3 Year Olds Have A Lot Of Ever-Changing Rules.

The Scene: Our kitchen table. Midday. 

(Nora -3- and Susannah -1- are sitting at the table and eating lunch, mostly without incident.)

Nora: Mom, let's play an imagination game.

(Keely has a brief moment where she imagine all of the creative, Montessori-like professionals giving her a high-five.)

Keely: Sure. What do you want to play?
Nora: Let's talk to each other. With our imaginations.
Keely: That sounds awesome. Can I start?

(Keely presses her fingers to her temples and grins at Nora. Nora looks utterly confused.)

Nora: No, Mommy, with our imaginations.

(Keely is crestfallen that her kid wasn't talking about telepathy. Nora rolls her eyes.)

Nora: I'll start, Mom.

(Keely waits. Nora stares at Keely, blankly. Susannah, mildly interested, watches as she mangles a sandwich.)

I have no idea what's going on, either.

Keely: Okay...?
Nora (angrily): NO. MOM. WITH OUR IMAGINATIONS.
Keely (with an accent): Has anyone seen my baby cat?
Nora: MOMMY.
Keely: I'm imagining that I'm calling my friend Nora on a banana phone-
Nora: Imagination Talking is quiet, Mom.

(Nora mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key. Susannah- thrilled that she knows this one- also mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key. Keely is confused, yet pleased that her daughter had been talking about telepathy. Keely patiently waits for Nora to do something besides stare at her with disappointment.)

Nora: Mom.
Keely: Can you help me with Imagination Talking, baby girl?
Nora (sighs): Let's just eat our lunch.

(Susannah nods and takes a bite.)

Aaaand scene. 

The Perfect Day (Doesn't Exist).

"No, please, tell me more about your Plan For The Day."

Some mornings I wake up with A Plan. And I know exactly how the day will unfold:

I'll finally finish that scene. That one that's kinda holding back the progress of this, the latest draft of twenty for this godforsaken play, and it will All Make Sense. (The success of this show, of course, will catapult me into crazy Financial Comfort. Because let's be honest: I really don't want fame. I'm way too tired for that. I want a nap. A nap in a super nice [yet well within our means] bed. Dream big, Flynn.)

The knowledge that I've done something Artistic and Useful will really free me up to examine our home and all of the ways which I've [oh-so recently] been neglecting the heck outta it. Kitchen floors will be devoid of crumbs and whatever that thing in the corner by the table is. At least for an hour.

Obviously, the ability to balance a creative endeavor and maintain a non-filthy home will pave the way for what I really want for this day- and all of my days- I will be an Awesome Mom. Books and art projects and snacks that aren't from week-old car seat Ziplocs. My daughters will hold my hands as we dance to totally appropriate music and snuggle on the [completely cat hair-free] couch.

My husband and I, drunk on the knowledge that we're raising superb people in a relatively clean environment, will share Grownup Conversations and Meaningful Moments. (And be snoozing by 9pm.)

Doesn't that sound like a wicked terrific day?

I think about that imaginary day at 8:20am, by which time I've already said things like "Is that what we do with fried eggs?" and pried the younger child's leg from the freezer door. An hour later the script stares me in the face, taunting me with its lack of definition and overabundance of run on sentences. (Are you shocked?) This, of course, could all be due to the fact that I'm sitting on my knees on the kitchen chair, attempting to avoid touching crusts of Floor Bread with my socks.

And moments later, when a smallish person asks for help removing fitted sheets from her sister's wonky dresser drawer, I manage the pull the entire thing down on my own foot, crushing my pinky toe into unsympathetic oblivion. (Because really- who gives a darn about someone else's pinky toe, regardless of its future inability to be used? Ever.)

But while I'm down on the floor, wondering how the crime scene investigator will piece together the circumstances of my demise...the baby hands me a book. And then backs up into me, seating herself on my lap with nary a glance, absolutely certain that I'll be there to catch her diapered bum.

And so I read to her. And she looks at me like I'm magic.

Which is all I really wanted out of this day, anyhow.

Give 'Em Some Wigs And They're Practically Barristers.

This is what happened the other day.

Here is the story behind it. 

They were playing so nicely- so nicely- the kind of playing where they actually held hands and spun and sang made-up language songs and I felt- if only for a moment- that we were rather Von Trapp-ish. 

And in that moment, I decided to put away some laundry I had been folding. Specifically towels. Their destination was less than five feet away. But here's the rub...those "five feet" were around a corner and down a short hallway. 

As soon as my back was turned, Nora- because, really, it must've been Nora, right? Zuzu is a foot and a half high- climbed a shelf, retrieved a gigantic bottle of baby powder, and powdered her sister. In the face. And the room. In its face. 

