Keely Comes Unhinged.

At least SOMEONE'S sleeping like a baby.

This house has turned me into a Nervous Nellie and a Doubting Thomas.

Whenever something new is opened up (the floor, a pipe, a line of credit), I fully expect that something "surprising" will happen. A rat's nest will be exposed. We'll all discover that there is actually no "foundation" to this place. Little things like that.

And when people estimate that a job will take two days ("three days, tops"), I no longer believe them. Besides, if each person lining up for their turn takes the allotted two/three days, I'm pretty sure we'll be playing Contractor-Go-Round well into the girls' adulthood. Because I do not believe that this home will ever be done with exploding on us.

"Homes are never really done," Experienced Homeowners frequently tell me. And I realize this. But I'm pretty sure relative "doneness" doesn't usually equate with major house catastrophes.

And I no longer want to be the Blue Ribbon standard for worst home ever. It sorta hurts the morale, you know?

We had a really nice weekend with P.J.'s sister, niece, and parents for Katy's 11th birthday. It was actually pretty terrific to get to take the weekend "off" from sporadically mopping/moving/sobbing and get to play tour guide. I did feel pretty awful, however, about the fact that our home stunk like an outhouse and the downstairs bathroom may as well have had crime scene tape across it. (I swear I am a decent wife to your boy, Schoenies.)

The jackhammering currently shaking my computer (and Susannah's chubby cheeks- sorry, Zuzu) punctuates the fact that my brain is full of irrational little marbles. It could also be the lack of sleep, however. I keep falling asleep only to wake up each hour with those annoying little half-awake nightmares.

Susannah fell down under the house in one.

Nora was covered in sewage in another.

The cats were- inexplicably- on the ceiling, making it all too Trainspotting-y for me.

In each scenario, I am completely unable to save anyone or help anything. And it doesn't take Freud to dissect the anxieties behind these dreams- but it does make for an exhausted next day. And when I'm tired, I cry. And when I cry, contractors feel UNCOMFORTABLE. And then I stay up late feeling anxious about how I'm stressing out the contractors. It's a vicious cycle.

But- to the best of my knowledge- this is not the end of the world. Sure, a huge chunk of my house no longer exists, but the girls are healthy. (Covered in concrete dust and breathing in methane, but healthy as smallish horses.) So far, our insurance has decided to play nicely with the whopping costs that keep piling on. And P.J. has not yet left me.

It could be a lot worse.

It could smell a lot better, but it could be a lot worse.

Duct Tape House, Part- Oh, I Give Up.

I'd leave, if my shoes weren't filled with Little People.

Remember how, way back on Monday, I realized that I had taunted fate by posting about the hilarity of the previous Thursday's bodily fluid debacle? Well, I got my comeuppance once again by continuing to post about said fluids- this time in the form of a sewer explosion.

And I'm going to do it again, simply by referencing last Monday's travails. I'm totally like a kid who keeps pushing an irate parent into more and more groundings.

"Wanna make it two weeks?"

"Great."

"Fine, three weeks."

"Terrific."

The plumbers came early yesterday morning to check their work- which, up to this point, had consisted of fixing numerous pipes, filling in a cesspool, and pouring concrete all over the lower level of our house. Basically, today they were going to run a smoke test and make sure that no smoke escaped into our home- meaning, of course, that our pipes possessed zero holes from which smoke could travel.

When they arrived, we greeted them with some unfortunate news. From the time they left the night before until that a.m., we had run the dishwasher and done a few loads of laundry, and a horrific smell not unlike rotten eggs being shoved into your nostrils was filling the entirety of the house. That's right, whereupon before any of this work had been done the smell had been confined to the lower level, now it was permeating the entire abode.

The plumbers were pretty sure what the smoke test was gonna show them. And they were right! Since the four major gaps in the pipes had been fixed, that freed up the rest of the pinprick holes in the pipes to step it up and truly shine. (In the form of breaking open completely.)

I asked one of the plumbers if it was the worst he'd ever seen.

