Wanna try for seven?

And now- An Open Letter To My Daughter, Currently Crawling On My Lap and Chewing On My Hoodie:

Dear Nora Jane,

Happy six months! We [you] did it! In honor of this momentous occasion, I'd like to point out a few key things that you've done to make us better people/grownups/housecleaners.

1) Since I found out about "you," and since the date of your arrival, all of my fears and nervous energies and unfocused creativities have channeled themselves into a new superpower. It's called The Ability To Write On A Deadline. (I was surprised, too.) At a period in my life when I've never had less alone time, I've suddenly never needed to write more. This is awesome.

2) Your Dad and I never quite knew just how filthy of an abode we kept. We sure do now! The squalor in which we dwelled (and with which we were fine, thankyouverymuch), suddenly is NOT COOL FOR THE BABY. Plates on the counter? Ants are gonna come and crawl all over THE BABY! Now we douse everything with industrial-strength Lysol, which- OH MY GOD, WE HAFTA USE BETTER PRODUCTS, WE'RE KILLING NORA'S PLANET! So- cleaner and way more neurotic. I'm still gonna call these "plusses."

3) And that guy I married? You know, your Wonder Twin to whom you gurgle "Hi?" Before you came along, I'm pretty sure he wasn't as adept at changing diapers (with or without "girl parts") in the middle of the night, nor was he so cheerful at 4am. Trust me, sister. You skipped into this world and tangled his thumb right around you. I'm not jealous so much as impressed. Also- singing and crawling around the kitchen floor before dinner? That was not part of his nightly routine. Not every night, anyhow.

4) Before you became the MiniMe strapped to my hip, I never realized my capacity for violence. I was a bit of a pacifist and had more than a little fear of confrontation. However, I almost ripped a woman's face off for poking you. Sure, abject brutality is rarely a 'pro,' but I'm kinda proud of my emerging Mama Bear instincts. (My coffee mug says so.) While never shy, I'm certainly done with politesse- at least where you're concerned. Maybe this will manifest itself in my next telemarketer convo! Although probably not.

5) Ironically, now that I have zippola "down time," I've never napped more. At least once a week, you'll scream like a banshee, become incredibly "difficult," and I'll crawl into bed with you to "calm you down, just for a minute." Then we'll sleep for three hours and it won't matter a bit about dishes, laundry, dinner, projects or whatever the heck it was that was making me [you] crazy. Well played, Bitsy.

6) Multitasking has become less of a concept and more of a synonym for "the day." Nannying with you in tow has made me quicker on the uptake. And the downtake. Which is a synonym for "catching things one-handed."

7) You've made your parents a better couple. I know, this shocked me as well. I already thought we worked pretty well as a team. But being shipwrecked together and/or the art of trust falls aside- few things bond people like holding a person who is equal parts Me and equal parts Him. Also in that bondy mix- Look At This Milestone/Good God, What's That Smell/Quick, Get Me A Towel/High Five!

8) And finally...I get my mother. And hers. And Peej's. And our sisters. And our friends with kiddos. Prior to you, doll, I had all sorts of Thoughts about Motherhood. And how everything people did was Different Than How I'd Do It. And now I get it- in that I don't get it at all. But I get what it is that I'm supposed to "get." And I can't explain it any further to you, Nora. For you do not yet (to the best of my knowledge) have children. And someday, if you have children, you'll kinda sorta understand me and the bizarre things I do. I hope. But for now, it's totally your job to look at me and wonder why I'm so ridiculous and angsty and pushing these weird wooden toys on you.

It's because I love you.

And am trying to be a Good Mom.

And, besides, the wooden toys are good for your brain.

"Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday..."

I have Mount St. Laundry in my stairwell. And it cannot be scaled.

The tumbleweed cat hair is the size of the actual cats.

So of course on Saturday morning I told P.J.- "I need to paint the upstairs bathroom."

He responded to this the way he generally reacts to any major change in the household; with complete and utter dismay. A little stonewalling. Perhaps a half hour of ignoring (which never, never works). He asked me why.

I wanted to tell him that the aversion I have to that corner of the house is disturbing (I pretend that I know feng shui- I do not), that the "master" bathroom is essentially a few pieces of sheet rock propped up against a shower fitter- you know, the kind your Grandma has?- and that my hatred for the dingy walls represents everything that I hate and fear and want to change in the world...

"Because I want to," I told him.

After a few moments, he came back with this- "You want to paint it white, right?" Yep! Because when I crave change and pop and a new lease on life, I choose...white. Sure.

I told him that I wanted a deep brown, a color that has been chosen by folks for whom I've worked (and it's rocked.) He said no. I got so mad that I went into the backyard and pretended to mulch trees. Later, I was much too tired to think about painting a bathroom- and our excellent friend Jamie came over to shower us with gifts, Ecuadorian food, and lullabies for Nora. It was a fantastic evening, and one that gave Peej a false sense of security that the bathroom "thing" was over.

