In Dog Years It's A Lot Longer.

We look so, so awesome in this picture.

To my darling, patient, better-than-I-sometimes-deserve but always-exactly-what-I-need husband on our fourth anniversary...

Nothing has changed yet everything has changed and I wouldn't change a thing. (Except for maybe one or two teensy things regarding our homestead.) But let's review those crazy ol' vows, shall we?

When I said "for better," I was most likely talking about Sunday mornings with our daughters, the paper, a questionable amount of bacon, and one of your stellar mixes playing on the stereo.

When I said "for worse," I might have been imagining that time when the lower level of our house gave up and disintegrated. (Was there a "for louder" part of our vows, too? Because that may be a three-way tie between the jackhammering of said house, the drilling of samesuch, and my entirely-too-related Ugly Crying on your shoulder.)

When I said "for richer-" well, that part hasn't exactly showered down on us yet, but we do lead a pretty darned fancy lifestyle (due almost completely to your obsessive love of coupons, Groupons, and Craigslist).

When I said "for poorer," I had no idea that I'd someday decide to send our kids to trade school. (Because seriously if an in-family plumber wouldn't have come in handy these past five weeks.)

When I said "in sickness," I'm pretty sure I was preparing for that cold you had this past winter. Good God, did I want to smother you with a pillow. (But I didn't. And I'm glad for it.)

When I said "in health," I couldn't possibly have known that I'd get that same cold one week later. (Thanks for not smothering me.)

There's still no one else with whom I'd rather tend a feverish child at 3am, argue over the necessity of antique store "treasures," and watch old movies while consuming enormous vats of your secret recipe popcorn.

Here's to the next four (times four times four).

And even though we're not in Virgin Gorda this May, getting to wake up next to you (and the girls and the cats) in Chicago each morning still seems like I hit the marriage jackpot.

Which may or may not actually be a thing.

But which I wholeheartedly mean, nonetheless.

(Happy anniversary.)

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!)

Dads Are The Best.

P.J. Is The Awesomesauciest.

You know, just hanging at Alcatraz.

Today is my darling husband Peej's 30th birthday. And since he makes the other 364 days so nice for me, I thought I'd return the favor by detailing why he's the greatest thing since sliced cinnamon raisin bread.

In list form.

30. P.J. mixes a mean cocktail; Moscow Mules, Hot Todgers, Painkillers, Sidecars...and he'll even share them.

29. I've seen him look equally as good (really, really good) wearing a cowboy hat, a three-piece Calvin Klein suit, and a pair of corduroys with ducks on them.

28. Despite having an addiction (since high school) to chocolate malts, beef jerky, and barbecue chips- sometimes allllll together- he doesn't seem to gain any weight. This is maddening.

27. He once visited the town of Pisa by train, determining well before his arrival that the only thing there he wished to see was The Leaning Tower Of. His train arrived. He jumped off. Asked a tourist to take the mandatory photo of him "holding up" the tower. Ran back to the train and caught it before it left the station. This is true.

26. He has songs for Nora, songs for Susannah, and songs for me. He makes playlists, sings to unborn babies in bellies, and slow-dances in the kitchen. He has music on his phone, his computer, his stereo, and coming out of his guitar. And if he doesn't have access to any of those, he's most likely singing to himself.

25. On that note, on a Valentine's Day a few years back, I tried to surprise him by putting a new playlist of love songs on his iPod for the morning commute. I instead successfully wiped his iPod. He still managed to find the gesture charming.

24. When P.J. says "I've Got This," rest assured it'll be taken care of. (Also, bring along a good periodical. For no one will leave the house until This has been Gotten.)

23. Despite being a Dog Person, he has so fully embraced the idea of my two cats that, since moving in together five and a half years ago, he has [easily] convinced them to like him better.

22. If there is a dish more insanely wonderful than his Spaghetti Carbonara, I don't think I could handle it.

21. Upon returning home each night, he immediately strips down to an undershirt. He knows that, within moments, he will be wearing whatever his daughter has eaten/played with/inadvertently brought in from the outdoors. He's totally cool with this.

20. No matter the city, country, or method of travel, he is never lost. Rome, the Midwest, Virgin Gorda, Cape Cod...he never falters in knowing exactly what transit stop or exit to take. This is especially true- and embarrassing- when his knowledge trumps mine in my hometown.

19. He is full of surprises. Like, who knew he had it in him to kill a rat with his bare hands? (Okay, he wore gloves.)

18. Our neighbors are slowly coming around to the idea that white people are not all bad. This is due entirely to P.J. and his intense efforts of neighborliness: picking up trash, learning other languages, and mowing adjacent lawns.

17. He'll cheerfully acknowledge all of his toddler's trolls and ponies by name. (And those names? They were given by his wife when she was a nine year old girl. So these are pretty darned important- and set in stone- names.)

16. Lest you think this makes him less of a man, he also knows a shocking amount of gangsta rap. I'm pretty sure this is just to bust out a parties with a surprising amount of lyrical accuracy.

15. He's pretty good at breaking up street fights and warning off hoodlums. (Of course, he's also been known to be the cause of a few of these kerfuffles...)

14. He's an eye-poppingly talented actor He has this one monologue that makes me bawl like a child. Seriously. Even mentioning it now has me tearing up. Moving on.

13. P.J. does not have an ex-girlfriend who bears him any ill will. At all. How do I know this? Because every single place we've ever gone together, a gal will pop out of nowhere, all smiles and hugs, and declare him to be THE NICEST GUY EVER. DON'T YOU LOVE HIM?! I'm fairly certain that, were we to one day travel to the moon, his second grade girlfriend would arrive at the same time and have only good things to say about him.

12. P.J. is ridonkulously patient. This has become more obvious with the additions of a Determined Wife, two Spunky Children, and a House That Threatens To Fall Down Around His Very Head. Add to these a Real Job, a Large and Crazy Extended Family, a Theatre Career, and- when we allow him to leave- a Penchant For Running. (But- not to the best of my knowledge- Away.)

