Punkie ...

That's what I call Ron sometimes ... when he's being a punk, a little shit, a naughty boy. His mother, Mimi, gave him that nickname and used it as short for Pumpkin. The fact of the matter is that I have a husband on my hands that doesn't want to do much of what he's supposed to do, and is attempting to do exactly as he wants to do. Like getting up from his black leather hot shot recliner and walking across the room, without steadying himself a bit. Because that's the way he did it before the accident.

When we first arrived home he was much weaker on his feet than he is today. I am seeing so much improvement that I feel he will recover quickly. But quickly in my mind and quickly in his mind are two totally different things. He has it in his head that he will be himself in 6 - 8 weeks from the accident. That will be in 2 - 4 weeks. My sensible self says 6 - 8 months. So we aren't dueling about it ... I'm patiently taking one minute, one hour, one day at a time. And he's making that very difficult.

Right now I am trying to time it so that I can get groceries and pet food before noon. He's just had his pain medication and is sound asleep ... but I can't leave. Because if he wakes up in one of his "things are just like they were before" moods he will be up and out of that recliner in a flash. And we can't afford another fall ... if you get my drift. So I'm going to track down a Punk Sitter and run my errands.

Send me patience. I need a double dose today ... but there is still a lot of love coming at you from the Prairie ...