Tomorrow is D-Day (Delivery Day). I'm scheduled for a cesarean at 2:30, and they're supposed to call me today with instructions for tomorrow.
As soon as I'm able, I'll update with photos and such.
Say a little prayer for me and Baby CMS (the initials of the three final name choices) as well as The Oracle and his upcoming stretch of Mr. Mom duties. I know he can handle the job, but the kids haven't been away from me for more than a day before this. I think things might get a little bumpy here and there.
While you have Him on the line, say a prayer for Cort, too. As The Oracle and I get ready to pull our "finished product" off the assembly line, Cort and her husband have a big day today with getting two embryos off to a good start.
Their struggles to reach this point make me appreciate how fortunate the Oracle and I are to have the family we do, and my desire for their success and happiness parallells my own, if that could possibly make any sense at all. Making sense isn't an easy thing for me on an average day, but I think you understand what I mean.
It was quite a bit breezy in our neck of the woods yesterday, and I'd forgotten our trash cans until I spotted them in the far reaches of our yard this morning. The kids are up and just starting breakfast, so I take a few minutes to go outside and gather the cans. Actually, it took me several since I'm slow and waddling and generally cumbersome.
My task finished, I step on the porch and hear wailing. I look through the window and see Precious Daughter wearing a pie-eyed, fretful expression and pacing in panicked circles. Uh-oh.
I step inside and ask, "What happened?"
"I threw the Flarp at Mighty B. and his mouth is bleeding." (There's a sentence you'll never diagram in English class!)
Huhwha? Sure enough, Mighty B. is seated at the kitchen table, his Cocoa Krispies (and hers) virtually untouched since I set it there before going outside. His eyes are streaming tears; he has stringers of snot cascading from his nose and a bloody mouth. I-yi-yi.
I grab a wad of paper towels and start blotting to assess the damage. His lip is a bit swollen and there are two tiny splits -- one upper lip, one lower -- where the hit occurred. The offending pink Flarp is on the floor by the chair. Thankfully, the bleeding is minor despite my first impression. I grab the green beans from the freezer, wrap them in a paper towel, and B. holds them to his lip.
It's time to interrogate Precious Daughter.
What happened? He was bugging me and he wouldn't stop. (Judging by the untouched cereal, this commenced the moment I stepped outside.) What was he doing? He kept saying things and wouldn't leave me alone even though I told him again and again to stop. Why didn't you just leave the table? (No response.)
Questioning Mighty B. is no more successful.
What happened, I ask? Precious Daughter threw the Flarp at me. Why did she do that? I don't know. Well, did you do something? I didn't do anything. Well, you clearly did something to tick her off. (No response.)
Precious Daughter and Mighty B. have an interesting relationship. B. loves -- no, thrives -- on torturing his sister. Nothing brings him more glee than getting her angry and flustered and spazzy. What Mighty B. refuses to acknowledge or connect is that his hobby usually results in some form of bodily injury to himself. Precious Daughter's frustration often culminates with whacking or shoving him in some awful, injurious way that I unfortunately can't "let go" as you-got-what-you-deserved sibling rivalry. One of these days (could've been today if she'd heaved the sugar bowl instead of a plastic tub of Flarp), I'll be hauling Mighty B. to the ER for stitches.
He pesters her, but the evil child knows not to touch her. He invades her space and sings in her face and makes faces and noises and such until she starts screaming back at him to stop and leave her alone. He keeps at her like a terrier. She gets fed up and assaults him.
A week or so ago he hounded her until she clocked him with a heavy-gauge aluminum baking pan. Fortunately, her two-handed swing brought the flat bottom of the pan against his belly and ribs (like a pillow fight) instead of the rolled edge connecting with his skull (like a frisbee).
Thank God our kitchen knives aren't within easy reach.
I've told her time and again to justget away from him when he starts his nonsense, because getting her mad is what he wants and it fans the flames. Don't give him what he wants I tell her.
One of his favorite torture tools is cheese. Precious Daughter abhorrs cheese in any form unless it tops a pizza, and even then its presence is questionable. If spaghetti is on the menu, the Kraft "stinky cheese" is there along with it because B. and I both like it. Precious Daughter screeches at the mere sight of it, protesting its existence with all manner of gyrations, disgusted expressions, nose-holding, and prolonged exclamations: "Eeeeeeeeeewwwww!"
Mighty B., always up for an opportunity, makes a game of it, taking two crumbs of cheese and placing them on her plate or waving the shaker can under her nose and singing, "Stinky Cheese! Yummy-yum!" at the top of his voice. She fusses and hollers and Mighty B.'s countenance is positively alight with joy.
