This kid is getting way too good at aging.

Tomorrow, Nora Jane turns eighteen months.

(Yes, I still say 18 months- and will continue to- for a little bit longer. But I do temper this response, depending on the audience. If I say anything other than 'a year' or 'almost a year and a half' to my friends without kids, it's invariably met with an eye roll. However, if I omit the exact month when replying to a parent, the question will be asked again, more specifically. Because without the child's exact age, comparisons with their offspring's eating, sleeping, walking and talking habits cannot be compared. This is just a fact of life, people. At least 'til she's two. Then she's TWO.)

Back to N.J.

I can't believe her age. This is something I say way too often, being as I'm with her Every. Single. Day. and know darned well how old she is. But I can't believe it. She was a wee, floppy little infant one second- and a kid the next. Kidesque, anyhow. A kidlet.

In my mind she's this big:

Okay, technically, she's not that much bigger nowadays...but personality-wise, it's the difference between getting nudged by a Tonka and flattened by a Mack. And those differences KILL me and take me out of the moment and make me jump decades into the future and cause me to cry.

(This is why I should never be left to my own devices. Ever. Always equip me with a crossword or book of minute mysteries or something before you leave.)

For instance, Nora doesn't care for meat. At all. In the past, she's been known to fling food with the crossest of looks- as if to say, You are contaminating my plate/tray/line of sight. These days, if I catch her the moment before the mass evacuation occurs, I can usually suggest that she at least try a bite. And you know what? Ninety percent of the time she will. Yes, we'll get an eye roll and an exaggerated swallow (and then a sleight of hand maneuver rendering the offending morsel invisible) but it's a start. Other times P.J. and I will be caught up in dinner conversation and then happen to look over at our kid, glancing around, eating her food, occasionally nodding. It's like she's 20. (A really messy 20, but hey- some of the instances I witnessed firsthand in college...) And sometimes- just sometimes- she seems so adult and content that I almost wish she'd require spoon-feeding and a burp because she's got a mortgage and kids and lives halfway around the world...

I never said it was rational.

The other day, while playing in her room with P.J., she pointed to a toy bag attached to the ceiling.

"I want a puppy."

P.J. goggled at her. "What did you say?!"

Nora, patiently, repeated herself. "I want a puppy."

"A puppy?"

"I see a puppy."

P.J. reached up to the top and handed her a small, stuffed puppy. Nora patted it, thanked her Dad, and said, quite patiently:

"A puppy." (Like, you morons.)

Some of her words are clear as anything. Others (my favorites) are longer and more mangled; strawbeddie, bluebeddie, blackbeddie (we love the beddies), yibbydee (ladybug), (wasplash) water table, and, my personal favorite- NoNoMommyGibadeeNoNo (an indeterminate berating of her toys and books whenever I tell her no).

I really shouldn't be surprised that my child makes up her own words, right?

Nora still dances with her Dad every night after he gets home from work. She likes our mix CDs best and, I kid you not, she does the robot. (I realize I need to get video proof of this.) And it is incredible. She waits for the right song- and it MUST be the right song- to jump into the middle of the living room floor as if clearing it for a dance-off. She holds her body completely rigid. Her little head goes side to side. She brings some shoulder action into it. Then the arms. Then the ankles. The feet come next. That transitions not seamlessly at all into something akin to Kriss Kross' Jump! Jump! P.J. manages to dance with her, but me? I'm on the floor attempting to not pee myself.

Snuggles are a rare currency these days. My attempts to pin her down and cover her with kisses are often met with a shove to the neck and a pained "Mommy."

But every so often, maybe when she's really tired or feeling a little overwhelmed, she'll curl up in my lap with the ever-stinky Doc Bullfrog. Thumb in her mouth, eyes droopy, she'll pat me on the cheek and just chill.

And it'll all I can do to not ruin the moment by chomping on those still ever-so-slightly chubby cheeks and squeezing that protruding little belly. So I content myself with smoothing her [Dad's] crazy hair from her forehead and smelling that sweet scent of her baby skin. Also, peanut butter. Maybe a little goldfish cracker.

Most parents think their kid is the absolute bee's knees. They believe this to be one hundred percent true- but I'm not sure how it's possible. After all, my child eats peas as a reward and tells Scrooge McDuck that he is sad and does the robot.

