I had this great idea where I would do a “Twelve Days of Christmas” thing and blog about it.

Except, instead of “my true love gave to me…” it would be “my true love looked after the kids while I accomplished this long overdue DIY task…”.

Because D.I.Y. -  I am D.I.Y!

(Ahem. This does not mean I am overly good at it. Just that I do it. If anybody is tempted to express surprise at this, just know that in this day and age that makes you a sexist dinosaur, oh yes it does. Also, I do have minor control issues and won’t let The Daddy do anything involving household tools, because I just know he will do it wrong. Except the pressure washer. He can go crazy with the pressure washer. I hate that thing. )

Then, when I got to thinking about it, it became clear that nobody was going to hang around for a blow-by-blow account of resealing the shower, for example. So I have rethought.

But, just for posterity, this is how I plan to spend The Daddy’s two weeks of vacation this year:

1. Reseal the shower before the supports underneath rot through and the whole bathroom collapses.

2. Finish touching up the moldings and baseboards in the dining room I started painting back in April.

3. Oil the family grandfather clock which was delivered to us in March, so that hopefully it will start working. The Daddy is very agitated about this one. Every time I ask him the time he looks balefully at the clock and says sadly “2:05″.

4. Finish pruning the crape myrtles. The aim is to stop those “ghostly hands” tap tap tapping on Baby Sister’s windows.

5. Replace the one crumbling board at the back of the house which is solely responsible for giving it an abandoned look.

6. Turn some funky vintage train wallpaper I just bought into a mural for The Wictor and make some cool stuff out of the rest.

7. Move the guest bed into The Wictor’s room and rearrange his room around it in a way that doesn’t encourage anyone illicitly jumping on the bed to jump right on out the window.

8. Rearrange the TV/Guest room so it is also a computer/Wii room. Put a lock on the door so I can keep the children in there.

9. Replace the following on my car: rear left indicator bulb, windshield wiper blades, key fob battery. Might make driving a little easier.

10. I haven’t thought of the others yet. I may be so tired by this point that I will want a rest. And lots of wine.

And after all that, don’t even think I am going to tackle the ironing pile.

My birthday was nice. When The Daddy got home at 4.30 we ate birthday cake, opened our presents and then had dinner.

(The kids: “Dinner? Again?”.

Yes kids, because we served you cake for dinner and then a second dinner later. )

I showed The Daddy the famous flowers. I had picked out mixed roses on a whim, even though lilies are my favorite, and I am very pleased. This birthday was kind of … quiet. And nice.

Yesterday was The Daddy’s birthday, and I went on a Girls Night Out. You read that right. We always celebrate his birthday along with mine anyway, so last night I went out and kicked up my heels. While being the designated driver, but you know, sometimes that can be the most fun. Hearing everybody’s secrets and then actually remembering them in the morning.  This was actually my first Girls Night Out since I left the UK 3 1/2 years ago, which is quite shocking to think about really. So let’s not.

We ate at a Japanese restaurant. The food was good, but it was also very business-driven, and not in a good way. I mean, we hadn’t finished our appetizers before they were trying to make room on the table for the entrees, and then suddenly the bill appeared on the table. When we hung around, our waiter started clearing the table while chewing his own dinner. Also, maybe I am naive, but I have never experienced the used-car sales technique as practiced by a waiter before. He knew his wine list - at least the ones which were 20% off. And he tried to upsell all the dishes, claiming this one was too small, that one didn’t have enough tuna, you would need at least 15 of those. They stopped the music at 9.30 which was I guess our cue that they wanted us out of there. The place was empty.

But the location is secondary on a Girl’s Night Out, right? What you really want to do is have fun. So we went on to the bar of the restaurant next door where our table proceeded to entertain all the patrons, and me. Actually I think some of the patrons may have walked out, but others seemed to be enjoying listening in. One gentleman even said as much. There was all the inebriated gossip you might expect - relationships, bitches, relationships, sex, relationships, preschool - but this year there was also a new topic of conversation. Money, or the shortage of it.

Wait a minute. Let’s stop and go back a sentence.

Seriously? It was easy to pick up men because you had your own caravan????  Seeing you in a whole new light.

