The other day I got my results back from that memorable trip down needle lane. Those vampires were pretty quick getting my results back to me. My bruise hadn’t even faded yet. The numbers didn’t look too terribly bad—to me. I was normal in everything except the dreaded glucoserie department.

The good news is I will not have to repeat that test again in the near future. The bad news is my numbers were so bad that OB-GYN Kenobie called and got me an appointment with the endocrinologist herself. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Yep, looks like the diabetes strikes again.

The really bitchy part of this whole story is that for the past two months I’ve been going to a dietitian and really paying attention to what I eat. No more sugary treat binges, no matter how loudly the chocolate calls my name. No more late-night/wee-hours-of-the-morning snacks. I’ve been doing really good. (Well, except for the last week, but you know, eating out makes it harder to control everything that goes in one’s mouth, cock included.) I’ve only gained a little this month, and that’s extremely good for my fat arse.

Tomorrow I get to go see the diabetes doctor, the African I saw while pregnant with Pooplette whose name I cannot and probably never will be able to pronounce. It’s Ngyu-somethingorother. I really like him, even if at times we find it hard to understand each other’s accents. Actually when it gets really bad we switch to English. But he was really cool last time around assuring me that my baby was never in any mortal danger, that he was just there to make sure things went smoothly and to help me calm the fuck down. I know gestational diabetes isn’t the end of the world, rationally I do.

But diabetes is what killed my mom, so I still freak out a bit each time. Because it’s a nasty, nasty disease.

So I sit here trying not to get the pre-post-natal blues, and trying not to worry about all the extra crap that I’ll have to do for the next 15 or so weeks. Checking my sugar, writing down what and how much I eat, waiting half a hour, checking my sugar again, rinse, repeat something like six times a day since that’s how many meals I got to eat last go ‘round—everything got cut in half to keep me from spiking. Plus the two monkeys, the hubs, the farm, the house…

Man, I so do not need this right now.

Next week, in addition to a dental appointment and a pre-natal visit, we have to go to court for the house. All in the same morning. Lovely, isn’t it.

It’s not that I’m stressed out whether will win or not. We’re going to win. It’s just that it’s another long, drawn out process. The other party concerned can ask for a two week extension, and then after that, the expertise judiciaire can take up to six months, and finally when that’s done we can start work on the house. During any of this time, the other party can just file bankruptcy and we take all of it in the ass.

"How bad can it be?", you’re probably wondering. Well, here’s a picture of half the roof. Mosey on over to Flickr to see just what’s wrong with it.

(Please note: This is just half of the roof. This is only a tiny part of the nightmare.)

You women make my husband laugh. I can talk about all kinds of horrible child raising incidents, like Marc accidentally slinging Muppet out of his chair onto his head in a moment of anger or me letting him poison himself because I’m too damn lazy to toss out my birth-out-of-control pills or hide the booze higher than eye level. I got nothing but support, the ole “we all have bad days". But at the mere mention that I speak French to my kids and whoa! Bitch slaps from the peanut gallery. And the fact that you’ve all sort-of made Marc’s point for him (gee fucking thanks by the way), that we do need to speak more English around here (first, because his ‘poor’ English is suffering—second, for the kids), has just made his head so big that I swear I’m going to have to stick daggers in his eyes to deflate it back down to size.

Actually sticking daggers in his eyes feels more like a recreational activity than a ‘deflate his head’ one. Anyone else want to play?

Last night we went out to eat as a couple again. I know, this is the second time this month. Something is obviously wrong with us. Actually the last time we went out was the first time in I don’t know how long that we were able to get through a meal in a public place without threatening to kill each other. It was really very nice. We sat and talked and ate like human beings who have more in common than breathing oxygen. Last night was like that too, with the added bonus of holding each other’s hands at the table. And that went noticed by the owner, our neighbor, who had planned this nice Saturday evening theme meal for Valentine’s Day and there we were, in a somewhat-crowded restaurant, THE ONLY ONES holding hands. Hard to believe we’re sometimes three words from doing battle through our lawyers, but we’ll just chalk all that up to pregnancy hormones and male stupidity.

