More biting at school. My girl has now been bitten three times, and not always by the same offender. I'm trying very hard to be reasonable about this. So far, no broken skin, but the latest one left a mark for over 24 hours.
Trying very, very hard...

In today's edition of Really Great News: Gigi is going to have another cousin! My other brother Darrell and his wife, parents of The Nephew on My Side of the Family, announced to us yesterday that they are gearing up for their second. Part of me wants to cry Copycats, and the rest of me is saying the more the merrier, bring 'em on.
Okay, there is a very minor insignificant downside to this: one more birthday to keep track of. I admittedly stink at tracking birthdays. It's on my list of Things To Do When I Have Control of My Life: make one of those perpetual birthday calendars so I don't neglect friends and family on major events. I actually did make one at one point, but then lost it in the move to Europe four years ago. I keep hoping it will turn up so I don't have to start over from scratch, but...
Yeah, I know: LAME.
But I'm going to be an auntie again! Whoo hoo!!!

Network issues. I actually composed that last post sometime last week, but for some reason Precious didn't feel like talking to the rest of the house. It's all better now, and we even have more computers set up (YAY STUFF!!!) so I'm never at a loss for blogging access and space. Time, oh boy, that's another story.

Status Report: My blood test results were quite satisfactory. The Glucose Tolerance was normal, so I don't have to go through the 12" extended dance mix version, hallelujah. My thyroid, a perpetual issue, is within normal ranges.
Okay, so I'm anemic. That didn't really come as a shock to me, considering that I've been walking around like death microwaved for several weeks now. So the doctor recommended some nice cheap iron supplements that seem to be bringing me back to life. But let's face it, I'm two months away from Due Date, I'm working full-time outside the home, wrangling a nearly-two-year-old, and unpacking from an international move. I'm entitled to be just a bit groggy.
But at least my boss is a good family person who doesn't think that 12 hour days are the norm. Longtime PS readers will recall that my last contract involved a supervisor who had no life outside of work and did not comprehend those who did. (Many of those posts were removed from the archive on advice of counsel, who still wants me to shut this thing down. Sorry, Dad, ain't gonna happen.) Anyway, as I was saying, this boss doesn't expect people to prove their worth by the amount of time spent at their desks. Praise Buddha, I think I might actually get along with this team.

Some people are seeing good news in this headline. I see it as one more way that women get screwed by getting on the Mommy Track: nine months - or longer, if you're nursing - of compulsory teetotalling.
Mind you, I got this link from a friend who I spent a week in France with during Month Five of Waiting for Gigi. And if you think I spent all that time in Paris, having three-hour, thousand-dollar lunches for four without wine, you're nuts. And Gigi is just fine, thank you very much. The only reason I'm drinking less during this pregnancy is that hubby is on a very successful low-carb diet, and ice cream is more socially acceptable for me than wine or margaritas.

Oh, the humanity! The first major casualty of unpacking has occured. The moving company guy said, "I picked it up and the pot just slid right out." Um, maybe you should have picked up the carafe separately from the coffeemaker, guy. Thanks to my own klutziness at home several months ago, when I whacked the little coffeemaker's carafe into the fridge, I now have a grand total of two drip coffeemakers with no pots.
Well, at least the frothing pitcher for the cappucino maker is stainless steel. Whimper.

Working Mom Conundrum du Jour: What do you do when another kid bites your kid at daycare?
Lucky us, the little creep didn't break skin, but Gigi had to spend some time with ice on her hand, and when I came to pick her up there were still tooth marks visible. The ladies at daycare handled it pretty well, I think: they told me up front what had happened, how they treated Gigi, and what consequences the offender faced for the rest of the day. I felt somewhat reassured. But am I being too calm about this?
After all, at the place Gigi went when we were still on the mainland, they had a "three strikes and you're out" policy for biters. Here, they tell me, they spoke to the parents about it, and Mommy and Daddy Dracula say that yes, he has a problem at home too and they're working on it. Very well, but can he play on the other side of the room from Gigi until you get some results?
Okay, I know: toddlers can play rough. Some of them bite. Even Gigi has attempted to take a chomp out of me and Daddy on occasion when the teething is getting to her. It's a phase, kids go through it and get on with life.
So am I being a cool, reasonable person; or, am I risking a ticket from the Bad Mommy Police because I didn't rise up righteous and take out a restraining order on Gigi's classmate?
In the immortal words of N.W.A.: [very very bad word] Tha Police. I'm sticking with cool and reasonable. Until Gigi shows up with another set of Baby Marv Albert's impressions.

