Not really sure what I want to write about.  I feel adrift.  I'm not used to being home all day anymore.  I miss my routine, miss by patients and miss my friends at work.  Last week was busy enough, at a different hospital all week, but I feel out of sorts.

I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop I guess.  Waiting for the shit storm my son usually causes.  Hurting already for his son who will be lied to and disappointed by his father over and over again.  I hope that doesn't happen but in my experience it's what my son does.  Fucking hell!  It's the reason I left my son's father and now history is repeating itself.

I need to let go of expectations and worries and just live today.  If anyone out there knows how to do this, please let me know.

I'm reading "Becoming" by Michelle Obama.  I would like to have her as a friend.  I would like to have had her parents.  I wonder if I would have been different if I had different parents.  I'm not a bad person but I worry so much.  I'm like Mark Twain,    “I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.” 

I am more like my mother than I would like to be.  She made catastrophes out of small things.  I try not to but still it happens.  I don't imagine I'm the only one either.

The sky is grey today, rain or snow today in the forecast.  It matches my mood.

It always amazes me how perfect newborn babies are, how perfect and how innocent.

 Liam had a hard time coming into the world.  His mama was terrified, refused to attend prenatal classes because she thought it would cause her too much anxiety and didn't know anything about c-sections, other than, she didn't want one.  It didn't go well for either of them and eventually both Liam and his mama were at risk for severe complications.  As it was, he didn't breathe on his own for the first six and half minutes of his life.  He's still drowsy from all the drugs but has latched on and is breast feeding which is good.  He's a sweet little guy.  His mama enrolled him in a long term study to research the effects of his particular resusitation.  A new prayer to add to my nightly ritual.  Please let him be okay.

My daughter accused me of being negative all the time which stung.  She's not wrong but I started thinking about medicine and nursing and realized that when things are working well, when there is no negative, everything is fine.  I was taught to look for dysfunction, not function.  I think of myself as a realist.  I hope but within the confines of reality.  I don't hope for miracles, or maybe I do.  I think the big guy would say I hope for miracles.  So basically I'm all over the map.

I'm scared that my son will scar this little boy for life with broken promises and addictions, just like his own father did to him.   I can't fix my son, I can only stand by and hope and pray.  I finished the quilt for Liam finally, on the day he was born.  I had to wash it because the cat had already vomited on it but I kept the promise to myself to made a quilt for my grandchildren.

I'm scared and hopeful and tired.  I have such a hard time seeing the good.  I guess my daughter is right.  I need some mountain time, or at least some time by the river and the trees.

He finally arrived in the night after fifty hours of labor and a c-section.

It's been a busy couple of weeks.  Still no baby.  Gracie was supposed to start being induced yesterday but apparently the hospital had a bunch of emergency C sections so no time for inductions.  That poor girl is terrified of labour and I'm wondering how much of the holdup is due to fear.  I imagine she's also worried about the shit show that will ensue with my son after the baby is born.

Last week I texted my son and told him that I wanted his stuff out of our garage, just bags of clothes.  When he went to jail last November Gracie called us and asked us to pick up all his stuff.  She was traumatized by my son and then the police.  My son was hallucinating and telling her they had to kill someone again.  The police were called by a neighbor and they broke down the door, handcuffed both of them and then carted my son away.

When he got out of jail in January I asked him to come get his stuff.  Two and half months later, it was still here.  He stopped by once to get a few things but refused to take all of it.  So last week I told him I wanted it out of our garage before the weekend was over.  He couldn't do that.  He had plans.  Next weekend he said.  I told him no, it was happening this weekend.

It went back and forth.  He finally agreed to let us deliver his stuff to him, you're very welcome.  We drove to the other side of the city and woke up a very tired looking Polish lady who had no idea who my son was.  He gave us the wrong address, on purpose or by accident I don't know because I asked him three times for the address and got two different answers.  I tried to contact him, no answer.  Yada yada.  We gave up and drove home.  Later that day we donated his stuff to Goodwill and I haven't heard back from him.

I'm starting to accept that my son must be mentally ill.  This goes beyond addiction and regular fuck ups.  His life is a train wreck and it breaks my heart but I will no let him drag me down with him, or his son.

At work we had accreditation this past week which was intense.  It's over and the system that the big guy developed to deal with the equipment in DI was a huge hit.  There's talk of selling the system and I'm so proud of him.  He's been working on it for the past seven and a half years and it finally got the recognition it deserves.

Spring has finally arrived and I have some tomato and sunflower plants sprouting in the kitchen window.  I've already been to the greenhouse twice so far and can hardly wait until I can plant outside.  The geese have arrived and their honks fill the air.  It's a sound I love.  In a few more weeks it will be the sound of the sandhill cranes flying overhead.  I can hardly wait.

I was sick again this past week.  The last six weeks have conspired to make me feel like a very old woman, but I'm on the mend.  Yesterday at work a seventy-four year man assumed I was close to his age.  Ouch.  It's the almost white hair.  I hope.

My grandbaby hasn't made an appearance yet.  His mama has moved and is all settled in now and loves the house.  I took the dog for a walk last night and stopped by to visit her and see how she was doing.  She's good but big as a house poor thing.  Soon.

We had a code at work this week, a severe allergic reaction to the CT dye, something that happens but rarely are the reactions that bad.  The patient was fine in the end but scared the shit out of all of us.

One of the nurses I work with is a good friend of mine.  She has bipolar disorder and is sinking again.  She usually only last about six months at work and then ends up back in the hospital which always breaks my heart.  She's a smart, funny, kind woman who has a huge heart and right now I can see her fading.  She folds up and slowly backs away when she is suffering.  Her fur goes up and she gets prickly.  It's the disease but still I miss her when she's like this.

Same old same old.  Nothing much changes, while constantly changing.  The snow is receding in the back yard leaving behind snow mold and what appears to the stools of a hundred dogs.  I can't believe such a small dog can produce that much shit.  I suppose mine would look the same if it wasn't flushed down the toilet each day but rather spread on my lawn, waiting for spring.

My in-laws are coming for supper.  I won't hold my tongue today if my father-in-law starts talking about Muslims.  I'm done with letting him getting away with his racism because I try to respect my elders.  If he chooses to talk about racism I will respond.

Now it's time to clean.  There are muddy dog footprints on the floors which need cleaning up.  Supper to be made and a dessert.  I'll listen to the CBC while I putter around the house.  The big guy has gone into work for a few hours and I have the house to myself.

Trying to be a decent human being so I asked my ex husband if he wanted to meet his grandson.  This is what he wrote back.

I met my ex husband when my son was almost three years old.  When my son was five years old, my ex adopted my son.  The second name that is whited out is that of my son's biological father whom I've had nothing to do with in decades.

When I was married to that man, I believed I was crazy.  Turns out I'm not, it was just that I lived with a depressed, angry, vindictive man.  I'm so thankful that he's not in my life anymore and to be honest, I'm thankful he doesn't want to be involved in his grandson's life.  The big guy is already an excellent grandpa.