Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.

You think I'm kidding about the cranberries.

You play the piano beautifully, Pop.

Thanksgiving has started off quite well.

My Dad made his signature waffles- Nora had the better part of two- and there have been more a few people dancing along with the Macy's Parade. No names...but Nora wasn't the only one marching with the Spirit of America dancers. (Also- I'm pretty sure the guy/girl ratio on that team is 7 to 800. I bet those boys felt pretty awesome last night at their motel party.)

Two of my sisters are home and the third will be here tomorrow. Plus all the guys. (That's a relatively new thing to say in this family.) My folks are here and have not yet stopped preparing glorious meals. Or facilitating naps; if ever someone is reclining, a comfy throw is plopped over their torso. (3...2...1...snore.)

I am thankful for all of the family and friends I'll get to see today and this week.  And the ones I'll be able to talk to via Skype and iPhone (for we live in The Future.)

Also, for the two turkeys and positively insane amount of side dishes and appetizers. (I will not talk to them, so much. But they will feel my love and gratitude.)

And beverages. All of the beverages, too.

I am beyond grateful for the fact that, this week, my husband has woken up with our Bitsy Bug at 6:30am- letting me sleep until eight. EIGHT! And due to his awesomeness/availability of sofa throws, I've taken no less than three naps.

I am thankful for our home- in fact, everyone's home- and various leak-free roof/floor combinations. Also, the ability to heat/cool/hydrate/shove food into various kitchens. That's a big one, too.

And I love my city, my neighborhood, the fifteen taco joints, the Middle Eastern bakery...

I'm grateful to the loved ones serving overseas...because, let's face it. I'd be awful at that job.

I'm thankful that I can have the combination of wonderful part-time work that allows me to nanny and blog and write and- most importantly- spend 22 hours each day with Nora. (We all need our down time.) And, obviously, I have love in my heart (and wallet) for the Peej that facilitates and supplements this whimsical paycheck ride.

And, as my Dad just made a massive fire in the front room's fireplace, this list could literally go on and on and on. And is that an hors devours plate? And who left this chenille throw here?

I do believe my daughter is still napping like the champion o' holidays that she is...leaving only one thing left to do.

Poke the cranberry sauce and get yelled at.

Happy Thanksgiving, Lolliers. I love you guys, too.  (Between all of this tryptophan and saccharine, naptime might come a little early today.)

Have a fabulous holiday, folks. Go on. Live it up and be merry.

...Poke the cranberry sauce.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.

I'll sleep in March.

Oh, Monday.

In my efforts to protect my laptop, phone, coffee and child from each other, I managed to dump the third over all four things. Five, including myself.

The coffee was cold. She's fine.

Maybe I need to be child-proofed from myself.

(What is that glorious aroma of hazelnut coming from my iPhone case? Smells like...a warranty crying.)

So, yes. Monday. It was a busy and fabulous weekend across the board- and the country. Sadly, we missed my youngest nephew Declan's baptism, but we were there in spirit. And present. And presently, our present is being presented to the incorrect zip code. (P.J. errantly mixed the oldest sister's street address with the youngest sister's zip code. What, we all look the same to you? What's one Massachusetts town compared to the next? Thanks a lot, Cincy.)

The past few days also included the best sushi in town (Yay, Macku! I ate a potentially unwise amount of super white tuna) an evening with P.J.'s coworkers (great band, terrific company, positively cougartastic dancin' on the floor), a birthday party for a one year old whom Nora alternately adores and has a coy-ish thing going on (and a good time was had with his always suprafun parents and their pals), a holiday swaparoo with no less than eight types of cheese and plates that rest on one's FINGERS (I could not invent that kinda thing if I tried), and a brunch/playdate with neighbor pals- a relationship that we are quite thrilled to cultivate, as they are a) cool, b) possessing a daughter of the same age as Nora, and c) fluent speakers of sober English.

