Just after seven this morning, lives were changed when one was brought into this world far earlier than it ever should have.  Tiny, like a puppy whose eyes haven't even opened, this baby was only one pound, five ounces.  His mom, my friend, is doing fine, her husband is a bit overwhelmed, but also fine.  The baby, on the other hand is on complete life support, and will spend the next three months in intensive care.
I'm really glad that my friend is OK.  But I am scared for her son.  We didn't get to see him in person- neither has his mom.  But the daddy was able to take a photo with him, and said that the baby, only a few hours old squeezed his finger.
It's promising, but there is still a long road ahead of them.
On a more selfish note, MIL moved back in.  She was here when I got home on Friday.  I have some work that I need to finish over the weekend, and tried to make that clear, but sometimes things like that tends to fall on deaf ears.  Her's is a combination of actual deafness and ignoring.  She will talk, and talk, and talk about anything.  About people I don't know – therefore care nothing about, and subjects that I have no interest in.  Now, I talk a lot, so I understand the desire to communicate, but it's already getting old.  She does this thing that I cant decide if she thinks it's cute or if it is a side effect of all the drugs.  She slurs a lot of words, adds letters, drops letters, and transposes letters.  She says "srimps" instead of "shrimp" (and yes, she adds the "s" to the end regardless of how many she is referring to), and the oddest part is, she doesn't even like shrimp, so I don't know why she says it so often.  Today she said "fungons" (with a hard 'g') instead of 'funyuns' about a dozen times.  I wanted to pull a crazy mom and dump all of them down the disposal just so they would no longer be in the house for her to reference.  
This happens.  The first week back sucks.  I have forgotten what it's like to have her around.  So the first week is a series of me remembering all the things she does to drive me crazy, finding new things, and comparing them to the old ones.  Then the second week is usually more normal, and then after a bit, it gets worse until she leaves, and when a date is picked for her to go, that last little bit is torture.
And now we are talking about her selling her house.  After we move out of it.  Selling her house.  I repeat because I may not have fully absorbed the extent of what that will entail.  That means she has no place to go.  We felt that the house was her safety net, her place she could go when that miraculous day comes when she no longer needs treatment.  But really, I think that the safety net was actually ours.  

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