She Sure Does Love Cheese, Doesn't She?

Every Chicagoan know where I am and what I'm holding.
(Also, thanks to Instagram, I can be as orange as the cheese!)

I have a confession.

I was not in Chicago this weekend. P.J., Nora, and Susannah were...but I was not. My wonderful husband actually sent me away (muttering something about house-related post traumatic stress, tightly wound, and something something- finish your book).

No one knew about this plan. I hadn't told anyone because a) I was feeling incredibly guilty about running off, and b) up until 6pm on Friday night, I wasn't even sure I was going to go.

Because Zuzu and I had never been apart. And Nora was used to the way things were. And it was unfair for Peej to have to shoulder one hundred percent of the meals, kid-wranglin', and housiness on his lonesome. (On his weekend. I mean, dude has a job, too.) I didn't want to be away from them; and not just in a "this is how things have to be" way. It's no secret that I'm madly in love with my husband. And that my kids make me deliriously happy (and sometimes just delirious). I like to be with them.

But, P.J.'s as stubborn as he is altruistic. So, at 6pm on Friday evening, I hopped into the car to drive up to East Troy, Wisconsin. It was pouring. I missed them already. And I was crying and pretending I wasn't crying and then yelling at myself for crying, and then crying because I hate to be yelled at.

It occurred to me that I had never done this before; drive off by myself to spend a weekend with no one else. That struck me as absurd. I'm 32 years old. I've never traveled without a boyfriend or friend or family member, ever? Ever ever?

So I stopped crying.

A little under two hours later, I arrived at The Pickwick Inn- a gorgeous Victorian b&b- and checked myself into the Louisa May Alcott room. ('Cause every room was named for a literary figure. Books n' books n' books were everywhere in the house. My heart felt happy.) My room featured a carved bed. Period decor. A chandelier that filled me with love/envy. And a double jacuzzi ALL FOR ME.

I'm not gonna lie- I stood in the room just staring around for roughly ten minutes. Seriously, ten minutes. There was no one to feed, nothing to unpack, no potty breaks to enforce, no bedtime routine to start...and I forgot how to function. So I moved my possessions around the room a few times. Took a bath (while furtively watching for anyone to burst in and tell me this was a big ol' joke). Found wine coolers in the hallway mini fridge. Read one of the [4!] books I had packed. Called P.J. twice. (Was told twice by P.J. to go to bed.) Read some more. And slept. I slept alone, with nothing and no one to answer for; no nursing sessions, no weird sounds, no street fights or sirens, and no reason to get out of bed until breakfast the following morning. (So of course I woke up four times in the night to just make sure everything was cool.)

I woke up in the same room, with everything I owned still right where I had left it. I had forgotten how nice it could be to get dressed and ready for the day by myself, first thing. But I soon remembered. And I went to downstairs to a gourmet breakfast that seriously blew me out of the water. Blueberry stuffed French toast. Peach cobbler. Egg and sausage frittata. Fruit n' bacon n' more coffee than I could consume in a week. (But I sure tried.) I met lovely people and had even lovelier conversations.

And then? Oh, then- it was time to write. P.J. had sent me off to finish my book- the book that had been looming over my head ever since interest was expressed in it (when Zu was a whopping three weeks old). And I'd tried, really I had, to work on it almost every single day. But things happened, like sick kids and visitors and sewer pipe implosions. The weight of this unfinished book was sucking all of the air out of my summer with the kids; I wanted to be their focused Mom again, not just some crazy person who would whip out a laptop or a scrap of paper every time they napped or ate a meal or sat down for a moment.

So I wrote. I wrote for four and a half hours straight. I wrote out on a beautiful screened-in porch, with the soft breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass to soothe me. (And to counteract the bucket of coffee I'd consumed.) Walking into town for a quick break, I felt like I was in a screenplay. Or the heroine at the beginning of an Americana novel. (It was awesome.) The waitress at the diner complimented my shoes and asked what brought me here.

