I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.

Mrs. Innes Thinks I'm Special- (my pencil says so.)

The blog is up mighty early today, I realize. 

There are few people in this world for whom I would early-blog. (Actually, it's a pretty vast category, but as it's a rather benign request I'd be more inclined to say no. And depending on the hour in which you asked me, it might not be as pleasant as all that. But why are we arguing so early?) My point is, my darling pal Lori- ahem, Mrs. Innes- asked if she could use my blog as a creative writing example for her AP Language and Comp class.

Just let that sink in for a second. 

Of course I agreed- happily- and then instantly wondered if I should go back and edit three years of incredibly loose grammar and imaginary words. Laziness won out. 

So, APLn'C class- welcome. Stay in school. Learn really important things, like how one should never begin a sentence with 'and.' And then how it's sometimes okay to write in your own style, anyhow. Go easy on the commas and other such punctuation. (I realize that this is reading like a letter to myself, circa last week.) 

A great rule of thumb for making up a person's nickname is as follows: Adjective Hyphen Noun, Part of Name (this is what lends gravity), Adjective Hyphen Noun. All is true. For instance: Radface McAwesomepants. Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs. (Actual names used in this blog, the latter being my baby.) In cases such as the second, the first adjective can be replaced with a title signifying royalty. I am not the one making up these rules. And "creative words" such as j'accusity and blahdiblah are a success only if they need no further explanation.

I also talk a lot about Mayor McCheese. Occasionally The Hamburglar. But NEVER Birdie the Early Bird, that minx. 

That's it. Those are all of my secrets and the sum of my writing knowledge. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Feel free to go browse some of my more "cohesive" posts or ones with "through-lines." Perhaps ones that don't "ramble." (Good luck.) 

Or...how about tales of your teacher when SHE was in high school? Yeah? 

Okay, I can't really go nuts on the storytelling for a few reasons: 

a) She's really, really strong. Quite possibly a lot stronger than she looks. Which is strong.

b) She was always popular. Which is insanely annoying. Even worse? Here was her secret: She was nice to everybody. She was fabulous to people so they liked her a ton. Jerk.

c) She has way worse stories on me, from fashion to dating to questionable hobbies. And besides- I was the "funny friend." You know the one. Not hilarious enough to be the ridiculously cool kid who happened to be funny- usually reserved for the varsity soccer captain whom, every now and then, said something witty and unbelievably well-timed- but the other one. The girl who sat behind the awesome girl in AP History and blurted out [what she thought were] appropriate quips regarding the Civil War? Yeah. 

But I will leave you with this fabulous image, forever to be sealed into your retinas...I give you Middle School, 1992.

That's right, shells. I won 6th grade.

And just how did she manage to make her oversized sweater looks less awkward than mine? She has POWERS.

Anyway, yes. Creative writing. 

It is my hope of hopes that I have not yet stunted your capacity for words nor your predilection toward actual, legitimate linguistics. 

Happy Thursday.

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.

I call dibs on this weather.

Okay, the whole "dibs" thing really needs to end. Like a week ago. For those not in the greater Chicagoland area or not aware of the debilitating bonkertude that a day and change of snow can inflict, I am not speaking of those delicious chocolate covered ice cream wonders. Those are permitted.

I am speaking, of course, about every single one of my neighbors and their household furniture. Holding parking spots. Ones that they'd shoveled. TWO WEEKS AGO. Sure, I totally get it. Some people couldn't even see their cars after the Great Snow. And I agree, if you spent the three hours necessary to undo the damage that a blizzard plus a snowplow digging a single file lane down the street by way of coating your vehicle with more snow, then sure. By all rights if you run to the store, it should be waiting for you when you come back. The next day when you return home work? Okay, fine. I'll give you that. Maybe you had a hard day and your arms are still screaming at you from the previous day's workout. But to expect that "your" spot stay available through the weekend? Dude. People need to go to brunch. Sometimes that involves parking. You may have to move the stroller/folding chair amalgamation that is currently marking your domain like so much pee.

And now? Two weeks later? It's 60 degrees. There are rivers of melting snow washing away your grandpa's walker. (Doesn't he NEED that walker?) Put your questionable belongings back into your foyer and let's all pretend that we don't know how many laundry baskets you own.

No one pities your inability to find parking on a damp street.

