Tanis Miller

Mom Wisdom

2013-05-12T18:57:52Z

Happy Mother's Day to moms everywhere. Love to all of those who are missing someone they love, whether it's their own mother, a grandmother, a step mum, a mother figure or, like me, their child, today.

Thank you to P&G for including me in their latest campaign and taking my mom wisdom and turning it into art. May my words ring in my children's ears forever.

You can check out the entire gallery of Mom Wisdom posters, which range from hilarious to inspiring, and all of them beautiful, all curated on the P&G Thank you Mom Pinterest page.

Check out the Facebook page and share the gift of mom wisdom there too.

Love to all you Moms, non-moms, hopeful moms, step-moms, mother-inlaws and of course, love to my mom.

Love to everyone.

16 years

2013-05-10T16:59:44Z

It's my 16th wedding anniversary today.

I'm spending it alone. Well, not completely alone. Knox is at home, wheezing and sounding a bit like Darth Vader with allergies while Abbott tries to lick the snot bubbles out of his nose. Bruce is away at work. I haven't seen him in six weeks. He's not scheduled to be home until sometime in June.

I don't spend a lot of time writing about my marriage, other than sharing jokes or silliness, because really, who wants to read that stuff? Certainly not my husband, his relatives or my children. Privacy and boundaries are important, even if they make for really crappy writing material.

But the other day someone remarked on twitter that they didn't know how Bruce and I do it. How we stay married when we are never together. I gave a flip remark, because what else is twitter for other than to hone the fine art of sass, but I've been thinking of that question ever since.

There is no easy answer really. When it boils down to it, like most every other married couple I know, I just like him best. He suits me the way no other person does and hopefully he feels the same way.

Marriage isn't easy, ever, even under the best of circumstances. And my husband's and my marriage is no different. Add in the complications of marrying young, being poor, the death of a parent, the birth of a unexpectedly disabled child, the surprise death of said child, crappy extended family dynamics, a failed adoption attempt, a successful adoption attempt, teenagers, disabilities, health problems, every day stress and a job that takes you more than 600 kilometers away from your family for most of the year, well, marriage is tough.

I have spent more than seven years blogging about how I am no longer the person I used to be when our son Skjel was alive. How I have used my words to find myself and my place in this world.

But I have never mentioned how my husband has changed. How the man I married no longer exists. How could he? For everything I've been through, so has he. He's been beside me for more than half of our entire lives. He bears the same scars I do from all of the same hurts.

When I see my husband now, I don't see the optimistic idealistic boy with big dreams and great hopes I once married. I see a gentle spirited, patient, intelligent man who wears the same look of sorrow in his eyes that I have. It's easy to miss his hurt because he hides it behind a big smile and an easy laugh. But it's there. I see it.

I'm proud of the man the boy I married grew to become. And I'm so grateful he's been by my side through it all, even when we were at our lowest, teetering on the edge of total collapse. He's always been the one to yank us back to safety. He's never quit on us, when quitting would be the easiest thing to do.

So I'll happily spend our 16th anniversary alone, while trying to avoid getting slimed by Knox's snot bubbles. Because it doesn't matter to me how many days my husband and I spend apart. I know he'll always come home to us. To me.

He's the roots of our family, the one that anchors and supports us through it all.

Happy Anniversary Bruce. Come home soon.

There's poop waiting to be picked up and I don't want to do it.

I love you.

Lawn Ornaments

2013-05-09T18:14:10Z

Once upon a time there was a magical enchanted land, filled with trees and wildlife and a young family who called this land their home.

Their yard seemed endless and huge. 20 acres, which isn't huge but so much bigger than the postage stamped size balcony they had in the city.

There was a small dog who made the prettiest lawn ornament, always watching over his owner, always within reach of an ear scratch and a belly rub.

There was space for the little kids to play, the dog to run, the rabbits to hop.

Soon the yard filled up with wildlife. Bambi often came to munch on the lawn.

A lodge full of beavers moved in, mowing down trees and making trails.

The moose came to eat all the shrubs and flowers the yard owners had so thoughtfully planted.

There was space for them all. Come one, come all, the crazy yard owners whispered, inviting the wildlife to frolic and play.

There was so much room that one day, one of the yard owners decided to build a zeppelin hangar.

The yard seemed smaller. The space not as vast.

Then the little dog who made the prettiest lawn ornament passed away and the other yard owner decided there was space to fill.

