I Hate To Leave You But I Really Must Say...

For the first time in almost ten years, I am not a nanny.

For the first time in over eight years, I'm not Julia and Lily's nanny.

And it's odd. Because it was more than a job- it was a welcomed lifestyle shift and endless sparks of creativity for writing and a flower [bubble] girl and a duo of best friends for my daughter and a family.

It all started with an infant named Julia and an endless flight delay during an East Coast summer storm. And a set of young parents all-too-willing to let an eager (and out of work) nanny hold their strawberry blonde baby gal. And a job interview the next afternoon, once they all realized they lived mere 'hoods from each other. And a hiring before the 23 year-old left their lovely home. Both sets of grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) made the nanny feel like just another [valued] member of the family.

Before long, the little gal became an integral part of the nanny's weekly routine- and all of her best stories. Heck, even her friends' best stories. (There are very few friends from that time period without their own tales of Snow Cones or Smelling Candles At Pier 1.)

The little girl eventually started pre-school, but the parents were sweet enough to have another child to keep the nanny fully employed. (I'm sure there were other reasons as well, but it was still an awfully nice thing to do.) So along came Baby Lily, and things became twice as nice with The Big Girl and The Little Girl.

And when the nanny became engaged, the whole family celebrated with dinners out and copious wedding planning with The Big Girl whom, obviously, was a member of the wedding. The Little Girl celebrated in her own way.

And just to make things fun, the nanny decided to have her own little girl to add to the mix. The fam put out a portable crib in a guest room and stocked the house with baby necessities- because The Nanny not being their nanny was never a valid option. So then there was The Biggie, The Middle, and The Little Little. And shockingly, things were still seamlessly great. There were collages and day trips and story-writin' and incredible amounts of snacks (most of them corn dogs and/or Pink Frosters.)

But now there's a Big Move to London. And The Nanny and her kid[s] can't go. The Middle and The Little Little don't fully understand that there won't be afternoon-long Every Toy In The Room Fests punctuated by hiccup-inducing belly laughs. The Biggie and The Nanny, however, are all too aware that their projects will now have to be done long distance. But there's Skype. And phone calls and texts and picture messages and letters and carrier pigeons and good ol' fashioned visiting. And it'll be okay, because family is family even across oceans.

And I miss them already.

A Few Of My Favorite Things- Nora Edition

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

The Only Thing To Fear Is A 20lb Baby.

Abandoned.

Pregnancy dreams are rotten.

For the past two nights, I've had some doozies. Now- granted- I've been having extraordinarily vivid dreams since I was a little kid (they used to be nightmares, but now that I've "grown up" and kinda had FEAR redefined...the dreams just seem harmlessly freaky in retrospect. Although the recurring one I've had about someone screaming at me in train tunnel- since I was four- still qualifies). But these are pretty nitro.

Two nights ago, I had what seemed like an eighteen hour-long dream wherein P.J. left me. Rather rudely. He passed me off to a friend, telling him what I liked and didn't like, habits, food preferences...and oh- how I was seven months pregnant. (Why the friend didn't know this seriously leads me to doubt the magnitude of their friendship.) And did I mention that this leaving took place in a hospital cafeteria? Not even a decent one, like at Prentice.

And why was he leaving me, you might ask? He needed to go study abroad, obviously. His theatre career needed...something...and he had to make a clean break. Sure. He explained this to me on our walk from the cafeteria to the Loews Cineplex where he forced me to sit in the front row and watch Scream 2. Firstly: I hate horror movies. He knows this. Secondly: Scream 2? Thirdly: That movie is not even showing anywhere right now. I have checked.

The next night's dream took place in the delivery room where I was undergoing a c-section. They were mighty casual about it, even letting me walk around during the surgery. (Medical advancements are CRAZY these days, people.) I even got to hold Nora. Which is less What A Treat these days and more Typical. Do I Have To Do Everything? Anyhow, had the kid. And this conversation went down: "Mrs. Schoeny, how big was Nora?" "Six pounds, fifteen ounces." "This one's a little bigger." "It would be hard not to be. How much bigger?" "He's twenty pounds."