"No way," he said. "Top three, though. Definitely. God, this is bad."

And the insurance check which we had oh-so-recently been [tentatively] approved for? That whole "complete renovation of a bathroom" and "majority of the plumbing work" check? Yeah, that's getting scrapped for now, as we all recalculate how much it'll cost to take the bathroom down to the studs, re-line the entirety of the sewer pipeline, and gut the majority of the lower level's flooring and walls.

Nora saw me cry. The plumber saw me cry. Heck, the guy driving the Speedy Express van and dropping off a package from Amazon.com saw me cry.

Did I mention that we have guests coming this afternoon and staying until Monday?

Before the plumbers left yesterday, they headed into our main floor bathroom for a quick de-clogging of the sink- something which was "a cinch" to do (and something which I'm pretty sure they're no longer charging us for at this point). And there was a clog, all right, but the majority of the problem likely stemmed from the fact that the pipe leading from the sink HAD NEVER BEEN GLUED INTO THE DAMN WALL. Just hanging out. A free agent, if you will. So they glued a new one into place, since- hadn't you guessed?- the previously unglued one had also completely rotted out.

The plumbers joked that they'd have to rip out the wall and see about all of these pipes. Ha HA. Plumbers are hilarious.

And last night was spent cleaning literally inches of concrete dust off of things on every floor. Thick, sticky debris required multiple dustings and even more go-rounds with the mop. And it's still filthy. And really, really smelly.

P.J. saw me cry. The cats saw me cry. My woefully low bottle of Peppermint Schnapps saw me cry.

A completely hypothetical question to all homeowners: Was there a point in your homeownership where you realized that you would never recoup your money spent? Was it within the first three years?

Just asking.

Spoiling A Movie In Three Panels.

So, this is nowhere near "wordless" today, but I think you'll forgive the loquaciousness when you behold THIS:

This movie has already aired. You may have missed your chance to see it. But it still needs to be discussed.

The promo features three distinct pictures slashed across the page: Cuba Gooding Jr. looking concerned. A female behind a chain link fence looking, I dunno, hopeless. And, inexplicably, a group of what I can only assume are jumpsuited prisoners laughing on a bus.

Because of these three pictures, I feel like I've already seen the movie. He's tenacious. She's heard it all before. They're laughing on a bus.

My favorite part, however? The tagline: She never had a chance until he gave her one.

Which could easily be changed to: She'll have a chance in the near future, maybe like in a year or so. Don't do anything regrettable behind that chain link fence. Just hang out with your friends- they look jovial. 

I am really sad that I missed this movie. But, come on, don't YOU also kinda feel like you've watched this movie after reading today's breakdown?

Cuba Gooding Jr. is going to beat me to death with a shoe.

She never had a chance...

Guest Blog: Little Stories Everywhere.

Today is a first for me: a guest blog! My pal Molly at Little Stories Everywhere is a riot- and has the exact same parental neuroses as me. It's refreshing. Enjoy!

***

Molly and her positively edible kiddos.

When you have a baby there are scores of things that people never tell you...things that are ugly, horrible and completely disgusting.  One of these sad truths is venturing out to the Pediatricians office for the first time.  It was...hmmm....an experience.

Bitzy was only 4 days old when we ventured out to the Pediatricians office.  Take in mind that I was still bleeding profusely (that's one of those sad disgusting truths that no one told me about, or perhaps I just ignored them), my emotions were doing jumping jacks, and as a new mama, my baby was much too young to be going anywhere.

It also didn't help that my baby girl came out of my body screaming her brains out and didn't stop until she was 6 months old. So there's that.

But alas, we  had to do it.  This wasn't the first time that we had been in the office as we had come to check it out when I was preggers, but this was the first time with a precious little person that was outside of my body, who, might I add, elicits a strong fear of germs in me with each step outside of the house.  I used to notice wall colors and vases in the homes, offices, stores & restaurants...not anymore.  Now I hone in on anyone who is coughing, rubbing their eyes, or breathing too heavy. "Hello people, I have a newborn!  Stay inside you nasty selfish people!!!," I wanted say.  

