My Life Is So Very, Very Charmed.

This is what a Real Mom looks like, apparently- especially on set.
(Why so much makeup, Mom?) Also, I am not as yellow in real
life as the Hipstamatic would have you believe.)

...And this cannot be re-posted enough.
Scott Bakula and I wish you the happiest of Leap Days!

When Mom's Sick, We're ALL Sick.

Hasn't been changed in weeks.

Over the course of the past week, I experienced my first full-on Sicky since becoming a parent. We'd all been ping-ponging the same sniffles and such back and forth, but on the rebound I apparently caught them straight in the jugular.

I woke up one morning freezing cold, achy and bruised, swollen and stuffed o' face, and not really "awake" at all. The kind of sick where you can't even imagine sitting straight up, let alone going to put on some Day Sweatpants. The beginning of the kind of illness where you weep in the general direction of blankets and chairs- or really even the floor- all day long.

I felt awfully sorry for myself, the way I've done in the past whenever feeling Godawful.

Except this time, I was in charge of a perky infant and a toddler already in the process of dumping the entire contents of her closet onto her head. And apparently, they needed food. Something to drink. Maybe a diaper change. And another diaper change. And a third- COME ON, GIRLS.

I spent that first day in a sort of incredulous stupor. When was someone coming for these children? I could barely manage holding my vibrating head still- there was no way I could handle anything other than batting at the Wii mote to start yet another TV marathon on Netflix.

I'm not gonna say that Nora watched TV all day...but it's a fair bet that she knows the entire catalog of PBS, short of Masterpiece Theatre and Antiques Roadshow.

The next day was worse. I couldn't remember if I had nursed Suzy. Nora had oatmeal in her sticky-up hair until she was changed out of that day's pajamas into that evening's. P.J. fielded phone calls punctuated by snarfy deep sighs and unrestrained sobbing. We ate bland mashup dinners, seasoned and microwaved by a gal with no ability to taste, smell, or stir. I couldn't even handle being inside my own skin, so I felt an overwhelming amount of guilt over not being a good parent to the two healthy Littles in my house. (Heck, I was barely being a parent.)

And I felt guilty for getting sick. Like I had let everyone down. We ended up staying home from Nora's gymnastics class- sure, she had been up from midnight to 4am for no good reason and had completely overslept anyhow, but the weight of that still fell on my [melodramatic and achy] shoulders.

We'll never leave the house again, I thought.

I'm relegating the girls to a life of Emily Dickinson-esque confinement, I bawled.

There is food on the floor yet none in the fridge, I whined.

The Fischer-Price people are attacking my face, I fevered.

But I got better. By the next day, even. Because, after barely two days of drowning in an abyss of chills and delirium, I realized that This Was Utterly Ridiculous.

So I mopped the floors. Cleaned the bathrooms. Built a block tower. Found the last puzzle piece. Made some salmon. (For Lent.)

Bathed the children, bathed myself (twice), cleaned the bathrooms again, finished some completely overdue writing...

...And put the darned TV back on.

Priorities.

This is the story of how one day- when things are wonderfully calm and simple- you suggest to your two year-old daughter that you bake something. Brownies, perhaps.

And how she then proceeds to tear apart the kitchen in excitement, looking for wooden spoons, looking for aprons, trying to eat through the cardboard box to see what color the sugar is, etc., etc., etc.

But then you turn on the oven. And, as the room becomes full- maybe overfull, even- of tools necessary (and completely unnecessary) for the act of baking brownies...you notice that the room is becoming full of something else as well.

Smoke.

Thick, black, puffy clouds of burnt toast smoke. Or, to be more accurate, burnt pizza crust smoke. From a section of pizza that had- somehow- fallen off of the frozen dinner from the previous night's meal and ended up incinerating itself way back against the broiler's flames.

So you turn on the oven's vent fan, the kitchen fans, and [inexplicably] the bathroom fan. The windows are opened. The doors are opened. Rags are waved uselessly.

And, through all of this Non Panicky Take Chargitude, the two year-old demands (politely at first) that You Promised We Would Make BrownieCookies.

And you explain (gently at first) that the kitchen is in very real danger of charring to a crisp and, since the brownie-cookin' needs to take place in the kitchen, First Things First.

But she does not jive with your "logic."

So she begins to have a full-on tantrum about the very real lack of baking happening in front of her face. And she proceeds to hit you with a wooden spoon.

And so then you drag the toddler to the Time Out chair- waving her smallish body at the smoke detectors along the way- and have a very timely discussion of Why We Do Not Hit and Why We Need PATIENCE, DAMMIT.