11. He can grow/keep anything alive. This applies to children, pets, and neglected houseplants. Also vegetables, lawns, rosebushes, and Roth IRAs. Unfortunately, this gift also extends to that pesky crabgrass. (He WILL get you.)

10. He has the widest, best, and most genuine smile anyone will ever see, ever. (Anywhere.)

9. He is Midwestern, through and through, and really prefers "the lake." But he's also totally on board with the idea of "the ocean" these days as well.

8. He is a Mama's boy. But he is not obnoxious about it.

7. This guy willingly wakes up at bizarre hours to change his newborn and hand her off to his wife- a deed made all the more impressive by the fact that there is NO biological necessity for this choice.

6. P.J. apologizes first, which is not always a good thing in a fight- especially when the other party really wants to Get Her Mad On. But I'm pretty sure it's an amazing[ly foreign] trait to have.

5. And he listens. Even when you think he's isn't. And he stores that knowledge away for a long time, then surprises you one day with the perfect gift or a recitation of a conversation you thought had gone largely ignored. And then it's utterly impossible to think such things like- Oh, he never listens to me.

4. But he's a gracious winner.

3. Have you seen his movie collection? It's an unreal conglomeration of classics, questionables, and cult favorites. He may have also recently made room for Rainbow Brite and The Star Stealer for a special little lady. (His wife.)

2. Dude can dance. Ask him sometime about Voting For Pedro.

1. Without him, my life wouldn't be a shadow of how wicked it is- nor would I have gotten to meet these two miniature gals who share his smile. That alone makes me thank the stars, and our Moms, and random auditions...

We love you to the moon, P.J.

(And back.)

(Happy 30th.)

Okay, Girls...Naptime!

Both had late nights this weekend.

I feel like today is the first day of a new job that I've really wanted for a super long time...and for which I may or may not have padded my resume a tad.

In a nutshell, I am alone with my children for the first time ever. EVER. Which is a truly bizarre thing to say.

We have had nonstop family and friends are constant helpers/personal slaves for the past three weeks. (Which is also bizarre. Yet wonderful.) I miss our Moms/my sister/Bethany already. But, strangely, I'm also looking forward to the end of the "newness." It's hard to have something feel like your day to day life if it also feels mildly like a vacation. I guess I need it to feel less nice so that it feels more comfy.

I swear I am not depressed.

Also, I've been looking forward to mopping and wiping things down so that they feel like mine again. Yes, I miss cleaning up my household messes.

I swear I am not crazy.

I am, however, rather tired. For longer than my semblance of normalcy will allow me to admit, I'd been planning a small shindig for P.J.'s upcoming 30th birthday. I knew I wanted a Guys' Night Out- and I knew that I wanted it free of Guys who would turn it into A Night In Jail. Plus, there was the fact that I'd be 2.5 weeks postpartum and completely unable to ring in his new decade the way he thoroughly deserves. So. Yes. And since he's UTTERLY impossible to buy for or plan for without the dollar bill signs over his head or the wad of coupons in his pocket warring with any type of romantic gesture I've got cooking...I thought it might be nice to surprise him with this little gathering.

Arranging for a handful of his closest friends (one whom flew in from NYC for the weekend!) and a couple of cases of Shiner Bock to be at a divey pool hall in our 'hood on Saturday night was pretty easy. A little tougher was the flying leap I needed to take every time my phone buzzed for the past month. Not really sure how I would have explained the nonstop texts and emails from his pals...although he was too tired to notice how often my phone was pinging in the middle of the night. (Don't you people sleep? Go to bed!) It's pretty safe to say he would have laughingly ruled out an affair- although, pal, some people LIKE girls in sweatpants. A LOT.

I thought I was in the clear until, oh, the night before the party, when two of his closest friends TEXTED HIM AT 2AM FOR NO REASON WITHIN ONE MINUTE OF EACH OTHER. P.J. had just changed Suzy and had handed her to me when he saw the blinking light on his phone.

"Oh," he said. "Neil and Nate both just texted me!"

Ever seen a girl lunge across a bed with a baby actually attached to her? It's not for all viewing audiences.

Realizing I couldn't nonchalantly bat his phone away, I went for uber-casual.

"Oh yeah? What did they say?"

"They said hi. That's funny."

"IT SURE IS!"

"I wonder why they both texted me at the same time?"

"Honey," I told him. "They're drunk." (Prove me wrong, Nate and Neil.)

He was satisfied with this answer, and- even though his curiosity was piqued- I rested assured that P.J. had no idea what was coming the following night...when I promptly thwapped the guys upside the head for choosing the night before a surprise party to be all nostalgic. AND DRUNK.

That said, he was surprised- or played the part convincingly- and now we can all go back to our regularly scheduled 10pm bedtimes.

Even planning other people's late nights wears me out. Heck, even remembering the planning wears me out.

Hence, the sweatpants.

Which may just be my favorite typed sentence EVER.

Splish Splash.

Nora and Susannah are two very different ladies. Nora was the teensiest little Bitsy of a baby, with her dark hair eventually turning a really cool honey color. Her eyes (and temper) are just like mine- dark. Other than that, she's a mini doppelganger of her Dad; wide mouth, curly toes, and the opinion that the deep knee bounce is the world's best dance move.

Zuzu entered the world a full pound and inch larger than her "big" sister. Last night- at two weeks- her measurements equaled Nora's- at one month. Her white-blonde hair is gloriously confusing to us, as are her bright blue eyes. The only traits that she and I currently share are a penchant for snuggling and the ability to sleep exceptionally well on any surface. We have no idea whose doppelganger she is.

But aside from having dustily Victorian names and a mother who tends to over-kiss her young...here is something else that the sisters share.

They both abhorred their first bath.

Since the photos were almost identical- and identically hilarious- I thought I'd indulge in a little photo essay. 