This is my favorite age, ever.

So let's stick here awhile, shall we?

Please buy me a toy.

I'll admit it.

I got really excited when I was asked to review Ebeanstalk.com's Toys For 2 Year Olds. Sure, Nora's barely a year and a half, but you have to think BIG when it comes to the stuff you'll be Playing. With. All. Day. Every. Day.

In the past, we've been the lucky recipients of Ebeanstalk's stellar Grow And Learn series, which gave us gifts all throughout the first year of her life. Right after she was born, Nora received the sweetest barnyard animal rattle shapes. (The lion even clocked some air miles with us.) The series ended with soft nesting cubes, all featuring the alphabet and adorable pictures- and an accompanying book. (C for Cat and S for Strawberry had to be taken out of rotation for a bit. They were getting tired.)

So yes. The site.

You can just go ahead and get me the first item on the Toys For 2 Year Old Girls page- it's the Forest Fairy Treehouse by Happyland...and yeah, we have a ton of stuff from this company. They're the cutest things ever, you can chew on their faces and they stay intact, and sometimes I even let Nora play with them.

And yes, at first I was all prepared to debate whether or not the Girls page necessarily needed all of the pink and frilly stuff up top, as opposed to the Boys page that featured trucks and car mats and riding stuff. But, I scrolled down to the bottom of the fairly comprehensive list and was pleased to see that those kinda things were there on the Girls page as well. Lime green Rody horses. Dudley Dump Truck (and his pal Bumpity Bump Bernie). The Road Hog trike. Plus a really good assortment of some of my favorite childhood books- with the exception of The Berenstain Bears Learn About Strangers, which really freaks my shizz out.

So then I checked out the Toys For 2 Year Old Boys page...and it's also really awesome. And full of stuff that Nora [I] would like; stacking trains, Rub A Dub Pirate squirters, more Happyland figurines, a garden fruits n' veggies shopping bag (Hey, has someone been following my husband around?), and a few really sweet Calin dolls. And as anyone who has been to my house recently can attest, Calin a.k.a. Baby Dot is an extraordinarily good addition to anyone's home. And she can really take a beating. Okay, that sounds wrong.

Since you- most likely- know your child way better than I do, I recommend checking out both the Boys and Girls pages. Or you can take even more of the guesswork outta your decision by heading straight to the Top Selling Toys For 2 Year Olds page, which has a nice cross-section of all of the aforementioned goodies. You'll definitely find something perfect for your toddler.

Or favorite 30 year-old blogger.

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.

This goes way beyond Mommy Fashion.

Fashion.

During our commute this morning, I handed a book back to Nora and saw that it had been in publication for 25 years. I laughed and said that was crazy, since that was how old I was. Then I paused, realizing that I was indeed that age...plus five years and ten months. Which makes me painfully close to 31. 

I mentioned to Peej that I still felt like I was in my mid-twenties, and if I had to check a box or something, I usually felt pretty jarred to realize that it just wasn't the case. I started to ask him how old he felt in his mind's eye and got as far as "How old do you-"

"38," was his immediate response.

And since he's only 29, I can shoulder some of that rapid aging onto myself. For our lifestyle, our sleep habits, and my incessant need to know what he's thinking about. 

The subject of age has come up a lot lately- twice this week with my sister, in fact. She was lamenting the fact that, whenever she goes into a store, she's either in the tween section or the aged and dusty section. And she's not a big fan of "the skanky jeans" (direct quote) nor, I imagine, is she fond of the oversized cardigan and teensy floral-printed slacks display. So what to do?

Answer: nothing. 

Even stores and brands that promise not to make you look like a fifteen year old...somehow do. Or send you decades in the opposite direction. 

One of my most shocking incidents from mid-twentyhood occurred in the [at the time] new H&M down on Michigan. While I was happily pawing through eclectic and affordable Euro clothing, I was almost bumped into by a group of teenaged girls. 

"Oh my GOD," one of them squealed at her friends. "You almost wandered into the OLD PERSON SECTION."

I stared around in horror. Where?! As a twenty three year-old, I didn't want to be there either! Turns out, it was the whole floor. And I embodied it. Confusingly enough. 