That wouldn't have bothered me as much if not for the fact that they went on to tell me that they had nicked at least five major organs (and perhaps a few minor ones) and unless they gave me another spinal I'd probably bleed out. But since I was still holding Nora (typical!), I had already lost track of my son. Whom they had- obviously- placed on the ground. We found him crawling around and stuck under a chair, which I'm told is normal for toddler-sized newborns.

It was, however, pretty cool to have two same-sized children, even if one was a full two years older.

And yeah, it's pretty obvious what these pregnancy dreams say about my fears: my movie-going taste is deemed inadequate by my husband and I would ignore a fat child.

Obviously.

It might be time to curtail the late-night snackin'.

But I think we all know I'm not one for rash decisions like that.

God, I could eat their faces.

The Five Upsides Of Hoarding.

A shovel and a watch?! MY FAVORITES!

The whole Getting Rid Of Stuff [People Tell Me] I Don't Need project is still pokin' along. I have no idea why I thought it'd be completed in a night or a weekend or before Nora's presidential inauguration.

There is still a full filing cabinet of scannable...stuff.

And a room full of sortable...stuff.


And, arrogantly enough, a pile of stuff that I'm reserving for the neighborhood garage sale. That's right. I sure as heck don't want this junk...but I'm pretty sure you'd pay good money for it.

But aside from the vaguely nagging fears that I'll one day be buried alive in a pile of old Real Simples and boots that will never fit me (except that they WILL!), here are some upsides of hoarding that I didn't fully expect.

5. I found a full 3-ring binder of notes from a guy in high school that, up until this project began, I did not recollect dating. He was an absolutely appalling writer, but it was kinda sweet to read 'good luck' notes for various cross-country meets and 'can you believe that episode of Friends' missives. And he obviously must've meant something to me since I took the time to organize his notes chronologically and capture them for the next fifteen years in binder form. But then again, maybe not. I had an awful lot of free time on my hands back then.

4. My daughter plays with every single one of my trolls and My Little Ponies. And Cabbage Patch Kids. My porcelain dolls grace her bookshelf (and dresser and end table). My dollhouses are back in Pittsfield, MA, awaiting the correct transpo to the Midwest, much to the joy of my folks and chagrin of my husband. I love that Nora loves playing with my favorite childhood things. Even moreso, I love that my husband- just last night- correctly identified not only the pony named Posey, but also which gardening hat was hers.

3. I came upon an entire desk drawer filled with old day planners. Originally intending to pitch the whole lot, I enjoyed a few moments of mirth at what I used to believe was a Busy Day. (Um, two years ago.) And sure, while I threw out most of them, I ended up keeping pages worthy of framing and/or collaging. The 50s housewife artwork pages, not my daily schedule. No one cares what time I had a failed Budweiser audition. (10am.)

2. The shopping bag full of shells that I've collected from roughly 1989 'til now. The leftover ones, that is. (Surely you don't think my collection could be contained in one plastic bag, do you?) I rolled my eyes at my excessive saving and storing...until I remembered that I'd have three little girls at my house today who LOVE to glue things! Well, two of them do. One [mine] likes to poke at shells. But whatever. With this many aquatic remains, she can fling them at the wall for all I care. One hour of the day- scheduled.

1. As was just pointed out to me by my eight year-old pal, it's good to look back and get excited about stuff you loved and saved when you were little.

Especially when you're really, really old.

We Have A Work Order Attached To The Window By Animal Stickers.

I'm not kidding.

I have some excellent news for folks who are planning to stay with us from here on out- you will not burn in your sleep! Isn't that exciting and homey?

For those of you who have slept at the Schoeny Chateau (all eight of you since mid-June)- nice work on that narrow escape.