The next morning I left for Home Depot ("Where everybody knows your naaaame...") and picked out paint- I took into consideration P.J.'s trepidation towards dark colors and tried to temper my choices based on that. Bought one I dug and that I thought P.J. might actually...be okay with. I did not tell P.J. the color, nor did I let him see it until it was already slopped on the walls, rendering it DONE.

Turns out, he loves it. Or said he does. Which is wise. The color is Adobe Straw (Rachel: Ooh..! Keely: You have no idea what color that is, do you? Rachel: Nope!) And it's actually a variation on brown. (Shh...)

And here it is:

This is the best angle and lighting I can get, given that this bathroom is essentially the size of an escape pod. But as of last night it's an Adobe Straw escape pod. Maybe we can start to take the air quotes out of "master" bathroom. So now: The lower level bathroom has a soaking tub and new tile (and is rat-free! Woot!), the main floor bathroom is no longer teal and has shelving, and the upstairs bathroom doesn't make me cry any longer! Who says I can't have it all? (Whoever says otherwise will be argued down. Ask Peej.)

And here's a freebie li'l cleaning tip for you! Want a sparkling bathroom in five seconds? Take everything out of the bathroom, ever. It works wonders. Sure, your husband will search for months for his toothbrush and there will be no actual "soap" on the premises...but it'll look like a million bucks.

Or at least $23.47.

It's wick!

This past weekend we jaunted over to the Elston Farmer's Market Garden Center- don't let the "farmer's market" part fool you, it was more "garden center" than anything else. Although they had a really sweet selection of stone mushrooms to decorate one's yard- but I guess that's pretty "garden," too.

We walked away with, among other things, marigolds, a rose bush, a peony and a raspberry plant. The reasons (besides the fact that it's really fun to buy things) are as follows:

-My Nana actually used to have "prized marigolds." This makes me feel warm and fuzzers inside to [have P.J.] plant something that she used to "prize." Also- the yard rabbits (much like garden gnomes but more dangerous) cannot stand the smell of them. This way, we'll actually get to eat the stuff we [P.J.] plant[s]. We don't want to go more proactive against the rabbits, since, as everyone knows, rabbits have overtaken the rats in the city. This is true. And awesome.

-P.J. actually did promise me a rose garden. And I'm collecting on that.

-We believed that peony bush I received for "free" from the Arbor Day Foundation (card-carrying member, baby) perished over this past winter. As some of you may recall, this was the plant which beat our new house to the finish line in the race of Things We Actually Own. I illegally planted it in the yard well before any passing of any keys. (But, if you consider all the illegal things this house had been used for in the past handful of years- I feel that guerrilla gardening falls well under the radar of punishable offenses.) Anyway, while the peony flourished last summer and early fall, we [P.J.] may or may not have forgotten to winter it. (I don't even know what that means.) But to quote Dickon in The Secret Garden, one of my favorite books ever: "It's as wick as you or me!" I say this a lot. Even when something isn't necessarily "alive." Like I've mentioned before, P.J. is the gardener. (Also- we now have two peony bushes that are "wick.")

-The raspberries will join the strawberries which we- ahem- borrowed from our lovely garden on Oakley. My hope is to eventually have enough backyard fruit to open a jammerie. Jammery? A place for squashing berries. Kate and I used to pick raspberries and blackberries from the neighbor's yard (see? I come by this stealing naturally) and sell them in little Dixie cups in our lemonade stands. Also- I used to make leaf rubbings for which we had the gall to charge a dollar. It was a one-stop emporium. However, the extension of Hancock Road had very little traffic to speak of- although the occasional biker (motorcycle, mind you) would be convinced to slow down. I'm sure the chalk drawings and notifications of LEMONADE AND BERRIES AND LEAF RUBBINGS down the block helped. Kate would make the hard sell of fruit and beverage, and, like Jojo the Idiot Cirus Boy, I'd shill some rubbings. We cleaned up.


So I've done my part. Now it's up to P.J. to plant, to maintain, to seed some grass, to water, to mow, to weed, to mulch...you know, his part. He has a green thumb. Perhaps a whole hand. Since I over-love, my thumbs are, sadly, black.

Which sounds like a circulation issue.

And speaking of discolored appendages, I spent the better part of this week in excruciating pain. Since I'd recently been led to believe that my pain tolerance is decently high, I was concerned. Okay, not "concerned" so much as "whiny." (But let's be honest here: I was unaware of bursting ovarian cysts and my c-section recovery was kinda peachy. The last time I whined about pain was when Nora was wedged on my right lung. So that's where pregnancy fell on the scale of things.) Anyway, I couldn't lift my left shoulder any higher than my mid-section, it couldn't be touched- and, since I can't take anything stronger than Tylenol whilst nursing, nothing helped the pain.

Whine, whine, whine.

