And we've listened to Life Is A Highway 89 times. Today.

My daughter is currently snoozing upstairs. Sleepin' the sleep of the completely stoked. The slightly bewildered. The most definitely over-fed.

Let's backtrack a tad.

On Tuesday morning, Peej dropped Nora and I off at O'Hare, the Airport Where Dreams Go To Die. I had decided to wake her up a bit earlier than normal for our 8:30am flight...only to find that she was already awake, happily waving at me over the rail of her crib. Subsequently, she was ready for her first nap, oh, around the time when we were doing curbside check-in. And after getting checked in behind an international family of 22, she was really ready to sleep. Just in time to wait in a security line so long I was certain we were about to board Space Mountain. (But no. Just the ride called Take Off Your Shoes- and The Baby's, Too.) Some kind soul alerted me to the presence of a magical portal called Priority And Family Line. Originally, I had feared that this line would be the 4pm, Bluehair Dinner Special of security lines. (Like at Midway.) Turns out, the "line" entailed a security worker opening a gated-off area and waving us through to the front. (Oh, the looks we got. Suckers.)

The rest of our time in Delayville went surprisingly well. Plantains were consumed and only a moderate (and totally washable) amount was shoved into seatmates' hairlines. Sure, we boarded the plane absolutely last (seating group 5, baby, kinda like how popular partygoers do it), and we ended up in a row of simply horrified passengers. (She's not Godzilla, folks, just a little sleepy.) And sure, Nora ended up flashing me to the 20 year-old college kid seated in the middle. He spent the rest of the trip Averting. His. Eyes. At least when Nora wasn't bodily attempting to adjust his seat and change the channel on his armrest. (I call this kinda treatment "free birth control.")

But then- oh, then!- we got to Boston! And I met Mr. Declan Seamus, who reached the lofty age of four weeks yesterday. And then I ate him, for his cuteness and intense stare made me Feel Feelings.

We have had nothing but fun with my sisters Kate and Em, my bro in-law Tom, the biggies Quinn and Cole, and the bitsy man himself. Nora has not yet lost her wide-eyed and excited stare, nor the crazy chuckle that my family has deemed The Dolphin. She has been sprinted through the sprinkler, dunked in the splash table (her own doing), belly-flopped over an armada of miniature vehicles, and been kissed up like a good luck charm. She has also eaten all of the eggplant parmesan in the county. (Also, the waffles.)

My sister Emily takes care of the dudes a few days a week, but yesterday- her day at the New England Aquarium- Kate and I wrangled four kids, all eighteen months apart. Except for the last two, rockin' a mere eight month difference.

We missed her.

Some gems from yesterday: Cole informed me that he could see through my two layered tank tops. (Those aren't the exact words he used, but this is- somehow- still a family blog.) Quinn told me that my leg felt "sharp" and that I should take care of it, perhaps with "very little scissors." Cole dubbed my phone a WhiteBerry. This moniker just may stick.

And today's favorite: Quinn took some attachments from a breast pump, wrapped them around his neck and attempted to "pump up his face." Sadly, this is not how it usually works, but I totally prefer this usage.

Declan has been staring on, alarmed, while Nora has attempted to jump right into his [occupied] bouncer seat.  Also noteworthy- this is the first time EVER that my 10th percentile daughter looks ginormous against anyone or anything. In addition, her mood is enhanced by the mammoth (and sharp) top right tooth that has finally made a painful appearance.

In short, the noise level is something to behold. And be-hear.

I recall resting my forehead on the kitchen counter right after the kids went to bed. That is the last thing I can distinctly remember- aside from Kate asking me if I was drunk. (No.) Even more seriously, last night was a new episode of Psych. It comes on at 10pm- crazy people- and there was NO WAY that was gonna jive that evening. (As Peej stated, they should watch it an hour earlier, like those in the Midwest. Who hafta get up early for the crops.) It was a smart call, as my dearest darling daughter chose to stir at 10:45pm. And 1am. And be fully awake from 3:30-5am. (Something she has not done since December.) I vaguely remember looking at the clock the first time and being completely wowed that Psych wasn't even DONE yet.

