I was never one of those mothers who wished for a moment of peace and quiet. Well, maybe I was, but that was long before the birth of Shalebug. When he arrived everything shifted. The absence of normal that came with his disabilities had me longing for the mundane. I longed to hear a baby cry. To see him scrunch his face up in anger and to see that same face smooth out with a big baby grin. I longed for spit up and messy diapers. As he grew I longed for squabbles over dinky cars and watching episodes of Thomas the Train over and over again until I thought I would lose my mind.

I longed for a regular kid. I felt jipped that I was missing out on all the experiences that culminate in parenthood. His brother and sister were such fabulous little pains in the ass, I was heartbroken that I wasn’t going to experience that type of childhood all over again. I felt robbed. And more so, I felt that Bug was cheated in the cruelest fashion.

Those feelings lasted for a while, clinging like a sock to a towel after being pulled from the dryer. I don’t know when exactly my perception shifted, but suddenly I was no longer grieving his (and my) losses, I was celebrating his gains. When Fric and Frac learned to sit, stand, speak, and most of all, potty in the big person’s toilet, I celebrated. Boo celebrated. We felt the parental high that comes with watching your child grow and overcome the milestones before them.

With Bug, there were very few milestones. I was given a calendar to mark his first year. First smile, first grab of rattle, first step, first word, first shots. I didn’t even get to use his first tooth sticker. His tongue was stitched to his bottom lip, pulled over his lower gum, so that he wouldn’t swallow it or choke on it. It was surgically released when he was 13 months old. When I saw him for the first time after that surgery I was amazed to see two white little teeth staring back at me. Hidden this whole time, under his tongue. I never even knew.

Instead of the traditional milestones we ended up making our own. The first time he didn’t have cardiac arrest during surgery. The first time he went through the night with out his oxygen saturation monitor going off and scaring the shit out of Boo and me. The first time he’d let me suction his drool without him biting down on the hose. Sounds scary and foreign, I know, but it really wasn’t. It was just different.

Instead of looking forward to his first step, we looked forward to him holding his head up. (18 months.) Instead of toilet training we celebrated him being able to sit on the floor with pillows around him. (25 months.) Instead of words we celebrated a tentative high five. (37 months.) And when I say celebrate, I mean break out the balloons, phone the in laws, pour the wine and raise the rafters celebrate. No one thought we were silly or overdoing it. Because for this small, wee man named Bug, it was a milestone. Overcome with a grace and perseverance that I have rarely seen in a human being. It overshadowed his siblings accomplishments with quiet dignity. A little boy who struggled to breath, to eat, to move, but never gave up.

It was, and is an amazing testament to the human spirit. It became addictive. Not just for Boo and myself, but for Fric and Frac as well, who revelled in watching their brother take tiny steps towards independence. For Boo and me, we marvelled at how lucky we were, to be given an opportunity to witness these small little children morph into people. We were blessed. Not only did we get the experience of watching Fric and Frac conquer the world of toddler hood, but we got to enjoy the journey that Bug took, a journey most people never witness or understand.

It was very addictive. And our family is suffering the symptoms of withdrawal. For a boy who never spoke, he made so much noise. He filled up the spaces in our lives. His absence is deafening. Fric and Frac miss him, in a way I will never understand. Boo says he feels as if there is a hole in him that will gap open forever, a wound that will never heal. For me, it is all of this and more. When Bug died, he took my heart with him. I have had to relearn how to live, love and breathe again. And every morning, I have to start all over again.

When Boo was home this past weekend, we dumped the kids on the in laws got a babysitter, and went for some mommy-daddy quality time together. That’s right, we went shopping. The true romance of being married almost a decade. Nothing says love like being able to walk hand in hand in a crowded mall and oogle the younger generation and their perky boobs.

