A Smattering Of Cousins...

...Including piano time, Suzy snuggling, and a captive audience for Mary Poppins.

Nora Just Learned ALL The Words To 'Jingle Bells.'

Cousins are for hugging.

Well, it's officially the Christmas Season.

It was rung in by the Official 7.5 Hour Gridlock Post-Thanksgiving Trans-Indiana Commute Day (Observed).

Thankfully, Peej and I have been blessed by some pretty rockin' travel companions. I think you'll recognize the archetypes: One likes to read the entire time, occasionally stopping to inquire about snacks. Seated next to her is that one person who always dozes off for entire states, waking momentarily to announce that they'll drive the next leg...before sleeping well into Ohio. Then there's the gal who Just Has A Little Work To Finish Up, but still berates anyone who doesn't acknowledge the stellar harmonies and transitions on her playlist. She also has to pee a lot. Finally, we've got the guy who has taken up the glove thrown down by I-65. And Is NOT Driving Too Fast, Thanks. He also has a positively Rain Man reaction to various townships' gas prices. And will recite and repeat them with regret until the vehicle passes into a better county with even cheaper gas. WHY DIDN'T WE STOP!?

Thanksgiving itself was a whirl of fabulous meals (and meal reduxes) and insanely good pie (and redux plus a thousand), plus lots of lovely family- and an incredibly large number of Zuzu-holdin' arms. I even took a nap. I got my Graeter's and Skyline fixes, saw Nora lose her shiz with excitement over Cousin Time, and- awesomesauciest of all- saw my mother-in-law onstage in a musical revue. (Due to various Susannah-related constraints, I actually got to see a preview performance and had the whole theatre to myself. No big deal, just the kinda V.I.P. stuff I do in Ohio.)

And now, aside from a few moments of head-cold snarfiness (as a result of germy hands/toys, etc. shoved directly into my ocular cavities), I'm fully ready to embrace the holidays.

My Christmasness cannot be rushed. I'm a big fan of not celebrating one holiday until another has had its due. I realize I'm in an ever-dwindling crew of folks who do not care for Santa sales in August, but it's something I really try to hold to. Among this is my (perhaps misinformed?) disdain for midnight or 4am sales on Black Friday. Why? Well, it's because we're shockingly wealthy. (Oh, P.J. hates that joke. I think it's a rollicker.) Okay, the real reason is this: when I hear of people camping out immediately after Thanksgiving dinner, I wonder if they've done the math. For every hour they're sitting in the cold, waiting to "save" money, is pretty much an hour on the ol' personal time clock. And even if they only value themselves at minimum wage (which I do not- I'm downright six figures on the payroll of Me Time), you really hafta add that total to the items on which you've saved. I'd rather spend extra money than stand in the cold for even an hour.

Okay, I think I just gave my husband an aneurysm.

Besides, if Christmas feels thrust upon me too soon, I'm not really in the whole Christmas spirit thing. And if I'm not listening to fabulous holiday music and sipping a [large] peppermint schnapps on ice while signing cards and comfily shopping online, well then...I might as well just do an automatic transfer into each person's bank account and call it a day. ("Five dollars for you...and five dollars for you...")

But now I'm ready. And I've taken the ol' WishBook and circled pages 4-271 with easily decoded margin notes for optimum toy purchasing. (Okay, only two people will get that reference. And they are both my parents.)

Fa la la.

I Am Also Thankful For Pie.

I am thankful for so many things this year. My family (and their health.) My friends (and their continued awesomeness- and, uh, health.) Bean and Ender- even though they continue to wake us up at ungodly hours to let us know their kitty bowls are half-full. The fact that I get to write every day...and have people sometimes want to see it.

I am excruciatingly thankful for the crazy-easy six hour drive we took yesterday with the girls.

But mostly? I thank God and fate and luck and chance and exceptional timing for these three right here:

(Thanks for reading.)

Happy Thanksgiving.

Sisters Take Baths.

...Whether they like it or not.

(We like it enough for both of 'em.)