So anyway, at Bitzy's first appointment I noticed that there was a "well side" and a "sick side" thinking, "Oh that's nice that the germy little monsters can't get near my precious & perfectly healthy child."  I went on my merry way trying to make it through the appointment with a screaming baby eyeing every child in there, looking for cues to their unhealthiness. At that first appointment, one thing was clear, I didn't want to ever be on the "sick" side of this office.  The "sick" side is germy, dark and stuffy with the stench of dirty diapers and vomit. However, the "well" side was bright, healthy, and breezy that smelled of clean laundry and lavender.

Then it happened.  At the tiny age of 12 weeks old, my perfect baby came down with a cold.  I, being a completely insane mother called the office and asked for her to be seen.  While they discouraged me because after all, they couldn't do anything for her, I still wanted to go.  It was HEARTBREAKING seeing my baby with a stuffy nose and darn it, they should know how to magically make her better.  "What did they go to medical school for anyway?!  Come on! Again, people of the world, I have a newborn baby. Make her feel better!," I'm sure I said under my breath. (I think it's safe to say that with a sick, colicky baby I was a real treat in those first few weeks). 

So off we went, what I didn't remember was the awful "sick side."

As we walked into the foyer I automatically turned left into the "well side"...then pausing to the remember that runny noses are normally not a sign of perfect health. Sadly, we turned right into dark grimy sidewalk to Germville.  As I looked into the room I didn't see children, I saw germs.  My perfect child didn't belong in there!  She deserved her own room away from all the gross germys.  I practically buried her head in my chest to somehow keep the germs away.  It didn't help that every child in the room seemed to be hacking up a lung. Gross.

But alas, we made it.  Basically I paid $30 for them to tell me that there's nothing they could do and to be scarred for life after sitting in the "sick side."  I would rather wait in line at "The Wal-Mart" for an hour than spend 5 minutes in that nasty room...although something tells me that when we've got child #4 under our belts I'll just be happy to sit anywhere...even on the sick side.

***

Love Molly? Go check out her fabulous blog- and don't forget to "like" her Facebook page!

Keely's House Continues To Fall Apart.

The pit...of despair...

Apparently I keyed into something cosmic on Thursday. Either that, or I taunted fate something awful with my tales o' bodily fluids.

Because the very next day our sewer pipe collapsed.

Thankfully, we [now] have a very good plumber. (For those of you playing along at home, yes we have collected plumbers like little kids collect...whatever the heck it is that kids collect these days. Jacks? Worry dolls? I have no idea.) The plumbers are called The Scottish Plumber (actual tagline: "The pipes, the pipes are calling." Peej may not think that's the reason we went with them, but he'd be wrong.)

They came immediately on Thursday morning and did a swell job of instantaneously pointing out [at least] four places where our home is broken. Like under the laundry room. The Harry Potter storage closet. The playroom wall. The entirety of the bathroom. Because not only did the sewer line give out, but in doing so, it helpfully pointed out other areas that were less than "airtight."

In fact, when the plumbers jackhammered up all of the ceramic tile and concrete in the bathroom, they discovered an actual cesspool beneath the toilet. There was evidence of animal activity that shall not be mentioned ever again. And there was room for at least four bodies. You know how there's supposed to be pipes and concrete and very little to no space at all between things under any given house? There was NOTHING but space. It was like opening a door into a swirling vortex. Like in Ghostbusters. But way stankier.

The jackhammering also had the effect of covering every inch of our home with multiple layers of dirt and dust. There was a moment where I felt like an actual resident of Pompeii. And by Friday night I had mopped every square inch of [non-destroyed] space TWICE. And Nora still slipped on a dusty stair.