Ahem. Money. Now, there’s a sobering thought. Not that any of my party got sober (although I should point out here that I am talking tongue-loosening levels of insobriety, nobody got close to dancing on a table. I was mildly disappointed.) The great thing about getting drunk with the girls - or in my case, not getting drunk with the girls, is that you find out things about people that you would never have expected. Women who you see in a casual setting during the day, who may even seem very upright, very prim and proper, take on a three dimensional aspect once you hear a little about their lives, past and present. That’s why we all like soap operas (admit it, you too) and that’s why we all like Girls Nights Out.

But then the bar closed at 11 and they ejected us into the chilly suburban Houston night. My car was the last one left in the carpark, but I suppose we were doing well for suburbia on a weeknight. Everybody grumbled about how their husbands would already be asleep, but when I got home The Daddy was still up and, even though his alarm was set for 5.45 this morning, he opened a bottle of wine and we sat up talking. So he did get to celebrate his birthday after all. Or at least, drink wine.

And then, suddenly, at about 1 am, we heard snoring. I went upstairs and there, curled up on a chair overlooking the front door, was The Wictor. He had obviously woken during the night and fallen asleep again waiting for me.

Its fun going out. But absolutely the best part? Coming home to my family.

There’s a reason I never diet. I don’t function when I am hungry. Low blood sugar just makes me into a kind of ghostly non-person, floating about the place but not really existing in any dimension.

Being fully aware of my condition you would think I would make sure to keep food in the house for myself and to eat it at regular intervals, wouldn’t you? Of course! That’s what a sane person would do! Sadly, although I make sure my children are fed and watered following a strict timetable, I tend to neglect myself. There is always something more important. And then time passes. In a kind of rapid haze.

This is how I came to skip breakfast this morning. Unless you define two spoons of sugar in an enormous cup of black coffee as a hearty breakfast. Luckily, I had thought to prepare a lesson plan for the T-Bot’s school day in advance, because if you want something done, you should never give the job to someone who hasn’t eaten.

Case in point: some time later I wanted to microwave my lunch, which happened to be pork and rice left over from last night’s dinner. But when I took it out of the oven it was shrivelled and hard, like a piece of old bark. In my befuddled state I decided I had typed an extra zero and set the cooking strength to 500% instead of 50%. (See what I mean? I got to thinking my microwave was magic!).

So, with lunch nuked (literally) I had to scrabble around in the back of the cupboards searching for something that wasn’t kids food, ie something yummy. Lunch: two pieces of toast with nutella.  Yes, that is technically kids food. But yummy. I meant to also eat an apple but didn’t. I will have another think about my colon tomorrow.

I’m not quite sure my energy levels were restored by that feast, as I seem to have spent the rest of the afternoon working furiously and accomplishing basically nothing.

I got a call from an old friend. Interpret “old friend” how you will. During our last conversation I announced I was homeschooling and she managed to run through items 2, 4, 6, 10, 12, 13, 14, 16, 19 and 24 from this list (link courtesy of Eryn) and mix up my son with another, teenage boy she knows who was suspended from school for looking up girls’ skirts. And then she never called again. I never called either, because, well… see above.

I think I managed to get through this conversation with dignity, mainly by saying “uh-huh” and “oh?” until she hung up.

After picking up Baby Sister from school  I took everything out of the garage and gave the kids free reign. So of course they decided to fill and use the wading pools and I was too busy fantasizing about sushi to stop them. Before you say anything, it was 80 degrees out there when they started. By the time they got out the temperature had dipped just a little, so I cranked up the heating and sent them to warm up in front of the TV.

At which point they exclaimed “TV! Oh! Is that what it looks like? What a wondrous box! Why have you kept this invention from us until now?”

… I bet I really had you there.

My husband came home and declared himself very very tired. We are currently sitting facing each other, on our respective laptops, each waiting for the other to crack and go start dinner.

I will totally win this one.

Last night The Daddy and I were going out to meet friends at a fancy restaurant, so I jumped out of my jeans and threw on a very pretty flouncy red skirt (one I didn’t even remember I had!), a little eyeshadow and I was ready to go.

But then, as we were getting out of the car at the restaurant, I looked down and realized I had forgotten to shave my legs. “It doesn’t matter,” I reasoned, “I will walk in quickly and sit down with my legs under the table and nobody will notice”.

