Processing X

The annual O'Henry Pun Off was one of the more sacred rituals YS and I shared throughout his public school years. He inherited my stutter, so his ambition to be an O'Henry Punster was a far more lofty goal than running the science gauntlet so many of my geek associates thought he would reinvent over the course of his lifetime. Perhaps. . . Good luck finding the yardstick for collecting the stats for the comparative analysis. From an early age, my study buddy was nerdy enough to study language/etymology with me. The puns we shared between us were often multi-lingual/dialectical. He was fully on board with the notion that all humans had the right to play with whatever language we want in whatever accent or grammar style fits the mood. Grammar is the art of using the words to discredit the message. We had a ball with slaying grammar nazis with their own red pens. Girl howdy, my ethereal punster is having a ball with "Processing X" in my psychotic delusions of his spiritual presence here in this morning of puzzling harmonies.

YS's elementary school speech therapist didnae believe he was stuttering. She called his speech defect, "Mazing." Her gentle presence never stressed me far enough to bring out my own stutter, but she was betting dollars to wishes that my stutter was mazing, as well. By whatever name, YS's speech weirds, hand tremors, etc., seemed to be getting worse instead of better as he and the love of his life danced their way to the edge of life.

I am grateful that Hubs and I decided to abandon the hope of getting Big Bro back to school yesterday. The fragile routine we had established before the tradgedy resumed easily enough, but it had some hysterical rhythms and tones in need of fine tuning. We arenae convinced a single day is enough for the job, but we also believe that sooner is better for getting the children are established in a full daily routine. The six weeks of routine establishing we did before the tragedy wasnae enough to withstand the impact of the death of both parents. Ouch.

The elder sibs were sniping like their romantic parents by midafternoon yesterday. Ain't love grand? The sniping started early and escalated throughout the day. By the time I gave up on running intervention, Big Sis's drama screeches were? ? ? Dramatic. While we listened through the sound insulation of his office in the brood house, Hubs and I decided to try the remedy of an outing to their favorite local park. The very park where we spent last Thanksgiving chasing turkeys on Buffalo Creek with Daddy. The results felt solid as we loaded the exhausted crew into the bee buggy while the shades of dusk were settling accross the plains.

On the way home, Big Bro didnae argue when Hubs announced his return to school in the morning. We have been in touch with his teacher to warn her that he is still fragile. Please call us immediately if he spins out of control. Please let us handle the yaddahs of those blahs.

Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer. . .