Saturday, and another evening having pizza with the crew, or the remnants of the crew, or, in this case, Jean-Marc, the only one left of the crew who is still insane enough to visit old friends who happen to have three little monsters. And seeing as how the newly-returned house-funk has sucked me of all drive, I didn’t even think to have anything for dessert.

Christine, bless her heart, took it upon herself to save me from this embarrassing point. We’d only just finished the pizzas, when, as Marc was passing me his empty box, Pooplette decided to grab his knife, his very sharp, very pointy, HUGE pizza knife. Marc and I both went for it at the same time—an 18-month old with a pizza machete is a dangerous thing.

A very dangerous thing it turns out. She saw her father coming with that ‘I’m going to take your knife away’ look in his eye. She didn’t see me. But she stabbed me anyway—right under my index finger, palm side.

So our charming Saturday evening pizza dinner without dessert was saved before we even got to the point of me having to meekly admit I had no dessert—because Marc had to take me in to the emergency room…

…where we were told we’d have to wait ‘une petite heure’ before the Dr. could sew me up. ‘Une petite heure’ in Haute-Marne, should you ever need to know, means more like two hours and fifteen minutes. But I eventually got sewn up (two stitches) by the nice Syrian doctor who didn’t quite wait long enough for the local anesthetic to kick in before stitching my hand back together. I wonder if that’s because I told him I’m American…

So Pooplette has a new nickname, and me? You can just call me Claw.

Well folks it is possible to read the new Harry Potter in a mere two days with three monkeys in tow, and without neglecting them to the point that the neighbors call Social Services. This has got to be my greatest moment to date. I’m so proud of me.

Yesterday I turned 29 again. Marc, who is probably not telling me he is dying of some untreatable condition, has showered me with gifts. I racked up all four Harry Potter DVDs, a brand spanking new spiffy digital camera, and, as if getting actual gifts wasn’t enough, he took me out to dinner in a nice restaurant.

I’ll admit, I would have been happy with a sandwich on a park bench somewhere, so long as we were alone. But he took me to a nice restaurant where, oddly, we both seemed to feel rather out of place. And the food! Was! HORRIBLE! OMG! I had a tartine campagnarde as an entrée. It’s a slice of bread topped with jambon cru, sliced potatoes, and raclette cheese. Sounds good, right? Except they microwaved it before sticking it under the grill. French bread is impossible to cut with a chainsaw once it gets nuked and the potatoes were still cold. It did get better after that, but I was so let down by the entrée that the rest was just lost on me. The service was good, though.

And afterwards we went to a real café and had coffee. It was much cheaper than at the restaurant and we were able to sit outside and enjoy the night air. And talk. It was a nice end to the evening.

But sadly it wasn’t enough to pull me out of my new funk. We went up to the house the other day to check on a few things and five minutes after walking in the door I was in tears. I simply cannot go up there any more. It sucks all my happy feelings away. When I see how light and airy and SPACIOUS that place is compared to the cave we live in here, how much space there is for the kids, how much easier it will be to exist in that space than here, and realize that we are no where near being able to live there, that once we fix the place we’ll probably have to sell it because there’s absolutely no way we can afford it anymore, I just get too sad. That was our dream, and now…

I'll be back in 600+ pages...

I promise I'll post more when things calm down.

My sister, the second one, is a nurse. She works in a hospital and gets to see a lot of interesting things, like dead people. And some of these people have absolutely no reason to be dead. And apparently, no matter how suspicious the circumstances surrounding the deaths of these people, the local DA refuses to do so much as an autopsy because, ready? They Cost Too Much. (Makes me wonder if Marc’s got a long lost brother practicing law in Tennessee.) Of course, if the family wishes, they can pay to have an autopsy done, but then the admissibility in court is rather questionable.

My mother-in-law got on my nerves big time this morning. My cats have been going in the flower beds to do their business. She insists that this is killing her flowers. Honestly they’ve never looked better. So when she saw Lucy walking that way this morning she pitched a royal fit which ended up with Lucy being so stressed she bit me. Lucy never bites people—she’s too laid back and lazy. So the MIL isn’t exactly on my list of people I want to deal with, especially considering all the other crap I have to put up with on that front.

So I’m thinking, maybe I should invite her to my sister’s house for a visit….