The lower level of our home is, well, to quote a James Taylor song: "Tore up, and tore up good." This is the floor that, besides the bathroom, laundry, and playroom, houses the guest room/P.J.'s office, and that random room (which had previously been hosting Mold-O-Rama 2011- and is now so fresh and so clean clean with new drywall and paint...just in time to potentially get ripped up again).

We have no TV.

There is limited access to Nora and Zuzu's toys, some of which I grabbed and stacked in the living room. And, if you'll recall, the living room is perhaps the only room in the house where we don't have bibs and diapers and miniature cars strewn around. (Except for this week!)

And did I mention that we've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday? We've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday! Maybe I'll set up a tent in the backyard. (For myself.)

Over the weekend, we were allowed to run hot water but had no access to the laundry (oh, darn), but the steam from the hot water made the smells more smelly. And since the only thing separating us from raw sewage were gaping holes that had been covered in plywood, they weren't awfully effective at containing THE WORST SMELL THAT HAS EVER BEEN IN MY NOSE, EVER.

And this afternoon I get to meet with an insurance adjuster (who has already attempted to dissuade us from filing a claim on the grounds that, whether or not we get a payout, our rates will definitely go up). Hopefully she will see that the work being done is not "cosmetic," nor is it something I've done to the house.

I'm pretty sure that, were I a swarm of frothing demons being chased by locusts, I would not have been able to inflict this kind of damage to my own abode.

I bet it would smell better, though.

Best Birth Control On The Market.

Great story, Mom.

Let me set the stage for you.

Nora, having recently begun the whole All Underwear, All The Time show, was having a hit or miss kinda morning. That said, by 9am I had already sanitized everything on which a little bum could fit. (Because, the sad reality is this: Potty training a two year-old is awfully akin to chasing an incontinent velociraptor.)

Susannah, for her part, had been constipated for two days. And was covered with mashed avocado after a messy "lunch." Simply coated in the stuff. Between that and her sister's combo of soaked pants and a runny nose, I figured that both of them could use a nice, relaxing, cleansing bath.

Except.

Once in the bath, Nora freaked out from [her newly acquired and very real fear of] water in her eye. She cried. A lot. This caused two things to happen: Nora's boogs started to stream down her face AND Susannah was frightened into her own set of tears.

Zuzu, also in the bath, cried so hard that she pooped everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

And I had one of those moments where I had to decide whom to save first. The child whose feces these weren't, or the one who was not yet sick? The toddler with a so-so immune system or the infant with none whatsoever? The child who had yet to pee on me that morning, or the one who had just given me her favorite sticker heart because I was the best Mom ever?

I chose Susannah, figuring that the baby would be quicker. I CHOSE INCORRECTLY. Because.

While attempting to dry and/or clean the baby on the bathroom floor, Nora decided [rightfully so] that the water swirling down the drain was gross. So she helped me out by flinging it all over the bathroom to get it out of the tub. That's right, handfuls of poop, flying everywhere.

Both girls went back into the tub for a makeshift shower while in my arms. And I still could not guarantee that anyone in that room was actually clean.

As we exited the bathroom, one of the cats puked three times in front of me: a hairball, some followup hairball, and a third puddle just for fun.

And playing on the radio that whole time? Hall and Oates' timeless classic, You Make My Dreams Come True. (Forget that- I clearly make my own dreams come true.)

Later on, when both girls had finally settled into naptime and I was able to super clean the bathroom for the third time that morning, I called P.J. to regale him with my epic o' bodily fluids. I expected sympathy, hoped for empathy. But his response?


CONCERN FOR THE CAT.

[Forced] Togetherness.

Our Double Stroller- Making Moments Like This Possible Since 2012.

Indoor Air Is Highly Overrated.

"This house is made of Scotch tape and failed dreams."
"I know."

This coming July, we'll have lived in this house for three years. Three years. During that time, we've ripped off a roof, dragged in appliances, patched and painted and edged and secured, replaced windows (and replaced windows and replaced windows), had the electrical system rewired, wiped out mold (and redid drywall and painted and edged and secured), made it clear that rats are NOT WELCOME, and finished a host of other things that I've most likely blocked out due to post traumatic stress.