Remember that part of Amelia Bedelia where Mrs. Rogers asks her to "dust the furniture" and Amelia throws a bucket of dust all up in that joint? (Also- remember when she had to "draw the drapes?" I still chuckle about that one, occasionally. Mostly late at night when I have trouble falling asleep. Sketching curtains! Amazing.) Anyhow. The furniture was "dusted." Susannah's two monkeys were dusted. The crib and stuffed animals and rocking snail and area rug and humidifier and a small stack of books were dusted. 

Their expressions when I walked back in- and let's remember, this dance party went down in under two minutes- were the stuff of daguerreotypes. Alarmed children frozen in time. (Covered in powder.) Nora looked unsure of how to best play this. Zuzu looked guilty and immediately repentant, like the good little Catholic that she is. 

"These things happen, Mom," Nora assured me. "It's okay to be sad for a minute." 

I got the vacuum. The girls screamed, because- Mother Of The Year that I am- they so rarely see a vacuum in play that they actively fear it. But I turned the thing on and attempted to get most of the powder. And I did- briefly. Until the back end of the vacuum exploded, coating everything on the first floor with a fine sheen of baby powder. (Did I mention that I had mopped earlier that morning? I had mopped earlier that morning.) 

I bathed Zu. Twice. (Nora, miraculously, didn't have a speck of powder on her. SUSPICIOUS.)   

The haze of powder in Susannah's room was so thick that it looked like a [sweet-smelling] London morning. Thankfully it was a 70 degree day in Chicago- since we've obliterated the planet- so I could open her windows and crank her ceiling fan. I wiped and scrubbed and vacuumed and laundered. 

Two days later, the first floor still smells like baby powder.  Two baths later, so does Susannah. 

And every time she lets out a little kitten sneeze, I'm sure that she's got the Black [White?] Lung. But as Nora tells me- It's okay to be sad for a minute. Besides, in Zuzu's relatively short life...

...She's definitely smelled worse. 

Sick Day/Night/Weekend.

...And then there are the nights when your youngest child wakes up simply covered from head to toe in vomit. (And you fail to realize this for a goodly ten minutes, seeing as you and your husband- both hanging out on different floors- thought that the other one got her. This, in particular, makes you feel like a special kind of monster.)

When you [finally] see your drenched, shivering, and horrifically smelling one year-old, you are rendered completely immobilized. I mean, you'd still take a bullet in the eye for the kid but, like, someone should really pick her up, right?

So you do. (Every other hour for the next two nights.) And you bathe and scrub and change your freaked-out, chilled, and exhausted baby. And attempt to rock her back to sleep...when she vomits down the front of your shirt. (A lot.) So you and your husband play that game of Pass The Baby Back And Forth Until Every Layer On Us And The Kid Is Puke-Free. (It takes a while.) It gets later and later. And you watch her temperature spike to 103.9 and her eyes go all glassy. (Your husband reports this from the floor where he face-planted at roughly 4am on the second night.)

The next morning your three year-old asks for something to drink and you become irrationally angry at her.

You realize that all three of your writing deadlines have skipped merrily by and there's no way you'll play catch-up before Monday morning. You cry along with the sick baby and the confused pre-schooler. (Your husband doesn't cry, but he's very good at keeping those things in check.)

By now it's Sunday and there's no way your doctor can see her that day- but he's "concerned." So he sends you to a Minute Clinic over at CVS. You bundle your toddler who- come on, really just fell asleep?- and drag her out into the 20 degree afternoon. Your sleepy and magenta-faced baby smiles at you via the rearview mirror and your status as a monster has absolutely been clinched.

You get to the clinic. There's a line around the corner of hacking, sobbing children. You debate getting a bucket of leeches and heading home to take care of this thing yourself. But then your youngest starts moaning and shivering again so you check in at the counter. And find out that they can't see your kid because she's fifteen months old. And they only see eighteen months and up.

The next place will see her. In two hours, they pleasantly inform you. Or, as their doctor suggests, you should really just take her to the ER. Would the [shaking] baby like a cookie while you wait? (You do not wait.)

You weigh your options at this point: taking her to the emergency room (and paying out a fair piece of her college tuition) and potentially waiting for multiple hours with horrifically sick people...or trying one more clinic (for a lesser co-pay and perhaps more immediate attention).

You try one more clinic. They tell you that a) they can see her now and b) they'll accept your insurance. Maybe. Because the server is down and you'll have to pay $110 out pocket and see about reimbursement on Monday. You mentally bang your head against the window and sign anyway. (With one arm. The other is wrangling your now-perky toddler. (Come ON.)

