CPS Drama, (cont.)

During the years surrounding our first separation, Hubs was in a band called, "Fecal Count." I shit you not. . . The band members consoled him frequently, often over the microphone, that his misbehaving dependents should be more appreciative because he was, "Better Than Most." Somewhere in those hard and savage years, the tit-for-tat volley for that one between Hubs and I became, "And less destructive than some." That particular volley became cliche enough between us that I can now make my entire "no, thank you" point with the Fecal Count compliment of, "Yea. . . Better than most. . ." No such thing as a clean fight in Arf World. I already feel dirty before the fight begins. It is not safe to stand between me and my antisceptic shower.

Last night's final update came late in the evening. Hubs and Daddy had gone to the other grandparent house to pick up the GKs for a picinic dinner at the park. After they dropped Daddy off at his apartment complex, Hubs spent the rest of the evening in the other grandparent living room, catching up on GS's kindergarten schoolwork, etc., while GD created jokes about Gampy sitting in Grampa's chair. "Babe," I told him several times over the update, "You are wa-a-a-ay better than most. You're a super star."

My strictly personal psycho nag flags are snapping pretty hard this morning. My gut is knotted painfully. Doubts and full-sensory flashbacks are spiralling in the prairie winds pushing the clouds northward. Plying therapy exercises. Just breathe. . .