Saturday evening was the extraordinarily different experience of having someone pick out my outfit (because I collapsed in a pile of my Momitude and comfy hoodies) and whisk me out for an evening of dancin' in divey locales. (Thanks, B!) I hadn't been to the Liar's Club since my 26th birthday, which was...last year...and it hasn't changed a bit. Except maybe it's a little cleaner? Slightly? Or maybe my standards have completely dropped off the face of the planet. (There aren't any waffles stuck to the chairs- what a classy joint!) Even though the music was- shall we say- a little too current for my dusty tastes, we definitely got the dancing started. (I am always the first on the dance floor. I don't want to brag and say that people pack the floor once I get out there...but it inevitably happens. Granted, this could also be because I start dancing while the DJ is still setting up. It would be pretty hard to start dancing before the person who doesn't need music starts dancing.) And Miss B was so proud of my efforts that she convinced the DJ to play Boston for me. Sure, I was the only one really dancing to More Than A Feeling...but ask me if I cared. Or noticed. (I did not.)

And now, about the kids' music today: (Scoot aside, my walker needs to be parked.) The last time I really identified with trendy music was the early 90s- seriously. Once hair metal started to die out, I Status Quo-ly listened to Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. But my flannel-clad heart was still aching for a modulation of Hysteria proportions. And a couple of years later? I was so done with the boy band/pop princess explosion that I regressed into blues and oldies and classic country just to remind myself of how music used to sound- and I was seventeen.

But really. Taio Cruz? Dynamite? There are just some songs so inane as to permanently damage my frontal lobes each time they are reflected upon. (And with a stupid hook that catchy, it is sadly a DAILY occurrence.)

"I throw my hands up in the air sometimes!" he exclaims. (Sayin' AYO.) Every time I hear that one line I am completely taken out of the moment. I need to step off of the bar and think about how ridiculous that lyric is. Really, Taio? You seem surprised by this. Sometimes you just throw your hands in the air? Is it like an involuntary twitch? ("May I offer you a canape?" "Yeah, this is a lovely catered event, I- AYO!" Trays akimbo.) So I think about that. Then I am always drawn back to Nora's book about a shy little wombat called "Sometimes I Like To Curl Up In A Little Ball." Always. Always always always. Then I get an image of a smallish Taio Cruz curling up into a ball and waving his arms willy nilly against the onslaught of not being able to live his life/rock this club/light it up/move move move.

It's a wonder they even let me through the door.

Back to the weekend.

As the Summer/Fall events transition into All Things Holiday, I often think about how nice it's gonna be once Winter hits. Truly. And this is coming from a girl who takes baths at a trillion degrees Fahrenheit and cannot stand the sight of snow once February hits. But, as friends and I were discussing yesterday, the cold weather season means you actually see people. As counterintuitive as it seems, we never see anyone in the Summer. Sure, we're out and about and there are a trillion things going on...but we've been booked since January. Weddings, family, travel, festivals, weekend thingies. But in March? The only plans people make for March around here are cozy house parties, Scrabble nights, movies, dinners in, blanket tents, etc. Sure, last winter was positively idyllic, what with a glorious maternity leave, snuggly little wee baby, entire seasons of programming at my disposal, and enough homemade food to stock two freezers...but I have high hopes for this one as well.

So to all of my lovely friends and fam- the ones whom I could not get it together in time to see this Warm Season- come over sometime. I hear that Peej has a few movies.

But I'll provide the music.

Yelling At Inanimate Objects (And Other Fun.)

This photo, originally in the January '10 issue of Parenting magazine, nearly gave me a brain aneurysm when I first saw it.

So, so many things.

For starters:
-She is eleven years old.
-She is holding a doughnut and wincing at her weight on the scale.
-She weighs 129lbs.
-To get a full body shot like that, she must have a positively Louvre-like bathroom. Or the photographer is standing directly inside her full length mirror.