So she adopted a new dog, who is the prettiest big lawn ornament she ever could want, who watches over his owner, always within reach of an ear scratch and a belly rub.

But this new dog, with this new barn, they took up more space than the yard owners had imagined.

With the little kids now grown into big kids and all the wildlife added into the space, the yard was starting to feel a little small.

20 acres can only hold so much.

But the yard owners told themselves, "It's all good. Our space is filled with love." And animal crap. But they ignored that and focused on the love and how the tightness of it all felt like a giant hug of love and not a poop-filled cramp.

Then he wandered in.

An even BIGGER lawn ornament.

He pooped on her lawn. Here, there, everywhere.

Suddenly there is no space for anyone.

The straw that broke the lawn owner's back turned out to be a stray horse who has no owner.

Now the yard owner twitches and waits for kids to pick up poop, dogs to shrink, wildlife to hide and the horse to found.

I don't care what the husband says.

We're gonna need a bigger yard.

And a shovel for all the poop.

*The horse has been taken care of. Take care of your horses, people. Don't let them poop on other people's lawns. It's just weird.*

Community

2013-05-07T20:23:06Z

I wore a dress this weekend. I rarely wear dresses. Dresses, in my world, are reserved for funerals and the odd wedding. Of course, there are the muumuus I often wear in the summer while my husband mutters about how he never thought he'd be married to Mrs. Roper, but I digress.

I do love a good muumuu though. The great thing about a muumuu is you never need to shave your legs.

Basically, I just wrote 71 words to tell y'all I shaved my legs this weekend, voluntarily.

Blogging done right.

I shaved my legs and wore a dress and I even applied some eye shadow because I was nominated for an award at The Edmonton New Media awards. Otherwise known as The Yeggies.

My eye shadow with the inimitable Kikki Planet.

I didn't really know what to expect, as I've never actually attended an award ceremony for anyone over the age of 17, but I figured a good place to start would be to pretend I don't weave my online words while sitting in alone in my kitchen, with my hair uncombed while wearing a ripped and stained tank top, no bra and my husband's boxer shorts. Which I do. Often. Like perhaps RIGHT THIS VERY MOMENT.

It turns out shaving my legs was the right call to make.

The show was lovely, the host funny, the organizer rock stars. The award nominees and winners were all truly talented people who each showcased the spirit and passion which makes Edmonton and area so very special. Cliched or not, it really was an honor just to be nominated.

I sat in that audience, surrounded by friends I'd made over the years, through my blog and twitter and Facebook and I smiled at people I'd just been introduced to and I marveled at how very far I've come in the seven years since I went online for the very first time.

How I stumbled into a community that I never knew existed when all I was really looking for was a way to find myself and survive the death of my son. Every online interaction I've made over the years has been like finding one piece of a new puzzle I've needed to put together to make myself whole, and for a brief shining moment on a Saturday night, my online community walked out of the mists of the Ethernet and surrounded me in the flesh.

I felt grateful and amazed to be part of such a vibrant community.

Thank you Natasha, for making me cry in public, once more.

Winning an award and being recognized by your peers is always a lovely feeling. Absolutely. But that night, it wasn't about the award for me. It was about how I was a broken woman on the edge of a precipice, lost and alone, and found myself in front of a crowd of people who, through clicks, comments and virtual hugs, propped me up when I was at my weakest and held my hand until I could breathe on my own.

It was about being part of a community that inspires me to try harder and be better and constantly reminds me what is important in life and what is not.

It's about being something other than the reflection of the broken woman I see when I look in the mirror.

I didn't know what to say at that moment, so I just said thanks.

They like me! They really like me!

But I meant it. Thank you for this honor and thank you for all the support over the years, both those in the Edmonton community, my hometown, and those around the world. It means a lot.

I'm really happy to be part of this community, both offline and in person.

I'm really glad I shaved my legs for you.

A special thanks to the Yeggies organizing committee, the sponsors and most especially, Jen Banks for being my date on top of all your other duties.

Bingo!

2013-05-03T17:03:16Z

I have to go pants shopping today. There are few things worse than having to go shopping for pants. In public. With mirrors. Bathing suit shopping. Getting a Brazilian wax. Trying to buy life insurance. Watching your child being held down for a blood draw. Trying to get fifteen kids to stand still to pose for a cousins' portrait.