And nothing was even the matter with Nora- she simply wanted to hang out. Which, while normally awesome, was completely and wholly unacceptable. Especially since I have zero NJ backup. And to think- as we drove to the airport I actually felt sorry for P.J.

No Nora snuggles. No shared meals. No early morning diaper changes.

I've essentially given him a no-holds-barred, get outta jail free card kinda week. When he texted me late [early] last night, informing me that he was out for a drink, the venom rays I sent out into the cosmos shoulda felled him like a tree.

Or at least soured his drink slightly.

"I wish I could do this for you," he sadly- or so I thought- told me the day before I left. Meaning take Nora for a week. And sustain all of her dietary needs.

But I can now say with all honesty and none of the schmaltz previously (and bloggily) associated with this phrase...

...Just wait.

He did put a ring on it.

See this girl on the right? That's Annie. And she's getting married. She also happens to be one of my very favorite people in the whole world. On top of that, she's moving shortly to the land of Angeles and will no longer reside in the windiest of Midwestern towns. All of these facts combined explain why I threw her a bridal shower and bachelorette this past weekend. And tried to make them the best ones ever. (Also, why does spell check not acknowledge the word 'bachelorette?' Sexism. Or some ism that would get me equally fired up, were my head not about to explode.) So yes, this weekend.

There were a ton of little details of the shower that threatened to drive me insane, due to the fact that I am, quite possibly, the least capable person for this type of event. I put together two types of invites and mailed them out a month ago...and got a handful of responses. Some got lost in the mail, some gals thought they only had to reply if they could come, and there were those for whom I had to Drag. Out. An. Answer.

I decided on teensy potted herbs with recipe cards for party favors/centerpieces. Basil and mint, simple enough. I'd attach pesto and mojito recipes and everyone would look at me like I was a genius. Except. When Brea and I went to the store to get the supplies, there was no mint. Anywhere. So, we decided on dill. Yogurt cucumber soup, awesome. Except. The dill tried to end its life in the backseat of the car (in the convertible carseat, no less) and was almost finished off by the staggering early evening heat. So, we potted them in mini containers, watered them well in the utility sink and prepared for a bedside vigil, fearing the worst. (I made all the recipe cards...but added a few more pesto ones to be safe.) The dill made it through the night (kinda) and I rejoiced. Until. The ribbons with which we attached the cards to the pots...refused to stay on. Resulting in a grouping of tired-looking plants with flopped ribbons adorning a heap of random recipes.

And since the numbers for the two events kept changing, I bugged the heck out of the caterer. To the point where, when I gave a "final" count on the 21st, there was no reply. Nor the next day. Not even when I emailed, called and harassed her high school counter workers. No convo at all until early on Saturday, when she confirmed we were all good for Sunday at 1pm. Except. The shower was Saturday at 1pm. Ha HAH! They said it'd be fine. (Awesome!)

The blazing temps served two purposes; they invited a swarm of flies- the likes of which have rarely been acknowledged outside of biblical retellings- to the food table, and it also caused all the clothing to immediately fuse to the woman who was wearing it. As for the first problem- I took Nora's Pack n' Play netting and draped it over the table, telling Annie that this was her safari bridal shower. Except for the rest of the English garden kinda thing. (Also- why does my Pack n' Play come with netting? In what scenario am I placing my sleeping child in an infested outdoor environment?) As to the second problem- after one pitcher of mimosas, we took the whole party inside. Ah well.

Pesky details aside, the day was fabulous. Annie's sister and out-of-town friends were beyond wonderful. The local gals did me proud. We played trivia games (her maid- I don't say 'matron'- of honor did a bangarang job with games, and we all agreed to be lazy and do "sitting-down" ones) and only occasionally got rowdy. There was a child present, after all. And a slightly shell-shocked husband.

