Brefft.

That's like 'bereft,' but with less syllables and more f's. Which makes it more powerful, obviously.

Also- the iPhone and I are having words about things that are not actually words. ("Beets? Beef?" "No- brefft." "But that's not real!" "I know." "IT HAS TO BE A REAL WORD.")

Anyway, back to brefft. 'Cause I am. Last night, in the swelty Chicago heat, as I showered off the near 12 hours of planes, trains and automobiles- and then stepped into a pile of cat yuke- I wondered where my cool ocean breeze went. Or my sun-kissed skin. (Sun-kissed. Not attic-fried.) Where were the hordes of adults to watch my baby as I wrote/swam/napped on the couch?

Pretty sure breakfast is supposed to be included here as well. Where are my parents? Where is the food parade? Where is my bacon?!

And what about this view? Quite certain I signed up for three separate windows facing low tide. There are no car alarms in low tide. Nor are there pumpkin vines threatening the very foundation of the house in low tide. This is the worst ocean ever!

My daughter is thrilled to be back in her cozy bed- as opposed to a pack n' play closet wonderland- but she's only ten months old. Her sense of j'accusity is not as fully refined as mine.

Speaking of NJ, her tenth month was celebrated in a variety of towns- while she was mostly facing the wrong way. Those seatbelt laws are the meanest. This trip also coincided with the day that she decided to sleep the least sleep, ever. Ever ever. She had a decent chance of falling asleep on the flight back to Chicago- until the onboard computer decided to die. Then we had to swap planes- or, rather, sit in a new boarding gate until something happened.

Some said a plane was coming from Baltimore. Other attendants said nothing at all. My favorite of the bunch waited until we were back on a plane and Nora had dozed off on Peej's shoulder- and that's when they decided to have a loud convo over Nora's head. For a good fifteen minutes. Three of them. Loudly. About how FUN their gay coworker was. (Isn't he FUN? He always makes me laugh. SO MUCH FUN.) They had the whole plane on which to not work. The only way they could have been closer to her eardrum is if they had been braiding P.J.'s hair. And not that having a baby means that everyone has to be quiet- which, uh, it does- but you know that if Nora had stayed awake and was a cranky hot mess, they'd be the first to Evil Eye us and apologize to other passengers.

And we couldn't say anything. 'Cause, you know, Jet Blue and all.

That said, we're home. Safe n' sound. Nora's beside herself with recognition/joy at all of her possessions. And now  we're off to work.

The dust bunnies (cat bunnies?) will have to wait. As will the unpacking. And foodstuffs. Also- the nap. And the floaties in the ocean.

And my Pimm's shandy.

Although, with one trip to the corner store and a well-placed travel mug...Mama can keep this vacay going until at least Thanksgiving.

Then we switch to cider.

Total amount of sun= two hours. So far.

I am heading down the steps to the beach in a few minutes. For the first time- in direct sunlight- on this vacation. Sure, you say, an overcast patch in your Cape Cod wonderland? Poor things.

Except.

It has been positively Noviembre in general amount of clothiness and blanketude. Non-stop sheets of rain. Temps hovering around 60 degrees- if not lower. No sun-kissed naps here...you know, the kind where you awaken with glowy skin and sparkly mermaid hair? (I know you do.) Nope- the naps taken this week have been the grumpy hibernation type. We've been waking up and squinting into the half light, eating something carby and then wrapping a blanket or towel back around our faces to lay on the couch and challenge one another to yet more games of online Scrabble.

That said, we've all been taking naps. That's a definite vacay plus.

And we've been forcing Nora to better acquaint herself with the ocean- although I can't imagine she's forming any lifelong bonds with rocky, subzero shorelines. She also raged at me when I removed large rocks from her mouth- she thinks they taste like French fries. I think they taste like orthodontics.

In addition, the irony has not been lost on me that we've been using a noise machine in our daughter's corner of the room- set to rain. Against floor to ceiling windows. Being battered by rain.

And those windows were reflecting a crazy amount of harbor lights last night- to combat the foggiest of fogger fog- coming from at least five different lighthouses and beacons along the canal and bay. This, in conjunction with the snoozing light from one Dell, one HP, one iPhone, a Verizon flip phone and a dying Blackberry Pearl, made me feel like I was in Tron.

