Staying Mindful [Is Impossible].

I work so hard at mindfulness. At remaining fully present. And not mentally jumping ahead to whatever comes next/tomorrow/down the road/I wonder what flights look like for the winter?

I work really hard at this during my Pilates class because a) mindfulness is a major tenet of practicing Pilates, b) it's such a luxury for me to even be able to sneak away at 6pm on a Wednesday evening, c) Good Lord, if I can manage to find forty-five minutes here then why is our storage area such a mess, and d) this is so expensive, I should really be doing better at staying present.

It's easy to stay present when you've got Tinkerbell on your lap.

Last night was no exception. As I planked and propped and curled, here was my thought process:

-It's so hot, is it going to rain tonight? I hope I remember to close the windows in three hours.
-Checkup for me. Someone's gonna need to watch the girls. Could the girls come with me? Eh.
-I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope the reviews for the show are good. I hope-
-Conference Sunday. Meeting Thursday. All I own are sweatpants.
-I would give my right arm to watch a marathon of Psych.
-What if my play gets skewered? I will have to gouge out my eyes.
-Nora's cough sounds gross. I'll give it another day.
-I hate social media promotion. I just won't do it anymore. Awesome!
-Nine posts due within two weeks. No, sure. That's totally fine.
-I would give my right arm for some nachos.
-I am so tired and my arms huuuurt.
-P.J. starts rehearsals soon. I have zero idea what nights those are. I am the worst.
-If the show gets rotten reviews, I will leave town and set my car on fire.

And so on. A totally awesome and completely present workout. (And I'm embarrassed to admit, it's a mammoth improvement from last week's session. I didn't even think once about the girls' summer wardrobes or the piles of laundry remaining from our mid-April California trip or how much PlayDoh Susannah consumed that morning. Baby steps.)

But hey- here's one thing I can [kinda] check off the ol' To Worry About list! This review for my show. And while I'm sure they won't all be this glowing, this one will keep me cozy for some time to come.

At least it'll keep me from setting my car on fire.

GIRLFRIEND Had A Stellar Opening Weekend, And I Can Exhale.

This weekend's premiere of Girlfriend was insane. As in, I nearly lost my mind.

I had been bandying this play around (in my brain, on paper, to the occasional passerby) since 2008, but had really been hammering out drafts in earnest since last summer. In essence, this play was my baby.

My colicky, allergic, and stranger-phobic baby.

And the idea that this baby was going off to be seen and heard and judged by people who didn't even know about the multiple scene changes and character changes and coffee mug changes...and who didn't fully get how crazily I loved each scene and character and mug of coffee...

Well, it felt like I was sending my baby off to college. Or to a firing squad.

But then I remembered that I had a director in my corner; a gal who reminded me of the play's inherent sweetness, who promised me a production of which I could be proud, and who suggested that- maybe- I could write an ending? How about a different one? Let's try a third- yes, there's an ending.

And I had simply wonderful friends send flowers and thoughts from all over the place, and my parents sent chocolate-covered strawberries which, as everyone knows, is the traditional Opening Night Gift.

And I remembered that I had a cast who was so flippin' funny and full of heart and energy and patience for my tendency towards wordiness. And there was a production staff, too, who wanted this play to be exceptional- for the playwright and cast and their awesome theatre company (20%Theatre Chicago, whoopty whoop).

But I still had The Panics. And it didn't let up until I was sitting in the darkened theater with P.J. on one side and my director on the other, clutching their wrists as if my balance would keep the play from toppling.

And guess what, guys? It was good. The cast was hilarious, the storyline made more sense to me than it had in my 4am brain, and the audience applauded even though they didn't even know me. (I mean, some of them did. And those friends laughed extra hard. And I'll totally take it.) Granted, there was at least one reviewer who sat stony-faced throughout the whole thing, like she was watching Schindler's List performed in mime. But maybe the fact that the audience around her actually laugh/applauded between scene changes should color her review slightly?