As we sat and licked a frozen yogurt cone and discussed the merits of diamond wedding bands versus bigger diamond wedding bands, a young man and his aide wandered through our line of vision. His gait was halted, he stuttered and his hair was slightly greasy with a rooster tail sticking up in the back. His aide was a middle aged woman who refused eye contact with the shoppers around her. She looked tired and haggard. The young man was enthused by the life buzzing around him. He and I made brief eyecontact for just a second, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He smiled widely before his aide hurried him past us.

My husband was watching me and him thoughtfully, and when the man passed Boo noticed a tear welling up in my eye. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. I licked my yogurt, trying to quell the rush of emotion that threatened to break past the dyke. After a moment, he commented that when he sees a handicapped person he wonders what Shalebug would have been like at that age. Would he have worked as a greeter at Walmart? Would he have been able to cobble steps together or be pushed around in chair. He just wonders.

I digested this for a moment. When I see a disabled person, I too, wonder about Bug and the life he was shorted. But mostly, when I see a disabled person, I find myself blessed to be able to see them. For before my boy, I wouldn’t have made eye contact. I would have felt pity for them and more so for their aide; I would have felt slight disdain and a sense of relief that I didn’t have to shoulder such a burden.

As I watched that man and woman slowly shuffle down the mall, I felt awe. Awe for the obstacles that man overcame, and awe for the obstacles he still faced. I envied that man, and his life and wondered briefly why he made it to adult hood and not Shalebug. But mostly, what I saw was a little boy with long wavy blonde locks wobble his way around his mom with obvious delight. I remembered letting him roam in the mall and him losing his balance and faltering against an attractive woman. Him steadying himself with his small chubby hand on her ass. Her look of surprise and my embarrassed laughter as I scooped him up and apologized for my little ladies man.

When I see a disabled person, I see all the joy my boy gave me and my family. All the hope he inspired and still inspires. All the love he blessed us with. I see the possibility for greatness, even if it’s a quiet greatness, one not readily acknowledged by the masses.

I squeezed my husband’s hand and shook myself out of my reverie, and told him, “I see grace.”

And I do.

Thank you Bug.

As most of you know, the hubs works out of town in the oil industry, sleeping in man camps (paid prison I like to call them) or hygienically-challenged motels. There are very few women where he works, and the few ladies that he does encounter tend to be more masculine and sport heavier facial hair than the average male. Suffice it to say, by the time the hubs rolls in, home is looking pretty good. There are no fat, foul men hanging about, belching and smelling up the joint. The bed is soft and the sheets are clean. If he’s really lucky, I may even serve him macaroni and cheese a la wieners with freshly shaved legs.

I really know how to go all out and treat a man. We haven’t stayed together this long just by sheer luck, you understand.

When Boo first arrives home, it is akin to chaos. Every one is happy to have him back. Even Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. doesn’t seem to mind being punted to the end of the bed. After the excitement wears off and you can peel the kids off dad like little burrs, things start to settle into a pattern. A nice groove. The honey-do list gets brought out and we earnestly start negotiating which chores will get done in exchange for which reward. Garbage disposal for a back rub, chimney sweeping for a hummer, returning the month overdue videos for fresh baked cookies.

Turns out, we both have our limits. My chimney still needs sweeping and my hubs refused to do the walk of shame to return the movies and face the fines. But what is marriage if not a little give and take?

These were the first four consecutive days the hubs and I have spent together since Christmas time. Sure, we’ve seen each other in passing, but to actually BE together for 96 straight hours has been a luxury. Slightly marred by a small vomit-fest, sure, but still a luxury. He showed he loved me by feeding me soda crackers and ginger ale, all the while promising me I could make it up to him when I felt better.

Funny, I’m still queasy…

It wasn’t all roses and raindrops while he was home. The man reminded me on more than one occasion that he was absolutely blessed that he was married and not sentenced to die single and alone. Take for instance, when I got out of the shower and the hubs walked into the bathroom. With an admiring glint in his eye, he looked at me and winked. I, of course, having just showered off particles of vomit, was in no mood for anything.“What???” I snarled. The dumbass hubs looks at me and innocently comments on how ‘that’s what he likes to see. A naked woman with a little extra meat on her bones.’