Unfortunately, as we walked into the joint, within sight line of our expectantly waiting friends, I glanced down again and saw I had gorilla legs which could not be hidden. In fact they probably already had been noticed, and from across the room. They looked something like this:

You remember when you were in elementary school and you had to write a story so you wrote a fantastic(al) one full of adventures and robots and dragons but then you didn’t know how to end it so you finished off “and then I woke up and it was just a dream” ?
(I still cringe every time I see a childrens’ book author use this technique now. Unless it was Mo Willems, in which case … forgiven. )

Well, I didn’t make it up - it was a real, true dream I had last night, and also an apt illustration of how the little things are getting neglected around here. I am busy and never make it to the bottom of the List of Things To Do. I feel I need to make some small changes.

I really don’t think I should give up any part of my already lightweight social life, although I am currently debating as to whether I should be maintaining a social life at all, given all the tasks which are piling up around the house. While I am pleased to report that as of today the whole house is clean and tidy (yes, you read that right! Ten minutes a few times a day plus dark threats to the children accomplishes wonders) some pesky chores still linger.

Now, after two enforced full nights of sleep, I am starting to think anything is possible. And I had an idea!

I would like to invite you to my house!

Yes, you!

Attention, you are only welcome if you have one of the following skills to share:

…..
1. Sewing skills.
I have my own sewing machine and three pairs of jeans awaiting hemming. I do not like my jeans to go flippety flap when I walk. But I have given up taking them in to the little lady in the room behind the laundromat, as she seems to think the pins I stick in them are just for decoration, and they always come back plus or minus an inch from the desired length. Although I am out of necessity still wearing the last pair which she cut to hang uselessly around my ankle, they do not make me feel sexy.

I will serve you a cup of coffee while you hem my jeans. I will lean on the kitchen counter and we can chat while you sew.

…..

2. Sealing Skills

Are you handy with a sealant gun? The joins in the shower are starting to go moldy and normally this is my job. It is difficult finding a window of opportunity when the shower is dry, the children occupied and I do not have anything else to do. Also, the fumes are obnoxious, I usually run out of rubber gloves, and then I get sealant on my hands and the skin falls off. This does not make me look sexy.

I will serve you a cup of coffee while you reseal my shower. I will perch on the side of the bath and we can chat while you seal.

…..

3. Ironing Skills

Some people like ironing. I am not one of them. I could double my wardrobe and triple my husband’s if I could just bear the squeaking of the ironing board long enough to iron more than a work shirt (one at a time, in haste, around midnight). My ironing basket and my unfolded laundry basket sit next to each other in a closet and guess which one is always more full? These old crumpled t-shirts are the opposite of sexy.

I will serve you a cup of coffee (or three) while you iron my forgotten clothes. I will lounge on the couch and we can chat while you starch and press.

…..

4. Plumbing Skills

Feel free to drop around at any time if you are good with toilets.

We have four toilets and I fix probably one a month. This open invitation is for someone who lives close,  as toilet emergencies often need dealing with fast.

I need to be able to say “Hey! Doing anything this morning ? Why not drop around now?”

I will serve you a cup of coffee, then shout to you from the other room while you plunge an upstairs toilet.

……

Open House at My Place Next Week!
P.S. Don’t worry. You will not be required to shave my legs.

I’m feeling a bit blah today. My oldest friend here, and certainly the one who knows me best, just called to say she is moving in two weeks. To Seattle. And while I can’t think of a better change for her and her family, I am still sad for us.

We don’t see them that often, maybe once a month if we are lucky, but when we do our kids greet each other like family, play together like family - and fight like family. She has been there for me on countless occasions, patiently listening to me through every tiny crisis. I talk a lot if you let me, so she knows 600% more about me and my pathetic issues than I do about her.

Still, while I have other friends, she is the only one I would ever, ever, let see my house in a mess. Not that I ever have, but you know. It’s that kind of friendship.

Luckily, I still have bloggy friends and aquaintances.

And thanks to a well-timed Tweet from Chookooloonks, at least I remembered to buy the booze for tonight.

So let’s have a drink - or three - and hope for some positive change around here.

The memes are coming thick and fast! I guess that makes me famous, or something! (Probably the something).

Andrea at Sweet Life tagged me for this one and really, I am one of those people who seems a little bit normal on the surface but really? A little bit weird. So finding seven top secrets or oddities that no-one really knows? Not much of a challenge. Settle in, this promises to be a long post.