Because here's the thing. People liked it. A lot. And I can finally breathe that breath of So, You Didn't Faceplant.

Opening night: Me, 20% Theatre Chicago's Artistic Director (and one of our show's leads!) Lindsay Bartlett,
and Girlfriend's fearless director, Amy Buckler. I love these people to the moon and back.

Hey, what's that? You need those details one more time? Well, okay: 

Girlfriend, by Keely Flynn
April 25th-May 19th
Zoo Studios (4001 N. Ravenswood, Chicago)
Thurs-Sat, 8pm Sun 2pm
Industry Night Mon, May 6th, 8pm
www.brownpapertickets.com
(Wanna pay cash at the door? email boxoffice@twentypercentchicago.com)

Thank you, friends and family, for coming and indulging and bolstering and laughing your heads off. You rock. 20% Theatre Chicago rocks. This gorgeous Chicago Spring weather rocks. 

And so does napping. Napping is definitely gonna rock.

Mini Kitchen Makeover, Part 3, AKA P.J. Thinks The Backsplash Looks FINE.

Apologies for the utter lateitude of this post: I was busy feeling every single minute of the four hour and thirty-five minute flight to LAX next to the totally awake and needing to acknowledge/touch/drink everything Susannah. (Interesting sidenote: right before the descent, she asked to sit with P.J. so I swapped daughters. And Suzy fell asleep as the plane touched down onto the tarmac. GOOD FOR YOU, P.J.)

But back to the kitchen. It’s done! [Ish!]

Over the past few weeks- see here and here- we've removed the janky countertops. Stained and refinished the warped cabinets. And my job (for the past week and a half) has been to mortar and tile and grout and re-tile and re-grout and super glue my finger to my thumb.

We chose a gorgeous glass mosaic tile because a) I have an unfortunate love of aesthetic and b) and over-inflated sense of ability.

Had I but known how incredibly sag-happy all of those miniature tiles would get on an oddly mortared wall (not to mention how incredibly uneven our cabinets/[walls/home] have the tendency to be), I would've just spray painted the whole thing magenta.

Except that spray paint is illegal in the city proper of Chicago. 

Gosh, I look competent. Hour One.

[Picture deleted due to Wall Rage, Day Four.]

[Picture deleted due to Ugly Cry, Day Nine.]

Ohmigosh, it's a finished kitchen. Easy!

You can't even see the blood stains and puddles o' tears and that place where I punched a hole in the wall! 

Who wants to come over and Not Use My Kitchen For Food Prep?!

So yes, "new" kitchen at one seventh of the price. (Unless you factor in usage of your spouse's thumbs into the overall cost. Which P.J. apparently doesn't.) And I'm decently happy with how a large part of my home looks. (Or at least I will once I'm rested/re-grow the skin on my hand.) 

Except...

Have you seen my "master" bathroom? I think it needs some attention, don't you? 

My Mom Wrote Me An Early Dismissal Note.

"Keely, you're awesome."
"I know, Mom."

There are days when you feel so on top of the world and think that no one can even come close to touching the gigantic lead you've got on the rest of the human race...

...And then there are the days when you completely disregard the "suggested serving size" for your container of ice cream. For four containers of your ice cream.

There are moments where you get your stuff done like a competent member of society and actually produce stuff that makes you want to call up your fourth grade English teacher and thank her for inspiring you. (This tearful scene even plays out in your mind to the swelling of music. Perhaps Wind Beneath My Wings. Oh my God, that would be so pretty.)

...And there are moments where you wonder why anyone believed you when you said you could do all of these things with words and paper and deadlines and "work" and "returning phone calls," because now- apparently- you're expected to "do them." (And now you're feeling more Miss Otis Regrets than Wind Beneath My Wings- except you're feeling like the guy that Bette Midler shot in the former song. Have I lost all of you?)