Turns out, even though I really wanted to work on something we could SEE as opposed to boring ol' electrical work, it desperately needed rewiring. And sure, there was a crazy breaker box deeply embedded in Nora's crawlspace insulation...but dude. A deck.

So we had our electricians come two months ago. This laid the groundwork for them to show up roughly once a week and tell us work would begin soon. Once they had the permits. And parts. (We had so many delays due to "parts" that I almost began forging my own in the basement made entirely of broken picture frames and toys Nora has yet to grow into. Yes, I have enough of both.)

And I think, in my next life, that I shall endeavor to be an electrician. Based on what I've seen, the hours are incredible. 11am to 3pm...with a two hour lunch break. One day they texted and told me it was too hot to work. (But uh...is it cool if I plug in this fan? You know, into the outlet you said would burn the house down?)

There would be huge chunks of the day without power. Sometimes they'd be nice enough to run an extension cord from Nora's bedroom window out to a generator so she could take a nap with some semblance of circulating air. Unfortunately, that would be when they'd choose to drill into the brick directly on the other side of her crib. (It's not like they didn't have three full floors into which they could drill at that time, all with timely and explodey wiring.) This also severely cramped my Eating Directly Out Of The Fridge habit, what with needing to conserve the coolness of the darkened fridge and all. I still did it, but my style was cramped.

And there were days that they warned me there would be "extensive" power outages- starting at 9am- and I should make "alternate plans" with Nora. So I would. I'd put the cats on the lower level with food and extra water, I'd pack up Nora and prepare to let the electricians into the house and then take off. Which would inevitably happen around 1pm, leaving me sitting on our stairs like a kid who missed the camp bus.

And there was the day- during "sporadic outages"- that I loaded Nora into the car to return a thing of yogurt to the grocery store (long story), to discover that there was no power in the garage. For no good reason. And since the electricians were on an indeterminate lunch break- and since Peej had loudly forbidden me to lift the garage door manually (sheesh)- I unloaded N (and the yogurt) to cloister ourselves in her closed-off room (to conserve previously conditioned air) where we awaited their return by peering out the window...without lifting the shades too high. It was hot.

I fully believe we can file this whole escapade into the category of First World Problems...but still. Our home is safe. Unless ComEd and their inspection team and their indeterminate 5-10 hour window within 5-10 business days says otherwise. Seriously, Nora. Trade schools. Look into them.

And then return home to care for your parents' abode. For we shall never be able to afford to leave.

Not with the sweet deck and patio I'm planning.

Why Do I Have The Saddest, Most Lost-Looking Kid This Week?

She Really Wanted To Go On Pharaoh's Fury, Though.

 One of my best friends in the whole wide world (and her equally fabulous husband) spent the weekend with us. Vicky was one of my college modmates- like roommates but awesomer- and my how things have changed since Hampshire.

For starters, I have a kid now. And this was their first time meeting her. Our activities have been- ah- slightly different since Nora came along, and this was Vicky and Dave's chance to see what a "typical" weekend with Miss N.J. looks like.

This weekend, it involved a street carnival on Irving Park. And it was Nora's first one. But since it had a petting zoo, we felt that she'd really dig it and not be too overwhelmed by the rides and noise. Nora, not Vicky.

So while Dave was busy getting culture downtown (the girls initially skipped out because we wanted to nap while Peej had his matinee)...              

...We had some street fair time. And boy, did we misjudge on the petting zoo. Despite housing some of the world's smallest and cutest animals (baby goats, ducks, lop-eared bunnies, a calf, a donkey, and a confused piglet), Nora hated it. Cowered from the bun. Had to be rescued from the advances of the calf (thank you, Vicky)! Denied eye contact to the goats (which were literally half her size). We moved on.

So we tried the carousel. Despite its shockingly fast speed (maybe I'm just getting old), she definitely wanted to try it out. And she chose one pony. And then another. And then applauded them. And applauded us. And her Dad. 

