We have the new car.
The Welshman is here.
The Scary Baby’s mother returned my baby clothes.
Most of my laundry is clean.
Suitcase still isn’t packed.
Still no bed to sleep in.
Nutty Person coming for Sunday Lunch (and that better not change…or else).
Nothing at all on track.
Today I had my last check-up before the baby comes, on June 4th, right? Except not all is well in Baby Land. My blood sugar levels are wonky, my uterine scar from the last two c-sections is tender when poked (if it hurts when you do that, stop doing that…not the right philosophy), I’m half-way effaced, and the doctor seriously wanted to admit me TODAY because all these funky Braxton Hicks contractions, well, apparently some of them are The Real Thang.
But yesterday on the way to see The Ugliest Car Which Is Now Ours my temporary root canal filling thing fell the hell out. And while it’s kinda funky to feel the rubbery thing that’s holding whatever in there, I wasn’t too sure about leaving it that way. So I insisted that she let me go home so I could go to the dentist. I mean, I have nothing ready, my tooth has a gaping hole in it, The Welshman’s coming to dinner and I’m just NOT READY to be a mom, again. Oh, and the kid, he was sick and needed to be picked up IMMEDIATELY from the day care center
So I argued with her, insisting that I could and indeed wanted to go the distance. Pregnancy hormones, right?
Well, common sense won out in the end. Sometimes I do listen. A little. So Monday night I’ll be checking into the hospital, with my bag hopefully packed by then, with maybe a few girly things to clothe MP3 in and various other essential items like a brumisateur because who ever heard of air conditioning in this God-forsaken country. And Tuesday afternoon sometime around 2 the glamorous bundle of joy will scream her first screams. And life will change again. And oh God, I’m so not ready.
where meaningless gibberish is the norm
24 May 2007
The end of another battle…
Man, I swear, my husband and I disagree about almost everything—everything that has anything to do with money in any shape or form, and the spending thereof. He’s cheap. I’m a lot more likely to be freer with the cash for certain things. Like safety. Remember the car seat wars? What nightmares this man gives me.
You can imagine the tension around here lately as Exorcism Day fast approaches. See, we have a rather large French car. Rather large, but not large enough for three car seats and two parents, and possibly The Au Pair. Two car seats barely leaves enough space in the back seat for Marc to squeeze in his butt, and mine? Forget it. No way in hell we’d ever fit yet another baby seat back there, especially one like ours that attaches to a base and then turns to click into position. Ain’t happening. So we need a larger car.
Thus the battle began.
Did I mention Marc’s cheap?
Did I also mention he has strange tastes? (And yes, I know he married me and the strange taste thing is obvious for that fact alone, but honestly, it goes FAR beyond that.)
See, he got this idea in his head a while back that our next car should be the UGLIEST thing on the roads here. And if ugly isn’t the correct choice of word, then just say the thing is very fucking particular. Very.
And for quite a while now he’s been going on and on about this UGLY car and how practical it is and all the wonderful happy joyful things about it. It doesn’t use a lot of fuel, there’s SPACE galore, never have to worry about anyone stealing it. Seriously, would you risk jail for one of these things?
Then his sister, the one of Scary Baby fame, told him about a friend of theirs who was selling his Chrysler Voyager. His 14 year old Chrysler Voyager. His CHEAP, CHEAP 14 year old Chrysler Voyager.
And I watched the dream die.
So we had to go see it, this CHEAP car (that’s 14 years old) and try it out and think loving thoughts about it. And isn’t it a bargain! (Yes, but it’s 14 years old.) And I got really scared, because not only did I see the scary truth that I’d probably have to bundle my three precious offspring into this hideous, crumbling, cigarette-smelling, filthy, ancient beast of a car, but I realized just how attached I’d become to the idea of owning the Worlds Ugliest Vehicle Ever.
And my heart broke.
And then something totally unrelated to the car thing happened. I had a nerve flare up under one of my teeth and OH JESUS CHRIST does that hurt. So after not sleeping all night (slight exaggeration—I did sleep ‘till 1 AM), and being a ROYAL BITCH all day because of the pain, I broke down and called Mr. PainFreeDentist and got fit in Right Away (being 9 months pregnant does have its advantages).
18 pain shots and a root canal later I get a call from the CHEAP husband. Would I be interested in going to see an Ugly Car? What the hell. I mean, I’d never actually sat in one or driven one (although I did accost a lady at the super market the other day and bombard her with questions—all of which she answered favorably), so maybe this is what I needed to help resign myself to the fact that my garage, should we ever be able to live in our house, will be occupied by a Smelly, Old, Piece of Crap Chrysler. I mean, c’mon. It’s an Ugly Car, Surely it can’t be comfortable, or spacious, or fuel efficient, or any of a million other good things, right.
So we drove for an hour to go see this Ugly Thing in all it’s blue, all options but leather, low, low kilometers glory and well…
I FELL IN LOVE. Hard.
And what’s worse…
…Marc did, too. So hard, in fact, that when we got back from test driving it, he didn’t even try to negotiate the price.
I’d like to say we’ll be picking her up soon. But for now, Marc has decided that I no longer have the right to take road trips. So HE will be picking her up soon.
Hi. My name is Doc, and I own an UGLY car.
PS: Anyone interested in a Laguna?
You can imagine the tension around here lately as Exorcism Day fast approaches. See, we have a rather large French car. Rather large, but not large enough for three car seats and two parents, and possibly The Au Pair. Two car seats barely leaves enough space in the back seat for Marc to squeeze in his butt, and mine? Forget it. No way in hell we’d ever fit yet another baby seat back there, especially one like ours that attaches to a base and then turns to click into position. Ain’t happening. So we need a larger car.
Thus the battle began.
Did I mention Marc’s cheap?
Did I also mention he has strange tastes? (And yes, I know he married me and the strange taste thing is obvious for that fact alone, but honestly, it goes FAR beyond that.)