Eventually, I gave up on buying "new" things. So here's what I do now: clothing from college (at one time nearing the spectrum of acceptable fashion, this I promise you) is WORN TO THE GROUND. Also paired with hoodies, grubby shoes (also at one point pretty darned cute), and tie the [unwashed] hair up into a ponytail. Maybe use your toddler's hair clip, if handy and left on the floor for dead. Voila. 

"But Keely," you ask. "Isn't that the epitome of youthful dressing? Wearing actual clothing from one's youth?"

Yes. But while you'll look like a thirteen year-old, you won't be a SEXY thirteen year-old. And that's my point.

My friend Nat and I love to mock those bright yellow bags from Forever 21. Because while, sure, the clothing there is ridiculously affordable and not entirely out of my age range, anything you buy is placed into a neon bag proclaiming you to be FOREVER 21. (Twenty-one 4eva!) This leads the random passerby to believe that indeed, you believe yourself to be twenty-one. Forever. 

I like Nora's method of dressing "her age." Ever since she was in the womb, we've had generous (and impeccably stylish) friends and family load her future closet with clothing so new that P.J. and I are ashamed to touch them with our thrift-store selves. Even more importantly, she stubbornly remains six to nine months behind her current size. That's right, my [almost] one and a half year old rocks the 12 month clothing. (Just barely, and awfully recently.) This means that her current wardrobe will last- oh, for years. (Maybe 4eva!)

THAT is how it's done. 

For the rest of us [me], let's just hope that faded and baggy layers (some of them maternity!) come back into raging style. We'll see who's laughing then. 

It'll be anyone witnessing the 31 year-old (thinking she's a 25 year-old) in positively ragged outfits, carting around a designer princess...

...Getting asked if she's the nanny. 

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

You're driving me to snack.

Not me. Or Mii. 

My Wii Fit (Plus) and I need to talk.

Actually, it may be better if someone else spoke to him. (Her? Probably "her." No one condescends quite like a woman.)

I decided to hop up on the ol' Wii balance board yesterday- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to really feel like you're living the good life.)

Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh HI, Keely. Been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky that I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm, however (regardless of the inherent truth.) But boy can they dish it out.

"Seen P.J. lately?"

"Yep. We high-five before bed."

"I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?"

Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races.

I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!

It then asked me if I'd like to do my weigh-in. No, thank you. I really don't need a cruel piece of machinery documenting my slow descent into obesity. For real- they have a weight option of whether or not you're holding your dog. But pregnancy? Impossible to chart. So I've been refusing weigh-ins. And it's making the Wii Fit console antsy. I can tell. And it feels good.

After I [randomly] selected various workouts to be mashed together (totaling half an hour), the program paused to say- "Whoa. That certainly is a LOT."

WHICH IS IT, Wii Fit Plus? Am I a lazy heifer or am I gonna keel over during my Sun Salutation? 'Cause the ten minutes you programmed aren't gonna even break a sweat, nor will they begin to decrease the poundage you're clearly jonesing to document! So I clicked Yes, Continue. THAT'S RIGHT.

Onto more First World Problems. Don't you hate it when the Wii Fit graphics don't quite match up in real time to your HD TV? (I know.) Thusly, I'm throwing punches and the thing is berating me, asking if I'm still there or not.

We moved onto hula hooping. At this point, Nora was no longer content to dance along with the grating soundtrack, nor was it enough to merely laugh at the weirdo moves her mother was attempting. So I fake hula-hooped while holding a toddler. (Now THERE'S a workout. Betcha didn't know you could rock the triceps in that one.)

A few exercises later, Nora had decided that the room had had enough. She pressed the Wii's Off button and closed the doors of the TV cabinet, saying "Bye bye, show." And it's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So then we did that calorie-scorcher called Lie On The Floor And Put Blankets Over One's Head.

I'm feeling pretty svelte already. Don't be jealous...this once a month workout lifestyle isn't for everyone. But I'm still just a normal gal.

I put on my third-day-in-a-row sweatpants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

I will drown my sorrows in nacho cheese.

Let's just keep on walking, Dad.

This past Friday, I suffered my first middle school breakup...since middle school. It was rough. It was also, oddly enough, with a bank.

I've long touted the fabulousness of Chase Bank's plethora of ATMs. And sure, that's about it- but for a little while, it was enough.

