Olley Olley.

Yep, made it on the flight.

It seems I have used all of my good travel karma- not to mention other travelers' good will.

Yesterday's travels capped off an otherwise stellar week with simply abysmal airport conditions. (I realize it's rather bougie to complain about expensive travel- and jaunts that get us home safely, at that- but permit me the post-holiday catharsis of a good ol' transit whine.)

I was already feeling rather mopey about leaving the homestead. Not only was it wonderful to see my family and spend Christmas with everyone, but it was so darned NICE to not be the one in charge. I didn't do a single load of laundry (yet I had neatly folded piles by my room each night), didn't cook one meal (yet ate full to bursting every hour on the hour), and maybe washed one cup (but used eleventy hundred). I napped. I showered. People held Suzy and entertained Nora. There were movies, Mario Kart tournaments, fires in the fireplace, anthologies read, and more than one platter of cookies demolished by me personally.

You understand my hesitation to leave.

But leave we did. To Albany International Airport, to be exact. Usually heading through their security is a skip through a [short] field of daisies. But not yesterday. After a positively Clampett-like dragging of all worldly possessions through the baggage check-in line (seriously, it was like we had one pair of shared hands between us, and they were newly acquired. Thank God Susannah was tied to me, or she might have been left in the car. We had no idea what our deal was, nor why we were completely unable to manage our disproportionate number of bags), we finally made it to the security check point.

Which wrapped eighteen times til Tuesday back over the drop-off overpass. For they were using one scanner- for the entire airport. One. Three lines, one scanner. (Even Chicago's Midway, at its absolute worst, uses at least four.) So we waited in that line until WELL past when our plane boarded. We even (inadvisably) got into two separate lines (me with Zuzu, Peej with NJ), to see if we could "race" and have at least half of our family board the darned plane.

Unfortunately, Nora became aware of this plan once the two parties were neatly separated by about a hundred exhausted and be-luggaged travelers. And she thought that this meant I wasn't coming home with her. And no amount of reasoning could convince her otherwise. And so she had a fit. (Causing the elderly grandmotherly type in front of P.J. to turn and shoot them dirty looks for the rest of this venture.)

Suzy, for her part, was sleeping nicely in her sling this whole time. This might be directly due to the fact that, while sliding out of the sling/hanging on for dear life, she may or may not have been losing oxygen. Either way, by that point I was fairly convinced that I was carrying at least two unrelated persons' baggage.

We were then cut off by a twentysomething girl who informed everyone that her plane was boarding. (Yeah, she was on our flight.) I informed her that half the line was on that flight (for we had all been talking). She smiled vapidly and continued to cut her way to the front. I almost threw Susannah's shoe at her. No one's that pretty.

We went through the scanner with little incident- except for the moment when I had to be reminded that I had a baby strapped to me. And she needed to be removed. Whoops. (I don't even know if I was wearing pants at this point, I was so brain dead. Just kept removing things. Except the child.)

Made it through security at roughly the same time as Peej and Nora. Double whoops. Absolutely booked it down to our gate. Forget numbered boarding- we had missed boarding altogether. And the gate was empty. We barely made it on the flight, but thankfully the gate attendant let us through.

"Wow," he said incredulously. "This is an all-baby flight! You're like the sixth one!"

Amazingly, there were three seats left together on the entire flight. And they were in the coveted last row before the bathroom. (I wouldn't have cared if we were on the wing by now, I was just desperate to sit down. And to see if Suzy had fallen out on the sprint.)

Aside from a ridiculously turbulent takeoff ("This is it," I announced to a crazed P.J., at least three times), the flight was pretty okay. If you don't count the fact that Susannah filled her diaper the moment we sat down and, due to the lack of changing table in the bathroom, didn't get so fresh and so clean clean for another two hours. Which I don't.

Last ones off the plane (which, I'm pretty sure, is good luck) and last ones to the baggage area- except for the gal with the orange lips and fedora who almost kicked Nora as she tripped over her and expressed her disdain for all things humanity. (Peej berated her and [edited] suggested that she go think about how to be a nicer person. He received passerby applause.)

Made it to the shuttle in time to awkwardly struggle with two bags, four carry-ons, and two overtired girls. The driver barely waited for me to clear the partition before he shut the doors. (Note to shuttle bus drivers: If you see a woman with a baby (sorta) tied to her, struggling to heft luggage onto a bus, fling a diaper bag into a seat, and prevent a toddler from falling back into the road- and all you do is avert your eyes, you know you're kind of a wad.)

