Still alive.  Still pregnant.  Trying very hard not to nurse anyone but myself.

Don’t think too hard about that last one.

Sugar Daddy and visiting mother-in-law have taken the boys downtown this morning, and I am blissfully alone to be sick in peace.  I spent most of Saturday in bed–ah, bed, how I love thee–but ventured out for church yesterday because, um, I don’t know.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I didn’t want SD to think I was using this pregnancy thing as an excuse to go all apostate on him.  Anyway, it was all right.  It helps to have an extra adult in the pew.  I was wondering, though, if it’s a sin to throw up the sacrament bread.  I’m hoping not.

For the record, since many of you asked, no, there is no reason I think Elvis shouldn’t stop breastfeeding.  I’ve actually been meaning to wean him for about four months now.  My other two kids weaned themselves at fifteen months and seventeen months (Mister Bubby quit cold turkey, in fact, which was amazing to me because he nursed about six times a day up to that point).  I never really intended to nurse Elvis longer than eighteen months, but then he turned nineteen months and twenty months and showed no signs of slowing down, and I thought, “Hm.  It appears that I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”  And you know what that means.  Or you ought to by now.  It means that I’m nursing a two-year-old.  No offense to him, but as I mentioned previously, it’s not working for me.  So now I really, really have to take matters into my own hands.  Like actually, in reality, do something of my own accord to see that he does not suck any more life out of me.  He hasn’t nursed yet today, and I’m hoping to quit altogether by the end of the week.  If not the end of the day.  I’m really, really okay with closing that chapter of his life.  Time to introduce heroin.  Just kidding.  It’s not funny.

So no offense to the rest of you all, either, but I think I’m going to go do something productive in the writing arena today, as I’ve been meaning to for about a month now.  Between all the illnesses and the other extracurricular activities in my household this past fortnight, I have been sadly remiss in fulfilling my ambitious goal of finishing the manuscripts I started in 2002.  I know, it’s shocking.  Well, that’s me.  I had a dream last night, or something–in my sleep I came up with two brilliant story ideas, and I can’t wait to butcher them in my current state of consciousness.  Then I can go back to sleep and dream about writing something good.  Au revoir, mes enfants.  (Okay, so I don’t really know French.  I took German in high school, but “auf wiedersehen, meine Kinder” sounded a little creepy.)