My Brothers From Other Mothers

Saturday night was spent with three guys I’ve known for over twenty years. I met them all around the same time I met Bob. One of them was his childhood friend. All of them were his frat brothers.

No matter what you think that means, I know what it’s meant to us over the years. I especially know what it’s meant to me and the kids since Bob got sick and since he died.


These blurry-faced goofballs would do anything for me and the kids; I would do anything for them. We’re family. I know I can call them no matter what (assuming nobody’s dropped their phone in the hot tub..*ahem*). I know they won’t judge me (because, OMG, we have enough dirt on each other to shut down the National Enquirer, and frankly we just don’t care). We have been through some shit together; we’ll go through more.

My brothers from other mothers. Let me show you them.

I love you guys.

(Hey, can I sleep in the Cousin-Eddie Winnebago with you guys next time? I felt kinda left out. On second thought, never mind. I don’t think I want to know what that smells like come morning. Is that why you guys had all the windows and doors on the rig open in the morning? Here I was thinking you were just enjoying the lovely sunshine and birds chirping. Dutch oven on wheels is what you’ve got there. Jeez, you guys are disgusting. Some things never change.)