But this morning we were greeted with a stunning sunrise from our bedroom- the one that possesses three separate ocean views. (Yep, just now realized that.) It's gonna be a good day. Freckles will be frecked. A boat may be liberated. I will probably eat more shellfish than is wise. There is speak of a taco fiesta for dinner.

This is the exact definition of my happy place, even before the tacos. They're just the icing on the [key lime] cupcake.

I am now starving. Okay- pit stop. Snack first, then freckling, then boat-liberating, then snack. Maybe a nap. And no more technology for the day.

For at least an hour.

And Peej may or may not have sunken a dinghy.

It is currently a balmy 63 degrees in Cape Cod.

This is strange for so many reasons:
a) We are at the beach. It should be well over 100 degrees.
b) All summer long- in Chicago, mind you- it's been well over 100 degrees.
c) I only packed halter tops. For Nora.

That said, our digs this week are a stunning "cottage" with three floors of window seats, wraparound porches and mind-boggling amounts of alcohol. Even more mind-boggling is how quickly the supply will be decimated with three sisters, two parents, two husbands, a boyfriend or two and a plethora of pals. (There's also four kiddos, but they aren't hitting the stash yet. Overmuch.)

Nora, for her part, has been chasing her big cousins, shoving objects (sand, shoes, mini front-loader trucks) into her mouth, and passing out each night with a sleepy giggle. She has effectively been aired out.

My new obsession: looking up real-time star charts and pretending to see them in the cloudy sky. P.J.'s? Listening to an CD he found in the TV room called "Angela's Bachelorette." The gentlemen residing here initially hoped for a DVD. No such luck.

I also have my new gadget to keep me outta trouble: a refurbished iPhone 3Gs. This a big deal. A really big deal. I've been a loyal, tried and true Blackberry Pearl user for the past four and a half years. I love the Blackberry Pearl. I love it. Sure, it has a limited capacity for web browsing, memory storage and camera speed. And absolutely, the trackball tends to implode, rendering the entire cell phone a useless mini brick. (But it's so cute!)

Regardless of its shortcomings, I've come to acknowledge the BBerry as a general extension of my right hand. I am disgustingly good at texting on the thing. I ask things of it that it cannot possibly deliver- accurate GPS, an updated blog, etc.- yet, somehow, it does. Slowly, but it does.

But the other day, the trackball on the phone died. Again. Stuck itself so far inside the phone that it became a pebble. And about as helpful as one. Suddenly, I was unable to make calls, answer calls, look up numbers or addresses, text, email, take or receive or view pictures, or do anything generally associated with an actual phone. It became a lovely object with which to thwack things- precisely the activity in which I engaged for the full day I was without any means of communication.

And I was embarrassingly inept at dealing with this. Could. Not. Handle. It.

So I needed a new phone- pronto. Peej thought that I could do without a cell- smart phone or otherwise- for the week we were on vacation. He was sorely mistaken...and won't be making such inane and unhelpful assumptions again any time soon, I promise you this.

And we looked at comparable phones on T-Mobile (which I love) and found that even the nicest ones were iPhone ripoffs- for about two hundred more dollars. So we contemplated the iPhone, even though:
AT&T Has Terrible Reception In Chicago, and
We Don't Need An iPhone, and
The Data Charges Are Crazy, and
It Is Trendy.

But it turned out that it would be cheaper to get a refurbed phone (named The Furb) on a comparable data plan with a phone that- get this- allowed me to ask waaay too much of it, media and communication-wise.

Which is good. And bad.

And very bad.

But I'm in good company. Nothing says Family Time like six Flynns and their various family members attached to a laptop and iPhone apiece. We've actually played word games in person (on paper) and across the room (on Facebook.)

As soon as the sun comes back out I'm sure it'll be a little different.

At least outfit-wise.

Time for smaller jorts!

I was all set this morning. Yep, I knew what issues were going to be blown to smithereens and how pointedly- and yet self-deprecatingly- I was gonna lay it down.

And then Nora needed breakfast. Again. (Just like yesterday!) And then while she was playing so happily with a mixture of kitchen utensils and bath books, I decided it was a good time to work out; i.e. thwack at the Wii Fit with a half-dead Wiimote. 