I finally got in to see my fabulous chiropractor and discovered that I had a) a pinched nerve in my neck, b) a popped shoulder, and c) a slightly dislocated rib. A couple of adjustments and one stellar wellness massage later-(Thanks Dr. Bouvin, Dr. Vargas and Kelly!)- I'm starting to feel better. So how did I get this way? No idea. I sling the baby girl a lot, plus I lift multiple children up multiple staircases, but you wouldn't think that would equivocate the loser in a bar fight. (I never lose bar fights.) It must've been one of those awesome, happenstance, increasing-strain injuries. The kind that happen rather often to me. Since my joints weren't amazingly well-formed by the time I was born.

As my Dad is fond of telling me, "You weren't fully cooked."

My Dad used to have to make emergency trips to my elementary school playground to pop my elbows back in their sockets. This is true. It is an art and a skill. I was so proud of my Dad's abilities that I'd brag to school nurses and ER doctors that "my Dad pops my elbows in and of out of their sockets all the time!" Which I'm sure indicates a troubled home and not a troubled musculoskeletal system.

Sorry, Dad.

This is also the Dad, however, who taught us to makes crepes (always separate the egg whites), the importance of a brilliantly timed key change, and why the Three Stooges are clutch. He's the guy whom I'll associate with the scents of sawdust in a house and chicken on a grill. A stellar guitarist. The ultimate handyman. The kind of Dad who would watch the X-Files every Friday night with his fourteen year-old daughter- and, later that year, take her to see Etta James to help her get over a particularly tragic break-up.

So, in honor of my Dad's impending birthday, here's a clip that he and I will always, always find funny. Because he's just that awesome. (And this clip is really, really funny.)



(Happy birthday, Dad!)

Sometimes we read books, too.

Let me start out by saying that, apparently, I cannot top last Thursday's post. I don't think I should even try- and I hope that's cool. It was certainly not my intention to make people weep (there's enough intentional weeping in the world), and the fact that it resonated with a) people with kids, b) people without kids, and c) maybe even kids, themselves, leads me to believe that I have reached the apex of my blogosomeness and should probably just rest on my laurels.

But, since 'blogosomeness' isn't a word (yet) and I have no laurels on which to do any sort of verb...I hope the minutiae of my Monday will suffice.

Presented for the consideration of the Midnight Society (Thanks, Chel!):

Last night, having done every ounce of cleaning that a home deserves, corresponded with everyone whom I ought, and completed the tasks for the upcoming week, P.J. and I opened the Netflix's Instant Queue. (Only one of those prior statements is true. I'll let you place your best guesses.) Since I am nearly caught up with the shows of my Boyfriend Trifecta (John Krasinski, Demetri Martin and James Roday)- and, since I am completely unable to start the darned series that friends have been raving about (due to utter laziness, not disinterest- yes, they're different), I decided to take Peej up on the offer of "adding some shows to the Queue."

I think he's gonna stop offering stuff like this.

There are so many good shows right now. And so many excellent cancelled ones. But my first suggestion? Highlander! (P.J. had no idea that there were so many seasons. He knows now.)

And then we worked backwards.

The first season of Sesame Street. The Care Bears movie. ("We care! We...care! I...care!") The original Strawberry Shortcake and, of course, My Little Ponies. (For Nora.) Then we got a little crazy and began Googling shows that we vaguely remembered (Shirt Tales! Getalong Gang! Mapletown!) And seriously? The animation on these things leave a little bit to be desired. Faces are made up of like, four pixels. They are still greatness incarnate, however.

(Question to my Mom and/or Kate: Remember when I used to carry that panda bear trading card around with me, circa '84? Was that 'Getalong Gang' or 'Shirt Tales?' I can't recall. Perhaps because I was four. Or maybe because they're essentially the same show. Also- did you know that 'Mapletown' was anime? I sure as heck didn't. Was I a particularly dense seven year-old?)

We then found a YouTube copy of  The Felix the Cat movie- a flick that, until last night, I half wondered if I had imagined. It is so great. ("Anairo mines...Anairo! Oriana!") Yes, I realize that will resonate with, oh, one of you. And it's Kate, again. Peej and I have started watching it- like we do with most things- way too late at night, rendering it a four part miniseries.

We've done this before; some of you may remember that during our engagement we enjoyed a seven part series called "Far and Away." At 1am. Each part was roughly ten minutes long. (Boy, I thought I was tired then!)

And this morning I introduced Nora to the glory of both YouTube and Strawberry Shortcake.

A confession: my nearly-six month old has seen TV. She loves it. Also? I feel no shame in this. During our late night feedings she developed a Pavlovian response to hearing The Office's opening theme, and I'm pretty sure she caught some Law & Order interrogation out of the corner of her eye. In our work week she's the youngest of three children, all of whom have a very special relationship with the Boob Tube. (NJ digs anything with the word 'boob.' See what I did there?) And I'm certainly not gonna hide her in the kitchen when Dora or Max & Ruby appear. Thirty minutes here and there is not going to fry her neurons. Plus, I would like to pose the question- how are the spinny fish on the aquarium bouncer not just a less-awesome version of a TV show? I'm not gonna plop her down unattended in front of either, but if you had your choice: learning how crayons are made OR a watching a starfish who only knows three songs? Crayon factory, all the way.

