Recovering

I hate it when my baby is sick. I mean really, I suppose that no mother in her right mind likes it when her child is sick...but I hate it. Her coughing, sneezing, sniffling, "Mama, I'm miserable, Please do something" look. Even an ice cube in this nasty, freezing, Michigan weather would melt at the look in her eyes. Really. Even the Grinch's heart would have to grow x400 at this look.

Oh my, she's killin' me. But then, one night near the end of last week we had this stunning sunset. And it restored my hope that health, one day, would again visit us.

(don't ask why a sunset would give me hope. it just did, ok?)

And, sure 'nuff, the 'lil Peanut Brittle is once again terrorizing my house.

...And the dogs, who have an Ad of their own:

Banks

Please, take me home with you. But only if you meet these qualifications: NO running children who randomly choose to sit on my stomach. NO crawling rugrats, especially if they are crawling or jumping or leaping on me. NO munchkins who take my toys. Or give me a toy and take it back again. That's really not nice. Oh, and I prefer to sleep in a bed, please.

Rocky

I'm happy. And neurotic. Mainly just neurotic. Pwease don't yell at me, it makes me sad. For a minute. Oh, and let me go to the barn with you. And church. And anytime you leave the house. Or in the house, like go to bed. Or to the bathroom. Or get Adawynn. Pwetty, pwetty pwease.

Seriously though? Trav's buddy from high school visited last week and stayed overnight. For a few glorious hours in the morning as Banks slept in with Carl we were a single dog household. Then Banks returned. Oh the hair! I'm going nuts with all the hair in my house. I just keep thinking, "God won't give us any more than we can handle". I can handle the hair.