Easiest first. The Milestone. MP3 hit one month Friday, and just like you and me she’s never been so old in her life. So we had the regular Dr. visit and all is well except she isn’t gaining weight—she’s not loosing any either. We (her parents) think she’s just resetting herself after the nightmarish pre-birth weight gain thing that made her look at birth like a violet version of The Incredible Hulk and that she’ll take off as soon as she’s where her body should be anyway. Given the size of her siblings that should be around now. And to reassure me that I am, as usual, right, she’s started showing signs of an increased appetite. So, we’ll see.

In other news, Frantic Friday—what a shit day! Everything went fine until I got to the Centre LeClerc where they were sold the fuck out of the double stroller I’d spent the better part of the last five years (slight exaggeration) convincing my husband to let me buy. Bastards. This completely ruined my day. We had the Rallye Poussette that afternoon and no poussette. Fuck!

And because I’m still technically postpartum depression material, this threw me into a funk that I’m not quite out of. See, my entire weekend centered on having that damn stroller. Getting out and about with three kids three and under is nightmarish, and while the stroller won’t cure all that ails me, it would have gone a long way towards making things survivable. And as I chuck the older two off on the professionals during the week, I do want to do things with them on the weekend.

Notice I said I want to do things with them. Their father is conspicuously absent and will continue to be for a while, but that’s normal. We’re going right into the harvest now and the idea of not having his sweet loving presence (for once, that is NOT sarcasm) around scares the living crap out of me. Know all those single moms who amaze you with how they get all that stuff done? That’s not me. Single motherhood is not for me. But it’s what I get to look forward to for the summer, every summer.

I should have listened to my friend Lisa when she told me to marry a mechanic.

But marrying a mechanic would not get me a double stroller any quicker, nor would it smooth over the beginning of another baby equipment war, the winds of which were swirling already. Fortunately the farmer was available that afternoon so he got to strap on a baby and push a stroller while I pushed another in the rallye. All was well in the world.

Was. See, nothing can go smoothly in my life for any length of time. It’s against the rules apparently. After the big rallye, which was cute in its way, there was a goûter dînatoire—or a big fat snack time thing that can technically take the place of dinner. And during this time Muppet, who usually has a big appetite as long as there are no cool toys crying out to be played with—like the famous motorcycle at the crèche that no one else way playing with and that he could take out in the parking lot because it was closed off and there were no cars in it—decided to take it upon himself to provide the entertainment. The parking lot is on a slope, and he would push that moto up to the top like a crazy person, turn it around, line it up just right, push off and then glide (flying like, sans wings) down the parking lot and over the storm drain, his target. It was absolutely hysterical seeing the look on his face. Would that we all were so carefree. Carefree, that is until someone from the lower echelon of crèche motorsports (meaning a kid on a tricycle) pulls out in front of you at just the wrong moment.

I’d heard of sounds giving one nausea, but never thought it possible until that moment. The sound of my sons head smacking on the pavement after somersaulting in the air over the tricycle was definitely enough to make my stomach rise. The subsequent screams, though, were enough to put everything back in order and let me spring into action. I ended up taking him in to see the doctor because one of his eyes appeared to be dilated right after and he had blood tricking out of the nostril on the other side of his head from where he came crashing down to earth.

So Doctorwards we headed, Muppet and I, dropping off Marc and the girls on the way. Turns out he’s fine, but we did have to keep a good eye on him for the next 48 hours, including waking him up in the night to make sure he was fine. Ever try to wake a three year old? Not only is it almost impossible, but if you can manage to do it, you get to look Satan in the face.

By the time Saturday rolled around I was feeling less than nice. In fact, staring at Satan made some of his evilness rub off on me, and we all know I am the last person in need of a new dose of evil. Especially when the winds of the baby equipment wars are already stirring. And when I’m hormonal. No sleep + postpartum hormones – double stroller + unwitting, mis-communicative husband with whom I have no common language = very bad time. Long story short, The Hubs realized that sometimes I think the way I do for a GOOD reason, and I realized there are other ways of making him understand than beating him with large cooking implements. Peace was made in time for the arrival of the Welshman, the Spaniard and the Power Triumvirate from some utterly quaint and picturesque village in France.