And after the usual guff from the console- ("Oh, hello, P.J. Wait, is that Keely? It's been SO LONG." =actual 'tude.)- I did the body test where, most mornings, it tells me that I'm overweight, am on a fast track to hunchbackville and limp like a pirate with a peg leg. 

But today- the day where I had been utterly prepared to rip into the notion of losing the "last five pounds" (bones become heavier after babies, I was gonna say) and magazines and self worth and fitness and the fact that the ice cream cartons in our freezer seem to be multiplying and making delicious offspring- on THIS day...the Wii Fit informed me that I'd met my goal.

My pre-baby weight. 

Kinda. 'Cause- and this is a huge Schoeny family secret- we lie to the Wii Fit. When it asks what kind of clothing we're wearing to work out...we tell it "parkas." No joke. Our console thinks we're doing yoga in the Arctic Circle. (They shouldn't give you the OPTION if they don't want you to take it.) So, I guess I'm pre-baby weight plus some winter gear. But- and this is the truly confusing part- I'd been lying to the Wii Fit for so long now that I can't remember if I had told it my true pre-kid weight or if I'd been adding "parka" since well before Nora came to play.

Serves me right. That said, I guess my bones lost weight. I am of some indeterminate poundage floating around my "ideal" weight. (Which is a riot anyhow- what am I gonna do now? Wear an evening gown? A bikini? A Spandex unitard? Nope- still yoga pants and an earnest tee-shirt.) 

I'll be wearing an earnest shirt tonight, by the by, at the premiere of Snapshots 2010. My play, Right On Cue, starts the evening off! Care to join? It runs through Sunday with a two performances on Saturday night (one's late, for all those folks with other shows to perform, watch, write, whatever) and it will be a grand ol' time.

And speaking of grand 'ol (but youngish, too) times- fare thee well to one of my bestest pals, Miss Annie Gloyn, soon to be Martzell, moving to L.A., gettin' outta Dodge, leaving me fabulous furniture, also terrific memories for which the photos have long been destroyed....The kind of pal that doesn't need an event- hanging out is the event. When travesties or joyfulnesses occur, she's the one to bring a baked good, a scented candle and a hand-written note- she's also the kind to write a thank-you for a thank-you (and one time, even, for a thank-you.) She'll have a drink waiting for you at the bar and a spare toothbrush in the apartment. Yet, while all of these things are nice, they don't make a best friend.

Nearly eight years of trips, randomsauce sleepovers and impromptu dinner parties make a friend. But remembering and celebrating important, whimsical, trivial and teensy tiny things (like caring for an ice chip in the eye- with an ice pack/ how ferrets get fursty/ why certain napkins are for display and display ONLY)...those make a best friend.

One that I'm already missing dreadfully.

So, smooches, sugar- seeya in a couple of short months. I'll be the one in a divine bridesmaid's gown, drinking the best that Napa has to offer, and celebrating a happy couple.

If you're free, we should try to meet up.

That whole "noon" thing was really ambitious.

     This past weekend was a doozy.

     After a slight change in plans allowed me to attend our darling pal Caitlin's going away party at Mrs. Murphy's Irish Bistro (go rock the West Coast, sugar!), Peej, Nora and I left for Indiana eaaaaaarly Saturday morning.

     I'm pretty sure I'm a part time Indiana resident at this point.

     We headed to Bloomington for the wedding of Natalie and Dave- she of my Pilates-classes-gettin'-me-back-into-jeans-without-elastic fame. Also, Peej's high school friend. But I've commandeered her.
     Their wedding took place at the State Forest, overlooking a gorgeous dropoff full of foresty goodness. (Nora was surprisingly good during the service, although she did start singing to herself during the vows.)
     The reception was at the Museum of Art- kinda the most wundy place to have a party, ever, but also a locale where I was terribly afeared for my daughter's tendency to grab/poke/Frisbee things.
     She enjoyed an exceptional cocktail hour supper of canapes, cheese truffles, and some sort of rad sweet pea gazpacho. You know, typical baby food.
     THEN we handed her off to P.J.'s folks- who had driven in from Cincy for some solo Nora Jane time- and they took her back to the hotel to give her lollipops and ponies. (I don't know what grandparents do, but she's always really stoked after spending time with any of the four of them.)