That evening we traipsed up to Andersonville, a 'hood of Chicago delightfully suited to these types of events. Wine and cheese at In Fine Spirits. Dinner at Tapas Las Ramblas [three blocks away- no cabbin' it here. I did NOT want to take the chance that the party would be separated. Trust me. It's ridiculously easy to spend a good third of the night muttering- where IS everyone?] and we ordered a potentially embarrassing amount of food. Was impressed at how divinely well each gal split the tab, regardless of individual items ordered or food preferences. Seriously. It kinda brings a tear to the eye to not have to beg people for two or three more dollars. Also impressive- Annie's best friend Koren and her magical bag that possessed any item we could possibly need for the evening. ("Are you kidding? I'm a Mom. I even have Gas-X in here.")

Then on to Mary's Attic (atop Hamburger Mary's). Little known fact/obviously known fact: Annie has been in a ton of shows in this venue, all of them fabulous. Her most recent one, Lady X, broke me with its terrificitude. So, it was an obvious choice to come and play here. Plus, all the free shots didn't hurt. (Okay, that's a lie. The free shots always hurt.) A DJ was alternately spinning great and questionable music. And we even got him to play ABBA for Annie after threatening him with bodily harm after the first two requests went unheeded. (Come on, it's a gay bar. ABBA. Play some ABBA.) Also, there were multiple women wearing bizarre animal hats. And there was glow-sticking. (Annie won.) I danced the salsa. A mammoth drag queen called me "cute." There were more free shots. I irked the bejeebers outta Annie by forcing bottled water down her throat all night. ("You'll thaaaaank  me.")

We intended to stay for a bit before perhaps moving on. But we stayed 'til 2am. And Neil- my husband's best friend- showed up. (I think it was to say hi to the group, not because he frequents Mary's Attic. But whatever. It's a fun place.) Peej, home with a snoozin' Nora, had to settle for frequent text updates hinting at the increasing level of debauchery.

But no one went to prison, all clothing stayed on, and every single person was put into a cab and made it safely home. Annie, clad in her tiara, sash, glowing necklace and small army of glowy bracelets, was bridily showered and 'etted with the best of them.

I consider that a success.

Now to find my dark glasses and a body pillow. Heck, I may even crawl into Nora's crib with her, fists full of leftover tea sandwiches and a sprig of wilty dill, wearing my glow sticks like a badge.

This kinda fun is really best for the youth[ful.]

To my younger sisters: hurry it up, pals. Each passing year feels like twenty every time I "go out." By the time your weddings roll around, I'll decorate my walker with glowy paraphernalia and actually need assistance getting up on the bar.

They'll play ABBA and it'll be charming.

Sounds like all we do is watch TV and fail to sleep.

I looked at the clock this a.m. with a sense of pride. 7:30. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet and I had already: woken up (a big deal), fed the baby, bathed the baby, re-rinsed the baby (she had some Cheerios in ear-like places...and one right square on her cheek- my bad), decided against rinsing myself (yep, that took time), cleaned the first floor bathroom and half-heartedly done the dishes.

As I got Nora ready for her first nap of the day, I truly felt proud. Like, quite possibly too proud. Then I thought about it. And got sad. Quite possibly too sad.

I used to have dreams, people.

Okay, I lied. It was always this. I played the game of 'House' for potentially way too long- the pretending to be a grownup one, not the surly identification of crazy maladies one.

But at least now I get to write about it, which is cool. Never imagined that one, back when I was sharing the Commodore 64 and blowing on a floppy disk to play Speed Buggy.

Nor did I ever imagine that I'd be married to a guy who dresses himself with a complete and utter disregard for the weather outside his door. Truly. P.J. wears corduroys [side note- do you have any idea how hard that word is to spell?!] twelve months out of the year. Because he likes them. And long-sleeved shirts in August- because he needed something blue, for example. Red socks with his green sneakers. 'Cause they were at the top of the drawer. (And he is not, to the best of my knowledge, afflicted with any combo of color blindness.) Christmas boxers and undershirts from camp. His camp. Because they were on top.