Nora Checks Out Junie B!

Photo: Emerald City Theatre Company

This past weekend we were lucky enough to score tickets for the press opening of Emerald City Theatre's 'Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells,' adapted by Allison Gregory and directed by Jacqueline Stone.

For the uninitiated, Barbara Park's Junie B. Jones is one of those books right now...the kind where kids freak out and love her and know every single misadventure of the spunky first grader.

(For the super uninitiated, Emerald City is one of those theatre companies- really stellar at producing smart, fun, theatre for kids and families.)

Even though, at two, Nora is slightly younger than the show's target demographic, I had a feeling she'd dig it. And she totally did, starting with the pre-show craft. For each Christmas card created by a kid and dropped off in the lobby box, a book will be donated to underprivileged kids. (Nora loved the drawing- we loved the sentiment.)

Giving!

Then, she was stoked to receive her own kids' playbill, complete with a section for character autographs (I'm not kidding, this thing is a phenomenon). My program had a Parent's Guide to further conversations on being generous even when it's tough- like when you pull your mortal enemy's name in the holiday Secret Santa. (Been there.)

Junie B., vivaciously played by Amber Robinson, wants two things: to one-up the blabbermouth May (the hilariously smug Samantha Perry), and to have the holiday shop's squeeze-a-burp toy for herself. (Been there, too!) Antics ensue, lessons are learned, and every square inch of the theater is utilized by the energetic (and spot-on) actors. There's some serious physicality and exceptional prop-work going on here, too.

And lest you think that a kid-captivating show like this would be a snoozefest for adults, rest assured. There were plenty of moments where P.J. and I laughed out loud- perhaps even guffawed- namely a scene concerning Sheldon (Ricky Harris) and his lunch money. And any show that can make you momentarily forget you're holding a two year-old and a six week-old is pretty fabulous children's theatre, indeed.

Serious theatergoer.

Nora was enthralled. P.J. and I were entertained. Suzy...well, she happily snored. (You can't win 'em all.)

***

Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells! runs Nov. 17th- Jan. 8th at the Apollo Theatre, located at 2540 N. Lincoln Ave.
Run time is approx. one hour
www.emeraldcitytheatre.com

She's In Real Danger Of Getting Noshed, Here.

Is it so wrong to want to eat another person's face? ...Yes?

Okay, but how about if they have positively Winston Churchillesque cheeks on a newborn's sweet-smelling li'l head? Isn't that an edible juxtaposition? ...Still no?

There is something about this kid's Thousand Yard Stare that makes me feel faintly apologetic for the things I know she knows about me. She's a Very Old Soul. (Maybe a grandmother of mine. Maybe a great. Maybe someone else's- who also knows something about me.)

Making Susannah smile and coo (the precursor to the baby belly-laugh which I know is coming any day now and will undoubtedly break me into a trillion eyeball-poppingly ecstatic pieces) is baby crack to me. Now, I've never really been into any sort of crack...but I imagine it's the kind of thing that, once experienced, you want more of. Immediately. Forever. But especially right now.

I realize it sounds like I am endorsing drugs. But I am not. I am endorsing babies. Specifically mine. (Suzy for mayor!)

Her frown, which usually precedes a full crying jag, gets downright Vaudevillian. Like those neon clown paintings on velvet that you see hanging in friends' parents' basement rec rooms. Except sadder.

Those moments are fleeting. They usually only last until she makes eye contact and realizes that- yet again- she KNOWS you and that things are completely and utterly copacetic.

This is followed by a shy smile and a look so utterly innocent and eager that it makes me want to take a needle directly in the face rather than have her experience a moment of pain in her entire [lengthy] lifetime.

But of course, a life devoid of conflict results in some pretty boring people. (And if there's anything my kids ain't- it's boring.) I want her to have Character. And Self-Sufficiency. (But also Her Mother's Number Forever On Speed Dial...or whatever they call it in the future.)

