I had my latest visit with the good lady exorcist last week. I’m happy to report that for once my blood pressure decided to behave while in her office, so I wasn’t held over for any extra tests. Good news all around this time, with the caveat of course that I continue to rest, rest, rest and try to live in as much calm as possible. (While I think the need for me to rest has finally sunk in for Marc, I’m not quite sure he understands the meaning of the world calm yet.) We were able to get down to the serious business of deciding when to harvest this weed growing in my belly. And I am happy to report that the date is June 4th—provided, of course, that all goes well and she doesn’t decide to dick with this plan the way her big sister did.

This means that I’ll get to celebrate the French version of Mother’s Day by checking myself into the hospital. Not exactly what I had planned on, but I doubt seriously my kids have much in mind, and counting on their father to guide them into a nice celebration for their mama is akin to banging one’s head against a stone wall. I think I’ll force them to take me out for a nice (early) meal before my 8 PM curfew.

The good news was followed by a nice evening out with the Hubz and some friends. I’ve been trying to get a group of these food-pretentious Frenchies to go out for Indian and it finally happened, sort of. Our group should have numbered around 11, but had withered down to five by the end of Friday. Oh well. We ate well in any case. And Indian food is just that much better when one is pregnant. Hubz was happy, too, as he had the distinguished honor of being drug out on the town by four women. He might not say much, but he does like being surrounded by the women. A lot. Especially when he sees first hand that all women really talk about is indeed sex.

Saturday was another farmer party with the Jeunes Alcooliques. It was a small intimate affair held at a gîte in the middle of nowhere and the kids were invited along. We left ours at home as they’ve spent the past week leaking their brains out of their noses and coughing up bronchial sacs. There were two kids there who are literally days younger than Christine and all I can say is “Holy shit! Pooplette is HUGE!” She’s more like the 18 month old kid who was running around making raspberries. But those little kids Pooper’s age? Man! They’re just starting to walk, they’re both tiny (well, comparatively speaking—one is actually on the large side of normal while the other is normal sized), and they move so slowly. I want one like that! Marc and I were both relieved to have left the kids at home. While it would have been nice to show off their super powers and stuff, they’d have tackled and beat up those other kids and the squealing/screeching/running/jumping/stair climbing lessons they’d have given their younger comrades would definitely put us on the black list with their parents. So we ate raclette in relative peace instead.

Now it’s Monday and the kids are back at their version of heaven on earth at the crèche, Marc’s in meetings all day and I have enough leftovers in the fridge that I don’t even have to worry about cooking. Calm? You betcha. Now I’m gunna go rest.