But really? There's just nothing to say. We get up. Some days I go to work, some days I get to stay home. Gracie goes to school. She loves school and seems to be thriving. We eat lunch. We play outside. We nap (my childrens' sleep needs remain woefully small in comparison to my own, don't ask me what THAT crap is about). We are having beautifully quiet, uncomplicated days and because I am not a writer, I just don't have that many interesting things to say about it.
Stosh (the official nickname for baby3.0, although I am beginning to worry it's going to stick after he's born, since G has taken to telling everyone who will listen that her baby brother Stosh is living in mommy's tummy) continues to make me nauseous, exhausted-but-sleepless, gives me dreams both vivid and grotesque, is moving and shaking more and more every day, and is generally working hard to be sure that the end of my reproductive career is met with relief instead of tears. (which, seriously? who are we kidding? it's ME. I could puke every day, ten times a day, for nine months, and there would still be great weeping and gnashing of teeth when the bakery is officially and definitely closed. THAT'S HOW I OPERATE.)
Things are quiet. I am not complaining. It makes for a boring blog, but it's better than the alternative. FO SHO.
Sorry. Lame update. Here. Watch Katie dance.