The level of nice around here has been obnoxiously high. I can’t, as much pleasure as it gives me, sit here and bitch about The Other Half because, honestly, there’s nothing too interesting to bitch about. He’s been good lately, and good is, well, it’s boring. I haven’t thrown anything in weeks. My arm is getting all flabby.

(Thank you for not pointing out that my arm was already all flabby to begin with.)

I’m Staying On Top Of Things and it’s such a weird feeling that I’m lost. Getting Things Done is just not natural to me and I honestly have no idea what I’m doing some days. I’ll find myself doing laundry, not because I have nothing else to wear, but because there just happens to be enough to make a load. Or I’ll catch myself washing a pot because there’s no room left in the dishwasher and I just don’t feel like letting it sit until the next run. Hell, I even sweep regularly. Something is seriously wrong.

And I’ve been nice lately. NICE. Not only is this so completely against the postpartum hormone-induced melancholy that I’ve been fighting since the birth of Muppet, but I’ve done it while enduring an abscessed tooth for an entire week because Dr. PainFreeDentistry is on vacation and I had to drag myself (against my will) into the Evil Dentist who swears that more than one shot of anesthesia for a root canal is just waste and get said root canal done while sweating profusely because PAIN SUCKS BIGTIME and not only all that but I had to pour all my lovely breast milk down the drain for an entire day and a half because Marc’s Sexy Doctor MADE ME take drugs to make my tooth feel better because I cried all the way through Marc’s physical because I was IN PAIN. (This run-on sentence brought to you by one of my ‘don’t breathe just talk’ moments.)

So it’s almost the weekend and I have SO MUCH crap to do. Tomorrow I’ve got to pump the boobies, wake up, dress, feed and take the kids in to the crèche, stop by the lab and see the vampires—with The Hubs because I’ve pitched enough of a royal fit that he’s getting lab work done to assure me he doesn’t have a cholesterol for real and just not because he’s never done the test, pump the boobies, drive to Chaumont and do a mad dash through LeClerc with the MP3 buying up an ungodly list of things because the cupboards are bare and they’ve got a double stroller that I NEED, run home, pump the boobies, eat and make things for the Rallye Poussette at the crèche tomorrow evening, pump the boobies, take MP3 in for her one month check-up, pick the kids up from the crèche and take them to the park for an hour, pump the boobies, do the rallye, pump the boobies, go home, feed everyone, send Marc off to sing, put the nasty beasties to bed, pump the boobies and then die. Oh, and then Saturday, I get to great all the wonderful people who LOVE me, and are coming to hike through the lovely Haut-Marnais woods and eat grilled animal flesh on Sunday. Oh, and maybe I’ll get to snack on something yummy made by someone who likes to flash her bosoms to get her way.

I'll let you know how it turns out...