Meanwhile, the infant is sitting nicely in her bouncy seat and staring up, quite possibly preparing for a future epileptic seizure due entirely to a strobe light effect caused by poorly placed track lighting behind the ceiling fan.

But the smoke eventually clears.

And the toddler apologizes- especially when she sees it's Game On for brownies and not so much for fire extinguishers.

And you can fully admit- once you see the infant blinking normally, that is- that maybe you just experience the weirdest three minutes ever.

At least for that afternoon.

Bad. Mom.

That's prolly too big for- oh, she's fine.

YOU feed the baby.

Ignoring both the infant eyeing my wine AND the
toddler reading a prayer book against a radiator.

Hint- If You Give Nora A Sip, Don't Expect It Back.

We're heading back to Chicago in a little bit- and you'll all be thrilled to know that I forgot only the barest minimum of necessities. We made do. (Although Nora might beg to differ, as one of the forgotten items was her hair detangler spray, and Miss Nimbus had to suffer through plain ol' conditioner and combing and yelling.)

As time is of the essence, the car is not even remotely packed, and I'm not entirely certain where Susannah is, I'll just post a smattering of my fave pix from the weekend (so far).

There was a dance party on Saturday night with seven aunts and uncles, seven cousins of Peej's generation, nine cousins of the next generation, (and even two yet to be born cousins- not mine, oh no, not mine- calm down, interwebs). This is a rough count, mind you, and I don't even have pix of this stompy li'l affair. It was too bizzy.

There was a Mardi Gras parade downtown, slightly dampened by the fact that Nora was a) overtired, b) cold, and c) terrified of the clown-like dancers. We left a little early.

But, as always, there was way too much great food, and no shortage of loving arms for Nora and Zuzu.

I even got a nap.

Which will always render any weekend a roaring success.

Malt? Don't mind if I do. (Mini P.J. strikes again.)

Baby Greta and Baby Zuzu- two months apart and holding hands.

Hannah holding the babe- best Mother's Helper EVER.

Stay close, Dad. Those clowns might come back.

But What If I Forget The LIST?

Photo courtesy of Emi Clark.
Doc's color courtesy of Tide.

Packing for the girls is always a big deal.

I wish it weren't.

But the one time I pushed my borderline OCD tendencies aside and just, you know, threw stuff into a bag...No one had socks. Susannah didn't have nearly enough diapers. And I actually packed one half of a baby monitor. (The part that lets you know what the kid is doing. Helpful, so long as you also have the part that goes near the kid's head.)

Back in the old days (three years ago), back when I was way thinner and cooler than I could be convinced of by any mirror image, I packed precisely and neatly.

For our epic trip to Rome, I actually drew out each day's proposed outfits in my travel journal. Because- and this cannot be stated enough- I had too much time on my hands. (But I looked awesome. This cannot be stated enough, either.)

I seemed to have lost a goodly amount of brain cells between then and now, however, since I'd probably forget the girls' carseats if they weren't attached to the car.

So I make lists.

And even though it can be painful to know you have to write down things like "shoes" and "cups," it's more painful to arrive somewhere without the darned "shoes" and "cups."

It'll be good to get out of Dodge for a few days- even for a short road trip- with everything neatly packed into three duffels. One can almost pretend that all of one's worldly possessions are listed on one tiny little piece of lined paper. (And not jamming multiple rooms in one's dilapidated Money Pit, most of which are decorated on all sides by foam stickers.)

In other This Gal Needs Some Real News news- Doc Bullfrog has lost his rattle. That's right, Doctor Bullfroggy- the lovie who has had the green loved right off of him- has lost the soothing shakey sound located somewhere within his bulbous head.

This may be bigger news to her parents, who have long detected their eldest daughter's a.m. stirrings by the familiar tinkling rattle. Now Doc is a ninja. And now Doc is showing signs of aging.

My sister told me that there are few things sadder than having your kid say he doesn't need to bring the lovie somewhere...and the feeling of desperation where you kinda want to remind him to, anyhow. Because that object of affection is the last tie-in to actual babyhood- something Nora's been leaving behind in leaps and bounds.

And on days where she's a sticky-headed monster, a shrieky bundle of fuzz, and crabby pile of tired...seeing her clutch Doc to her nose and suck her left thumb ("Is it okay to suck my thumb, Mom?" "Sure, babe.") is a poignant reminder that my soft, sweet baby is still in there. Under all that peanut butter.