See, he got this idea in his head a while back that our next car should be the UGLIEST thing on the roads here. And if ugly isn’t the correct choice of word, then just say the thing is very fucking particular. Very.
And for quite a while now he’s been going on and on about this UGLY car and how practical it is and all the wonderful happy joyful things about it. It doesn’t use a lot of fuel, there’s SPACE galore, never have to worry about anyone stealing it. Seriously, would you risk jail for one of these things?
Then his sister, the one of Scary Baby fame, told him about a friend of theirs who was selling his Chrysler Voyager. His 14 year old Chrysler Voyager. His CHEAP, CHEAP 14 year old Chrysler Voyager.
And I watched the dream die.
So we had to go see it, this CHEAP car (that’s 14 years old) and try it out and think loving thoughts about it. And isn’t it a bargain! (Yes, but it’s 14 years old.) And I got really scared, because not only did I see the scary truth that I’d probably have to bundle my three precious offspring into this hideous, crumbling, cigarette-smelling, filthy, ancient beast of a car, but I realized just how attached I’d become to the idea of owning the Worlds Ugliest Vehicle Ever.
And my heart broke.
And then something totally unrelated to the car thing happened. I had a nerve flare up under one of my teeth and OH JESUS CHRIST does that hurt. So after not sleeping all night (slight exaggeration—I did sleep ‘till 1 AM), and being a ROYAL BITCH all day because of the pain, I broke down and called Mr. PainFreeDentist and got fit in Right Away (being 9 months pregnant does have its advantages).
18 pain shots and a root canal later I get a call from the CHEAP husband. Would I be interested in going to see an Ugly Car? What the hell. I mean, I’d never actually sat in one or driven one (although I did accost a lady at the super market the other day and bombard her with questions—all of which she answered favorably), so maybe this is what I needed to help resign myself to the fact that my garage, should we ever be able to live in our house, will be occupied by a Smelly, Old, Piece of Crap Chrysler. I mean, c’mon. It’s an Ugly Car, Surely it can’t be comfortable, or spacious, or fuel efficient, or any of a million other good things, right.
So we drove for an hour to go see this Ugly Thing in all it’s blue, all options but leather, low, low kilometers glory and well…
I FELL IN LOVE. Hard.
And what’s worse…
…Marc did, too. So hard, in fact, that when we got back from test driving it, he didn’t even try to negotiate the price.
I’d like to say we’ll be picking her up soon. But for now, Marc has decided that I no longer have the right to take road trips. So HE will be picking her up soon.
Hi. My name is Doc, and I own an UGLY car.
PS: Anyone interested in a Laguna?
23 May 2007
Guess who’s back…
…back again….Welshman’s back…tell a friend…
And enough of my Eminem impersonation. But yes, our Darling Wonderful Spectacular Welshman is back on French soil and is planning on visiting us in the near future! I’m so happy I could pop—and no, that’s not a pregnancy pun—this time.
I love this guy. Anyone whose first words on the telephone to my husband are, “So what’s it like to be ugly?” gets a high rating in my book, and whenever he’s around, the fun never stops. He never lets up on Marc. NEVER. And I. LOVE. IT.
Things like this make passing the time until the end of the eternal pregnancy so much easier. Although there is one thing that scares me. We can think back to when Mr. Welsh was here last time, and some of the things he says still make us belly-laugh. I hope that with fresh new memories I won’t laugh so much just after the exorcism. Laughing while being cut from asshole to appetite isn’t exactly my idea of comfortable.
Scary Baby came back today and brought clothes—like all of the clothes, most of which I was hoping never to see again. When I’d passed the articles on to my sister-in-law, I did so with a (short) list of the things I absolutely wanted back. The rest of it, well, I didn’t really care too much about. But she brought it all back, and then some, or at least it seems that way. There are things in there I swear I’ve never seen before. Oh well, I guess I have no excuse for not packing now.
Packing my actually be a good idea in any case, given the number of harmless contractions I’ve been having lately. I’ve had one “good” contraction and damn, I thought I was going to die there for a while. I’ve never experienced labor, not even for the first one. All of my deliveries have been scheduled ahead of time for various reasons. But one contraction like that and all those feelings of inadequacy or being less than a ‘real’ woman because I didn’t deliver naturally go right the hell out the door. And I usually have a high threshold for pain—usually. But ya’ll women folk who did this the ‘real’ way, respect sista, so glad I ain’t part of your club.
Yes, there are things going on that make me wonder if I’ll actually make it to my scheduled date. Driving makes things really bad, so that’s probably going to be out. My appetite is going away, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as once it’s on, it must come back off again, and who, really, enjoys dieting? Not I. The baby has dropped, considerably, which is nice too, since I can actually breathe now. Although walking has become…can you say ‘OUCH MOTHERFUCKER’? And there’s the eternal sensation of having to pee, even when there is nothing left to pee. And the ass-terror-roids. Endless complaints I have.
But dear God, please don’t let me go into labor. That one contraction has made me believe Carol Burnett when she said it’s like pulling your bottom lip over your head. Don’t want no parts of that shit.
Besides, I’d miss the Welshman’s visit. Oh, and Vrandi’s, too. Not cool.
And enough of my Eminem impersonation. But yes, our Darling Wonderful Spectacular Welshman is back on French soil and is planning on visiting us in the near future! I’m so happy I could pop—and no, that’s not a pregnancy pun—this time.
I love this guy. Anyone whose first words on the telephone to my husband are, “So what’s it like to be ugly?” gets a high rating in my book, and whenever he’s around, the fun never stops. He never lets up on Marc. NEVER. And I. LOVE. IT.
Things like this make passing the time until the end of the eternal pregnancy so much easier. Although there is one thing that scares me. We can think back to when Mr. Welsh was here last time, and some of the things he says still make us belly-laugh. I hope that with fresh new memories I won’t laugh so much just after the exorcism. Laughing while being cut from asshole to appetite isn’t exactly my idea of comfortable.
