I’ve been getting quite a few emails asking to know what is happening on the adoption front. I have have been reticent to publicly address this as I have worried it may impact any chance of bringing home a child.

After all, the adoption peeps, they know about Redneck. While my case workers have been surprisingly cool about it (even when I’ve made the dumbass move of openly mocking the process thereby shooting myself in the foot) I worry that the case worker(s) to any future child we are interested in calling our own may not be so happy to read my public rants about this process.

It’s been a difficult balance in trying to maintain the integrity and honesty of my own personal feelings and what I want to say on this site while trying to protect any future chances of having a new child lovingly drool on my shoulder and call me Mom.

So I’ve tried to play it quiet, and safe. Having had to pluck my bloodied foot out of my mouth more than once, I’ve learned my lesson.

The truth is, there is not much going on in the adoption front and yet a whole bunch of stuff that I’m dying to share with you all, but it will have to wait at least a few more weeks. But I swear, as soon as I can legally get away with it, I’ll be shouting the news from my virtual rooftop with a bull horn.

What I can tell you, is about six weeks ago, Boo and myself, along with the kids, put in an official request to adopt a little boy who is seven and has some severe disabilities. After much family discussion, we decided we could easily love this little boy as if I had squeezed him from my own loins. It wasn’t a very difficult decision to tell the truth. This boy is beautiful and in dire need of a forever family. We all believe he would be a great addition to our family and we really believe we are the family this child needs.

However. Because there is always a however when you are dealing with a government bureaucracy. This special little boy happens to be in limbo. Meaning he is with out a case worker of his own at the moment to review any adoption requests. So our paperwork is sitting on someone’s desk, waiting to be reviewed and our plea to adopt him silently waits to be reviewed to see if his case worker feels we are a good match with this boy.

I’m taking it all in stride, because I firmly believe if this boy is meant for us, he will come to us. If it doesn’t work out, read: his case worker decides against us for some reason, then it wasn’t meant to be. And there could be a variety of reasons his case worker could chose NOT to place him with us. Until we hear some news, I am just exercising my patience muscles and trying not to tear my hair out with worry and anticipation.

All of this waiting is made easier because there are other wonderful things going on as I type this; things that make me smile and will surely bring a sliver of sunshine to your lives when I’m finally able to announce the details.

Until then, hang on to your undies and practice flexing your patience muscles. We can do it together. It’s not fun, but hey, misery really does love company, no?

A blogging daddy whom I adore and must publicly urge you all to wander over and say hello to if you haven’t already (cuz he’s really cute and says he’s got Ryan Reynold abs…heh) asked me a question that hasn’t been asked on this blog before, but is one my husband and I ask ourselves all the time.

Backpacking Dad wants “to know what you fear most about successfully adopting a child.”

If my husband were to answer this I believe he would tell you that he fears a reprise of Bug’s demise. Shale’s death took so much out of us and hurts us still so very deeply that none of us ever want to go through that again.

Yet, none of us choose to be shackled with ‘what if’s’ and fear of the worst. So we plunge ahead with our quest to bring home another medically fragile child, knowing the worse case scenario is always a possibility and we are opening ourselves up to the worst type of pain.

But the flip side to that coin is we are also bringing with that fear, the best and most wonderful type of joy and love into all of our lives. It is a sweeter and more pure love than any other type of love Boo and I have ever experienced.

Even if it is a thousand times more heartbreaking and frustrating and painful. To us, the trade off is worth it.

However, since this is my blog, I have a different answer than that of my husbands. What I fear the most in successfully adopting a new little person is not in losing this child. I tend to worry more about my extended family, my friends and my community not bonding with our new child.

I worry that because this child will look different, act different, be different that maybe our friends and family won’t be able to open themselves up to loving this child as they would have if we had given birth to him or her.

The damage of Bug’s sudden death was and is far reaching. It wasn’t only our family who was devastated by his loss. So many of our community of loved ones put so much love and energy and effort into our Shale’s life that his death hurt them deeply and lastingly.

I worry my friends and family won’t be able to see past Bug’s demise and get to know the beautiful light of our new child in fear of feeling the same horrible hurt all over again if the past should repeat itself.

However, that is mostly an irrational fear of mine since I have the greatest family, extended family, friends and community a person could ever wish for. The people in my life have some of the biggest and greatest hearts I have ever known, which is why it has been so easy to want to adopt such a special child to begin with.

