Last night I emailed a naked photo of myself to my husband.

Before you get the wrong idea about me and think I often email naked pics of myself to Boo, let me stop you. I don’t. I prefer to tease him by telling him I’m going to send him a naked picture of myself and then switch it out for a grotesque image of some chick with boobs that hang down to her ankles and more facial hair than grizzly bear. He tends to get annoyed (and disgusted) by this bait and switch, but I like to think it keeps things interesting.

At the very least, it’s demonstrating to him that no matter how bad I look naked, he could always be hitched to someone who looks worse.

So far, it’s worked wonders at keeping our love life healthy.

But yesterday, much to my husband’s surprise and delight, the pictures were actually nude photos of my jiggly white arse.

“Holy crap! You look beautiful!” he crowed when he called after viewing them for the first time.

“Jeez Boo. Don’t sound so shocked. My ego is fragile.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just when you said you were posing naked for that charity calendar, I somehow pictured you fully clothed, wearing a burlap sac and a paper bag over your head. It must be a defense mechanism upon learning your wife is going to show her bits to people she’s not married to.”

“The human mind is a powerful tool,” I laughed.

“You look really nice. Like a classy porn star.”

“I can cross that off my life list now. I always wanted to look like a classy whore.”

“I can honestly tell you, I don’t think I’ve loved you more than I do right now.”

“You wouldn’t have said that if you saw me after the shoot.”

“Why’s that?”

“Boo, I was naked in a farm field in early evening. I was bug bait. My boobs are still full of skeeter bites and for days after I was scratching my arse cheeks like a two bit hooker does after a busy Friday evening. All that and I sat on a thistle.”

(I also may have trespassed and broke a law or two in order to get the photo. But let’s not talk about that.)

“You know, I always knew your blog would lead you to new things. But I think I hoped it would be for new things requiring you to keep your clothes on.”

“Heh. Look at the bright side Boo. Think of your family’s faces when I can honestly tell them my job is posing naked for the Internets.”

And that, right there, is what I like to call the upside of life.

Heh.

A big hearty thank you to Kristina at Gingerlily Boudoir for not blushing when I accidentally flashed her my cooter as I swatted the bugs away. Not only are you a true professional, but you take mighty fine pictures of slightly overweight, pale, white girls wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots.  Also, a round of applause to Nicole for her special efforts of painting me up to look like a true porn star.

You can purchase the Blogger Body Calendar here. All proceeds after printing costs are being donated to the National Eating Disorders Association.

A charity totally worth getting bit in the arse for.

My son Shale lived for four years, ten months and 17 days.

As of Saturday, August 7, 2010, he’s been dead for four years ten months and 18 days.

He’s now been dead longer than he lived. And my heart is having trouble coping with that fact. The reality of that date passing actually means little. Shale is still gone, lost in the ether of love and memory and our lives proceed onwards as though nothing has changed.

But a lot has changed in the time my son has been gone.

I’ve changed, my husband’s changed, my kids have been forever altered. The person I used to be no longer exists. She was buried beside her son and it’s taken me all these years and tears to claw my way out of the grief and find myself again.

Friendships have dissolved and new ones created, family members have moved on, a child has been lost, a new one has been found. Our world no longer resembles the one we left behind when we said goodbye to our son.

But through all of this, he’s never been forgotten.

I worry now, as time ticks slowly by, his memory will fade into oblivion. I wonder if my children will remember their little brother when they are fully grown and have children of their own. I fret because there is no way I can make my youngest understand he has a brother he’ll never know. I wake up in a cold sweat still, all these years later, because I just remembered my son is dead.

I had hoped that the passing of time would mean this pain we carry in our hearts would lessen.

Instead, the pain is as heavy and cloying as a wet wool blanket, threatening to smother the joy we work so hard to fill our lives with. It’s the memories of my son which are fading. I can no longer remember his smell on command or immediately recall what Bug’s laughter sounds like. Time is not robbing the pain but instead thieving the memories his life created.

And I can do nothing to stop this process other than grieve the inevitable loss.

Will *I* remember my son when I’m old and crippled?

There is no expiration for grieving, I know this, but I’m tired of the sadness. I’m tired of remembering I’m a mother to a dead kid. I’m exhausted from saying I have four children when people can only see three.

My son’s absence has now shaped me and our family as much as his life ever did.

This past Saturday, I said goodbye to my son, again. I let him go. I promised him and myself that I would never forget him. I will always love him, with every breath I ever take. But I had to let the pain of his passing go. I can’t spend the rest of my life hauling this burden around with me, weighing my happiness down.

I can’t change the past. I can’t bring Shale back.

But it took four years, nine months and 18 days to say good bye to the pain and guilt I’ve harboured since I said goodbye to him in a darkened emergency room. A million wishes can’t undo his death and all the what-ifs in the world won’t help us heal.

I will always mourn my son and wonder what life would have been like if he lived. But for the first time in all these years, I finally feel at peace with his fate and mine, and feel like I can spend the rest of my life loving him like a mother should.

No matter how many days pass, I will always be Shale’s mom. And I will always love you, Bug. I promise. I finally understand, I may never have new memories with you, and the ones I have may fade like an old photograph, but the love I have, it is enough.

I’d like to take a minute to thank each and everyone of you who read my previous blog post and helped donate to make my young friend, Tanner’s, final dream come true. Thanks to Scott Stratten and each of you we were able to raise over 26 000 dollars in 30 hours.

Tanner will be able to die at home now. And that’s the best gift anyone could have given him and his family.

I was originally supposed to be in New York to join Tanner and his family and celebrate his life while wearing a tutu but it didn’t work out. However, I am a woman of my word and promised I would still wear my tutu and think of Tanner while I’m homebound in Alberta.

For the record, a tutu stops looking attractive on anyone once you hit the age of 12. Or weigh more than 50 pounds.

My children are still laughing at me.

Oh go on and giggle. I know if would. If it weren’t me looking like a giant elephant in tulle.

There’s shorts under that tutu. I swear.

The cowboy boots really add something, no?

If I never see another tutu again, it will be too soon.