Nora's first splash.

 Suzy's first splash.

Nora can't handle it.

 Susannah has words for us.

Identical mouths.

But this gal's mouth isn't that far off, either...

Okay, maybe we do know to whom she belongs. And yet again, it's P.J.

Mazel tov.

No, really.

But if they're anything like Mommy, I give 'em a year before they're lounging in the deep tub with bath salts, a good book, and the finest of classic rock playlists on Spotify.

B.Y.O.Sippycup.

The Story Of The Monkey.

So this is the story of Susannah Mae. I will attempt to toe the line between crazy gory details ('cause there are people who really, really wanna know) and uh, non-crazy gory details. 'Cause there are definitely people who DON'T.

And pardon in advance my odder-than-usual vernacular, as well as the moments where I appear to be trailing off mid-sent...

The drugs are my friends. Anyway.

On the morning of the 4th, we set our alarms for 5am, knowing that we had to be at the hospital for 6am sharp. Of course, this meant that I wouldn't get to bed 'til 11pm, waking three times with various concerns, needs to pee, and at least one dream where I had missed my alarm, was informed that I needed to go change Nora's diaper since I missed my surgery anyhow, and consoled myself with a sandwich.

I woke up really tired (but without having succumbed to said sandwich) and after P.J. finished packing (I had been packed for Exactly. Two. Months), we jaunted down Lake Shore Drive and checked ourselves in to Chez Prentice. (There was a woman whom I allowed to check in ahead of me, as she was In Active Labor And Was Not Pleasant To Be Around. I wished to move her along.)

Somewhere between the third blood draw, second hospital gown draped over me (backwards, natch, over the frontwards one- it covers slightly more area), and first I.V., I began to have doubts that this whole second kid thing was a good idea. Turns out, by this point, no one really cares about pausing the shebang until one gets one's courage back up. So, sometimes, one needs to fake it. Which works really well until an O.R. nurse soothes said patient and commends her bravery in a nice voice...causing the patient to well up and completely ruin the facade...which generally results in a ridiculously nice team of anesthesiologists to take turns holding the patient's hands while talking and joking her through an impossibly pain-free spinal. (Seriously. My only slight owie jolt was the first numbing needle, which, upon my flinch, caused every single person in the O.R. to rush over and tell me how wonderfully I was doing. I later commented that giving birth in front of an applauding team of twenty was the ONLY way to do it.)

Okay. Gory details time. BUT FIRST- may I state again for the record how incredibly pain-free the actual c-section was? 'Cause it was. I felt nothing. Not the broken popsicle stick test (I swear to God that is a real measurement of pain after numbing medicine is applied- they also said they had a paper clip they sometimes used to prod the thigh, hip, rib cage and sternum to test how high up the numbing goes), not the first, second, third (and on and on) incisions, and certainly not the cauterizing thinger- though I definitely could smell someone's burning flesh. Poor fool. By the time they invited my questionably married husband to look over the divider and inform me what we now had, I wondered what sort of mutilated carcass he'd see on his wife. I still don't know. But even after the crazy tugging, weird sounds, and elephant-like pressure on my rib cage to shove the kiddo's legs out (the ciiiiiircle of liiiiiiife), I was still off the charts excited to find out who this new little person was.

The one who really dug liverwurst. And melon. And making me sick as a dog for thirteen weeks- though that also might have been the liverwurst and melon.

And P.J., looking over the curtain to see the kid's head still emerging from my abdominal cavity like some bizarre cross between E.R. and Alien (he thought it was AWESOME, by the by), said in a quietly pleased voice- "It's Susannah."

BFFs.

And I cried because I was so happy.

Because she had a head full of the thickest, blondest ducky hair I had ever seen. And- when she eventually squinted them open- the brightest blue eyes. She had the Schoeny mouth, of course, wide as anything and tilted like a bow. Her skin felt like velvet and her chubby cheeks promised to be superbly kissable. I could already tell that we'd be great friends.

And once they'd unstrapped my arms from the T position, placed me on a board for transpo onto another gurney, and dangled all of my wires and tubes from the appropriate hooks...they placed her in my arms. And it kinda didn't matter that I had just undergone the complete opposite of a natural birth, nor that I'd feel like a Mack truck rolled back and forth on my belly in a matter of hours. As I looked into Susannah's weary face (I hear that, sister), I once again had the realization that it wouldn't have mattered if they had removed her from my ear canal with safety scissors.

It was worth Every. Single. Frightening. Pain. (Isn't it obnoxious when mothers say that? Even more obnoxious is when they're right.)

And sure, the past couple of nights have not been amazing, physically or emotionally; due to my gestational diabetes, Suzy's been subjected to way too many blood tests, tubes, force feedings, heart monitors, and an overnight in the NICU. But luckily we've been able to be with her nearly nonstop. P.J. especially has made a habit of chasing her rolling bassinet down the hall with whatever cranky night nurse  is currently finding him a pain in the ass. (And he has the 45 minutes of combined sleep since Tuesday morning to prove it.) We've had some lovely angels on our side, too, especially the NICU nurse who lobbied for our daughter to be sprung and sent back up to us. (And she made P.J. melt like a summer popsicle when she fashioned a bow for Suzy's tiny cap.)

But now the two gals are catheter, I.V., and needle-free...and the guy is slightly more rested. And tomorrow morning we'll all be going home, where a positively ecstatic biggie sister has already given Susannah Mae permission to play Sleep Tight in "the baby's room."

Little Miss Bow Hat.

There's kinda nothing better in the universe- not even the super white tuna sushi on its way to my hospital room right now. (Though- oh my God- so, so SO close.)

And now we'll go snuggle our little Monkey close while we watch our favorite shows and drift into a blissfully medicated sleep (okay, maybe just me).

But I know I'm not alone in thinking that life as Peej and I know it has just gotten a heck of a lot sweeter.

Date Night Month Meets Tired Parents And Toddler

I shall not be moved.