I'm gonna put Doc on my pack list. And I'll underline it twice. Because that threadbare greenish frog head is an important member of the family and a comforting, familiar face (for all of us).

At least 'til he loses his face.

Milestone Month.

Everybody feeds the baby...

...And Big Girl beds are for Big Girls.

Is This A KISSING book?

Next, I shall paint my sister.

It's totally almost Valentine's Day. And I have plans.

Huge ones.

For starters, Nora and I have already chosen pink and red outfits for ourselves. And for baby Susannah. And for P.J. (Sorry, P.J.)

We've lined up a few messy, glittery projects for the day- among them, a fabulous Martha Stewart craft that will either a) light up our home and 'hood with sparkly loveliness, or b) burn down the block.

I'm planning on pestering my best friends, sisters, and parents with badgerly texts of enduring love. They will reciprocate. Or I will be forced to use my phone to call. Or Skype. Or hit them with it at the next available juncture.

Breakfast and lunch will be eaten off of potentially non-food-safe decorative plates and platters adorned with hearts and cupids. Doilies- the ones not shredded by safety scissors- will most likely line the kitchen table, and holiday napkins will be utilized. (And if Nora decides to eat only one bite of each thing, I will not force the issue. Because on a day of Love, we all get to do what makes us happy. And if the crusts do not make you feel full of Love, then- by all means, Nora- do not eat the crusts.)

A Valentine's Day nap will be had. For it is a holiday, and I always nap on holidays. (Always.) And even if Nora and Zuzu aren't really feelin' this one, we shall nap. This differs only slightly from the Full Of Love rule mentioned just prior to this one. (Food is food, but sleep...? There are rules.)

There may or may not be an awesomely decadent dessert project in the works...which may or may not lose all of its Wow Factor due entirely to the two year-old sous chef leaving her own special li'l mark on the treat, on the counters, on the walls, and on her little sister. But I bet it'll still taste really good.

Dinner will be a ridiculously extravagant affair, naturally. What will she be preparing, you might ask? Is it her husband's favorite meal? Nope. Her favorite meal? Not so much. It is, in fact, the toddler's favorite meal; eggplant parmesan, extra parmesan. (Getting to wash the red sauce out of her hair that evening will just add to the day's festivities.)

And there are presents, obvie. Since neither girl (to the best of my knowledge) knows how to read/has internet access...I can spill the goods. An Angel Cake friend of Strawberry Shortcake's for Nora. (Since, every time she plays with her "Strawberry Girls," her sad refrain is: "I don't even have Angel Cake.") And for Susannah, a pink sock monkey. (By the time she reaches adulthood, she'll either have a deep and abiding affection for these sock monkeys...or a definite and very real fear.) And for P.J...

NICE TRY, P.J. You'll have to wait and see. (But hint: It's covered in glitter and fingerprints. Actually, that's not so much of a hint. Everything in the house is currently covered in glitter and fingerprints. It's one of the cats- surprise!)

But I do have a list of expectations for this bright n' shiny day. And it doesn't even include flowers. (Because P.J. brought me purple tulips yesterday. He knows that Holiday Flowers are way trumped by Any Ol' Day Flowers.) And it doesn't include couples massages or fancy dinners (because you cannot get fancier than our eggplant dinner- you cannot) or jewelry or even songs dedicated on the radio (a la Live 105.5. Anyone?)

I would like a Valentine from my husband. The kind where he's actually sealed the envelope. (He's notorious for not sealing the envelope, which comes off looking like it was just handed to him on the darned train. Invest the time! Seal the envelope!)

It would be great if we could watch one of the most romantic movies of all time. Here's the trifecta: The Princess Bride, The Thin Man, and So I Married An Axe Murderer. (As You Wish, William Powell, and Haggis? I'm swooning.)

Maybe a crossword puzzle in bed. Especially if I'm allowed to hold the pen, sparing me that sideways-head-cramping-my-shoulderblade thing that always happen when people share crosswords.

I live large, I know.

Wishing you a Valentine's Day of love and unironically played power ballads,
Keely

Ferris Bueller Ain't Got Nothing On Me.

But I already ATE all the sugar.

There comes a point in any illness where high-pitched whines and manic energy overtake any real cold symptoms- excepting, of course, a positively astonishing sea of boogs.

Our household reached that point roughly two and a half days ago. That said, there is nothing particularly wrong with today.

Except.

I find myself possessing less than no desire to wipe or scrub or fold or sort or sanitize anything whatsoever.

In fact, it would be terrific if today could be declared A Day Where People Don't Hafta Touch Anything Unless They Wanna.