Scary Baby came back today and brought clothes—like all of the clothes, most of which I was hoping never to see again. When I’d passed the articles on to my sister-in-law, I did so with a (short) list of the things I absolutely wanted back. The rest of it, well, I didn’t really care too much about. But she brought it all back, and then some, or at least it seems that way. There are things in there I swear I’ve never seen before. Oh well, I guess I have no excuse for not packing now.
Packing my actually be a good idea in any case, given the number of harmless contractions I’ve been having lately. I’ve had one “good” contraction and damn, I thought I was going to die there for a while. I’ve never experienced labor, not even for the first one. All of my deliveries have been scheduled ahead of time for various reasons. But one contraction like that and all those feelings of inadequacy or being less than a ‘real’ woman because I didn’t deliver naturally go right the hell out the door. And I usually have a high threshold for pain—usually. But ya’ll women folk who did this the ‘real’ way, respect sista, so glad I ain’t part of your club.
Yes, there are things going on that make me wonder if I’ll actually make it to my scheduled date. Driving makes things really bad, so that’s probably going to be out. My appetite is going away, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as once it’s on, it must come back off again, and who, really, enjoys dieting? Not I. The baby has dropped, considerably, which is nice too, since I can actually breathe now. Although walking has become…can you say ‘OUCH MOTHERFUCKER’? And there’s the eternal sensation of having to pee, even when there is nothing left to pee. And the ass-terror-roids. Endless complaints I have.
But dear God, please don’t let me go into labor. That one contraction has made me believe Carol Burnett when she said it’s like pulling your bottom lip over your head. Don’t want no parts of that shit.
Besides, I’d miss the Welshman’s visit. Oh, and Vrandi’s, too. Not cool.
22 May 2007
I hope this is what he intended
Yesterday was a working day for The Au Pair (and not the Au Pair, there’s a distinction to be made). I took a lovely morning nap that turned me into someone other than The Bitch From Hell (another distinction). As I was waking up (I’d promised to make lunch), I heard, “Go, go, go” followed by other various repetitive phrases and I knew.
A few months before a friend’s dad left us, he graced our modest collection of books for the kids with a selection of Dick and Jane tales. The Au Pair found them and was sitting at the kitchen table sharing them with my children, my kids, who were sitting calmly around the table listening (and in some cases repeating) to all that Dick and Jane (and yes, Spot, too) were doing.
It was a magical moment for me, one I was happy leave for The Au Pair (who I think needed a few moments like that), undisturbed. And one where I got to reflect on the value of fathers.
While I know it was a gift, I consider Dick and Jane just a bit of a loan, to be passed on when the time is right. Thanks Fred. You aren’t forgotten.
A few months before a friend’s dad left us, he graced our modest collection of books for the kids with a selection of Dick and Jane tales. The Au Pair found them and was sitting at the kitchen table sharing them with my children, my kids, who were sitting calmly around the table listening (and in some cases repeating) to all that Dick and Jane (and yes, Spot, too) were doing.
It was a magical moment for me, one I was happy leave for The Au Pair (who I think needed a few moments like that), undisturbed. And one where I got to reflect on the value of fathers.
While I know it was a gift, I consider Dick and Jane just a bit of a loan, to be passed on when the time is right. Thanks Fred. You aren’t forgotten.
21 May 2007
The View From On High
Here it is, the view from where I stand. For a bit of perspective, those two little lumps are in the “D” Range. So yeah, feeling and apparently looking huge. But JOY! Only two weeks left. Or less. Though technically if it’s not today and it’s before June 4th my husband will no longer talk to me, as he really wanted a baby Taurus in the house (he’s a bit of a bull you see) and if I can’t deliver that, then I shouldn’t bother him with any emergency c-section BS.
The past few days have been a bit Zen. Finally. Everything from the Au Pair to the inability to sleep well seems to be leveling out, and about time I might add. I actually contemplated making up a bag to take to the hospital last night and pulled out the very few things we have. Of course, we still need to do some shopping. Baby 3 can’t very well go into Baby 2’s clothes as baby 2 was born in January and it be a bit too hot now. And Baby 1’s clothes, while of the correct seasonal persuasion, are a bit masculine and, oddly, still a bit absent—they’re off at the Scary Baby’s house, but are, I’m told, all ready to be returned.
And sadly I’ve never been able to make it out west to pick up the delightful free bed so lovingly and kindly offered by a fellow blogger—who also offered to feed me. Boohoohoo. So we don’t even have a place to put the little bundle once she gets here. I personally vote for having Marc stand all night and rock her, but with the harvest coming up and other things on the farm that need to be done, this probably isn’t the best option. Although I would love to see it—a sort of pay-back for the horrible crap he pulled when Piglette came home.
I’ll just add as a side note that that horrible experience will not be repeated, harvest or no.
So here I sit, two weeks from the exorcism, two weeks from beginning yet another adventure in child rearing, two weeks away from finding out if the Muppet and Piglette have enough room in their hearts to let in the baby they’ve both been talking about so much lately. The anxiety of the whole thing is starting to take its toll on me and probably accounts for as much of my inability to sleep as say the multiple bathroom trips and the impossibility of finding a position to sleep in.
But it's almost over!
18 May 2007
Oddness
The MP3 has flipped back around so she's facing towards the front again. I cannot begin to tell you what a relief that is. Oh Dear Lord! Not only did it bother me that I couldn't really feel her moving like before--towards the back things were cushioned--but is so nice to not feel like my internal organs, especially my kidneys, were about to explode. So now I can see, and share, all those fun movements, which are actually a bit fun now, considering I now know what the alternative feels like.
With Muppet and Piglet I was always joking about my cravings. With Muppet I especially wanted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and dear old Vivi, who didn't live in France at the time but who just happened to schedule a visit long about my delivery date, was SO KIND to bring me a bag or two. Unfortunately I left most of them in the fridge and He Who Shall Remain Nameless (because the name I'd give him at this point would be rather rude) found them. He later told me that the cookies were good. Cookies? Dude, your definition of cookies needs a bit of work.
