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.

Two bits of goodness today: first, the dreaded Glucose Tolerance Test is over, and wasn't nearly so bad as my previous run-in; second, we got our car!!!!!!
My first GTT, back in the Baltics, was a miserable, several-hour ordeal which involved me puking up a bunch of the stuff I'd been attempting to choke down. Seriously, when I gagged on the liquid form, they just gave me the bag of powder to eat. It felt like half a kilo. I looked like Al Pacino's stunt double from Scarface.
This time around, they gave me what looked like a small pop bottle, said I had five minutes to drink it, and they'd draw my blood in an hour. So I glugged down this stuff, which had the look and feel of slightly flat complimentary airline orange soda, and waited. I know, sounds kind of harmless, but imagine chugging a 12-oz bottle of Jolt cola on an empty stomach, and then not being allowed to eat or drink anything else but water for the next 60 minutes.
So I was a bit nauseated, and bored, and slightly light-headed, but on the whole I prefer the Island version of this test.
The car! The car! We got our car today. It's a Mazda 3 hatchback and it's a shade of blue that doesn't quite match what we expected. But it runs, it has carseat latches (which many models sold here don't have, oddly enough), the A/C works, and it's ours. Yippee! No more driving the company car (and being paranoid about denting or scratching or failing to fully account for every meter driven). This weekend, we'll probably take it to the beach.

Today was my first visit to my new island OB/GYN. Baby's heartbeat is steady in the 140s, my weight is fine, and overall things look pretty good at 27 weeks. Deep sigh of relief.
The bad news is that next week I have to have a Glucose Tolerance Test. Longtime PS readers will recall (and the rest of you can look in up in the 2004 archives) that my first experience with one of these things, back in the Baltics, was less than pleasant. It was several hours long, involved attempting to ingest what felt like a kilo of pure glucose powder, and felt much like a sleep deprivation experiment conducted by refugees from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
My new OB, bless her heart, took it very well when I groaned about the prospect of another GTT. She also described the regimen I would face here: drink 50 g of glucose solution, then have a quick blood test after one hour. That's it. The contrast is tremendous: like the difference between visiting your pre-Renaissance barber and seeing Marcus Welby, MD. So I'm still not thrilled about having this test, but at least I'm dreading it a lot less.

It Came To Me...My One, My Only...My Preciousssss. Stuff has arrived! Not all of it, but some of it. We are officially no longer living out of suitcases. And I have my new toy back in my hands, at last at last at last. I've been using my husband's work computer sporadically; however, that means I need to find a time when he's not using it (and with fantasy baseball in full swing and fantasy football just around the corner, good luck with that). What also happens is that he'll walk away from it but I won't notice or get to it in time before it locks up. But this is no longer a problem because this little baby is mine mine mine mine mine.
Of course, I still have to find time. Tonight is my husband's bridge night. Far from begrudging him this Boys Night Out, I am happy that he has a chance to get out twice a week and socialize (to the extent that semi-pro bridge players have social skills...) since he's working from home five days a week. All work and no play -- and Red Sox losing to the Yankees 12-4 this afternoon -- makes Jack a dull and grumpy boy.
So after dropping him off at the club, getting the child bathed, snacked, toothbrushed, read to and put to bed, doing the dinner dishes, sweeping up the dead roach in the sunroom, picking up toys, putting away laundry, scooping the catbox, doing two crossword puzzles, and booting up the laptop, I find myself getting to Blogger somewhere after 10:30. My goal these days is to be under the covers by then. Rats.
Well, if I'm using the laptop in bed, I can technically meet my goal... Besides, tomorrow I can sleep in a little - assuming Gigi decides to sleep through the night, which she's had trouble with lately. There are a few teeth still fighting their way out, and when she's teething, she gets clingy. Seriously, her new pet name is Mommy's Little Barnacle.
She has one week left of "day camp," then a week at home before the term starts at her new day care/nursery after Labor Day. She's gotten back into the swing of day care all right: she's getting accustomed to the idea that Mommy takes her someplace where she gets to play with different toys all day; then Mommy comes to get her and we go home to Daddy, who is Still Working; so Mommy makes a little snack and we play together until Daddy makes dinner. Either that or we come home to Daddy, who is Still Working, and Mommy passes out on the couch while Gigi turns the living room upside down and brings Daddy toys to share. The latter is a little more common as we approach Month Seven of this pregnancy.
But hey, it's a routine, right? And little ones thrive on routine, right?
Yeah, it's past my bedtime. More updates on Getting To Know Our New Island Home, on our next episode of Purple Scare. Good night, y'all.