We also had a kid. And then another kid.

For the past few months, Peej and I have been deciding how to next fix this house with the [frighteningly small] amount of money we've socked away into our Good Lord, This House fund. Excitingly enough, we realized that we could maybe afford the down payments on something cosmetic or purely awesome. Like air conditioning for the whole house.

This impending luxury may have been etched into P.J.'s mind since the previous summer when, hugely pregnant with Susannah, he (repeatedly) found me hunched over our window unit and weeping fat, hot, Ugly Tears.

We had multiple contractors come out and quote the job, but we went with the company that promised exactly the results that we wanted, NO PROBLEM. I had no time for the menfolk who suggested that perhaps our Wikki Stix abode wouldn't be able to support the type of system we wanted. Wall-mounted units? Do we look like a Motel 6? (Don't answer that.)

So they came on Thursday with a crew of four and proceeded to open up the completely access-free crawlspace above the third floor bedrooms. ("To take a look-see!") Turns out, there was no room for the necessary vents to supply air down to Zuzu's room and that whole floor. There was barely room for the haphazard piping and shenanigans going on up there in the first place. So, the upstairs bedrooms could get a/c, but no dice for poor Baby Girl. Which, annoyingly enough, had been the entire impetus for this project (my Ugly Tears notwithstanding)- actual air in the infant's bedroom. As it stands, Susannah's window opens out into the shared walkway between our home and the neighbor's 5-flat, which serves as a conduit for cheap cigarillo smoke and a melange of vomit and stale urine. (All three are produced by the same neighbor, isn't that magical?) Thusly, GIRL NEEDS AIR. (Also, aren't you dying to come stay at our house, now?)

It took until 10pm that night for the crew to secure some semblance of forced air through our new furnace- did I mention that we had to buy a new furnace?- at which point the foreman announced that he kinda hated our house. "I mean, you guys are cool, but...if I never see this house again, it'll be too soon." Mazel tov! Can I offer you some more warm bottled water?

And I'm currently awaiting quotes/grand apologetic gestures of price-slashing to finish the job. P.J. and I had the [genius] idea to cut a fireman's pole area into the master bedroom, thus getting the air into the baby's room, AND facilitating easier early morning Suzy-gettin'.

But apparently that's not a real thing.

Whatever, I've never let that stop me in the past. After all, we've lived in this make-believe house for three years, haven't we?

Nora's Practically A Money Guru.

And now, an exceptional money saving tip from the most unlikely of sources: Two year-old Nora Jane.

Looking to save a little bit extra on those peskily expensive items of produce? Live n' learn, folks, live n' learn. Here's how Nora does it:

We walk to Cermak Produce, our favorite exceptionally affordable Hispanic grocery store. Walking through its vast aisles of fruits and veggies, Nora happily announces that she wants apples! Eggplants! Whatever that spiky thing is! (One of those vaguely Dora the Explorer-shaped pinatas!)

I let her choose her favorites because, after all, hands-on toddlers in the grocery store and kitchen equals hands-on toddlers at the mealtime table! She asks to carry the eggplant. I thank her for her help and mentally pride myself on having such a helpful (and healthy!) child.

Nora surreptitiously takes two bites of the raw eggplant. I let it slide, even though I find it to be very weird.

She carries the eggplant to the checkout. I carry her sister and the rest of the groceries. We pay. Nora tells the cashier "adios." My heart simply bursts with the knowledge that I'm raising an intelligent citizen of the world.

We walk the block and a half home. Right in front of our house I tell Nora- yet again- what an awesome helper she is. She beams up at me and asks if I want a high-five.

I do.

As she lifts her left hand, she shifts the contents of her arms to her right side...

...So that she doesn't drop her stolen eggplant.

The donut was most likely lifted as well.

Can We Swap "Wordless" With "Instagram?"

Avocado Face.

The Burger Princess.

...And I call this one "Look At The Goober On The Side."

