Today. So far.

Someone crashed into our car while it was parked at the mechanics waiting for us to pick it up.
I ate MANY chocolates from an exquisite chocolatier in Balmain.
To the point I felt quite ill for quite some time.
My wonderful friend Linda came over and we drank cups of tea and ate a lunch of ciabatta bread, fresh ricotta, leg ham and coppa.
My wonderful friend Kill is coming to Sydney tomorrow and apparently we’re going for a pedicure. We were doing yum cha, which I was pretty psyched about, but after the Grover in hopsital incident she was all, I’m coming and we’re going for a peddie. And quite frankly, that sounds even better.
My wonderful friend in Tuvalu sent us a care package of Tuvaluvan chocolates and lollies, which compounded the ill feeling from the earlier chocolate consumption but I simply can not stop eating Hot Tamales. Can.Not.Stop.
The consulting paediatrician we had to see at the hospital also happens to be a clinical geneticist. Very convenient when I’d been thinking for several weeks (maybe even months) how I really did want someone to look after Oscar’s entire medical scenario, particularly as we’re on the verge of puberty.
A little bit of my last meal comes back every time I say or think that phrase.
Try it.
On the verge of puberty.
Is it too late to not want kids anymore?
Anyway, when he came in I as
a) fucking tired and
b) fucking tired and
c) fucking tired and
d) wondering where the fuck he’d been all morning and
e) don’t doctors do rounds between 8 and 10?
So when he said, “Grover, hey, so where did that name come from?”
I actually replied, “He’s our fourth son, we’d run out of normal names.”
We found out today that the surgeon scheduled to deal with Chef’s rotting leg has left the hospital, so he’s been shifted to some other surgeon’s list and no, we still don’t know when the surgery will take place.
Linda told me today her dad needs a heart bypass and has been on the waiting list since OCTOBER.
I do believe we will be soon forking out thousands of dollars as a private patient in a public hospital.
Oh look, there’s a bit of dinner in my mouth.
A new shop has opened in our little part of the world and it’s called ‘Daughterly Love’ there’s a room set up like a Victorian dining room and an ornate lounge in the front reception area. Naturally I’m thinking it’s a really icky rub and tug joint. I noticed today that there are some signs up on the front door, probably explaining what it really is, but I prefer to think it’s something blazenly inappropriate in a suburban shopping strip.
In news that has made me cry and simultaneously get very angry this week, a woman in a neighbouring suburb was murdered by her estranged husband in a domestic violence incident.
It happened on Monday morning.
Their eight-year-old daughter was in the house when it happened.
It turns out this daughter is not only in Felix’s year, but in his class and
I simply can not imagine how this little girl is coping.
Can not imagine.
She was
I spoke to Felix about it last night and he interrupted me saying, “T said __’s mother was murdered“.
That was not the language I was going to use.
As my shrink said today, “It is sometimes very useful and comforting to remember that at that age they do not have or understand abstract thought, so the very notion of being murdered doesn’t really mean anything to them.”
Which was good to know because I found it weird that Felix said that and when we talked about it some more and I used the phrase that she’d died so __ didn’t have her mummy anymore he was far more visibly affected.
Anyway, it is just tragic beyond comprehension.