And the guy has clothes. Like, a small fortune in perfectly tailored suits and Italian boots. Cowboy hats, fedoras and scarves. And he wears them equally, alongside the ripped jeans and Sea World tee shirts. I have a couple of theories as to why he doesn't discriminate:

1. He's usually running about five minutes late.
2. He is EXHAUSTED.

Just as I used to dream about babies and houses and impressive operating systems, he used to imagine himself as a grownup. And a Dad. But perhaps not one who argues with the neighbors in Spanish, attends CAPS meetings and prices cat litter online. And now that Nora's here, she is Constantly. On. His. Mind. Not just because he loves her, which obviously he does. But he thinks of his daughter in terms of food and growing and sleep cycles and random fevers and nice words and college funds. And dating. And he thinks about me, not just about how much he adores me and how rad a wife I am, but also my Roth IRA and stuff I tell him I want to do and the next baby we might have and my penchant for rearranging furniture as soon as he leaves the room. And all of that Thought, that near-constant Thinking and Providing...it's tiring.

Which is why I excused the fallin' asleep during last night's episode of Psych.

And the [backwards] head nods during True Blood.

And especially the pairing of cords n' mandals.

Back to my day of incredibly high productivity. And not a moment too soon- Nora and I had been viewing the very first episode of Sesame Street and a clip of a remarkably young James Earl Jones reciting numbers has just reduced her to tears.

And not due to artistic appreciation. She's got a lot on her mind, too.

Like her third tooth and trying to walk and differentiating the signs for "milk" and "more." She has very little time for boomingly monotone recitations of things that are not yet being dealt with in her baby stages book, thankyouverymuch.

And grabbing the laptop away from me, that's a big one, too.

Dream big, Nora.

I may actually still be in transit. And/or Indiana.

Weekend trips can really teach you a lot. Like about the importance of deep breaths.


For example. Try this li'l exercise:


After watching your husband toss a few outfits into a duffel bag the night before the trip, try-
a) packing your own stuff, 
b) the baby's stuff, 
c) healthy-ish meals for the baby, 
d) junk food for the husband/self/baby if she's feeling really quick, 
e) items forgotten by one's husband, 
f) things the kiddo needs- but still needs for the a.m nap, 
g) new outfit for the baby after lunchtime destroys first one (taking a T.O to do an emergency load of laundry and/or sinkfull of dishes. Maybe two by this point),  
h) set out food and water for the cats, plus enough catnip to dose a jam band, 
i) put on brief, educational DVD for the child in order to facilitate packing of the car, 
j) realize child will likely pass out from rage if she cannot accompany you, 
k) take child with to Pack. Each. Bag. Into. Car., 
l) acknowledge fact that you should have left to pick up the husband- oh, half an hour ago, 
m) forgo shower/non-smushed food/brushed hair/pants, 
n) remove cat from hall closet, 
o) forget to open dishwasher to "breathe," 
p) remember to turn on completely theft-deterring porch light, 
q) strap octopuslike and still inexplicably upset child into her carseat, 
r) reason with said child about how well rested she is, 
s) get a frog in the face for your trouble, 
t) receive jovial message from husband, 
u) plot his demise, 
v) wonder why you bothered with a list AT ALL, 
w) let alone began to pack the night before, 
x) drive downtown through summer construction/lunch rush/filming ofTransformers, 
y) realize you have still YET TO PEE TODAY, and 
z) pleasantly answer the question "How was your morning off?"


And the transit/weekend yielded such questions as whether or not Nora was a) a boy, b) able to eat the food I was giving her, c) three months of age, and d) six WEEKS of age. (Come ON, she has teeth!)

But in Cincy Nora got to play with all seven of the Schoeny cousins- and she could not have been more in love with their faces, their toys and their exotic snacks- and slept like a, well, baby in her private, darkened nursery. With fresh air all around the homestead. And nary a siren nor a Kedzie Avenue.

And I got the distinct joy of realizing that our 12 year-old nephew Tony never misses a blog posting- and votes every day for Top Mommy Blogs [sidebar, by the by], earning him the shoutoutiest shout out ever:(Hi, Tony. Nice divin' at the pool.)

And there were birthday revelings all weekend long for Peej's 40 year-old twin bros. And a pool party.
And a blowup giraffe pool party (the latter of which came back to Chi with us- and which I promise to share with Nora. At least once a week.)

