El Commande Fuckwit, the Xanax Cowboy, Shrub the Magic Dickwad.....

The list, she goes on.

The list, she should probably be COMMed. Or YorLOMMed.

I have no sense of humor this morning. I smirked. I recognized it as funny. I'm feeling a sick dread, wondering what I've brought my children into.

Monday's are bad for me because Greg's weekend is Sunday/Monday. That means he's home, and he's messing with my routine. I like having him home, but sometimes he just gets in the way. Nick is also out of school today because it's a non-instructional day. I don't know what that means except that I've been inflicted with an extra day of teenagery goodness. He's in his bedroom playing mournful guitar music. I'm not wearing green. Kara is learning her colors. The color I'm wearing now is prepoul in her language.

You're right Deb. Trying is good, though. Prepoul makes me smile. It's pitty.

Prepoul. This is good.

When Joanna (24 in June) was small, she had one of the great portmanteau words ever: Yesternight.

There was no such thing as a timeline, you see, not in her four-year-old head. Everything that had ever happened was done, past, together in a vast moving ballroom of mythos, human tragedy, divine comedy, sex, war, love, death, all of it. It all happened yesternight. The Titanic hit an iceberg and went down. When? Yesternight. Mom, I finished my cereal and gave Gadabout the rest of the milk to lick. When? Yesternight. The first ancestors of man crawled out of the primordial ooze and lay in warm sunlight. When? You got it, babe. Yesternight.

I adored the gestalt of that, the Zen behind it, and I still do. Today, this morning, it's almost unbearably poignant. Yesternight, I had no multiple sclerosis. Yesternight, this country was a democracy and the rest of the world, while occasionally pissy, was something we were a part of. So many things, so many so many so many, all gone and changed and ruined.

Yesternight. I'd like it back.

the things today I can't imagine being without.

Aidan already breaks my heart. He smiles, waves his arms and legs, wets his diapers, cries for a bottle, or touch. He loves to be touched. No different from any other infant, despite the white hair and blushing apricot eyes. Yet, I've always been fonder of my children when they were out of infancy and started to be interesting. Somehow he's already got my heart all sewn up.

Kara make me smile. She's so bright and charming and sometimes evil in that totally unconscious way that children have. She knows how to say "eyes". She'll say "eyes, eyes, eyes" while trying to poke her infant brother's eyes out of his sockets and through the other side of his head.

Nick, my baby, friend and sometime lifeline. He used to write me poetry, one of which went something like:

Roses are red, violets are pretty
and your hands are as smooth as plastic.

Now, he's not ashamed to cry while I hold him and he tells me all about the latest evil girl who's broken his heart.

I want yesternight, with amendments.

Also, didn't mean to annex again. I'm thinking I would like Joanna.

Joanna is very much her own woman. Which is a good thing, a damned good thing, because being my daughter can't be an easy gig; I make noise and cast shadows.

And I'm not getting to write today. Tomorrow, though, even minimal.

Roses are red, violets are pretty
and your hands are as smooth as plastic.

Deena, if he writes poetry like this to the evil girls and then they break his heart I will personally hunt them down and kill them until they appreciate your young man.

Dana, I'm a total fuckwit and sent you feedback on Victoria's story.

snerk. Would you like me to pass it on or just pretend it was meant for me ignore it?

Dana, please forward it. But read it first, because your fic does that to me, too, and I'm just lame enough to not send you feedback. I must amend that deficiency at some point.

t sniffle

Damn. I'm in love with deb and Deena, and their families.

Well, RL, you're part of our family too, now.

I loved the smooth as plastic line. He gets embarrassed by it when I mention it, so shhh.

We're getting him dial up access and gave him his own new/old computer today so he can come here more often and do his thing without me watching over his shoulder.

Now he writes songs, usually full of heartbreak and better music than words. I told him you were brilliant and your poetry was beautiful, lovely Lizard, and he said, "Oh, I can tell she's brilliant just from talking to her. I haven't gotten to read her poetry yet."

being my daughter can't be an easy gig; I make noise and cast shadows.

I love this line.