The Oracle and I do not sit idly by. We've taken the cheese away and/or disciplined the kid, but the boy will not quit, no matter what the cost, and at times it has cost him plenty. As The Oracle once observed, "No game is over until Mighty B. wins."
Today's episode reminded me of a story The House Fairy once shared. He is the youngest of four children, and I believe he was in at least his mid teens at the time. One afternoon, his sister, Aunt C., was getting ready to go out. The House Fairy decided it was a delicious opportunity to be a nuisance, and he started putting her through the wringer. Aunt C. effectively put a stop to his antics by frying his forearm with the iron she was running over her blouse.
The ease with which I can overlay this story to my children's future is frightening.
Oh. Flarp, by the way, is what we call "Fart in a Can." The stuff is a hoot.
Precious daughter is in desperate need of a haircut. Once again, I've dropped the ball, and the poor kid's bangs are so long they're tickling her eyelashes. Why not trim them myself? Sure, I've trimmed my own bangs in desperation, but I'm also blessed with a decent wave to my hair that hides the sins of wayward scissors. Precious Daugher, however, has straight, silky hair. Straight hair hides nothing. One crooked mis-cut, and the kid's bangs are crooked until I get her to a professional.
I called the shop this morning to schedule an appointment with Mae. Mae is my favorite hairdresser in the entire world. She only works Thursday through Saturday, but her pages in the schedule book fill up quickly, and I wanted to get in while I had the chance. If I waited until Mae was on duty, I'd be too late, and I can't wait another week because I don't have another week before Baby #3 arrives.
The sweet Asian lady who often washes my hair answers the phone. Her comprehension of English is a little rough around the edges, but we get the appointment set up with Mae for 3:30 on Thursday, which is darn-near perfect, and I am a happy customer.
Not only does Precious Daughter need her hair trimmed, but her First Holy Communion is rapidly approaching. As I've stated above, I know full well that I'm awful with hair, especially the straight, silky stuff on Precious Daughter's head, and I also know that any Communion veil the kid picks will leave me sorely challenged when it comes to getting it on straight and making it stay in place. It's a no-brainer that I set her up for a hair appointment before the mass.
Sweet Asian Lady is ready to hang up, and I tell her:
Wait, I need another appointment for May 9th.
Yes, you're coming Thursday at 3:30 for Mae. (Why didn't I see this coming?)
Yes, but I need an appointment in the month of May as well.
I have appointment for (Precious Daughter) with Mae on Thursday.
That's correct. I also need an appointment for her in the month of May. March, April, May. On May 9th, my daughter has her First Holy Communion. It's a Saturday, and I know that Saturdays are busy with weddings and such. I think I need to set it up now.
Oh, oh. May?
At this point, the owner comes to our rescue and takes over the call.
I should've just waited until I was there on Thursday, but logical thought is a struggle these days.
Twelve days. Twelve days and counting, and it's so hard. On one hand, I'm in a near panic for all I haven't finished yet. On the other, I want to move from carrying her around in my belly to holding her in my arms. I'm just flat-out tired of my pants constantly falling down and being generally bitchy, slow, winded, and unable to sleep well.
Yeah, I know I'll still lose sleep later on, but it will be easier to turn over.
I know the unfinished stuff will come together. It usually does.
The scary unfinished work surrounds my transcripts. I'm working my tailfeathers off so I can get as much done as I can. Some stuff is late which is not good. Lawyers don't like late transcripts. I suppose that, in theory, I could drag my work along to the hospital with me. I'll be there four days anyway, but I really don't want to do that.
Anyway, as a result, I won't be posting on here much. It's possible that I won't post until I get home. I'll see if I can enlist The Oracle to post a picture or two while I'm out of commission, but he'll have the kids all to himself while I'm not home, and I'm not sure if he'll have the time or inclination to be bothered with posting.
This sandwich cannot be enjoyed unless you ignore the fat content. If you love PB and you love bacon, this is a truly delightful combination.
Generously slather peanut butter on one or both slices of your favorite bread. I prefer out-of-the-bag squishy white bread or warm toast. The advantage of warm toast is melty-gooey peanut butter.
The bacon should be cooked until crisp and drained thoroughly. I love chewy bacon, but peanut butter is oily enough without adding excessive amounts of bacon fat. Chewy bacon makes the sandwich too greasy.
Layer your bacon on top of the peanut butter, assemble, and enjoy.