Please do not report me.

And, to firmly plant us in the here and now- This Week's Commercial That Bugs the Bejeebers Outta Me: The International Delights Coffeehouse Inspirations ad (I realize that's a lot of words). It features a guy, clad in an apron, pouring a mug for an attractive woman.

"Here's your caramel blahdiblah," he says. (Liberties with dialogue have been taken. I was too irate for accuracy.) Said woman takes the mug, smiles, and replies "Thanks, hon!" Get it? It was her husband the whole time!'s

Except.

If Mr. Man has time to don an apron and be all shenanigan-y, couldn't he just as easily have made dinner? For example? Maybe scrubbed a toilet or two? Also- that's his idea of pampering his wife? Dumping [admittedly delicious] flavoring into straight-up java? Step it up, pal. And, worth a mention- Guy wants to play dress-up and the best he came up with is barista? COME ON.

Perhaps I should turn off the TV for today. Too many hard-hitting issues really get the blood pressure goin'. Time for a nap. Or a coffee break.

I do have an apron.

Just wait...

Today is stunningly gorgeous in the fair(ish) city of Chi. Like, running barefoot across the adjacent blanket in Millennium Park gorgeous. And then apologizing, for you were just trying to get a free bag of ComEd popcorn before the movie started. Which won't happen this year because the city hates my personal view of fun.

But I think you get the picture.

Sometimes days this lovely have the unexpected effect of making me sad. The 'early Sunday evening' or 'end of summer' kinda sad. And forget about an early summer evening at the end of August. My birthdays were always a major holiday in any house in which I've lived. The day itself caused jubilant explosions of awesome in my little mind- from the hour I would wake up [5am] to the last consciousness-fighting moment [2am]. Between wearing my purple and white striped skirt/top combo (which I wore every year until it went from "outfit" to "halter and "something trying to pass as a skirt"- awesome on a nine year old), and having my big sis Kate read the tale on the inside of the Super Mario Bros. Nintendo game (This is so true. I have no idea why but I flippin' loved that story), it was a truly terrific day. But somewhere in the midst of the strawberry cupcakes, NKOTB and Def Leppard dance parties, and parade of troll dolls, I'd get inexplicably sad. For a brief second I'd become all too aware that this day- my favorite- was here, it was almost over, and I'd never be farther away from it than I currently was. Silly, sure. But that's how I rolled. I was a silly roller.

This awareness has intensified over the years. But it's downright ridiculous these days. The other night as I was holding Nora and staring off into space, Peej snapped me back to attention by asking "You're sad because you love her too much, aren't you?" Which was embarrassing. Because it was true. And it had the effect of making me think harder about that, which just made me sadder. And then I teared up. And then P.J. laughed sympathetically and I laughed too, which made me cry a little harder- but now it was extremely embarrassing to be laughing and crying. So I rubbed my eyes on Nora's belly and she let out this fabulous laugh combo of "Oh, you" and utter glee.

Which started me up again.

Is it possible to be seeing lightyears into a person's future and to be unquestionably in the moment? I think it is. I cannot believe that Nora is almost six months old- and, at the same time, she's only an infant. The stuff she's doing, seemingly overnight, is kinda astounding- I'm sure not to the world at large, but as the person who carried her and sees expressions and mannerisms of myself, my husband, my loved ones...it's sometimes a bit much, that reminder of Oh my God, we actually made a person, she's totally cool, and she can hold a fork like a human being!


Just wait, I can hear people thinking. Just wait until she starts to run/swim/do cartwheels/goes to college/moves away/has a baby/wins a Pulitzer/becomes President...but I don't need to wait. I can totally see it. I look at her and see a knowing look in her eyes- and then I wonder where that came from. I can call up- with total clarity- the moment that P.J. put her in my arms and I felt that soft skin against my cheek, nuzzled that stretchy pink hat against my nose. I have not forgotten the last night of my pregnancy, feeling her kick somewhere between my ribcage and my esophagus as I lay in bed and promised that I'd try to forgive her for this kinda stuff. Or the day that we first saw "her" in an ultrasound, this wide and gaping mouth singing an aria for her hands. It's been both an eternity and over in the time it takes a baby spoon to thwack to the floor.

Heck, I can see my wedding day. The yearlong engagement and making pivotal decisions over Mario Kart. The day we moved in together- with the strawberry patch and crabapple blossoms and the giddy decision to never move from that apartment ever ever ever. Or my 25th birthday, where an extremely intimidated Peej took me to a ritzy Armenian restaurant- where he felt out-classed and out-ethnicitied- but did it because a) he loved me and b) wanted to share my "culture." (And now, subsequently, can order lamajoon and kufta like a native.) Or the day I met a sweetheart of a 23 year old, with ears for listenin' and a wide smile. I can see my boyfriend. I can. And it jives in an instant with the cereal-feedin', trash totin', lawn tendin', drill carryin' guy I married, the one who sleeps best in complete solitude- but has fully accepted that his bed will always house two cats and two ladies who sleep like starfishes.