Am I to feel any sort of connection with this image? Any sympathy for her plight? I do not believe that she either a) feels badly about herself or b) eats doughnuts. Maybe even c) has kids. (LOOK at those HIPS! Eleven.)

And sure, I'm not compelled to immediately identify with every single picture placed in front of me- but come on. The magazine is called 'Parenting'. Not 'Awesome Thin People Eating Junk Food'. (Although- sign me up for that one.) But its target demographic is the young Mom and Dad. Who presumably, if they have body image issues at all, have legit ones. (If I looked that good and had a doughnut, you would surely not hear me complain.) The article goes on to extol the virtues of being easy on yourself after the holidays, that a new diet is sure to fail now and again. The important thing is to not beat yourself up! Have a doughnut!

At the time that this magazine entered our house, I was a hot mess of hormones, sleep deprivation, Chicago winter skin/body/hair, and forty extra pounds of taco. You think you've seen tears? You have not seen tears. And a frightened P.J. did not think that a bag of Mexican food could solve it this time.

Instead, he told me to hang on to the article. Maybe even hang it up in my office. Before I could projectile weep at him, he delicately suggested (from behind protective forearms) that I take my own picture when I felt good about myself. Compare the two. Laugh. Have a snack.

And ten months later, I did.

I made a few executive edits:
-Wasn't so much feelin' the underpants thing.
-My shirt is crazy cooler.
-Martinis make scales easier. (Also- we don't "keep" doughnuts around. You either walk in and have them in a box, or you've just run out of doughnuts.)
-I've definitely got more rage than consternation.
-My camera was propped up in my toddler's Snack Trap.

So, what's my point? Am I coming almost a year late to The January Issue Of Parenting Made Me Feel Badly party? Am I railing against unfair depictions of actual Momitude in the media? Do I believe that only hefty people should consume baked goods?

Nope.

Oh sure, I was all set to be a stoic example of what a Real Mother On A Scale Holding A Highly Caloric Object looks like- a super zoom would reveal my lack of makeup, poorly patched "pedicure" and yes, those are a series of small holes on the front of my favorite tee- indeed, I kept it REAL. Until I stepped on the scale.

For you see, I didn't weigh 129lbs. I weighed slightly less. (Take that, MODEL.)

Now I was in a wicked pickle. There is NO humor in being smaller than the teensy person whom you are in the act of condemning for the samesuch quality! NONE.

But there was a smallish bit of pride. Not just that I was [fleetingly] thin, but that my self-created diet of tears, once a month Pilates, stress, more tears, some yelling, okay- more yelling, forgetting to eat, more than making up for it and crying out the difference, and playlot shame WORKED! For the time being!

Sure, it was nearly inevitable that once I stopped eating for seven- loooong after I'd had the baby- that I'd shed most of the weight. But should I should call Parenting and have them feature me as January's obnoxious example of unattainable long-term lifestyle goals? No way. Here's why:

Because in my quest to mock an unfair depiction, I've unwittingly become closer to the actual image against which I'd raged, an act which demands that I- momentarily- dislike and scorn myself. I'm basically required to wonder about what it is, exactly, that I'm trying to "say" to Me in general...and then spend way too much time agonizing about how I'm presenting Me to Myself in the media. It's kinda like Time Cop. Also- the weight of Not Real Problems is staggeringly heavy and hubris adds about twenty pounds. Oop, there we go. Back to normal. Thanks for nothing Parenting.

But I'm not gonna beat myself up about it.

Doughnut, anyone?

<---Not Brave.

Nora is covered in band-aids. Five of them, to be exact. On her bruised, teensy tiny upper arms.

I have one band-aid. But I care not for my own pain- for it is my penance.

Oh, sure, Nora was thrilled to see the doctor and her nurse pals this a.m. What's not to like? Cool artwork (for her, anyway- she's not too discerning yet), tons of stuff to poke and touch, people telling her how big and strong and pretty she is...

And then jabbing her with needles the size of a small country.

