"i'm always trying to get there"

And...I'm an aunt. Coolidge was born on Monday, at 31 weeks and 4 days. He's three pounds, ten ounces and makes me feel funny on the inside. Walking away from the NICU, I turned to Light and said "well, I guess I'm not dead on the inside after all." And the idea of negotiating family and what is and isn't appropriate exhausts me, but I also want to be in this tiny, tiny person's life. Friday, I even got to reach in the isolette and touch his shoulder. I guess I'll be learning how to cope with a baby, if I'm lucky.

Tuesday, we picked up Funnyface's ashes. Wednesday, we got a card from the vet that euthanised her, with ink pawprints that they did postmortem. It feels too dramatic to say that my best friend's dead, but that's kind of how I feel.

There really isn't much going on. I feel sullen and tired and like I mostly just want to stay on my couch surrounded by small animals, and hope that all of my friends will be back when I get back to them, doing online jigsaw puzzles. I've decided to expect very little from the remainder of January, and very little from myself for the rest of January. I'll get back up on the goddamn horse in five days, for now I'm allowed all the wallowing I want. Hands and Hips and Delight and Mischief comfort me in different ways, and Delight bought me one of the most perfect presents I've ever received, and I made myself excellent oatmeal cake, though my butterscotch frosting needs a little work.

Now, to the grocery store and beyond. Or maybe just to the grocery store.