Easter Is A Full Contact Sport.

Those are some pretty special-looking eggs.

I spent a good part of last week preparing for Easter with the girls (and Peej).

We made paper Easter bunnies and plastered them to our front window. We braided traditional Armenian cheoreg biscuits to consume on Easter morning. Eggs were [carefully] dyed. We even unleashed the girls onto a wealthy neighborhood's egg hunt. Everything was in place for a cinchy, relaxing, and nice Easter morning.

Even though P.J. wanted to go to 8am mass at our church (to beat the crowds!), which is precisely two hours earlier than the usual mass that we attend/stroll into five minutes later. No worries. Because everything was set.

And even though Nora woke up at 3:30 in the morning, laughing like a loon AT NOTHING, we didn't worry. She'd fall back to sleep and be rarin' by 6ish. And when Suzy woke for the day at 5:45am- roughly an hour and a half early than normal- we still didn't fret. RELAXING, RESTFUL SUNDAY MORNING, that's us.

The girls discovered their Easter baskets- and indeed, Nora found Susannah's first and had to be pried away from it to continue searching for her own- and settled in to play with their pinwheels, Where's Waldo books, and new sippy cups. (For the allotted ten minutes before breakfast. Did I mention that we had to leave the house at 7:45?)

Nora actually went willingly to the breakfast table- perhaps fueled by an extra kick of sugar along the way- and was thrilled about the imminent egg wars. (My sisters and I have always thwacked Easter eggs against each others' eggs. The one whose egg comes through unscathed is declared the winner forever and ever Amen.)

She picked up a vibrant teal egg. I chose my trusty cherry red creation. She came at me with her egg.

It exploded.

BECAUSE THE EGGS WERE STILL RAW INSIDE.

Why? I have no flipping idea. It's not rocket science, nor is this my first rodeo. I've boiled eggs before. Like, on every Easter prior since I've had my own apartment. (Also, any time I want egg salad.) So I know how to play the game.

I was now covered in splattered egg whites and, by the time that I cleaned it all up, my allotted five minutes for breakfast was way beyond up. So I devolved into what P.J. would kindly term "a mood." He offered to scramble some eggs. I bit off his head and yelled that there was NO TIME. So I proceeded to re-hardboil the eggs, stripping them of any remaining lovely colors. P.J. attempted to help me walk away from the eggs, just walk away, but I was beyond reason. So I added a bunch of food coloring into the boiling water- all of the colors, in fact.

During this time, Nora and Susannah ate their [remaining] breakfast slowly, watching me with more than a little trepidation.

The result was a batch of weirdly purplish eggs, most of which cracked on their way to the pan. They were also entirely too hot to consume. Eat up, kids!

By now it was 7:30 and we needed to leave in fifteen minutes. I ran upstairs, gesturing wildly/rudely at my husband, and tossed on some semblance of non-wrinkly appropriateness. By the time I came back downstairs, P.J. had dressed Suzy in her starched white dress with blue trim- and it promptly wrinkled itself into oblivion. (Thanks for nothing, STARCH.) I wrangled Nora into her dress and attempted to take a sister picture of my two Easter bunnies- while Peej announced that he needed to go shave. (What? WHAT? If I had known we were taking the time for personal grooming, well then, I would have added another step or two upstairs, friend.)

The picture-taking was an abysmal failure. That's all. Just- abysmal.

A cross-section of the mayhem.

And we left the house at 8:02.

When we got to the church, it was jammed. We were led upstairs to the choir loft (which, okay, initially I was stoked about because, you know- I got to play in the choir loft!) But the view was terrible (except for an occasional glimpse of empty middle rows downstairs, come ON), and ridiculously poor audio...until P.J. turned the speakers on.

Followed up by a little boy turning it off again- ha ha! Great game! Another lady allowed her kids to run around and play video games on her phone. Someone behind me was snoring.