     Seriously, the wedding- and the bride- was stunning. She's the kind of gal whom you look at and say- I could be like that someday.

     If I learned how to really do my hair.

     And wear better clothes.

     And acquire a completely different metabolism.

     Some other notable moments on the [10 hour total time in the car over 29 hours] trip: the extremely mellow group of collegiate kids outside of the Art Museum...on their backs, feet up against the wall, enjoying the atmosphere. Out of their gourds on some sort of substance rarely found in nature.
     Or the ladies who informed me on Sunday morning that Nora had been the prettiest girl at the previous night's event...and when I later found out they had attended the hotel's other wedding. 
     Or the colossal tip the Waffle House staff got after our darling girl tornadoed the facility with waffles, bacon, tomatoes and grits. (She eats everything.)
     Or the Mulch Castle on the side of the road in Indiana. Seriously, a castle with turrets and everything, with each spire full of a different kind of mulch. Stuff dreams are made of. At least mine. Minus the mulch. I don't dream of mulch. But I like reimagining castles.

     Happy Monday, everyone. Hope the week is lovely- enjoy nature and the last few weeks of summer.

     Find a building and lean upside down against it.

     Mood-enhancer optional.

     Nora prefers grits.

But who's gonna meter my rage?

            Today's post is a failed attempt at guest-blogging for a bigger site. So I'm using it here- 'cause I LIKE it, even if it met none of the previously-non-mentioned-but-yeah-it-kinda-makes-sense criteria. It's just as well- I'm horrid at following directions (baking, unplugging my laptop during a storm, that whole waiting after eating to swim...)
            I wrote it about a month ago. Ah, how simple things were back then. They were different times.


******
      

            The water people have just left. I think they have a real name/company/title, but that’s what I’m going with.

            They’ve been here three times.

            Optimistically, we signed up for a water meter that would- ideally- cut back on our usage. Or, rather, what the city thinks we use. (For those non-Chicagoans, you don’t get your own water charges- oh no! You get what the City of Chicago- a wonderfully, refreshingly honest town- thinks you’re using based on what your neighbors are doing. Or what the city thinks they’re doing.)

            This means that, based on the fact that we live in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood with multiple families living in the same three-flats, the great Windy City thinks our water usage equates that of eighteen related people fighting over three showers.

            A water meter seemed like a no-brainer. And of course, that’s exactly what it turned out be; a project with zero brains involved.

            The first team, having shown up late and having hung out for a good hour, couldn’t figure out how to turn off our water. (Given that our previously foreclosed rehab is less House of Dreams and more Money Pit, we believed him.) They told us about a B-box or somesuch that needed a blowout. (Look, if we’re handing out city-funded blowouts, my hair has been standing in line since last November. Also, I originally heard “beat box,” rendering me tragically excited.)

            My husband called to reschedule the water meter install and the B-box blowout- but sadly, no accompanying a capella group- and was informed that the B-box thing had already been done. Wow! Okay…

            The second team showed up a couple of weeks later. Late. (It is the city, after all.) They informed us that our water wouldn’t shut off and that the B-box needed to be blown out. Hmm.

            This morning, the third team arrived- including, as the supervisor put it, his “best guy.”

            I was prepared to be less than impressed. In fact, I was riled up to be downright snotty. My husband, who had been here for the previous attempts, offered to work from home this a.m., something that I waved away. I wanted a confrontation. Tuesday mornings are my time off from nannying with our infant gal in tow, a couple of hours that I can enjoy writing while she naps- in other words: Me Time. Now these fools were going to waste Me Time with a third vocal acknowledgement that we needed a blowout of some sort? I didn’t want my husband to temper me. I didn’t want witnesses.

            Turns out, all we needed was a “best guy.” He turned off the water indoors (“I don’t know why the other guys couldn’t get this!”) He turned off the water outdoors (“No prob.”) He installed a water meter (“You’ll be seeing a big reduction in water bills.”) And, for our troubles- a free rain barrel! Sure, people in more civilized, green and outdoorsy parts of the world already have these. But here? Cutting. Edge. Technology. (Also with a multi-month wait list. Suckers.)

