Keely Rants At Her Kid's Clothing.

Resting up.

So, Nora has this shirt. It's a hand-me-down, as we're lucky enough to have most of her clothing be. It's short-sleeved, and features gold scrolling writing that spells out:

"Where's My Prince Charming?"

And for some reason (that I couldn't put my finger upon until today) this passively phrased tee bothered me. Now, don't get me wrong. I love princes and princesses. Dollhouses. Fairies n' mermaids n' trolls n' dressing up. I love makeup and crowns. Disney movies. Happily ever afters.

But now I've realized why it bothers me. (And I'll address my answer directly to my daughters):

1. Nora, Susannah, listen up. You don't necessarily need someone (prince, charming, or otherwise) to come get you and complete your story. There are many, many adventures out there. On some, you'll want companionship. On others, you might want to go it alone. That's totally great, too. (As long as you check in with your mother.)

2. In the short time that I've known both of you, it's left very little doubt in my mind that you'll never really need to ask that scrolled question aloud.

3. And finally, if and when you decide that you do need a Prince Charming (or Princess Charmingette, it really makes no difference to your Dad and me as long as this Royal treats you with respect and makes you wildly happy- and coming from money wouldn't hurt our feelings, either)...if and when this becomes a necessity...don't just sit around waiting for him to come fetch you.

Go find him yourself.

Wynken And Blynken And Nod.

Even when things get awful and messy and smelly and chaotic, it never fails to amaze me that the simple act of watching these two dynamos nap can make everything seem a teensy bit sweeter.

(Still messy. Just nicer to look at.)

Reminiscing This And That.

I was going to post more pix of the whole-house carnage, but decided on this instead. I present to you:

[Part Of] "Oodelally," Sung By A Slightly Crabby Swedish Chef.

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.

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.

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.

Wednesday Morning, 8:17 AM

Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

It'd be great if you'd point that
camera somewhere else, yeah?

I may be the first person to actually be driven insane by spring fever.

My normal state of being is fairly tightly wound. I'm cheerful and playful, but I'm also borderline OCD. (Undiagnosed, actually, so there's a rather good chance they'd be all like- borderline? You are textbook. A neatly bound textbook, placed alphabetically and color-coordinatedly in a descending size row.)

These orderly tendencies keep me firmly planted in the day to day business of running a household, raising smallish people, and staying on task with completely unpredictable writing assignments. I make lists. Loads of them. (Those descend in size and color and stuff, too.) When I clean, for instance. Or when I section off [small amounts of] time to write (even if the writing is just "the the the pfbbbbbt"). Even stuff I do with the girls during yicky weather; I put museum free days in my calendar, make dates with pals so we can climb on their furniture as opposed to our own, and determine which days will be spent at the library (so we can also pay the unfair fines levied by power-hungry librarians. For example).

But this weather is destroying me.

It has been so unseasonably fantastic in the normally frigid city of Chicago (seriously- negative 20 wind chills is nothing new for March), that I'm not truly sure which end is up anymore.

It was eighty degrees yesterday. And sunny. At the same time. Out of doors.

During the past few months, Wednesday morning would mean some quiet activities with Nora, some writing while Susannah napped, and toilets. All things bathroom would be cleaned on Wednesday.

BABIES NEED HATS!!

Yesterday, however, it was a solid seventy degrees by 9am. Obviously, we had to go outside and marvel and try not to stare directly at the sun with our mouths agape. Actually, we went to the Nature Preserve in  Peterson Park. We were joined by our friends Angie and Emily and we had the best time ever. (Even when Suzy decided that she was DONE- ten minutes in- and Nora fell backwards off of a log...best time ever.) We came home, the girls were zonked, and I was so flummoxed by the morning's fresh air that I promptly did nothing of note until they woke up. And then I got all stressed like- darned kids aren't giving me any free time. I had time. I just apparently didn't have brain.