But Zuzu slept on me, filling me with a sense of peace (and also longing for some sleep of my own), and Nora happily placed ladybug stickers all over everything. Peej and I held hands. The sun was shining. And- despite everything that had happened in the morning and the fact that we could not hear a thing- it was a lovely service. We decided to hit the reset button on the morning's craziness and enjoy the rest of the day together. This cheerful proclamation filled us with a renewed sense of purpose for our morning.

And it lasted until we all stood up and realized that the fly on P.J.'s suit had been down the whole time.

The Big Six (Months).

Oh Susannah,

Yesterday, you turned six months old.

This is crazypants.

It's sometimes hard to believe that you did not even exist until your Dad and I said to each other, "You know what? This Kid Thing is so awesomely fun that we should have another, and then the fun will never ever have to stop, not even once."

A few things have happened between then and now, such as you grew fingernails and blood cells and simply wild amounts of blonde hair. Your sister figured out that high-pitched noises make you laugh like a loon. And food, as Nora would put it, Is A Very Good Friend.

During this half of a year (very recently, in fact), you've started to express pleasure and recognition and sheer joy by waving. Not just a simple salute, mind you. Nor is it a coquettish wiggle of fingers. Your wave is a forceful acknowledgement and request for attention, starting with the hinge of your shoulder and ending with your splayed fingers.

You're no shrinking violet. I like that.

Suzy, we like everything about you. Including all eight million of your names.

A long time ago- way back before you were even the gleam of a second baby and, in fact, Nora was barely a realized first baby- your Dad and I were at a Magnetic Fields concert. (It was great, by the way. You should see them sometime.) Then, for no particular reason whatsoever, I leaned over to your father during a quiet moment and whispered- "I like the name Susannah if we have another girl." He leaned back. "Can Mae be her middle name?" "Sure. That's pretty."

BOOM. Named.

It also helped that we had fallen really, really in love with James Taylor's version of your eponymous song.

Your nicknames- Suzy and Zuzu- are even more whimsical. Back in the mid-80s, there were two things that I liked a ton. (Okay, there were a bunch, but for the sake of time, let's just call it two): My set of Suzy's Zoo stationary and Tesla's album Mechanical Resonance, featuring the song "Little Suzi." (What kind of little kid were you, you're wondering? One with multiple penpals and a drummer godfather who liked to gift me awesome hair metal. That kind.)

And Zuzu comes from "It's A Wonderful Life's" Zuzu Bailey, the little kid with all the petals. (Factoid- that movie makes all men cry. I've seen not only your Dad well up, but also your uncles and both grandfathers, too. That's a movie.)

And so we gave you all of these monikers, knowing that you'd grow into some and outgrow others...and maybe even come up with a few of your own. That's totally cool.

I can't wait to see what kind of name you'll become.

I think you'll be a bit of a hippie (like your father). You already exude this sense of peace and subtle mirth, like- It's all going to be fine, it's actually really funny, isn't it? Let's have some more applesauce.

Or maybe you just really like your applesauce.

Either way, I hope that no one ever takes advantage of your easygoing nature- and that you never let them. The world is too wonderful to settle for someone else's mediocre plans.

The other day, as Nora was attempting to kneel on your chest and touch your eyelids, you grabbed two fistfuls of her hair and dragged her head to your mouth. The shriek you let out didn't indicate pain, didn't show exhaustion, and wasn't a cry of sadness.

It was a battle cry of- STOPPIT. (And oh, how it worked.)

So I think you'll be just fine. Because, really, it's the Slow Boils that everyone's gotta watch out for.

Especially if they have killer pale blue eyes like you do.

Come to think of it, maybe I should watch out for you, too.

I love you to the moon (and back), Buttercup-
Your Mom.

Half A Year!

Two days old. Full of questions/concerns/comments.

Two and a half months old. Full of joy/covered in stickers.

Six months old. Full of sunshine/applesauce/butternut squash.
Also, covered in stickers.

Eat It, Just Eat It, Open Up Your Mouth And Feed It.

Neither picky nor choosy. Yet.

