Heartstring Girls

Last night was the dark and dreary sort. A night for kidnapping, if ever there was one. 

In a flurry of clandestine giggles, I was absconded with into the rain and wind. Into the cozy, Old Town glamour of Stoneburner. Into the {perfectly timed} care of my friends.

And I was a willing captive, plied easily with cocktails, nettle and potato pizza, roasted beets and cauliflower, and, finally, donuts. Of course.

For almost three hours, we lost ourselves to the candlelight and chatter. We cackled and swore, whispered and divulged. 

A snippet of heaven.

These friends of mine - these heartstring girls - stole me away. They knew what I would need when I did not. {And yes, I need more than drinks and donuts}.

Last night was the dark and dreary sort. A night for kidnapping. And I loved it.

Just What The Doctor Ordered

The Russian went in for a planned surgery last week. There were vital organs involved, and the whole thing scared the bejesus out of us.

We had some time to prepare for it, but going under the knife is treacherous business. 

Hospital shenanigans, meds, dietary needs, post op recovery…you can make all the plans in the world (and back up plans), but in the end, it's more of a go-with-the-flow kind of thing. 

A bleary-eyed, forgotten meals, stomach-in-knots kind of thing. 

It's only been in the last two days that we've felt a little closer to normal - The Russian's color has returned, and my head is right again. 

And, coincidentally, the sun came out. Fitting, and so very needed. 

We fled to the Skagit Valley tulip fields, leaving The Russian behind to rest up without the constant jostling of all his little babies, God bless 'em.

It was a good day. The best kind of day. And if The Russian had been with us, it would have been the perfect kind of day.

Just what the doctor ordered.

And next year, I won't be leaving my favorite guy behind.

Oncoming Calamity

My trusty companions. Can you guess which item was for Mommy?

Snot, sweat, puke, and poop - that about sums up the last nine days of my life.

The plague descended upon our little home, and all three kids fell ill, one after the other. Like a high-speed freeway pile up, we saw it coming and knew there was just no hope.

Not a chance in hell of avoiding the oncoming calamity.

Honeybee was first, then Mister, and finally Mac. And we slogged through it.

There were piles of laundry, counters caked with Children's Tylenol, snotty blankets on every surface, and a sink full of contagious sippy cups.

Nothing got vacuumed and we subsisted off of whatever food could be scrounged up from around the house, which worked out nicely since no one had much of an appetite anyway.

Bathing was hit and miss. I'm pretty sure I wore the same pair of socks for four days straight. And Mac projectile vomited right into my face. {FYI: no amount of wine will make you forget such a thing. Ever.}

But today, it all came to an end. I'm certain of it, and Good Lord, please let me be right for once.

Mister returned to school after a week, and Mac's fever and eye gunk has finally subsided. We're caught up on laundry, and I've managed to find my way out of a hoody and yoga pants and into something that resembles an actual outfit. Definitely still look like a train wreck, but a train wreck in jeans, dammit!

So, there you have it.

It hasn't been glamorous, and certainly not brag-worthy, but there is a modicum of satisfaction in making it out with my sanity intact.

And, honestly, I should have expected something like this to happen. It does every year. We don't do half-ass around here, not even when it comes to the plague.

Go big or go home! ;)