For those of you not in the know, Antipo makes the perfect house guest. Not only does she arrive bearing tents and various other essential camping gear—meaning no need to find (and make) beds, she also packs her car with drool-inducing goodies like veal braised in shallots and wine, dreadfully sinful Snickers pie, and, because we can’t be complete calorie whores, all the ingredients needed to make grilled fruits with almond paste and crème. All I had to do was toss together a bit of smashed taters (peeled by a charming Welshman grumbling something about having finished with peeling potatoes when he finished with the army) and make a tiny bit of an appetiser (steamed shrimp and melon with Bayonne ham) .

On top of the culinary delights, she brings along her charming, darling, perfectly behaved children who take turns documenting their séjour with the camera and running after the screaming banshees—those who run. The new one whiled away the afternoon snuggled up to Antipo’s bosom. I’m not sure who was the happier person.

Sunday everyone went out hiking in the woods, dodging the occasional rain drop, and scarfing down grilled animal parts. It was a peaceful day, peaceful enough even for Pooplette who surprised me by following her father’s advice and taking a nap in her (single) stroller. Why is it she only listens to him? If that had been my idea she’d have screamed for hours on end.

All too fast the day passed us by and I found myself again telling the Welshman goodbye. It was somehow sadder this time around as we have no real plans about when we’ll see him next. Funny how people like that can just float into your lives and touch you like that. He became family to us practically from the word go, so he better come back. Or else!

Antipo and brood came next, successfully packing up their campsite and leaving not a trace of their presence (except for the yummy left-overs so considerately hidden away in the fridge—they were even yummier the next day). Mr. Menopause would have been proud I think, especially with the ease she demonstrated when folding up the tents.

And thusly the weekend ended, with a few moments of calm that seemed eerily silent after such a fun weekend. On to Monday, when the craziness begin anew…

Monday: Pump the boobs, wake, dress, feed the kids, drive said kids to the crèche, return home, grab the baby, grab the 360€ in gift certificates that are supposed to be good at Toys R Us but might not work if you fall into the wrong cashier’s hands, drive the 200 kilometers to Dijon cursing because of the late start and newfound inability to drive at least the speed limit—meaning I’ve somehow mutated into all the Sunday drivers I’ve spent my life cursing, arrive at Toys R Us, ask one more time to make sure the gift certificates are good, breathe a sigh of relief, track down super-amazing double stroller, see another super-amazing double stroller for 90€ less, rethink decision, decide to buy cheaper stroller, see another super-amazing double stroller for 90€ (last season’s model—exactly the same as second stroller except not the same color—marked down from 179.99€), re-rethink (like there was any need to think about it), check with sales girl who carries it up to the front with a smile, find super-duper bottle warmer/sterilizer/baby food warmer/baby food cooker with a chopper in a hopper thing that I cannot live without on sale cheaper than cheap, toss it into the buggy as well (got to make up for that 170€ I’ve just saved on the double stroller), grab new nipples (sale!) and a mattress (sale!) for the crib we do not have and meander to the check out, noticing the super high chairs that Marc admires are on sale for half price, check out, call The Hubs, inform him of the Incredible Savings, discuss the possibility of returning for the high chairs, hem, haw, discuss, hem, haw, feed MP3, complain to the guy sitting in his car smoking right next to mine that the smoke is coming in my car, could he please do that elsewhere, grumble, finish by locking myself in a closed car during the only five minutes of sun had in Dijon, sweat, do the boob thing, return to Toys R Us, buy two of the high chairs—of which there were incredibly fewer since my last trip through an hour before, repack car with tons of baby stuff, drag self into restaurant area of Le Toison d’Or, eat, set off in quest to find the Fnac, fail miserably, end up in an underground parking lot (don’t ask—just know that it’s all Vivi’s fault because whenever she’s around, no matter how lost I get us, we always come out smelling like roses and since she wasn’t there, well, her fault!), do booby thingy again, give up on the Fnac, try to find road home, succeed, with difficulty, and leave Dijon at the same time as I’m supposed to be sitting down with the nice neighbor from Italy who is coming to see MP3 and bring her a gift—FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!, arrive home in time to feed MP3, unload the car, pee, and dash off to get the kiddies at the crèche, spend evening in daze, fall snoring to bed. Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn with screaming boobies.

And sometime this week I want to take the kids out for shoes. Bwahahahahaha……………………