So we went on it again.

We would've stayed on it all day, if one of us had gotten her way.

So we tried the baby Ferris wheel. (Looks like Peej has found his amusement park partner in crime at last.)

And no, Ferris Wheel, I wasn't thinking about riding, due to my "exceptionally large" size.

But it's always hard to leave a ride.

Really, really hard.

But thankfully, there are always gonna be corn dogs.

Best. Résumé. Ever.

I [try to] make it a habit to not mock people. Truly.

But every now and again, something simply amazing crosses one's desk. Namely mine. And even though I cannot say whose impressive stats these are- nor how I received this gem- I felt that I had to share.

I give you Julia: 
 
But Keely, you say. That's nearly impossible to read! I know. Apparently in whatever region of the world in which this chick resides, the mimeograph machine is still alive and well. Adding to the background distortion is the unfortunate stationary choice of small, grey, musical notes.

I shall sum up.

Julia is looking to be a secretary. Or something in the "sales/manage" field. (Very lucrative, that.) She offers to furnish recommendations, but they are not attached- oh no, not our Julia. Keep 'em guessing. This seems to be a skill that has served her well in her past TWELVE FULL-TIME JOBS. And considering that she has a newborn son (we'll get to that later), I can't imagine she's geriatric.

She offers to work weekends- with notice. Don't go pulling out the last minute phone calls here, no sir. That will not play.

However, she was let go from her first listed job because she had to care for the aforementioned newborn son. The manager wouldn't accommodate her. Those fragrance counter bosses are jerks.

Her second most recent job was as a server (where she "served food to customers"- ah) which had to end because she wanted to work nearer to home. Also, "business slowed." Legit.

The next server job ended when she moved- this happens.


The restaurant job right before this told her she was "not needed." Right. Okay, Julia, I'm on your side.

Listed after that one was a restaurant where she she "served food and beverages." Emphasis mine. Good for you, J! Except- oh man- the cook "served too hot a plate- reheated" and you were "burnt and hurt." I would've quit, too. (Except my Dad would've told me to wear long sleeves and buck up. Whatever. Different styles, that's all.)

Then comes a waitress and bartending gig that turned out to be too far to drive in winter. You're killing me here, Julia.

This was preceded- incongruously enough- by a UPS job as a loader where you lost your job because of pneumonia. This sounds...improbable. BUT I WISH FOR HER TO SUCCEED so I continue reading on to...

...Another restaurant job where she left to- "care for son." Hmm. This wouldn't be the newborn, would it? Did she have all of these jobs within four months of giving birth?!

Then we've got bartending at Applebee's. And the reason we left- again- is "childcare." I'm starting to doubt either that a) Julia desires to work outside of the perimeter of her yard and b) that these "children" are real. Photographic evidence, please.

Another server job- except that this place was closing. I hear that. And she wanted to "work closer to home." JULIA!

Right before this was a semi-successful stint as a server and "inline dancer" that was abruptly ended when she was "hurt at dishwasher broke glass cut deep and manager not aware of problem in restaurant." Was he inline dancing? Was he also aware of the grammar problem in résumé ?

The oldest job was- yet again- a waitressing job gone bad. (Where the heck did UPS come from?) This time she had to leave because there weren't "enough computers to get work finished for serving." Which is compelling. Yet I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that maybe one's kids were involved. Or the proximity to someone's home. Maybe they made her dance.

She sums all of this up in a tidy paragraph reiterating that the aforementioned are all places at which she has worked. Adding to this list of skills are the curiously capitalized Secretary, Engineering Science, Architecture, Piano, Saxophone, 4-H, Modeling, Manager, and Assistant Manager (at a Mall.) Of lesser importance- and thusly not capitalized- are drafter, estimator, sewing, crafts, and makeup.

She has [unlisted] "retail experience."

Oh, and that year of Saxophone? She was privately tutored by someone who "graduated the Julia rd [sic] Music School."