Trying not to project my own fears of [awfulterriblepainful] needles onto my kid, I smiled and sang and gave her a cookie. A special doctor visit cookie! You know, a Halloween sugar cookie, like you do.

And then they made me lean over her to pin down her upper body and legs. Right away, she knew something was up. As they tightened the tourniquet and swabbed her miniature inner arm, she looked at me with panicked and pleading eyes. Then she began to whimper. And, I AM NOT ASHAMED TO SAY...so did I.

I almost went and got the car. Seriously, I asked myself. How threatening IS polio? So what if she has lead in her system?

I'm pretty sure they drained all of the blood in her body. It took like seven hours.

And they they gave her four shots. Two of which, they warned (there were multiple nurses), might be really sting-y. And, gauging by the [momentarily] silent scream emitting from my purple-headed daughter's face, I'm willing to bet they were.

Her arms are already purple and blue and red. She has, occasionally, removed her sleepy weepy head from the crook of my neck- once when the nurses returned to do my flu shot. (I've rarely seen such a wary and tension-filled glare coming from one so little.)

My arm is a little sore. I cannot even imagine the Achyville in which she currently resides.

We both had cookies.

So. Yes. This weekend.

On Friday we had the unparalleled date night of watching ourselves on The Food Network (Outrageous Food, playing again on the 14th at 3p and 10:30p CST, in case you missed it)...and enjoyed the evening by having our phones in hand, computers on lap, texting, emailing, Facebooking, Skyping, Gchatting, and phone-calling. Just like the pioneers intended.

Also this weekend; I made the very urban discovery that a car alarm truly serves no purpose. None. Its intended use it to deter car theft. What ends up happening, however, is that you don't end up hearing the alarm at 3am. Your neighbors do. And, instead of checking to see if everything is all right, they actually wish the car jacker would hurry up and disable the siren. Maybe smack you with a car part if a child is woken.

Just a casual observation apropos of nothing on Troy Street.

Another revelation? A few reviews of my new 3lb computer warned against its small and tricky-to-maneuver keyboard- the one that actually makes me a better typist. Obviously, I HAVE CHILDLIKE HANDS. Thank you, Picayune Polly, for being yet another affirmation that I am indeed a ten year-old.

In case the wardrobe, hairstyle, fear of the dark, toy collections, nicknaming, and joyful outbursts didn't give it away.

Nora thinks I'm cool. Or will once I give her another cookie.

(Small hands high-five!)

Intensive porpoises.

[Note: This posting was, for all intents and purposes, ready to go this a.m. However, apparently I wasn't. Really, all I had to do was do a li'l spell check, edit some late night phrases that don't do so well in the light of day (and vice versa) and hit 'publish post.'

Yup. Couldn't even manage that. 

To be fair, I was awfully busy ruining my daughter's life and stranding a three year-old in the line for preschool pickup. One super sick baby (she got the illness lovingly passed on by a good half of her party guests) in addition to one semi-sick three year old, and throw in a seven year-old outta school due to a teachers' conference. Add in a stalled recycling truck outside of two schools with simultaneous pickup times...and oh, let's just pretend that the non-sleeping baby didn't care to be stopped in traffic (with or without garbage truck fumes) and, just for fun, let's say that the middle kiddo felt thoroughly abandoned after a ten minute wait...and the littlest one decided to get her only nappin' of the day in whilst car bound. 

That leaves about three hours of unfulfilled nappage and 9.5 hours of fulfilled crabbage (that's a combo crab/cabbage/cribbage)- but plenty of opportunity for five cups of caffeine. 

The day might've been destined for crabbagetude, however, since I woke up from a nightmare that seemed about eight years long. In a nutshell, the dream took place on my wedding day. Sans P.J. or any actual items or locations of that day. Especially without Peej- because he had stood me up on the altar. All I remember was being very sad, and then, when I woke up, being very mad at P.J. (He hates when these things happen. Awake P.J. and Dream P.J. need to have some words.) 