"And just wait," Peej told me last night as I was sorrowfully mashing my pillow (why are beds the primo locales for feelin' sad?) "Just wait," he said as he indicated Nora's room across the hall, "There are others we haven't even met."

Which was, at once, sad and wonderful and exhilarating and terrifying and romantic and cool.

Kinda like my birthdays. And my twenties. And this clean-slate of a day with my fabulously teensy and wonderfully growing wee babe.

So I'll go and enjoy it. Fully. I'll dress her up in something a little ridiculous and take her into the sunshine that she fears so much. I will quite possibly nap with her on a bed that has not been made- and might not be made any time in the near future. And later, when she falls asleep and I begin to mourn the ending of a day that promises to abut a rainy Friday- I'll try to keep it in check. There's nothing that keeps me in the moment quite like the aftermath of a baby's day.

At least 'til she hits 13.

Oh my God.

I can't drive 55.

...But apparently, neither can the state of Michigan.

This past weekend Annie and I surprised our excellent pal, massage therapist extraordinaire and partner-in-crime since 2002 (Annie and Kat go further back, but we're gonna go by my timeline, here) with a superbly awesome girls' getaway trip to Harbor Country, Michigan.

I had never thought about Michigan in that way, before.

I have been a fool.


For starters, we sent Kat a text on Thursday afternoon, saying she'd receive instructions the following night. An actual reply text: "I get INSTRUCTIONS? Like, go to the graveyard. Bring pennies and string. Tell no one?"

I replied that apparently she no longer needed instructions.

But the following night we told her to pack a bag with a few different types of outfits and to be ready the next morning at 10ish. When we picked her up and she tossed her bag in the trunk, she seemly awfully surprised that WE had weekend bags in there, too. (I guess one of our closest friends thinks that a "birthday surprise weekend" entails us dropping her off somewhere, alone.)

We crossed into Indiana. She seemed even more surprised. But when we hit Michigan her responses turned supersonic. "Two state lines!" We wondered to ourselves if maybe we should've checked with her parole officer. Or Annie's. (I don't have a parole officer. I've never been caught.)

Ninety miles outside of Chicago proper is the town of Sawyer, Michigan, quite possibly the cutest place ever. As we pulled into the Rabbit Run Inn, we were greeted by three dogs peering out of the "office" half door. One was a greyhound. I love greyhounds. Our room was called The Seagrass Room and it was downright decadent. It had a private porch that overlooked the koi pond and the grounds. It was a short walk to the beach. (Also, to the neighbors' property where they seemed to be having a rip roaring time until- oh, two in the morning. There was a bonfire and a spirited game of what Annie errantly called 'bunghole.' "I knew it was wrong!") And now it is in print.

The vineyards- oh, the vineyards. I had mistakenly believed that nothing amazing could come from a Midwestern winery, when in fact I sampled what may be the BEST PINOT NOIR EVER at Domaine Berrien. Also, a Viognier. And a nice table red. Also- the Cabernet Franc. And something with a 'G.'

After enjoying the tasting room, we bought a bottle, some cheese, crackers and tapenade and stayed awhile on their lovely deck overlooking the vineyard and pond. (What is it with Michigan and ponds? Also- hanging plates on the wall. In the inn, the wineries, the diner- the gas station. Decorative plates.) This part of the day was especially  fabulous, as the weather was in the 70s and, well, we were sitting on a winery deck with wine and cheese and each other. Even better was when a huge gust of wind blew the napkins and plates off of the table, forcing Annie to jump up and 'rawr' after them like an impressive Velociraptor. She got them all! And I almost fell out of my chair.

Next was the Round Barn Winery, up the road in an actual Amish barn. There was a tasting bar that encircled the entire structure- and it was elbow to elbow with people when we arrived. It took a soft-spoken Brit (Annie) to get space at the bar for her friends who were content to sit on the ground (Keely and Kat.) The deal at the Barn was that for 7.50, one would buy their tasting glass- and they would FILL IT with no less than five types of wine, one dessert wine, a vodka sample or martini AND you'd get a beer token to take to the adjacent beer barn. (They had a beer barn, too!) My samples included a Blanc de Noir (we all decided this was an excellent New Year's Eve wine), a lovely Riesling (for some reason my tasting notes on this one stated that "Annie has a crisis"), a Gewurztraimer (excellent with Mexican cuisine, forcing me to exclaim rather loudly that I was looking for a good taco wine), a Cranberry wine ("Is this alcoholic?" "No, but I think we kinda are"), a sweet Redel Doux (Kat- "I feel like someone just shoved a grape straight up my nose." However, I bought a bottle), and the Apricot dessert wine ("This tastes great but smells like cleaning products." "It really does!"). Then they gave us a sample of their vodka- made from grapes!- mixed into a martini with their cranberry wine. I didn't know you could do that! It was really, really good. Kat said it was Darwinism in a glass. I don't remember why she said this, but it was really apt at the time. And we laughed. A lot.