Okay, fine. There are many things worse than pants shopping and yet, today, it is the worst. thing. ever. Don't start on me about getting some perspective. I have all the perspective I need. Starting with that pasty white muffin top that hangs over the edge of my pants and ending with the frayed bottoms of my jeans that my dog keeps tugging on.

So pants shopping it is. Let the size games begin. It's like an expensive game of Bingo, only without the ink dobbers and the old lady winner will be me jumping around yelling 'Bingo!' when I finally find a pair that makes my bum look it belongs to a 20 year old stripper who can bounce a quarter off it.

It's good to have goals and delusions.

Here is to a new weekend where the wheels don't fall off any chairs, doors are held open when needed and the principal finally emails me before I die from curiosity. (My children? They're feigning innocence. I SMELL TROUBLE.)

May you find joy in the small snapshots of your life this weekend. And may your pants fit exactly as you want them to.

***

My little theatre geek. Congratulations to Ken and her fellow cast members (including my niece) for winning Best Ensemble Cast in the zones festival.

May there be no creepy eyeless doll, waiting to suck out your soul, hiding in any of your cabinets. Or your mother's.

Don't make eye contact with any shelves of doll heads because they'll be STARING BACK AT YOU. (Weirdness runs in the family.)

Brother love.

What happens with biology homework when assigned to a couple of nerds. Star Wars the Immune Response Episode is born. (Also, siblings! Cooperating! Voluntarily working towards a common goal! Learning! Embracing their inner geek! THIS IS THE POSTER OF PARENTHOOD DONE RIGHT.)

Putting our heads together. Puppy love is the best love.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Blogging Bravely

2013-05-02T19:40:28Z

I've written a blog post every day this week and deleted all but one of them.

I've written about the public breakdown I had after Knox's wheelchair collapsed in the middle of the street and no one offered to help me fix it. I've written about how some arsehole didn't hold the door open as he walked through it and it almost broke Knox's feet when the door slammed on him.

I wrote about blogging conferences and professional jealousies.

I wrote about tax season.

I just wrote a post about how the school phoned wanting my email so the principal could email me. How I have sat here for hours now, refreshing my email all the while imagining horrible scenarios involving my children and how I'm going to be forced to homeschool them like it or not. And still, NO EMAIL. The curiosity, it's killing me.

Everything I write, I delete.

I don't know how to press publish anymore.

It feels like everything worthy of being said is being said by others and being said better than I ever could.

I'm blog-blocking myself.

It's like I've forgotten how to blog honestly, the way I used to, because I'm paralysed by who will read it.

Years of being judged by my inlaws, my community, even some of my family, it's all scarred me to the point I don't know how to say what I want to say anymore.

Blogging comes with a price. You may not have to pay it immediately, but it's there. I've paid my price, had my pound of flesh cut from my body. I've forgotten how to blog bravely.

But I still want to.

I'm still here.

Blogging and deleting. Struggling to find the right way to write the words that I need to say. Bravely sharing big important truthes we will all be better for having read.

That's the problem.

I have no big important truth to share.

Not today anyways.

Oh wait. I have one truth to share:

Big dogs take big poops and I hate picking up poop.

Wait. That's not it.

My toe hair is so long it catches on my sheets and pulls a bit and it hurts. I don't want to be the woman who has to shave her toe hair. How feminine is that?

Sorry. That's not it either.

There is a dead skunk just on the other side of the road from my driveway and I really kind of want to poke at it with a stick.

That's just gross. I think there must be something wrong with me.

Oh, I know!

I LOVE going to the local car wash. It's one of those wand wash places where you blast the dirt off your car manually. I feel like a GOD when I am blasting my car clean. I feel productive. Strong. And slightly gritty because I haven't quite figured out the right ratio from car to wand distance. Blow back is a bitch. BUT SO FUN.

I should delete this post. It's random and uninteresting.

Wait. It's kind of like life. Nonsensical but with a lot of blow back.

Starts blog post about the therapeutic brilliance of personal blogging.

Deletes said post.

Meh. You can't hit a home run every time you swing at a ball. At least now you know why I don't publish more often. You're welcome.

Art is Pain

2013-04-30T17:37:09Z

I spent the day in a high school auditorium yesterday watching one act plays while wishing for a merciful death.

It wasn't exactly how I thought I'd be spending my time.

When I agreed to attend the festival I told myself this was a chance to relive my glory days as a theatre geek while celebrating my daughter's triumphs in her drama program.

I was wrong.

I should have realized some memories are shinier when they are coated in dust and haven't seen the glare of daylight in years.