So. Yes. Lack of bloggin' for the day. Amended. With apologies for the late hour.]

Previously Penned Posting o' Prose and Puns:

This was, quite obviously, a good time o' year to be born'd. I don't think I had realized just how many pals were Scorpios in addition to my husband, daughter, sister and Mom. 

Lots of passionate, deep thinkin' arguers. 

I didn't exactly need the zodiac to tell me that.

And a happy birthday week to my big sis Kate. She's awesome. Awesomer than me, in fact. Here's why: she had her first kid on my birthday. (06.06.06- and I turned 26. Neato/frightening!) I could not manage the same, despite an original due date a mere day before her birthday. (11.04.09. Kate's is the 5th. Nora was delivered on the 29th of October. Darn you, modern medicine!) 

So there's that. There's also the fact that she's a computer whiz, soccer star and baking genius (seriously- ask her to make you a banana cake. On second thought, don't. It's for me.)

If only I had enough floss, I'd string up a pulley/basket contraption- like the kind that used to hang between our bedroom doors- and send a secret birthday message as big as the Midwest. In fact, maybe I'd send myself in the basket and save on airfare. Or...or...I could send others and charge for it! Then I could see her whenever I wanted!

Birthday magic. Brilliant.

Some other little-known tidbits and magical facts about this week:

1) Despite having mopped the floors and both staircases repeatedly over the last few days, there are miniature cat hair tumbleweeds rollin' on by...and rollin' on over random sticky spots near the fridge. I'm gonna go ahead and presume that they're made of juice. Also, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that this all is the work of one thing and one thing only- a ghost. 

2) I am getting a new laptop delivered any time between right this very second and tomorrow in an hour to be determined...and oh, it will be determined. Because my nose will be pressed against the window until the very second it arrives, prompting my daughter to wonder why she's being neglected and I will tell her that MOMMY IS GETTING A NEW COMPUTER. Drink your juice. But not by the fridg- oh well. 

3) This new computer is teeeeeensy...and yes, it already has a name. 

4) And a customized skin. Like the 13 year-old girl that I am. 

5) My bloodstream is comprised of 79% sugar. And not even the fructose kind. Like, straight up candy corn and brownies and caramel apples and cupcakes and Kit Kats. I find that this affects things like "energy," "sleep," and "mood." This has not slowed me down in the least.

6) And many, many of my friends have seen this already...but P.J. and I are exceedingly proud of the following 12 second clip:

...Because it means that our darlin' girl has put the 'fun' in FUNCTIONAL. 

        

Anagram: ANTIC FLU NO.

A.K.A.: Keely, go to bed.      

November is for sleeping.

Firstly and foremostly, congrats to Kelly F, winner extraordinaire of the Brain Noodles giveaway! (And no, that does not read 'Keely F.' It doesn't.) Hope you have some fun kiddos in your life- or enjoy a good crafty evening by yourself. 'Cause who doesn't?

Except for autophobes.

Hmm. So. Where did October go?

Ah yes, now I remember. We sent it packing with armloads of confetti and [impossible to open] plastic toy enclosures, a face full of Trick or Treat makeup and frosting up its nostril.

Maybe a frozen Reese's cup in its back pocket. (I'm kidding. I ate all of those. In the state.)

Hey gorgeous. Cupcake? Sure!

Yes. This weekend. Friday was a crazypants day, full of tutus, graphic tees proclaiming 'ONE,' zoo trips, zero naps, and all sorts of good foods. And some really bad ones. We took Nora Noodle to the zoo for her big day and decided to make up for the other afternoon where we tried to squeeze an entire visit into the last fifteen minutes before closing time. We failed.


Here is what she dug:
-The cats. And they were all 'cats.' The lions, servals, panthers, tigers, seals...
-The birds. Flamingos, ducks, nearby chickadees and street pigeons.
-Dad was there. Dad! DAAAAAD!
-Smelling the gardenias inside the conservatory.
-Walking about on the pavement.
-The snack I had brought.

