Quiet Riot

If anyone has captured the noise a dark force makes when it dies, it's Brent when he vomits. It's so unnatural that when he was getting up to barf every thirty minutes from 3 until 6 the other morning, I truly thought I was having a bizarre dream. Had I known Satan was trying to exit Brent's body through his esophagus, I might have gotten up to offer a cold, wet rag for his forehead... because nothing helps Satan escape faster than something cold and wet. It says so in my medical dictionary... right next to curing hiccups and cancer.

But so... we've had a rather lame weekend with waves of nausea and, ya know... other stuff. And that sort of thing is lame on its own apart from this being Brent's 38th unbirthday. UNbirthday because he's only 9 if you count non-unbirthdays. And our being married would seem rather statutory unless you consider every year is actually three-hundred-sixty-five-and-one-quarter days long, but we only lump the 4 quarters into one day every leap year... which is Brent's actual birth date - somewhere between six hours after February 28th and six hours before March 1st.

So, join me in letting out a giant sigh at the idea of shopping for George's Aloe Vera and Pepto Max on what should be the last day of Brent's 38th year. Who can blame the sweet fellow for not wanting any birthday dinner or treats except for birthday pie!? Still, I can wish him a happy birthday and a cool head so not to throw the Wii remote through the television as frustrating as his new birthday game is to figure out. Yay for birthdays. Getting older is a riot! A real riot.