NO DEAL! NO, WAIT!

No, I don't watch that masterpiece of modern television. The adverts are enough to make me want to force myself to sit down and actually watch the show, so I could die.

Because stupid gameshows, yes, make me die.

On to more important matters in the life-bubble I call my world.

Conner-boy is progressing nicely and we're hoping he can come home by the end of the week. Eating well, breathing better, off the IV. Very, very great news, but we're pretending that he can't come home for another month so we can be thrilled when he comes home on Friday.

And he better be home by Friday. Or we'll be devastated.

Until a few moments ago, I didn't know what day this was. Everything since last Wednesday has been a distorted sleepless blur.

I really ought to get something done other than my Michael Keaton/Mr. Mom impersonation. Dishes/diapers/laundry/cleaning I'm on top of.

Cooking? You can't make me talk.

Put the alligator clips down.

We're all doing fine, much better than usual, because we're happy that there's more of us. Our plurality has increased. That we're currently split into two factions (Hospital faction vs. Home faction) is immaterial. We're all going to be fine. We'll just be happier when we're all under the same roof.

By the way, my son is a snuggle machine. He would be a foolproof interrogation device, as physical contact with him immediately saps your will to resist his snuggly cuteness. No pain, no begging for mercy, just an immediate descent into mushiness.

I'm doing all I can to make sure he doesn't fall into the wrong hands.

You have my word, Mr. President.