Yesterday the babysitter handed me five peed in underpants in a stack

I imagine you have surmised that the giant black X slashed across my husband's photo is not to make an announcement that he has been slashed out of our family. I do admit that I find it kind of funny so I haven't taken more than about two seconds to figure out why our header picture is doing that. Things that take time for me to find to learn. Irritate me. Just give me a page to read and I will be fine.

My dad is HOME from the hospital! Can I get a H? H! Can I get an I? I. I know it spells HI, I was intending to go to hallelujah but then I realized I have never been a cheerleader at heart, although if they offered cheerleading alone in a room, I might like it. Not shouting at the computer screen though. It loses something.

My dad is using a walker to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. He was wearing jeans which shows he is relaxed. The running joke in our household is that if Rich was going to "slip into something more comfortable" it would be stiff denim jeans and a nice thick leather belt. Nothing like double-enforced seams all over your pelvis and a nice metal buckle grinding into your belly button to say RELAX.
We are still not at the point where I can laugh about things he did and said. This makes me sad because I do so love to laugh.

Speaking of laughing, Sukie is keeping us laughing. She has decided suddenly after telling me in no uncertain terms that she had no interest in going on the potty, thank you very much, please hand me a diaper and I will put it on myself. While my nieces were here for ten days, they (Emily and Anne-Marie), were forced to play forts and trains and play kitchen food and house and school while I sat back and smiled evilly and winked sadistically. Child, I feel the pain of being Rainbow Dash again. I feel it but you must walk through it. Walk through the feeling.

Anyway, I was walking without my glasses to see who was playing the drums with such vigor (Jude) and I kept saying that it smelled like the cat pooped. Seriously, people, I smell poop. Can't find anything, look in the litter, look everywhere until, there, lying motionless like a deceptive Hostess roll among the fake plastic lettuce heads and tiny serrated chopping knives, was a turd about the size of thumb, casually leaning near the edge of the train table.

It wasn't Gage, our fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, we don't really know, cat, because his hallmark is coily poo with bloody streaks. Don't panic. He's had them for fourteen years. Still keeps on trucking. So I called Susannah down the stairs.

Me:  Sukie, what's this?

Sukie (casually turning to go back upstairs): Oh, yeah.

Me:  You mean you knew this was here?

Sukie: Yeah. Ith a turd.

Me:  But do we leave turds lying on the basement carpet?

Sukie (shrugging and climbing the stairs):  Well, ith fine. There wath a hole in my diaper. It fell out.

I mean, really, what are you going to do, you know. What do you do, but put the past solidly (no pun intended) behind you and move on to the next thing. We all know the past can stink.