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.

T Minus WHAT?!

Donesville.

Okay, this is getting nuts.

By tomorrow morning at this time- if all goes according to plan- I will be holding the newest member of the mini Schoeny family.

Which blows my mind right outta my head and plops it onto the dining room table, which I have yet to stop dusting.

It's very strange to know precisely when your pregnancy will be done. And at the same time, you almost wish you'd go into labor (regardless of how wonky that would be) if only to break up the inevitable and breakneck locomotion towards surgery and a certain deadline. I love suspense. But I also hate it.

In some ways, I'm more excited about the birthing process this time around. With Nora, I was afraid. Of the c-section, of being a first time mother, of getting to the hospital itself, pretty much anything I had read on the interwebz...But at the same time, there was a kind of bliss in not knowing how hard the healing process would be or what to expect when.

But I had had no idea how euphoric that first moment holding her would be. Or how perfectly wonderful that first couch nap at home with Nora would be. So in that respect, I simply can't wait for this baby. AT ALL.

But then again, as someone who's had slightly more than the national average of surgeries (some minor and some not-so-much), I will never lose my apprehension at feeling like a human pincushion. Sure, I can deal with the post-op metal staples, but please don't make me watch while you put in an I.V. and draw blood. There are limits.

That said, after the last few nights of waking up with insane false contractions and an internal (child-sized? Debatable?) foot in my sternum, I would willingly jab the needle in my own arm. Especially if you include last night's sideshow of a full leg cramp that made me a) shriek in pain, b) wonder why someone was stabbing me into ribbons with scissors, and c) if contractions have ever been brought on by leg pain.

On a fun note, I had my first gender-related dream in recent memory. And it was a boy. Meaning...absolutely nothing. Because, if anyone remembers, I was certain that N.J. was a boy. Which I'm decently sure she is not.

In my dream, I was so thrilled to meet my kid and announce his birth that I promptly sent a mass text...to all of the past year's contractors. Like my mold guy and the plumbers, et. al. But it never sent. Leaving me to panic. (Great- one more thing to stress about.)

So, uh, this is the last day to lemme know your guesses for The Monkey's weight and gender! I've been receiving them via Facebook, text, and in person...overwhelmingly, people feel that the baby will be a girl and under 7lbs.

So I'm gonna go on record and say BOY, 7lbs, 13oz.

P.J. thinks it's a dude as well, but he's sticking with 7lbs, 10oz- which is very The Price Is Right of him.

My youngest sister is thinking Girl, 5lbs, 8oz. Because a) she was a preemie and a twin, and b) she has not, in recent memory, hefted a full term infant.

My Dad thinks it's a boy. My Mom, to counter that, is going with Girl. Even though she really thinks it's a boy. (Especially since she made gorgeous wooden letters for the baby's name- both gender options, in fact- but really likes how the boy name came out.)

So I'm curious what YOU think. Again, I can promise you nothing but my undying impressitude and bragging rights on a blog of medium publication. Oooh.

And I'll seeya Wednesday for a [blissfully] wordless post. And probably something exuberantly drugged on Thursday.

Plan accordingly.

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.

Someone Bring Me A Dustmop. Or A Pillow.

Putting on brass knuckles.

I should not be left to my own devices.

This includes all of the times where Nora is napping, I am caught up on household dirtiness, writing deadlines are breezed through, and P.J. is off doing something P.J.-like (i.e., watching Mad Men, showering, or building a door frame).

What, you ask? There are times when all of these forces align and you find yourself with free pockets of the day, gaps of the afternoon and/or early evening where you should go rest/shower and instead you fill in the blanks with the busywork of the insane?

Yep.

For I am in that final stretch of pregnancy. Even though I'm crazily floppy-headed exhausted, I get these bizarre and fleeting bursts of energy...and they're devious. They whisper things to me like- Launder The Bassinet Bedding. Again.

Do The Laundry Even Though There Are Only Four Pairs Of Socks And Some Pajama Pants In The Hamper.

Stack The Tupperware- Even Though It'll Make No Difference By Tomorrow Evening, As You Are The Only One Who Even Realizes Tupperware Can (And Should) Be Stacked.

Revise Your Will And Leave Heartfelt Notes For Your Husband/Daughter/Unborn Child. (Oh, that's right. It just got real.)

Nowhere on these mental lists o' crazy is the ever-popular Go To Bed Early or Read A Chapter Of That Dashiell Hammett Collection You've Been Digging. Because those would be nice, relaxing things for me, the orca of a pregnant woman. No no, the tasks that will be completed are for the people who will have to show up when I go into labor at 3am. Or passersby peeking through the window and judging the state of affairs. Perhaps the panel of judges who will apparently be white-gloving my mantel. WHICH I DO NOT YET HAVE. (Peej- this weekend? Build us a mantel. Put it somewhere the judges will see it.)

And I do realize- in a very small part of my rational being- that alllll of this stuff is aversion to the mind-numbing fear I have that, even though I successfully did all this before and am well on my way to raising an actual member of society, I shall fail to do so this time around. Or fail to do it as well. I am not sure which would be worse.