            Now we’re the home with only three residents- and a water bill to match- plus the means for a slightly more sustainable backyard. (Hey kids, it’s your pal Whitey McHippie!)

            So now it’s on to dealing with the 2010 Census; folks with a razor-edged vendetta, bent on proving that our single fam home is a secret haven for multiple apartments, tenants and doorbells.

            I am only one woman.

            Regardless of what they might have in their file.

Nora's well-rested, if that counts.

This past week and weekend proved, without a doubt, that I am in very real danger of early onset dementia. The crosswords and brain teasers no longer stave them off. It's official- I'm demented.

Sure, we've been skipping all over the country, city, and state. And absolutely, sleep has been the first thing to be sacrificed. But seriously, I'm forgetting my middle name[s] at this point.

It began when I confused this coming week of work with next week's. To my various employers. Loudly. I usually work Monday for one family and Wednesday and Friday for my other one. If something comes up, the other two days are always gimmes. Except- one fam has been on vacation for the past three weeks and the second took a day at the end of this past week to make up for the time I'd been away. No big deal, I kept track of that. But this week, I'm working four back to back days. And next week the same. But with reversed families. And I knew this- really, I did. Wrote it down on my computer, the calendar, the BlackBerry and my hand. 

And promptly forgot it. Until one family needed a reminder for this week's schedule and I gave her next week's schedule- ha hah- much to the chagrin of the other family. And so I sent out no less than five emails and eventually got it right. (Please leave me with your children, I know CPR.) 

Additionally, I was wholly convinced that this past weekend was next weekend, and no amount of lookin' at the correct date could tell me otherwise. So much so, that I rsvp'd to two different events before I realized my folly. And forgot. And had to be reminded by P.J. Twice. (See? Dementia!) The junky part is- I'll be outta town next weekend. Happily, it's for a wedding I'm stoked to attend. Sadly, I'll be missing the going away party of a lovely pal and the fly-by into Chicago of two gorgeous friends. 

I am only popular in the summer. In March, no one returns my calls.

My favorite mess-up, though? Saturday morning around 8ish I was lounging with Nora, Peej and a cup of coffee. Had an hour 'til my dentist appointment. Enjoyed the free time. Then it hit me- I don't HAVE free time. What was going on? Checked all four methods of appointmentude. My cleaning was NOT at 9am, it was at 8am. (I even saw an email from the dentist the day before that politely reminded me of the time. And I REPLIED to it!) 

And I gotta say, there's nothing like the combo of being late (I abhor being late. It gives me hives) and the knowledge that you are speeding to the dentist. 

But it's also a little sad that, once there, I enjoyed the "down time." I watched the news and read the back of a package of floss. It was nice.

The rest of the weekend progressed swimmingly well, due in no small part to the addition of my sister Chelly (that's right, this month I'm on a world tour of seeing every family member.) 

I think she's had a good time, what with us dragging her to Market Days and not letting her linger, to us heading to bed at positively daylight hours. Plus, she's had to watch all of my shows. And my kid. 

And this week she gets to be a nanny-in-training- or a tanni. At downright criminally early hours. (Welcome.) 

But what about P.J., you ask? Isn't he in the picture any more? What antics has he been up to? Well, I'll tell you:

-The other night, after we (P.J, Nora, Annie, Chelly and myself) locked ourselves out of the side screen door, my gallant husband scaled the first (and a half, technically) floor to the back picture window. Hung out on the ledge. Shoved the side window open. Almost fell. Got a boost. Yelled the requisite 'I GOT THIS' back to the swooning gals. Scraped the heck out of his hands, knees and arms. I'm pretty sure he fell on one of the cats on his way off the kitchen table. Opened the screen door. (Me, I would've punched a hole in the screen door and unlocked it, but I also have a healthier sense of fear and desire to not make P.J. a single parent. But, you know, diff'rent strokes.) 