But we made it to our car. Fed/cleaned/buckled at least two children inside. Got home just in time for bedtime (two hours late). While Peej made a grocery run, I mopped the floors and completely unpacked. (For I am clinically insane.) Begged the newly home P.J. to help me change all the sheets. (For I was desperate for a non-catified bed.)

And slept like the dead.

Until Susannah decided to wake up, two hours later.

And then again, every hour on the hour.

(It's good to be home.)

A Super-Short Smattering...

...Of my favorite Christmas photos, possibly ever.

(A.k.a. Suzy Gets Flung Around And Kissed, Nora Sneaks Incredible Amounts Of Desserts, And My Dad Regrets Starting The "Night Before Christmas" Story Tradition Back In The '80s.)

Santa Baby.

Oh Mom. Zuzu looks odd.

Merriest of Christmases, everyone! Or rather, a superbly happy Boxing Day to you all. I love boxes, boxed lunches, boxty, the boxstep, and Oscar De La Hoya.

Our Christmas Eve was spent at a church in the Berkshires that we don't regularly attend, but which was quite nice, nonetheless. There were carols, there were lessons, there were snacks and books shared over the pews by miniature cousins, there were inopportunely timed 'Amens' from smallish blond children, and there was at least once incredibly good (and sleepy) infant in her finest velour duds- complete with ruffled headband.

My Dad read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas to all of his grandchildren...with extremely varied reactions. There were boys who completely dug every single line. There were girls who pointedly disagreed with the entire endeavor. There was one snoozer. But- and most importantly- it was all captured on film, including a poignant moment where I yelled at my biggie daughter to sit on the couch RIGHT NOW. (Fa la la.)

After the kids fell asleep, my father found and played a video from Christmas morning, 1991. (My finest year, fashion/face/hair-wise.) A few filmed moments were pretty incredible:
-The fact that someone- quite possibly my folks- actually gifted my 4 year-old twin sisters tinny microphones attached to tape decks.
-That my '91 Era Dad received a flannel which he recently gave to my '11 Era husband...which would have blown the mind of '91 Era Keely, playing with a porcelain doll recently positioned on the shelf of '11 Era Daughter.
-And the weird realization that an awful lot of [colorful] pens were presented back and forth that year.

On Christmas morning, my daughters actually slept in. Which was completely overruled by my nephews' excited pre-dawn pre-game.

And guess what? Santa really did a number on the under-6 set. But apparently he needlessly overdid it. For Nora was disinterested in ANY other gifts once she spied a [2 buck] Strawberry Shortcake activity book. Really. At least Susannah feigned interest in her teething rings and rainbow sock monkey. Nora was done.

As for me, Santa Husband was pretty darned terrific. Among my gifts were some pretty sweet cards for clothing which- once I get my pre-baby body back (a week from now, tops)- will be used the heck out of, a monogrammed charm for Suzy for my bracelet, a new Nora Roberts novel, and- one of the coolest things ever ever ever- an oversized mug proclaiming me to be the World's Best Mom...

...With "Somehow I Manage" on the opposing side. (Anyone? "Office" fans? What if I made a dramatic shrugging motion while saying it?)

P.J. received a day at a Russian spa/bath in Chicago for a day of relaxation/detox/potential nudity and a pair of hiking boots (which he promptly decided to exchange.) At least one present was received happily. This is better than my usual present to Peej/Peej's immediate return rate.

Nora got a personal DVD player- for all of her personal viewing needs. Susannah got a pewter baby cup and a fascinating number of sock monkeys. (A new red wagon for two is waiting for them under our tree at home- shh...thankfully my girls cannot read/are not fans of my blog.)

And- for real- we were all spoiled by a downright insane number of gifts from sisters, boyfriends, parents, nephews, aunts, uncles, and daughters. Cincinnati giftitude (in the form of delightfully Ohioan food) was shipped in from my in-laws.

I took a bath. And a nap. And read. Ate way too much terrific wonderfulness at the hands of my parents. (Well, their cooking abilities. But I used my hands.)

Suzy's first Christmas was extremely special.

But I'm not surprised- they're all extremely special.

Especially back in '91 when I was (on camera) quite stoked to receive a) a new Barbie (Really, Keely? At 11? Really?), b) hot pink paperclips, and c) shoe deodorizers.