I think she'll be just fine. How could she not? After all, she was a model.

And an estimator.

I have an estimation or two right now. More an "odds" kinda thing.

I've always been good with numbers, especially if they're of the two-step variety. But before you get too excited...

...I'm no Julia.

The Emo Swing.

He also wears dark socks with shorts.

I love a parade.

I love The Fourth.

Specifically, I love any holiday where you hafta take a day off (in a good chunk o' industries). More specifically- when P.J. has to take day off. We didn't travel. There were no houseguests. (And don't get me wrong, I've blissed out on having some favorite friends and family here...and will continue to...until August...but our good sheets are gonna be threadbare by September. And for those who have yet to see my home? This is the time. Place is CLEAN. This is also the time as I most likely wouldn't know you're here amidst the chaos. Win/win.)

So, good chunks of Saturday and from Sunday late afternoon until Monday evening there was no work. No theatre. Minimal yardwork [for me. Peej was SWAMPED]. We did spend the majority of Saturday fixing up the new kid's room. Like Nora's nursery, a couple of months before she was born, you ask? Nope. For you see, the house already has a roof, [most] windows, a floor, and running water. But I did have to get rid of a nice cross-section of my hoarding. And then I had to do some spackling while Peej hung awesome curtains at a dizzying height (to create the illusion of vaulted ceilings. Or at least Higher Than Eight Feet Ceilings). And why the spackling? Because I am an incredibly lazy person. It's true. I work really hard to keep this in check but, left to my own devices, I will hang a 4x6 frame with drywall screws. Out of curtain brackets? I will make one out of twisted metal found in the recycling bin. The key to my laziness is this: if I don't have to leave the room to complete a project, it's a success. Even if we don't have all of the materials. Especially then. The end result is golf ball-sized holes in crumbling plaster whenever we need to redecorate. (Which of course, I never think of. My laziness lives in the present.)

But I think I've learned my lesson this time. Because after spackling and sanding and [having P.J. do some] paint-retouching, I actually found myself cursing the moron who had hacked into the walls. Baby steps.

We also finally matched the master bedroom wall color (Gold Dust) to cover up the sample that I had lazily thought would be just fine (Marigold.) This was difficult, as all paint samples remind me of the colors in my room. As do the names. But thanks to a little detective work (our electricians used an old piece of dropcloth to clean a project and it miraculously had a splotch of the correct paint color- and not the erroneous one I had written down) we were able to match the sample. Making us stupidly proud of ourselves (and our yellow room).

The age old holiday tradition of selling a bed on Craigslist was also acknowledged, complete with no-shows, price hagglers, 'round the clock emails, requests for headshot-like photographs (of the bed, sadly), and a culmination of a non-native English speaker and his newly hired moving guy who- I am not kidding- instructed the former to grab onto the sides of the mattress like "a pair of t**tties."

There were also naps. Which did not include anyone in the previous story except for my husband, my curlicued kid, and my stompy midsection kid. Also two utterly confused cats.

And as we enjoyed no fewer than seven unobstructed firework displays from the comfort of our front stoop, living room picture window, back kitchen window, and upstairs window, I feel that I am well-qualified to offer up this advice to the city of Chicago: Out of money for the annual explosion gala? Ask each pyro in my neighborhood to donate five bucks worth of explosives to the town. You'd have a show to rival the denouement of Independence Day. (The movie, not the actual holiday.)

And to the parents of the Power Wheeled five year-old setting off bottle rockets (!) solo at 1am, I offer up this advice to you: Stop it*. Please.

(*Having kids/ letting them run willy nilly/ not setting bedtimes/ driving to Indiana to purchase said detonating things. Any or all.)

Or I'll have P.J. come out in his socks and sandals, turn on the sprinkler, and shake his fist at the darned hoodlums. I'll do it. And so will he.

With the slightest provocation.

Really.

Happy Fourth...

...from our little firecracker.

(See you all tomorrow!)