Dusting off the Blog

If this blog were my child, I'm quite certain social workers of some kind would have shown up, noted the obvious neglect and the blog would be taken from me and put into a foster care blog service. It would possibly be mistreated there. Need therapy. Maybe get into drugs. (Not that all foster care families are like this. I'm sure most are wonderful, caring and loving. I'm just aware of a few that, well, aren't. And I know nothing whatsoever about blog foster care, other than it doesn't appear to care about what happens HERE.)

Let's see. Just a bit of catching up to do. Son and I now live in a very tiny apartment. We're very close. We kind of have to be unless one of us goes out on the balcony. (And by balcony I mean "In any other place it would be called a window ledge.")

Don't misunderstand, we're very happy here. And it's great preparation for the day he moves out into his own little apartment. (And probably even more similar to the current situation because I'm afraid I'm going to be one of those mothers who wraps her arms around the boy's knees and cries, "Why are you leaving me?") Either that or he'll be one of those guys who lives with his mother until he's 40 and neighborhood mothers warn their children not to talk to him.) I'm very good to him and particularly to his future wife this way. I set the bar really low with cooking and stuff, so she'll never have to be intimidated by me. So Son's Future Wife? You. Are. WELCOME.

I've been on my own for two years now. I'm starting to get the hang of being an adult. I guess it had to happen some day. It's quite impressive, the progress I've made. I've even figured out how to use a hammer and kill spiders. And it's surprising how often those activities happen simultaneously.

 I know now that an allen wrench isn't a wrench we once borrowed from Allen and forgot to return. I've even used one to help Mom assemble a table. (It was a proud, proud moment for us, when we got that thing put together.)  Don't ask how I've made it this far in life without knowing the basics. I don't really know, but apparently it was pretty easy. I didn't even notice that I was a basically helpless human being if left to my own devices. Well, not anymore, baby! I'm not there yet, but I'm getting there. I hope.

Anyway.

Life has been interesting. And funny. And sad. And depressing. And hopeful. Pick an adjective; it probably applies here.

Most of it, I can't write about on the blog. Although, those who know the story encourage me to write a book. This includes my therapist. Because you just can't make this stuff up. And when your therapist's jaw hits the floor when she hears what's happened to you, you can be pretty sure this kind of thing doesn't happen to this degree all that often. So I've been working on that, which is why the blog's been so sadly neglected.

Plus I've had to figure out a different way to type. Why? Well, if you know me at all, you'll realize I've probably injured myself again. And by golly, you'll be right! The doctor's report says, "Accidentally stabbed herself in the hand with a steak knife." Now doesn't that sound interesting. And typical. For me, I mean. And I'm so glad he included the word "accidentally" because I'm really not the type to go around stabbing myself deliberately. Also, just one correction, it was a carving knife. I don't think I'll be volunteering to carve next time we have turkey. (Hello? This is why we have ham for Easter. Pre-sliced. It is also why we don't allow me to handle sharp objects.)

Apparently, there is a point at which one should stop the cutting of the turkey, and personally, I'd appreciate it if the turkey came pre-marked with little dotted lines so I'll know exactly where to cut. And where not to.

The cut itself? Tiny. Very tiny. As in, if anyone saw it, I'd be called out immediately on what a wimp I am. And if I did get called out? Then I'd have to come back with my doctor's report showing that, though the cut appears tiny on the outside, on the inside there's a fair bit of damage. I cut the digital nerve, and probably a tendon and this is why I'm being such a drama queen over this miniscule little cut.  And also because I'm just kind of a drama queen anyway. Though, it should be noted, I did NOT cry. See? Progress. It would also explain why I can no longer feel or move very well the 2nd and 3rd fingers of my right hand, so if I should pass you and that middle finger seems to be saluting you, I promise, it's probably not. Unless you cut me off in traffic, and even then still probably not but I may be thinking bad words, just so you know.

The other problem they found is that the ulnar nerve is having problems and surgery is going to be required for that as well. This takes out the 4th and 5th fingers, which have kind of been slacking off for awhile now, so I wasn't too worried about that until the specialist said, "irreversible damage if you wait much longer." (By chance are doctors like mechanics who tell you the car will explode unless you have some exorbitantly expensive and totally unnecessary repair work done?) So I'm now down to a thumb on the right hand. But this still puts me way ahead of creatures like dogs and rabbits and, um, fish. You know. Things without opposable thumbs. Plus I have a whole other hand that works, and YAY, I just happen to be left-handed. So see? I am a lucky, lucky, if extremely, wimpy girl.

Plus, this gives me, in a very small way, the chance to experience the world of someone I love who only has the use of one hand. He can do anything. Including teaching me how to type with one hand. Bonus! New skill!

So, yeah. Life's been a funny, awful, ironic, horrible, fantastic, thing for awhile now, but I'm better than fine and I seem to have more spare time to write now. So perhaps the Internet Social Workers won't have to take my blog away after all.