Remember waaay back in the Fall of '09, pre-Nora Junebug Jane, to be exact? We deemed that frantic and aggressively fun time Date Night Month. It was great. It was fulfilling. And- as it turns out- it was a completely unnecessary step for which to greet a new baby. In retrospect, we probably should have saved those pennies for things like diapers, wipes, and boxes of Franzia. (Having a baby is stressful.)

Past helpful knowledge totally disregarded, I've been attempting to repeat the same activities (sorta) with Nora and Peej this month. I call it Oh My God, Let's Do Something Fun With Nora While We Still Have [A Little] Energy Left And She Can Recall SOME Happiness From Her Early Years.

We have largely failed with this. Namely because we are already zonked. Sorry, N.J.

This weekend was an attempt to rectify at least a little bit of this situation.

The Lincoln Square Apple Festival was going on, as was a promotion for a ton of area museums through the Smithsonian (P.J. misses nothing on the internets), so obviously we decided this was a perfect opportunity to take our toddler to the Planetarium. All in the same morning. In addition, the weather alternated between torrential downpour, blazing heat, and frigid winds. So, regardless of the current weather, I had inappropriately dressed/prepared my family/myself. It felt good.

Despite all of this, the day was fabulous. Nora was really stoked to find that her neighbor/bestie Emily was at the fest with her folks. Also that there was a booth with vintage toys for kids to play with. And apple pie slices as big as a smallish child. (Darn you, diabetes! I could have done some damage at this place.) Duck confit was also available, obviously, as well as gargantuan bags of the bestest apples in the Midwest. (I have a serious apple problem lately. Which is only a "problem" if I don't pair them with some carbs. I am such a bore lately.)

We set out to the Adler Planetarium about an hour later than intended, which had the obviously terrific result of a tired kiddo and two Determined Parents. And because I adore my husband, I will not mention the hilarious carnival ride called Rotary Parking And/Or Jockeying With Inept/Aged/Outta Town Drivers. (Think Peej is all laid back charm? Try either taking away his chocolate malt or messing with his driving mojo. He becomes The Hulk in corduroys.)

Onto the museum. Things Nora Liked: Lights, Stars, Running Amok. Things Nora Did NOT Like: Taking Turns, Being Carried, Not Being Able To Touch The Sun.

We'll try again later.

The rest of the weekend was a lovely amalgamation of naps, snacks, Sunday comics on the couch, stellar music in the speakers, and really, really good dinners. Nora had some Emily playtime yesterday afternoon while her folks had a day date (Brilliant! DAY dates!) and everyone went to bed [relatively] early with the appropriate reading material.

We. Are. Hell. Raisers.

(But rested ones. So there's that.)

Squalor No More! (Until Next Week!)

Her house is actually cleaner.

Okay, the baby can come any time now.

Well, actually, give me about an hour, Baby Monkey- for you see, our home is being cleaned. And- this is the kicker- by people who know what they're doing.

They are vacuuming the couch.They are scrubbing and disinfecting the tubs as opposed to just, like, vaguely wiping/spraying them down with an after-shower spray. [P.J.: You only wipe them down? Keely: Yes. I didn't want you to have to find out this way.] Also, Big Household Tip...that after-shower spray only works if one actually deeply cleans said shower more than once a season. It's not a magic mist. "No Scrub" means "You Don't Need To Scrub...This Week. But Maybe Give Next Week A Go."

Regardless, this is not that week.

I think I particularly embrace and revel in having my home cleaned because- way back at the beginning of my nanny gigs- I also cleaned homes. It was not a pretty time in my life (for my wardrobe, self-esteem, or those residing with me and my frequent bouts of sobbing). 'Cause guess what? People are gross. Horrific, really. Even relatively clean people have bathroom and kitchen habits that make one question the future of humanity.

That said- it's my grossness that is being dealt with this week!

"Oh, good for you," I hear over the interwebz. "Now you can be the bougie elite having someone else steam the drapes."

Firstly, don't say "drapes." It's gauche. Secondly- ohnonononononononono. We can most certainly not afford to have someone clean our house. Hah, not in the LEAST! (Need a visual? P.J. is currently having a coronary at work, man-crying into his computer screen and attempting to budget things like- oh- food, gas, and electricity.) But three times a year, I love to have this amazing woman and her team of efficient (and oddly silent) Polish gals make short work of my home in an hour. For the same price as what I used to pay (in a former life, roughly two years back) for a pair of Converse and some consignment shop Kenneth Cole black slingbacks. For example. (Sigh.)

However- worth it. Even though I'm typing this while wearing Target kicks from The Village Discount. (That's two uncomfortable visuals for you today, now isn't it?)

It's especially worth it these days. When I can no longer bend. This is embarrassingly true. Peej has been attempting to put me on something that I call Forced And Mean Confinement and that he terms Go Lay Down, Already, You're Really Starting To Tick Me Off.

Just last night, in fact, immediately after I disregarded GLDA,YRSTTMO, I stood up from bed where I had been filing/reading/stenciling birthday cards (Guess which one isn't true? Trick question- they're ALL true!) and found myself short of breath. Which kind of proved his point. But also proved mine that he's turning me into an invalid who needs to be wheeled down to the seaside in a plaid blanket.

The stencils are lovely, however.

Obviously.

Gettin' Back To Nature- And Potentially The ER.

Happy Labor Day!

Communing.

Why are you reading this today? Go! Go outside! Good God, man, it's almost winter! (However, if you're not reading this until Tuesday or later, I'm quite hurt- wounded, really- at your disloyalty.)

There, now. I think I've sufficiently alienated everyone. Onward!

The reason that I'm able to post today is because of my daughter's proclivity towards 4am Beanie Bear tea parties in her crib. Thusly, she faceplanted at an ungodly early 10am for her nap, freeing me up to do all sorts of things like blog, sweep the stairs, and French braid my hair. (But aren't you exhausted, Keely, you ask? Nope! But Peej is! As I've stated before, my Mama Bear-like aptitude for hearing when my child is awake has not yet been fully realized. I don't hear her. P.J., however, has not slept through the night since grade school and is aware of block parties beginning across town. He's ZONKED tired.)