Once at the beer barn, I got a cocoa stout, I think Annie got an IPA and Kat ordered the mother-pucker (oh, you guys) which was a sourish beer that Kat could not drink, as she's allergic to hops. So we drank it! Happy birthday, Kat!

Back to the Inn to sit on our porch and stare at the koi pond. I took a break to pump (sorry, but this was a big ol' subplot of the weekend- Kat and Annie frequently acknowledged the rhythmic sounds and compared it to various animals having little animal issues.) THEN we got all dressed up and went to Tabor Hill Vineyard for dinner. Since we had missed a tasting at this winery, we each got two separate glasses with dinner and shared them about. I started with the Cab Franc rose with our incredible appetizers of polenta fries with white truffle oil dipping sauces AND a smoked salmon flatbread, and moved on to a Classic Demi Sec (Bob Hope's favorite! That sure is why I ordered it!) with my rad dinner of tempura lobster in nori. We also got this really cool side dish of "potato salad" that was anything but- sliced and friend potatoes, slivers of green beans, blue cheese, a vinagrette...and some other awesome stuff. (I actually brought that back to the room and ate it for breakfast with a spiced muffin.)

Perhaps the best part of the dinner, though? The 17 year-old busboy who simply could not stop hitting on us. I say this with all modesty. Really. I think he would've hit on the chairs had we vacated them. It started with pouring glasses of water and telling us "what a treat it was to see three beautiful smiles" that night. Aw, we thought. Aren't you cute. Next go-round was a comment that we seemed like a lot of fun. Yes, yes we do. And then he casually dropped the fact that he got off at ten! I almost offered to drop him off at the sitter's house.

However. Incredible meal. We capped off the evening by taking two bottles back to the Inn for our "evening." Okay- proof that we are no longer 24? We only got through one of the bottles, decided that the porch was "too chilly" and passed out in our beds, tucked in and with jammies by 1am. Sure, there was some concern regarding a lamp "we'd hafta keep an eye on" and at one point I laughed until I almost peed (it really wouldn't be one of my stories without it), but for the most part it was pretty tame.

And I slept! Sure, I woke up around 4:45am just to look at the clock (apparently Nora woke up in Chicago around then, too) and then every half hour, just to peer at the clock and acknowledge that it was, in fact, okay to be sleeping. Still counted as a great night's sleep- on an insanely comfy bed. I may or may not have starfished out into Annie's territory (I was snuggling!) but she's too polite to mind.

The next morning we went to the Blue Plate Cafe for brunch- I ordered the smoked salmon and bagel (it was whole wheat- "That's all we have, I think") and it came scrambled up in eggs. Which was not previously mentioned. But it was fine. (I'll admit it- I'm a breakfast snob. My parents and their restaurant have ruined me with awesomeness.) We had a very earnest waiter that I nicknamed 'Earnest.' He was all about being a waiter. It was appreciated.

And then antiquing! Which truly gives a new meaning to the term Adult Weekend. I bought Peej a squirrel doorstop (for our bedroom door that slams whenever an upstairs window is open) and an antique brass door knocker with various keys on the ring. Quite cool- and not a little bit Jacob Marley. Annie started a teacup collection. With one teacup. But it's an excellent start. I had Antiques Regret as we pulled away from the second shop- there had been this vintage green "lizard skin" handbag with a funky handle that I coveted (the tag read Genuine Reptile(!!)- but at 65 bucks, we had to love from afar.

And then homeward bound. It was a fabulous weekend- but I was superbly excited to see my li'l miss, home with her Dad. I had been extremely nervous about leaving her, even for 28 hours, but they were fine, I was fine, the pump was fine, the bottles of wine in the trunk were fine...

...and somehow, turning 30 seems fine. I think the three of us are ready.

(In two months.)

Forget the SwaddleMe- swaddle ME.

I am tired.

I haven't been this tired since- well, never, I guess. Which is a horribly constructed sentence. As was that one.

Here's a bit of a confession: I never, not even once, pulled an all-nighter in college. Nope. Never needed to. Most of my classes were tailored towards subjects and habits in which I already excelled; crazy amounts of reading each night, papers about my feelings (like a blog!), projects and presentations wherein I basically got to make 'em laugh, show some shiny objects, and make it home in time for my afternoon nap. Not that I glided, but...I certainly wasn't pushing myself towards the Accelerated Sciences. Which we did have. I've heard.

Sure, I stayed up waaay too late working on shows, a fabulous TV series or two, the occasional layout meeting for one of the school's papers (the awesome one)- but those were fun. And I could sleep in until dinner the next day.

But this- this is new. This kinda eyelids-propped-up-by-toothpicks, accidentally-drooling-on-someone-ELSE's-shirt type of sleepy? Unheard of. It's so outside the realm of my imagination that, for the past few days, I've been absolutely certain I'm coming down with something horrific.

