Cheer Up, Zuzu.

Thrilled.

An Open Letter To My Daughter Susannah:

Zu. You are nine months old, as of yesterday. Also, as of yesterday, you inspired multiple people to consider having a baby. (Actually, that's been the case since you entered this world. You're kinda the poster child for Awesome Baby.)

And now, you're entering the competition for Awesome Child. You have many things going for you; sleep habits (nonstop), eating preferences (all of them), and general ability to jive with nearly any scenario. But my favorite thing you do is beam. You beam all day long, just like a sunbeam.

We shove you into the backseat of the car for a six hour drive to Cincy: through the rearview mirror, you chew on a giraffe and beam at us.

I stick you into a pile of toys and books and lovies while I clean and write and convince your sister to pee into the potty: you occasionally clear your throat (in a polite "ahem, in case you're wondering where/how the baby is"), and then you beam at us.

Your big sis bodyslams you under the guise of saying hello: you grab fistfuls of her hair, scream a velociraptor-esque no thank you into her face...and then you beam at her.

But yesterday, you out-Zuzu'd yourself. It was the Fourth of July, your first Fourth. It was also a day that reached a whopping 106 degrees. We saw a bunch of friends, and dragged you around in your sweaty finery. You wilted pleasantly at people, even snuggling up to a few.

Your real stellar moment, however, came at 9pm. Well past your 7:30pm bedtime. Like the negligent parents that we are, we kept you (and your over-sugared sister) up to watch the fireworks at Winnemac Park. (A truly spectacular series of displays set off- to the best of my knowledge- by completely random people, whenever they felt like it.)

You, clad in jammies and my noise-cancelling headphones, were appropriately awed by the first round of fireworks. You applauded the second. By the third, you were snoring like a kitten against my shoulder. By the fourth, while your sister alternated between dancing around her friend's wagon and reading a book, you were snuggled on the blanket, peacefully sucking your thumb.

Every day, it seems, is simply the best day of your life, evereverever. You remind me of this when you arrive in my bed for a 6am snuggle (and/or nursing session, playtime with Dad's face, or appointment to meow at the cats). You remind me of this when I plop you- covered in carrots and pasta sauce and Ritz crackers- into a bath, whereupon you promptly remember that you love bathtime, ohmigod, THANK YOU!

And you remind me of this when I feel your sweaty baby curls against my cheek, and you reach up to pat my shoulder every now and then. Just making sure that I'm still there.

Thank you for showing me that life with two kids is terrific. And exhausting. And messy, loud, chaotic, hilarious, and covered in blueberries.

And thanks for reminding me that, even though you're cutting a tooth and I probably won't shower today, it's easily the best day of my life.

Love,
Mom

Patriotism Makes You Blurry.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

He also wears dark socks with shorts.

I love a parade.

I love The Fourth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With the slightest provocation.

Really.

Happy Fourth...

...from our little firecracker.

(See you all tomorrow!)

Turkish appetizers and Mexican helado- must be the 4th!

As I sit here typing, I can hear my daughter's rageful meows from the room directly above me. (Seriously, she sounds like the cats. I think they have a thing going on where they decided if they all sound alike, then we'll come running all the time. I don't quite get this logic, but then again- I'm neither an 8 month old human nor a 6 year old cat.)

She had decided she was too tired to even hold up her head during breakfast- resulting in a Greek yogurt and plum facial- and scattered pieces of croissant and random Cheerios to the wind as we freed her from her highchair. Maybe we looked bored. Perhaps the idea of us sitting with mugs in chairs depressed her- there are no toys, no bits of food on our faces, we aren't even singing. So here, she says. Here's something to pick up. And a finger's worth of yogurt for your nostril.

Do you know what would happen if someone made me Greek yogurt with any kind of fruit in it? (Keeping in mind that this yogurt was purchased without a coupon. WITHOUT.) And a warmed croissant? Why, I'd sit there and eat it. Happily. And when someone placed me in a cool, darkened room with several of my favorite items scattered about- I'd sleep for about three weeks.

