…is just all around me this morning. Piglet is in the baby-prison (we did let her out most of the morning) practicing being a politician. She repeats “Blah!” over and over again in several different types of voices. Sometimes she’s serious, sometimes humorous, but always she’s in total control of the conversation. Blah! indeed.

Muppet is occupying himself under the couch—or half under as his legs are technically still outside of the under the couch area. He’s chasing the cat who has already fled to the other side of the room and is laughing at him.

Marc was kind enough to let me sleep in this morning. I haven’t needed this much sleep since Muppet was en-wombed, back in the days of sleeping 18 hours a day. At least when I sleep I don’t feel nauseous. Well, not usually. In the hour I’ve been up I’ve managed to put a chicken in the oven and pass things from the chest freezer to the freezer compartment of my dream fridge that I broke down and asked Marc to bring down from the other house (along with the dishwasher) because I can’t live with a fridge the size of a large suitcase anymore (or dishes stacked to the ceiling). Oh, and I got the mail. I’ve been invited to a thing at the chateau in Joinville to celebrate 120 years of happiness between France and Korea on the 7th. Marc’s out of town that day, so if any of you are interested, please let me know. I need a date.

And Marc has gone off to sell his peas. Or at least try to. Farming is just sooooooo much work for so little money. And so much stress, and so much pain-in-the-buttness. We need to win the damn lottery so this farming gig can become a hobby or, better yet, a memory.

The expert passed again yesterday, along with the guy who screwed up all the work on our house, and I have very mixed feelings about the whole thing. I can’t go into detail because I just can’t bring myself to think about it that much. But apparently the guy says he wants to put things right. He’s got until the end of December to redo all the ceilings, the walls upstairs that are wobbly, replace all the door jambs and two very moldy doors, and fix the beams in the roof—which he claims aren’t his fault, and that he needs to check with the people who designed and built the roofing system, blah, blah (blah is just more pleasant when is comes out of Christine’s mouth). In any case, it’s looking more and more like we’ll end up bringing baby number three home here first and I cannot begin to explain how helpless and lost and without hope that feels. The depth of my hate for this house, the lack of space, and all the problems my marriage and children have had to endure because of it just puts me in a place no human should ever have to go.