"And when they start to sing the Marseillaise, they sing it forty different ways. Fifty million Frenchmen can't be wrong." *

I was considering posting my ultrasound photos until I realized, ew, I would be posting pictures of the inside of my uterus on the Internet. My little ‘netties, I love you all dearly but I think I want to keep my innards to myself, thankyouverymuch. Suffice it to say that The Fetus is alive and well, growing beautifully, moving like a maniac, and looks pretty much like every other fetus in utero – kinda creepy and alienesque. It’s ok, I’ve done this before, it turns out ok. (The tech said she could tell the sex (Quarto? Quarta?) but I did not find out. Because I am lousy at keeping secrets like that, and H has no wish to know.) (I think he may still be in denial altogether, frankly.)

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I woke up this morning with two arms wrapped in a death grip around my neck, a leg thrown possessively over my waist, and stinky breath being snored in my face. You know, if I was interested in this in the first place, H and I would not have separate bedrooms. I will have to send Seg back to his bed from now on, no matter how loud the thunderstorm. Or at least insist he brush his teeth more thoroughly.

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On a similar note, Terzo kept enticing me to lay in his bed with him just “a leetle longer” this evening’s bedtime by requesting one more song. He cocked his head, grinned his toothy grin at me, and said, "’Ow ‘bout...zee 'Iggles?" Or "’Ow ‘bout...Weel-co?" It was what I imagine it would be like being in bed with a very tiny, blonde, charming Frenchman. Only I am assuming Frenchmen don’t dig "’Eavy – er, Heavy Metal Drummer" as much as Terzo does.

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See this? My library account.
See that first book?
Why I made Primo get his own damn library card.

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*"Fifty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong," Willie Rose, Billy Raskin, & Fred Fisher/ inspiration for the Cole Porter musical, "Fifty Million Frenchmen"