Then again, if you placed me on a folding chair- in broad daylight- smack dab in the center of Michigan Avenue...I'd sleep for about three weeks.

So. Nora Jane, you'll just hafta deal with this sudden burst of Vaudeville-like energy that causes you to dance around your crib for your One Woman [Two Otter/One Frog] Show...because, sister, it's Monday morning. And your Mama blogs on Monday mornings. While you nap. So- you need to nap because no one is gonna- oh. And...your Dad just went and got you. God bless holidays.

Last night was a slight deviation from the norm, to say the very least. People in my neighborhood love loud things. And explosives. And holidays- Albany Park digs a good holiday. And- it being the Fourth and all- our street was the most explosively loud [and festive!] I'd ever seen it. All of the nearby parks had their own fireworks displays. Pyrotechnic amateurs were setting things off in the streets and alleys as early as 4pm- on Friday. So we expected last night to be Crazyville LeShadduptown.

And it was.

We took Nora out into the backyard after her extremely patriotic dinner of hummus, Spinach pies, lamajoon (and, oddly enough, peas) to see some of the neighborhood displays. A few bright lights made it over the tops of the Walgreens wall [for those of you whom have not seen my current abode, the entire block from Kedzie to Cullom is the back of a mammoth Walgreens. It's a gigantic, nondescript, tan wall that- if one squints hard enough- one can pretend it walls in one's villa] and the copper dome of Our Lady of Mercy, respectively. Nora was impressed, but way more stoked to be in the backyard at dusk.

We decided to put her to bed. [Hah! Yes. Here, Nora, in your young life you've never known it to be louder than it currently is, but...sleep tight.] However, when we got upstairs, we realized that her bedroom had an unobstructed view of at least four fireworks shows. OVER the Walgreens wall! (All this, Nora...all this will someday be yours...)

So we watched. From the relatively insulated safety of her nursery, she could really enjoy the bright colors without all those nasty sonic booms. Peej and I were high-fiving. Seriously. Next year? Come watch the 'works from Nora's room.

That said, bedtime was pushed back- oh, about four hours- until we lamely realized that it was a) too hot and b) too loud for normal bedtime-goin'. We all slept downstairs. Nora looked at us like we were crazy for putting her in her Pack n' Play but slept through the night nonetheless.

Happy Fourth.

And tonight we're extremely excited to be going to the wedding of two darling friends. P.J. is actually performing the ceremony- and he and I both helped to edit the vows- and it promises to be a lovely affair with, among other things, decadent cake. (I've seen pictures.)

*

One last obnoxious plug for self-promotion- I promise I won't be flooding your blogosphere with any more of this for, oh, about four months. Today at roughly 2:15pm the site for Top Mommy Blogs is having a GINORMOUS RESET. That means that allll of those folks with 8 million votes are coming back down to ZERO. And me? Well, I hope to skyrocket up to crazy fame and acclaim and a stickball game.

Here's how you can help. Go here anytime after 2ish today. (If you still see people with zillions of votes on the front page, it's too early. No worries. You can either come back later or tomorrow or whenever you have that thought of "Oh my goodness, I just love her. How can I let her know?" ) All it takes is one click to get there, one click to vote. No email, no sign-ups, no pressure to call me later in the week.

Why, you may ask? Well, here's the thing. As cool as the "ads" thing is, I've been turning down a few lately from various companies. As funny as it is, I just cannot pepper this blog with reviews for products that- do things...to various body parts. Cannot. (Sure, I can post about the Schick Trimstyle to my heart's content- but as I'm not getting even the slightest bit of compensation from them...I don't feel dirty. Overmuch.) That said, if I made it into the top handful of blogs on the TMB site- who knows what could happen? A broader audience, for one. Legitimate advertising, for two. And from there? Perhaps a book deal, a national tour, six figure salary- or, at the very least, coupons for a free Frosty.

I'll share.

I'm not above bribing my readers.

Which may lower that ol' six figure salary to about five.

Plus a free Frosty.