There are the times when your kid tells you that you look so good that you must be going to a meeting. And when she asks if you took a shower, you regally nod and affirm that you have. Because you're wearing mascara. And pants. And socks that match and deodorant and shoes that are inappropriate for the season.

...And there will always be the times when you wish you were half as great as your mother thinks you are. Or at least that everyone knew how great she thinks you are. This one may actually be doable.

Because she's offered to call/write/email/show up in person to tell them.

And the encouragement/potential embarrassment of that scenario playing out is what keeps you going.

At least until your husband replenishes the sad state of affairs in the freezer.

Crummy Crumbies.

...And then there are the days when you realize that you are actually too tired for coffee. Like, too tired to make yourself another cup, too tired to consume it, and too tired to acknowledge the caffeine (which, let's be honest, would be like putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun).

So you have another cup of coffee. And you sit on the floor while drinking it because- again- you're on borrowed energy, here.

And you look at your kitchen from the floor and think to yourself- Wow, but this place is filthy! Like, how many cheddar goldfish have to die in protest before someone wipes a damp cloth along the baseboards?

You look at the clock and realize that, by 9am, you've already had A Day. And there's a very real possibility that the same child has had two cups of milk while her sibling went without. This causes you to wonder whose overnight diaper you changed. (You know you did two of them...but were they equally distributed? Seeing as the eldest kid is currently at her preschool, you decide to chalk that one up to Moving On With Our Day.)

Then you realize that the only three coherent thoughts you've had about your household in the past 48 hours have been GRIMY and NEGLIGENT and HAUNTED. And then you get super depressed because you remember how not that many people commented on the previous day's post about your haunted nativity set- and specifically one of the Three Kings, the one who likes to spin and jig around the baby Jesus' cradle.

GOOD LORD, you say to yourself, IS MY HOUSE SO PUBLICLY HAUNTED THAT A SPINNING KING NO LONGER SEEMS NEWS-WORTHY?

This worries you.

You remind yourself that you are lucky to have a [haunted/crumby] house and even luckier to spend your days blogging about things like exploding washing machines and how social media makes you angry.

And you have a degree, you tell yourself. While sitting on the floor, drinking coffee out of a mug with bears on it. A degree printed on a frisbee.

Oh, this is not helping.

But then you remember that it's December 6th. The Feast Of Saint Nicholas. (And your half-birthday.) And you remember how you're married to a good little Catholic. So obviously there are treats waiting for you in your boot, and the boots of your kiddos. Chocolates and advent calendars for the gals, and your favorite eye cream for you. (Which, admittedly, to the uninitiated would seem like a pointed criticism of your beauty routine but, given how you've been weeping in his face about your under-eye circles, seems like a timely and thoughtful present. From Saint Nick.)

So you cheer up. And wipe away the damn goldfish crumbs.

At least you look perky while doing it.

The Glass Menagerie.

All the miniatures and their brethren at the shop.
I do not own ALL of these little guys. YET.

There are some very important stories going on in the world right now. Stories about things that make an impact. This is not one of those stories.

This, however, is the story of how I lost a very important collection. And how the collection began. And how the loss of the collection raised stress levels in an already borderline crazy person. Namely, me.

Each December, the Christkindlmarket in Chicago features many awesome things (mulled wine in boots) and fun holiday events (MULLED WINE IN BOOTS). One of these booths sells miniature glass animals. Teensy tiny ones. Back when I was wandering the booths by my lonesome, solo self (a concept that simply boggles the reaches of my imagination, currently), I found an incredibly small orange porcupine. He needed me. And I'm pretty sure it wasn't just the empty boot in my other hand telling me to bring him home. So I did. And each following year I'd grab a boot and an animal; a reddish tiger. A yellow donkey with ambitious ears. They'd take their places of honor on my bedside table- because, at heart, I am a seven year-old girl.

Then I had daughters. And each year they'd get miniature glass animals; a giraffe, a blue bear, a kitty with puffy cheeks, and a hedgehog which Nora insisted on deeming a lion. My collection remained on my bedside table, Nora's resided on her dresser, and Suzy's lone cat lived on a small shadowbox shelf.