Finally, they say they can see "Savannah." You correct them. They nod and smile. They take her temperature- which has gone down considerably in the past three hours of transit. You're happy for your daughter's brain- maybe the sub-zero temps were good for her system?- but more than a little ticked that this happened after you slid the AmEx across the counter.

She tests negative for the flu. (Twice.) Same for ear infections. Same for pneumonia. The test for strep will be back in 48 hours. Just a virus, most likely! Then her temperature starts spiking again (and you feel validated and immediately hate yourself for it) and they prescribe a strict regiment of dosing the bejesus out of her.

That night, her temp holds steady at a pleasant 102 degrees and she deliriously attempts to walk from your face to your husband's between the hours of midnight and six a.m. (You and your husband calculate that you've gotten an hour and half of sleep between the two of you. Since Friday night.)

The next morning, the baby's fever is slightly lower and you feel reassured that flesh-eating bacteria has not succeeded in eating your kid's brain stem. This lasts until your husband kisses the kiddo goodbye and she spews all over him. (This makes no one happy.)

So you take your baby into her actual doctor where he expresses concern over how sick this child is. He runs some more tests. Lets her play with the stethoscope. (She's such a happy baby, isn't she? ...Usually.) Determines that she has strep throat, which is "extraordinary" for this age. You inform your baby that she's extraordinary. She takes it in stride.

Same with the antibiotics. And the next dose of Motrin. And some juice. And a frightening portion of the foodstuffs in the pantry cabinet.

You determine the rest of the day to be a movie-watching, blanket tent-making day. Where the blanket "tent" is really just a towel thrown across the floor. The baby takes this news well. So does the [largely neglected] three year-old.

Everyone is [kinda] happy.

Except that you've now this persistent little ache in the back of your throat...

Crummy Crumbies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This worries you.

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

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

Oh, this is not helping.

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

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

At least you look perky while doing it.

Mother Of The Year, Milkshake Edition.

I got this.

On the eve of Birthday Weekend (P.J.'s birthday, followed by Nora's birthday party, followed by Nora's actual birthday), I decided to take the whole fam out for milkshakes. It was a Friday evening, I had already baked a gazillion and two cupcakes, and Peej happens to think milkshakes are the answer to everything. It was an obvious choice.

We went to Margie's Candies, a pretty durned famous Chicago institution of Ice Cream Awesome. We got a booth. Who cared that it was painfully close to bedtime or that it was positively frigid outside? WE WERE CELEBRATING.

I decided to forgo my usual coconut sundae in favor of a seasonal pumpkin shake (which turned out to be a wise move because of its sheer deliciosity). P.J. stuck with his trusty chocolate malt. And Nora, after a solid half hour of chanting StrawberryMilkshakeStrawberryMilkshake at us, panicked when the waiter asked her what she wanted.

"Vanilla! No, I don't want vanilla! Strawberry! Did I say strawberry?" (Susannah decided to share with me and steal all of our cookie wafers.)

Nora was so excited. Despite our insane collective sweet tooth and seemingly random ability to declare events A Holiday, she had never had her own milkshake. And perhaps, in retrospect, Margie's 80 ounces o' shake wasn't the best starting off point. But as a girl who herself used to shake in sugar anticipation, I respected her enthusiasm.

We were served while in the midst of a conversation with the table directly at my elbow. Are you sure those girls are sisters? Look at their eyes! How special, milkshakes with your family! Nora took a four minute-long sip. Zuzu successfully took all of our cookies and more than a few sips of various shakes.

I had barely tried my own milkshake by the time Nora crawled on my lap and whispered that she didn't feel good. Now, this is the kid who tells me this exact phrase to get out of going to the potty or getting her pajamas on. So I told her to take a little sip of water and some deep breaths.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

But she put her head down on the table. I wasn't fully paying attention to her purported belly troubles, to tell the truth, because I was basking in the praise of the family still seated beside us. You're making such fun memories for them. What gorgeous children!

P.J. went over to the counter to ask for our bill, just so we could jet out when we were ready. I turned my head to ask him for some more napkins when I felt Nora take a sharp breath.

"Mommy."

"Nora?"

And she emptied the contents of her stomach. Twice. (A lot.) Directly into my impressively ninja-like hand- a prideful moment that was short-lived, once I realized that, even though I had super quick reflexes, I also had an armful of vomit. Nora was horrified. I was concerned. P.J. was oblivious. And the woman beside me suddenly had something else she really needed to be looking at.