I'm pretty sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Deep down.

Also "Lords A'Leaping." I Also Wish You That.

In light of the fact that I am currently traveling through Chicago's luxurious Midway Airport, I'll keep my Christmas greeting brief (yet full of love- and perhaps only a bit of pith):

During this holiday season (and anytime else, really), I wish you cookies without slightly burned undersides, rendering the whole cookie kinda smoky...

...And helpful people. Like mail carriers who remember to close the mailbox on rainy/snowy days. And toddlers who don't remove their boots in public places. Like restrooms. While we're on that note, I wish you more Helpful Toddler and less Public Restroom in general.

I wish you naps. Glorious, snuggly, 3-blanket drowsy naps with nary a responsibility in the world...except maybe to inform someone what kind of beverage you'd like upon awakening. Maybe even the type of nap where a fabulously droney documentary is playing in the background, so you can sleep with the fuzzy knowledge that, by napping on the living room couch, you're still being borderline "social."

I wish you abject joy. The kind of joy that comes from explaining- with as much technical jargon as humanly possible- how exactly Santa Claus works. I hope you have a season where you get to concretely affirm the existence of magic (at least once).  

And lights. And decorations. And really, truly, eye-poppingly crazy displays of holiday cheer that- yeah, sure- are placing obscene amounts of money directly into the pocket of ComEd...but I still wish it for you. Because garish ornamentation at Christmastime makes one feel like a seven year-old. And, for real, is there anything better than being a seven year-old at Christmas?

I wish you love, family (or a decided lack o' family, if that's your happy place), and more than your fair share of nog. (Again, only if you like it. If not- NO NOG.)

And I hope you receive the noisiest, sparkliest, newest, and pokey-eye-outiest toy this side of A Christmas Story.

Oh yeah, and I also wish- as I have since I started writing letters to Santa in 1986- for world peace. (But also the sparkly toy, if that's cool.)

(Merry Christmas.)

Best Holiday Visit Ever.

(Miss you guys already, Seavers!)

Itchy, Itchy, Ichabod.

We almost had ourselves a regular Situation this weekend.

My Mom's CRAZY!

It started out innocuously enough; I felt a little itchy on my belly on Friday afternoon, but promptly forgot about it due to the two miniature people demanding things like warmth and sustenance. That evening Peej had his holiday party at work (returning home in time to tuck in the Norabug, obvie- what a rager), and I ran out to get some groceries-

-Making a quick, super-secret stop to pick up THE BEST CHRISTMAS GIFT EVER, ohmigod I've said too much-


-And then met up with Kat for some seriously awesome Grouponed Tank sushi in Lincoln Square. Came home at a reasonable hour, kissed P.J. and Zuzu, checked on Nora, and went to sleep.

I woke up two hours later in a bit of pain. My hands seemed to be on fire, and were completely raw from the fact that I had been scratching them non-stop since I fell asleep. (Apparently. Either that, or someone awfully mean was scratching them into bloody stumps for me.) I went to the bathroom to find some hydrocortisone or something with which to prevent them from falling off. Happened to look in the mirror on the way out.

Saw, rising up past my tank top straps, ugly red welts spreading up my shoulders. Panicked.

I ran downstairs to find P.J. asleep on the couch and shouted something about how I was being eaten alive by a virus. Or something. Peej, for his part, woke up in a panic, thinking he was about to get reamed for falling asleep on the couch again. Panicked even more when he saw that I was a) not angry, but b) potentially dying.

But being the helpful guy that he is, he checked me out for other hives (who says romance doesn't exist after kids?) and went to get the hydrocortisone that I had flung in my rush to find him. Went to rub some on my shoulder blades. And saw that there seemed to be a bit more of the rash. He lifted the back of my shirt to find that in the past fifteen seconds, hives had appeared on my back and belly. Also, there was now one on my jaw.

And my hands were still puffy from my Claws Of Death.

P.J., who becomes even cooler during times of duress (as opposed to my regression into flailing toddlerdom), started a bath for me, got out some baking soda and oatmeal, and ran to the 24/7 Walgreens. Not caring much for "directions" or "amounts," I dumped in roughly three cups of each, and proceeded to immerse myself into a salty and dense bath o' gruel.

I'm not gonna lie- it didn't feel good.

