I’m prepared to bore you with a contiguous week of postings, if only to satisfy the challenge Jen has thrown down. Also, since she’s a signed/sealed/delivered author of the genuine variety, I figure any directives she has to issue on writing discipline are worthy of heeding.
This morning we were greeted with a surprised smile by our pastor as we staggered up the steps to 10 am Mass, an entire 30 minutes early and in time for Confession. He remarked on how very un-tanned and un-rested we looked for having returned from an exotic beach vacation, and we in turn congratulated him on his celibate vocation. Plus, he gets to spend next month at the Jersey Shore with other people’s kids, so presumably, their nighttime care will not be his concern. And he’s actually an Eye-talian American, so he will probably actually get a tan.
We, of pasty white northern European descent, were unable to work up sufficient pigmentation to even sunburn in the 3 cumulative hours spent on the beach this past week. But we did drink Coronas at one point (because I’m a terrible mother), and the public nudity was kept to an all-around minimum. So, win?
I am 18 weeks pregnant with number 3, but still sleeping somewhat happily on my stomach and not gaining all that much weight. Is it weird that this freaks me out? I’ve also only felt baby move a handful of times, and then I’m like, wait, did I feel that? No, that was nothing…or maybe was it? I also regularly fantasize about traumatic birth outcomes, fatal illnesses, and awful complications to either my or baby’s health, proving that I’m really no more fun as a third time mother than I was as a first timer. Does anyone else suffer from this kind of idiotic anxiety? And should I be feeling more gymnastics at this point since I’m practically a veteran gestater by now?
Anyway, there you have some stream-of-consciousness style posting to satisfy the not very exacting parameters of this blogging challenge.
And, because why not, some pictures:
You know, just some chocolate-masked egg babies hatching in a cafe window. Wft Europe.
And, their evil master, who may be, dare I hope, an actual Krampus? Lizzie, can you confirm this specimen as such?