Her early nap will actually serve us well, as Peej scored seven buck tickets to the Cubs game for this afternoon. Nora's never been (and has a superbly cute hand-me-down Cubs onesie!), and the last time I went...was when I was nine months pregnant with Nora. (Sports!) We're only a few miles from Wrigley Field, and since the air is feeling all crisp and autumnal, it's gonna be a much better time than if we had gone during the past few weeks. (I think the combo of humidity, discomfort and athletics would have forced me to have a tantrum, kill a man, and eat all of the jumbo hotdogs in the surrounding area. The last still may occur. There's this one stand that sells ridiculously loaded footlongs that you crave in your sleep. For example.)

Other highlights from this long weekend included brunch with Peej's cousin and her husband, which facilitated a full-on clean of the house (which allowed me to ease up on chores/ease up on demanding that P.J. do chores the rest of the time...which everyone likes). There was a three hour family nap. A slow hike through the forest preserve up at Peterson Park (during which time my child found the only wood chip/dirt pile incline in all of the 46 acres and proclaimed "slide!") and had a picnic. A major Craigslist posting for all of the free/crazy reduced items which we just need to get out of the downstairs/closets/garage, and which- strangely- is yielding positive results and non-crazy people actually taking our things. And, nestily enough, we're blazing through the Important Things checklist for The Monkey and his/her room. Plus, we're mini-seriesing through Mary Poppins before Nora's bedtime each night- and she could NOT love it more. Spoonful of Sugar, jumping into chalk art, waiter penguins, sliding down banisters, girls named Jane, it's all like it was tailor made for our kid. Sure, I'm getting a little weary of singing each song eleven times in a row, but the vigorous applause is pretty sweet.

Bleeding.

It's almost enough to make up for the nightmare-inducing guilt I feel over watching my daughter trip into the coffee table and bite clear through her lip. Especially since she was running towards me. With a stack of books in her arms. And a cheerful grin. Happily announcing that she and Mommy were gonna read. And I was a split second too late to catch her. And the blood- oh God, the blood.

She cried for seven seconds. I cried for half an hour. She assured me that she was "fine," especially once the bleeding let up and she enjoyed a lemon Italian ice for the better part of an hour. (I think she'd willingly do it again for another Italian ice.) And later we rocked on the hammock and she fed herself fistfuls of mint and raspberries from the garden. So I know she's okay.

She has been accused of being too pretty- a fat lip will give her some street cred. And it's good for her to have some stuff to tell her future therapist.

You're welcome, Nora.

What A Guy.

Home sweet miniature home.

And Now...

A Love Letter To My Husband To Thank Him For His Endless Works O' Awesome (A.K.A A Very Public Plea To NOT Leave His Increasingly Insane Wife)-

Dear P.J.:

You are terrific. Really. No, wait, lift your head back up out of your coffee mug/desk/computer screen- this'll be worth it.

You are so incredibly tolerant and so incredibly choosy with your words. Specifically the cuss ones when you think Nora/our unborn child will hear them and be forever negatively affected. I especially admire this when things don't go according to plan/the door frame cracks/THE SCREWS ARE SOMEHOW ALL WRONG.

Here is what you accomplished this weekend for me/us/my neuroses/the children/the upcoming cold months known as The Rest Of The Year In Chicago:

-Doors on closets and remaining bedrooms that did not possess them. This endeavor required multiple backyard sawhorse projects which you pulled off in a timely manner...despite the fact that your daughter has a near-crippling fear of the sound of a saw in use. And can only be consoled in such moments of terror by you, her Dad. This slowed you down only slightly.

-The moving and painting of three laughably heavy pieces of the furniture in the baby's room. This was because I got a bee (hormone) in my bonnet (face/tears) about the slapdash nature of this new kid's possessions. Forget the fact that mismatched and chipped furniture was good enough for Nora- I was not having it this time around. And now they look great. Hope that hernia heals soon.

-That break you took to read at Mass, do a Costco run, and put both Nora and I down for simultaneous naps. (I'd be embarrassed to admit that I still need someone to put me down for a nap...except for the fact that it was the best nap ever. And nothing beats being tucked in to the words of "I'll take care of everything." Not a thing in the world beats it.)

-Removing the ceiling fan blades, helping me soak them in the bathtub, you scraping decades of grease from the undersides (I'm pretty sure our kitchen used to moonlight as an Arby's), and then reattaching them to the fans at midnight- despite the knowledge that most fans are assembled safely on the ground and not teetering in midair.

-Making sure that you and I sat on the couch- together- to watch The Soup and a goodly bit of House Hunters International before falling asleep. DATE NIGHTS ARE IMPORTANT, DARNIT. (I had been ready to tuck in with a bottle of seltzer and the newest Professor Layton game on the DS, but no sir. Not when romance is alive and well.)

-Drilling that hole to run those cables, saving us crazy ADT rewiring fees and allowing the closet door to close, no longer impeded by the bundle of wires acting as a doorstop. (It's almost like a real house, now! Also, who's been authorizing us to just have bundles of wires acting as doorstops?)

-Taking a "break" to supersonically speed-clean the house when you received the intel that your out-of-town uncle was not only stopping over for a surprise visit...but was, in fact, parking the car up by the neighborhood bar as we spoke.

-Dishes, dishes, dishes. Also, the recycling.

-Taking a break to drive to a friend's house, disassemble a playhouse in their backyard, strap it in, out, around and through our car, drive it back to our place, reassemble the awfully heavy and realistic house...and then spend a copious amount of time in said structure with your toddler. And lots of chalk.