And it's been like this all week. We're so confused by the nice weather that we keep going outside and having a fabulous time.

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

I'm behind on my writing and my cleaning and my projects and I do not believe anyone has fed the cats. (And today's their 8th birthday! Happy birthday, Ender and Bean! I'll feed you so soon!)

You think you've got problems.
I've got no arms.

But it's pretty hard to stay grumpy about a boggling amount of unfolded laundry (and/or a potentially dangerous shower mold) when one's cheeks are pleasantly flushed and freckled, and when one's blonde children have faces that smell like apple juice and sunshine. (Yes, both of them. Even the infant. It's a long story.)

It feels like a test. Will she snap before the summer if: The dishes harden in the sink? The towel smells suspiciously like someone has peed on it? The cat hair actually stands and slinks away?


I've never been very good at tests.

But summer- that I've been good at. So I'll work on it.

(After I close these taunting, ajar, cabinet doors.)

But Who's Watching The Baby?

My favorite blue-eyed cherub...

...And her jaunts to the park...

...With her two babysitters. 

Keely Forces Culture Upon Her Children.

Off to discover!

In my ongoing struggle with WHY I LOVE CHICAGO and UGH, CHICAGO (not quite short enough to be tattooed on each knuckle), yesterday's activities warranted a check in the plus column.

We went to the Art Institute- free the first and second Wednesday of each month for Illinois residents- and even scored free parking on the street. (I'm not sure how I wasn't towed, because I do not believe that former Mayor Daley left any inches of non-billable street parking in the city proper at all.)

And it was close to seventy degrees. In March. The windows were open on the drive and Nora, Suzy, and I enjoyed fresh[ish] air on the drive over.

There wasn't even a line to enter the museum, so we didn't have to stand outside and make conversation with the lion sculptures (which may actually be a minus in Nora's column).

It was Nora's fourth or fifth trip to the museum. But it was Susannah's first, thankyouverymuch.

We had our run of the Thorne Miniatures Room- allowing us [ahem] to see the English Drawing Room, circa 1930 and Cape Cod Room, circa 1780 unobstructed. (Also California Living Room, circa 1940 and French Boudoir, circa WHY DON'T I HAVE THAT KINDA TUB IN MY HOME?!) Okay, we love them all. For the unfamiliar, the Miniatures Room is a gallery of teensy rooms behind paneled glass. Artists have painstakingly recreated impossibly small bowls of fruit, woven rugs, even ambient lighting for beyond the wee windows and doors. The Los Angeles room features a darkened sky and twinkly lights beyond a terrace. The Cape one beckons through an open door to the beach grass-lined path. (To the ocean! I know they have an ocean back there!)

Anyway, as cool as it is, I realize that not everyone is as loony for dollhouses as I am/was. Thankfully, I have created at least one more person who agrees that this room is boss. (And I was slinging the other, for whom the jury is still out.)

Nora had a really good time peering into each room- repeatedly- and occasionally begging to be picked up to better spy each small dog and glimmering chandelier. (Ever try to wear one child in a Baby Bjorn and hoist the other on your hip? Squiiiiiiish. We pretty much guaranteed that Nora's favorite memory of the day was easily Susannah's worst.)

Some other Nora-isms from the afternoon:

-Upon seeing Renoir's Two Sisters in the Impressionists Gallery: (pointing at the younger one) "Oh there she is!"

-Viewing Seurat's La Grande Jatte: "THE MONKEY IS IN THE CORNER!"

-Entering the Modern Wing's Picasso exhibit: "What is he DOING?!" (Me: Who, Picasso? Nora: YES.)

-After I explained that one of the Miro paintings was a circus horse: "I don't see it." (I pointed at it again.) "I DO NOT SEE IT."

We had a good afternoon. And I'm sure that Zuzu will hold fond memories in the deepest corners of her tiny heart- among them when I finally sat down and fed her in the prairie garden across the street from the museum.