Let's go one step further. Let's add an addendum for this Day where, because we clearly don't give a fig for organic- or even hot- food on a Day like today, we get to eat cereal straight out of the box. Maybe we'll even make cookie dough that will never even see the inside of an oven because, on this Day, our apathy makes us stronger than salmonella.

On this Day, I want to remember how wonderful it feels to pull a heavy down comforter up to the side of my face as I snuggle in for a midday nap. I want to remember it AS I AM DOING IT. The kids can come, too. As long as they know that we are there to sleep. Not talk. Not play with figurines. Not chew on my shoulder.

Today, my word count is at 45,909. I would like- for this Day only- to have the word count remain at 45,909 and for everyone currently in the house to be totally cool with this. Guilt-free. Proud, even. This will be the thought in my mind as we all settle in for the blanket-on-the-face nap.

This is also the Day where I am not The Queen Of No. So when Nora, clutching an armload of winter gear and chasing Ender, informs me that "kittens need mittens and cats need hats," I'll nod appropriately and see how that storyline unfolds. And if- just as a suggestion- I tell her that the cat might snap at her from underneath his fleece earflaps, I will take her gleeful hope that it'll turn into a choreographed number from West Side Story as a truly valid one.

Today could be the day where I find out just why, exactly, those Birds are so Angry.

It will definitely be a Day where my kids could tell you- in great detail- How To Get To Sesame Street.

And as soon as I extract my toddler from beneath the couch and remove the glittery stickers from her eyelids, I'll tell her so.

Definitely Not "Wordless."

There is no mood that cannot be fixed by two crazy girls and a good ol' belly laugh.

No Room For R. Kelly In THESE Closets.

You'll put this away over my
dead, fiberglassed body.

For all that I whine about my home, the place has a ridiculous amount of storage, closets, and crawlspaces. Ceiling fans that wouldn't decapitate someone six feet tall or over- no. Rooms with miniature doors- yes.

But every now and again, those spaces become crazypants crammed. So yesterday's Big Dig was tackling Susannah's closet, Nora's closet, and the gigantic crawlspace off of Nora's room.

I hear that some other tackling went on yesterday as well. Sports!

To start, I removed stuff that Nora had [slightly] outgrown...and walked most of them right down to Suzy's room. Because Nora, at age 2 years and 3 months, just outgrew a pile of 6-12 month onesies and shirts. I am not joking. And her sister, a worldly 4-month old, is totally ready for the 6-month gear.

They will be the same size by Fall.

Anyhow. Nora's closet was fairly easy, especially since I've kept it pretty darned organized since she was but a flutter in my tum (and her closet was festooned with maroon, teal, and eye-popping graffiti). There were a couple of details slowing down the train, however. One was that, since I was sorting a wide array of sizes of which to store, I needed a lot of separate piles. The second reason also influences the first reason; Nora really wanted to help.

There's no door on Nora's closet. This is, in part, because a) it's rather busted and painted red and white and leaning sideways in the garage, and b) Nora likes to play in her closet- things like Shoe Store and Dora the Explorer and Gypsy Pirate.

This made pulling things out even more difficult, as someone would see me remove some items from hangers and decide to pull down more items. In fact, all.

But eventually, I made my way to Susannah's room. Girl has an awesome closet, which is most likely due to happenstance construction on this house. (I know, I was surprised too.) They shoved a bedroom and closet right up by the foyer and enclosed a little space with glass block windows and crazy shelving. It gets fabulous sunlight- but is also positively Arctic this time of year.

Unfortunately, it's also the perfect size for suitcases, hanging bags, wayward hardware, and a few [ahem] Spring coats. It has also been known to host a travelling Gypsy Pirate.

So we gave Susannah back her closet. I cleared out toys that, to the best of my knowledge, didn't belong to anyone. I pulled out all of her newborn to 3-month clothing (yeah, maybe I cried a little, no big deal), and packaged it up into Baby Girl and Gender Neutral- although, let's be honest. The more I "put things aside for a boy," the more likely it is that we'll find ourselves with a third daughter down the road.

Those projects were decently easy to complete. The really hard part came when I had to sort everything into respective bins in the crawlspace...which is where I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. For two years, I'd been putting stuff away in bins as Nora outgrew them. Except, since she's rather small for her size, it would take forever for her to outgrow 3-6 month pants. Which would, nonetheless, be put away in her "1 year" bin. Because that was the bin I was putting away, now that she was "2 year." (But still wearing "1 year.") And, because of the generosity of past nanny families, grandmothers, cousins' hand-me-downs, and doting aunts (and honorary aunts), the girls' clothing storage boasts bins and bins for each age range. (It's like shopping each and every time. And, unless I'm sorting and feeling cross, I absolutely get the shivers over how incredibly cool it is that I will not need to buy my kids clothing until they are eight years of age.)