At this point, hives were appearing down my arms and legs in fiery lines. I leaned out of the tub to begin Googling things on my phone; "rapidly spreading hives", "itchy (bloody) hands", things like that. I highly recommend a late-night Google session like this. It really calms the panic, especially since terms come up like "Ebola." (People never post things on the internet when they're feeling coherent and logical. It's just like Yelp- no one ever posts things like "It was a completely middle-of-the-road experience, one that was just fine. No complaints. No excess praise, either. Just nice." I don't know why I expected differently from medical postings. You're either imagining things or you may already be dead.

By the time P.J. had returned (less than seven minutes later), I had mentally revamped my will (I think my beneficiaries will be pleased with the changes). I then got out of the bath to take some Benadryl and actually gasped at my reflection. The welts on my legs had joined together to make eight-hive-wide snowflake patterns. These were now SupraHives. P.J., stoic as he was, could not completely mask his shock/horror/disgust(?) at his wife's condition.

It seriously looked like I had been beaten by a rusty chain.

So we did what we do best: We talked it out for about an hour. Should we go to the ER? Do we call our neighbors to come stay with the girls? (You're welcome, Angie.) Did I really feel it warranted immediate attention? Did you notice that my right arm is now completely crimson?

In the end, we [I] decided to just go to bed. After all, if I was still breathing okay (and nothing makes one think that there's breathing trouble like continuously asking oneself if one has trouble breathing) and had taken an antihistamine, I'd most likely end up just needlessly sitting in the ER for about five hours. Also, I deeply feared getting a cortisone shot. Sure, I had just [extremely recently] been the recipient of a spinal, but cortisone? NO SANKYOU.

I went to bed after checking on the girls, feeling nothing but sorrow for Susannah's nonexistent memories of me, and even moreso for Nora, having recently baked some so-so cookies with her slacktacular mother. There were also a few moments of absolute surety that my throat was closing up...quickly amended when I realized that I had been holding my breath. P.J. promised that he wouldn't let anything happen to me- then promptly snored.

Woke up three hours later with nary a welt. Feeling one thousand and two percent. With no idea what caused it or how to prevent future outbreaks. (Like in "Outbreak".)

So, apparently there's something out there that I really should not be touching with any part of my being. But I have no idea what it is. So I'll just continue to...not touch anything.

Cinchy.

(Happy Monday!)

Meanie Pants McGee Neglects [One Of] Her Children.

Naw, it's cool.
Just a bladder infection.

And now, let's check in with everyone's favorite Terrible Midwestern Mama-

Me.

This week's descent into therapy is brought to you by the letter T, for Toilet Bowl. Nora had been happily using the potty, not using the potty, and talking about things she wanted to do whilst on the potty (read various books, call loved ones on the phone, not take her nap, etc.) for the better part of the hour leading up to her usual rest time. And as our potty training is generally Nora-lead, i.e. she can pee or not pee at this point and get applause, I was letting her take her sweet time about it- up to a point. Towards the end of The Great Pee, I realized that Suzy had been fussing in her bouncer/was being ignored for far longer than we usually allow (oh, about twenty minutes or so) and I encouraged my eldest to wrap it up. (I was already thinking about the laundry list of tasks that lay ahead during her naptime, like soaking/scraping dried eggs from the underside of her booster seat...and, you know, laundry.)

She happily obliged, hopping down from the toilet and preparing to wash her hands. I turned away for a moment to start the water/soap portion of the afternoon's entertainment and turned back to find- BOTH OF NORA'S ARMS FULLY IN THE TOILET.

I'm not proud of this moment, but I yelled. A lot. About how we do not put our body parts into the toilet bowl and how she was not being a good listener and could she please never do that again. It was a pretty full-on Keely Yell, I'm ashamed to admit.

She froze like she had been slapped.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." She held out her dripping arms in the most helpful way she could manage. I cleaned her up, paying careful attention to sanitize such crucial areas as her inner elbows. All the while she solemnly acknowledged that kind people don't touch the toilet water.

A short while later, as I was kissing her goodnight for her nap, I apologized to her. I explained that, while I was worried about germs and pinched fingers, I shouldn't have yelled quite so much. She quietly put both hands on my cheeks and held my face close.

"It's okay, Mommy. You're a nice girl."

"Thank you, Nora."

"You have pretty eyelashes."

"Thanks."

So that's when I left my daughter's room and had a ten minute crying jag. And yeah, for those of you playing along at home, my youngest kid was still expressing concern from the confines of her aquarium bouncer.