Sure, having a new kid is exhausting. Work also makes one tired. Owning a home? Absolutely. But- as our baby has slept through the night since one month of age (sorry), the kiddos at work have been Super Helpers, AND nothing has fallen apart on the house recently...I was sure that something else was up.

So I Googled my symptoms.

As it turns out, a combination of fatigue, slight queasiness, tiredness (apparently different than fatigue- I was surprised) and body aches could be indicators of the following:
-Pregnancy (I am not. I promise this. Although, cosmically, I do have it coming for joking about it.)
-Juvenile Diabetes (Or Diabeetus, as Wilford Brimley says. This is most likely not the case, however.)
-Apricot seed poisoning (Hmm.)
-Cherry seed poisoning (!!)
-Clubbed toes (I think I would have put "clubbing of my toes" as a symptom, thankyouverymuch)
-Sudden death (This is a disease? Apparently, a warning sign for this is- I am so serious- "truck accident.")

P.J. suggested that perhaps I was just really tired. I responded with a Fatality from Mortal Kombat. (Okay, not really. I keep forgetting to hold down 'B'.)  I then proceeded to microwave ABSOLUTELY NOTHING- for two minutes- and look around the kitchen for where I put a nonexistent bowl for the next ten. I followed that up by demanding that P.J. make some brownies and, when he awesomely did, I forgot that he wanted to have some of the batter bowl, too. Yep, I ate the whole thing. Didn't even realize that I had any until he asked me where it went. At this point, so overcome with guilt, exhaustion and, let's be honest, confusion, I began to cry like my arm was broken AND had just found out that there was no Tooth Fairy. 


I've never seen a guy's jaw drop so fast.


Since then, the past couple of days have been pretty cool. Sure, I'm still totally wiped, but now I have a husband who treats me extraordinarily delicately, kinda like a mental patient. This is not [entirely] necessary, but it has yielded some great dinners- one of which is something we've dubbed "engagement pasta" (nice try, buddy, I'm not falling for that one again)- and some special Jewel trips for yums which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. But make the soul feel good.

Also, when our daughter decided to wake up and say hello waaay earlier than was kind, P.J. went and hung out with her for a bit. This is a) really sweet and b) probably the safer option, as I was swatting at the baby monitor like a wayward alarm clock.

"What is that," I asked, looking for all the world like a stunned, trapped opossum.
"Nora," P.J. said, already holding our diapered and swaddled baby.

Have I mentioned how great he is? He's great.

So today I will make him dinner, pack him a sandwich for tomorrow, do some of his laundry, bathe the child (okay, that last one isn't really for HIM, per se, but she is kinda stinky) and try my darndest to not harm the homestead in any way. It's the little things that make a marriage work.

OH! And before I forget- hahahahaha- it's recently come to my attention that some fans o' the blog (people I'm not even RELATED to!) weren't aware that there's both a Monday and a Thursday posting. It's true. All this- twice a week! My goodness. That's a lot of minutiae and ramblings from a gal who- let's be honest- should really be doing about eighty other things.

Like the dishes.

Or writing something for which she could get paid.

Or- wait a sec- why is the fridge open?

No babies were harmed during this posting. I'm pretty sure.

If this jinxes it then I am sorry, but...it seems to be Spring. Real Spring. Like, average of 50 degrees (sometimes 85! Sometimes...40), at times darned rainy, but always with that smell of fresh(ish) air. And perhaps that scent coming from the neighbor's yard. But whatever. I'll take it.

This past week alone I took Nora outside in no less than five baby-totin' contraptions: the Maya sling, the hip carrier (as in, on my hip- I have lost all hopes of being "hip." Which may not even be a word anymore), the Snap n' go stroller with the carseat, the Maclaren strolly...and straight up carrying her. Wild, I know.

She loves every single one of these ways of being held. Really. In the sling: "I love grabbing your hair and chewing on your collarbone!" The carrier: "I'm going to happily kick you in the belly and back simultaneously!" The Snap n' go: "Look at you looking at me in the garage!" The Maclaren: "These big girl straps are fabulous- as long as we stay in the dining room!" And carrying: "Do not let my wild noodle/starfish amalgamation dance convince you that I am not THRILLED to be in your arms!"

Until...we go outside.

Then it's the same pose, regardless of contraption: face against mine (if applicable), hands acting as blinders against the awful onslaught that is Fresh(ish) Air. If she's in her stroller, she takes a blanket, animal, extra fabric from the suncover- whatever- and holds it to her face.

And this prompts some well-meaning person to "suggest" that Nora probably can't breathe.

To which I reply that I'll promise to keep an eye on her!

And on the topic of advice...in my short time as a mother and my lengthy time as one being unable to receive constructive criticism, I've realized that there are two types of acceptable advice. They are as follows:

Timely: "Oh my goodness, your child is floating away!" This is especially helpful if you didn't know that your child was floating away.

and...