There's something about a kid like this- both of 'em, in fact- that causes me to stop and realize that every single moment of my life (even the ones that were questionable at the time) have all led up to being with this guy in this town with these sets of circumstances...and have resulted in a smallish human being (lightly scented by apricot oil, at that) kitten-snoring against my collarbone and dreaming of something that makes her teensy heart twitterpate against my rib cage.

And then I realize that I'm doing everything right.

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)

A Week In The Life Of An Artiste.

Ah, a nice watercolor/chalk mixed media.

Miss? No drinks in the theater.

THIS BIG.

Uh, no I was NOT using the purple marker.

Boycotton. That's Right.

Rainbow stripes are slimming.

And now, a half-week update on Boycotton (a term I've just now thoroughly invented to define my week-long ban on sweatpants):

I continue to not wear my cozies- excepting, obviously, those occasions wherein it is not only acceptable but expected; bedtime, early evening viewings of Jane Eyre, etc., etc.- and here is what I've found.

It is difficult. Because nothing fits. Nothing. I am too small to wear my maternity pants (you so rarely hear the upside of gestational diabetes), but haven't as yet been able to smoothly transition to my normal jeans. The operative word being "smooth."

And yes. I am temporarily boycotting sweatpants but have no issue with the denim.

So. Thursday I wore ill-fitting jeans and a sweater. Upon which Suzy promptly spit up, but which I continued to wear. Because I am fancy and was able to hide it under the baby sling. I wore makeup and brushed my hair. P.J., who reads this blog and was intensely aware of this project, told me that I looked "nice." (And when I announced that I was going to put on my pajamas, he gave me a look that I SWEAR asked if I wasn't already wearing them.)

Friday. That night was Neil's going away party, and I dressed up the gals- and myself- to have an early din out on the town. Because nothing says FUN like taking a toddler and a newborn to a pub by oneself. (Oh, the looks.) My pants and top were no match for my elder daughter's self-picked outfit of a sweater dress, skinny jeans, and shiny red Mary Janes. Hipster. (Susannah wore a clever hat and a baby sling. I wore Susannah.) I'm pretty sure that I did something different with my hair. I might even have used a styling product. Today's experiment went entirely unnoticed except for the Under-2 set. (Nora, for her part, has been amazing throughout this endeavor. "Mommy, are you wearing stripes? Is that an orange shirt? Your hair is pretty! Can I wear that shoe? There's a sticker on your leg!")

Saturday. I looked awesome on Saturday. Layers, boots, showerliness, all of it. We all looked really good. Why? Well, we had to jaunt over to our pals' home for the birthday party of their two year-old, Elijah. Which...is actually next weekend. (Sorry, Cassie.) And did I mention that they just had a baby and Saturday was their first day home? Yeah, we're that family.

On Sunday we went to Mass, so I wore an entirely different sweater and pair of bizarrely fitting pants...but paired with the baby sling (holding the zonked-out baby) it only served to bunch up the sweater. Causing me to look like a lady wearing an ill-fitting afghan and bizarrely fitting pants. I had put my hair half up but, due to the crazy gales of wind, I looked like Don King. In an ill-fitting afghan and such.

When we got home I gave up and put on my Hampshire hoodie.

Which is the new subtitle of my memoirs.

Keely Is A Grubby Grub From Grubville.

I used to rock it. Sure, it was my wedding, but...

This is getting to be a problem.

Now, I enjoy a good pair of sweatpants as much as the next gal...but the time has come to kibosh. Sure, I had a baby five weeks ago and absolutely, whatever I wear WILL be covered in glitter and squashed blueberries by the end of the day...but that's really no [long-term] excuse.

I've gotten lazy. Not about the childcare, laundry, energetic toddler activities or writing (sloppy, yes- but not lazy). However, insofar as wardrobe is concerned? Slothful. Slovenly. (Sleepy.)

I hate to think that I'm falling into the Mom Trap of overly casual attire. It's certainly not because I'm too busy to get myself dressed. (I always get so annoyed, for example, when people say they're too busy to do things like pee. For the love of God, you're not launching a timely rocketship! Go urinate already!) I was way busier when I nannied full-time with Nora as an tagalong infant friend. And I [mostly] came to work all dressed and such.