And lest you think that Susannah escaped unharmed from from my Bad Momitude (aside from abandonment in a vibrating, bubbly prison), she suffered neglect as a direct result of her sister's awesome social calendar.

Yesterday we were invited to see Seussical, the Musical (!) at The Marriott Theatre (thanks, Aunties Julia and Cindy!), which we all enjoyed. Nora punctuated her exceptional theatergoer skillz with exclamations of OH NO at Horton's plight, followed by concerned [loud] questions about WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO during quieter moments and solos. But, altogether a win in the Culture And Arts department.

Zuzu, for her part, had been snuggling nicely against me for the majority of the show. She started to get a little squirmy towards the end, to which I responded with a typical Mom-To-Second-Kid response: Shh...you're fine.

And I reassured her of this fact throughout the slightly trafficky ride back to our home, all the while attempting to keep Nora awake until her naptime. And maybe get her to eat a bite of her sandwich. And perhaps stop bending her books inside out. The usual.

By the time we returned home, Nora was settled down for her nap, and I finally had a chance to hang out with The Little, it occurred to me that Susannah hadn't had a chance to eat since a quick parking lot snack at 10am (What're you looking at, tour bus?) and was rather starving. It had, after all, been three hours.

That would have to wait, however. For when I finally picked her up out of her car seat, I realized that she had pooped clear up to her neck. And was slightly unhappy about it.

After a quick sponge bath and disinfecting (the first for Susannah, the second for anything she or I had touched), I was able to actually feed her.

And she smiled happily up at me, like- You always take care of everything.

Which sent me off on another crying jag.

I don't think I'll be getting that Employee Of The Year mug anytime soon. Let alone World's Best Mom.

More like Hey, It's That Woman Who Cares For Her Kids With Astounding Mediocrity.

I think I've got the market cornered for that Hallmark moment.

Feeling That Gingerbread Feeling.

"Mommy, no more, thank you."

"No more thank you what?"

"No more thank you for the camera."

"...Oh."

Go Back To Bed, Michael.

Can't we just turn off the stereo?

I thought it would be enough for me to simply list the Christmas songs that get my Christmas goose. (I was gonna say "goat," but I've never heard of a Christmas goat. Even though accuracy has never really prevented me from writing before.)


But no. My ire, annoyance, and ear-worm eye-roll  has not been tempered in the least.


So I shall expound.


Okay, Jackson 5. I get it. You saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe last night. Leaving for a moment how cloying it is whenever any adult (or half-grown adult, as in this case) refers to anyone as "Mommy," let's think this one through. Michael, your father was Joe Jackson. Being as he was a confirmed abusive fellow, maybe we should refrain from "telling [your] Dad" anything about anyone's misdeeds. I can't hear that line without cringing over the can of whoop-ass that has just inadvertently been opened.


Staying on the Jackson 5 train, can we all just agree to stop playing their positively suicide-inducing Little Christmas Tree? For the [blessedly] uninitiated, here's a sample:


I hear the Christmas bells
The happy people singing
The songs of good cheer
That only brings me tears
I sadly close my eyes
And say a little prayer
You'll be waiting there for me
I look but all I see is
Just a little Christmas tree
Looking sort of sad and lonely just like me
No one seems to care
They just went away and left it standing there
All alone on Christmas Eve.


Ohhkay. Listen, people, I don't care how many bells or trees you reference, this is NOT a good example of a holiday song. I can't imagine this is anyone's favorite Christmas chestnut. Who is requesting this song? He's saying a "little prayer," so he's clearly a praying kinda guy. Couldn't he just go to a Christmas Eve mass or something? Maybe volunteer at a soup kitchen? Anything's better than staring a small shrub. Also, come to think of it, why is Michael all alone on Christmas Eve? I can't believe that ever happened during his formative years- at least not with those Jackson 4 guys around. Not to mention LaToya and Janet. 


And the biggest offender of the Really Pushing The "Christmas Song" Category Envelope is: Last Christmas by George Michael. I know for a fact that millions of people adore this song. At least two stations in Chicago play it twice as hour (not even counting Taylor Swift's cover) and I've renamed Sirius XM's Channel 17 the Last Christmas station. ("All Last Christmas," all the time!") 


But here's the thing- this song could have taken place on any ol' day of the year: 


Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears

I'll give it to someone special.

