Our House, Is a Very Very Very Odd House

John the smooth-talker, watching me eat breakfast:
"Oh, Nee! You're so cute and little and petite and mostly hair-free and self-sufficient, getting your own breakfast and all!"
It must be true love.

Hannah's not much better. On the walk to school, she had to comment several times on my smallness (and the dryness of my hands for some reason). She even asked how old I was when I stopped growing. 13. "You don't look as big as a 13-year-old." Your pygmie mother thanks you, child.

Hannah can't wait to get taller than me, and my mother is probably dancing with glee over this turn of events, seeing as its the source of the Mother's Curse in my family. I have told Hannah a million times that if she wants to get bigger than me, she'll have to eat better, because with her eating habits, I don't see 'basketball player' in her future--I see rickets.

I usually tickle Hannah awake, and being the floppy child that she is, she usually manages to whack me with one or more of her limbs. But she also tries to get away with kicking me through the rails on her playbed when in one of her grumpy moods. I got onto her about it the other morning, pointing out that kicking is never nice, including when she does it to the boys at school. "Are you trying to melt my brain?" Yes, my diabolical plan has worked. *bwa ha ha*

[Do you sense a theme here? Mornings are not our forte at Chez Nee.]

I hope we have finished cycling through our various illnesses, because I have a very busy semester ahead of me and can't afford to lose more time. To recap: John was afflicted with back troubles; Hannah participated in the Spring Barf-a-thon; and I just had a bladder infection earlier this week. I managed to take care of it at home with gallons of water and juice (including chugging a liter of tomato juice--acidic!); those bacteria didn't stand a chance in there. (BTW, I highly recommend any of the editions of Take Care of Yourself; one of John's stepsisters gave us a copy when I was preggers, and it has been so useful.)

Hannah turns *9* on Monday. We just arranged to throw a party for her on Sunday; we're taking her and 5 friends to see Ice Age 2, and then to Pizza Hut. Better than a dozen kids running around our apartment, which we have tried in the past. We haven't bought her a single gift yet. Aren't we the worst parents ever? If you were one of the "lucky" few she sent her Barbie wish-list to, I apologize. "Moderation" is not a word in her vocabulary. And she doesn't need a Barbie drum set.

I have been very productive recently, if you define that as running around getting minor tasks and chores done. I still have the book translation, a term paper, a class presentation in 2 Mondays, and extra exams at the end of the semester looming over my head. And not just clouding my brain, but like gargoyles staring and staring and STARING down at me with their accusing stares, accusing me of not accomplishing anything purposeful. So. I'm going to try to whittle these items down. When I need a break, I'll be back.