides taking a helluva lot longer than we expected, we never thought our application would be put on hold. Because of the fact I took antidepressants after Shalebug died. They wanted to clinically assess my mental status. Make sure I wasn't really crazy. Worse, we never thought they would examine our children under such a bright microscope, looking for cracks in each of their veneers.

In the end, we wait while complete strangers decide if adopting a special needs child into our family is in the best interest of Fric and Frac. Or more technically, we wait until they make the decision they feel best covers their collective asses.

The wait is coming to an end. I finally heard from our lovely adoption office, requesting Boo and my presence in their office on the day of Oct. 17.

Finally and at long last, we will hear their verdict in regards to our application. I wish I could say I was confident, but the truth is, after dealing with these bureaucrats I now understand they do not put my family's best interest first, nor that of the many children waiting to be adopted. They put their jobs and their political interests first.

Based on all that has happened before now, there is a very real possibility that our application will be denied. Which sucks and makes me want to cry and go all warrior-like on their asses.

I will be counting the moments until Judgement day, and hoping for the very best. But, I think I'll keep sharpening my tomahawk until then, just in case.

Season of Grief

There are many reasons autumn used to be my very favourite time of year. The trees and their leaves, changing colours like some mystical fairy tale painting. I love watching the leaves float to the ground like little falling stars. I love breathing in the crisp autumn air and feeling the crunch of dried leaves crackle beneath my feet.

Autumn brings with it birthdays. Lots of birthdays. My grandmother (how I miss her), my brother - who turns 33 today (Happy Birthday Stretch!), my daughter and in a few days, my very own birthday. Quite a lot of cake for one month. I have many September childhood memories filled with chocolate frosting and wrapped in tissue paper..

Of course the birth of autumn brings with it the start of school. A parent's personal celebration. What is there to not love about September?

Turns out, a lot.

These days, autumn and the months which follow, are brutal. It would be less painful if I just bent over and you all took turns kicking my ass.

Seriously. And not just because my arse region has recently acquired some padding.

This is the time of year my husband and I refer to as our "Season of Grief." It is a tough time for all of us around here. We miss our kid. Our son, their brother. The next few holiday and birthday-riddled months do nothing but amp up our grief and spin it into an emotional monster which threatens to swallow us whole.

It is hard to have a birthday or holiday celebration without noticing the glaring absence of a boy long lost. I know as I put on my mommy happy face and try to make the best of this trying situation that I'm not the only one affected, the only one limping along in pain.

What does one say to their children when you know what their birthday wish is, and will be? What does one do when you watch your otherwise-very-happy child blow out her candles, close her eyes and wish her brother was home in our arms? How does one react when you hear your son pray every night to see his little brother once more?

It kills me. Slowly, one cell at a time, it's taking me down and stomping on my spirit.

There is no escape from this feeling for the next few months either. Next month is Frac's birthday, Thanksgiving and then the anniversary of Bug's passing; November brings about the painful reminder of Boo's father's absence, only to be followed quickly by Christmas. Just when we have hobbled our way through the most painful holiday of the year, we get beat on the head by Bug's birthday, the first week of January.

It's a party non-stop around these parts for the next four months.

I had hoped this year would be easier. After all, we are approaching the second anniversary of his passing. The pain has to end sometime, right? Or at least slacken a bit. This choking noose that leads me around by my heart every day has to relax eventually, one would think, right?

That may be true, but I'm still waiting.

I wait to notice when my scars are scabbed over and finally healing. I wait for the seepage to stop. I pray every day that nothing comes along to pick at these wounds and releases the pain again.

All of this waiting is damn near driving me insane. Almost as insane as painting those darned polka dots on my daughter's walls. I'm trying my best to keep it together, but I have to tell you, this sanity business is harder than it looks. All I want to do is hide in my pantry, curl up on the floor with a soft pillow and nurse a nice red into oblivion. I'd try it now, but I'm pretty sure Fric and Frac would find me and knock on the door, demanding to be let in.

I wish there was a magic formula for me to stop missing my Bug, to stop feeling this pain. I'm sick of carrying this weight on my soul and quite frankly, I resent it all to hell that this is my family's burden to bear. This is the legacy I passed on to my children. A pain that will follow them until the day they die.

I somehow managed to find the gift that just keeps on giving. Too bad I can't find the receipt to return it.

I just wish there was someway I could make my children's birthday wishes come true and bring their brother back.

While I'm at it, I'll take three magic beans and that goose that shits out golden eggs too.

Might as well reach for the stars when I blow out my birthday candles.