Or friggatriskaidekaphobia, if you prefer

It was a whirlwind of a weekend, as we invited Booby's brother, his wife and their three kids over for dinner last night. Our house hasn't been that clean in forever (even Christmas didn't propel me to clean like this). Probably the root of my cleaning freakout was the fact that my sister-in-law is allergic to cats, and when you have 3 of the feline variety lolling on all the comfy furniture or any other flat surface, you tend to have A LOT of cat hair floating around the place. We vacuumed, vacummed again, and then vacuumed the furniture. Then dusted. And then Booby forgot to lock the cats in the basement once everyone got to our house. But that part was easily remedied.

And I cooked! Roast pork (fattier than I expected*), scalloped potatoes (cooked in my wonderful Le Creuset red pepper casserole dish given to me by my lovely former boss), organic baby carrots with honey and brown sugar, asparagus with butter and lemon, and an all-organic salad of red leaf lettuce with cherry tomatoes and red raspberries with a light red-wine vinaigrette. Oh, and plain white jasmine rice for the 2 non-potato fans (I will withhold comment on their lack of taste, as one of them is my husband and one of them is a boy of 6). It all turned out quite well, although, as usual, my ability to time everything to be done simultaneously needs finessing.

Everything went swimmingly until the youngest child started coughing a bit. Perhaps she is allergic to pistachios? Her throat hurt. As the evening wore on, she started looking distinctly funny around the eyes, and she sneezed on me twice. Hmmm, seems less like an allergy and more like a cold/flu/hantavirus. OK, OK, it probably wasn't hantavirus. I panic when sneezed upon, I think. Anyway, we sat and watched Little Einsteins, which is a pretty potent mix of annoying and mesmerising, and then they packed it in. About 10 minutes later, Booby's brother returned to get paper towels and a Tupperware container: the wee one had blown some chunks in the car. I feel for her poor mother, as Bro was shipping out for a business trip the following morning, and she is about 12 weeks pregnant and looking a bit green round the gills these days. But I expect she'll saddle up and manage. Any time I cringe about how hard it must be to deal with sickness, potty training, weaning, sleeping, school, etc. etc. times X number of children, mothers are quick to remind me that it's a cumulative effect: no one sentences you to three kids all at once (unless you have a litter of quintuplets. And yes, I said litter. One of my fears about fertility treatment is that I'm going to end up pregnant with 3 or more babies, and I'll have to crawl under the stairs of the cellar and heave them into this world while I lie on an old blanket in a cardboard box. I know, it's not rational. But there it is.).

But anyway! Speaking of pregnancy, I'm all a-quiver for my consult on Friday THE THIRTEENTH (my husband asked me if I could change the date of the consult, but I'll be damned if I give in to rampant triskaidektaphobia). Certainly, there will be further fertility news to report for anyone who is into that kind of thing (I promise to keep the physical descriptions to a minimum if possible, but as this is just a consult I think that should be easy enough).

And also speaking of pregnancy, I guess I shot my wad too early, but there will be a Blog for Choice event on January 22nd. I saw the link on the wonderful and so, so funny Twisty at I Blame the Patriarchy. I'll be blogging (assuming that I remember because sometimes I'm a little dumb like that, plus it's a Sunday). Will you?

*When I was 9, I ate over my friend Diana's house and there were plans for a sleepover. Those carefree, Go-Go's listening, friendship bracelet making plans came to an abrupt end after I became very, very ill - to this day I blame the pork roast because I accidentally forked up a piece of pork that had a rind of fat on it. I didn't wish to be rude, so I bolted it down, and that damn lump of fat churned in my stomach until violently reannouncing itself into the toilet bowl. I can still hear Diana's mother lamenting the fact that she didn't cook a pizza. I should have known better than to cook a pork roast for little kids. I'm sorry, kids. Never again.