Look, this is basically a breakup song that just happened to have taken place on Christmas Eve. Substitute the holiday and you've got a pretty stellar Valentine's Day song. Or St. Patrick's or Arbor Day. Also, may I suggest not giving your heart as a present? Especially to someone who's clearly into December 26th store credit? Besides, wrapping up "Merry Christmas" with a note saying "I love you" (even if you meant it) is not a terrific Christmas gift. A sweet stocking stuffer at best. But if that was your only gift, I don't blame him/her for leaving you. 

I'm already questioning your serial dateitude if THIS year you're already planning on giving your heart to someone [randomly] special. 

Maybe take the season off. 

And now, I welcome your suggestions for truly abhorred overplayed Christmas ditties. This much rage should not be contained in solitude. We must stand strong, and stand together.

Or we're no better than that sad and lonely little Christmas tree.

Gold Pantsuit Optional.

DARN YOU, ANGELEYES!

Last night was a win. I had friends over, wore Real Clothing, drank sangria from breakable glasses...

...and danced like the key to ending world hunger lay on my [flailing] shoulders [and arms].

Our good friends at Ubisoft sent me a copy of ABBA You Can Dance for the Wii, (available on Amazon) and generously gifted me a [pivotal] mirrored disco ball with lights. Turns out, all my daughters' playroom needs to become a Studio 54-esque dance club are shiny lights. And for the complete removal of doll strollers, art supplies, and train accouterments.

This game comes from the award-winning Just Dance franchise and features 26 hit songs to dance to, sing along with (in the karaoke option!), perform as mini musicals, and enjoy along with live concert footage and actual music videos. Dance moves are depicted by rising figures on the sides of the screen, prompting players to sway, jump, and do crazy things with one's arms.

I was lucky enough to have some very tolerant- and ridiculously fun- friends come play. Besides being unaware that I knew that many people with ABBA lyrical acumen, here's what we liked:

Bringin' it. Also, yes, we have a giraffe.

-It's really, really fun. So fun that you barely need to let the sangria kick in before you're dying to jump up and dance.

-Four people could play at a time. This is clutch, especially when making it to Nationals on such group hits as Waterloo. (Okay, there's no "Nationals" in the game, but we were really that good. There ought've been.)

-I won the first round. (That's because a certain Liz didn't know her Wii-mote was on and she missed the first half of the song. She might not view this as a plus, but I sure do. I won!)

-Our friend Sara may actually be a member of ABBA. She won every single round and, when her ABBA avatar unexpectedly dropped to the floor and did a crazy arm-sweep, she didn't even bat an eye.

Things we questioned:

Back right corner. All you need to know.

-It took us a little longer than expected to figure out what the heck we were doing. Like how to get back to the main screen without restarting the Wii, what each upcoming motion actually meant, and how to figure out whom was dancing for whom. Actual dialogue: "I was following the brunette." "I was following the brunette!" "No, you're the dude." "Which dude?" And sure, a lot of this could've been chalked up to user error and/or my inability to "read directions."

-The song Angeleyes is awful and unfairly hard to dance to.

-Dancing ability is measured solely on one's right hand motions. Basically, you could be sitting down, but as long as the hand holding the Wii mote was doing the right moves, you could beat the person beside you who's taking a knee and/or giving it their all. For example.

-It was a general consensus that it wouldn't take too long to jam through all of the offered songs and it would be nice if songs could be unlocked after certain levels of awesomeness were attained. Some of the dance moves were repeated frequently throughout the catalog- which I personally had no problem with. Maybe I'll actually get decently good at them sometime in 2012. (Then- REMATCH!)

We didn't partake in the karaoke options (no microphones), and were momentarily charmed by the mini musical (oh, Butch), but spent a goodly three hours on the actual dance competitions. That's where the real joy is, even when you've never heard the song before in your life and/or you may have just accidentally kicked a good friend.

I'm gonna hafta go ahead and recommend this game. Very little actual skill is needed to enjoy this one, and it more than brings the laughs, entertainment, and toned triceps.

Just don't invite Sara. Not if you ever want to win, anyhow.

Thank you to Ubisoft for sponsoring this blog post. Please click here to learn more about Ubisoft. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective. All opinions are my own.

The New Normal- Christmas Edition.

Christmassed out.

I don't think 25 year-old Keely would recognize 31 year-old Keely, nor her way of celebrating the holiday season. Nor what she considers totally par for the course.