So I ended up sharing the one thing I was craving most, albeit against my will. Bloody eternal hospital stays in France. Grr!
So cravings I did have, though never of the ice cream and pickle variety. Until now. Tonight, at this very moment, all I want in this world is some Bojangles fried chicken and a bowl of Bryer's strawberry ice cream. Together. On the same plate. With a side of Y's shrimp egg rolls.
I'm afraid.
Because this just seems too weird to me. Strawberry ice cream and Cajun fried chicken? Gross.
So yeah, feeling a bit weird, thinking maybe my sanity has flown the coop (acknowledging here that yes, that probably happened a long, long time ago, but leave me my delusions, OK--I am grave with child after all.)
He Who Shall Remain Nameless probably prefers that I get a craving flung on me like I did when I was 6 months gone with Muppet and turned into a total Nymphomaniac, but alas, he has to suffer, too. Life's a total BEYOTCH.
With Muppet and Piglet I was always joking about my cravings. With Muppet I especially wanted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and dear old Vivi, who didn't live in France at the time but who just happened to schedule a visit long about my delivery date, was SO KIND to bring me a bag or two. Unfortunately I left most of them in the fridge and He Who Shall Remain Nameless (because the name I'd give him at this point would be rather rude) found them. He later told me that the cookies were good. Cookies? Dude, your definition of cookies needs a bit of work.
So I ended up sharing the one thing I was craving most, albeit against my will. Bloody eternal hospital stays in France. Grr!
So cravings I did have, though never of the ice cream and pickle variety. Until now. Tonight, at this very moment, all I want in this world is some Bojangles fried chicken and a bowl of Bryer's strawberry ice cream. Together. On the same plate. With a side of Y's shrimp egg rolls.
I'm afraid.
Because this just seems too weird to me. Strawberry ice cream and Cajun fried chicken? Gross.
So yeah, feeling a bit weird, thinking maybe my sanity has flown the coop (acknowledging here that yes, that probably happened a long, long time ago, but leave me my delusions, OK--I am grave with child after all.)
He Who Shall Remain Nameless probably prefers that I get a craving flung on me like I did when I was 6 months gone with Muppet and turned into a total Nymphomaniac, but alas, he has to suffer, too. Life's a total BEYOTCH.
14 May 2007
Nutters, every dang one of ’Em
Man, do not ever have a birthday party for Vivi and say, “Hey, invite who you want” unless you are willing to pay the consequences. Trust me on this. Because it will hurt you. Granted it’s a good kind of pain, but Oh Lawdy!
Antipo was the first of the Nutters to show up, with the two magical kiddies in tow, one of whom (Kevin) had made us a cake, the other of whom (Pauline) was later viciously attacked by Vivi’s softball and my arnica spray—bless her heart. Now, I have to proclaim it to the world, Kevin is a mighty fine cook. We tucked his cake away for breakfast Sunday morning, and let’s just say it got slaughtered. It was yummy. And I mean three slices yummy. And yes Kevin dear, I’ll be sending your mummy the bill from the hospital trip for my diabetic coma.
Vivi and her gang of Parisian Expat Gangsta Girlfriends showed up shortly after and the hilarity didn’t stop for the rest of the weekend. Katia and Kylie Mac, Vivi, Antipo and I kicked all the Frenchies out of the house and laughed good deep belly laughs for the next what? 24 hours or so.
And I finally learned to let go of most things and relax. Usually during one of this shin-digs I have to be on top of everything, from positioning the platters in just the right way to controlling the cooking of the meat. This time: I. Let. Go. And it was fine. And I had a great time and actually got to talk to the people there (a first) and enjoy myself.
Of course, I was still dead at the end of the night, and I mean DEAD. Being pregnant is a good excuse, but I think the four days of preparation and cooking and all the other fun stuff caught up to me finally.
Sunday morning was full of more of the same, although we had the added benefit of the taping of The Podcast in my living/dining/guest bed-room. Lemme just say that my 15€ investment paid off well. (IKEA!!!I heart thee.) The casting about of pods is also a great way of getting out of doing any work, as by the time we were done lunch (leftovers) was ready and all we had to do was meander across the street and eat. Hurt me.
After the nine hours of kisses and good-byes and all, we took one look at all that was left and sighed a big “ah, fuck it” and went and took a nap. The Better Than Your Au Pair eventually did get up and clean everything. I would have helped but I was in Serious Pain.
Yep, baby MP3 (closest hint you’ll get as to her name) dropped last week and apparently has turned so she’s facing out my back. All her lovely kicks and stuff are going right into my kidneys. So in addition to the added fun of having all the weight of another probable nine-pounder sitting on my pelvis, I have the fun sensation of having gone 12 rounds with George Foreman.
Life is indeed grand!
But having said that, I did manage to sleep from 10 o’clock last night until 7:30 this morning without interruption. No Pee Call, no freaked out Muppet running into the room at 4 AM screaming that there are snakes in his bed (that was honestly the funniest thing the kid has ever done so we’ll let it pass), no Pooplette letting off steam in the wee hours either. Just good solid sleep.
And I feel a lot better. I just got to stop fighting with George because he’s kicking my ass. And as all good things are addictive, I think I’ll probably run back to bed here soon for another count and just let the ref keep going after ten. Sleep, it’s what’s for dinner!
Antipo was the first of the Nutters to show up, with the two magical kiddies in tow, one of whom (Kevin) had made us a cake, the other of whom (Pauline) was later viciously attacked by Vivi’s softball and my arnica spray—bless her heart. Now, I have to proclaim it to the world, Kevin is a mighty fine cook. We tucked his cake away for breakfast Sunday morning, and let’s just say it got slaughtered. It was yummy. And I mean three slices yummy. And yes Kevin dear, I’ll be sending your mummy the bill from the hospital trip for my diabetic coma.
Vivi and her gang of Parisian Expat Gangsta Girlfriends showed up shortly after and the hilarity didn’t stop for the rest of the weekend. Katia and Kylie Mac, Vivi, Antipo and I kicked all the Frenchies out of the house and laughed good deep belly laughs for the next what? 24 hours or so.