As I took a seat at the end of a row, I ignored the kids around me who all looked vaguely horrified to have their space intruded on by an 'old' person.

I'm young. I'm hip. I am not the oldest person in this room, I told myself as I nervously twirled my chin whisker.

I was the oldest person in my row but whatever. My brother-in-law sat right behind me and he's like a decade older.

Then the house lights dimmed and the adjudicator took the stage, welcomed the audience and introduced the first play.

It was the play my daughter and niece were in!

I was so excited.

There's my niece! She looks great!

Ha ha! This play is so funny!

A kid in a wheelchair playing a zany grandmother!

Oh! There's Ken! Holy cow. Her cheek bones are so sharp she could cut glass with them.

She's a twin! Um she's a little creepy.

Holy cow, I may have nightmares over my creepy kid. Thanks Ken.

HAHA. FUNNY NIECE.

Wait, what? Oh! I GET IT.

HAHAHAH.

Oh, that's a little dark.

Suicide jokes. Bomb shelters. Starvation. Woah.

Oh! But there's a game of charades and someone is eating kleenex! I'll laugh!

Wow my kid does creepy evil twin really well. Weird.

It's over? That's how it ended? Really? Who cares! Well done kids! Applause! That's right. Take your bow! It was a dark subject with a tough theme and you made it awesome. Suck on that one act festival! My kids rock!

The house lights came on and the adjudicator walked out and introduced the next one act.

The lights dimmed.

Please don't be more awesome than my kid's play.

A smaller cast. My girls were way cuter.

Oh, they're singing.

What? This makes no sense.

Oh no.

Oh crap.

Seriously? A one act play about the guilt a mother feels when her kid suddenly dies? Are you freaking kidding me?

Wow. They're good.

I mean, I think they're good. I'm all conflicted and reliving the guilt and horror of when my kid died. THIS IS NOT FUN.

First a play about being locked in a bomb shelter and starving to death and now this?

What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

I want to look away but dang, those kids are really good.

I hate this play but wow.

Could this get any bleaker?

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Oh thank God. It's over.

I will conceed they were really good. But my daughter and niece were way cuter. Who would have thought bomb shelter insanity was funnier than a child's sudden death.

HAHAH. Twitch.

Oh, here we go. There's the adjudicator. Last play of the afternoon. This is it.

Clever set. I like it.

Whoever that kid is playing the soldier, he totally reminds me of my brother.

No.

NOOO.

What is wrong with kids these days? Another play about death?

THEY ARE CANNIBALS?

OHMYGODHEISEATINGPEOPLEMEAT.

Is that? Are you kidding me? A BABY? In a BOX?

I can't take much more of this dystopian post apocalyptic themed play.

DONT EAT THE MEAT.

I have to pee.

SHE IS STABBING HIM TO DEATH WITH A RUBBER KNIFE.

Crap. I can't leave. My kid's teacher will see me walk out if I do.

This couldn't get any bleaker if they tried.

ANOTHER BABY IN A BOX?

WHY ARE TEENAGERS THESE DAYS SO DARK AND ANGSTY?

This is all Justin Bieber's fault.

I think it's ending.

Please be ending.

Oh thank the baby jeebus, it's over.

WHAT? FAKE ENDING? IT ISN'T OVER?

NOOOOOO.

I don't know if I can hold my old lady bladder for much longer.

I will clap the hardest and cheer the loudest if this will just end.

My brother-in-law just finger shot himself in the head. Good to know it's not just me. THIS PLAY IS UNENDING.

It's done! It's done!

I can totally clap and cheer as I waddle to the bathroom. It's not rude.

Oh no. The adjudicator. I forgot about him. I can hold it a few minutes more. I want to hear what he has to say about my kid.

No! Don't do reverse order! GAH.

Yes yes. They were all dark themed and dramatic.

Yes they were exceptional actors, blah blah blah.

WHO CARES ABOUT THE TECHIES! Sorry techies, I don't mean that. I just really have to pee.

Pay attention Tanis, he's talking about your kid's play now.

Oh! He liked the twins! He liked her! He really liked her.

That's it? He prattles on and on about the other plays and that's all he says about my kid's play?

Lame. Merciful gods, he's done.

Yes, yes, cheers and applause. Move kid! OLD LADY BLADDER EMERGENCY!

THERE IS NO TOILET PAPER IN THIS STALL.

I am stuck in high school hell.

I am too old for this.