I wiped up Nora with the remaining napkins (and the ones Peej eventually brought over, all the while wondering why I was being so insistent about the damn napkins) and bundled her into her coat, trying to contain the damage. And I've gotta tell you- I did a pretty good job. Sure, her coat was doused, my coat wasn't gonna win any Awesome Smelling awards, and my hand would most likely need a HazMat team- but not an ounce of awful fell anywhere else. So to you, Lady Who Mentally Revoked My Great Parent Status...I'm pretty sure that I did the best anyone could've done.

As we left the diner, I felt so sad for Nora, and wondered how I was going to convince her that it really wasn't that big of a deal, that milkshakes were still an okay Sometimes Treat, and that my catching of her digested shake didn't affect my love for her in the least...when she took another deep breath. Squeezed my [clean] hand. And genuinely smiled at me.

"Mom, I feel so much better now. That was such a special treat."

Which made my Nora Feelings swole.

Like to the size of Nora's post-milkshake tummy.

Things That Actually Happened.

Yesterday, as I sat on the couch and tried my darndest to write, I realized that my fingers were frozen solid. Despite the thermometer doing its best to tell me it was a balmy 70 degrees in here, I believe that it told a lie. (I think P.J. might actually have paid it off.) My actual thought to myself was- Good Lord, this blanket is unwieldy. Can't someone just give me something as cozy yet infinitely more wearable?

Then I realized I was a walking (sitting) infomercial for the SNUGGIE. I experienced a moment that I myself had mocked as unrealistic. Yet there I was. Having a need for something not entirely unlike a Snuggie.

I felt shame. Yet that was nothing compared to what happened a mere two hours later.

I was sitting on the bathroom floor at Nora's request- to come hear the exciting story line she was reading- and was also listening to Susannah protest her first real nap of the day. Suddenly, I had an almost out-of-body experience; fueled by the buzzing of my children's voices, the questionable middle of the previous night's session of Life Questions, and the after-effects of way too much coffee. I leaned my head back against the bathroom door, closed my eyes, and marveled at how GOOD that felt.

The very next thing I knew, I was being nudged awake by an irate preschooler's foot, telling me that this was NOT "good behavior" and this was NOT "what we do." (I don't remember ever having had the Don't Sleep On The Bathroom Floor convo with her...but she has a mind like a steel trap. She'd know. Also, I had the niggling suspicion that perhaps I shouldn't be teaching her to sleep on the bathroom floor.)

So, yeah, the first two events were prime examples of my dorkiness (and potential poor circulation) and conditional narcolepsy. It wasn't a banner day in terms of self-image.

But then the craziest thing of all happened:

...Which is by far the wackiest thing that a human can do. Just- one day- stand up and start moving around like you hadn't spent the first 12 months of your life on hands and knees and bellies and occasional faces? And sure, I can't take too much credit for Susannah's motorin' about...but I can count it as something that upped the coolness factor of my day. 

Which, let's be honest, was rather off the charts.

Birthdayed.

Courtesy of Godfather Nat. And there is so much
going on in this pic that I simply adore to bits.

Well, I have a one year-old. Like, officially. Like, We Had The Birthday And The Party So Now It's Officially Official.

The day of the party was frigid. Seriously cold. When I woke up it was 41 degrees- and keep in mind, here in Chicago it had been 80 degrees since maybe February. (I didn't say it was normal, just that it was.) This would've been totally fine if not for the fact that we had planned a party outside, at the park. Where the main draw was gonna be letting the children frolic [and not having to mop immediately afterwards]. However, I wasn't too sure about having it at my house- because I didn't much know what ten children would do to the inside of it. Or rather, I did know. And it wasn't pretty, there in my mind's eye.

So we had it at the park. And our friends- truly fantastic as they are- showed up in their mittened glory. And you KNOW you have good friends when, as you show up five minutes late to your own Igloo Park Party (because you've just woken your eldest child from her irrationally long nap), everyone runs over to your car to unload your decorations and cupcakes and children.

Preparing to let go in 3...2...1...

And even though 75 percent of the miniature animals meant for the treasure hunt were discovered by two of our smallish guy friends (mere moments before I announced the beginning of the treasure hunt)...

And even though, once the sun started to go away, it got for real real cold...

And even though we had no less than four mammoth party guest faceplants (by the shorty set- I've stopped counting the faceplants of my close friends) including a gargantuan one by the birthday girl...ten minutes into the party...onto the concrete...because she was hugged too hard by her sister and then, you know, just let go...

...Everyone seemed to have a grand ol' time.

A man approached me to take a picture of these "for
his wife." Whatever. I actually BAKED. If you want to
have them bronzed, I will not stand in your way.