And I finally learned to let go of most things and relax. Usually during one of this shin-digs I have to be on top of everything, from positioning the platters in just the right way to controlling the cooking of the meat. This time: I. Let. Go. And it was fine. And I had a great time and actually got to talk to the people there (a first) and enjoy myself.
Of course, I was still dead at the end of the night, and I mean DEAD. Being pregnant is a good excuse, but I think the four days of preparation and cooking and all the other fun stuff caught up to me finally.
Sunday morning was full of more of the same, although we had the added benefit of the taping of The Podcast in my living/dining/guest bed-room. Lemme just say that my 15€ investment paid off well. (IKEA!!!I heart thee.) The casting about of pods is also a great way of getting out of doing any work, as by the time we were done lunch (leftovers) was ready and all we had to do was meander across the street and eat. Hurt me.
After the nine hours of kisses and good-byes and all, we took one look at all that was left and sighed a big “ah, fuck it” and went and took a nap. The Better Than Your Au Pair eventually did get up and clean everything. I would have helped but I was in Serious Pain.
Yep, baby MP3 (closest hint you’ll get as to her name) dropped last week and apparently has turned so she’s facing out my back. All her lovely kicks and stuff are going right into my kidneys. So in addition to the added fun of having all the weight of another probable nine-pounder sitting on my pelvis, I have the fun sensation of having gone 12 rounds with George Foreman.
Life is indeed grand!
But having said that, I did manage to sleep from 10 o’clock last night until 7:30 this morning without interruption. No Pee Call, no freaked out Muppet running into the room at 4 AM screaming that there are snakes in his bed (that was honestly the funniest thing the kid has ever done so we’ll let it pass), no Pooplette letting off steam in the wee hours either. Just good solid sleep.
And I feel a lot better. I just got to stop fighting with George because he’s kicking my ass. And as all good things are addictive, I think I’ll probably run back to bed here soon for another count and just let the ref keep going after ten. Sleep, it’s what’s for dinner!
11 May 2007
SAD
Every so often I check on this CNN page to see if any of my old comrades have fallen. It used to take me all of five minutes to scroll through the list looking for the small group of names I hope never to read. Now it takes five minutes to get through ONE PAGE of names.
So far I've been lucky. Too many others can't say the same.
So far I've been lucky. Too many others can't say the same.
08 May 2007
We have a winner!
And no, sadly, I’m not jumping on the post-election bandwagon. If you want my views on that, well, just let me plagiarize my dear Nicole as she said exactly what I felt—just change URSSAF to MSA (because we be farmers over here—and scarily the MSA is worse so be afraid) and bingo—my thoughts exactly.
No, I’m talking about a NAME! We have a NAME for the wee bit of growth growing in my ever-expanding-probably-never-will-see-its-original-shape-again belly. Aren’t you shocked?! I am. And what’s even more shocking (to me) is that Marc found it! And I LIKED it! Oh, God, am I destined to agree with this man now? (shudder)
It was totally random. He picked the phone book up and poof! There it was staring at him. So he thought on it for a while and then came and asked me what I thought of it. I wasn’t sure at first, because, c’mon, Marc suggested it. But it took a short time and wow, it just fit—fit our criteria, fit what the baby feels like.
So unlike Pooplette who is named for her god-momma, god-father’s wifey-thing, Marc’s cousin, my dearly departed friend, and a myriad of other people who were just blessed enough to have the same name and who both Marc and I adore, and unlike Muppet who’s name actually means something (to me at least because I’m weird like that), this baby has a totally random name, plucked from the universe just like that—which I think is fitting, since this baby was one of those totally random things plucked from the universe just like that.
And no, I’m not telling. My husband would be very unhappy with me if I were to do so—that whole French spooky-creepy don’t mention she’s pregnant until the baby’s here kind of thing—which he’d deny, but what other possible reason could he have, right? Besides, it kind of grabs you, doesn’t it, this great big mystery name, and makes you want to come back for more, right? Huh? So, come back in four weeks, because hell, that’s all I’ve got left, and hopefully Mr. Wonderful will be computer literate enough to figure out how to post a birth announcement (with actual information this time).
Other fun stuff going on: Pooplette is trying to kill me. I know I’ve had this same line since she was born, but damn, it’s beginning to become very true. After the latest round with the new antibiotic she popped out in a rash. At first it was just a bunch of tiny red dots but now, oh no, nothing so pretty. She is covered from head to toe with these HUGE BLOTCHES of red skin. And while they don’t seem to bother her, she looks rather pitiful. So we’ve been back to the doctor, who agrees with me in that it’s probably just a reaction to the antibiotic (it’s one that I’m allergic to, as well), but who refuses, given the weeks upon weeks of illness the child has suffered patiently through (she’s been patient; me, less so), to rule out a possible viral illness. LOVELY. So on top of all the shopping, cooking, baking, cleaning and other fun fun fun activities I have to supervise and occasionally participate in this week in preparation for the PARTAY, I now have to worry about having the screaming demon around because she’s been kicked out of daycare until the doctor says she can come back—which she won’t do until the allergy meds have had time to kick in, in three days or so…. Do these people never entertain?
Pooplette got her first baby doll yesterday, and no I’m really not trying to reinforce gender-specific roles or anything. It’s just that I’ve read in more than one place that having a baby of her own may help her adapt to having a baby sister—because I’m freaked out that she’ll feel lost and stuff when N° 3 comes home. Of course, she’s always so determined to get her own way whenever the mood strikes her (often) that there’s no possible way to forget about her or even push her off to the side…but I still worry. So she has a baby now, and Jeezus, you’d think I’d have given her the moon! She’s in love. She cuddles it, loves it up, kisses it and sticks her finger in its eye. It’s really reassured me, well, all except the finger in the eye stuff, but live and learn, right? Even Muppet is really tender to Pooplette’s baby. And she says “baby”, too. In English! Not bébé, noooooooooooooooooo! BAY BEE!! Rock on little Piglette girl.