I consider the addition of an animal-themed kiddie pool a plus in the 'weekend success' category, don't you?

Plus Peej's stellar driving skills that returned us to Chi in a timely ['True Blood'-wise] manner.

And all that family bonding time. 

But I'm really excited about the giraffe pool.

Put THAT in your system.

The Census is convinced that there are multiple families residing here. Like, slightly psychotic ex-girlfriend convinced. ("Are you sure there's no one else? I saw you out with someone." "Uh, that was my sister.")

There is nothing I can do to alleviate their suspicions- or, more rudely, to get them to leave us the heck alone.

We filled out the initial Census form. Promptly. We had a few self-congratulatory moments acknowledging how on top of things we were. Sure, we have a kid and a baby and a plethora of jobs and a punkin' vine that's threatening the very landscape of the property- but our paper trail is being dealt with.

Then we got a second form in the mail. Saying the exact same thing, with the addition of a kinda snotty tone: Did we know that the Census form is how our city decides how many schools there should be? So we filled it out again. Laughed a little, rolled our eyes and did a a little shoulder shrug; waa waa- Government.

Got a third form. Dis.Re.Garded. It. Stupid fools. You know why there's no money for Illinois education? Because it was all spent on paper!

Then they started coming to the door. "Is this Unit 1?" "Nope, it's a house." "Yeah, but...this is the first floor unit?" "Nope." Convinced them [poorly] that only 2.5 people lived here. "Did you send in your form?" "YUP!" She laughed. I laughed. (Waa waa- Government.)

Second lady came. I think it was her first day walking about on her own two legs, let alone actually having to talk to people. I'm not ashamed to say that I laid into her. Did the government appreciate that she was wasting both their time and mine? Especially mine? Did she know how sick I was of the whole process? And was she really gonna stand there and tell me MY house was the real problem? Millions of people don't fill in the darned thing but I'M in the hot seat?

 "Sorry for the trouble. One last question before I leave- this is Unit 1, yes?" "No. No units. Just house." "Did you recently convert it into a house?" "Nope." "Well, if you had sent in the form and stated that, it would be in the system." "You're probably right."

As we left the house that day to run errands, we saw her sitting on the stoop. This was a good half an hour later. She was writing frantically with a nubby pencil. I think her mind had been shattered.

Then, last week- my favorite encounter yet. A woman appeared on my doorstep and rang the doorbell a few times. As Nora hadn't been feeling so hot that morning and had just dozed off, I was already prepared to rip the face off of any unfortunate bystander. And the fact that it was a lady from the Census? Perfection.

I tersely informed her that I had already dealt with the Census. Many times. My info was in the system. She scoffed. The woman SCOFFED! And told me that I couldn't possibly have dealt with her department, she was with the Verification Team. With all of the patience that I could possibly muster (and using up some from the next week as well), I listened to her spiel. In no uncertain terms she told me that yes, my info was in the system, but I had left out crucial details about MY TENANTS.

I have no tenants, I told her as pleasantly as humanly possible.

She scoffed again. "Then why do you have two doorbells?" Checkmate, her smirk seemed to say.

"On either side of the house?" I yelled. "We have two doors! Each gets a doorbell! We have two doorknobs, too!"

I then threatened that my mother worked for the Census in Massachusetts, an arbitrary fact that- even while I was saying it- carried so little weight as to be kinda ridiculous. Yep, watch out- or I'll tell my Mom.

"So...no apartments?" Her smugness began to dissipate.

"Would you care to come see?"

She looked like I had slapped her. "Uh, no thank you." She thought for a moment. "That info should really be put into the system."

As nicely as I could manage, I replied that since I didn't actually work at the Census, there was only so much I could do in terms of getting them my info. Permanently. In the system.

She sat on the stoop, another victim of mind shattering.

My pal Bethany, who had stopped over before to say hi, left from the side door to go pick up some food. And the lady saw her. I'm sure she was convinced- after all that- that I was, indeed, harboring a tenant. So I'm sure I'll get a follow-up visit.