Onward. My darling daughter Nora went out yesterday without a hat. For the first time since she began walking. (This is true- she took her initial steps mere days after she turned one. The next day? Whomp. Frostbitten baldish head.) The mild temps shocked the both of us on our jaunt to Cermak Produce, so I whipped off her whimsical animal-eared cap and encouraged her to let some breezes tousle that tuft of hair. Maybe take some deep, cleansing breaths- but not towards the alley. Or Montrose.

She reacted the way any stoic Chicagoan would after a particularly bitter stretch of winter- she began to laugh. And squeal. (Sure, the baby noises o' happy are reserved for a special group of smallish person- not necessarily Chicago At Large- but she embodied what I was feeling as well.) After a few moments of joy, she stared mistrustfully at the clear sky and sunshine, wondering Just What Was Their Game. She then jolted and peered over her shoulder each and every time a gentle wind would tickle her ears.

Perhaps the abrupt (and temporary) change of seasons has made her more than a little crazy. Perhaps her parents' decision to live in the Midwest has given her a lifetime of nervous twitches.

But just wait 'til Real Spring and...dare I jinx it? SUMMER. The ability to run around barefoot- in specific locales- and watch [fewer] outdoor films and eat unhealthy stick foods at street festivals and splash in the positively frigid lake waters... Oh, I cannot wait. And dearest N.J., you're gonna forget winter. You will. It'll be like the last ten months didn't grate on your nerves like so much rock salt on the floors.

It'll be fabulous. Maybe we can even built a sweet fort from all the Dibs debris.

I call the ironing board.

***

And I gotta do one final blogesque plug: this is the last post before The Bloggies voting closes. Go! Go now! I promise not to say anything too meaningful in the last couple of sentences.

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

And this. Okay, I think we both know that I can just do this all day. Be the bigger person, please.

 I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

The Art of the Lull.

Music is a constant in our house. We have cleaning mixes, Sunday morning albums, and classic vinyl on rotation. Nora can usually tell the who, what, and where of a situation by what's currently playing: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros? Time to dance with Dad before supper. '40s on 4, Sirius XM? Mom's doing a project in the kitchen. Sweet Baby James up in her bedroom? Time to line up the Beanie Babies and Trolls- it's playtime.

We've been compiling and collecting lullabies and our favorite kids' albums since the day we found out we were expecting. Some all-time favorites include In Harmony, any of the classic Sesame Street albums, Free To Be You And Me, and a still gender-nonspecific iTunes playlist entitled "Kid."

Nora loves them all. She digs a good melody, harmony, key change and rhythm. Here's what she doesn't like- pandering lyrics, saccharine sentiments, and downright boring composition. (Oh, did I say Nora? I meant me. But based on her refusal to stay in the room when something of that ilk is played...I can guess that she feels much the same.) So many kids' albums are that way. And most little ones I know can tell the difference between good and bad music, especially if they've heard a ton of it in their fifteen months.

I was beyond excited when I was approached to take a listen to Jane Roman Pitt's new album, Midnight Lullaby. She's a singer/songwriter with strong folk/country/classical roots, and her latest is a compilation of non-traditional lullabies from some pretty big names. It's already gotten some great reviews- at HuffPost, among others- so I figured that I'd give it to one of the toughest critics I know. She's 30 inches tall, has crazy hair, and a penchant for thumbs and frogs. Here's what Nora thought of the album.

We played Midnight Lullaby in the playroom, about an hour before I wanted to settle Nora down for a nap. It was a tall order, I realized, as she was darned busy laying waste to every puzzle and pretend piece of food in a three-room radius.

It started with Josh Ritter's Baby That's Not All- a song that warranted a bit of a hip wiggle (the universal sign for I Acknowledge The Music You Have Selected.) She also began to rock and pat her Valentine's Day cards. So, maybe she was feeling soothed. Or needing to soothe. Either way, those cards were getting the treatment.

Wilco's My Darling- a great tune- actually made me well up a little bit. It was so lovely. Nora paused the coddling of the cards to come give me a pat on the shoulder. Empathy! Or maybe embarrassment. Either way, the puzzle-flinging had ceased.

Tom Waits is an extremely welcome guest in our speakers, so when his Midnight Lullaby played, I decided to spread out a blanket on the floor and just enjoy. And yes, we've proven that this album succeeds at lulling the Exhausted Mother set...but Nora joined me, too. (I think the last time that she'd willingly snuggled in my arms was during her raging fever. Before that? Five months of age.)

Maybe it was the quiet time with Nora, or perhaps it was the sweetness of the song, but Bob Dylan's Forever Young got me sniffling again. And Nora even joined in with her nondescript 'ah' singsongy voice which I love. By this point I was ready for a nap, eighteen more children, and a pony for Nora if she'd just keep singing and cuddling.

