I realized that I’ve been remiss, and probably deserve the stern talking to I gave myself this morning. And here we have yet another example of my frequent departures from all that is sane and normal.
I do indeed have entire conversations with myself, which often occur, but are not limited to, the bathroom (in front of the mirror), the car, the kitchen while cooking (though not while eating), and the closet (while deciding what to wear, I don’t go in there for the specific purpose of talking to myself… yet…). And yes, I do talk to myself as if I were a third party giving myself a lecture, or advice, or reprimanding me… what can I say, it seems to work for me and no one has (yet) threatened to have me institutionalized – though as I write this I realize that I’m giving the husband plenty of ammo should he want it in the (unlikely) event of a hostile divorce.
Anyway, getting back on point after this massive tangent, I was saying that I’ve been remiss because I’ve failed to mention that THE HUSBAND’S HOME. (I’ll allow you a moment to settle down after the inevitable cheering.) Although I did tweet it, one of the few times I actually remembered twitter existed, and if you missed it let’s take it as a sign you should be following me. Just a hint. (Tangent 2)
Yes indeedy, they sent him home last Wednesday (and yes “indeedy” I am getting dorkier and dorkier as we speak, my initial impulse was to write “Yes indeedy-dee-doo-dah”, but I spared you, sort of).
We are obviously thrilled to pieces, I can’t even begin to describe how happy the kids were when they saw him. The boy couldn’t stop smiling, he followed the husband around non-stop for two days straight, the girl must have said “Papà” approximately eight hundred thousand times, and both of them still fall into hysterical tear and sob fests if the husband raises his voice a little or dares to utter the word no. Seeing them seeing him almost broke my heart from sheer joy.
He’s doing much better than expected, his energy is good (considering what he went through), his appetite is decent and his mood is positive most of the time so we really can’t complain. He being he (or he being him?) though, he’s complaining that he wishes he could do more, that he had more energy, that food didn’t taste weird… etc. But really, as an impartial third party, let me just say that he’s doing much better than fine. Last year after the transplant he was a zombie-like, couch-dwelling, zero-energy, sluggish shell of a man, in comparison this year he’s the ironman.
So, if we were really having coffee today I would totally monopolize the conversation with our good news until I remembered my manners and asked how you are. Though honestly, I can’t guarantee I’ll be listening to your answer, as I’m thoroughly self-absorbed these days, please forgive me.
Ok, I’m all coffeed out, I’m going to go bask in my happiness, joy and cheer now, so go on and visit Amy! (and yes, I realized I just used three synonyms in a row, but some things deserve to be repeated)