And, whilst blogging just now, the doorbell rang. (I swear. I can't make this stuff up.) Taking a deep breath (and a shoe in case the situation got ugly), I prepared to the Senseless Bureau onslaught.

But it's okay. It was just a Jehovah's Witness.

For the first time in my life, I was stoked to receive their pamphlet.

Nothing to fill out and return, there.

Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

Day three of kiddo fever= rage about The Issues.

Oh my goodness.

Now, I'm not usually one for "current" media. I read the Sunday paper, of course- the trifecta of the Sunday Mag, Parade and "the funners." Always. I try to keep up with environmental, health and local political stuff. But no, I'm not a rabid news follower. (Then again, I kinda don't have to be. I'm married to a guy who has The Huffington Post tattooed onto his corneas. He likes to tell me The Issues right before bed.)

However. This morning's Trib had a feature story about the Happy Meal. And how evil it was. Because McDonald's lures kids in with the promise of- get this- a toy. And it's making our nation's kids fat. And, I dunno, commercial. I really don't see the problem. Okay, I take that back. I see the problem of gluttonous consumerism. Everyone does. But seriously. Let's break it down:

a) The kids ain't driving themselves to Mickey D's. Toys are the big draw? False. An easy meal for the parent is the draw. (And as a parent and a ridiculously lazy person myself, I do not condemn this practice. But let's not get all high and mighty about the toy thing- a dollar burger is a dollar burger is I Am Not Cooking Tonight. Heck- the other day we took Nora out to get a corndog. Healthy? Nope. But it was easy to procure and I wanted a bite of it.)

b) They have french fries? In the Happy Meal? Yup. But they also have apple dippers and white meat chicken and milk chugs. (Forgetting, for a moment, that the idea of "chugging" milk makes me retch.) They also have salads and wraps and yogurt parfaits and grilled stuff. But my kid won't eat that, a chorus of parents exclaim, baggies of Cheerios in hand. Well, that's not McD's fault. Again, the six year-old isn't waltzing up to the counter and placing an order. (Although that would be pretty special to see.)

c) The toy itself? The five cent marvel that is the instantly breakable piece of indeterminate plastic? Really? This is the thing causing all the fuss? Yeah, kids really crave that piece of ribbon attached to a piece of plastic [a current, AirBender-related toy choice]- so much, in fact, that it instantly ends up under the backseat of the car. Also, did you know that they offer crayons at Denny's? Yup. LURES THEM IN. Do we really want our kids to think it's okay to eat Moons Over My Hammy every single day? Uh, then why the crayons?

I totally dig why people are up in arms over this. It took this company waaay too long to offer healthier choices and come clean on nutritional listings. But somewhere along the line people need to take personal responsibility for individual items of food which they place in their individual mouths. Going to McDonald's was a special- and extremely rare- treat for us when we were kids. As Peej said to me this morning- it wasn't the toy so much as it was a chance to eat a burger in a place that made him feel like a big kid. And, of course, the Play Place didn't hurt. ('Cept when it did.) And let's not forget about the Hamburglar. (I really, really couldn't NOT mention him here.)

Heck, little kid P.J. was bribed with a Happy Meal to "be okay with" moving to his new house. As in, "If we take you, will you stop whining about the move?" Yup!

And what about Mayor McCheese? (That's all.)

In short, don't take your kids out to have fast food. Except when you want to. But don't do it more than every once in a while. Or- if you do- you lose the right to say things about fast food luring you in.

Now I am simply starving.

Media rant= ended. Back to hard-hitting issues like this or this or (takin' the Wayback Machine) to this.

Happy Thursday.

Be good to your cecum. (Eww...)

Turkish appetizers and Mexican helado- must be the 4th!

As I sit here typing, I can hear my daughter's rageful meows from the room directly above me. (Seriously, she sounds like the cats. I think they have a thing going on where they decided if they all sound alike, then we'll come running all the time. I don't quite get this logic, but then again- I'm neither an 8 month old human nor a 6 year old cat.)