We talked last night, clearing the air a bit more than we’ve been able to do around here, and finally getting MY points driven home where maybe they’ll do some good. Marc had another class last week on communication and was doing a really good job of actually listening, hearing, AND understanding what I was saying. Of course, this is probably due to the fact that I had my mouth stuffed full of cock, but hey, if it works, right?

(And yes, I’ve been trying all day to figure out how to use that expression since we were eating coq, or, truth be told, coquelet, but having my mouth full of baby cock just seemed a bit too strange, not to mention I don’t want those people Googling that and ending up here because of it….shit, that’s probably going to happen now anyway.)

So the lines of communication have been cleared a bit, quite a bit, and DAMN! That feels so good. And then, icing on the cake, Marc took charge of the monkeys for most of the day today and they were ABSOLUTE MONSTERS! Finally! Usually when he’s got them they are the most perfect, angelic, sweet, darling babies. Today, bless their sweet darlin’ hearts, they were themselves. And as he’s done such a good job these past few days of listening, hearing, AND understanding, I took the opportunity to drive the BIG POINT HOME.

“Just a question, Marc.” (loud screaming in the background by one monkey as the other is getting into something supposedly off limits)
“What?”
“Now do you understand WHY?”
“Why?”
“Yes, WHY. Why I’m so tired at the end of the day even if I’ve done ‘nothing” in the house? Why, when you walk in the door and start complaining that I’ve done nothing, I want to kill you? Why somedays even breathing is an extra effort? WHY!?”
“Uh, yeah, I think I do.”

‘Nuff said.

Sorry, this'll only make sense to those of you who speak French

« Matthieu, n’appuie pas si fort sur ton testicule » (What he was doing looked very painful)

« Sur mon qu’est qui coule ? »

« Ton tes-ti-cule. »

« D’accord, mama. Tu as raison……. Mais qui est-ce qui coule ? »

I don’t even know what order to go in, from best moments to worst or from worst to best. It’s just been an odd day. But hell, every day here is nothing like normal, so why was I expecting anything different?

Chronological order? Why the hell not.

I had my English conversation group last night, and as I was feeling like telling the entire world, or specifically my husband, to bugger off, I stayed out afterwards and ate dinner with the sweet innocent little Scottish English Assistant who comes by to help broaden everyone’s horizons with her odd accent. (And yes, TO ME, it’s odd, therefore it IS odd. I am the ruler of the universe, remember?) By the time I got home the Hubz had managed to get everyone fed and changed and tucked into bed. I was admittedly happily surprised. It was nice to walk into a calm, quite house for once. And dinner was really good too—although I’m seriously out of practice speaking in English anymore. It’s frightening. But SEA-Girl and I ate enough ice-cream with whipped cream to soothe the pain of loosing my language.

Ice-cream, then the kids in bed—V-day was off to a good start and it wasn’t even here yet.

This morning I got up bright and early (meaning before the kids woke up) and headed out for the Vampires’ Shack in Joinville. I had to do that wonderful glucose test to find out if the gestational diabetes has struck yet or not. And since I’ve already had it twice (the diabetes, that is), OB-GYN Kenobie had me do the monster test—the one where you get 100 grams of sugar instead of 50, and they stick you every half hour for two-and-a-half hours instead of one.

I usually have beautiful veins, and every time I need to have blood taken or I go in to donate, everyone ohhs and ahhs over how wonderfully easy I am to stick. Actually my left arm is the blood-giving champion. For all vampire purposes it is absolutely gorgeous. But even my perfect blood-letting arms have their limits, and today we found them. I ended up getting stuck eight times by three different people. None of them actually hurt me, including the two times my veins told them to take their needle and stick it where the sun don’t shine, and for that I’m very happy. Still, eight times in two-and-a-half hours is a lot of needles and I’m feeling the love tonight. I have two very colorful bruises on my right arm and a wonderful rash on my left from all the tape they used to hold the cotton on after that arm decided it had been stuck enough and was just going to keep bleeding so they’d leave it the hell alone. In all honesty I actually bled for twenty minutes following the next-to-last needle and for almost forty minutes after the very last one. I’ve never done that before. I was starting to see the headlines—American dies in French countryside after Vampire attack.

So I was a lot later than I’d planned on, and when I got home! My! Husband! Had! Made! Lunch! There was HOT FOOD waiting for me when I walked in the door! AND! The baby had already eaten!!!

