“Mom, what is a pimple?” Frac inquired as I was peeling potatoes for a stew I had stupidly thought my children would eat with out gagging and complaining.

“The dictionary describes a pimple as a small hard inflamed spot on the skin. I would call it a raging sack of pus buried in our skin which only rears it’s ugly evil head whenever you are meeting someone new, important or really cute. That, or it pops up when you have to have your picture taken. Either way, it’s not pretty.”

As I reached for a rutabaga to hide in the stew, I looked over at him and asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. What’s a zit?” He looked at the root vegetable in my hand and shuddered.

“The dictionary defines a zit as a synonym to the word pimple. I define a zit as a raging pain in my ass, murdering my self esteem with it’s appearance and immediately reminding me of what an awkward raging geek I was as a teen.”

Plopping the rutabaga into the pot, I reached for a parsnip and asked “Why so interested in zits and pimples? Do you have one?” I peer over my stack of vegetables waiting to be peeled to peruse his pristine, porcelaine white skin.

“No. I was just wondering. Do you have to put parsnips in the stew?” he whined.

“Yep. They’ll protect you from the pimples. And make you grow big and tall like your father. Plus they were free, I got them off our neighbour who apparently had a parsnip bumper crop and I have no other idea how to get rid of them.”

“Oh.” Silence. I looked over as I reached for a turnip and saw that Frac was staring intently at me. Creepy like.

“What? It’s not a parsnip, it’s a turnip. You like turnips,” I said as I waggled it in front of him.

“Nobody likes turnips, Mom.” Again, still staring at me like a zombie.

“Is there a problem, Frac? Cuz you’re freaking me out. Quit staring. Now. I’ll have nightmares.”

“You might want to put more parsnips in the stew Mom. You need some protection from pimples. You have a big one right on your chin.” That was why he was staring. He was mesmerized by the mountainous growth festering on my chin.

“Gee, thanks Frac,” I responded dryly. “I should have mentioned that at a certain time of the month, women battle their hormones while turning into raging shrews and are more prone to grow a zit to call their own during this special time. We like to nurture and care for it because it reminds us of our special power…the ability to grow a human to love and torment. Pimples grown during this time are a special gift from nature,” I blathered on, hoping he was buying this drivel as I peeled a carrot. “I should have also mentioned it’s rude to point out a blemish to a woman. You’re liable to be beaten to death for such an infraction.”

“Oh. Sorry Mom,” he shrugged. “I just thought only teenagers got zits. It looks painful,” he said as he leaned over to poke at it.

Swatting his hand away, I glared at him and grabbed another carrot to peel away my frustration of having children that talk. Oh, how I miss the mute kid who drooled at times like this.

“Hmm. I hope I don’t get any of those things. That looks painful.”

“Hence the parsnips, my boy. Eat up and learn. If only my mother had taught me this wisdom,” I lamented.

“Ya. If she did you wouldn’t look like this now.” So innocent. So clueless. So absolutely in danger and not even realizing it.

“Frac?”

“Ya Mom?”

“You’re cuter when you don’t talk. Learn from this.”

“Fine,” he muttered as he wandered away to go burn some brain cells on the X-box. “I know you don’t mean that. It’s just the zit talking.”

Unbelievable. I wonder if I put him on Freecycle if I’ll have any takers.

Two years have passed and still you haunt me, my boy.

It’s been two years since Bug turned sheet white and non-responsive. Two years since my husband ran out to start the car on a frosty fall evening in the middle of the night. Two years since I looked Boo square in the eye and told him this was the one time I couldn’t take my child to the hospital. I wasn’t strong enough.

It has been two years since I buckled Bug into his car seat and kissed his forehead, told him mommy loves him, and hold tight. Mommy will make it all better.

Two years since I drove as fast as my car could go, the pedal to the floor. Two years since I hoped I wouldn’t hit any animals in the dark, two years since I prayed for just this once to be stopped by a police car, anything not to be so alone with my fear and worry in the dark.

It’s been two years since I phoned my husband in the middle of the night, while he waited for a baby-sitter to watch Fric and Frac and told him I was more frightened than I have ever been before, so worried I would fail Bug.

It has been two years since I whipped into that parking lot and felt sick to my stomach. I feared when I opened the door to get Bug out, he would be dead.

Two years since I saw my son’s head hang at an unnatural angle, drew a deep breath and yanked him out of his seat and ran into the emergency room, with him hanging limply in my arms. He was warm.

It has been two years since I literally threw him into the arms of a worried nurse and he ran off with my son, calling out a code. Two years since I stood and watched them try and find a pulse, insert a central line, and scream medical terms that I understood all too well.

Two years since my mouth ran dry as cotton and my heart thumped like a rabbit’s.

It’s been two years since I asked to sit in a dark room and wait to hear any news. I couldn’t handle watching his little body lie there lifeless as they tried to perform an act of God and bring him back to me.

Two years since his pediatrician, bedraggled and haggard, with the light from the hall shining behind him, walk into that dark room and just start to weep. Two years before a stream of doctors and nurses entered after him and patted me on the knee and apologised for not being able to save him.

It has been two years since I sat there in disbelief and terror and waited to shed a tear while others around me wept.

It has been two years since my husband ran into that dark room and looked at me with fear and hope in his eyes. It has been two years since I had to muster the strength to tell him he was too late, his son passed away, I couldn’t save him.

Two years since I last saw my baby, kissed his face, sang his song and said good bye.

Two years since I walked out of that hospital, childless, with Bug’s clothing in a plastic white bag, and Boo by my side.

Two years since I drove home in silence, alone, to face my children.

Two years since I woke them up and told them their brother died.

It has been two years and it still hurts as much as it did the day it happened.

Two years and I haven’t stopped missing my Bug.

Two years and I still haven’t stopped loving him.

Two years and I still wish every damn day that fateful night had turned out differently.

It has been two years.

I’m worn out with wishing.

We miss you Angel boy. Thank you for being ours.

It’s not official yet. There is still some paper work to be done and some hoops to jump through, but the adoption peeps are recommending our application be approved.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I will say this was by far the MOST humiliating experience of my life to have my personality ripped apart in front of a group of strangers and my husband. Turns out I really am bat shit crazy.

But not the ‘throw me into a padded room and wrestle with the straight jacket’ variety of crazy.

More the ‘control freak, aggressive, chew your faces off and eat your young, strong personality’ type of crazy.

I’ll take it.

Oh, and the adoption peeps know about the blog.

Ya. Good times. Nothing like digging your own grave and eating a little crow.

Let’s all say hello and thank you to the nice ladies who I have mocked and terrorized over the course of the year, shall we?

I now think they shoot rainbows and sunbeams out their backsides.

I’m nothing if not fickle. But I’ll write more about that later, when I’ve recovered from my humiliation and come down from my euphoric high of being told I’m gonna be a mommy again.

With no morning sickness, hemorrhoids or swollen belly.

Don’t hate on me all you pregnant ladies.

I’m crazy. The report said so.

And thank you once again, for all the well wishes, support and emails you have sent me. It kept me warm and fuzzy as I rocked back and forth and listened to just how certifiable the athletically trim and charming psych dude thought I was.