Because the cupcakes were shaped like monkeys. (Thank you, Pinterest.) And the party favor CDs of Suzy's favorite songs were ridiculously cute (if I do say so myself), and the party favor treasure hunt prizes were ridiculously cheap (and went over like whoa). And Susannah- even with her frozen hands and road-rashy face- had a blast.

Because even with all of those other negative factors, a party is a party is a birthday party.

And birthday trumps all.

I will love you forever.

Keely And The Terrible, Horrible...Oh, I Give Up.

A very old pic, but an all-too-recent sentiment.

Put quite simply, Tuesday was a rough day.

It started out well enough. Nora was dropped off at preschool, happily tossed Doc Bullfrog into the backseat of the car, and bounded into her classroom with nary a fuss. 'Cause she loves it there. Which is great, because I had worried [slightly]. I drove home to get Susannah ready for a nap, glowing with the self-satisfaction that comes from knowing you've made the right decisions for your kids and that you might actually be a good parent.

It was short-lived.

When I arrived to pick her up, I was faced with a weeping mess. Seriously, the kid was standing there, looking for all the world like a professional Sicilian mourner. Turns out, I had forgotten to remind her that Doc (whom she had left in the car by herself) wasn't going to remain in her backpack that day. And apparently we need to discuss it at length and all have vocal acknowledgements of where the frog is. Because when she went to check on him- and he wasn't there- she thought someone had stolen him. And since she didn't have the exact words to tell her teacher ALL OF THESE FEELINGS, she imploded. Now, if you're a parent, you have the ability to ignore a good 99 percent of your kid's tears, knowing them for what they are, and how easily they'll be over. But that last one percent? Those are the tears that BREAK you as a parent, because you recognize your own kid's tears of terror/devastation/parental failure.

We got home in time to receive a message that my book- the one on which I had spent the entirety of the past year- had just been shot dead in the water. The folks for whom I had done drafts and rewrites since Susannah's third week on this planet had backed out. I had written while nursing a newborn.Written while in the passenger seat of long car trips. Written instead of doing dishes, making hot dinners, or sleeping in any normal fashion. They wished me a ton o' luck, but they backed out. Wasn't going in the direction they had thought, they told me. Hilarious, they said. Laugh out loud funny, but nothing they were gonna go ahead with.

Which is their right. Obviously. And rejection is a natural part of yadda yadda. So I dealt with it in the obvious way: I fixed Nora a pb&j, strapped Zuzu into her high chair with some Cheerios, locked myself in the bathroom, sat down on the floor, and cried for about three minutes.

Then I filled some sippy cups, got two kids ready for naptime, told the laundry to go eff itself, pulled my blanket over my head, and prepared to wallow away naptime. (This lasted twenty minutes, until Susannah decided that the whole "resting" thing was done for the day.)

I decided to reclaim some productivity for Tuesday and, when Nora woke up, I dragged the kids out for a bunch of errands. At Target, I placed Susannah in the cart and Nora happily pushed her [reeeeally fast]. This went well until, at the pharmacy, I noticed that the safety buckle was broken and had slid apart, allowing our little monkey to climb around like no one's business. As I finished paying for a prescription, I swapped Susannah into another nearby cart, one with a nice working buckle. Nora reminded me that we needed cupcake stuff for Zu's upcoming birthday. So we took off.

It wasn't until we were pulling out of the parking lot that I realized I had no idea where my prescription was. Then, with a cold shock, I remembered tossing it in the bottom of the cart before I had moved Zuzu. The broken cart.

So we went back. I unbuckled both kids and hefted them into the store, Nora wailing all the while about someone having stolen our 'scripty. I attempted to tell her that Mommy had lost the prescription- it hadn't been stolen- but she wouldn't hear a word of it. After a few I gave up and let her go at it. (I was feeling melodramatic, too.)

The pharmacy people hadn't seen it. The customer service folks encouraged me to check with the pharmacy. A gal putting away carts warned me that it was gone- long gone. (Because "people do some weird stuff with other people's meds" and "good luck findin' that.) After a few more minutes spent looking into other people's carts like a creeper, I carried the kids back out to the parking lot and put them in the car.

Then, standing beside my car in a half-empty Target parking lot, I cried again. Big, embarrassing, snarfy Failure Tears. I didn't know where my prescription was. I had just wasted an hour of my life attempting productivity. And NO ONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE WOULD EVER READ MY BOOK.

Susannah looked concerned. Nora started ranting again about thievery.