OK, so he’d only heated up a can of somethingorother. BUT! He’d taken the initiative and MADE! LUNCH! And it WAS! READY! WHEN! I! GOT! HOME!

Shit, I might actually have to keep him now.

Of course, he disappeared again right after that. But the kids were cooperative this afternoon and I didn’t need to turn into PsychoBitch to get through the afternoon. Pooplette took a good long nap and Muppethead snuggled with me on the couch for most of the afternoon and even let me snooze for a bit.

So I was feeling all inspired and half-way Valentiney and crap, so I made a cake (it stuck to my silicon bake-ware, grrrr!) and decided to do a thing for dinner. Fortunately the Evil MIL came looking for the kids—didn’t even have to ask as the Hubz had done that (another brownie point, canyoubelieveit?)—and I went back out into the cold and rainy night to get provisions.

I made Mr. Wunnerful a big fat filet steak—not a faux filet mind you, a REAL one. And it was so good! And the butcher was so nice to me and gave me a really nice piece of beef AND gave me the filet for the price of the entrecôte because he was almost out of filet anyway and I’d knocked down his supply enough that he could justify taking the end home to his own wife for his own V-Day dinner at whatever discount he gets for being the butcher. Who says customer service doesn’t exist in France? (oh wait, that’d be me)

On my way out of the ol’ grocery store I stopped by the florist so The Hubz could surprise me with my favorite flowers (tulips, in case any of you were wondering). When she asked me if the two bunches I’d chosen were for any special occasion, I explained how they were a surprise for me from the Manthing, and she got to giggling. Of course, instead of just ringing my purchase up and being done with me, she combined the two bunches into one huge bouquet and re-wrapped it so it’d be nice and ready to surprise me. The two men in line behind me remarked how they wished their wives were as resourceful as I was since they were out in the rain and cold five minutes before the store closed assuring they’d sleep in the real house and not in the dog house.

Of course, being pregnant and all means I don’t move as fast as I used to, so I got home later than I expected. BUT! The Hubz had baby #2 out of the bath and was getting her dressed while baby #1 was soaking and playing in the Rubbermade plastic bin thing that serves as a bathtub in our retarded version of a home. (MissChris—I’m so thinking of you right now.) While I did need to stop my dinner preparations to wash baby #1 (he wouldn’t have it any other way), the ManThing tried his best to make things go as smoothly as possible.

I’m beginning to wonder if he’s terminally ill.

Anyway, that was our Black Wednesday. No romance. No hot surprises. We’re depressing. But at least we’re talking.

It’s bad when Doc, the registered Republican who used to believe in the Republican Party and its doctrine of leaving the government out of everyday life (but who did not vote for Bush thankyaverymuch), and who loses her mind daily because she lives in France where they are so up your butt with laws about raising your kids, thinks a new law is in order. But stick with me, OK.

My new law is this: If you do not have kids and you do not want kids (note there are two clauses here, both of which must be met for the law to apply), do not buy toys for your friends’ kids. Ever! You will not make the right choice and your friends will stop being your friends. Trust me.

Marc has a pair of friends, a couple, who have absolutely no designs on ever becoming parents. Ask either of them if they should want children and they both recoil like you’ve just covered them with poisonous acid. They don’t want kids. Hell, they don’t even want a pet.

It’s not that they dislike kids. They don’t really. Both of them work in the education system, though at completely different levels. And they are both involved to some degree in our kids’ lives. This is a good thing—you know, community to raise a kid and blah, blah.

BUT, man, when they bring out the gifts I want to shoot them, the pair of them, right between the eyes (must be the Republican in me).

Everything either needs batteries, already has batteries or makes other noises without batteries. And they are HUGE. For Christmas these folks gave Piglet a snail with interchangeable shells. In the package it looks really neat! One of those “Oh, cool!” gifts that really are cool until the package gets opened and the kid falls the fuck in love with that piece of shit thing that you just want to smash into tiny pieces and toss in the recycling bin.

Must. Calm. Down.

So, snail, cool shells, one’s a simple little thing that just looks neat. The other unscrews and becomes a stand-alone stacking toy—with built in squeaky toy, oh joy! The snail is interesting, too. You push the button on its tail and it rolls off causing the baby to run/crawl after it. Cool, right? Well, it would be except it plays music. Really. LOUD!! Bad. ELEVATOR. Music. And there’s no volume control.