She had decided she was too tired to even hold up her head during breakfast- resulting in a Greek yogurt and plum facial- and scattered pieces of croissant and random Cheerios to the wind as we freed her from her highchair. Maybe we looked bored. Perhaps the idea of us sitting with mugs in chairs depressed her- there are no toys, no bits of food on our faces, we aren't even singing. So here, she says. Here's something to pick up. And a finger's worth of yogurt for your nostril.

Do you know what would happen if someone made me Greek yogurt with any kind of fruit in it? (Keeping in mind that this yogurt was purchased without a coupon. WITHOUT.) And a warmed croissant? Why, I'd sit there and eat it. Happily. And when someone placed me in a cool, darkened room with several of my favorite items scattered about- I'd sleep for about three weeks.

Then again, if you placed me on a folding chair- in broad daylight- smack dab in the center of Michigan Avenue...I'd sleep for about three weeks.

So. Nora Jane, you'll just hafta deal with this sudden burst of Vaudeville-like energy that causes you to dance around your crib for your One Woman [Two Otter/One Frog] Show...because, sister, it's Monday morning. And your Mama blogs on Monday mornings. While you nap. So- you need to nap because no one is gonna- oh. And...your Dad just went and got you. God bless holidays.

Last night was a slight deviation from the norm, to say the very least. People in my neighborhood love loud things. And explosives. And holidays- Albany Park digs a good holiday. And- it being the Fourth and all- our street was the most explosively loud [and festive!] I'd ever seen it. All of the nearby parks had their own fireworks displays. Pyrotechnic amateurs were setting things off in the streets and alleys as early as 4pm- on Friday. So we expected last night to be Crazyville LeShadduptown.

And it was.

We took Nora out into the backyard after her extremely patriotic dinner of hummus, Spinach pies, lamajoon (and, oddly enough, peas) to see some of the neighborhood displays. A few bright lights made it over the tops of the Walgreens wall [for those of you whom have not seen my current abode, the entire block from Kedzie to Cullom is the back of a mammoth Walgreens. It's a gigantic, nondescript, tan wall that- if one squints hard enough- one can pretend it walls in one's villa] and the copper dome of Our Lady of Mercy, respectively. Nora was impressed, but way more stoked to be in the backyard at dusk.

We decided to put her to bed. [Hah! Yes. Here, Nora, in your young life you've never known it to be louder than it currently is, but...sleep tight.] However, when we got upstairs, we realized that her bedroom had an unobstructed view of at least four fireworks shows. OVER the Walgreens wall! (All this, Nora...all this will someday be yours...)

So we watched. From the relatively insulated safety of her nursery, she could really enjoy the bright colors without all those nasty sonic booms. Peej and I were high-fiving. Seriously. Next year? Come watch the 'works from Nora's room.

That said, bedtime was pushed back- oh, about four hours- until we lamely realized that it was a) too hot and b) too loud for normal bedtime-goin'. We all slept downstairs. Nora looked at us like we were crazy for putting her in her Pack n' Play but slept through the night nonetheless.

Happy Fourth.

And tonight we're extremely excited to be going to the wedding of two darling friends. P.J. is actually performing the ceremony- and he and I both helped to edit the vows- and it promises to be a lovely affair with, among other things, decadent cake. (I've seen pictures.)

*

One last obnoxious plug for self-promotion- I promise I won't be flooding your blogosphere with any more of this for, oh, about four months. Today at roughly 2:15pm the site for Top Mommy Blogs is having a GINORMOUS RESET. That means that allll of those folks with 8 million votes are coming back down to ZERO. And me? Well, I hope to skyrocket up to crazy fame and acclaim and a stickball game.

Here's how you can help. Go here anytime after 2ish today. (If you still see people with zillions of votes on the front page, it's too early. No worries. You can either come back later or tomorrow or whenever you have that thought of "Oh my goodness, I just love her. How can I let her know?" ) All it takes is one click to get there, one click to vote. No email, no sign-ups, no pressure to call me later in the week.