"I'm a writer. I'm writing a book." (And the best part is- on that day it was totally the truth.)

And then I went back to the inn and wrote for another four straight hours, stopping at dusk to drive to a nearby dockside restaurant (and have the absolute slowest service yet the absolute yummiest ahi tuna wrap this side of anywhere). I came back after 9pm and wrote for another hour and a half. Then- and I'm not gonna lie- I had another wine cooler. And another bath. And devoured a Sookie Stackhouse novel.

I still missed my babies. And felt- as I always do when P.J. isn't beside me at night- like there was a Peej-sized hole in the bed. But I slept deeply (excepting the mandatory four times I woke up to check on the room).

Breakfast the next morning was even better than the previous day's. And even though I needed to check out at 11am, the owners welcomed me to stay and finish my book on the porch. (Finish my book? Heck, I was ready to finish my summer with these amazingly sweet people.)

So I set up camp on the porch for the next three hours. And you know what? I finished that book. (Here's the best part; I actually think it's pretty good. This will probably change. Because it's most likely just the "well-rested" part of me speaking.)

Inordinately proud of myself, I took a winding drive home, stopping in Geneva to (among other things) buy a McCoy strawberry cookie jar that I cannot live without. And no trip to Wisconsin would be complete without a jaunt to the Mars Cheese Castle (amiright?) for some cheese curds. (And maybe the best liverwurst sandwich that I've ever had, which would include all of the ones that I mainlined during both pregnancies. That's a good processed meat sandwich.)

I felt like a new person. Or maybe like me, but happier. I sang/screamed along to the radio and didn't even change the channel when Jon Secada came on. "YOU KNOW WHAT," I yelled to myself, "WE'RE JUST GONNA LET THIS ONE PLAY OUT." Because when you're in a mood that good, few artists (aside from Stabbing Westward or Mazzy Star) are gonna kill that buzz.

Peej got a happier wife back (along with some butterscotch root beer and a six pack of Spotted Cow).  The girls got a calmer mother (along with some vintage jewelry and buttons shaped like flowers). And cheese curds, too. There were still some cheese curds left.

I feel normal again. Or, rather, maybe not normal. Because "normal" people don't get gifts like this all too often, nor do they get to return home to the very things they'd missed, and keep on doing the stuff they love, surrounded by people who inspire them.

And sometimes it takes a wonderful weekend away to realize all that.

The cheese curds don't hurt, either.

On The Road Again. (Seriously?)

Whee!

So what does a pack of Schoenies do when they find themselves without a houseguest and/or crazy weekend plans? They get outta Dodge. For 24 hours. (Which, some folks might speculate would create a ton of work on the part of the two people packing/planning/toting the toddler...but any time I don't have to clean the kitchen after a meal is a good excuse for a trip. Unless you count the mad dash cleaning immediately prior and the post-return explosion of last night. Saving me...a lunch cleanup, I guess. Sigh.)

Best behaviors. 

Anyway, we jaunted up to Oconomowoc, WI (land of many summering Schoenies) and stayed at The Inn At Pine Terrace. Gorgeous. Also, they don't take children- ha ha. But somehow P.J. worked his P.J. Magic (not at all like P.J. Sparkles, mind you) and convinced them that our mannerly beastie would be a better guest than his cranky hippo of a wife.

Royalty.

Obviously, we stopped at the Mars Cheese Castle. (I cannot resist dill and garlic cheese curds. Nor their recently completed castle with actual turrets.) And sure, we may have stopped at an antique emporium. Which- if you've never attempted with a toddler in tow- I highly encourage!

Nora napped on the short drive up and thusly allowed us to skip the whole "waiting in the hotel room for your kid to awaken" part of the journey. Which was great because, as I said, we only had 24 hours. Like that show. Only there were definite bathroom breaks in our program.

Serious bear puzzle action.