But, I got it all sorted during the girls' naptimes. I even found a box of stuff erroneously marked 3T that would kinda sorta work for Nora right now- including a ladybug raincoat and pajamas without holes in the toes. And yes, maybe I inhaled some fiberglass, and- definitely- Ender the cat jumped into a pile of blown-in insulation and caused me to freak out, brain myself on an attic beam, fall out of the crawlspace and onto some [noisy] bags, drag the cat down the stairwell to the kitchen, humiliate him with a sponge bath on his paws and head, and still feel good about the fact that no one had woken up, regardless of my PG-13 language.

So, in total:
-Three organized storage spaces.
-One bin of stuff to donate.
-One slightly traumatized cat.
-One whopper of a skull bruise.
-Zero F-bombs dropped.

I consider it a victory.

I'd Kill For That Nursery-Cleaning Mary Poppins Scene.

Stop trying to put away the baby.

I have an issue.

Rewind for a sec- I have many issues.

Okay, fast forward back to where we were: I have one specific issue of which I shall expound upon today.

I get overwhelmed easily. And when my level of whelm is through the roof, I become less than pleasant to live with.

Take my house, for instance. (Please.) There are very few people who have not heard me whine about keeping this warehouse o' toys clean. And I realize that, for the most part, a goodly deal of the possessions within this house are here at my request. Or at the request of people that I have directly created. (Peej, for his part, owns a tattered knapsack full of Sega games and a glass baby mug.)

But I have never been able to work in a room that wasn't organized. When I was an Admissions intern at Hampshire College, I would rearrange office supplies. When home on break, I'd sort my Dad's CD collection- which I could see peripherally from the living room where I'd write papers. While working at my folks' restaurant, their kitchen would boast the neatest line of potato bins (unwashed, washed, chopped).

It's no different now, except that I work for two little girls who are a nice blend of whirling dervishes and gigantic Spin Arts. Holding ripped bags of cornflakes.

And while I've gotten quite good at writing in [unexpected] fifteen minute spurts on piles of laundry and willing myself to do projects with the girls without first mopping/dusting/organizing whatever room we're in, I kept thinking that there had to be a better way. And now I've found it. And it's embarrassingly [for me] simple and ridonkulously [for anyone, really] easy.

I plugged reminders into my phone.

Sure, things like dishes and laundry need to be done (and done and done and done) every day. Because miniature clothing expands to epic sizes in the washing machine. It just does. And every evening, without fail, Peej and I get to do the after-bedtime food, floor, toy, and surface bulldozer game. But now, once a day, I get a reminder for that day's weekly task. And sure, the bathrooms get dirty Every. Single. Day. But unless it's Wednesday (or unless something unmentionable happens), I don't have to stress about how dirty the bathrooms are, oh my GOD they're so dirty until the next time I get that reminder.

Okay, maybe this is coming off crazier in print. But the result is that, at the end of each day, the house is relatively in shape and won't make a visitor dirtier for being in any of the rooms. Which frees me up to actually enjoy being with my kids. And to not feel guilty about working on my book (which currently boasts a four page outline. Maybe I should organize that.)

I recently read an essay in Martha Stewart Living (and yeah, I set reminders to tear through old magazines as well- you laugh, but I'm finally reading 'em) about a woman and her quest for an organized life. I identified with many parts of it, but especially the section where she admitted that sometimes she swept toys away from her kids before they were fully done playing with them. (Guilty.)

I don't wanna be that way. But as much as I try to just Be In The Moment (and I do, I really, do), it's so flippin' nice when things are just roughly where they're supposed to go. I really crave order and folded shirts and markers that haven't lost caps and counters one thousand percent free of salmonella.

So far, this system has worked for about two weeks. Things look a tiny bit cleaner every evening- and morning. (I'm still so rotten at mornings. A dirty house in the morning can set me off for months.) And I'd like to say that, even more than a non-temper-tantrum-inducing home, this new method has yielded a gentler Keely.

Cue: P.J. waving a miniature pennant with Happy Wife emblazoned on it.

Now picture him waving it way harder.

Okay, P.J., that's enough.

Blink And You'll Miss Her.

...But she'll leave an unmistakable trail of yogurt, crumbs, and glitter.