My first bank account in Chicago was with them, back in '02. And yeah, absolutely, back then they were Bank One. But the transition to Chase was easy enough. And I felt loved. Kinda. Even when P.J. and I started a joint account, I kept the Chase one just for the heck of it. There were a few perks. For instance, the air miles [for United, which I abhor flying. But whatever.]

They weren't the nicest to me, but they certainly looked the other way once or twice when my account suffered the back-breaking transactions that come part n' parcel with adult braces and a crippling shoe habit.

But this past month, I had twelve dollars removed from my account. Just 'cause. Upon inquiry, it turned out that all accounts without monthly balances of fifteen hundred dollars or hefty (and regular) direct deposits would have twelve dollars removed each month forever.

Now, since arriving here in Chicago, I've been a bartender at a crappy bar, a cleaning lady, a nanny for various families around town, and a freelance writer. None of those leave a balance of fifteen hundred dollars, unless you're going by per year. And direct deposit? Uh, okay. I'll deposit it directly from my fistful of tens.

I explained this to the smug banker the other day. He nodded and told me that a lot of their customers are closing accounts due to low balances(!) and maybe I should "ask [my] husband to bring the account over to Chase(?!)." Indifference AND condescension? Sounds like a seventh grade boyfriend to me!

When I asked to close my account, he shrugged and didn't even TRY to keep my business. (Or my love.) He made a big show of handing me the last forty five cents in change (there were a few bills, too) and then stared at me, indicating our business was done.

It got real awkward.

I hate moments like that, which is probably what prompted me to perkily say that maybe I'd see them again in the future.

"Yeah," he [almost] scoffed. "Maybe."

But you know what soothes a bad business breakup? A stellar weekend with a husband who thinks my forty five cents are just GREAT. And who tolerates my Supermarket Sweep through the garden section of Home Depot, nodding in agreement when I scream that these ranunculus blossoms ARE AMAZING.

The 80 degree weather yesterday didn't hurt, either.

And cheering Peej on for the 8k Shamrock Shuffle downtown yesterday was pretty fun, too. I don't know how he did it. I was wilting standing by the two mile marker. And sure, I was corralling a toddler who celebrated her Dad's race by peeing directly through all of her clothing and soaking the stroller...but who can't be appeased by a bag of munchkins and a session with the backyard splash table? (NO ONE.)

P.J.'s folks zipped through town for an overnight, having just enough time to cheer him on, spruce up our yard, stock our fridge, and play with Nora while I showered.

It was GREAT.

Today is a true spring day. Which, normally, would bring rejoicing in our city. But due to yesterday's August-y weather, I think everyone's a little sad. There might be a few tears. At least one person might still be defiantly wearing a tank top.

She should probably go change.

After she checks the fridge for leftovers.

Is there a statute of limitations on stealing music?

Last night, as I was driving to Target (and thoroughly enjoying the alone time; I think it was Louis C.K. who deemed the walk from putting the kids in the backseat and getting to the driver's seat as a mini vacation), I flipped through the radio stations. Happily for my solo singin' time, the song Rosanna came on the radio. (I love Toto. Have since I was six, which is roughly when that song came out.)

Inexplicably, hearing it made me think of college. More specifically, downloading buckets of music in my friend and frequent hallmate Wilder's room. He always had a) better computers, b) newer software, and c) a jug of Carlo Rossi wine. More importantly, he possessed an extremely new invention called NAPSTER.

Now, kiddos, keep in mind that this wasn't just a new way to get free music, it was the first time this kind of thing had ever been done. Before that, you had to buy entire albums, at the store (or with a BMG circular, thusly signing away the rest of your credit- because really, no one ever bought one album at list price.)

And Napster had everything. EVERYTHING. I'd type in a random track or band I half-remembered from my childhood, and I could choose from eighty sources within a minute. I didn't care (or really know) about copyright infringement. It was just music on some kid's computer. It was like a stranger was making me the best mix tape ever!

Some days Wilder would return to his room to find me at his desk, downloads going for hours. Sometimes I wouldn't be there at all, but he'd find a queue of songs fifty deep, all one percent downloaded.

"Keely?" He'd call across to my door. "I might need this computer today."