We had lunch at The Depot, which had the perk of humongo train cars blazing by the windows every so often. P.J. and Nora thought that was great. Also, the chocolate chip cookies. But there was no time to dawdle, so we went to the public beach (and had more snacks.) Now, being from MA, I had always found the idea of lakes "charming," read: "where's the salt?" (Actually, that's pretty much how I view everything.) But since I married a Midwestern boy, I've truly come to appreciate a nice lake. Or a Great Lake. The small one we visited was super clean, warm as anything, and even came with a set of ridiculously strict lifeguards. Actual mega-phoned directives: "Please only front crawl to the floating pier," "No piggy back rides," "The ladder is only for climbing up," "Get the seaweed off of the pier," and "Beach balls are for beyond the rope only." Seriously. Now, the drunken teens smashing volleyballs into Nora's beach blanket...carry on. Because they were friends with the lifeguards. But whatever.

Ruffle bum.

And there was a playground mere feet from where we had been swimming. Which is always cool. Unless you have any desire to remain in the water with your toddler, in which case- sorry 'bout your luck. Because the chorus of "IclimbIclimbIclimbIclimbIclimb" will soon start up like you've got your very own Rain Main/acrobat/Rhesus monkey amalgamation in a ruffled swimmie.

Eventually we had to head back to the Inn to remove some of the sand from Nora's body (and it was mostly successful) so we could have a nice din at Spinnaker's in the center of town. And aside from the fact that Nora was completely exhausted and only ate half of one mozzarella stick alongside the tomatoes from my salad, we all had a fine meal. The server warned me, however, that the lid from Nora's milk might fall off so I'd want to "watch her" and that the mozz sticks were really hot so I'd want to cut them and wait a minute. Which was nice, considering I'd just met Nora. (But, as P.J. pointed out, it's better than having a server not give a damn.)

When we got back to the room, N.J. fell asleep [mostly] without incident, although she did question the Inn's playpen in the corner of our room as sleeping quarters. I told her it was just like a Pack n' Play but BIGGER! It also made me seriously miss the days of playpens. And once N was asleep, Peej and I were free to...play cards in the solarium. Have tea on wicker chairs. Name two constellations before agreeing that it would be rad to fall asleep. Which we did- happily- until Nora woke up freaked out about something or other and climbed into bed with us. And then she happily slept while her parents slept the sleep of having a shifting boulder between themselves.

Terabithia.

The next morning was a little rainy, so we drove over to the Honeybee Museum (obvie)- which...was closed until noon. Ha ha! But they had some sweet trails that we explored for a few as the sun began to come out. There was even a bridge, so Nora was ecstatic.

And yes, maybe we stopped at another antique store on the way out of town.

Lunch was a mandatory stop by The Kiltie, a carhop diner, where- if I hadn't been a newly diagnosed diabetic- I would have given myself sugar shock with their lime malt. After which I named my old, beloved, and stolen bike Limey. (That's right, I named my bike after a malt. Take a sec to let all of those facts sink in.)

Donesville.

And then Nora dozed on the drive back. It was a good time. A quick time. But sometimes you've really just got to spend an overnight in Wisconsin.

Sometimes, when I hear the things I say, I even shock myself.

Cheese Royalty.

The Cheese Queen & Princess.

Our toes are just beginning to thaw, I've got a shelf full of vintage treasures, and I found a cheese curd in my pocket.

We've safely made it back from Wisconsin.

Now, back in the old days, way before I was married to a Midwesterner and was simply a gal from the 413, I couldn't have differentiated between Wisconsin and Iowa on a map. Really. Granted, I'm kinda terrible at geography, but in Massachusetts (a puzzle piece of a state so teensy that you could step back, squint your eyes and pinch it from across the room) all of those states Over There are kind of one big nebulous corn (or cheese) borderin' square. Even the ones that are decidedly not squares.

But I married a Schoeny. And to a Schoeny (or Verkamp, to be fair), Wisconsin is a Narnia/Disneyland combo of epic summer proportions. (And yes, that's 'summer' as a verb.) And I was wholly unconvinced. Until the summer of '07 when, as a fresh-faced fiancée, I accompanied P.J. to a week of family togetherness in neighboring lake houses.

