We three are all home, all together again for the fourth day in a row thanks to the freezingest, frostiest days of the season. Our region shuts down when sleet or snow roll into town, and as we speak there's a thick layer of ice covering everything. The forecast is even worse for tomorrow, and all I can say is yay for me hauling my cookies to two different Wa1marts last night in search of the World of Warcraft expansion pack that was released at midnight, or else we all might go cabin-fevery, but with it we are happy to snuggle under blankies and simmer soup and chat on ventrilo with our pals and let Huckle watch the same three episodes of Wonderpets and Dora whenever he asks.

Things are much better with The Hub back home for a bit. He'll be leaving again soon, and I'm sure by 4 days in I'll be a mess again, but I think that is okay. I'm adjusting, Huckle's adjusting, we're all just trying to figure out what happens next... But I'll tell you what, Huck's smarter, funnier, cuter, and more adorable after I take a long nap or spend a good chunk of the day being un-Mommy.

I can't be sure, but I think Huckle must've read a book on torture techniques used in prison camps or some such. Bless his heart, he's hitting each. and. every. nerve.

I'm reminding myself that this is all because he feels as though he's been abandoned again, that there's no way for him to be sure that Daddy will, in fact, return. He's freaked, his anxiety level is at about 572% of normal (and normally, he's so hypervigilant and wound up that he's vibrating -- ever given a ferret a triple espresso? Neither have I, but that's how I imagine it). As craptastic as I feel, he's got it a lot worse.

I have no clue how I'll get through the next two weeks with only a brief Daddy respite. My mom and sister are in the home stretch of 300-guest-wedding prep, my dad has a new client and can't be left alone with him anyhow (arm stuff, thanks attic ladder!), and all I want right now is to not hear my name repeated thirty times a minute, to not be woken up once an hour each night, to not be touched constantly, anda anda anda.

I do my best. I don't yell (except when something scary happens, like he takes off running with a fork in his mouth), I'm praising whenever possible, but there are only so many times in a day I can go from playdoh to puzzle to book to castle to horsey to bacon to waffles to pancakes to Dora to donthitthedoggy and back to playdoh, ad infinitum. I tried the park, but it was a failure. I wasn't able to get Daddy on the phone at all today -- oh how I paid for that. Huck was up from 2 AM to 8 AM, so I kept him home from preschool with the hope that he'd finally sleep, but not so much.

Above everything else, it is just so mentally draining to parent a child that both rejects you and clings to you. I know why he does it, I've seen improvements, we were moving forward, and we'll continue to move forward again, I don't blame him at all, but it is exhausting.

We've passed the 30 day period where an appeal to TPR could have been made. Woot.

I'd successfully avoided the greasy, toned, stuffed creature that is the male stripper for nearly 28 years. "You're going to The Slimy Sausage? *cough cough* I think I'm coming down with something," has served me well. My own bachelorette party may have included these beasts, but it was cancelled because I had pneumonia the week before my wedding and checked out of the hospital and went straight to the airport, then back into the hospital in Vegas to have a bunch of stitches put in my shoulder because of a Chicken Little carryon bag, and between all the IVs and antibiotics and oxygen tanks, well, greasy herpetic men bending me over a chair and "air thrusting" not so much on the menu. Anyhow, off track here, but I'm maid (matron sounds like I own thirty-seven cats, and yes, there is something wrong with that) of honor for my sister's wedding next month and even though I should have been the one planning the bachelorette party, some of her friends who didn't bring home a three year old 7 weeks ago handled it, and yes, there was a greasy stuffed stripper.

Just. Ick.

Aside from that blechyness, just sewing/order filling/crocheting /childrearing/ dogwrangling /chauffeuring. The Hub is gone, I'm all alone, today was the first full day by myself, and you know, Huck is the most adorable, charming child between 8 am and 1 pm. By 3 I'm checking for horns, and at 7 I gave myself a time out. Naptime not always an option, as he goes back to school tomorrow, and naptime pushes bedtime back to 10 pm. I had his kiester in bed and asleep after only 10 verses of "Goodnight Huckle" at 8:10, and by 9 the kitchen was cleanish, breakfast and bag lunch made, three loads of laundry in the works, and I still can't believe he ate six waffles for dinner.

Very. Sleepy.

And since when does the introduction, "This is my sister, she's a mommy!" translate to, " This is my sister! She'd just love to go back to your hotel room for random sex with you, stranger! And her tits are real!" I was far too felt up at the nightclub. Too old for sports agents at coaching conventions. And far too old for the Army boys with prosthetic limbs staying in the hotel room next door who decide to knock on our door pantsless and... at attention.

And people wonder why I like to stay home. When you've been a freak magnet for 20-odd years, you learn.

I came across this link at Blogging Baby last night. Does anyone else find this exercise in creative writing to be, well, demeaning and upsetting, especially when it is published on a legal site? Kind of like a Coldplay song (by that I mean something devoid of any real emotion or experience, kind of like someone woke up one day and said, "I wonder what it would be like to be sad. Maybe I'll write a song about what it might be like to be sad.")? Anyhow, the guy at BB considered this to be "really strong stuff," only further cementing my idea that he's a tool.

Just another morning around here.

I've been told I'm a monster, I've been sung "You Are My Sunshine," I've been kicked in the head (again! you'd think I'd learn not to crouch down) and I also deflected a tongue kiss in there somewhere -- or just a poorly aimed lick. (and omg yuck, I caught Huckle letting the dog lick his tongue. almost threw up.)

So far, not too bad. A little too much puppy smushing, but I'm keeping Huck in his penguin pajamas, so at least he looks cute while he's cracking skulls. The cable guy is 3 hours late, and I just don't think The Hub thought ahead when he rented Jackass 2 last night and nothing else. My boy needs his Wonderpets.

PS: I know I'm behind on invites to Spotted Dog Three, but for whatever reason, blogger won't let me get into it. So, um, till that kink works itself out, we'll just hang over here. I'm not ignoring anyone, just stymied.

The Worry

A few weeks ago, Process wondered about the future adoptive parents of a little girl with a family history of mental illness.

Huckle doesn't have a documented family history of mental illness. But he was born with meth, pot, and alcohol in his system. Every day I worry. I can't even ask myself if we would have said yes to him if we'd known the circumstances of his birth and of the first 18 months of his life before we met him, if it hadn't all been omitted until a week of visitation had been completed and we were sitting at the kitchen table with two social workers filling out placement documents, until after he'd started calling us mommy and daddy. We knew about the danger his family posed, we knew a lot about the situation, but that had been glossed over. Am I upset about that?

The answer is that I don't know, I suppose, but he's here, he's not leaving, and so I worry. I trace the divot above his lip with my finger, try to convince myself that its existance helps to rule out FASD. I ignore the droopy eyelid, Dr. Google doesn't help anyhow. I worry that his impulsiveness, his anger isn't just three-year old behavior, but an early indication of larger problems. Why can't he recognize an A as an A yet? We've been working on it. The only time he wants me is when someone else has me or when he's woken from a nap, any other time he rejects me -- he's bonding, but will he attach? The Time-Ins are