None of these things include the little activities you do daily, like the cat litter (which I haven't done in years, despite not being pregnant for "years"), Nora's nightly routines, or making sure that I nevereverever run out of almond milk.

You are swell. Let's not abandon our wives five mere weeks before she has yet another of your clone-like offspring, okay? But I understand if you need some downtime.

I hear there's a super sweet little house in the backyard these days. What say I toss a beer through the shutters, yeah?

You've earned it.

This Is How I Nest.

Mama, please stop being a Nut.

Just shy of six weeks until this kiddo makes his or her Monkey debut. Sounds like a ton of time, right? Sure, if you're a sane being.

Which- in all fairness- I must not have been to get pregnant so soon after my daughter's first birthday knowing full well that the end of this pregnancy would align with multiple heat waves. But that's nothin' compared to my recent jaunts from reality.

Last night, right before said daughter's bedtime, I implored my tolerant Peej to bring some gender-neutral newborn clothes out from the storage area over the stairs. While he was there, I inquired about the bassinet. (IT NEEDS TO AIR OUT, PEOPLE.) Also, the BundleMes and winter blankets. Because- sure- it may be really warm now...but what the heck will I do when the cold snap hits and I've got abdominal stitches? (Who's laughing now? Probably...all of you.)

And then once the clothing was safely accessible down in our laundry room, I gently requested that he move the tall dresser from the new baby's room up to Nora's room. And maybe- just maybe- he could move her dresser to the nursery?

There is logic to this, I swear. The new dresser is way bigger, and Nora has a killer [hand me down and gifted] wardrobe that cannot be confined to a regular ol' dresser. Besides, her closet is rather eh in terms of space...whereas the baby's room features a tricked-out closet into which we could place an easy chair. If we were so inclined. Probably wouldn't shock anyone at this point. (Least of all my husband.)

I would have left me years ago.

The level of cleaning going on in this house would lead one to believe that a visiting dignitary will be boarding with us this Fall- and not a squinty baby who will (if I'm lucky) be able to barely make out my features.

And I've been cooking with a vendetta. Last night I made my Tomato Thief of a daughter some garden Roma tomato gazpacho with sweet peppers...so that she'll always remember how much I loved her. Same with P.J.'s daily sandwiches (with included "love" note, thankyouverymuch- okay, sometimes they're just random observations, but I try to create them on something resembling a heart).

I'm not entirely sure where it is I think I'm going, but I've made sure that my family is well fed.

My photo albums are almost up to date. Because can you imagine the horror if I gave birth and no one at my house could easily locate the pictures from Thanksgiving '08? CAN YOU?

And just yesterday the fabulous Peej gave me a gift to actually help the nesting along- a Groupon for a closet makeover. That's right, the haphazard jobbie that I threw together whilst nesting for Nora can finally be put to rights; the plank of wood that I staple-gunned to the ceiling for a shelf, the one foot hanging bar propped up by a bookshelf and a dresser, the shoe rack nailed into the wall...it'll almost be like it never happened.

I am stupidly excited about this.

Because sometimes- to truly nest- you've gotta call in the pros.

She Really Wanted To Go On Pharaoh's Fury, Though.

 One of my best friends in the whole wide world (and her equally fabulous husband) spent the weekend with us. Vicky was one of my college modmates- like roommates but awesomer- and my how things have changed since Hampshire.

For starters, I have a kid now. And this was their first time meeting her. Our activities have been- ah- slightly different since Nora came along, and this was Vicky and Dave's chance to see what a "typical" weekend with Miss N.J. looks like.

This weekend, it involved a street carnival on Irving Park. And it was Nora's first one. But since it had a petting zoo, we felt that she'd really dig it and not be too overwhelmed by the rides and noise. Nora, not Vicky.

So while Dave was busy getting culture downtown (the girls initially skipped out because we wanted to nap while Peej had his matinee)...              

...We had some street fair time. And boy, did we misjudge on the petting zoo. Despite housing some of the world's smallest and cutest animals (baby goats, ducks, lop-eared bunnies, a calf, a donkey, and a confused piglet), Nora hated it. Cowered from the bun. Had to be rescued from the advances of the calf (thank you, Vicky)! Denied eye contact to the goats (which were literally half her size). We moved on.

So we tried the carousel. Despite its shockingly fast speed (maybe I'm just getting old), she definitely wanted to try it out. And she chose one pony. And then another. And then applauded them. And applauded us. And her Dad. 

So we went on it again.

We would've stayed on it all day, if one of us had gotten her way.

So we tried the baby Ferris wheel. (Looks like Peej has found his amusement park partner in crime at last.)

And no, Ferris Wheel, I wasn't thinking about riding, due to my "exceptionally large" size.

But it's always hard to leave a ride.

Really, really hard.

But thankfully, there are always gonna be corn dogs.

He also wears dark socks with shorts.

I love a parade.

I love The Fourth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With the slightest provocation.

Really.

The One In Which P.J. Almost Offs Himself.

Friends, I was almost widowed this weekend. 

And it would've been painful. Painfully embarrassing, that is. For me. 

In less stressful times.

On Friday night, after Peej's show opened, he returned home and complained of having lower region pain. At first he thought he was dying of a hernia or something else that I didn't take entirely seriously (because a- he is either completely fine OR on death's doormat with no middle ground ever and b- he later told me that my Braxton Hicks contractions were "sympathy pains." For him. Yes).

So he took a bath- another oddity, for he is A Man who only lies down in pain when something heavy is pressing upon him, like an anvil.

Side note: I remained in the other room, still reeling from the movie that we accidentally watched in its entirety. Killing Me Softly, ever heard of it? Joseph Fiennes and Heather Graham? Aw-ful. With an emphasis on awe. As we shuffled through the channels, we landed on this "erotic thriller" (which sadly, was neither) and watched five minutes as a joke. Then we literally could not look away. We were stunned into watching the masterpiece in one fell swoop. (What kept me going was that the plot line was almost exactly that of So I Married An Axe Murderer, sans Mike Meyers, Nancy Travis, comedy, or haggis.)