But then one day, during some roughhousing, Susannah's shelf was nudged and the cat was flung off. And even though we started looking immediately, we never found it. I don't think anyone will be surprised to learn that I cried.

Shortly thereafter, Nora began begging me to let her play with the entire menagerie. (She's in love with her collections, too.) And since she's easily the most careful smallish person I've met, I let her. I'd watch her set them up for tea parties so small you couldn't see the food. They would line up for picayune field trips and get tucked into a single sock for naptime. And I began letting her play with them with less and less of my attention. At the end of each day, we'd always place them back where they lived, and that would be that.

But then, last Spring, our lower level exploded in a mess of sewage and tears. And while she continued to play with the menagerie up in her room (always in her room, they never traveled), I had bigger fish to fry than the placement of a single blue bear. And that's the last time I remembered thinking about them all together, right before the lower level was gutted.

I remembered last month.

I tore Nora's room apart. Susannah's room apart. My room. P.J.'s dresser. (Like he's secretly smuggling glass animals across the Illinois border.) I shoved my hands into radiators and screamed at fistfuls of spiders. I emptied toddler shoes. Cabinets and drawers. Felt around in dressers and jewelry boxes and bags of "treasures." I'd say that my first stop was the vacuum, but as I only use the Roomba sporadically at best, it'd be a silly venture. Nora had no idea where they were (to be fair, I was asking her close to five months later). 

I prayed to Saint Anthony.

I emailed my friend Vicki, an honest to gosh intuitive medium (jealous that I've got one of those on the ol' speed dial?), but at time of printing (publishing?) she'd yet to get back to me. (Because, like, all these ghosts hanging around here all the time? They need to start earning their keep. They can pay me in Lost n' Found help.)

And I refuse to give up. Sure, I have three written thingers due by Friday a.m. And two more birthdays to plan in the ol' Schoeny October Of Sugar. And yeah, maybe I should vacuum more. But all I can think about is that little porcupine. And how deserving porcupines never give up. (Read that one in a book.)

I will not rest until I've brought them all home.

Onto perhaps a slightly higher shelf.

Keely Brings The Mood Down A Notch.

Summer. And maybe a touch of roughhousing. 

Last summer, when I was humongously pregnant with [the-yet-to-be-determined] Susannah, Nora and I had a terrific time. Really. We had picnics every place that featured tables (and some that didn't). There were nature hikes, tamale stand stalkings, and midday naps in my bed (because we couldn't fit into hers).

I was so [beyond] thrilled to be having another baby, of course, but I couldn't shake this sense of sorrow, like- "Well, this is it for Nora n' me," or "No more naps in my future." Which is ridiculous, because Nora and I are ohmystarsthisclose every single day, and sometimes I can swear she's actually hanging from the tag of my shirt. (Especially if I have to return a phone call.)

And I will always- always- make time for naps. (I mean, there's crazy and then there's crazy.)

But then Zuzu was born and things continued to be good. So good. And we've had a pretty banner summer this year, what with all the beachiness, culture we've been foisting into our kids' faces, and even bigger blankets on which to nap. You'd think I'd lose some of my End Of The Season nutsy, right?

Nope. Because, even though I love the Fall and all it stands for (pumpkin patches, more hoodies, and new folders for my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper), I can't help but feel sad that this summer is coming to a close.

Because Susannah isn't going to be a baby next summer. And Nora will be A Kid Who Has Been To School. (We probably won't even have any fun at all.)

It's almost like I believe that each season's close is its ending for good. Like- No More Summer. (Wasn't Summer Nice That One Time?) I try (really, really hard) to remember that, with very few exceptions, each season I've experienced in my adult life just keeps getting nicer than the one that preceded it.

Then I get annoyed at myself for slathering such a saccharine statement all over my psyche. (Then I get mad at my self-bullying. Then I have a sandwich, because by then I'm tired- and I get hungry when I'm sleepy.)