-Last night I found my husband mangling a defenseless tube of Crest. Now again, I would have deemed the tube empty and forgotten all about it, but not him. He squeezed the last bit- and perhaps some plastic- out onto his toothbrush and a goodly bit of his arms. ("That's the end of that," he stated in the most menacing and authoritative voice I'd ever heard outta anyone.) When I suggested that perhaps he was going to a lot of trouble, he asked if I'd seen his thing of Razor Defense face wash. Apparently, the cap didn't twist off to allow him to salvage the last eighth of an ounce so HE CHOPPED THE TUBE IN HALF. He's part thrifty housewife and a bigger part The Hulk. The fully green version. 

-And finally, the other morning when I was pretending to do my Wii Fit yoga, the console character asked me if I'd "seen P.J. lately." I told him/her yes. "How would you say that P.J.'s physique is these days? It's been over a month since I've seen him." He looks awesome, I told her. [Back off.] It then went on to inform me that I should be a better workout buddy to my husband and stated that "dogs become more motivated when their humans pay attention to them. Hmmm..." It actually hmm'd at me! And compared my husband to a pet! I was equal parts amused, insulted and shocked. 

But I showed it. 

I turned off the Wii. 

You're welcome, baby. 

Don't trust that smile.

Nora and I just returned from her nine month checkup and I'm happy to report that she is indeed growing. And moving. And hitting milestones- in fact, she's knocking 'em over like a sprinter catching his track shoes on a series of hurdles. Which, you know, isn't usually a positive metaphor, but one that kept popping into my head. Kick, thwack, karate chop. Milestones.

She's still in the 10-25th percentile for height and head size (yay, consistent brains!) and solidly in the 5-10th for weight. But someone has to be, right? Or there wouldn't be a "percentile" based on "100." And, as my doctor asked incredulously, "she's a mover, isn't she?" And she has close to five teeth. And says Mama, Da, Bean, Dis, Dat, Hidere (hi there), Yeah, Yay...and she meows. The doctor also said that she'd begin standing and cruising soon (you know, like her Dad does) and would tentatively begin to let go of surfaces. Which she's been doing for a month.

My daughter= surpassing my personal record of walking at 17 months and actually doing non-bloblike things before then. (Go forth, my child...)

And then the doc said he'd see us in three months. For her one year checkup. And I- inexplicably but kinda predictably- began to well up. A YEAR?? Look, Buster, I carried her for close to four years and I know for a fact that her three day checkup was last week...so I don't know what this "one year" business is. I demand a recount.

Of course, before I get too schmaltzy and sentimental, I need to remind myself that just two days ago I was crying for a completely different reason.

It involved our return flight from Boston, a.k.a. the inevitable cosmic backlash from the hubris of the previous flight. Of course, I didn't see this coming at all. She napped exceptionally well that day. Ate dinner in the airport food court. Smiled and waved at random people. Crawled around and got all tuckered out. Then we got on the plane.

Here's how it went down:
-Random businessman told me how cute she was. I preened and admitted that she was the easiest baby, ever.
-His colleague stated that he'd never seen a baby this young with brown eyes already. I kept it in.
-Getting to our window seat, we played happily. (Nora and myself. Not the businessmen.) For ten minutes.
-She started to get fussy so I tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes right after takeoff and I- stupidly- took out a book to read.
-Waking in a panicked and psychotic rage, she ripped the blanket from my shoulder, exposing my entire chestal areas for the first time on this particular flight.
-I tried- stupidly- to calm her down. She noted her displeasure at my attempts.
-I tried to walk her to the bathroom and bounce her a little.
-We got stuck behind the beverage cart. The. Whole. Way. Back.
-I used the bathroom. (Impressed? I know.) Nora was not. In fact, this is when she filed her formal complaint and checked out for the evening.
-Screeeeeeaaaaaamed the whole walk back. Got stuck behind attendants picking up the trash.
-Finished my drink. (Gingerale, sadly. I had a stomachache. Can you imagine why?)
-Nora helped this along by upending it on my book...and the woman in the middle seat. (She was kind. Also, she spoke no English. I don't know if this made it any better.)
-Tried to clean. With a magazine and what was left of my book. Apologized.
-Nora chewed on the soaked magazine and raged like a velociraptor when I pried the gummy pieces from her mouth.
-Took the Cheerios I had been carefully feeding her one at a time...and showered our entire row (and two rows back) with them. With big arms.
-She rubbed her eyes, so I- stupidly- assumed that she was tired. Tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes. I closed my eyes.
-Opened them when she exposed me yet again in a freaked out angerfest, the likes of which have rarely been seen in such a contained space.
-I tried to distract with books, toys, a seemingly endless supply of snacks, and soggy reading materials on which to chomp. (I gave up- eat the paper, Nora. Go ahead.)
-She spent the rest of the three hour flight (and this was only 40 minutes in, mind you) shoving against me, shrieking with a purple face and wild eyes, and making the non-English-speaking couple next to me clutch hands and rethink their future.
-Watched as the woman sitting in front of me pushed the attendant button, only to shrug helplessly and gesture at me when the attendant showed up. Really? Really?
-Decided my apologetic and embarrassed (and super stressed) attitude had run its course, thanks to the passive aggressive behavior in row 10.
-Wished her ill.
-Wished myself ill.
-Debated putting Nora out on the wing.
-Tried to nurse once more. It worked. Briefly. Remained unconcerned when I was- yet again- exposed.
-Left my boob like that for a few minutes. Because really, in terms of being viewed as an attractive being on this flight...well, I think that's safely in the past.
-Landed. Eventually. Somehow. Waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for a completely random and as still unknown reason.
-Apologized and thanked my way off the plane. Heard the slightest bit of subtle applause.
-Handed a completely smiling and stoked baby to her father.
-Watched, bemused, as she conked out for a solid twelve hours.