Mid-twenties Keel would don her best grey leather boots and mod minidress for a round of Christmas shindigs that featured precariously balanced martinis/vodka tonics, extra lime.

Early-thirties me considers it a night well-spent if she gets an after-dinner dance with both of her girls (and maybe even her husband) to the sweet sounds of The Vince Guaraldi Trio's Charlie Brown soundtrack. Any time I can bust out my mad Peanuts dancing skills is a gold star moment. Nora's got the arm thing down. Zuzu excels at the floppy head part.

Christmas treats used to include the mandatory evening out at Emilio's Tapas for the seasonal triumvirate of bacon-wrapped dates, baked goat cheese marinara, sangria pitchers. Lots of them. Lots of all of them, in fact. These nights would be late. Very late. Happily, cheerfully, sloshily late.

Mama K wears the same red hoodie (dating back to 8th grade, back when we wore things awfully roomily) to determinedly bake festive cookie-like vaguely reindeer-shaped things with her daughters. Even though she [most definitely] does NOT possess this skill set. Because two year-olds (and two month-olds) need this memory with their mother. This morning activity comes right on the heels of an excruciatingly, astonishingly sober, and painfully late night. The main players in this little skit included a slightly snarfy newborn, a little kid whose overnight diaper threatened to leave without her, and a husband who remained awake to bake cookies for his wife's party- the one for reviewing the new ABBA Wii dance game the following night, obviously.

Business as usual.

One thing that has stayed- painfully- the same is the number of awful, annoying, and atrocious songs that are played in mind-numbing repetition on holiday stations. I mean, come on, Sirius XM- you have access to literally thousands of Christmas and seasonal songs. Yet I still hear this combo once an hour: Dominick the Donkey (hee HAW), I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas, and- more recently- that ol' Spongebob classic, Don't Be A Jerk (It's Christmas).

They should just play Josh Groban's O Holy Night and anything by Mannheim Steamroller/Transiberian Orchestra (whom I'm not entirely convinced are NOT the same group. They might also be Manhattan Transfer).

And this afternoon? It's the traditional crafting of the Christmas paper chain while viewing Jeopardy.

I'm not even gonna pretend that one's new or different.

More Sibling Love And A Play Doh Rudolph.

Dragging Kids About Town.

The past few days have been great.

Unless you ask my children. Then, the time has been rotten.

For starters, we rocked Nora's world with the trifecta of terror: Santa, first haircut, and meeting new people.

We thought she'd dig seeing Santa, seeing as how she's been obsessed with all of the classic Christmas movies and telling everyone how KIND she's been. (Saturday morning she excitedly told me that Santa would even give her a treat because she's been so KIND.) But no. After standing in that line and being greeted by a positively dour Mrs. Claus, she lost her nerve. Zuzu was placed in Santa's arms and Nora reluctantly sat on his lap.

Nooope...

"Hi there!"

Waaaaaaail. She bolted. Susannah stayed put and even blinked happily up at him. He offered to take a picture with "the little one." (I'm sure she was a refreshing drink of water after the terrified children of the morning. By the way, Nora and Susannah were the tenth kids inside Santa's workshop that day. Poor guy.)

As we exited, Nora told me brightly- "I met Santa!" And then a moment later. "I was scared."

Frightened by the person behind me.

We remained at the Christkindlmarket because we had yet to get our mulled wine in a boot, obvie. Even when it began a torrential downpour, we stayed the course. For we couldn't find the booth with the miniature blown glass animals. (Never did find it, actually, but that sure as heck didn't stop us from trying for a goodly while.) Susannah was in the Bjorn and Nora in the backpack- 'cause that scene doesn't exactly encourage the stroller set. And nothing says the Advent Season like a fever brought on by one's mother's quest for the cutest glass frog.

Nora ate her lunch in the car so as to prevent her from falling asleep. Did I mention we kept her up past her nap for optimal Santa meetin'/crowd evadin' time? And the second she woke up from her later nap, we whisked her off for her first ever haircut? Good afternoon.

Is this what you wanted, Mom?

We went to Pickle's Playroom in Lincoln Square, because a) it looked cute, and b) I feared my own ability to not give my daughter a mullet. She chose to sit in a pink car and watch an episode of Dora for her big shearing- as you do. (It still felt wrong to even be cutting one lock of her hair- she was a cueball until, like, last Christmas. Why am I mocking the gods?) She was unsure of the spray bottle, the comb, the scissors, and especially the blow dryer. But when she found out that the haircut came with a free half hour in the business' stellar playroom, she was totally on board. So, ten minutes after the haircut, she was fine.