Jovial relating: "I remember that my son used to love floating away! Sometimes I tie him to the dock, though. Have you ever thought of that? Isn't having children fun?" This is okay because it a) makes you feel like you're not an awful parent and b) makes you feel like you're in a secret club. Secret clubs are fun.

The type that is not okay is Talking At Someone And Refusing To Stop Until You Agree To Rear Your Child Identically To Theirs. For example, "My kid hated the water. I wouldn't put yours in the water. Have you thought of having her tested for water allergies?" These people have Experience and they need to be stopped. This type of advice-giver Means Well and belongs to the club of That's Not How We Did It In My Day.

Which is quite possibly true.

But a long time ago people used iodine as suntan oil and sold women as property. These were not the same two time periods, but I think I've made my point.

I think it's safe to assume that if the mother-like person is nearish to the small, babylike person and- (and this is a big 'and')- the child is not aflame, submerged or has something poking in or out of them, we can all rest assured that the semi-competent adult is On It.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that my stomach-sleepin', binky-mashin' infant hasn't wrapped her blanket around her head.

But not before I eat three more of the Easter cheoreg biscuits- the recipe for which has been passed down from my Armenian nana...and tastes more like my Irish nana's soda bread. I am not the world's best baker- I admit this. However, they are tasty, they are sweet, they are portable.

Victory.

And maybe perhaps I'll snag some more of Nora's Easter candy. She loves the coconut Hershey's kisses and Reese's mini cups. She does.

But not as much as her parents love playing Easter Bunny. Just as good as playing Santa, in my opinion. Cannot wait to try out "Tooth Fairy."

But, I really can. I'm enjoying the heck out of my five month-old daughter's daily routine and am not gonna rush this aging process AT ALL. Although, it'll be nice when she can hold the beer bottle on her own.

My arms get tired by the end of the day.

Too nice of a day...

...to play each other for a fool.

But I did, anyhow.

I spent a goodly bit of the morning trying to convince my immediate family that I was expecting our second kid before the end of the year. Oh, the hilarity of mass emails. Here's how it went down:

-Kate, the savviest and quickest on the email draw of all of 'em, thought it was hilarious.
-Kate's second email reminded me of the time I put ice cubes in shoes and forgot the "baggie" part. (Look- this kind of awesome wit takes a few years to hone.)
-Tom was stoked at the beginning of the email...and then a little disappointed by the "April Fool's" line. I regret this.
-My mother, with a point for snappy comeback, pretended she was unable to read to the end- but would later- and was SO EXCITED for us. (I responded with a 'p.p.s.' saying that, with futuristic technology, I already knew that they'd be twins. Mazel tov!)
-Emily, apparently unable to read to the end of the email because she was on the commuter line (It's not a trial subscription of the NY Times, E, you can read beyond the headline), was genuinely excited. She even convinced our nephew Cole to call me up and scream 'Congratulations!' That part was fabulous, even if Em is no longer speaking to me.
-Rachel, my father, and- most notably- P.J., have yet to check their email. (That last one is the most troubling. Maybe he did read the email and is now drinking away the morning. He's a busy guy. Maybe he didn't read to the end, either? He could have been on a commuter line.)

And now, for the real news.

Or something I like to call All Of These Thoughts Occurred During Twenty Minutes In The Car With The Radio On:

-There is a band called Rock Sugar. The track I heard was a mashup of "Don't Stop Believing" and "Enter Sandman," called "Don't Stop The Sandman." It's like they knew I'd be listening and wanted me to cry tears of gratitude. Unfortunately, the closet they're coming to Chicago is Elgin, IL. We'll probably miss the tour, this go-round. But now I am aware.

-Different station said they'd be playing "all Vans, all the time." Off the top of my head I listed Van Morrison, Van Halen (Van Hagar, potentially?), maybe Ludwig van Beethoven? Throw in a showing of Van Helsing and I will not leave the car.

-New station: new question. When did Cher become Cher? If you listen carefully- or actually not that carefully- there's a big difference between "I've Got You, Babe" and "Believe." Okay, there's a lot of differences. But specifically, vocal quality and mouth shape. When did Cher's mouth shape become a parody of a drag queen's impersonation of a Cher song? Think about it. And discuss.

-And finally, there's a Telemundo ad for a new show called Donde' Esta Elisa(?) that I am absolutely going to watch. They got me- and I hated them for this- by plastering 'missing' posters all over my neighborhood (95% Hispanic, so it very well could have been legit) with a picture of a smiling mid-twenties girl named ELISA. The ad yesterday clarified it (slightly) by admitting it was a show, it's airing on Telemundo, and Elisa is missing. There is absolutely no room on my TV docket- let alone for a show that is 1000% in another language- but I think it'll be a cross between Lost (which I hate) and Twin Peaks (which I love.)

So I will watch.

By the way, I know what killed Laura Palmer.

It was ADD whilst driving.