Wheww. 8 AM on a public holiday and I have to get crackin’! We’re invited over to a friend’s house for a big cook-in orgy type thing where everyone brings their own raw materials and then we cook for each other, and after that we lay around in fat-happiness and moan with pleasure—at least that’s my plan. And I’m doing twice-baked taters, so I think I’ll bake ‘em before going over…because who, really, wants to wait that long?
No, I’m talking about a NAME! We have a NAME for the wee bit of growth growing in my ever-expanding-probably-never-will-see-its-original-shape-again belly. Aren’t you shocked?! I am. And what’s even more shocking (to me) is that Marc found it! And I LIKED it! Oh, God, am I destined to agree with this man now? (shudder)
It was totally random. He picked the phone book up and poof! There it was staring at him. So he thought on it for a while and then came and asked me what I thought of it. I wasn’t sure at first, because, c’mon, Marc suggested it. But it took a short time and wow, it just fit—fit our criteria, fit what the baby feels like.
So unlike Pooplette who is named for her god-momma, god-father’s wifey-thing, Marc’s cousin, my dearly departed friend, and a myriad of other people who were just blessed enough to have the same name and who both Marc and I adore, and unlike Muppet who’s name actually means something (to me at least because I’m weird like that), this baby has a totally random name, plucked from the universe just like that—which I think is fitting, since this baby was one of those totally random things plucked from the universe just like that.
And no, I’m not telling. My husband would be very unhappy with me if I were to do so—that whole French spooky-creepy don’t mention she’s pregnant until the baby’s here kind of thing—which he’d deny, but what other possible reason could he have, right? Besides, it kind of grabs you, doesn’t it, this great big mystery name, and makes you want to come back for more, right? Huh? So, come back in four weeks, because hell, that’s all I’ve got left, and hopefully Mr. Wonderful will be computer literate enough to figure out how to post a birth announcement (with actual information this time).
Other fun stuff going on: Pooplette is trying to kill me. I know I’ve had this same line since she was born, but damn, it’s beginning to become very true. After the latest round with the new antibiotic she popped out in a rash. At first it was just a bunch of tiny red dots but now, oh no, nothing so pretty. She is covered from head to toe with these HUGE BLOTCHES of red skin. And while they don’t seem to bother her, she looks rather pitiful. So we’ve been back to the doctor, who agrees with me in that it’s probably just a reaction to the antibiotic (it’s one that I’m allergic to, as well), but who refuses, given the weeks upon weeks of illness the child has suffered patiently through (she’s been patient; me, less so), to rule out a possible viral illness. LOVELY. So on top of all the shopping, cooking, baking, cleaning and other fun fun fun activities I have to supervise and occasionally participate in this week in preparation for the PARTAY, I now have to worry about having the screaming demon around because she’s been kicked out of daycare until the doctor says she can come back—which she won’t do until the allergy meds have had time to kick in, in three days or so…. Do these people never entertain?
Pooplette got her first baby doll yesterday, and no I’m really not trying to reinforce gender-specific roles or anything. It’s just that I’ve read in more than one place that having a baby of her own may help her adapt to having a baby sister—because I’m freaked out that she’ll feel lost and stuff when N° 3 comes home. Of course, she’s always so determined to get her own way whenever the mood strikes her (often) that there’s no possible way to forget about her or even push her off to the side…but I still worry. So she has a baby now, and Jeezus, you’d think I’d have given her the moon! She’s in love. She cuddles it, loves it up, kisses it and sticks her finger in its eye. It’s really reassured me, well, all except the finger in the eye stuff, but live and learn, right? Even Muppet is really tender to Pooplette’s baby. And she says “baby”, too. In English! Not bébé, noooooooooooooooooo! BAY BEE!! Rock on little Piglette girl.
Wheww. 8 AM on a public holiday and I have to get crackin’! We’re invited over to a friend’s house for a big cook-in orgy type thing where everyone brings their own raw materials and then we cook for each other, and after that we lay around in fat-happiness and moan with pleasure—at least that’s my plan. And I’m doing twice-baked taters, so I think I’ll bake ‘em before going over…because who, really, wants to wait that long?
04 May 2007
T-1
One month left. One Month Left. I am really looking forward to being able to touch my toes without cutting off access to one vital organ or other, to not having super-uber-swollen feet. Oh man, to wear ‘real’ shoes again! Who’d have that you’d hear that from me, the one known for going barefoot in January! Ha!
One Month Left, and a busy month at that. The Au Pair, while still concocting wonderful things in the kitchen (since my last post she’s spoiled us with a chocolate malted cake and a peanut butter cake, both of which have made the cut—read on), is getting better and better with the kids. Muppet still tries to walk all over her, but she’s getting better at keeping him in line. And Pooplette worships her…most of the time. Actually Pooplette has gotten very strange lately. One can often find the Papa’s girl trying to cuddle with her mama of all people.
And yes, she’s been sick. All of us have, actually, but she’s taken the record for trips to the doctor this week. Since the kids have been going to the crèche, they’ve been slowly trading germs with all the other monkeys running around with them. It’s normal, and I’m not really overly concerned about it. But this means we’ve all been sick to some degree for the past six weeks, and lately it’s been a lot more than we can bear. Both kids are on antibiotics, as am I. The doctor seems to think that there’s a bit more than a lot of different viruses running around inside of us. Muppet, after the first dose of antibiotic, promptly fell asleep and continued to sleep for the next fifteen hours. The child who woke up was a lot happier than the one who fell asleep, and if you can forgive the eternally runny nose, he seems almost back to normal. Pooplette on the other hand woke up yesterday with a mid-grade fever. We treated it like we normally would—she’s teething after all, and the odd fever goes with the territory. But this morning she woke up and the thermometer hit 39.5°C—103.1°F—so we went back to the doctor. Her whateveritisthat’sinfected is trying to push itself into an ear infection, something I have no experience with as a mother, and from what I understand, I want to keep it that way. So she’s had a change of antibiotics and a few additional drugs added to her list of fun things to pump your kids up on and we’re hoping for improvement. Of course the new antibiotic carries a risk of dyin-in-the-rear, so we’re looking forward to fun times indeed. And me? Well, I’m still stopped up but at least the yucky smelly infection part seems to be cleared up. I’m just all snotty still, and hating that, because who can think clearly with this many hormones and this much snot running around in her body? Not I.