Huge digression, I realize, but I need to set the stage for why such a long period of time passed before I went to check on Peej. I needed a Cheers marathon to wipe away all of the poignant looks and incredibly trite dialogue.

Anyhow. Opened the bathroom door a while later to see if he needed anything for the triage...and heard "Careful!"

Because my husband, the love of my life and half of my kids' DNA- was in the tub with a plugged-in laptop sitting on the edge.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," I CALMLY ASKED.

"Work."

"Why is the computer plugged in?"

"It's dying."

I informed him- pleasantly- that he was being a moron. He politely disagreed. I pointed out that our insurance policy would not cover acts of stupidity. He rebutted that sitting in a tub with a computer wasn't exactly like jumping out of a plane. (I agreed with him on this one. 'Cause at least one would've made a better tragic death.)

Afraid I hadn't made myself clear, I told my husband that I would dispose of his body in the neighbor's recycling bin if he killed himself so idiotically. (Why the neighbor's? Because the city hasn't yet given us our own blue bin. Sorry Anita, I didn't want you to have to find out this way.) P.J. agreed that this was fair.

I told him that I wished I could blog about stuff like this- but had, until this very moment, refrained out of kindness towards my spouse. He gave me the green light, asking what 'being nice' had ever gotten anyone? (Besides respect, integrity, and a sense of humanity, I kinda had to agree with him.) He then went on to quote an episode of Blossom in which her Dad dated a stand-up comedian who used him for material. The Dad was rightfully upset, but then realized that the woman was who she was. And to change her would be wrong. (I had been SO READY to ridicule him...but then remembered that I had also seen this episode. Wind= taken out of sails.)

As he didn't want me to be tired and stressed out(!), he told me to go on up to bed, feeling confident in his abilities to both a) not die and b) also impart a life lesson.

I fell asleep wondering a) if my husband was going to die horridly and b) when he had ever watched Blossom, since he had grown up without cable. College? Was he watching Blossom with his roomies?

All ended well, even though P.J. ended up falling asleep, too.

In the tub.

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

Get in the house.

Little kids.

The traditional third anniversary gift is leather. The modern one is crystal, or- if one is feeling frugal- glass.

I am giving P.J. none of these tomorrow.

Instead, today I'll regale everyone with one of the best Peej stories in the history of...maybe ever. (Although, when this tale occurred I was carrying an awesome leather bag and P.J. almost got his face smashed through glass. So to anyone who still feels that this blog has no tie-ins, well, I just laugh at you, sir.)

Okay. So this was back in the late summer of 2005. Our relationship was squeaky new (and a fortunately small group of people had taken to calling us "KeeJay"). I was twenty five. Peej was a positively toddler-esque twenty four. And we had been out late. The show in which we had performed had ended for the weekend and we had- quite possibly- stayed a little too long at the After Hours bar. And while we certainly weren't drunk, one of us was a little more tired than polite conversation demanded.

Our cab let us off on the busy intersection near my studio apartment and we began our walk towards it. Halfway down my tree-lined block, a car whizzed by- way closer to the parked cars and entirely faster than P.J. deemed appropriate. In true P.J. fashion, he yelled after it.

"This is a residential neighborhood!"

Out of nowhere, a smallish group of Wrigleyville jocks appeared on the other end of the block. Telling P.J. to stop being such an expletive and yelling at them.

P.J. explained- loudly- that he wasn't TALKING to them.

Expletive.

Expletive.

Quicker than you can say "full body cast," we were surrounded by the frattiest looking group of White Hats- and one trashed and trashy-looking girl. Awesome.

They demanded to know all about P.J.'s beef with various issues. Peej conjectured that speeds of that car's nature were unsafe this early in the a.m. It got rather heated, but not too unmanageable.

Until a hand reached out and shoved P.J.'s back. Which propelled him into the chest of the largest guy- with the White Hat most firmly turned backwards. Then came a lovely shoving backwards and forwards of various hands into various chests. Now, I'm no psychic, but I knew how this short story would end. Especially since this little, red-headed dude kept popping his face into P.J.'s and demanding to know "who was talking now."

There was a momentary lull in the action, which enabled P.J. to turn and offer up the most P.J. of all phrases he would ever utter to me, be it past, present, or future-

"Get in the house."

Oh, OKAY. I'll just leave you to your pummelly death then, shall I? Okie doke. I'll start getting ready for bed.

I ignored this advice, much to P.J.'s confusion. (Like I said, we were really new.) I then decided that this mission needed an ambassador mission and turned to the drunk girl.

"This is crazy," I informed her. "We need to stop this."

"My baby's gotta take care of me, you know?" She actually slurred at me. "He protects me from people disrespecting."

Uh, sure, Useless Girl With Imagined Slights. I chalked her up to be the least valuable person involved in the skirmish- maybe the city- and turned to one of the guys not currently shoving the boy I had decided would father my child in four and a half years.

"Please," I begged him. "This is stupid. I live right here and he hadn't even been talking to you. We almost got hit by a car!" I omitted P.J.'s strong feelings on speed bump necessities and also the gin and tonic- which I had just decided would be stricken from his drink menu until I died. (Which was looking pretty imminent.)

For some reason, this guy took pity on me. Or perhaps he felt something (respect? incredulousness?) towards P.J. fighting off six guys.

"Hey." And they stopped. It was magical. Curt words were exchanged and P.J. was grudgingly allowed to leave the circle of death. He and I walked towards the exterior door of my building and I unlocked it, all the while hearing mutterings of dismayed frat boys and one pathetic girl's misplaced prideful ramblings. As  soon as P.J. and I were almost safely inside the front door, the redhead piped up something obnoxious and unrepeatable. And since Peej has enough Irish in him to not let something like that lie- ever- he shouted back his own anatomical request.

And just like that, a crush of bodies shoved forwards.