I admit it. I keep saying that "It's Just Stuff" and really it doesn't matter if it all arrives in shards and smithereens, there's nothing we can't live without or replace, blah blah blah. I kept saying before we left, "We have money, tickets, passports, and each other. Everything else is just details." It was a good little mantra.
The real challenge to me in keeping up this Zen and The Art of International Transfers mentality will be the arrival of our air shipment, which contains my birthday present, my only, my Precious...the laptop.
The computer I'm using now is my husband's telecommuting machine. For my birthday, my husband got me a lovely lovely new laptop of my very very own, which I hope will make it easier for me to keep up with the blogging. But we could only carry one computer onto the plane with us, and his gets priority. (Our other carryons were the diaper bag and the cat. My husband would have argued that the cat could get bumped, but I wasn't going for it.)
Anyway, I've been hoping that our air freight would be here by now. My fear is that it won't arrive by Wednesday. We're coming up on a holiday weekend here, and island time being what it is, as of Thursday the whole place is going to be shut down. Think SuperBowl Sunday, or the Stanley Cup perhaps, or the NCAA Final Four. Nothing is going to get accomplished after Wednesday at noon, I'm quite sure. And that means one more week before we get the baby's crib, her wading pool, a few more changes of clothes, and oh yesssss my precious...

It is said that many of us, no matter how far into adulthood we get, continue to have those dreams where you're back at school and you can't find any of your classrooms, or you have a test but don't remember going to any classes or reading any of the material, or you can't find your locker and you're late to class, or variations on that theme.
There is also "The Actor's Nightmare" where you're supposed to go on stage in one minute but you don't remember any of your lines, can't recall having been at any rehearsals, or don't even know what play you're supposed to be in. (Brilliantly rendered in a one-act version, btw, by Christopher Durang. I did that one in high school. Ben Lang may never forgive me for actually taking his pants away during a dress rehearsal in class...)
As for me, being in the travel industry, I get the "I have to be at the airport in 30 minutes and the car is here and I haven't packed and I don't know where my passport and tickets are..." variation on the anxiety dreams. If you have ever seen Gone With The Wind, and recall Prissy's "packing" before they evacuate Atlanta, well, you get the idea. That's the one that usually has me waking up in a cold sweat.
Here's the thing: usually, before I start a new job, I get bombarded with these types of dreams -- especially when a move is involved (ohmigawsh, the packers are here and I haven't a clue what's supposed to go where!) This time around, though, almost no anxiety dreams.
The last major outbound international move was four years ago, when hubby and I left North America for Baltic Europe. I was married less than a year. My grandmother, to whom I was very close, had just died after a lengthy and agonizing struggle with Alzheimers. My cat had just had a cancer scare. I was going to a job with unprecedented levels of responsibility for me. My mental state at the time was such that I would have aspired to catatonia. My dear brother, who lived nearby and was between jobs at the time, came over to keep me calm while the movers went about their business. He considered feeding me Xanax and Valium cocktails washed down with vodka tonics. Seriously, I was pretty close to a nervous breakdown.
This time around, while upsetting, was much much better. No "Prissy-packing" panic dreams. No pharmacists on speed-dial, no nail-biting/wailing/gnashing teeth, no family restraining me from jumping off the roof. Even my boss told me on my last day in the office, "You are remarkably calm." Honestly, I couldn't have told him whether it was because I have matured over the last four years, or whether I was just so deeply in denial that nothing registered.
We got to our new island home six days ago. Since then, I've had one school dream: I was walking around my old high school, trying to find my locker, and realized that I didn't remember the combination. Then I found it and the door was unlocked and there was nothing in there anyway. Last night in my dreams, I was working a production of Les Miserables. We'd been working hard, it was opening night, and somehow we realized that even though we'd been rehearsing multiple roles, we actually hadn't cast someone in one of the major parts. So I stepped up to fill in. I knew I wasn't the best singer, and I didn't have all of the lines down solidly, but the show must go on and this was the best I could do and they could all just deal with it. And I got up there, played the part, and didn't care whether I made an ass of myself or not, I was having fun and no one threw any tomatoes.
So, am I actually getting better at this business, or am I -- dare I say it -- growing up? Or have I just gotten to the point where other people's definitions of performance and accomplishment are not that important to me?
Maybe that's the definition of being grown-up?

Did I say a few days?

Okay, yeah, so I did. Heh. After getting back from my college reunion (which was lots of fun despite lots of rain), I realized that I had six weeks left to prepare for my next international move. I've done international moves before. I've done international moves with a cat before. I've done an international move pregnant before. But doing all of the above with a toddler? Oh, new levels of excitement.
The funny thing is, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Okay, granted, we had some of the usual hoopla about what goes into storage and what comes with us and what do we ship as air freight and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo on. And the fact that I came down with a respiratory bug for two weeks didn't help. All that time I would have spent playing Hogwarts Sorting Hat and running down to Goodwill with carloads of stuff I instead spent horking up lungbunnies and sounding like Lauren Bacall on helium.
So we didn't prep for this move with much detail. And the movers, although they appeared to be reasonable people, left empty Gatorade bottles all over the house and left the hot water tap in the bathroom running overnight (guess who's getting that last utility bill...?) But in the end, it's all just stuff and there's very little that we can't live without and couldn't replace. We got to our new island home in one piece; that's all that matters.

I may be off for the next few days. Yeah, okay, I don't post for over two months, and now I'm giving you notice?
Okay, for real: I'm off to New England for my college class reunion. I won't say which college or which class, but let it suffice to say that it's in Massachusetts and I'm not yet old enough to be the mother of anyone who just graduated. So there.