At first I through I accidentally smacked a thorn bush, but as the intense pain started radiating through my hand I realized what had happened.

Me: “I was stung! Something got me! OH MY GOSH I WAS STUNG BY A BEE!”

Hubby: “I see it. It’s a little bee… it’s flying towards me. Oh sh*t it’s on my faaaa—” And then there were a few f bombs as the bee proceeded to sting the hubster on the chin.

Me: “Save the baby! Don’t let her get stung! oh, my god, it hurts so much! Run! Run! Keep Emmie safe!!!”

I may not be able to brag that I haven’t been stung in two decades, but at least my bee sting came with a good story. That’s all we can hope for in life, good stories. Although, I wouldn’t mind waiting another 2 decades for my next sting, those little buggers hurt! 

We had, what I assume to be, our last big summer storm. It was one of those sticky, hot, sweltering afternoons when the dark masses of clouds rolled in. Big fat drops fell. Sure, the basement was flooded in a second, but this storm will stand out for years to come. Why, you ask? Our street.

Have I told you about our street? It’s a little dead end, tucked in a cute neighborhood, and we’re surrounded by the best neighbors. Seriously, the best. Every nice night in the summer you can find all the neighborhood kids playing together. We’re all so close that it’s common to find they’ve just wandered into so and so’s house to play. We hang out together while they play, sipping our 5 o’clock beer & wine, enjoying the summer air.

But back to the storm. Big fat drops, pelting the earth, flooding basements across the region, providing endless entertainment for the kids on our street. Since it was such a warm rain, kids donned their swim suits and out they went. A little rain was not going to stop their fun. The little ones were stripped down to diapers and puddles were jumped in, eyes were wide with amazement, and hair was quickly drenched. Yet, the whole time was nothing but smiles, laughs and screams of sheer delight. Adults huddled together on the porch. Magic. This storm was magic. Oh, summer, we will miss you.

2. Run over to the side of the crib next to your book shelf and sign “book” repeatedly. Don’t forget the huge grin since we’re proud that we’re communicating!

3. Reach for books, just in case Mom didn’t catch the ten times you signed “book.”

4. Stare Mom down because you know she saw the signing and the reaching for the books, but you still don’t have a book! Wait patiently until Mom chooses a book for you.

5. Finally! A book! Run to the other side of the crib with your book, that you recieved through thorough communication, and carefully turn each page. This one is a favorite with all the flaps to lift. Meticulously lift all the flaps. Remember, no smiling, reading is serious business. When you’re done reading it’s time to head downstairs so Mom can fix you up a snack.

We’ve been trying to spend as much time as we can outdoors while the weather is nice. Before you know it we’ll have to bundle up to venture out, but until then you can find us at the park with friends!

Once in a while I’ll catch a picture that radiates so much love it threatens to consume anyone who looks at it. That’s how I feel about this picture, er, the last picture. Claire-bear was eating lunch; an everyday, mundane activity, and I, of course, had my camera set up just snapping lunch pictures because well, exhibit A:

But then, as I jumped off my seat to save a flying tofu parmesan, she leaned her little head over signaling she wanted a kiss. So, naturally, I snapped a few pictures, all the while complying to the kissing demands and this one? This one is my favorite. It’s post messy lunch kiss, and it fills me with so much mushiness that I almost can’t stand it. Even though all our conversations are mostly one sided, she doesn’t need words to tell me she loves me, and for that I am forever thankful.

If you haven’t heard I just finished up a round of IV’s.  Two Friday’s ago my Picc was placed and come Sunday night an ugly dull pain started radiating throughout my arm. In my gut I had a sinking feeling, since the only other time I had experienced this pain was when I had develop a DVT from my elbow to my shoulder.

I do indeed have another DVT in the vein that my Picc is placed but luckily we caught it early! The good news (if there is ever good news when talking about blood clots) is that they think it will break up with medicine. Bad news? Hurts like a mother f*cker. Pardon my language but my arm is killin’ me. It’s finally starting to feel better about a week later, but all that means is I want to scoop my baby that much more, and since I can’t, all the not-scooping becomes that much harder.

All in all, these problems are trivial in the grand scheme of things. 6 weeks from now this event will be far from my mind, filed away on a dusty shelf in the back of my mind. However, these happenings have lead me to a decision I’ve been avoiding for quite a few years; ladies and gentlemen it’s time for a port!

I think in this moment in time I’m done with Piccs. D-O-N-E. Never liked the blasted things anyway. With a port I’d be able to use my arms, scoop my baby (or babies*), and do simple things that keep the house functioning… like fold laundry and yank the fridge open. While a port will help ease the transition of sick to healthy it also blurs lines that I had set up in my physce. A port, to me, represented progression of my CF past a point of no return. And while I may not have jumped that hurdle completely, picking up my baby for a milky snuggle far outweighs any labels I had previously created about getting a port. So cheers to jumping hurdles, and being the best we can for the people we love.

*no, I’m not pregnant.