Why, you may ask? Well, here's the thing. As cool as the "ads" thing is, I've been turning down a few lately from various companies. As funny as it is, I just cannot pepper this blog with reviews for products that- do things...to various body parts. Cannot. (Sure, I can post about the Schick Trimstyle to my heart's content- but as I'm not getting even the slightest bit of compensation from them...I don't feel dirty. Overmuch.) That said, if I made it into the top handful of blogs on the TMB site- who knows what could happen? A broader audience, for one. Legitimate advertising, for two. And from there? Perhaps a book deal, a national tour, six figure salary- or, at the very least, coupons for a free Frosty.

I'll share.

I'm not above bribing my readers.

Which may lower that ol' six figure salary to about five.

Plus a free Frosty.

Declan, meet Media.

The Flynn/Grant/Schoeny clans have been abuzz with their newest addition: Mr. Declan Seamus Grant, born June 30th at 3:06pm, 9lbs and 4oz, 21in long. (Are you hearing this, Nora Jane? I guarantee you guys will be wearing the same hoodie at the Cape.) He joins big bros Quinn Sawyer and Cole Sebastian- and of course my big sis Kate and her 'Let's Have A Lacrosse Team' husband Tom.

We are so stoked to meet our newest little guy- Nora's first "little" cousin- and that's why Nora and I are flying out to meet him in less than four weeks! (Alone. Like, 'one baby, one checked bag, is that a complimentary bottle of Stoli?' alone.) I cannot wait to [pretend to] eat his cheeks.

It's moments like these that make me think about my life. How crazy our schedule has been lately, what with Nora being sick, swapping work days, pretending to be a writer (that takes up more energy that you'd initially suspect) and all the [albeit great] events. I feel like I've been losing sight of something superbly important, something that defines me as an artist and an American:

There have been so many ridiculously great advertising campaigns lately, and they have gone virtually unnoticed.

-L'Oreal Paris has a new "spherical" mascara wand. It's a "telescopic explosion!" It's a ball on a stick. Sure, I bet the coverage is great. How could it not be? You are wiping ink on your face with a snow cone.

-Sargento cheese cube snacks. Now, not to snark on my people (huzzah, Armenia!), but really. How time-consuming was it- honestly- to take a brick of cheese and, you know, cube it? I would like someone- perhaps someone with better "math skills" that they can "do in their head" to gimme a nice li'l cost analysis. I'm gonna wager that, price per ounce, it's still going to be a ton cheaper to whip out the old knife yourself. I could be wrong. (And, if I am wrong, I'll be first in line at the Jewel tonight. My hands are KILLING me from all of this cubing.)

-Okay, I realize that this is a very real issue, but those Life Alert commercials need to stop. I CANNOT take them seriously. Yes, she fell. Thankfully her daughter was there to, you know, cradle her head and wrap a shower curtain around her. But I may drown in all of the Earnest. (And if I'm doing the Ugly Cry from too much high-pitched laughter? Perhaps your ad campaign is not coming across as the hard-hitting drama it so clearly dreams of being.)

-All right. Okay. This is a family blog, so, uh, let's see how gracefully I can address this one. The Schick Trimstyle for women? It's a razor. It's a- ahem- personal groomer. It also shape-shifts nearby shrubberies to vaguely- and extraordinarily uncomfortable- pubic dimensions. (I say "vaguely" because, um, that rectangular tower? Huh?) Also, it helps if the shrubbery is in the vicinity of an actual shower. Or tub. Or pool. Whatever. 'Cause nothing says "personal grooming" like a shared, chlorinated body of water.

And is it bad that the last one solely made me think of all the exterior work we still need to do on this house?

Lost. Cause. Flynn.

I miss the days of good, ol' fashioned, heavily veiled, wink wink nudge nudge advertising, the kind of pure ad that didn't make everyone in the room immediately and intensely uncomfortable.

You know, like this Feel Good bit of...I'm not sure what they're selling.

Sweaters? Lower back rides? Those were the days, back when you could ride your capri'd pal's hipbones with wild abandon. Ah, youth.

Back to the day, I s'pose. Off to shower and put on my face. But first, I'll grab a handful of my favorite cheese product. No worries. I'm covered. See this medical necklace?

I have the perfect outfit picked out for the day.

And I've just figured out my mode of transpo.

Giddyup!