Because nothing says Bonding Moment like publicly nursing a baby in a winterized lot in full view of art students and/or the elderly, during a gusty windstorm that upends a) the bag of crackers that had, moments before, held crumbs for sprinkling on the feeding child's head, and b) the blanket keeping one from public nudity.

But the check for the plus column stays.

Because if nursing debacles/implied nudity were a reason to leave Chicago, I wouldn't have lasted nearly this long.

She's Not A Monster. She's Just Drowsy.

8:46am: Dumped cats' water bowl out. (On cats.)

9:03am: Dumped out contents of dresser onto floor. (Are you sad, Mommy?)

9:39am: Dumped self onto floor. Split lip. Bled. Cried about bleeding.

10:02am: Asleep in car during three minute drive to Playgroup. 

10:03am: Keely realizes that her Godzilla is actually a Sleeping Beauty.

Priorities.

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

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

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

Smoke.

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

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

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

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

But she does not jive with your "logic."

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

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

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

But the smoke eventually clears.

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

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

At least for that afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I even got a nap.

Which will always render any weekend a roaring success.

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

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

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

Stay close, Dad. Those clowns might come back.

But What If I Forget The LIST?

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

Packing for the girls is always a big deal.

I wish it weren't.

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

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

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

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

So I make lists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least 'til he loses his face.

Milestone Month.

Everybody feeds the baby...

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

Definitely Not "Wordless."

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

Blink And You'll Miss Her.

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

Snow White (As Performed By Professor T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals).

We all know the story of Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs. But how about the story of Snow White as told by Professor T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals?

Pre-show craft before every show!

That's right. Betcha didn't know that one.

Nora and I saw Emerald City Theatre's sweet production (written and directed by Producing Artistic Director Ernie Nolan) this past Saturday- and I can honestly say that not only will the kiddos will love it, but the adults will find it a refreshing spin on a story read over and over (...and over...and over...) again.

Every Emerald City show has a Gateway Theme, and this production features problem solving. T.J. Barker and his troupe have arrived from far flung lands (like Iowa) to our fair city of Chicago...only they're missing five dwarfs and the entire orchestra section. But, since his troupe has never cancelled a performance- and they don't intend to start now- they're gonna make it work.

Some of the dwarfs will be played by puppets.
The stage manager gets her moment in the spotlight.
Instruments will be strummed and drummed by the troupe.
Snow White...plays the triangle.

There's some really clever storytelling and play-within-a-play action going on; one of my favorite moments occurred when Queen Malvina paused her horrifying laugh to commend her son, a troupe member who was playing ominous music behind her. (She wondered how he had gotten so good.)

But where's the LAMB?

There was some positively terrific puppetry going on as well; Nora's favorite was the gentle and kindly lamb who helps Snow White. The thing was bigger than most cast members, and Nora was certain she was the star of the show. (She asked if she could get her autograph after the show. Sadly, she could not.)

Other highlights:

-The echo-y and ominous mirror (he of "On The Wall" fame) was a neat bit of light and sound. Nora alternated between demanding that he go away (and lights come back on, please), and immediately missing him and questioning his return once those scenes ended. (The mark of good theatre.)

-The vaudevillian sounds, physicality, and interludes between troupe players and Snow White performers. We both really liked all the music, although my city girl heard a slide whistle and knowingly whispered, "There's a siren here."

-The fact that it's an hour long. Because seriously. I love my daughter. A ton. But if I have to make sure she sits still for longer than that, it better come with meal service and an in-flight movie.

That said, she was riveted.

And honestly? So was I.

***

The Deets:
Snow White As Performed By T.J. Barker's Troupe Of Theatricals
Runs January 21- May 20, 2012
Apollo Theatre, 2540 N. Lincoln Ave, Chicago
Tix starting at $13 for kids and $16 for adults
Rec'd for ages 3 and up (or pretty awesome 2 year-olds)
***

Disclaimer: I've been compensated for my review, but opinions are my own.