I kayaked every day- at least three times. I pretended to swim- in the way I do that's not actual swimming (I don't even know if I can anymore)- even though I still do not care for the feel of lake bottom on any part of my being. I rode the well-loved and oft-lamented oldie bike Limey. (With our hoodies and bare feet, Peej and I could have been just another two kiddos at camp.) I ate fresh produce and more cheese than was wise. We had bonfires and bottles of wine on the dock, went stargazing and yard-saling. Fireworks were viewed from boats. I found a cove that I pretended to have discovered (though, in all honesty, I do this all over the world.)

In short, I dug the place.

So this past weekend, when we were invited to spend time with P.J.'s Mom, sister and nephew (the guy born just five days before Nora), we were stoked to take our little Bitsy up North.

It was a little colder than it had been a few summers ago- but it just gave me an excuse to break out the baby hats with animal ears. And sure, Nora's lunch one afternoon consisted of me feeding her leftover pizza in the backseat of our car...but I know she had a good time.

The kids attempted to toddle in a pumpkin patch. They crawled on piers (and each other). They shared pack n' play time, all of their toys, and more than a few of their germs (Sorry, Dor.) The grownups shared lovely meals, crisp Fall afternoons, and a spin in the sauna. (I could have happily slept there.)

And we got to go antiquing- one of those clichéd activities that women supposedly love and men are obligated to grumble about. But it's true- I love poking around antique and vintage stores. P.J....tolerates them. Nora thinks they're awesome, but sadly, they do not feel the same way about her. So yesterday, Peej gave me the most fabulous of gifts- he took Nora to go visit some family friends in town...and left me to chill at an antique emporium FOR AN HOUR. (I actually teared up. And my heart palpitated with excitement. Seriously. I've so rarely felt that fondly about another human being.)

And it was great. Overpriced as heck, but great. Especially since I found The Find of All Finds.

Lemme take you back a little- back when I was a kid, I loved having tea parties and using fancy glasses and plates. My mother- possessing a fabulous assortment of such pieces (not to mention the patience required of a mother to a fancy child) let me use these lovely things for special occasions. She also let me arrange her cabinets and ooh and ahh over the very fanciest. (I LOVE to arrange fancy things. Have you seen my dining room? Or living room? Or- heck, the upstairs?)

But there was a set of glassware that trumped everything else. Frosted Libbey iced tea glasses, all with a different brightly-colored carousel animal. A green and black zebra, chartreuse lion, reddish orange giraffe, yellow lion, pink elephant, teal deer...and a red pony. I loved the red pony best- loved it. And I would use these with all of the reverence and care of the queen's finest china.

Until the day that I dropped and broke one.

And it was the red pony.

I cried and cried. I don't even remember my mother being angry with me- I think she knew how heartbroken I was, and that it was an awful punishment to never again be able to hold that wonderful glass. And we moved on (somehow) and she even promised me the set to keep way down the road.

But now, here I was in the antique emporium.

Looking at the red pony on a frosted carousel glass.

And yes, there was also a blue tiger, an orange and tan pony, a pink and red elephant, and an orange and black zebra (how many did they make?)- but I am not even the littlest bit ashamed to admit that I wept in the middle of a Wisconsin antique store. And I called my mother. She was excited (but really, I don't think my level of excitement can be topped by anyone, ever.) And I finally feel like I have atoned for the horrible crime I committed back when I was eight years old.

And I have my red pony back.

Best. Trip. Ever.

And sure, we took a long overdue trip to the Mars Cheese Castle (it is a CASTLE MADE OF CHEESE- you cannot ever begin to convince me differently) and I felt like royalty with my bag of cheese curds...

...but seriously? The trip was made when I found that glass.

For two dollars and fifty cents. The one item in the store not marked for a hundred bucks.

Making it an act of Fate.

Or maybe an act of Wisconsin.