WTF??? That’s me, naked, shivering and apparently, fat as a hog. Just what I needed to hear at that particular moment.

I’d have taken more offense to that particular comment, however, I was in the throws of Puke-Fest 07 and had more urgent matters to consider. And it’s not like my husband has maintained his boyish figure if you know what I mean. At least I’ve popped out three kids. Asshat.

I do believe the piece de resistance (translation:the DUMBASS Moment of the Year Award) was when Fric and Frac were doing their chores as Boo and I cuddled on the couch. Boo was growing increasingly more frustrated with their shoddy efforts at housekeeping and suddenly decides to take it upon himself to teach the kids the proper way to clean.

“You know, if I were home more, maybe they wouldn’t be this way,” Boo comments, as he commandeers the dust rag.

“And just WHICH way would that be?” I ask. Poor fool. He was like a deer in the headlights, too stupid to see the train coming before it flattens him.

“Well, lazy and inept. If I were home, they wouldn’t be this ridiculously incompetent. They’d have me to set an example for them.”

“As opposed to the example of me, sitting on my increasingly large backside, while doing nothing but watching telly and eating chips, right?” Did I mention my hubs may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he is VERY pretty.

“That’s not what I meant. I just meant I could do it better. I could show them the proper way to clean a house.”

As opposed to the improper way I have been teaching them. Foolish me.

“Are you saying I haven’t been teaching them properly?” You’d think he’d have noticed the bright DANGER!! signs flashing over my head at this moment. Not my hubs. Cute and oblivious.

“No, I know you DO your BEST. But -”

Interrupting him I say, “But my BEST is not as good as your BETTER, right?”

Let’s just say it was right about then that he kissed any chance for a hummer good bye. It flew out my dirty, incompetently cleaned window right about then.

“Exactly! I knew you’d get it.”

Oh, I get it. I get that while I was sitting on the couch eating ice cream, my husband and my kids were cleaning my house. As I sat and watched. And did nothing. Seems to me, my best is far better than even he realizes. After all, my house was cleaned, my children were re-educated, and my husband’s ego stroked all while I sat on the couch and ate my mint-chocolate chip ice cream.

And I never even had to give a hummer to get my floors washed. Seems to me, my best is pretty damned good.

Sucka.

I learned a few things yesterday. First off, flu germs can survive a good scrubbing by Mr.Clean, Lysol and a variety of other cleaning chemicals. Secondly, woofing my cookies while my throat is still sore from the ravages of the strep bug is decidedly unfun. And thirdly, taking four gravol pills to help ease the nauseous feeling is the equivalent to hitting oneself up side the head with a baseball bat. I was completely knocked out.

The upside to that is I defintely caught up on my beauty rest. And it’s hard to puke while unconscious.

It feels good to be upright and not green around the gills. But hey, at least I was resembling the right colour for yesterday. A little St.Paddy’s green.

Yuk.

So, to celebrate my non-stooped-over-the-toilet-bowl position, I have dug up the best cheese I could find. The best, odourless cheese a girl could find.

Strong smells may induce me back to tossing the cookies, and that’s a chance I’m not prepared to take. Enjoy!

One day, a man from the Czech Republic came to visit his friend in New York.

When asked what he wanted to see, the visitor replied, “I would like to see one of the zoos in America.”

To his delight, the New Yorker took him to the Bronx Zoo. They were touring the zoo, and standing in front of the gorilla cage, when one of the gorillas busted out of the cage and swallowed the Czech whole.

Shocked, his friend from New York quickly called over the zoo keeper. He quickly explained the situation and the zoo keeper immediately took steps to save the man’s friend. The zoo keeper got an axe and asked the man, “OK, which gorilla did it? Was it the male or the female?” The New Yorker pointed out the female as the culprit. Quickly, the zoo keeper split the female gorilla open and found nothing of the Czech.

He looked at the man from New York, who shrugged and said, “Guess the Czech is in the male.”