Here is what she did not care for:
-The fact that the monkey house was indoors and dim. Also, kinda smelly.
-That she could not hold the snake.
-Not being allowed to walk about on the pavement the entire time.
-The near-freezing temps.
-Not being allowed IN the koi pond at the conservatory.
-When I removed the empty snack container from her hands.

I had made all of her favorite foods for that day- in fact, for the whole week. P.J's as well- because, as everyone knows, she's taking notes. And will remember. These foods included: French toast with bananas, mini croissant sandwiches, a sweet potato and apple bake, eggplant parmesan, and a chocolate cherry cupcake (from Sweet Mandy B's. I cannot bake.) I'm rather surprised she didn't explode.

As for the cupcake itself, we had a very cool (and rather Epcot World of Tomorrow moment) where my parents got to Skype and see Nora blow out her first candle. (We live in the future!) It was pretty neat, especially when everyone got a close up look at my delicate daughter smashing her face (hands-free...she's a LADY) directly into the frosting.

We undressed her right over the bathtub and she took a nice long soak surrounded by cake and eggplant bits. YUM.

Dux.

She awoke the next morning to find her parents in a frenzy. Why? Oh, because they had decided on a no-stress mini party for their toddler at her favorite nearby playlot. And that required multiple trips to multiple stores. And they needed to get food and drinks (and adult "juice") and presents and paper goods and wipes and candles (and and and) to the park that may or may not have available picnic tables because, once again, it is a free city park. Also, the forecast had- ever so helpfully- been fluctuating between  a pleasant mid-60s sunny day and a positively frigid rainy 40-something. Which meant that the party MIGHT have had to take place at the homestead. Which was also frantically being cleaned for the arrival of P.J.'s parents sometime that day. (Sorry Nora, happy birthday and all- go lay down.)

And when she decided to nap for a whopping twenty minutes that day? No one was surprised. But thankfully, the day turned out to be gorgeous, Nora was thrilled when she realized where we were taking her, even more ecstatic when she realized that other people she knew were there (Hey guys! You're at my park!), and she devoured a second glorious cupcake (punkin' this time, made by the fabulous Cindy/Julia Team O' Excellence) with all the acumen of a seasoned pro.

Of course, we had decided to have it at the park to best accommodate all of her miniature friends...four of whom were able to show up. (There were various illnesses and weekendy plans. You know how it goes.) However, a whopping 90% of our friends made it, allowing for a positively creepy number of adults san children at a public playlot. Lots of bench-sitting and "juice" drinking. I had fun. Nora thought it was terrific.


That night she passed out atop brightly wrapped boxes, clutching a questionably "food"-covered Doc Bullfrog. Party over, I could almost hear her bitsy (and racing) mind decide.

Miiine.

Except.

The next day was Halloween. A day for masks, Skyping with a good half of Trick or Treating cousins (what's a telephone?), carving pumpkins (you're doing WHAT to the punkins?!), giving buckets of candy away to other kids (they get ALL of it?) and dressing up as Raggedy Ann (I did this last week, weirdos.) Aside from the oddity of hearing the doorbell every five minutes, she had a pretty decent time. She even got to take a bath with all of the leftover cupcake ducks.

There's a sentence I've never before typed.

But now that it's November, maybe we can all agree to take a nap? Specifically the shorties? I need all the extra time I can get to dispose of the veritable kitchen candyland we're got going on (immediately into my face) and find some sort of order for the F.A.O. Schwartz open for business in our playroom. (Nora: It is fine the way it is. Leave it. LEAVE IT.)

Raggedy Tired.

I might start by doing a big ol' load of laundry. That's right. Let's start with the upstairs bedding. I'm probably gonna need to crawl under the sheets to make sure I can reach all of the blankets. And I should rest there for a few.

This hand holding the cupcake is getting heavy.