There are so many highlights on this simple and gentle album: Donovan's La Moora is a soothing Scottish melody, Jane's own original tracks on the album add beautiful instrumentation and harmony, and the classic Beatles' Goodnight/Golden Slumbers is a must-have for parents, anyhow.

Here's the full track listing:
1. Baby That's Not All- Josh Ritter
2. My Darling- Wilco
3. Dreaming Sweet Dreams- Hugh Prestwood
4. Lullaby- Dixie Chicks
5. Midnight Lullaby- Tom Waits
6. Welcome Home To Love- Jane Roman Pitt
7. The Sweetest Gift- Sade
8. La Moora- Donovan
9. Whisper Warm- Jane Roman Pitt
10. Forever Young- Bob Dylan
11. Goodnight/Golden Slumbers- Lennon/McCartney

I have a feeling this one's gonna stay in our rotation. Want it to be in yours? I have an album for giveaway that I'm really stoked to share. Leave a comment below and tell me who needs lulling in your life. I'll choose a winner next Tuesday, so tell your friends, caregivers and discerning toddlers!

By the way, it worked. Sleep came- quite easily- a mere ten minutes after the album ended.

Oh yeah, and Nora napped, too.

 I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Say it with clowns.

Way too big for love.

It's Valentine's Day! That wonderful time of cellophane and glitter and overindulgence and tutus and sugar-crash naps.

This year, I've included a pic of Nora's valentine for everyone to see. First things first. You may be asking yourself why the card is so garishly big. Noted. And. Secondly, that is a grapefruit next to the valentine for size comparison.

Here is what went down. I made a handful of normal-sized valentines for the usual crowd. Nothing crazy opulent; just a nice graphic, some cool textured paper, a fancily scrolled phrase or two. Cinchy. But could I do that for Peej and Nora's cards? No... I happened upon this really fabulous site that featured vintage Valentine's Day images. How could I resist? Sure, the lack of a functional printer (long story) and a positively bewildering experience with FedEx Office led me to believe that I ought to have resisted in the long run. (I could more easily land a jet with their convoluted and excessively powerful website than do a simple upload. When I unchecked a box for 'collate,' the site crashed. It's two pieces of paper! Put them in any order you like!)

And of course, I had to be fancy. I ordered the two images to be printed on transparency paper. Why? Dunno. Maybe to justify paying six bucks for a simple procedure. Perhaps to alleviate my guilt at not dealing with the printer. Or it could just be 'cause it looked more awesome that way.

So. Yes. The hugeness. Well, I sized each image to 3x5in and sent them along. Got a confirmation of such. However, when P.J. returned home from running errands with the two pictures in a folder (I had asked him not to look- IT WOULD RUIN THE SURPRISE), I found that they had blown them up to near life-size. I did not feel like returning them. (Surprise, honey! Your wife is lazy! Here's a terrifyingly big graphic!)

And without giving away any details of P.J.'s card- other than its largetude- I can totally acknowledge that perhaps the images would have been charming in a slightly smaller size. I fear that at the current measurements of Nora's plastic clown, it'll put her off of valentines/clowns/transparencies forever. (Also, guess what the toughest material is to glue anything to? You got it! Transparency paper!) I hope she enjoys her wobbly, mushy, mildly threatening declaration of love. Happy Valentine's Day, daughter.

We also celebrated the day by making a sizeable donation of housewares and clothing to the Epilepsy Foundation. (It's really not that philanthropic- they picked it up from my front stoop. Does my laziness know no bounds?!) Also, perhaps my intention of saying 'I love you' to the Epilepsy Foundation will not be as well received as I had intended- I chose to say it with mismatched steak knives and oversized shirts with hilarious verbage. How they read into it is entirely up to them.

On Saturday, P.J. and I went to Bonsoiree, a delightful- and redonkulously expensive- French/Japanese fusion joint o' small plates. (We used a gift certificate from OUR ENGAGEMENT. Yep, that would be four years ago this April.) It was eight courses of awesome. I embarrassed myself by openly weeping over some of the dishes. And yes, sure, I might have made some of the teensy pieces of food talk to one another. But for the most part, I was quite adult. (Except for when 'Long Time' by Boston came on. Did I mention they had the best B-sides classic rock mix playing? I almost moved in.) Another highlight came towards the end of the meal, when P.J. and I could not determine if the couple recently seated next to us were old friends, a hot new item, or brother and sister. It was- at once- hilarious, quaint and disturbing. This is so true.