1. I used to think deathly thoughts

When I was maybe eight years old I would go to with my little sister to her friend’s house, and while they were playing with, oh I don’t know, dolls or something, I was holed up in the garden shed working my way through the stack of old Australian Womens Weeklys the friend’s mom kept in there. I remember two stories, one about a little girl my age who was bitten by a spider in some remote location and died before reaching hospital, and one about another girl my age who died after a valiant battle with leukemia.

We lived in a remote location and frequently visited even remoter locations (which may or may not have had spiders), and I personally knew two kids who had bone cancer. So of course I developed a morbid and top secret preoccupation with death.

Once another friend’s mother found some mushrooms under their house and insisted on cooking them for dinner that night. I had previously read the book “Is it a Mushroom or a Toadstool” from cover to cover and almost expired right then and there from the thought that I was the only person at that table who had not eaten the toadstools and would therefore soon be the only person living. I would have to watch them froth at the mouth and keel over and then I would have to wait there with all the dead bodies, including my sister’s, while my parents drove for an hour to come get me.

That is the kind of child I was.

I did get over my death watch, but only when I got through childhood and realized I was still alive.

2. I was forced to suffer dark-ages telephony

Between the ages of six and twelve my telephone number was 4 digits long. That was because we were latecomers to town and hadn’t managed to nab a 2 digit number. Even though some people still had party lines. (We had a private line because we were posh).

If you wanted to make a phone call you cranked the handle on the old black bakelite telephone and waited until the operator said “Number please!”.

You think I am kidding. I am not kidding.

We had a field trip to the telephone exchange when I was seven and it looked like this:

Except there were only two ladies and they were not wearing 1930s smocks. Obviously. Where did you think I was living? A museum?

(P.S. Yes. This was the Eighties).

3. When I was 19 I slept in train stations around Europe.

It has all started when I was living in Paris and earning, well, not very much.  Actually, I think nothing because I quit my job. I decided to visit Europe by Eurail. If you are not familiar with the concept, Eurail will sell you a special pass which allows you to ride European trains for a certain period. You pay upfront and then your tickets are free. But I immediately started running out of money. For a start, that free train travel didn’t turn out to be free. Some countries’ rail companies would demand a surcharge, others didn’t seem to recognize the ticket, and then there were all the little regional routes which weren’t included in the deal but turned out to be vital in getting to anywhere the least bit interesting. I had planned to stay in Youth Hostels but by the time I had paid for the bed, the bath towel and bought my daily loaf of bread and pot of Nutella, there was nothing left in my budget to actually visit much.

To cut a very long story short, I met a group of young people, who, like me, were traveling around. Except they were not staying in Youth Hostels. I rode trains with them for a while and then branched out on my own, sleeping mostly on the train but sometimes in the little regional stations, usually sitting up to avoid being woken by the station guard. I think there was a law about lying down, to deter tramps. Although they mostly left me alone because I very obviously did not look like a tramp.

(ha ha very funny. moving on. )

How did I manage this? I was 19 and and believed anything was possible. And I slept with a kitchen knife under my makeshift pillow.

4. I Wasted my Mother’s Hard Earned Money on Unnecessary Hair Treatments

I had a 1980s Poodle Perm all the way through high school, which cost my mother a frightening amount of money at the trendiest hairdressers in town. It cost her at regular intervals too, because I had long hair and insisted on getting it corrected each time the roots started to droop.

I was 17 when I started growing it out, and after that I wore it long and straight as was the fashion. (That was also all I could afford, what with my lounging my way around Europe and then becoming a student).

One day only a few years ago my aunt finally recommended I go see her hairdresser. She was good, she had won national competitions. But still never expected her to take one look at my hair and exclaim “you have curly hair!”

Sure enough, once she had cut it properly, I did.

Sorry Mum.

5.  I Am Confused about my Nationality

I am half French, half British. I grew up in the UK and then New Zealand. After I left high school I shuttled back and forth between New Zealand, France and the UK, eventually dragging my husband with me. We live in the US now and we think we’ll stay.

People ask what my nationality is and I still don’t know. I pass for a New Zealander. I make my way in France. Culturally, I am probably most comfortable in Britain. But rather than fitting in in all these cultures I kind of feel like I fit in none. I am at peace with that now. Sometimes it is actually easier to be a foreigner. People forgive you more easily if you get it wrong.

6. I have an atrocious memory.

Please forgive me if I forget your name (or call you Aaaan-Dree-a).