So I drove to a park and placed my confused children into a pair of swings. "We're having fun, AREN'T WE," I demanded to know. They agreed. This was just about the most fun they'd ever had with a weeping lunatic.

Two minutes later, Target pharmacy called and told me that someone had dropped off my pills at the counter: Did I want to come back? And even though I was only a few minutes down the road, I told them I'd be in a little later. Because I know myself well enough (and have read enough Greek tragedies) to understand when you've really gotta just stay down. No more driving about for the day. No more encountering anything or anyone who might have an opinion.

And while that wasn't the end of that day's laundry list of epic fails, this is the end of the space and/or time in which I've allowed myself to whine/wallow.

My final failure came around 10pm, right about when I decided to make myself a humongous drink of something alcoholic.

I ended up falling asleep instead.

But I forgave myself for that one.

I'm Worse Than Honey Boo-Boo's Mom.

Oh sure, now you're smiling.

I'm ready to pick up my Mother Of The Year badge now. (And sash. There used to be a sash, right? I haven't won for a while.)

The other day, Susannah's agent called. (Just let that one sink in for a sec. I worked my butt off for years to secure a commercial agent...only to have him go to prison for embezzlement just after my first commercial aired...but that's currently neither here nor there. My point is that this kid scored an agent at eight months of age, and never even had to whip out a classical monologue. As proud as I am of her, it still ain't right.)

Anyway. She was being called in for a print audition- the very next day. No problem, I said. Even though there was a problem. A big one. "The very next day" I needed to be at Nora's preschool for my co-op day of helping out in her classroom- my very first time doing so. (And I kinda wanted to be awesome at it, so I'm not ashamed to say that I pretty much read the handbook like nine times.) Nora has school from 9-11:30am, with about a ten to fifteen minute [rush hour] commute tacked onto either side. Now Zuzu, for her part, was going to spend the morning at a friend's house, one whose son was in Nora's class, and for whom I was going to watch her younger kid on her co-op day. (Still with me?)

So on Tuesday morning, the girls and I left the house much earlier than normal, drove across a few neighborhoods to get Susannah all comfy at my friend's house, then took both big kids to school. Even with crazy traffic, we got there in the nick of time. Spent a few hours prepping apple tree cutouts for painting, helping kids wash (and re-wash) hands, and reminding children that puppets don't go in faces- you know, the usual. After the very last kiddo was picked up, we helped straighten the tornado zone, and then took off back to my friend's house to do a kid swap. Zuzu was confused but excited to see me (she had napped, but not nearly as long as she would've at home). I had prepped lunch before leaving- so I plenty of time to cram food into my kids once we got home, and change Zu into her Camera Ready outfit (which the agent's assistant had vaguely told me should be "cute" but "comfortable." Okie doke!)

And here's where I made my rookie error.

I had been told that we could come anytime in the afternoon- but that the audition would definitively end by 3:30pm. At this point it was one o'clock. Now, I know my kids. They nap. A LOT. And they need those naps to be their cheerful, non-destructive selves. But I worried that if Suzy napped, she'd wake up right around 3ish, leaving us no time to jet downtown. So I packed them right into the car and told myself that they'd sleep. I told myself this for about twenty minutes, right until we arrived near P.J.'s office. That's when Nora fell asleep, of course, right before she was going to be dropped off to hang out with her Dad for a few. So we woke her. And she...wasn't thrilled about it. But there was no time to stress about her (because her Dad was totally on it), and besides- Susannah was starting to look a little overly bright and giggly.

We zoomed to the audition and signed in, where we were promptly informed that the baby would need only to be clad in a diaper and onesie. 'Cause the shoot was for a diaper ad. (THAT would've been GOOD INFO TO KNOW. Cute n' comfy, my foot.) Susannah was thrilled to be free of her [really, really cute n' comfy] overall dress and striped tights. Thrilled, that is, until the photographer's assistant came in to get her. Then...we weren't so sure about our purposes in life. (This is the same girl who reached out to be held by a friend of ours whom she'd never even met just this past weekend. Zuzu likes people. She likes to hug them. And give them "pat pat pats." She's no shrinking violet, this one. I had contemplated having Nora do auditions a couple of years back, but when I considered the prospect of momentary parent/baby separation, I realized that it wasn't gonna be Nora's cup o' milk.) But off Susannah went, and I was sure her sunny demeanor would kick back in.

