That's right, Buddy.

Sam's friend: "I have so many girlfriends. I have, like, twelve girlfriends."

Sam: "But, dude. That is just... wrong."

Sam's friend: "You're right. Maybe it was thirteen girlfriends..."

Sam: "No, no. You're not supposed to have twelve OR thirteen girlfriends. It's just wrong. It's mean. And bad. You're only supposed to have ON... [furtive glance at me as he realizes I'm listening] I mean, ZERO. ZERO girlfriends. None at all. We are WAY too young to even be thinking about having girlfriends."

In which we discover that I am imaginary

Steve: "Your Mommy is a doctor, Lily. Did you know that?"

Lily: "Huh? But Mommy, [turns to me] you don't see any patients."

me: "Well, no. I see students."

Lily: "So you're not a real doctor."

me: "No, I am. I'm just a doctor of philosophy, not of medicine."

Lily: "Like I said. You're not a real doctor."

Steve: "Aw. She sounds like a surgeon alREAdy!"

For an adorable iPad storybook

click here.

OMG, people. This is PROGRESS.

I just wrote a full scene. 

I haven't done that since before my surgery.

The surgery that made me stupid. And also not able to do anything.

It's been almost seven months since that *&^%$ surgery. They say the pain from the damaged nerves might go away in one to two years. Maybe never.

Have you tried to be creative when you're in pain?

And not just normal pain. Not even "OMG I broke my back!" pain.

Pain like fingers on a chalkboard times a million. Pain so intense that you didn't know there was pain like that. Pain that tears away your anchor. Rips that sacral foundation out from under you and takes away who you were. Pain that over-stresses your heart and literally almost kills you. My mom knows that kind of pain. So do I now.

But today I wrote a scene. Just a half a page. But a whole scene.

It makes me think that maybe I'll come back out of this. Maybe I won't be gone anymore. Maybe there's a teenie tiny light at the end of the tunnel.

I don't want to get my hopes up or anything.

But, people.

I wrote a scene.

And also she says that I'll miss her little hands when she's a teenager and does crazy things like ride her bike in the snow.

me: "What's this on the wall?" [point to Lily's latest artwork.]

Lily: [Shrugs.] "It's signed 'Sam.'"

me: "I know. But it's in your handwriting."

Lily: [Stares at me in a loaded silence.]

me: "Do you have anything to say?"

Lily: "My handwriting is on the fridge, too." [Pause.] "I could take you to see it." [Pause.] "It's there in the note I wrote you so you could remember what I was like when I was little. Where I put a picture of my hands." [Pause and plaintive look.] "My little, little, hands."

Sam and I, talking over the weather

[wind blows as Sam and I run (well, as well as I can run with my cane) to the car]

me: "OMG, OMG it is so cold!"

Sam: "It's, like, freezing cold."

me: "Like water-turning to ice cold."

Sam: "Like Arctic cold."

me: "Like Penguin cold."

Sam: "Mommy, it is so cold it's almost like we live in Canada."

me: "I know, right?"

Sam: "What do you think it's all [not even a dramatic pause!] aboot?"