I hate one act play festivals. How did I ever think this was fun?

What? That's it? No more plays for the afternoon? I can leave?

FREEDOM.

Some high school experiences are best left trapped in the boxes of your memory. Much like those poor soon-to-be cannibalized babies on stage.

Thumbs Down

2013-04-25T18:19:11Z

I'm obsessed with thumbs.

I can't stop worrying about my son's thumbs.

Especially his right one. It refuses to listen to me. It's stubborn and willful, defiant in it's rigid deformity. Every day and every morning, I take those thumbs, especially that right one and I hold it up to my lips and I kiss it.

I whisper to the air around it, trying to coax it out of it's tightly held position and beg it to just open up.

"Come on little piggy, you know you want to come to this market," I'll say. Right before stretching it wide open and holding my breath.

Did I break it?

Oh my god, I just broke my kid's thumb.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

Oh wait. No. Nope. Not broken.

Damn it. It was almost there.

STOP CLUTCHING THE THUMB.

And then the circle repeats itself. Everyday.

I wrestle those thumbs into neoprene and metal splints. I have nightmares about those thumbs.

Maybe it's not about my son's thumbs. Not really. Not any more than it is about his feet that are so rigid we can no longer get them in splints. Or hips so tight they dislocate themselves with a diaper change.

Those thumbs, those contorted disfigured little pieces of bone and tissue represent it all. More. Everything.

My inability to control his health, his future. His siblings stubborn insistence on growing older and the fact that soon, too soon, my son will be raised in a household without any big brothers or sisters around to pester or annoy. Time slips by and I can't keep up or hold on. Everything is changing. Nothing ever changes.

Those thumbs are my dreams refusing to be crowbarred into reality and yet declining to evaporate into the ether of forgotten and lost hopes.

Two little difficult digits that refuse to bend the way I want them to, the way Knox needs them to. Instead they twist and grow, following their own inclinations and desires.

I'm powerless to reverse and prevent the damage, no matter how many times I try and force them into conformity.

Those thumbs, his sweet little thumbs are him. They are his siblings. They are me.

I'm weary from worrying about the thumbs.

I need a thumb-cation.

Swiping

2013-04-22T17:52:27Z

It has been weeks since I did anything remotely resembling housework around our home. One plague-like infection after another rendered me useless for most of the past month. While the teens kept the house from falling into a state of slovenly disrepair, there were things they couldn't do.

Like grocery shop, file this year's taxes or sort through and file the mountain of paperwork I've ignored for the better part of the year all the while hoping it would just spontaneously catch fire so as I wouldn't have to deal with it.

So I spent this past weekend doing all the things I've put off for far too long.

I went grocery shopping. In the city. On a Saturday afternoon. Because I am a masochist who enjoys fighting angry coupon clippers for the last pack of discounted toilet paper and spending hours standing in unmoving grocery lines.

My kids about wept with gratitude as they hauled in grocery bag after grocery bag of food supplies.

"Ketchup! You bought us ketchup! I thought only rich people had over-processed tomato condiments! It's a miracle!"

"Bananas! We have BANANAS. I forgot bananas even existed!"

"THERE IS TOILET PAPER AND IT IS NOT THE SCRATCHY KIND!!"

Don't even ask me how they reacted when they realized I bought ice cream. Let's just say, my place as the world's greatest mother hall of fame is guaranteed for as long as the frozen treats and fresh produce last.

But I didn't just grocery shop this weekend. No. I cleaned a bathroom, attended a dance recital, folded laundry, helped Nash with his creative writing assignment, taught my daughter how to write her first cover letter so she could apply for a fancy internship thingamajig AND filed a year's worth of paperwork that had been sitting on my kitchen table, mocking me, for weeks now.

I know, I'm totally bragging. You are all awed and inspired by both my exciting life and unparalleled work ethic.

If only I had known just how truly fascinating my life would one day become. Sigh.

This weekend wasn't a complete wash, however.

While I was filing old tax returns and bank statements and medical reports, my kids wandered into my office (and by office I mean my itsy bitsy teeny tiny bedroom closet where I keep our filing cabinet, hidden beneath dusty dresses and a shiny burgundy suit my husband refuses to let me throw out) to ask me a question.

"Holy cow Mom. Enough papers!" Ken exclaimed as she saw the mess I had scattered about me as I ripped apart the filing cabinet.

"Thanks Tips. I hadn't noticed," I huffed as I tossed another stack of old receipts into the pile headed for the paper shredder.