Fun aside: During the time that Susannah was auditioning, a woman came in (dressed to the nines) with her two week-old infant. In a pram. An actual pram. Bundled into a lacy gown, a sweater, a stroller blanket, and other soft fripperies. The assistant informed the woman of the audition dealie and the woman looked horrified. Because she didn't want to wake her baby. Because her baby would need to nurse immediately. And she didn't do that in public. Did they have a separate room for her to use? And she'd rather not undress her infant. And it would be great if no one else would touch the baby or lift her out of her stroller. The assistant looked confused and asked how the woman thought baby auditions worked. The woman replied that she'd be more than happy to, you know, lift the stroller slightly so the photographer could see her baby and take a few pictures...but no touching and no waking. After a few minutes of gentle dealings, the woman took it upon herself to freak out and say that she was leaving, IT WAS TOO HOT IN THE ROOM AND HER BABY WAS ABOUT TO OVERHEAT. (I almost suggested removing one of the seven blankets.)

A few moments later, Zuzu was carried back out. And she looked concerned. I asked how she did, and the smiling assistant said "Great, just great! We only got a few pictures in before she started crying, so we brought her right back out."

And me- awesome parent me- had the first thought of I foisted Nora off on Peej's busy schedule for this? And then came the tandem thoughts of we skipped naps for this/ I am completely exhausted. Nary a thought of my baby's potential overloaditude. So I asked if we could try again in a few minutes. They said sure.

So Zu and I played for a little while, and she was all sunshine and roses...until it was time for her to go back in to audition. She gave the woman A Look. And then she gave me A Look. (And I swear to God she sighed.) But she let the gal carry her back in. A short while later she came back out, smiling a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Again, I asked how she did.

"Great! She looked a little confused, but we got a few shots in."

Meaning...those pictures probably weren't any better than the first ones, and most likely reinforced the idea that this kid was not gonna be the one they'd want to work with. I explained that she was just a little tired and was normally so cheerful. The assistant nodded politely, because I'm sure she hadn't heard that a trillion times already that day.

Long story [slightly] short[er], I drove home, cross at myself for messing up our schedules and paying the price in the form of two very crabby and exhausted kids. With absolutely nothing to show for it except for a husband who had had to hold off on actual work for a little longer than expected.

But both girls woke up right as rain this morning. And Suzy seems to have forgiven me. And we even commiserated about bad auditions. I told her about the one where I had to be attacked by a hamburger. She smiled at that one.

She really is a pretty good actress.

Nora Went To School And Keely Had A Thing.

Here's what's amazing about this pic: Nora, upon
exiting the school, hugged me so hard that my sunglasses
flew off and I nearly dropped the camera.

Everyone: Is she still talking about her kid going off to school?

Me: ...Yeah. (Sorry.)

Here's the thing. It continues to be a Big All-We-Can-Talk-About Deal around these parts for a few reasons, among them the fact that it is a life-changing event for at least one family member...and it causes copious moments whereupon another family member can walk in and out of houses without carrying multiple people and their belongings. (Leading her to wonder if perhaps she's forgotten pants, or an arm, or if it's actually a major holiday.)

I have friends on both sides of the camp. (Making them...boys and girls, I suppose. Don't boys and girls still have separate sides of camp? Digress.) There are folks for whom preschool, kindergarten, etc., is no big deal. It's a necessary rite of passage, something to prove that you're doing your job as a parent by readying someone for societal function, and you'll see them in a few hours, anyhow. (Which is all true.) On the other hand, others (without kids in daycare and/or with routine grandparent weekends) get super weepy and sad, wondering how- for the very first time since their existence- someone else is the one in charge of this impossibly wonderful and frail little being. (Also true.)

For me, it was this notion that I wouldn't be her eyes and ears (and gently reminded: No, we do not put our nostrils there) for the first time ever. And it made me miss her. And yeah, we chose a terrific school with a Young 3s program and an awesome teacher (and built-in friends by way of happenstance enrollment)...but Nora had been with me almost every single day since birth. She worked with me as a miniature nanny (mani), and evolved into this independent, creative little kid whom I genuinely enjoy spending my days with.

She also happens to be, on occasion, cripplingly shy and cautious.

So then I had this fear that I was sending her off to school for me, to be all Look At How I've Solved My Kid's Issue By Completely Disregarding It. And maybe not quite three IS too young for school. And perhaps if I hadn't even heard of this program and pursued it that same night (having an interview and securing a slot the very next morning), we wouldn't even having this conversation.

Then I started to realize that it was ME who wasn't ready. That it was ME with this idea that, once preschool started, you could never undo going off to school. There would never again be a time where she could just stay home in the mornings and be my baby. She would never again just be my baby.

But then, like all decent parents, I concluded that doing (or preventing) anything because of my needs as opposed to my kid's was a pretty junky way to parent.