STUUUUUFFFFFF!!!!
Oh frabjous day, callou, callay, I chortle in my joy.
Our stuff has been delivered (which is, in part, why I have been off-line for a week). That's the good news. The bad news is that NOW we look like we got hit by a hurricane. Boxes, boxes, everywhere. The movers unpacked a lot, which is nice, but we seem to be running out of places to put things. Or I seem to run out of energy after unloading two boxes. I occasionally stop to catch my breath, and ask myself, "How the heck did I pull this off last time I moved house in my third trimester?" The answer comes back, a resounding "MOM." Oh yeah. And since today is her birthday, this post is a shout-out to her.
My husband, who shares a birthday with my mom (proof positive that astrology is a heap of crap!), suggested that we stop unpacking so that Mom would have something to do when she comes to visit. It wouldn't be a bad idea, except that Mom isn't coming here until November. The only thing worse than living without your stuff is living up to your keister in boxes of your stuff. No way.

So that stuff of ours that was supposed to arrive last Sunday? The good news is that it arrived. The bad news is that it hasn't been delivered yet. The trucking company is booked up till Wednesday, assuming that their operations aren't hampered by some seriously yucky weather heading our way in the next few days. So we may be facing a threat of cabin fever, unless we can score a deck of cards in the next 24 hours.
Again: I know, I have a limited right to complain, considering that I live on a very nice island in a very safe house (albeit inundated with ants). But I am facing the prospect of a weekend indoors with a teething toddler, brown- and blackouts, and mucho canned goods. Oh, and a rabid football fan who may not be able to watch his games on opening weekend.
I wonder if it's too late to evacuate.

First not-quite-crisis at work: Our lone IT guy gave his two weeks' notice. When he's gone, I'm alpha geek. Oh crap. Let's hope that a replacement rides in on a white horse FAST.

If Samuel L. Jackson lived here, his neighbors would know him instantly, because they'd constantly hear, "Enough is ENOUGH! I have had it with these [very bad word] ANTS in this [very bad word] house!!!"
As it is, even Stevie Wonder wouldn't mistake me for Sam Jackson, but a similar outburst regarding the local wildlife is constantly on the tip of my tongue. The only thing that holds me back is the presence of a toddler who is an increasingly precocious mimic.
The tree frogs aren't so bad; they're really only out after sundown. They are heard more than seen, which means that sleeping with the windows open isn't really an option.
But the ants, oh the [very bad word] ants.
Islanders will tell you that it's actually not a hygiene issue: they come in whether your home is immaculate or slovenly. No, oddly enough, it's all about water: when it's too dry, they come inside looking for it; when it's too wet, they come in to get away from it. Today, in the middle of a three-day weekend, we're having nice steady showers all day. So the half of my paycheck that isn't going to day care is going towards bug spray.
It's not that they're big nasty destructive beasts. It's just that they are omnipresent. And persistent. I'm going to go all Mad-Eye Moody and start bellowing about "Constant Vigilance!!!" storming around the house with a can of bug spray and towels, shooing my daughter away from spots I've just treated and looking for the next vulnerability.
I realize that people in big sweaty cities with roaches the size of circus ponies are not going to feel sorry for me. And in the grand scheme of things, I am a ridiculously fortunate person. But even the most hardcore Buddhist monk would, after a week in this place, start roaming the house with a can of Raid swearing that if it's got more than four legs and ain't paying rent, it's [very bad word] toast.

In theory, our stuff arrives today. That is, the boat that is supposedly carrying our household effects from the mainland is supposed to arrive today. (In keeping with the Ineffable One's well-documented sense of humor, once again we get a shipment in the middle of a holiday weekend...) So on Tuesday we'll find out whether our stuff is truly here, and if so, when will it actually be delivered to our home.
The last time I went through this (i.e., having to deal with unpacking a household of stuff while in my last trimester) two years ago, I was fortunate in two things: one, I was on leave, so I wasn't expected to function at the office after a marathon session of Finding Places For Stuff; two, I wasn't wrangling a toddler at the same time.
So if you check back here in another week and I haven't updated, please don't assume I've fallen off the planet; chances are I'll just be in another one of my periodic comas.

A few notes on Island Life, for those of you who may be wondering what else I do with my time besides going to the office, teaching my daughter not to eat puzzle pieces, and whining about when the rest of our stuff is going to get here...
Everything here is ridiculously expensive. The company gives us a cost-of-living adjustment to my paycheck, but let's put this in perspective: pretty much everything has to be imported. Hence, a bag of potato chips: over six bucks (U.S.) You would think seafood wouldn't be too much - not the lobsters from New England, but the local stuff, right? Wrong. Think about it: you want to run a fishing boat, you need fuel. Double your overhead costs right there.
My scariest encounter yet was at the grocery store, where I did a double-take at a prominently advertised "SPECIAL!" At first glance, I thought the sign said 2/$5.99. Hmmm, pretty good price, eh? I looked closer, and there was a carton of ice cream, some foofy European brand, two liters, for...$25.99.
Are you people kidding me? 26 bucks for a carton of ice cream?!?!?
I mean, speaking as a pregnant woman who, if she has a boy, would be well suited to name her kid Ben or Jerry, even I have limits on what I'm willing to spend on ice cream.
At that price, I wouldn't know whether to eat it or put it in my friggin' gas tank.