If we are supposed to meet up, I will remember it, but only because I write everything in a little red notebook. By the way, I am a cheap date - but only if your idea of a date is renting a DVD. Unless it was the best movie of all time, by tomorrow I will have forgotten most of the plot and the ending, and you can show it to me again. And again.

The memories are there, my issues are with retrieval, but none of those tricks and tips for remembering things work for me. So I associate you with a giraffe? That won’t help me remember your name unless I also remember that you are a giraffe. Now I have two things to remember.

This is one reason I will never join a book club. If there are more than three characters I can’t even keep them straight in my head while I am reading the book, let alone discuss their motives afterwards.

Maybe someday they will invent a memory pill. In the meantime, I have learned to manage mostly fine without it.

7. I don’t have the same last name as my children

I never took my husband’s last name. I have nothing against it except it is just as boring as my own last name.

Most people assume, but that doesn’t bother me either. I will answer to anything, as long as it is polite.

.

.

That’s it! I stayed up until 2am to finish, so it will have to do. I am too tired now to find someone to tag who hasn’t done this one already. Have you played this one? It’s fun! Let me know if you want to do it!

Today I went to our local supermarket by myself.

It was a very Twilight Zone kind of experience. The Wictor loves the supermarket, so I usually have at least one child in tow. Today I left him behind. I was feeling in need of a break.

I was feeling in need of a break, so I went to the supermarket, by myself.

As I arrived, I realized that I had been listening to the kids favorite music CD in the car. The one polluted with Dolly Parton, Belinda Carlisle and Nickelback, which is what passes for kids music around here. Too  late,  “Heaven is a Place on Earth” had already finished and “Borderline” was about to start.

I started to park in a “Customer with Child” space as usual, but realized my mistake and had to reverse out and drive to the next vacant spot at the end of the car park.

I was then required to walk at least 200 feet to get to the door of the store, feeling like there was something missing all the way. I am walking funny, I thought to myself. Did one leg suddenly get shorter than the other? Oh! It is just that there is nothing pulling down my arm. Look Ma! Both hands!

A slight moment of anxiety when I noticed there were none of those wonderful car-carts left. Oh. Yeah. Standard cart.

Hey Mister? Why aren’t you giving me a balloon?

Once in the supermarket I settled in for a standard supermarket run. Except… I took my time. I studied packets. I avoided nothing. I parked up in front of the kiddy vitamins for at least 10 minutes and reveled in the decision. Flintstones or Scooby Doo? Barbie or Cars? Hmmm. I could settle in here. It’s very peaceful. Somebody bring me a seat.

Finally at the checkout, instead of fielding requests for Gummi Bears! M&Ms! Lollipops! I bought two of these:

One for me and one for The Daddy.

Sigh. I really know how to live.

Disclaimer: I wrote this quite a few days ago and meant to post it, but then I got an uneasy feeling and asked The Daddy to proof read it first. He promptly declared that it made no sense whatsoever and what was I thinking. Once I had finished yelling at him for being so rude, not reading properly and all manner of other failings, I rewrote it, but I have to admit that it is still downright confusing.

Never mind. The days are passing and the Time Fairy still has not made an appearance to grant me the Gift of More Time, which means that another blog post will not be forthcoming in the near future. So I figured I would just post this anyway. Someone, somewhere might make sense of it. The key is to remember that Baby Sister speaks Native Texan, while her poor mother sounds more like Peter Jackson on helium ***.

You probably had to be there. Sigh. But look up! I did include a pretty picture!

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Baby Sister: “Mommy, the library at school is where they get the books for all the centers in the classroom”

The Mommy: “(OMG, what are they teaching her at school?) The sinners? It’s where they get the books for the sinners?”

Baby Sister: “No Mommy, they get the books from the library and put them in the centers in each classroom!”

The Mommy: ” The? Oh! They get the library books and put them in the centers!”

Baby Sister: “No! The centers! The centers!”

The Mommy: “You mean the senners? Mommy says centers, and you says senners. Right?”

Baby Sister: “Mommy! You’re saying it all wrong! I don’t mean that! You have to listen!”

The Mommy: “Sinners”

Baby Sister: “No!”

The Mommy: “Senners”

Baby Sister: “No!”

The Mommy: “Sennnnerrrrs”

Baby Sister: “No! No! No!”

The Mommy: “Saynnnnerrrrrs? Seeernnerrrs? ”

Baby Sister: “Yes, Mommy! That’s right! They put them in the centers!”