To keep his PC moving beyond a crawl, he'd burn songs onto CDs for me, sometimes tapes- if you can believe THAT whackness.

Sometimes the mixes were so fabulous that I'd stay in his room for hours, and we'd blare the music straight out into the quad. (We were doing them a favor.) Other times I'd start an impromptu dance party. (Once, we jumped on the bed to an 'NSYNC song. True story.)

Sure, I had my own computer and stereo and plenty of places to jump during parties...but my window faced the loading dock.

I still own all of those mixes- one of which boasts the track Rosanna. I play them for Nora, who revels in grooving to anything with a beat (and pressing 'stop' and 'pause' on the stereo's tape deck.) They never fail to bring me back to the early Aughts, a time when my most pressing early evening issue was getting to Saga before the wok was rendered unusable by burnt stir fry.

But not before lining up hours' worth of Def Leppard and Lyle Lovett for downloading.

So this is where my mind went on the four minute drive to Target. It was pleasant, that jaunt through nostalgia. In that moment, it was late Spring on the Merrill quad and there was plenty of veggie pizza and Lucky Charms for everyone. And it seemed like it could've been yesterday.

Then the song ended and I glanced down at the radio station.

And it had been on the oldies channel.

Ouch.

Nora's the coolest and her parents are the laziest.

You’ll have to excuse the tardiness of the blog today (cue Van Halen: I don’t feel tardy…) due to my inability to hold facts, dates, or appointments in my brain or on my phone.

You know when a good time to remember when you’re working the next morning is not? The middle of the night. A good, cold shock of adrenaline really starts the week off correctly. Hence the stellar packing of All Things Nora and the less than ideal packing of All Thing Keely, for example, a fully charged laptop.

But the important trifecta of Doc Bullfrog, a spare diaper, and a cup of milk made into the bag…so what else does one really need? (Besides a nitro tablet for my kickstarted heart.)

Yes. So. The weekend.

We enjoyed the most boring weekend known to man. It was fabulous. The amount of sleep that I got was kinda impressive. (P.J. and Nora? Not so much. But it's really hard to tell the floppy-headed mother figure on the kitchen floor that she CANNOT nap. Physiological terrorism at its finest.)

Nora rode an incredibly miniature tricycle for the first time.  Even though there were no pedals and she wasn't even rolling, she managed to flip over the handlebars and faceplant on the pavement. (She's just like both of her parents already!) Impressively, she laughed. Even more impressively, she tucked her head and shoulders just right. (Not like her parents there at all.)

Motorin'.

Last night also marked the second occasion wherein she used a potty for its intended purpose. Quite by accident, I'm certain (the shock on our faces was eclipsed by the shock on hers), but STILL. Not since college have I been more pleased to know that a toilet was being used.

To celebrate, we built her a castle tent. Okay, fine, we had already bought the tent. (But it's so cool!) And, to give credit where credit is due- her father, he of coupon-clipping, penny-pinching fame, found it on Kids Woot. And informed me that his daughter needed it. Which, once I saw it, I admitted that she really did.

Password?

And last night brought a thunderstorm of monsoon proportions. This, of course, after a grey day that threatened storms but brought nary a drop. It stayed rather dark and in the mid 50s to 60s. Then, as soon as the sun went down, the temp skyrocketed to 76 degrees. So, of course we went out into the backyard and enjoyed the peace and quiet of our bench...with sirens, irate neighbors, and traffic. (I closed my eyes and pretended they were waves on the shoreline. Really noisy, irate waves.)

And then the rain came. But no worries, by then we were safely ensconced in bed and watching Mad About You, season 2 on Netflix. (Anyone who tells you that marriage isn't awesome is a terrible, rotten liar.) And we got to see the sideways rain and pelting branches from the safety of our [closed] windows. Neighborhood Watch goes tropical!

The past couple of days also included a French farce (on Netflix) and an hour of radio (on NPR.) Sometimes it's nice to just consume all of your monthly media in one weekend. (I haven't even included the flicks that P.J. watched a) before Nora and I awoke, b) while he was waiting for me to watch our real movie, and c) that I boycotted but he viewed anyhow while Nora napped.)

I think we can see who has the real problem.

And it's not the girl who marathons episodes of Ghost Adventures.

There's no problem there.