My point is that I'm trying oh-so hard to not hold onto each moment between clenched fists- because's that's no way to live. (And also because I'm holding a sandwich.) And that's not to say that my life is perfect; far from it. I wish we had more money. I wish I wasn't so godawful tired every day. And I wish I didn't have to scramble so hard to keep our home together.

But the girls and Peej? That's the stuff I want more time for. More of this. More of the same with them. Because there's so much atrocious, junky stuff in the world, and I'm [hyper]aware that it could all be gone in an instant. And (God forbid) if it were, I'd think back and want today again. Or last week. Maybe two months ago on a Wednesday. Nora's flyaway blonde curls, covered in sand and peanut butter. Suzy's ecstatic realization that I came to get her out of her crib. (Again!) A backyard beer with P.J., and a peaceful moment to reflect upon our neighbors' colorful rants. I want these moments and I never want to live in a time without them. But each passing season comes with the realization that the past is just that. And if I'm super-beyond-lucky, I'll get more chances. And more days, weeks, summers.

I hope I'm lucky.

I also hope that my kids continue to nap.

And I wouldn't turn down a few more sandwiches, either.

Don't Tell My House, My Broken, Broken House.

I can't look, either.

I was going to post pictures today of the finished lower level.

That's right. I had intended to post those, because- finally- the downstairs rooms, bathroom, and laundry room were one thousand and two percent completed.

However.

Being as today is the six week anniversary of the day that the sewer pipe collapsed/the bottom half of the house got torn down to the studs, you know that this project ain't going down without a fight.

We had overcome the nearconstantjackhammering. The sticky concrete dust that caused me to scrub like Lady MacBeth. The staggering crush of people stomping through the house from 7am to 7pm; plumbers, contractors, foremen, insurance agents, dudes walking in just to use the phone- I have no idea who all of those people were.

But we persevered.

And when the initial go 'round at fixing the sewer pipe went [surprisingly] bust, we tolerated the extra weeks being tacked onto the project. Even when the upstairs [completely unrelated] bathroom went kaput, we laughed. (Sorta.) Sure, I sobbed when the washing machine exploded straight up to the newly painted ceiling, but I don't think anyone could've blamed me for that one.

Six weeks of screaming children, filthy everything, displaced possessions, and an impressively delayed manuscript failed to break me.

But the other day? When the walls were freshly painted, the baseboards neatly tacked into place, and the bathroom furnishings gleaming like a spa? When, just as the workers were about to finish up for the day, for the week, for the ever- when they cut into our security system line and caused it to go into panic mode?

I felt myself crumble just the teensiest bit.

So then the ADT guy showed up and was all like- Yep, this sure is a line that's been cut. But he fixed it. No problem.

But then he went home. And so did the workers. And the security system started to fritz out again. No one was sure what it was, but everyone agreed on one thing: the baseboards needed to be taken down again. Not a huge deal, especially since it had also been recently discovered that the cable line, also secured under its own honking baseboard, WAS ALSO FAILING TO WORK.

I am not ashamed in the least to admit that, while watching our contractor tear baseboards off of the wall again, I cried like a little girl not allowed on the ride.

The scriiiitching thwack of each panel tearing off a little of the blue Durarock underneath it, hearing each baseboard clatter onto the recently cleaned and cleared tile floor...it was all just a little too much.

I had been teased with the end. But I am a fool. For there is no end.

And when they discovered the problem, a nail through the center of the wire (of course!), I wasn't surprised.

I asked for a turn with the nail gun, but I wasn't surprised.

Full Disclosure: I Am Not A Contractor.

I'm with you, kid.

There are many things that I just know:
-The vocal lineup of most classic rock bands since 1972.
-An innate awareness of when a ladybug sticker is being placed on an item of good furniture.
-How to fall asleep on any surface despite exterior influences.

