crazybrave

Presidential history nerds and lolcat lovers should go here.

This one is the work of TheCharmerUnderMe.

I have come to the following conclusion:

kipflers are girls

and pink fir apples are boys.

Why does the Magazine-Industrial Complex never tell you that the number one way to lose weight fast is to have your relationship end?

(No, no, not me, a dear friend.)

There are masses of toys and equipment around the beds at the back of the ward. Eventually I realise that the kids staying the longest are the ones furthest from the door. I know the clutter is probably because there’s no storage for all the things you need to entertain sick children, but I can’t help seeing rows of little nests.

Mostly the kids have their mums with them. The dads tend to be there for an episode of surgery; for the long haul, it’s the mothers. In our ward there is a girl of about five who has to wear a helmet when she’s out of bed. I hear a doctor talking about her lovely nature – “the seizures haven’t knocked that out of her!” There are other siblings at home, and her mother leaves late every night and arrives early every morning.

There is quite a lot of laughter, and I catch two giggling women ogling a hunky doctor. One is the mother of the little girl opposite us. I talk to her for three days but we never find out each other’s names. Her daughter is Alexis. The second woman I meet as she is trying to josh her son out of his anxiety and embarrassment at the loss of his hair. They’re walking past Owen, and she smiles cheekily and says “He’s got no hair and he looks alright!” Later I see her talking to a man in the corridor, tight faced, bad news.

I talk quite a bit to the parents of a boy in our ward who’s had the same surgery as Jethro. It didn’t fix him and he’s still having surgery to fix his hips at four and a half. Painful surgery, by the sounds of it. I tell my mother in law when she visits and she looks at me intensely and says “Was it the same surgeon?” It wasn’t, and we smile at each other.

I spend three nights on a recliner chair while Jethro’s on a morphine drip. It shits me that every time Owen sits on the chair he tells me how comfortable it is. It is a comfortable chair, but it is a shit bed. The back doesn’t lock into position when it’s reclined, so it starts to swallow you when you roll over. The night we get home Owen goes to bed before me. I climb into our beautiful warm bed, with its lovely sheets and big fat pillows and sigh.

Here he is just before the surgery, which seems to have worked. People have been very sympathetic and helpful, dropping ’round dinners, spoiling Sage. We are so very lucky.

There’s a photo set of the trip at flickr.

It still is WorkChoices of course, but now you get a kiss before you get fucked.

At least we’ll be spared Joe Cocker this time – the ad campaign to come sounds positively Amish.

Home from hospital and Jethro doing well, but more of that another time. I found I missed the interwebs when I was away, especially things like this:

and in particular this:

both from here (some of the pictures have boobs in them).

heh.

I so had you there, didn’t I?

What are your legs?

We also bought the dog a coat, which looks pretty hilarious, but no pictures yet. Finally, I believe I have discovered my signature cupcake just in time for tomorrow’s preschool fete:

I’m sure someone else has made Iced Vovo cupcakes, but I’m still pretty stoked with myself. The world of cupcakes is quite something else. I had no idea.