I’ve tried putting Band-Aids over the speaker, and that helps, but then Muppet comes along and decides the snail has been healed and then we’re back to full force crappy baby tunes. Agh!

These same folks got Muppet a remote-controlled quad with a guy on it whose head bounces like one of those praying Madonnas or Taco Bell Chihuahuas you see stuck on the dashboard of old 1970s era Cadilacs in Vegas. We haven’t put batteries in it yet because honestly, the thing scares us. Not just me. Us. Meaning Marc, a grown man, is terrified of the thing too. God only knows what kind of death and destruction we’d unleash by giving that thing the juice. For now, Muppet is content to sleep with the thing like it’s a stuffed animal—it’s not, it’s really hard plastic—and we are not going to tell him otherwise. Ever. Are we Marc?

And for Pooplette’s birthday, these guys purchased for our darling, now-calm daughter a tricycle. What harm is there in a tricycle? Well, I shouldn’t point out the obvious—that Pooplette has an older brother who also has a tricycle and who amuses himself a bit too often by running said tricycle into everything moving or stationary and then laughing hysterically. Muppet’s trike has nice rubber wheels. They roll silently over hard wood and ceramic tile, and even though this is sometimes a problem (a silent child is a dangerous child) it’s usually a blessing. Pooper’s trike has hard plastic wheels, with tread that’s hard too. Muppet took it around the table for a test-drive after he ‘helped’ put it together and fell instantly in love with the loud obnoxious noises it made.

And he has not stopped since.

And I cannot make him.

I’ve tried.

Repeatedly.

I swear, if it didn’t mean more vacuuming, I’d put carpet down. In the meantime, I think we won’t be talking to these ‘friends’ again anytime soon.

And the rest of you, should you ever want to send our monkeys gifts, please consider donating to a mental health clinic in my name instead. We’re trying the pre-paid route for when #3 arrives.

…and I’m paying for it. Why do I do this? I mean, c’mon. I’m smarter than this.

Marc is gone all day again. All Day. Like the morning he’ll be in Chalons, an hour and a half drive in one direction, and this afternoon he’ll be in Villiers-le-Sec, a good 30 minutes in the other direction. The afternoon is the annual meeting for the accounting firm—he’s on the board—and afterwards they’re having a nice buffet dinner for everyone, including the wives.

Am I going? No.

See, tonight he also has his singing thing going on, and as they’re meeting with the guy who’s going to teach them something on Sunday (another day he’ll be gone…again), he didn’t want to miss it.

And since I’m the one always stuck with finding a baby-sitter (can anyone say Uphill Battle, please), and because I’m more schnizzly than schnizzle, I said, “You know, if you’d rather go sing, then go sing.”

So Mr. Happier-than-happy took off this morning, after having stomped up and down the creaky, squeaky old wooden staircase three times and waking The Screamer two hours earlier than usual—and this after having kept me up until midnight because…I’m not really sure why he did that. He’ll do a drive by to pick up lunch (“Can you maybe make me a sandwich or something for tomorrow so I can eat something? Please.” he asks, in a voice more pitiful than pitiful), and he’ll make another pit stop for dinner.

Me, I’ve had hardly any sleep, the monkeys are wild (they haven’t slept enough either), I have an extra meal to prepare (Muppet, Tiggerette and I won’t be having sandwiches because that’s just bad parenting here), it’s bath night, I’ve got liquid fire runnin’ out my bum and a fever and I’m still knocked up. Life is grand. Oh, and I’ve got to have dinner on the table at the same time as the baths because He. Has. To. Go. Sing. Do I need to mention the battle with the older child when he leaves?

And I don’t want to complain. Really, I don’t. But the worst part of this whole day will be when he comes home. He’ll be in one of two moods: Mr. Grumpy-because-my-day-was-shit (like he can talk!) or Mr. Touchy-feely-let’s-get-it-on, which is about 180° and thousands of miles from while I am. Honestly neither of these men is really welcome in my life right now. Both of them set me on edge. The first one really needs no explanation because grumpy men are just dicks and everyone knows that. But that second guy, he really gets on my nerves because he Just Doesn’t Get IT. When I am tired, run ragged, pregnant and therefore VERY UNCOMFORTABLE ALL THE DAMN TIME, the very last thing I want to think about is sex. No, I want to curl up in a ball—or maybe not as even that’s not very comfy these days—and die, at least for a few uninterrupted hours.