There's also a good chance that I am feeling feelings about each and every twinge, pop, twist, kick, and parry currently going on from the region beginning mid-thigh and ending juuust below my clavicle. As I have never been in labor (true) and have no such plans to do so any time in the near future (double true), each instance that indicates any sort of progress towards any sort of active birth sends me running for the Swiffer.

And before anyone feels the need to triple reassure me that I am fine, the baby will be fine, and the house will be fine...I really do know this. I do. That's what makes my insanity all the more funny. Cognizance.

And on THAT note, anyone wanna place your bets on this kid? I'm going to start it off with 20lbs flat, with a length of at least 37 inches- per octopus leg. As we're fairly certain that this child will be delivered on the morning of October 4th, you really don't have to feel compelled to guess a date. And I can't promise anything to the winner except for perhaps AN AWESOME SHOUT-OUT and/or a pack of Mickey Mouse stickers.

If Nora's cool with sharing.

On second thought, she might suggest that the warm, contented glow of victory should be enough for you.

She really digs her stickers.

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.

Baby Brunches And Potential Rodents

How is it Monday already?

Oh right, because the term formerly referred to as "weekend" has been replaced by "super-sonic crazyfest." Aka "summer."

Zumba behind us!

This past crazyfest was especially lovely, as my big sis Kate was in town to boss me around- er- make sure everything got done before The Monkey had his/her arrival. She even threw me (and The Monkey) a sweet brunch at Selmarie in Lincoln Square and hosted a few wonderful friends! Some highlights:

-My salmon scramble.
-The party favor coffee mugs- which I have yet to stop using for every single beverage.
-The enclosed biscottis...brand name THINaddictives. Wundy product. RIDICULOUSLY wundy name.
-Watching the blue-haired flash mob Zumba in the square. "Watching" it.
-Vintage shopping with Kate and convincing her of the necessity of items.

I NEED this.

She was also a massive help getting stuff sorted for the upcoming neighborhood yard sale- for which I have an embarrassing amount of stuff to contribute- and clearing out the rec room downstairs. Which has been a major wish list project for me. For I am a-nestin'. And by "rec room" I mean "musty old apartment second kitchen which has not been not been a functional KITCHEN for years but is in fact a fully operational storage unit." (For the kids playing along at home, do not attempt to turn a multi-unit into a single family home. It is NOT whimsical. It is not.)

Home sweet home.
Also, I am a boat.

She and Peej were a two-person demolition crew for the mammoth Formica island and skinny shelving unit...which- inexplicably- was cemented to the floor. That's right, someone had filled the base of the shelf with cement. And cemented it atop the ceramic tile. And for good measure, they drilled into the tile floor to hold it in place. The countertop, however, was just gently laying on top of the base. No screws, no glues, just hanging out. And when they ripped out the base and- miraculously- chipped away the cement without hurting the tile, what was left was...water damage from the recent monsoon. Underneath the window. Also, a large hole left by gaping baseboards/wavy drywall. (And we all know how I feel about rodent entry points. Psychotically against.) So, uh, the yard sale stuff is all sorted and most of the rec room is neatly organized.

And I'm waiting on a few calls from contractors. (And I'm taking referrals, Chicago peeps.)

But still, it was fabulous to have a sibling in town for the past 48 hours.

Even though I think my fam's gonna stop returning my calls soon.

And no baby classes this time, either!

A good friend of ours (and neighbor! Like real people who have neighbor friends!) recently lent me his copies of Brain Age 2 and The Curious Village for the Nintendo DS. This is timely. As someone who cannot for a day lapse on the staving off o' dementia, not to mention the much-debated Preggo Brain ('cause as much as I hate to rely on hormonal excuses, I showed up for work last month sans diapers and/or milk. For a  ten hour day!), I need all the help I can get.

Also, I recently remembered that I possessed a Nintendo DS. My friend Nat gave it to me back in the day (pre marriage/pre baby/pre homestead/post brunch- sigh) and I had hidden it in a fit of traumatic guilt after I had accidentally starved my Nintendog to death. (Maybe they should TELL you that, even though the game is powered off, the dog is still requiring food and rolling about in his own filth!)

I'm sorry, Nat. I didn't want you to find out this way.

So, yes. Brain teasers.

Apparently I have the Brain Age of an 82 year old. (This is the truest thing I've ever typed- it literally came up as "Uh...82. The ideal Brain Age is 20!" Yeah? So is body type, but you don't see me fretting that one.)

And sure, maybe the perfect time to try out new software/test the ol' brain is NOT at 10:30pm, in jammies, under the covers, pretending that one's husband is pretending to not drool on one's shoulder. (See, kids? The awesome does not have to fully stop after your childless twenties! Just most of it!)

I promise to give it another go. I'm clearly a work in progress as, just this morning while emptying the dishwasher, I put my full coffee mug away in the cabinet.

And I realize that I haven't posted about this pregnancy as much as I had with Nora, formerly known as The Bitsy. And yes, I also realize that it would be impossible to fill as many self-absorbed tomes as I did with my first pregnancy ("No one else has ever had an ultrasound like this"/"Turns out heartburn is REAL"/I've decided to go BPA-free...and I'm the first one, ever").