And then there are things for which I fall woefully short:
-Being able to relax/move on with my life when things are out of order.
-Apologizing first.
-And anything having to do with the putting-back-together of my house.

That last one has become painfully clear during this past month. I have been asked- nay, expected to answer questions [correctly] about the how/when/why of my home's implosion. Why was this house built on a cesspool? (Cheaper real estate.) Where's the shut off valve for the mitochondrial rotator cuff? (That isn't a thing.) Does this pipe run up to the third floor/were you insane for buying a short sale? (Yup.)

And I kept it together (kinda) for the first few weeks. But now we're in the home[ish] stretch. And there are choices to be made. Shower tile. Floor tile. Faucets- with correct backings. (Did you know that they let you buy incorrect backings? They totally do.) A sink. Laundry room tile. Lighting that works with the wall spacing. A mirror that's wide enough for the vanity- but not that wide. (That's too wide.) Paint paint paint paint paint.

I thought I'd be good at this. I am not. We fell in love with the first sink/vanity we found. (In LOVE, I tell you!) But then it went out of stock. So we ordered the bigger size. But it was waaaay too big. So we found one that was- nice. It would do. Then I chose some backsplash tile that was clearly the best tile ever: tan and cream and white glass bubbles on a neutral background. But (as P.J. can probably tell you), I have expensive taste. That shower would end up being more expensive than my wedding gown. (By about fifty bucks.) So I decided on a mosaic glass in Moroccan colors. Which was the wrong absorbency level for a shower. (Would be great in a kitchen, I was told. Sadly/happily, we are not gutting the kitchen just yet.) I picked a third tile in brown glass- which, again, was not the right level of water resistance. (Clearly, I was meant for designing kitchens.) I finally ended up at a tile warehouse one night, pointing at a floor display and asking if that one would work. (It wouldn't. But they could find something close.) And that what's being installed today. The "close" one that "would work." (It'll be lovely.)

Picking out tile that would work a) in a family room, b) over radiant heating, and c) wouldn't cost more than my college education was next. We chose wood-grain tiles made of recycled materials and porcelain that would look kind of unassuming yet warm. (I should write ad copy.) There was a pricing war between our contractors and the flooring guys- of which there were no survivors. (The flooring guys didn't seem too interested in my business, however, as they actually shut the lights off on me and almost locked me in. "Oh hey- we didn't see you in our store for the last forty-five minutes.) I'm pretty sure it was a front for something illegal. A front with really nice flooring options, but still. The color and width of my choice changed about five times- and not because I had any sort of crazy stake in it. I originally chose teak. But that one "wouldn't work." So oak was installed yesterday. (It'll be lovely.)

I had to choose how I wanted the tiles spaced. ("Like...that.Yes. That's how I'd like it. Leave them there. Now everyone go home.") "Is 3/16th of an inch okay between planks?" ("For sure. That's how I always do it, anyway.") "Which grout would work- this one or this one?" ("Whichever grout will make me the least aware that I'm looking at grout. Sure. That one. I simply love it.")

Then I got a call last night telling me that the grout I wanted wasn't going to work. Now, there are many things that "I want," but grout doesn't even crack the top twenty. So we went with the other one.

The paint colors I had chosen were no longer available. The floor isn't level enough for these types of planks. You shouldn't be wearing patterned pants with those hips.

It feels like every single tiny detail that I have to decide upon is inevitably the wrong one. Every hardware and decorating choice I've made in the past few weeks has inevitably been scrapped. Because here's the thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.

It's like I'm expected to solve an Encyclopedia Brown mystery without knowing how many Tigers were actually at the baseball game. I simply don't have all of the information.

But it'll be okay. Eventually everything will be done and everyone will be out of our house. The girls will regain another level of the home in which to fling their toys and I'll be able to flop onto pleasantly grouted tiles while waiting for the third load of laundry to cycle through. Lights will turn off and on, painted walls won't show a trace of uneven plaster, and there won't be even a whiff of sewer gas anywhere on the premises.

It'll be lovely.