Sleep and calm and peace are what I crave these days. And that means not having anyone, little or big, growing or grown, wanting or needing anything from me.

Dear Monkeys,

There are a few things you need to understand. Like Pooplette, you cannot run. You barely have walking down, so running, it's just not in the equation at the moment. Now, don't worry, you'll get there I'm sure. You surely learned to crawl before you walked, and now, well, let's just work on walking for a while, OK? You're a little young for carpet burns on your knees...and a little too young to understand why.

Muppet, go read that first paragraph. Your sister, she CANNOT run. Pushing her isn't going to make that skill come any faster. All it does it piss her off and then she SCREAMS. Do you remember those first three months after Pooplette came to live with us, those months when your Mama was a walking, ticking time bomb? That's what her screams do to me. We don't want to go back to that time.

You both manage to work together to test the limits of my sanity. As I am writing this (sitting at your papa's computer as you've both denied me undisturbed access to mine, and I can lock you both in your room, and sit here and type and pretend to be a parent), you've stripped the couch of all its cushions and are playing a toddler version of leap frog. I imagine one of you (any guess which) will start SCREAMING in a second (there's your clue), but for now it's just a lovely, peaceful, happy feeling to watch the two of you play...together...happily.

And your laughter is just the most gorgeous piece of music ever played. EVER.

I love watching you both discover new things, rediscover old things, and teach each other (and us) all about life. Although Muppet, those things you sometimes do to your sister make us wonder if you aren't waking up in the middle of the night and down loading porn. Some things you just shouldn't do, OK?

You are both really wonderful monkeys, but there are some things you both need to get the fuck over. Like if one of you wants to play with a toy, that doesn't mean the other of you has the right to rip it away. If you don't want to share, put your crap away. Yes, you too Pooplette, because you've already shown us you know how. No excuses. And no tears because you don't get your way. That's just cheating little girl. You need to learn how to play fair.

And Muppet you've got to get over this dinner table tirade with your pop. It's tearing me apart. You can be so good, and often are for me. Do the same for him. You'll both be happier people and Mama won't need all those drugs she can't have. And Pooplette, at the table, all that bread? It's for everyone. I know you could probably eat the entire baguette yourself, burp, and ask for more, but it doesn't work that way. We share the bread. And we don't throw it on the floor when we're mad. Hear that Muppet?

I need to go now as you've started practice for the World Wrestling Federation and I'm worried about my furniture. I love you both to pieces and never did I dream two little munchkins could be as awesome as the two of you.

I’m nuts. I stayed up and watched the first half of the Superbowl last night, and would probably have gone the distance if my eyelids had been any more cooperative. They weren’t, so I didn’t get to watch the Colts win. Oh, well. I can’t really say I gave a poop one way or the other about who won. I haven’t really followed football in the six years I’ve been here. I just wanted to watch for old time’s sake, to see a bunch of over-paid burly men beat the crap out of each other in the name of good clean fun.

Of course, watching the Superbowl in France is nothing at all like watching it back home. There are no commercials—probably the beast reason for sitting in front of your TV for five hours. And the pre-game show, instead of being all about the post season playoffs, the players, the coaches, &c, is more about how to play the game, why the players wear the protective gear they do, and crap like that—football for kindergartners, although I know several kids in preschool who know more about the game. Still, kudos to France 2 for their presentation.

On to the real reason you’re here…

We had our visit with OB-GYN Kenobi yesterday. My blood pressure is back down in the normal range again, although it does appear I have a bit of the way too high, way too low thing going on like I did with Muppet. I’ve got some additional blood tests to do to see if there’s anything bad going on, but I think it’s probably just fatigue. We’ll see.

Baby’s growing well. All the parts are there, they’re all in the right places and have the right shape. My placenta is in a really good spot, so it shouldn’t interfere with the Exorcism. Always good news. Of course, baby moves a lot—not a good sign if we’re hoping for a calm child—and we had to keep coming back to get all the right checks done. We did get there though.