And now I must finish preparations for tonight's fabulous gala in the dining room. I call it- We're Having Dinner In The Dining Room. It will include mammoth valentines, something I should probably decide upon and begin to defrost, and a few trinkets purchased via Amazon. (And, funnily enough, I know what every single item is! And here is why! My husband, ever the practical gent, decided the free shipping option on my Amazon Prime would be the best to use. And then, afraid that I'd figure out what he had bought me, he went into my email account and deleted the confirmation email from Amazon. Unfortunately, I had also bought his present from that same site. Killing all semblance of surprise on his part when he spied that email. And when he forgot about the 'item shipped' email that would come later, surprise died on my end too. It's like a bizarro, reverse Gift Of The Magi. For lazy people using the same online account and credit card to buy each other items under ten bucks in cost.)

Ain't true love grand? (Answer- yes. Always yes.)

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

I am so lazy.

This floor is dirtying my nightgown.

"Fast, cheap, and good… pick two. If it’s fast and cheap it won’t be good. If it’s cheap and good it won’t be fast. If it’s fast and good it won’t be cheap. Fast, cheap, and good… pick two words to live by." - Tom Waits

That's one of my husband's favorite quotes. And it happens to be attributed to one of my favorite songwriters. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in terms of general housiness and productivity.

My trifecta, however, is more noun-related: Baby, Household, Writing. I cannot have more than two awesome nouns at a time. I've tried it. Repeatedly. It doesn't work.

On days where I feel on top of the mopping/scrubbing/folding and manage to teach my kid her colors/take a blanket tent nap (with her, of course), I feel like a really great Mom/wife/homeowner. Too bad my laptop doesn't get opened and zero projects get attempted, let alone completed.

Then there are times when the house is immaculate- or at least mildly sanitized- and I've blogged, essayed, scripted, emailed and filed. But Nora has watched five back to back episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Including commercials. Extra commercials, in fact.

The best of the three options happens when I play on the floor with Nora for hours on end, and follow it up with some stellar writing once she naps. Dual job-wise, I feel invincible. Food and homestead-wise, I feel hungry, dirty and cluttered.

(All bets are off on days when Nora and I are at work, however. On those days, my home actually gets messier and my documents begin deleting themselves word by word. Nora and I would be cool with each other on work days, if not for the fact that I wake her at least twice to run errands and pick up kiddos. I'm pretty sure she'd rather we not talk on work days. But then again, we don't get paid to clean our house/write an opus/snuggle stuffed frogs...and her braces aren't gonna fund themselves. So we must resign ourselves to a few grumbles. Besides, the trade-off is that she gets to be with her favorite big kids in the entire Chicagoland area. Some things are worth being woken up for.)

The other day I thought I could beat the system. Nora "helped" me fold an impossibly large number of laundry loads (I am still not entirely convinced that people are NOT randomly dropping off clothing to be laundered and then spirited away while I towel-nap. Who owns all these socks?) and clean the floor. (Her contribution was removing cat hair from the Swiffer while I mopped- and then holding dirt and furballs up to me with a disdainful "yuck." Then she'd empty out the Tupperware cabinet and throw bibs around.) But the house was decently clean. So we made Valentines. Really sparkly ones with extra stickers and purple crayons. We followed that up by opening the Little People playhouses across the floor and arranging a township's worth of plastic pilots, squirrels, princesses and backpack-clad kids on appropriate seating. Then we fed them tea. She had a multi-food group lunch (and so did I!) and then settled down for a big ol' after lunch nap.

And I opened my laptop. I knew that I'd have at least the next two hours available for some quality writing time.

A fact which apparently crippled me.

I got nothing done. Less than nothing, actually. I may have even killed some brain cells with the stupidity of the few sentences I managed to eke out. They were the worst sentences ever to be typed and then immediately deleted. If I could have deleted them multiple times, I would have.

They were that bad.

And I wasn't surprised. After all, I was taunting Fate- who had VERY CLEARLY laid out the rules of productivity. Choose two.

Most days I wish I could just choose Nora twice. 

The real low men on the totem pole are the cats, though. They used to be in the triple rotation, with special treats and five page manifestos for the cat sitters. And even though I still adore them, I fall back on this idea that- at heart- they're wild animals who prefer to fend for themselves. (If only they had thumbs!)

At least they're not the plants, which haven't been watered in months. 

Prioritizing is hard.

  I made to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

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