Don't say that, that's yogurt

My stepson says the most amusing things, every. single. day. I just rarely remember them. This one I texted from my phone to my email address to be sure I didn't forget it. We were in the middle of redefining the word "interminable" (read: elementary school band and choir concert) on a set of bleachers with probably the narrowest seats in the world (no joke. no, it's not my expanding butt that makes me say that, either, so knock off the snickering) and he was sitting on my lap. I leaned over and said to my husband, "My butt hurts." The tot heard me say it, and turning to me, said quite seriously, "Don't say that, that's yogurt." "That's what?" his daddy asked him. "Yo-gur" was the clearer response. "Vulgar?" daddy said. "*sigh* Yes, daddy, that word is yogur and you should not say it."

He's four. His vocabulary is astonishing. His minor speech impediments are phenomenal.

We've made it safely through CD28. I'm nursing these last few days of hope like they're the last sips from an awesome bottle of wine. I'm starting to stress. A bit. I think I might be. I think it's possible. Unlike last time, when I knew I wasn't. The biggie? The girls. Literally. I'm a porn star guys. Or could be. (No, there are no video cameras anywhere in the house or yard or car...) I'm also a little afraid. I don't relish the thought of being knocked back on my a** (yes, self-censorship. there may be innocent eyes reading this). Again. I can sit with my legs crossed or stand on my head all I want. But if it worked, it worked already. And if it didn't, there's nothing I can do today.

I think that's a big part of this. I'm really learning the meaning of the word "frustration". Frustration is not beating the daylights out of a fussy printer when it eats yet another page. Frustration is not stubbing your toe. Frustration is beating your fists uselessly against biology, which gives no excuses for itself, no reasons for its rebellion, and no comforting promises. I know Fear stands at the doorway to all good adventures, but as I approach Fear again, I don't know if it will open the door to a brand new life, or just another antechamber.

I hope this fast I'm in will help me cope. I'm struggling with it (the fast), but that's the point, I think. Sure, you can run a mile, but can you run a mile with 10-lb weights strapped to your ankles? Sure, you're a nice person, but can you be a nice person when you're a little hungry? It can be pretty hard to do. Believe me, I know. I'm a waitress. I've seen what a piece of bread can do to someone's mood. Now I'm on the other side. But, alternatively, I am noticing my shortcomings, and I am actually motivated to do something about them. I've been fasting for... um... 10 days? (you tell me, how long ago was the 6 day mark?) and I'm falling back in love with it. I'm looking forward to the feasting of Christmas, believe you me. But there is something wonderful and bright here... in the waiting.

Oh wait. The waiting. :) Hm.