But seriously, what do we really know about this kid, other than his/her birthdate (October 4th), penchant for cured/processed meats (liverwurst and microwaved salami- breakfast of champions), and facial features (just like Nora's and P.J.'s- shocking)?

Okay, not much.

But the stuff I know I really like. I have less fear this time. (Which is an absolutely asinine thing to say- anyone who's ever even been around a kid knows that you should never lose your terror, ever.) However, the things that used to send me for the baby manual, nurse's hotline, and sister's cell in the middle of the night (sorry, Kate), doesn't freak me out so much anymore.

Crippling nausea? Take a box of Triscuits to bed. (It also discourages any pesky cuddle time.)

Peeing every hour on the hour? Nope- not bladder cancer. Just regular ol' pee. Sometimes there's nothing even there! (Oh, HAH.)

Kid kicking way too much at 3am? No, she/he's not trying to tell me that something is horribly wrong with the umbilical cord (I was a mess, this I realize). It's just the kid's way of saying hullo, thanks for the soft tacos.

Perhaps this knowledge combined with the fact that we are not rebuilding a foreclosure in the 7th month this pregnancy also helps with my feelings of well-being. I'm not [too] garishly huge [yet], my cravings are still whimsical, and this new kid already has multiple places in which to sleep once he or she makes a grand arrival.

I like The Monkey a lot.

So does Nora, but she fully believes that her sibling is already here, in the form of my swelling tummy. That's right, she kisses "the baby" and pats him/her, and believes that is that is that. Sibling rivalry NOTHING. Having a baby is easy when it makes no sound and requires no additional attention from her parents. Mainly Dad. Which is good. Status quo is awesome.

I don't foresee any major obstacles, do you?

No change needed, here!

Monkey in the middle...of my bladder.

An Open Letter To My As-Yet Unborn Baby...

(Whom My Mother Thinks We've Found Out The Gender Of...)

(But No, We're Still Waiting To Be Surprised...)

(Even Though I Kinda Think You're A Little Girl...)

(But Look How Accurate My Psychic Prowess Turned Out During The Last Pregnancy...)

(When We Had Your Sister- A Girl. And Not A Boy.)

(I Really Hafta Learn To Condense Before I'm In Charge Of Your Baby Book.)

Hi, little baby. You're 13 ounces humongo now. I do not have hopes that you will be some sort of giant or giantess, as your Dad is of average height (note: never refer to a guy as "short," even if you know a lot of tall people. Not if you really like him, anyway) and I'm just happy to have cleared Nana Alice's lofty 4'11". As for your sister, she's the original Thumbelina.

We had your 20 week appointment today and you did great! We're going back next week for an actual profile shot and some back measurements, but I don't really mind. And sure, you rebelled at the prodding and poking and stress (I did too, but less obviously) by covering your face with your hands. I know this move. I invented this move. We will be friends.

Okay, turn your head to the side. Pretend the thing in the middle
is someone kissing a photocopier. Lips and nose. Crazy, right?

Right now you're breech- but you know what? Your sis was, too. And we think she's just the coolest. And I totally get why we could only get an eyeful of one foot at a time. Stretching is important. So are Pilates. The Flying Wallenda thing you've been doing during the day could use a breather, but I'm not a stifler. Be free! Kick my spleen...but only if it makes you Happy. And if the spleen Treats You Well. (The Money Will Come.)

I want to apologize for the crazy amount of heat we ingested two nights ago. Your Dad and I were celebrating with insanely good Thai food- and I guess I got a little carried away, what with the superpower you've given me of being immune to chilies. (Usually after curry I look like a bad Botox patient with emphysema. (You don't know what either of those are. May you never.) Regardless, I was tempted, it was delicious, and you showed your displeasure with Swiss timepiece-like precision throughout the wee hours of the morning. Point to you, shorty. The bladder action was particularly devious...although that could have easily been on me, what with the pitcher of water I consumed between each of the seven courses. 

Speaking of food, do you like liverwurst or do you just like making me eat amounts of it for which even a puppy would feel shame? Either way, we're not slowing. And the shame has yet to come.

The best shadow puppet bird I have EVER seen.

A note- that voice that you hear at night? The one that gets way up close to where [we guess] your head is and sings/speaks soothingly/snores? That's your Dad. He loves you. And you, for your part, already have his mouth. Surprise, surprise. Though, if I had to wager, you've also already got my temper. Speaking of your sister, she's the one with the bossy sentences and emphatic labeling tendencies. Her voice is much higher pitched and also much louder- but that last part is because of her constant proximity to your face. [We guess.] She loves you, too, and tells you this constantly through my bellybutton...but at this point, she actually believes that you are the bellybutton. So we'll gently ease her into this new role, shall we? For now, I hope you like the stickers and murmured choruses of "rockabee."

Sleep well tonight, Monkey. I promise to quit rolling around so much...if you do, too.

Kicky Joe.

I love you more than all of the liverwurst and pickles in the world (and other stuff that non-crazy people like as well) and can't wait to kiss your button nose.

If you'll ever let me see it.