We cleaned out Emma’s summer clothes, her and I. I dragged down one of her dresser drawers, the one with shirts and pants and shorts and all the clothing she hardly wore all summer, what with all the dresses she owns. I folded and re-folded, sorted and measured. When in doubt, ask the kid herself. “Um… no,” she’d look at a dress or shirt critically, “Give that to another little girl.” And she’d laugh, laugh herself into giggles when I held up other shirt that used to be semi-favorites. “Oh, that’s too BIG!” she squealed. Didn’t bother her last year, when it was even bigger.

We packed up the summer clothes, holding on to items that might still fit her next year, some things she didn’t wear or wore once. I put them in the large plastic bucket we have just for her off-season clothes. There’s tiny things at the bottom – a couple dresses, a pair of teeny shoes, a “Baby’s First Christmas” sleeper in a newborn size. She giggles when I hold it up to her. “Oh Mommy,” I swear she rolled her eyes ever so slightly, “that won’t fit!”

No, but it did.

Later, we meet up with my mother and I tell her we went over Emma’s clothing and she needs pants, having grown all leggy this summer. “That reminds me!” says Mom, and she digs out a bag with two pairs of pants. A whole buck fifty apiece. “OH THANK YOU MAM!” Emma squeals when she sees them, flapping her hands and waving her toes in the air. “I NEEDED new red pants!”

Last night it was my turn to read her stories, and after one, we got to talking about stories, so I asked her to tell me one. Did she know The Three Bears? She did, and told it accurately. She told me the story of the three little pigs, and how the wolf said he was sorry at the end, when he tried to blow down the brick house. I was getting scared at the scary parts. “And this is a story for LITTLE KIDS?” I asked her. She giggled. The bestest was when she told me Little Red Riding Hood. Partway through, she paused to cup her mouth and stage-whisper at me, “This is the worrying part coming up. Don’t be scared!”

The maples trees across the street are turning red. One has a red branch, the other has dappled red-and-green leaves. Strawberry Guy has forsaken us. We haven’t seen him in days.

We went out to Family Day at the local-ish apple orchard. Sometimes in a writer’s life (did I just admit I was a writer, of all things?) the most perfect days happen, and all you can do is just enjoy them. Instead of writing with feeble words, I’ll share pictures instead.

Click above to see the photo set.

A whole year has passed by, and I thought it was worth noting for those new readers I have who mised it the first time, and for those wondering how Addison was doing, really.

I hate explaining what happend – not because I mind talking about it, which I don’t, but because people are usually horribly shocked when I tell them.

“Your son was in an accident? What happened?”

“Well, he was driving his bicycle see, he’s okay now … blah blah blah doesn’t matter what I say here… and then he hit a pothole and broke his neck. But he’s okay now!”

“OHMYGOD! Is he okay?!?”

And then I spend a good five minutes assuring them he is indeed okay. He’s further ahead than he was this time last year. Has a new job, pulled a twelve hour shift last night and had to get up and go in for 7am this morning. But he does it gladly. Going to college next fall, pretty much an adult.

You can start here to read about things as they happened, this time last year. Nine days in the hospital, three months with a halo frame on his head.

He has fun with his co-workers and friends if the occasion arises. “So this woman I work with came in and was all, ‘I sprained my ankle and took a couple days off, did it ever hurt,’ and I was all, ‘Reeeeeally?’ and she went, ‘Yeah, I had so much trouble getting around,’ so I said, ‘you had trouble? Getting around?’ ” His sarcasm skills have certainly sharpened. When he was out with his friends, he came back and told us how one guy was bragging about his broken leg. “Oh yeah?” he told him, “I got that beat!”

But how far has he come? Well, he has some scars on his head from where the halo went in. The two back ones are covered by hair as long as it is not too short. The pin-hole that got infected that time left a scar of about an inch by and inch and a half, but no-one can really see it. One of the pin holes on his head, the only one that didn’t get infected, went wonky after the halo came off and now when he raises his eyebrows that part on his forehead looks pinched.

His neck aches when he is tired. It also aches when the weather changes. He wanders around the house, masaging his neck, muttering, “Storm’s a-comin’ ” like an old man.

His tricep muscle on his right arm, the one that runs along the back of the upper arm, is pretty much shot. Lifting things up over his head is a problem, especially with just his right arm. But that kind of thing doesn’t come up often, and can easily be adjusted for. He hasn’t gone to physio in months, since they dropped it down to once a month. He does use weights at home and exercises the arm ocasionally, and just last night asked me for stronger weights. The biggest we have are five-pounders, and when he started, the one-pound weight was too much for that arm. With his shirt off, you can tell one upper arm is skinner than the other. He said to me last night that shoulder area is a little skinnier and weaker too. Nobody really notices.

He did yard work this summer, he helped paint the house and lug furniture, he rides his bike back and forth to his job at McDonald’s. Just like any normal almost-eighteen-year-old. I’m not allowed to worry about him any more. He figures he made it through all that okay, he can handle anything.

And he can. He’ll even let me hug him sometimes.

(oh look, Ron wrote his own perspective at atypicalhomeschool.)