The Dirtying Machine.

I am airing my dirty laundry.

Right now, an entire floor of stuff has been absorbed by the other parts of the house. Like a sponge. Like a big, bloated, no-more-room-for-knick-knacks sponge. 

And by "knick knacks," I mean wool coats. Books n' books n' books n' books. Upended tables. At least two cats.

We're like the beginning of a Hoarders episode- with no hope for an hour-long resolution. 

The guys currently digging up the lower level were sweet enough to warn me that there might be dust. And a lot of noise. Which is just adorable. 

And in We've Really Angered This House news...

We've really angered this house. Part 17:

The other day, feeling way too confident about my abilities to keep this house running smoothly and (relatively) cleanly, I decided to do a load of laundry. The contractors had worked a half day and the afternoon was looking open. After I cleaned some clothes, I figured I'd take the girls to the actual out-of-doors when they woke up from their naps. I was thrilled by the prospect of potential freedom. 

While the washing machine was starting its cycle, I began the process of re-packing and moving stuff from floor to floor for phase 2 of the demolition. After about ten minutes, however, I heard...something. 

It sounded like a geyser. And being that my home is not currently on the register of any sort of national wonder (yet), I fervently hoped that what I was hearing was not a geyser.

As I turned the corner into the laundry room, I sorrowfully discovered that- yes- it was a geyser. Water and lint and mud shot straight from the washer, splashing the ceiling and shelves and floor. And me. Especially me. 

I am totally embarrassed to say that I stood there for fifteen seconds, just wondering what the heck to do. Count fifteen seconds in your head. That's a stupidly long time for inaction. Finally I ran into the melee and popped the washer button out. It stopped, and for a second all I could hear was the drip drip drip of pooling water and failed dreams.

Once I felt brave enough to open the lid, I discovered what had happened- sorta. The blanket which had, only the day before, been sequestering one floor from the concrete dust and sewer gas of the lower level, had completely disintegrated in the wash. Like, down to its atoms. I have no idea how this happened, since (generally) blankets don't just explode. However, since it did happen, it meant waaaay more work for that afternoon.

There was the half hour of fishing out fistfuls of gritty lint from within the murky washer in order to properly drain the machine. Same goes for the utility sink, into which the lint-laden hose had been attempting to spill. Then there was the hour long session of hand-washing each item of clothing to remove the lint and gritty residue (which, as it turns out, was the inner layer of the blanket) that was already staining the clothes- most of them Susannah's. 

It was an ugly, pathetic, process- which may not have resulted in actually clean clothing. During this time I had a [momentary] mammoth snap with reality, whereupon I began to yell at the house.

I yelled at the potential ghost.

I berated the previous owners. 

I [loudly] assured everyone involved that I was a good person and I was trying to treat this &$#@* house with respect and my baby kid did NOT deserve pajamas covered with mud and broken blanket.

I like to think that the house and I came to an understanding. 

As in- I understand that this house has really been a jerk to me and it understands that (being a house), it holds no actual responsibility for my happiness. 

It's a start.

Looks clean enough to me!

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.

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.

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.

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!)

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

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

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

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

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

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

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

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

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Yesterday.)

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

Boycotton. That's Right.

Rainbow stripes are slimming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is the new subtitle of my memoirs.

Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

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

Lemme 'splain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

Let's Leave The Stick Out Of It.

She IS part Celt.

Today we're gonna play the game called Highlights, Lowlights, and Jheri Curl. (Okay, there's no Jheri Curl. Except for Nora's. But she can't help it on account of the humidity.)

Highlight: My blood sugar and hemoglobin are both good for this week. Which is awesome, since I wasn't aware of anything remotely connected to my hemoglobin, and would have no idea what "bad" hemoglobin is.

Lowlight (Low point? Lowlight sounds fancier): The positively ancient and nearsighted endocrinologist was the one doing the four blood draws. At one point I was fairly certain he was sniffing the inside of my elbow- nope, just looking for a vein. Can we get an intern or some high school kid in here, please? He was also fond of announcing HERE COMES THE STICK before each blood draw. Which is...unnerving.

