My Little Punkin

Doug and I aren't huge fans of the headband, but recently Gwen's been spending lots of time with my friend Marjorie and her family, who just happen to be huge proponents of the stretchy fabric headband, and since they are gladly taking Gwen as we make numerous trips to the doctor and such, we can't argue.

And honestly, even if I wanted to argue, I couldn't. The percocet is just heavenly. It doesn't so much take away any pain. It just makes me not care at all about whatever pain I'm in at the moment, even if that pain is seeing my daughter with a yellow flower plastered to her head.

(Marjorie, I won't even remember that I wrote this in the morning, so you can't be mad at me. :)

I'm learning to knit. I've already thrown the needles across the room a few times and shouted, "Bah!" at the entire process, but then, 20 minutes later, I pick it back up on the way back from the toilet, and I start muddling through it again. I'm afraid my hands look a bit like Gwen's in the above picture while I'm knitting. Sort of all bunched up to my chest and I peer through groggy eyes at the lines swimming in front of my eyes.

I can't remember who wrote this as a comment, but I've gotten a couple e-mails as well saying how nice and cheerful I sound, taking it all bravely and without complaint. I have to say, it's not totally like that in real life. I'm a wuss with pain, and as I launch up off the couch every time I need to, it's accompanied with tears and gasps of pain. I spent a chunk of my early morning hours yesterday crying about how long 11 weeks sounds. And we're moving to a house surrounded with berry bushes and lilac trees, and I won't even be able to enjoy the spring.

So, there's not any braveness. I am trying to remain firm in the fact that God doesn't give anyone more than they can handle, and that everything that is brought into my life will somehow be used for good. And that with a good pair of scissors and a bucket, Doug can bring the lilacs and berries to me.