It's not as if I don't have super nice clothing. Although there is a wide discrepancy between my collection of hoodies/yoga pants (seriously- when is the last time any of you saw any yoga action on my part?) and the perfectly folded cashmere sweaters/Italian leather boots. Maybe I should ask Santa for some Middle Ground clothing. Chinos, maybe? Dungarees? I don't even know what they're called anymore.

And- definitely- it's a lot nicer for a newborn to sleep against/spit up on a soft, unadorned piece of clothing as opposed to something with buttons and weaves and bells and whistles. ESPECIALLY the bells and whistles.

It's just that it's really easy to feel like working from home is all Saturdayesque. You know, all Big Mug Of Coffee, Cozy Hoodie, NPR On The Radio kinda Saturday. (Which, I'm quite certain is what a goodly portion of people think stay at home momitude really is. And they'd be right, ha HA!)

But it's really hard to feel productive, like Full Day Of Work productive, in one's sweats. And I'm the first to admit that this could be easily amended by putting on a pair of, I dunno, khakis or something. But unless I get dressed at 5am, I'd have to maneuver a nursing/clinging baby and a climbing/questioning toddler to do so at 7am. Or 8am. Or even 2pm. Which can be done. But- and here it comes again- I'm lazy.

It takes a moment like having one's husband ask why I'm all dressed up- and realizing that it's because I'm wearing a headband. Or the fond, though faded- so, so faded- memory of waking up early to put on makeup so that P.J. would think I looked that good while I slept.

So I'm going to try a little experiment and post the results next Thursday.

For the next week- starting last night, in fact- I'll be wearing something resembling Clothing To Be Worn In Front Of Strangers every day. (Boy, that sounds creepier than intended!) Day One went wholly unnoticed by the Over 2 set. But since I had signed on to bring a toddler and a newborn to the doctor on a rainy night- at dinnertime- this oversight can be forgiven. Although I looked awesome.

I shall also be wearing makeup. Why? Because it's just the kind of whimsical time-detractor that I've come to expect from myself. My novel would be done by now if I put that kind of daily energy into it.

Or maybe this new routine will kickstart my productivity! I'll finish the darned book before the interested parties realize they no longer want it! I shall learn to iron!

At the very least, I'll be pretty.

Ish.

Er.

Today's Wordless Wednesday Is Brought To You...

...By the Letter 'P'...and the Number 4[am]. 

Can you find all of the 'P' words? (The 4am is evident everywhere.)

Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

It has come to my attention- and not for the first time, either- that the institution of Daylight Savings is a terrible idea. Truly awful.

Lemme 'splain.

1. Neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family or scope of reference, has now or at any time been A FARMER. I care not about an extra hour of crop harvestin'. Or an hour less. (I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH ONE IT BENEFITS.) All know is that it is now getting dark at 4:30pm. And my internal clock has no idea when Jeopardy should be on.

2. Babies and/or toddlers have no respect for this time change. They still get up when they get up- except now it can happen as early as 5am. Naptime has the potential to blend with lunchtime, sometimes rendering both events nonexistent. You know what's better than a two year-old who has forgone eating and sleeping?

Absolutely anything you could list. Anything is better than that.

3. There is the distinct possibility that you'll forget to change at least one crucial time-telling device in your home- sometimes it's the car- leaving one with an awfully Twighlight Zoney feeling (at best) and gut-clenching panic at one's own tardiness (at worst). Or it can manifest itself as a vaguely uneasy confusion every time one checks a clock. I readily admit, this could just be me.

4. Even an hour difference makes me feel like I've just taken the red eye from Brussels. And jet lag without even getting served international airline food is not any jet lag worth having, thankyouverymuch.

I like my hours ordered the way they're supposed to be. 7, 8, 9am- I like those hours to look like those hours and feel like them when I see my phone display. 4, 5, 6am- I don't like those hours, overmuch, but I'd prefer to not be shocked by them.

