Pooplette (that’s baby #2 for those of you who have long since given up on my constantly changing naming system) started the morning with a lovely fever of 39.1°C (102.4°F), the third morning in a row she’s done so. Thinking it better to plan the day at the start instead of changing course mid-way and setting myself up for a panic attack in the middle of my Friday Morning Shopping, I called the crèche to see if they’d still take her. They wouldn’t. Panic attack temporarily advanced and conquered, I decided to call the Great Lady Doctor and try to fit her in in the afternoon. Ha! Seems like every other mother on the planet had the same idea. I had to put that great idea on the back burner for a while.

I took The Great Calm One in anyway, and carted off Pooplette for the morning shopping that HAD. TO. BE. DONE. Now that Pooplette is on regular milk like her older brother, we go through that stuff like air. With less than three liters left in the house, the time had come for the milk run. I HATE the milk run. Milk, it’s heavy stuff, especially when one has to load up 36 1-liter cartons of it in the back of one’s Super-Ugly-Mobile. I don’t even drink the stuff, so it’s a totally selfless act, right? I sure hope it gives me some good karma, because coming back as a dung beetle is about as good as I can hope for at this point.

It has been a while since I’ve taken Pooplette anywhere public with me. The convenience of having them in the crèche twice a week has allowed me the luxury of getting a minimum of my shopping done without the constant battle of mothering. Shopping in France is enough of a battle, even on a good day. Today, however, I was brought back to the reality that I am a mother (even if I still insist that’s only half the word). Pooper, always a curious soul, is a non-stop soundtrack of life’s questions. While she’s not quite at the “Why?” stage, she is far enough along to make me want to wring her neck on aisle two. Or maybe just staple her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

With the milk and the Goblin Of Endless Questions loaded in the car, I headed home to make lunch for the tribe—Mr. Man-thing, Mr. Employee (who is still a God-send), Monkey, and Poop. Oh, and me, because I still like to eat. And try again to get an appointment for the feverish girl. And try to keep said child from destroying the cave we live in. And try to hang on to my last thread of sanity.

I managed to feed us without too much difficulty. Of course, the menu had to change significantly as I wasn’t planning on the eldest girl child being around, much less clinging to me like a bad cancerous lesion. And once I finally got the phone to actually ring at the Dr.’s office instead of just getting a never ending busy signal, I managed an appointment for the middle of the afternoon. And the walls are still standing. Three out of four ain’t bad.

Turns out Pooplette’s got another double ear infection. This is the third double ear infection since her single ear infection back in November. I’m sick of ear infections, even if we’re lucky enough that she doesn’t seem too terribly bothered by them. She’s on yet another course of antibiotics, something she simply adores because the child is addicted to all types of syringes. I refuse to think of her future at this point—the endless strings of rehab seem frightening.

At least for the moment she’s safe in her bed, and while I could sit here and bitch that I am again stuck in the role of single parent while her father is off doing his thing, I shall, for once, let the urge pass me by. It’s not a momentary lapse in bitchiness, I assure you, but more of a realization as I sit her with two more children belonging to a friend who is in the middle of a divorce that things could be infinitely more complicated than they are.