Nora has recently become a choosy eater.

Not picky, mind you. Choosy. There's a mammoth difference.

Our choosy eater consumes eggplant parmesan. Spinach pies. Sweet potato fries dipped in blue cheese dressing.

WHEN SHE FEELS LIKE IT.

And there are many days when she feels like it. And even more when She. Does. Not.

I try not to let it get to me (because, after all, that would be a tantrum of my own) and try to acknowledge that she is two, and she has virtually no power over anything besides what goes into or out of her body. (Which, on its own, is a staggering amount of stuff.)

There are days when I am less than successful with this mindset. Because I really can't stand choosy eating, and am even less tolerant of picky eating. To me, selective eating is a first world [middle to upper-middle class] problem. This may be steeped in my many years as a nanny, beginning with a family who insisted that I cook separate meals for each of their children- at any ol' point in the day when they were hungry. (But it had to be organic and healthy. Unless the kids didn't feel like it. In which case just keep them fed/quiet.)

I've cared for children with very real allergies, and then those whose parents imagined allergies for them.

One kid ate baby food until kindergarten.

Another had never tried a vegetable because she didn't think she would like it. (Her parents agreed.)

So, sadly for Nora, she gets the brunt of my eye-rollitude towards kids' eating habits.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has foods that they love and others they can't stand. Totally cool. When I was little, I abhorred crusts of bread and plain potatoes. (I used to go so far as to excuse myself from the dinner table with a full mouth so that I could spit them out in the bathroom.) And I know a bunch of people with texture issues. Less universally acceptable, but also totally cool in my book- so long as they're not a pain in the butt to spend an evening with.

But here's my thing with Nora- every dayI put good food on her plate. Not an overwhelming amount, by any means. And at least one of the things I'm serving her is something she really likes. Another part might be something that I like. Perhaps even something new. Because- and this is the super strict part- I ONLY COOK ONE DINNER EACH NIGHT.

I am not a sous chef. And I'm certainly not a toddler's caterer.

The same thing that she's scoffing at tonight could be the exact same meal that she had thirds of last weekend. But for reasons only known to herself, tonight it ain't jiving.

It's not earth-shattering when she decides this. The other morning she woke up and announced that she only wanted to eat blue m&ms all day. (Good for you, I almost said. I wanted to star in the remake of Quantum Leap, but perhaps we all need to adjust our daily expectations.)

She also has moments when she says that neither her beloved Doc Bullfrog nor the constant Ritz crackers are "very good friends," so there's another indicator that I shouldn't be taking menu cues from someone so erratic and untrustworthy.

So what do I do when she's not feelin' the eatin'?

Nothing.

She eats? Awesome. She doesn't eat? She goes to bed slightly hungry. And, as my pediatrician keeps reminding me, little kids are hard-wired to not starve themselves to death. I'm reminded of this when Nora demolishes her breakfast the following morning. I also have no problem wrapping a plate and presenting it again for lunch the following day. (No takers? Peej gets it for lunch the following following day. Sorry, Peej.)

We don't make a big deal of this eating/not eating thing, either. (Outwardly, that is. Inwardly, there are tears. Threats. Fistfuls of food shoved into mouths.) The main thing I want to impart to Nora is: manners. Not royalty manners, either. Just: Be A Nice Person To Sit Near manners. Not hungry? Fabulous. Try one bite of everything and drink your milk and talk about something pleasant. For at least ten minutes. After that, feel free to hop down from the table and let everyone else try a bite of everything and drink their [alcoholic] drink and talk about something pleasant.

There are rewards for successes. There are zero rewards for non-successes...nor are there repercussions. (Other than an early dismissal from the table and a gurgling belly at 3am.)

The other night, as Nora housed a entire plate of salmon in a citrus soy and maple sauce, P.J. and I frantically (and silently) high-fived and kicked feet under the table.

Today, however, she spit a mouthful of [chewed] string cheese onto her chair because she Does Not Like Cheese.

I never said it was foolproof.