Because I know they will be surrounded with love.

I also tend to worry if my children’s hair isn’t combed or what people will think if I show up to soccer practice drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, so I try not to let my worries run my life.

Heh.

A reader named Sara asked if “I ever wonder where you would be in life now if Bug hadn’t died?”

Every damn day.

The pain I feel two and a half years after his passing still takes my breath away and pricks tears in my eyes. There isn’t a moment I don’t think about him and wonder what he would be doing if he were still with us. Would he approve of getting a new sibling? Would we already have adopted by now? Would the adoption process have been easier if we hadn’t had to jump through hoops of fire because we buried one child?

I wonder who Fric and Frac would have grown to be if they hadn’t had to face the cyclone of grief that tried to swallow them whole. Who would they be if they didn’t have to wrestle with an almost five year old ghost every time they walk past his picture or start to think about him in the quiet of the night.

I wonder if I will still remember his scent and the rough pads on his fingers from constantly having them in his mouth when I’m a frail old woman. I wonder if his memory will still mean as much to then as it does now or if time will soften the grief that still rages inside of me.

I wonder if I will be able to ever hold a blonde little boy with wavy hair and not think of my son and wish for a single second that it was my son I was holding in my arms.

I wonder if he were alive if he would still give sweet high fives to anyone who would ask and if he’d allow me to snuggle with him on the couch and breathe in his scent while nibbling on the soft spot in the crook of his neck.

I wonder if he’d still be walking or if his height and weight would confine his poor broken feet to a wheel chair. Would he be able to communicate with us beyond shaking his head no or hitting out in frustration?

Would I ever have discovered blogging and would it mean as much to me as it does now?

There isn’t a moment I don’t wonder about what life would have been like if my son was still alive and I wonder if the moment will ever come when peace truly settles in my soul.

The one thing I don’t wonder is, if given the opportunity, would I do it all over again with Bug even if it meant repeating the same fateful night and reliving this nightmare of pain and tears all over again?

Absolutely.

Because the love he gave all of us was worth every tear I’ll cry in my lifetime. Every laugh he giggled and every hug he squeezed is more than enough fuel to last myself, my husband and my children for the rest of our lives.

His short life inspired us and his memory continues to grace us with love and gratitude.

We are so very blessed.

And we can’t wait for a new little duffer to join our family and feel the blessings with us.

Think back to the days when you were sitting in English class watching the clock slowly tick the minutes off before the bell rang and released you from the hell of sitting on a hard plastic chair or in a wooden desk too small for your gangly frame, you know the one…your knees would keep bumping the bottom of the desk only to brush up against the wads of dried bubble gum stuck on the underside which would gross you out and reinforce your hatred for school and stupid bubble gum chewers.

Just as you were about to dash out of class and escape the hallowed halls of tortured pubescent teenaged souls for the weekend your teacher would announce how you had a ten page essay due the following Monday on a novel you hated and said paper was going to be worth 25 percent of your grade.

Remember that feeling?

Remember banging your head against the kitchen table just wishing for death to take you. Or the magic essay fairy to suddenly drop out of the sky and help you deconstruct War And Peace in an articulate and intelligent way.

Oh those were good times. Heh.

I’m sitting here reading all the questions wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. How the hell do I tie all of my answers into a witty and articulate post?

Then I remembered, I’m not in English class anymore, this isn’t worth the e-paper it’s printed on and I can find my magic fairy whenever I hide in the pantry and pour her out of a bottle of nice red.

Heh.

To hell with witty and articulate. I’m just gonna answer as many questions as I can before my fingers get tired or my dog threatens to poop on the floor.

I’ll start with Renee’s question “Where is the woman with our answers??????”

Simply put, I was stuck in a ditch for most of yesterday. In what was supposed to be a simple trip to town to pick up some pain meds, a bottle of coke and a head of lettuce, turned out to be a trial of public humiliation, patience and utter mortification.

Oh ya. Good times. See, it’s raining here. Pouring. Which is great. This means I don’t have to wrestle with the 600 meter firehose my husband has set up for me from our dug out to water my garden. (The damn thing is a pain in my ass and I almost always end up showering myself with dirty water from the pond while trying to water the raspberries.)