I had a hard time sleeping, of course, because I was worried about the sex. I’m obsessed a bit, sadly. I’m honestly not too concerned about this baby. No, I’m more worried about Pooplette, our baby in the middle. First children are usually more accepting of subsequent kids, but the second child often feels she looses her place as the baby. I have been really worried about this. All I remember is those first few months of her non-stop screaming because she was pissed off about being brought into the world. It’s not an experience I want to repeat because she’s pissed off we brought someone else into the world. And she’s blossomed into such a wonderful creature lately that I don’t want to do anything to mess that up. And the first two get along so well, how can we possibly not screw that up by bringing a baby home. And how great would it be if Pooplette remains The Baby Girl of the family? And won’t it be great not to have to buy any more baby clothes?

So The Great Doctor is scanning and checking and, although it’s right there on the screen plain as day, she doesn’t want to say it until she’s absolutely sure. Finally she got the shot she wanted and said, “A priori ça va être une deuxième choupette”. A girl. Another girl.

And you know what? I don’t honestly care. I’m not sad or let down or upset. Another girl. Hell, we made it through the first one, we’ll make it through this one. And Pooplette? You know, she’s so awesome anyway, she’ll be a great big sister. And she’ll have back up when dealing with her big brother—something I could only dream of growing up.

But damn, there’s the clothes issue. Agh! So many clothes, all the wrong season! Gah!

Who? My husband, for once. Yep, he signed The Paper. What paper? The Most Important Paper I Have Ever Needed Signed.

Someone ‘splain me something. Why is it in France I can get birth control in any form and even have an early-term abortion all on my own, but if I want my fallopian tubes clamped, my husband has to sign a paper giving his consent? WTF is that all about?

And why is it considered ‘mutilation’ to prevent the baby factory from factoring any more babies into our lives? Pills don’t work for me, the implant doesn’t seem like a good choice either (considering my reaction to the patch), and an IUD is out because my cervix is pockmarked like the surface of the moon from all the tests, cone biopsies, and other crap I had back during the Year of The Cancer. Given all this, it still took me a bunch of bitching to get OB-GYN Kenobi to consider letting me ‘get sterilized’, and even that is a misnomer. No Snip-n-Tie in France! Oh, noooooooooooooooooo. Nope, here they clamp your tubes shut and be done with it…because you never know, one day you just might want another baby.

True, one day I might want another baby. But, trust me, under no condition will I want to be the one to carry that baby. If my arms start feeling so empty I feel the need to have another child, I’ll adopt. No, really. I would. And Marc? If he wants another? Easy! It’s called the “Let’s get divorced and you can knock someone else up! Oh, and I get to keep the three kids, the house, car, and all of your money for the rest of your life!” plan. It sounds frightening, but trust me, he found it much better than the ‘If you touch me again and I get pregnant, you will eat your testicles while I fry your penis” plan..

So the paper is signed and I will turn it in to the Great Doctor Sunday during my regularly scheduled visit. Wait, a Sunday? Regular visit? Yep! I rock so hard that my doctors take time out on their weekend to see me. OK, that’s not exactly true, but she’s on call this weekend so she’s seeing us on Sunday so she can sleep late Monday. She’s only human, after all.

I’ll also get to see the wee one tomorrow, along with Hubsy and the two monkeys. Hopefully she won’t object to having the entire family squashed into the tiny exam room, but I’d really like to make it clear to Muppet that I’m the one with the ‘bébé dans le ventre’ and not him. He’s got that one a bit backwards. It’s cute, but rather frightening that my son believes he’s going to be a mom…and at the age of three.

I’ll also find out if my blood pressure has calmed down any or if I’m going to have to battle that, as well as the gestational diabetes thing, all over again. I checked my sugar the other day after eating and it was around 150—not good, not at all. I really don’t do well while pregnant. It just doesn’t agree with me.

But this is The Last Time, AMEN, and so far I really feel better than either time before, so… Here’s hoping that continues, although honestly, I could do without the sore, throbbing, aching, DO NOT TOUCH ME boob thing. My God I have never had boob pain like this, ever.

I’ll have the answer tomorrow, but I’m curious now. Who thinks it’s a boy? Who thinks it’s a girl? And anyone got any name suggestions?