Jheri Curl (Maybe there is one): Since my blood is normal this week...I get to come back every two weeks as opposed to each Tuesday. Which is great. But still sorta lame. Hence the Jheri.

Highlight: Nora painted for the first time yesterday on an easel we'd been keeping in the garage. Just in case. After stripping her down to bloomies, I gave her some watercolors and let her have at it. She was elated and I felt like a creative, hands-on Mom.

Lowlight: She realized it was way more fun to paint her own belly and feet with the darkest shades available. Requiring a forty minute bath and much harder scrubbing than your typical toddler normally needs. (Which is, to be fair, still a lot o' scrubbing.) There were repeated entreaties of "All done, Mommy" and the piteous "Mommy, no."

Jheri Curl: My daughter's belly is still a faintly Smurfish blue.

Highlight: This is my first full week home with NJ, facilitating such things as frequent playlot trips, My Little Pony picnics, and Smurfing our bellies.

Lowlight: I have already done seven loads of laundry, and it is only Thursday morning.

Jheri Curl: The amount of cleaning and laundry has not changed, only the frequency in which it is being done. Which is a depressing yet productive thought.

Having nothing whatsoever to do with the Jheri Curl.

But the category for which shall remain until I tire of it/no longer find it funny.

Which could take a while.

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

The Only Thing To Fear Is A 20lb Baby.

Abandoned.

Pregnancy dreams are rotten.

For the past two nights, I've had some doozies. Now- granted- I've been having extraordinarily vivid dreams since I was a little kid (they used to be nightmares, but now that I've "grown up" and kinda had FEAR redefined...the dreams just seem harmlessly freaky in retrospect. Although the recurring one I've had about someone screaming at me in train tunnel- since I was four- still qualifies). But these are pretty nitro.

Two nights ago, I had what seemed like an eighteen hour-long dream wherein P.J. left me. Rather rudely. He passed me off to a friend, telling him what I liked and didn't like, habits, food preferences...and oh- how I was seven months pregnant. (Why the friend didn't know this seriously leads me to doubt the magnitude of their friendship.) And did I mention that this leaving took place in a hospital cafeteria? Not even a decent one, like at Prentice.

And why was he leaving me, you might ask? He needed to go study abroad, obviously. His theatre career needed...something...and he had to make a clean break. Sure. He explained this to me on our walk from the cafeteria to the Loews Cineplex where he forced me to sit in the front row and watch Scream 2. Firstly: I hate horror movies. He knows this. Secondly: Scream 2? Thirdly: That movie is not even showing anywhere right now. I have checked.

The next night's dream took place in the delivery room where I was undergoing a c-section. They were mighty casual about it, even letting me walk around during the surgery. (Medical advancements are CRAZY these days, people.) I even got to hold Nora. Which is less What A Treat these days and more Typical. Do I Have To Do Everything? Anyhow, had the kid. And this conversation went down: "Mrs. Schoeny, how big was Nora?" "Six pounds, fifteen ounces." "This one's a little bigger." "It would be hard not to be. How much bigger?" "He's twenty pounds."

That wouldn't have bothered me as much if not for the fact that they went on to tell me that they had nicked at least five major organs (and perhaps a few minor ones) and unless they gave me another spinal I'd probably bleed out. But since I was still holding Nora (typical!), I had already lost track of my son. Whom they had- obviously- placed on the ground. We found him crawling around and stuck under a chair, which I'm told is normal for toddler-sized newborns.

It was, however, pretty cool to have two same-sized children, even if one was a full two years older.

And yeah, it's pretty obvious what these pregnancy dreams say about my fears: my movie-going taste is deemed inadequate by my husband and I would ignore a fat child.

Obviously.

It might be time to curtail the late-night snackin'.

But I think we all know I'm not one for rash decisions like that.