Anyways, since the heavens opened up, the roads are muddy. I live out in the middle of nowhere where all the roads are gravel. There is a stretch of road that is particularly poor as the jackasses who run my county are in the process of widening it.

Driving this patch of road reminds me of the times when my dad used to spread a sheet of plastic out on the lawn, turn on the sprinkler and squirt dish soap on it so we could slip and slide in merriment on a hot summer day.

I managed to slip and slide my car into a gently sloped ditch, landing not twelve inches from the edge of a very steep slough. I wasn’t very merry about it.

Oh, and a special thank you to all the asshats who didn’t stop to see if I was alright and to all of those who did stop but then tell me they’d like to help but they didn’t want to get muddy. Thanks. There is a special place in my blackened heart where I will forever cherish you all.

So I spent a good part of the day trying to undig my car from a bog hole while waiting for my Saviour, also known as Cowboy to pull my sorry ass and the carcass of my car onto the road where I could slip and slide back home.

Once Cowboy stopped laughing and helped me, I spent the remainder of the day on the phone trying to get a quote on replacing my damaged bumper and a new set of tires. Preferably ones that aren’t bald.

Then I drank a bottle of red, curled up on the couch and stabbed hot pokers in my eye when I realized the only thing on television was American Idol.

Gooooood times.

J from Ireland wants to know “are you this funny in real life, do all your friends piss themselves laughing at your stories?”

Well, Cowboy sure did as he stood there scratching his head wondering how on earth I managed to find myself almost swimming to the shoreline yesterday. I distinctly recall hearing a belly laugh and a few colorful words about women drivers.

While I’m no stand-up comedian, I do have a knack at well-placed one liners and have been known to bring on the giggles every now and then.

But as my best friend so delightfully puts it, most of my loved ones spend more time laughing at me than with me.

Lisa wants to know “if the bullying has stopped at your daughters school?”

Yes. Kinda. How’s that for articulate? I had a big meeting with the principal (again) and I pop into Fric’s class once or twice a week just to do a mommy spot check, but so far things have kinda died down.

However, grade seven will soon begin and I predict future flare ups. Kinda like fighting with hemorrhoids. You never know when they’ll pop up but you know they’ll never really go away.

Menapausalmama wants to know if I “ever velcro the spawn to the wall in their bedrooms, lock the door, then go outside, drink some wine and listen to them scream?”

Er, no. Heh. But thanks for the idea. Snicker. However, I have been known to kick them outsides on their lilly white backsides, toss their shoes out after them along with a bottle of water and then lock the door. This way they are forced to play outside and I’m forced to sit and blog in peace.

I only like to do this when it’s nice out though. The authorities don’t like it when I do this if the weather is inclement.

Colleen would like to know “what your hubby does for a living that keeps him away from home for days at a time.”

Boo is a man of many talents. Trust me. Wink, wink. He grew up a farm boy and graduated into a full-fledged multi-ticketed tradesman. He currently works up in the oilsands as a foreman for some big oil company. If he were answering this, he’d tell you he is a saving the world one paycheck at a time.

Since it’s me, and I’m much more honest than he is, I’ll tell you he generally stands around bossing his monkeys around while drinking coffee and playing solitaire on the computer and harassing me with dirty text messages. He gets paid handsomely for this too.

Bri asks “how many tattoos/piercings you are currently sporting and if there are any you are still dreaming of getting when husband is out of town?”

 
 

 

 

Well Bri, counting the nose ring, two in each ear, my princess sparkle boobs and one strategically more southern, ahem, I have eight piercings. More than enough. Although, I do like the idea of an eyebrow piercing, my husband has threatened divorce if I ‘desecrate my face’ with more holes.

Since I’m a kept woman, and a lazy one to boot, I’ll defer to his wishes. On the piercing issue. My ink, however, is a different story. I currently only have three on my body but I’m FOR SURE getting two more. One is still in the planning stage and the other I’m just waiting for the right moment.

I’m planning on getting “BOO’S BITCH” tattooed on my left ass cheek. Cuz how romantic would that be?

Heh.

The lovely Mac N’ Cheese wants to know “the secret to maintaining a hot and heavy sex life with a man you have been with since your teen years?”

Well darling, I do believe the tatties and the piercings help. So do the dirty text messages. And booze. Lots of booze. Wink, wink.

I mean, of course it’s easy to be hot and horny for the love of my life. He’s completes me.