Well, no more shocked than the startling realization that, between those hours, I've become a veritable 7-11 for the snacky newborn set.

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

The New Normal.

Sure thing, Mom.

Things are finally starting to settle into a routine around here.

This is good news, as Susannah is exactly a month old tomorrow and that's a rather long time for a hazy, crazy bit of whirliness.

It's also juuust about long enough for Nora's panic/insanity/full-body-tantrums-every-time-the-doorbell-rings to have run its course. Some might say it's actually a few days too long, but we try not to judge, overmuch.

We're beginning to discover what the New Normal means- which is way different from the New Normal of Oct. '09 (and waaaay different from the New Normal of Newlywed Oct. '08, triple sigh)- and it's actually pretty nice.

Sometimes Susannah sleeps for five or six hours at night, letting us get more rest than is actually allowed at this stage of the game. Other times she keeps us guessing and wakes up every hour just to say hi. (Hi! Go back to bed!)

The two year-old gets up each a.m. with her Dad- unless, of course, she's spent a solid three hours berating or laughing with her Beanie bears at positively awful hours of the early morning- in which case she awakens at 9am. Or 8:30. Or 6. (Keep 'em guessing, that's her motto!) Then the team of gals waves off Peej, sometimes from the picture window, sometimes from the stairwell, and proceeds to list/negate every breakfast choice offered. Unless it's bacon.

Sometimes "breakfast" consists of the smallest member of the team getting nursed on the kitchen floor by the biggest, with the middle debating whether or not she needs a straw/a diaper/a shoe. Martha Stewart Living, it ain't.

Then there's writing, some paid, some not so much. Nora does her part during these interludes by coloring, puzzling, and stickering the baby. Suzy generally sleeps on me/near me or poops on me/near me. A surprising output of work comes from these sessions.

Occasionally we go out, bringing slightly more stuff than would be needed for a Transatlantic crossing. (That's ALL Zuzu- Nora and I had it down to the science of a wallet, some wet wipes, and Doc Bullfrog. My youngest apparently needs three pairs of jammies to accompany us to the grocery store.) Sometimes we go to a fabulous playgroup. Other times we jaunt to the Middle Eastern bakery to get scolded about how I am carrying the baby.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, with slightly more clothing. Usually. Occasionally I'll try to clean a room while we are still using it. This yields mixed results; sometimes I get depressed at the non-change in the area, other times I'm thrilled its dirtiness is remaining status quo.

Some days are way harder than others, what with varying temperaments (mine included), varying activities, and varying degrees of unmatched socks. The best days, obviously, are those with a minimum of activities, a decent amount of agreement, and a maximum of easily put-away-able laundry.

Then there is mandatory naptime. People always say "nap when the baby naps." Dude, I've been napping- with or without babies- since day one. Sometimes I'll try to squeeze in about twenty more minutes of writing immediately after Nora's book/book/book/song/snuggle/bed routine...but not always. Once Nora is in bed, the baby and I are in bed. (And that is why this will always be the best job, ever, anywhere, Amen.)

Upon waking, there is Jeopardy. Laundry. Glitter. The eight thousandth diaper change- per girl. Books books books. Frequent attempts to kickstart an Arena Rock dance party. The park, the playhouse, harvesting of green tomatoes, and forcefeeding the pacifier to the baby sister.

We make/defrost/order dinner, since the dinner train has pretty much left the station. (Okay, I really miss that part of the Old Normal.)

P.J. returns home and, after waiting for my turn to have his attention (it can be a whiiiile, what with dancing, hugs, and re-enactments of Strawberry Shortcake and pals' escapades), we have dinner. Bathe the girls. Pretend to clean the kitchen. And on nights when N goes to bed at 7:45 and Suzy settles into her room for a lengthy nap...we find that we have a smallish window of time.

In which to fall asleep on the couch.

Okay, so perhaps the New Normal looks a bit like the Old one.

Only with way more socks.

Dads Are The Best.