"Wait, what is this?" Ken asked as she bent down to pick up a small rectangular piece of faded paper.

"What? Oh, that? That's an old credit card receipt."

"But why is it so odd looking?" She held it like it was contaminated and examined it as though it contained the answer to cold fusion.

"It's a swiper receipt. It's how they used to do credit cards."

"A SWIPER?"

That's when I realized she had zero idea of what I was talking about.

"Ya, back in the day retailers had to make carbon copies of receipts, and there was no such thing as automatic approvals. If you were spending over a certain amount on your credit card the cashier had to pick up a phone, dial the bank and make sure you were authorized to spend that much. Lines were long and shoppers were grumpy. It was about as much fun as getting your teeth cleaned."

"Woah. How did everyone survive like that? It's so inconvenient," she asked EARNESTLY. Like the spoiled, technologically advanced 16-year old she is.

"It's a mystery, kid."

Ken dropped the old credit card receipt and it floated to the ground, another flake of history ready to be shredded with my past.

I picked up the credit card receipt and looked at the date. 2002.

I marveled at how much and how little the world has changed in eleven short years. Sure our technology has advanced by leaps and bounds. I can only marvel at what our world will look like in another eleven years.

But as much as that has changed, there will always be parent sitting in his or her closet, trying to organize a mountain of papers while their kid reminds them how obsolete and old they've become.

Thank God she never noticed my very first cell phone I had in the trash pile, buried underneath all the papers. If she saw that old brick, she'd never stop pestering me with questions about what life was like before the wheel was invented.

Rays of Light

2013-04-19T18:55:18Z

This week has been a tough one. Not for me, not really. I'm still sick, a return of the strep infection that antibiotics didn't cure from last month, and while that hasn't been a fun way to spend the last few weeks, it hasn't been the worst.

No. The worst is reserved for all those families who are mourning the loss of their loved ones after the bombing at the Boston Marathon.

The worst is reserved for all the victims who will have to learn how to piece back their lives and process the horror they endured when suddenly their world exploded around them during a sporting event.

The worst is reserved for the residents of a small Texas town that exploded before their eyes, ending lives and shattering so many more.

I know being sick while safe in bed, surrounded by family, is a luxury many families won't have with their loved ones ever again.

It was a bad week for my friends and neigbours in America. My heart is heavy for them. I grieve for them. For you.

It's tough to find joy when your world is dark.

I won't offer any platitudes. I don't have any. I wish I did.

But I will leave you with a few of the images from the past few weeks that have brought me a modicum of joy. Because one joy really does scatter a thousand griefs. Maybe my joy will help someone find theirs.

***

It's still snowing at my house. In fact, right now, it's snowing. There are parts of my yard where I still have over five feet of snow, waiting to melt when the warm temperatures arrive. In case you haven't checked a calendar lately, it is now past the middle of April. The warm temperatures were supposed to be here WEEKS ago. I should be jumping in mud puddles by now, watching the robins play instead of SHOVELING MORE SNOW. This is not joy inspiring for me. But the green grass and lush trees I know we'll have this year (eventually) will bring me joy.

In other words, look at this picture and be grateful you aren't my immediate neighbour. Because if you were, I'd ask you to help me shovel. I AM SPREADING THE JOY!

My dog, Abbott, makes the DUMBEST faces. God love him, he brings me joy.

This is the stuffed bunny my mother gave each of my children for Easter. I have three of these bunnies, kicking around. Abbott has found all three. He carries them around, the ears dangling out of his mouth, and then he loves them to death. There is always a wet stuffed bunny under foot. It's all fun and games until someone steps on a slimy cold stuffed rabbit. Which I do. Regularly.

It's so damn joyous.

*twitch*

*Better than stepping on Lego I suppose.*

Abbott loving one of his bunnies.

I'm a sucker for a dog and his bitches. Er, bunnies. It makes me smile every time I see him loving on one of them.

Until I accidentally step on it, of course.

Knox.

This kid shoots joy out of every pore. He is the very epitome of joy.

Knox and Abbott. Fric and Frac, version 2.0.

You may not recognize it. It's quiet and serene. It's completely ordinary.

Until you see the joy in one blind deaf quadriplegic little boy finding love and acceptance in his furry best friend.

Then it becomes extraordinary.

This is magic.

I hope each of you can find your own portrait of joy, your own magic, however ordinary it may seem, through the dark clouds that are hovering in your life.