Snort.

 
 

 

 

The reality is our sex life is far from hot and heavy since he’s gone most of the time. BUT by the time he gets home we are both so happy to see the other that we have forgotten about our ability to annoy one another thus making it much easier to get our frisk on. Heh.

Lastly, Dirkey wants to know “if Fric and Frac know about the web site.”

Why yes they do. They like to tell their friends their mother is an internet porn star though, instead of a blogger.

A better question would be, do I allow them to read it? Over my dead body. Or at least until I’m no longer able to sit on them and hold them down with my body weight. Until then, they won’t read it.

But they really aren’t overly interested in what I have to say. Neither of them think my blogging is important. After all, I’m not exactly blathering on about Guitar Hero or Harry Potter, so why would anything I say be of any interest to them?

Thanks for all the questions. There are a few questions I plan on answering in depth, but for today, this will have to suffice. My dog needs to go potty.

I’ll be back tomorrow (barring any more unforeseen vehicular accidents) with more answers. Meanwhile, if you haven’t voted in my online poll about my template, go click a button. It’s fun. I promise.

Woe is me.

While I’m still mourning the fact that I was not born a bazillionaire heiress able to spend my time frolicking carelessly on some tropical beach, (and yes, I realize I’ve had thirty odd years to come to terms with this small injustice but what can I say? I’m stubborn,) but as of late I have a new injustice to mourn and curse about.

My once young and nubile body has become a traitor, deserting me and leaving me trapped inside an aging, wrinkling and ever expanding carcass.

Thy body is a temple.

Snort.

A temple dedicated to snap, crackling and popping at every damn opportunity. Especially after four days of playing in the dirt and planting my flower beds and vegetable garden.

I’ve done everything I could think of to pamper my biomachinery. I rest it by taking long naps, I avoid strenuous exertion at all costs and I frequently lubricate with fine wine.

Still, my body rebels. Let it be known if it continues at this pace, I will be forced to stop spoiling it with treats such as mint chocolate icecream and nachos ladened with extra cheese and guacamole.

Won’t my body be sorry then for all the grief it is giving me now?

It’s either that or I’ll be forced to start going back to the gym. Then nobody will be happy.

So I’m holed up inside, trying to avoid the mountain of laundry that threatens to swallow me hole, while the dust bunnies try and gnaw at my ankles every time I lower my legs off the couch.

I figure if I stay still long enough I can trick my back into thinking it is once again the limber superstar of it’s glory days; days when I could garden endlessly and still have the stamina and flexibility to put my ankles behind my ears and do backflips in the bedroom.

Meanwhile, I’m bored. Not bored enough to tackle the house cleaning (hellooo! I’m injured. Not lazy. Heh.) and certainly not bored enough to dig out the pile of unpaid bills and tackle my finances.

Just bored enough to surf the net, channel surf and moan to the assortment of telemarketers about the vagaries of growing old and why no tomato plant is worth a week of back pain.

(Telemarketers just love to listen to your list of complaints of bodily ailments. Almost as much as they like to hear about how your husband demands sex more often than a teenager asks for money and how your dainty hooohaaa parts are used and abused after an entire week of trying to be a good wife.)

Hmmm. Maybe that is why my back is sore.

Snort. Who am I kidding? That would imply I actually put some effort into any mattress dancing partook in our bedroom instead of just laying there, daydreaming about Clive Owen and asking Boo if he was done yet.

Heh. Yeh. I’m a real romantic.

So I’m doing something I’ve never done before. Mostly because I always feared no one would participate and I would be publicly shamed and embarrassed and forced into hiding in my pantry while the entire blogosphere snickered at my audacity and stupidity for thinking anyone would even care.

I’m opening myself up to all of you. Spreading myself wide for you all to know.

Wow. Apparently, I’ve spent too much time in the bedroom.

Gotta question? Wanna know something about me? Ask away. I’ll answer. I’m not setting any boundaries as I’m a pretty open gal. Just don’t ask what my husband’s last name is or what my pin number is.

I don’t remember. Wink, wink.

But to those who want to know what my favorite position in the boudoir is, I’ll just cut you off at the pass and just tell you know it is any that require the least amount of effort on my part.

After all, my body is a temple.

Heh.

***Help me out here people. I’m flat on my back and bored to tears. I may start randomly prank calling my siblings people at this rate.***