And of course, the head isn’t the only part of my body stuffed up. I’ve had to take magnesium for those wonderful leg/foot cramps that go along with pregnancy—something that recently popped up on me because, let’s face it, I had nothing else to complain about. So we all know what magnesium does to one’s system, right? Basically I’ve been pooping out adobe bricks, HUGE adobe bricks, which means that the ass-terror-roids are back. Yes, my colon feels like it’s hanging around my knees. I know I have never had the pleasure of even the beginning of a twinge of labor pains, but honestly, can they be much worse than this? Can they? Because all you natural child-birthing muthas out there, HOLY SHIT THIS HURTS! Any why is it that everything is attached to one’s anus? I can’t cough that my bunghole doesn’t feel it. Hell, even typing makes it tickle a little. Who designed the human body? I want to complain. This just is not fair.
So yeah, huge month coming up. We’re having a big Birthday Partay an the 12th with a buncha people coming and a lot of ‘em staying and all of ‘em eating, so there’s that to look forward to—all that work, woohoo. (And no I am not complaining because I wouldn’t have it any other way—I thrive on shit like this.) So in the meantime the Au Pair is spoiling us with cakes, trying to narrow the recipes down to just three or four to make for all the glorious people. And I have to say, as gorgeous and as yummy as it was, the one pictured before just didn’t make the cut. Au Pair is getting better and better at pushing my gestational diabetes closer to a permanent state. Beyotch.
And we still have no name for the spawn. No, not true. We both have names, just not the same one. Marc wants one thing, and I another and I’ll be damned if I give in. See, his chosen name is French—very French—like French to the point that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that my family will ever get it right. And I’m just not down with that, nope, not at all. The couple I have picked out can go either way. One is actually very French, too, but well enough known Stateside that there’ll be no problem with it. The other is very classic, and not really country-specific. And I’m not really stuck on either of them. If some other name fell into our laps I’d be willing to gobble it up, but for now we’re at a stalemate. And it’s bothering me because I hardly feel any bond at all with this monkey and she’ll be here in One Month. I’m odd about that—she has no name so it’s hard to give her any real identity. I know, I’m a horrible mother. Horrible horrible horrible, and yes, I’m planning for therapy for my kids already.
So, big party, name search, what else? Oh, yeah. The continuing nightmare. Yesterday we started the judicial expertise on the house. Our lawyer, the expert appointed by the courts, the expert who did the report for the insurance company, and Marc and I all gathered at the house, where the sub-contractor, of course, didn’t bother going. But we did what needed to be done, or at least we started. The court appointed expert actually wants to come back another day to finish things up because, yes, there’s that much wrong with the house. Just the balcony posed an hour long problem—what to do to fix it, and how to do it so that the sub doesn’t freak out and file bankruptcy. At least that part got real simple today. See, we got a letter form the liquidation firm that handled the bankruptcy for the builder, and guess what?! The sub has now filed too! So instead of trying to be nice with the report, the gloves are off and the expert will probably recommend either tearing down the balcony and starting over or something else equally drastic and costly. We know already that we won’t see much money right away, and that’s a nightmare in and of itself because we will eventually have to figure out a way to finance all the work that has to be done on the house. But because the builder and the sub both lied about their insurance in our contracts, as well as a few other choice fraudulent tidbits, we’re filing a civil and penal suit as soon as the lawyer has the forms ready. What this basically means is that wherever they go, whatever they do, if they get a euro in their pocket, we get to take it away, FOREVER, until the money they owe us is paid. It’s a long term investment to be sure, and one that we’ll have to be very patient about if it is ever to bear fruit (and knowing that the sub may just pack it in and head back to Turkey has not escaped us), but I’m hungry for blood right about now.
In the meantime, send checks and cash to us at the above address. Because honestly, we have no idea how we’re going to pull off the fix it part. The roof has to be redone, the balcony has to be redone, the inside walls and ceilings all have to be ripped out and redone. And we’re looking at around 60K€, a sum we can’t even contemplate at this point because our budget is stretched to its absolute limit.
Maybe we should auction off the un-named baby?
I’m still working on my emotional purge post where I spill forth all my emotions about being a mom for the third and final time and how that’s affecting my life and why it’s odd and stuff like that. It’s actually a bit stupid at this point, and because I have this odd notion that some of you think of me as more than the shallow piece of crap human being that I am, I’d like for it to be something worth reading. So I’m working on that, and working on eating all these yummy cakes my Au Pair is baking us, and working on getting our home (reconciled with that word for now I am, believe it or not) organized (going fairly well at this point) and ready (bwahaha) for the third monkey. And I’m trying to keep busy, and calm, and believe it or not, aside from the expatriated part of my intestines that make me want to cry nonstop, I feel pretty damn good—rested, calm(er than usual), and almost happy.
The sky must be falling…
One Month Left, and a busy month at that. The Au Pair, while still concocting wonderful things in the kitchen (since my last post she’s spoiled us with a chocolate malted cake and a peanut butter cake, both of which have made the cut—read on), is getting better and better with the kids. Muppet still tries to walk all over her, but she’s getting better at keeping him in line. And Pooplette worships her…most of the time. Actually Pooplette has gotten very strange lately. One can often find the Papa’s girl trying to cuddle with her mama of all people.