The Mommy: “That’s what I said. They take the books and put them in the centers.

Baby Sister: ” No Mommy! Centers! Santa is the man what comes at Christmas!”

(***I said “sounds like” ! I did not say “looks like” !)

I haven’t blogged in a long time. There just seems to be so much going on right now and if there is one thing I have learned in my thirty(coughcough) years it is how to prioritize.

I thought once the kids were back at school I would have more free time but I had forgotten about all those little tasks that had been neglected over the summer, ones you try very hard not to undertake with three children in tow - visits to doctors and dentists, car services, repainting of water stained ceilings (requiring, incidentally, many coats of primer and paint to the point of extreme frustration. When taking a shower at my house, please do not look up). Then, The T-Bot and his school have not been seeing eye to eye and that is an understatement. My mental energy has mostly been focused there over the past two weeks. And my physical energy? Well, apart form the above mentioned tasks, there has been housework and lots of it. My cleaning lady hasn’t been for two weeks and OMG I had forgotten how much I hate housework. 

To add to that (and being me of course I would add to that, can I never be satisfied???) there is the not insignificant task of launching a new website and supporting blog. The launch of my new website is the first step in the expansion of my business and we all know that expanding a business takes work, work and more work. When necessary until 2am. And then something will still go slightly wrong and make a liar out of you when you say “launching  July! August! September 8th!”  I have The Wictor at home and so my little issue is not being solved fast. Maybe tomorrow. I am just thankful I don’t have a boss to call me into meetings about it. 

That has basically been my life the last few weeks.  So, imagine how excited I was when a friend invited me to lunch on Friday! Better than just lunch actually, Childless Lunch! Our lunch date coincided perfectly with two estate sales I had planned for the morning and the restaurant was just around the corner from both sales, which in this city is like saying the planets had aligned.

Everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect. Because I found treasures! Lots of treasures! And wanted to take them all home and drool over them Gollum-like, but then I remembered I had a lunch date.  At a nice restaurant, except of course I didn’t know it was a nice restaurant because I had never been there, given that it is not the sort of place you turn up to with three little people in tow…

It was a lovely environment with good food and good company and (as The Daddy put it) I felt like a “real person”. And if there is something else I have learned in my [redacted] years, it is not to show any sign of embarassment when you walk into an unexpectedly fancy restaurant dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sandals.

At least I didn’t have 1950s dust on my hands because I had wiped it all off.

With a baby wipe, but nobody could tell. 

*************************************************

I am not sure when I will next have time to write here. It would be great if blogging was my day job, but it isn’t. I have two day jobs, here and here&here, and I feel guilty when I neglect them to ramble about my day. I’m sure I will be back, probably sooner rather than later, but something has to give… 

In the meantime, if I read your blog, here is a little secret. I have proven to be as terrible at social networking online as I am in real life. I just can’t bring myself to fish for visitors. So if I visit you and leave comments, it is because I want to. (See how I just shot myself in the foot? Proof at how I suck at this game. I’ll never get another visitor now. Except maybe Mum and Dad. Hi Mum and Dad).

In other words, you will still be seeing me around :-) 

This morning as we were about to walk out of the door to the bus stop, I slipped on the wet tiles in the bathroom and hit my head on the handle of a cabinet. It hurt like a very hurty thing, but after about 20 seconds on my hands and knees to make sure that I was, actually, still alive, I pushed through the pain and went out to help the children get their shoes on. At one point I thought I would be sick, but with the rush to get out the door it wasn’t long before the accident  was (temporarily) forgotten. 

Before kids, I would have probably spent ten minutes lying on the couch with an ice pack and a splitting headache, nursing my booboo. It’s lucky I didn’t, because as we opened  the front door the bus passed us and we had to run! run! run! to get there in time. 

I have decided that is one of the main things which makes a person a parent - the ability to put your children first (even when you feel like you should have an enormous handle-shaped hole in your head and are possibly about to die. Or similar).

In my fragile state I would obviously absolutely love a bucket of comments and emails asking if I am OK. Of course, the fact that I am writing this at all is probably proof that I am, but don’t let that stop you ;-) 

PS While writing this, I went looking for a link to that research we moms always talk about, that empirical proof that women have a higher pain threshold than men. I couldn’t find it. Instead I found lots and lots of articles like this. Gulp. Well that sort of cut the legs out from under my original post.