"You've been mostly dead all day." *

Friday morning, breakfast.
The boys are eating oatmeal and talking about how old people are.
(No, no idea why. Who knows why they talk about three-quarters of the crap they talk about?)

Primo: I’m 6, and Segundo is 4, and Terzo is 2.
Terzo: Two!
Primo: Punto’s 5. But Tiny and Cippy [the cats] are only 4.
Terzo: (Throwing spoonful of oatmeal at the poor dog.) Punto! Five!
Segundo: Daddy’s 45. [Um, he’s not, he’s only 44. At least for a few more months.]
Terzo: Daddy!
Primo: But Mama’s only 37! That’s not old.
Segundo: No, Mama’s not old.
Primo: (helpfully) Grandpap’s old. And Grandma’s old.
Segundo: (thoughtfully contemplating his last spoonful of oatmeal) Yeah, she’s practically DEAD.

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* Fezzik to Westley, in "The Princess Bride."
With my sincere apologies to Liz.

"Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?" *

QUESTION: Why did I agree to run the goddamn Scholastic Book Fair?
ANSWER: Oh, that’s right, because I wasn’t pregnant last year when I said I would. And so therefore I must have been drunk. Or smoking crack. Or both.

QUESTION: Why does Primo think I have the set list of every show I have ever seen embedded in my brain for all time?
ANSWER: Because if I had someone else to cook my meals, do my laundry, direct my bath times, arrange my social life, and pretty much do everything for me but wipe my ass, I too would have the brain capacity for mindless minutiae like he does.

QUESTION: Why am *I* solely in charge of feeding my family?
ANSWER: Because, clearly, H goes to slave away at his job everyday while I sit at home on my Barcalounger, eat bonbons, and watch soap operas, so really, what’s a little meal planning here and there, between “One Life to Live” and “Santa Barbara”?

QUESTION: For that matter, why am *I* solely in charge of all the Christmas shopping?
ANSWER: I gave birth to them, isn’t that enough? Apparently not. And since I didn’t give birth to my in-laws or my children’s teachers, I suppose it’s only right that I be in charge of shopping for them..?

QUESTION: Is “Santa Barbara” even still on?
ANSWER: I haven’t the foggiest idea.

QUESTION: Why do we live in a three-thousand-square-foot house when all three of my children, both cats, and the dog (and probably the goldfish were he mobile) want to be in the same square foot I am presently occupying?
ANSWER: Because they LOVE me, despite the ungrateful, screaming shrew that I am?
(Although I suppose that’s really another question…)

QUESTION: If a boy punches his little brother in the attic and no one is there to hear it, does it still hurt?
ANSWER: Apparently only three hours later, when it occurs to the younger brother to tattle and burst into tears at his previous trauma.

QUESTION: Wouldn’t it be really useful if, with each child you birth, you grew an arm that upon the youngster reaching the age of eighteen, became vestigial and fell off?
ANSWER: Useful, yes. Attractive, no. But that alone might prevent more children and thus, more arms.
(I would also like to grow progressively harder of hearing with each successive baby.)

QUESTION: Whose fucking idea was it to buy those children a drum set last Christmas?
ANSWER: Oops. Shit.

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* "Close to You," The Carpenters

"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"