And yes, she’s been sick. All of us have, actually, but she’s taken the record for trips to the doctor this week. Since the kids have been going to the crèche, they’ve been slowly trading germs with all the other monkeys running around with them. It’s normal, and I’m not really overly concerned about it. But this means we’ve all been sick to some degree for the past six weeks, and lately it’s been a lot more than we can bear. Both kids are on antibiotics, as am I. The doctor seems to think that there’s a bit more than a lot of different viruses running around inside of us. Muppet, after the first dose of antibiotic, promptly fell asleep and continued to sleep for the next fifteen hours. The child who woke up was a lot happier than the one who fell asleep, and if you can forgive the eternally runny nose, he seems almost back to normal. Pooplette on the other hand woke up yesterday with a mid-grade fever. We treated it like we normally would—she’s teething after all, and the odd fever goes with the territory. But this morning she woke up and the thermometer hit 39.5°C—103.1°F—so we went back to the doctor. Her whateveritisthat’sinfected is trying to push itself into an ear infection, something I have no experience with as a mother, and from what I understand, I want to keep it that way. So she’s had a change of antibiotics and a few additional drugs added to her list of fun things to pump your kids up on and we’re hoping for improvement. Of course the new antibiotic carries a risk of dyin-in-the-rear, so we’re looking forward to fun times indeed. And me? Well, I’m still stopped up but at least the yucky smelly infection part seems to be cleared up. I’m just all snotty still, and hating that, because who can think clearly with this many hormones and this much snot running around in her body? Not I.
And of course, the head isn’t the only part of my body stuffed up. I’ve had to take magnesium for those wonderful leg/foot cramps that go along with pregnancy—something that recently popped up on me because, let’s face it, I had nothing else to complain about. So we all know what magnesium does to one’s system, right? Basically I’ve been pooping out adobe bricks, HUGE adobe bricks, which means that the ass-terror-roids are back. Yes, my colon feels like it’s hanging around my knees. I know I have never had the pleasure of even the beginning of a twinge of labor pains, but honestly, can they be much worse than this? Can they? Because all you natural child-birthing muthas out there, HOLY SHIT THIS HURTS! Any why is it that everything is attached to one’s anus? I can’t cough that my bunghole doesn’t feel it. Hell, even typing makes it tickle a little. Who designed the human body? I want to complain. This just is not fair.
So yeah, huge month coming up. We’re having a big Birthday Partay an the 12th with a buncha people coming and a lot of ‘em staying and all of ‘em eating, so there’s that to look forward to—all that work, woohoo. (And no I am not complaining because I wouldn’t have it any other way—I thrive on shit like this.) So in the meantime the Au Pair is spoiling us with cakes, trying to narrow the recipes down to just three or four to make for all the glorious people. And I have to say, as gorgeous and as yummy as it was, the one pictured before just didn’t make the cut. Au Pair is getting better and better at pushing my gestational diabetes closer to a permanent state. Beyotch.
And we still have no name for the spawn. No, not true. We both have names, just not the same one. Marc wants one thing, and I another and I’ll be damned if I give in. See, his chosen name is French—very French—like French to the point that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that my family will ever get it right. And I’m just not down with that, nope, not at all. The couple I have picked out can go either way. One is actually very French, too, but well enough known Stateside that there’ll be no problem with it. The other is very classic, and not really country-specific. And I’m not really stuck on either of them. If some other name fell into our laps I’d be willing to gobble it up, but for now we’re at a stalemate. And it’s bothering me because I hardly feel any bond at all with this monkey and she’ll be here in One Month. I’m odd about that—she has no name so it’s hard to give her any real identity. I know, I’m a horrible mother. Horrible horrible horrible, and yes, I’m planning for therapy for my kids already.
So, big party, name search, what else? Oh, yeah. The continuing nightmare. Yesterday we started the judicial expertise on the house. Our lawyer, the expert appointed by the courts, the expert who did the report for the insurance company, and Marc and I all gathered at the house, where the sub-contractor, of course, didn’t bother going. But we did what needed to be done, or at least we started. The court appointed expert actually wants to come back another day to finish things up because, yes, there’s that much wrong with the house. Just the balcony posed an hour long problem—what to do to fix it, and how to do it so that the sub doesn’t freak out and file bankruptcy. At least that part got real simple today. See, we got a letter form the liquidation firm that handled the bankruptcy for the builder, and guess what?! The sub has now filed too! So instead of trying to be nice with the report, the gloves are off and the expert will probably recommend either tearing down the balcony and starting over or something else equally drastic and costly. We know already that we won’t see much money right away, and that’s a nightmare in and of itself because we will eventually have to figure out a way to finance all the work that has to be done on the house. But because the builder and the sub both lied about their insurance in our contracts, as well as a few other choice fraudulent tidbits, we’re filing a civil and penal suit as soon as the lawyer has the forms ready. What this basically means is that wherever they go, whatever they do, if they get a euro in their pocket, we get to take it away, FOREVER, until the money they owe us is paid. It’s a long term investment to be sure, and one that we’ll have to be very patient about if it is ever to bear fruit (and knowing that the sub may just pack it in and head back to Turkey has not escaped us), but I’m hungry for blood right about now.
In the meantime, send checks and cash to us at the above address. Because honestly, we have no idea how we’re going to pull off the fix it part. The roof has to be redone, the balcony has to be redone, the inside walls and ceilings all have to be ripped out and redone. And we’re looking at around 60K€, a sum we can’t even contemplate at this point because our budget is stretched to its absolute limit.
Maybe we should auction off the un-named baby?
I’m still working on my emotional purge post where I spill forth all my emotions about being a mom for the third and final time and how that’s affecting my life and why it’s odd and stuff like that. It’s actually a bit stupid at this point, and because I have this odd notion that some of you think of me as more than the shallow piece of crap human being that I am, I’d like for it to be something worth reading. So I’m working on that, and working on eating all these yummy cakes my Au Pair is baking us, and working on getting our home (reconciled with that word for now I am, believe it or not) organized (going fairly well at this point) and ready (bwahaha) for the third monkey. And I’m trying to keep busy, and calm, and believe it or not, aside from the expatriated part of my intestines that make me want to cry nonstop, I feel pretty damn good—rested, calm(er than usual), and almost happy.
The sky must be falling…