Not to be all whiny about the weather…but seriously. What is up with this weather?
Having lived in Chicago for 8.5 years (yeah, it was originally supposed to be for under a year), this should not surprise me. Chicago does not have a Spring. We have seven months of Winter, followed by a week of rain, then it is SUMMER. But each and every year I find myself surprised- nay, angered– by the lack of springtimeliness.
Last week was a tease. A 70 degree (and sunny!?) day followed by a mid-60s (and SUNNY) day, followed by…grey sludgery.
Here is a vid from those happier moments. Nora had a superb time catching and playing with her shadow. Yes, those are the big sister jammies from the other day. And double yes, we’re listening to an “End of Summer” mix tape of P.J.’s from high school. (We’ve recently gotten into playing our old teenaged/party/breakup mixes. This is an awesome thing to do. Also warranting of its own post.)
But, video:
Today is another jammie day, due to the fact that sludgery plus [Nora’s] runny nose equals lolling about and [Keely’s] whining re: weather. No sunshine, no shadows. What we do have is one snortle-y girl wearing an ever-changing assortment of bibs for which to dab her faucet-like nose. (Is that gross? I mean, I know that it is, but should I not have mentioned it?) I am keeping it REAL. Tissues are ‘spensive and bibs have a never-ending dance into and out of the wash.
It’s like a velcroed handkerchief. If I am gross, then so is the pocket handkerchief.
Onwards.
We saw some terrific friends this weekend, ate way too much decadent food, (hosted no less than three other pregnant women!), and watched five kids run amok. And walk amok. And climb amok. My daughter wore a miniature apron (because she was the hostess, obvie), and I completely failed to capture it on film. I mean, really. I took eight videos of her dancing with her shadow and a flipbook’s worth of swingset pictures…but a day when my child held and ate entire potatoes and welcomed folks in a frilly apron? Nada.
Also, some of you may be aware of my ever-abiding distaste for the potato. (I dig them in things, but a plain potato undisguised? Blech.) We recently discovered that Nora loves them. Adores them. Eats them whole, like an apple, then points for more.
I’m questioning maternity.
And wondering if this next kiddo could possibly be a little more like his/her dark-haired taco fiend of a mother.
Or healthy. I’d be pleased with “healthy.”
Which I’m sure a strict diet of liverwurst and Italian ice will guarantee.
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