...And marveled at my ability to be completely in love with this little beastie by 7am the next morning. Biology's a funny, funny thing.

I'm certain the rest of Flight 2281 would disagree.

But you can't beat that kinda free birth control.

I also call people "Baby" a lot. This bugs certain Big Kids.

Due to the fact that I am still in Massachusetts, still surrounded by genetically terrific children, and still not convinced that it isn't Thursday...

...May I present a smallish sampling of things I've learned about myself?

On Speech: Turns out, I abbreviate and nickname a LOT. When my sister asked if something needed to happen and I responded with "potenstsh," a vehement "IALLY" came from the 4 year-old in the other room. The little guys have also started referring to Nora solely as "Noodle," "Silly Sally" and "BugBug." Cole may believe, in fact, that he has multiple female cousins. (There's certainly enough people touching his stuff.)

On How My Writing Is Being Perceived: Quinn was peeking up at his Mom's laptop and saw my blog's site open. He asked "Is this Auntie Kiki's blog?" When  he was assured that it was, he pitched his voice a little higher and began to speak- "I was walking down the street and blahderlilalalila..." (That is NOT my process, Q-Dog.)

On Things I Should've Been Saying Already: Tom and I were having a beer with our Mexican fiesta the other night when 2 year-old Cole, leaning over to stare at my bottle, asked if he could Look in [Your] Beerhole. Bumper sticker...go.

On How Easily Disturbed I Am: Kate and I have been watching a ton of late night TV. Okay, 8:30pm TV. But there's a new Hamburger Helper commercial that takes place at- get this- a yard sale.  You know, dirty Fisher-Price toys, clothing from the '80s...and a plate of ground beef mixed with pasta. BEING PASSED AROUND ON A PLATE. "Best deal of the day," a mother joyfully exclaims to her two children. Really? Is the "best deal" the plate, the meal, or the heat-induced food poisoning? I asked Kate if she'd ever eat someone else's communal Hamburger Helper at a yard sale.  "Depends on how much it was."

And finally, Why Those Old-Peopley Pill Containers Are A Good Idea: For this week's trip, I put all of my vitamins and pills into one drawstring baggie (because, you know, it's SO hard to pack for a week at a sibling's house) and was feeling good about remembering to take them each night before bed. In the room I've been sharing with Nora. In the dark. Going on feel alone, I've proudly been popping pills sight unseen, a fact that became a little too obvious the other night. Tasting something a tad minty, I realized too late that a) I'd mixed painkillers- and forgotten about them- in with the vitamins, b) Target's version of Tylenol is delicious, and c) I may have scurvy but I FEEL NO PAIN.

And that's all we have time for today, folks. Because eventually, someone's gonna come for these four children. Hopefully their real parents.

And Kate and I need to be ready for that.

With cocktails. (And beerholes.)