And now she has bangs. Which are completely adorbs.

After the trim, we stopped by a lovely Christmas party at P.J.'s coworker's home. So Nora got to meet new people- which, surprisingly, she was really rather good at that evening. (It helped that they had a good under-7 crowd.)

Naturally, she went to bed an hour and a half later than usual and- shockingly- slept until 10:30 the next morning. It was SO crazy that we actually got nothing done...because we spent way too much time announcing how CRAZY it was that she was still asleep.

Look at us smushing our children.

After breakfast for lunch, we went out to Home Depot and picked up what may have been their last Frasier Fir. (Place was seriously picked over. "Had a busy Saturday," they said. No kidding. There was our tree, some Charlie Browns, and a trail of mutilated garlands leading to the parking lot.) That said, our tree is boss. Made even more so by the fact that Nora carefully helped me decorate it- taking the time to first organize ornaments by shape and color on the floor (I am so proud). The smallish cup of "warm cocoa" she had ingested made her a little more forceful than normal whilst placing the decorations on the actual tree, but the overall effect is still pretty nice. And those suckers are ON THERE.

While we mangled the tree, P.J. magnificently Daddified the front yard with garlands, lights, wreaths, windows boxes, and power strips.

And where was Susannah during all of this? She was doing what she does best- just being. Being in a bouncer seat, being in a sling, being in our arms, smiling all the while. Pleased as punch to watch Nora bodyslam the tree, stoked to be bundled into the freezing cold, happy as a clam to sleep against me during her sister's events. She's just a bucket full of Christmas goodwill.

I'm fine. No, really. Fine.

All of which I squandered this morning during her two month checkup and the battery of four vaccinations. Nothing like watching a sweetly shy smile turn to despairing pain and betrayal.

I have quite a bit of trust-rebuilding to do this week.

Nora thinks I should say it with waffles. She may be onto something.

I Still Want A Hula Hoop.

Last year's questionable meet-up

We've really been pushing The Christmas.

Mostly for myself. It's kind of hard to be in the spirit of things when really (reallyreallyreally) tired, but the [advent] calendar waits for no man!

So we've been rocking the Sirius XM holiday station. Expected side effect: I remember how much I adore renditions of 'O Holy Night' (except for Jewel's- blechity blech) and any incarnation of Canon in D. Especially if a children's choir is singing in the background. UNexpected side effect: Nora cannot stop singing 'You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch." (Or, as it's more commonly known, 'Meanie.')

Frosty The Snowman has been viewed. (As has the shockingly inferior sequel- Frosty Returns. Seriously. Come on. It's just... For real.) We love Frosty. We hate the part where he melts. Can. Not. Deal. When. He. Melts. There's a good ten minutes of "Frosty will melt, but it'll be okay" before the dude even gets trapped in the greenhouse. And then after his soaky demise, "SANTA WILL FIX HIM" is wailed straight into the credits. And then we sing the song until bedtime and ask when we can watch it again.

Now that I think about it, it's a pretty horrifying scenario. Sorry, kid.

I am determined to make Nora pals with Mr. Ol' Saint Nick, so I've really been talking him up to her. Kinda feels like a middle school relationship. ("No, he really likes you. Do you like him, too? Do you really like him? He's so fun. He has cool toys!")  I think she's keying into what he's all about, though, because every good deed or successful trip to the potty is followed up by a pointed "That was very kind, Mommy. I am kind."

Hopefully this budding relationship will last until at least this Saturday, which is when the fateful (second) meeting will go down. At the Christkindlmarket to be exact. (Mulled wine in a boot! Miniature blown-glass animals! Ohboyohboy! And, uh, Santa!)

Last year's meet n' greet had mixed results. She was perfectly fine until she actually saw Santa. And had to sit on his lap. And until he spoke to her. Not to mention having to smile for a picture. And there were elves who were all like- How are you, today?

She was horrified.

The picture we captured was remarkably calm. Those picture-takin' elves really know what they're about.

This year will be different, I can just tell. Shy Thumbelina will be joined by her miniature sidekick, Cheerful Buttercup. Gotta put on a brave face for The Littles.

Or at least be pleasant enough to get your Santa treat.

Gotta work the system.