So. My dad has decided to go ahead with chemotherapy after all.
I don't agree with this. Nobody does, actually, except for one doctor who seems to put chemo on par with prescription-strength Tylenol. Take one! You'll feel better in no time! Giddy up, let's get this systemic invasion started! My mom called me yesterday from a pharmacy parking lot just so she could finally scream and cry out loud about it. Best case is maybe a year or two of remission before the cancer comes back. Because this kind of cancer always comes back. The more likely case is that the chemo will kill him, or make him so desperately sick that the extra time will be the opposite of good time. But he's changed his mind and. He. Wants. That. Time.
Which means it's probably time for me to stop talking about it for a little bit, because even though my opinion on the matter is probably something like this...
...I shall instead post the other photos of the mini-pre-birthday party we threw for the boys last weekend like this:
There were cakes! To tenderly caress!
Festive paper fire hazards!
The realization that omg, our shirts like, totally match!
Poses to throw!
Skepticism over zucchini-bread-presented-as-birthday-cake to overcome!
(Not pictured: an entire jar of Bourbon peaches.)
As in: PRESENTSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!11!!!!ELEVENTY!
Toddlers to baffle!
And finally, a Poppy-approved costume change.