Safely locking us into my building's foyer.

P.J. and I went upstairs and I contemplated having to move. As soon as we were contained in my apartment, he turned to me with a completely inappropriate gleeful smile.

"That was crazy!"

And while I didn't hit him- per se- I'm pretty sure he was more afraid of me than the pack of sporty hyenas down the street. Which is the basis for an solid marriage. And while nothing of that ilk has ever happened since, it was the first of many times where I knew that P.J. would happily face an angry mob (be it during the closing on our property or bugging the nurse for more post c-section painkillers)- as long as I had gotten into the metaphorical house.

And he still feels the exact same way about speed limits on tree-lined streets.

(I love you, Peej.)

There was also popcorn in bed. Doctor's orders.

Sadly, Blogger has still (as of 9am CST today) not reinstated Thursday's post. So, uh, maybe check back later if you're dying for a mid-week recap? (And I know you are.)

Also, Wordless Wednesday explanations? The first pic is a magnetic version of a paper doll, one that the girls for whom I nanny love to dress in ball gowns and the fanciest of gear. They decided to make one that "dresses like Kiki."  "Can't I get a tiara or a snazzy dress?" "You don't look like that." So, rainbow tee and baggy jeans it is. (Also rad sneakers.)

The second pic is Nora, clad in jammy shorts, moments after gazing at herself in the full-length mirror and proclaiming herself to be "so pretty in blue [so pitty in boo.]"  Life Skills: Self-esteem in the face of questionable attire- check.

***

Last week was a jaunt through Crazyville. Not just the extreme temps (almost reaching 90 one day and then dropping to 37 the following night. I actually wept on Saturday morning. But that could've been due to a number of things), but the unexpected weirdness that permeated almost every single day.

Monday we flew home. And even an uneventful trip with a toddler is still a numbing journey through Overly Alert What-If Town that I wouldn't wish on my enemy. (Except that one. And she has it comin'.)

Tuesday gave me the unsettling experience of having my wallet removed from my person. (And again, lots of Ugly Cry. I cannot stress enough how unnerving this cry is to the random passerby. It also renders the Ugly Cry-ee unaware of blocks of time. My sister Rachel told me later in the week that we had had a lengthy conversation on Tuesday. We did?! Was I a refreshing conversationalist? She said yes.)

The rest of the week was spent at the DMV, the Police Station, the Social Security Office, and on the phone with various companies that, at one time, had my business. To up the challenge, I brought along a child well off the beaten nap path just to see what that would look like. Turns out, our precinct is remarkably nice and helpful- and rather slow at 7:45am on a Wednesday- and the DMV is a sucker for a good sob story/attractive baby. No kidding. The guy in line ahead of me had only his passport and was denied even a place number to wait for the next seven lines. He was sent on his way with stern words and an eyeroll. I handed my passport- warily- and explained that I had been robbed. ("Oh you POOR thing- and hi there, pretty little gal!" I think she meant Nora.) We were outta there in fifteen minutes, new license in hand. I didn't even need to take a new pic! Which is good, 'cause Bloated and Tear-Stained Keely does not make for a great I.D. We even breezed through the Social Security Office in FIVE MINUTES. (And isn't it sad when one's dealings with government offices is the high point of the week?)

Because Friday brought a trip to the dermatologist (during which time the receptionist mocked my name to the billing department- two feet away from me- and also had me wait for an hour.) I had developed a rash under my wedding rings, leading me- briefly- to believe that Peej purchased said rings at the Dollar Tree. The doc told me that, nope, it was just a rash. And- GET THIS- I should avoid washing dishes and/or getting my hands wet. Sounds GREAT! (And if I must do the dishes, I should wear non-latex gloves with a new pair of cotton gloves underneath each time. And I should remove my rings, adding two separate lotions after drying my hands with a clean towel each time they got wet.) That all sounded feasible to me.

I was all prepared to go home- expensive lotions in hand- especially since I had only put two hours on the meter, when the dermatologist asked about a spot on my back. And [TMI ALERT] I had dismissed it as a weird and isolated spot of bacne. He said that, no, it was in fact a "suspicious looking cyst" that he didn't "like the look of AT ALL." Then he left the room.

Oh boy. Well, I prepared to make a further appointment and then leave, being as I had ten minutes left on the meter and it would take that long to get back down the hallways and elevator and more hallways and north a few blocks to my car. (Forgoing parking garages is how I say I Love You to my husband.)

Suddenly, the door opened again (no knock- THERE WAS NO TIME) and a team of dermatological nurses wheeled in a tray featuring some very scary instruments, (a la Hostel, if I had seen it, which I did not) and the brisk instructions to remove my shirt. Uh, okay, I thought, looking down at Nora and then at my pregnant belly. And how exactly was this gonna go down?

They advised me to lay on my side, and that my daughter would be "fine just walking about." Sure. Until they began the procedure and she screamed bloody murder, necessitating a nurse to place her in the crook of my fetal position on the table, laden with a episode of Dora on my iPhone and a rubber glove balloon puppet. (This was not the time to restate my latex allergy, I decided. I just hoped no one would repeatedly thwack me in the face with it and all would be okay.)

The doctor informed me that the local anesthetic on my back would "sting." I informed him that my previous spinal had probably stung a little harder. He proceeded.

Have you ever received stitches while clutching a toddler who cannot decide if up or down is the place she would best like to be? I highly recommend.

Thankfully, I have Tylenol to get me through this Cannot Lay On My Back Nor Stomach Nor Right Side Nor Left Unless I Arch My Lower Back To Not Touch The Stitches Phase of my week. 'Cause everyone knows that Tylenol is a great narcotic, akin to putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun.

The week was redeemed- yet again- by Peej, laden with Mediterranean food, enforced early bedtimes, and allowing me to purchase [more] Little People village stuff and two antique wingback chairs at the Ravenswood Manor Garage Sale- all for twenty six bucks.

Who needs Tylenol?

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.