So we laid out a ladybug halter top outfit and put Doc Bullfrog in the penguin backpack. Took the required photos on the front porch with each family member, just in case we needed to remember what she looked like between then and 11:30am. Dropped a confused but cheerful Zuzu off with our neighbor (that's right- we have no problem shipping off the younger one, because that's only temporary). And then Peej and I drove her to school. (Oh yes, the guy for whom taking a personal day is a major issue with which to be grappled over the better part of a week- there was no way in hell he was missing dropping off his baby to her first day. Also, the previous night he had Read Articles on preschools and little kids and all sorts of emotional stuff. And so he feeling his own feelings, too.)

And suddenly we were there at her school. She sat in a boat with a book (as you do), and vaguely told us to stay. We reminded her that we had to go get her sister, but we'd be right back. And she was okay with it. Kinda. She made her face of Brave Concern, but went back to her book. Because here's the order of importance in Nora's world: Shyness trumps New Situation. But Rules [try really hard to] trump Shyness. And Books trump both. And so we said goodbye and left. (And then left again, after I went back to nudge P.J. out of the classroom with me.)

There are big, humongous, ugly problems in the world. People have some serious things going on. But, honestly, all of those things seem really far away when you see your little kid peek out at you with her Is This Okay? face. And you want to reassure her that, yes- of course it's okay. But it isn't. Of course it isn't. Because in that moment you want to be with her and she really wants to be with you, but this is one of those Life Lessons where everyone involved has to learn that sometimes things just don't feel nice. As fun and wonderful as school is (and is going to be), the New and Different parts of it don't always feel so nice. And there is literally nothing in the world you can do about it for your kid, short of preventing them from ever experiencing interactions that will cause sadness or pain. Which will a) prove rather impossible, and b) create a socially inept member of society. Like Jack the Ripper, I imagine. No one wants to raise Jack the Ripper.

But I wasn't thinking about all of that as I left Nora's classroom. I was just missing her. And knowing that she was missing me.

A few hours later she was back in our car, regaling us with tales of circle time and holding hands with her friend and everyone using the potty together(?), and I was so proud of my Bitsy kid. Aside from a few stories from her teacher of Nora being occasionally standoffish and having at least one moment of staring out the window with a tear in her eye (owwwwwww), there were glowing reports of excellent listening, fun times, and utter glee on the playground.

Which means it worked. We've actually partially raised a kid who can coexist with others away from the oppressive concern of her parents. Which I'm pretty sure is what this whole "having a child" thing is about.

That, and the tax deduction.

Too Busy For Hygiene.

Crawling towards soap.
The dirt makes her blurry.

My laziness has reached new heights. Or lows. (Let's go with lows, since I'm currently on the floor.)

This weekend was truly fun. Exhausting fun. But- let's put it into perspective, here. I wasn't scaling mountains with the girls strapped to my back. There were no death-defying underwater cave expeditions. (That's next weekend.) There was just good ol' fashioned Why Is Everything Covered In Food fun. The kind that you get from having two little kids (or one really sloppy husband or maybe a smallish dog).

Friday night found us with friends in Highland Park and then at Ravinia, picnicking with N & S and enjoying the croony croons of Lyle Lovett. (Two people snored on our blanket before the night was over. And it's not the two you'd think. I wasn't one of them. I've given away too much.) Our girls didn't get bathed that night. And they kinda could've used one. Maybe two. But by the time we got them home, they were asleep in our arms, and- this cannot be stated enough- we are lazy, lazy people.

Saturday brought us a BBQ with lovely pals (and their son, whom Nora informed me was going to buy her a ruby. A red one). The kids were having such a fun time playing with garden hose parts that I didn't have it in me to corral my girls for a bath. That's right, by this point you could've written your name on their forehead dust. Again, they fell asleep in our arms and we promised that we'd bathe them in the morning. Before breakfast, we told ourselves. Maybe we'd even wake them early.

But wouldn't you know it? They slept in[ish]. And it didn't make sense to bathe them in the midst of waffle-eatin'. And then the morning got away from us in a flurry of phone calls and a game that Nora calls "cupboard," whereupon she empties a section of the room onto the floor. (Did you see via my Facebook page that she also invented a game called "storage?" Nature vs. Nurture, folks. Nature vs. Nurture.) I also got wrapped up in the task of spackling, sanding, and re-painting parts of Nora's room, due to the gaping holes created when we moved baby furniture out, big kid furniture in, and when I realized that I had done a pretty junky job of some of it in the first place.

***Side note: There should be a manual that describes the various stages of fixer-upper homeownership, much like grief. One of those chapters should detail how a goodly month of your life will be spent undoing the subpar work that you yourself did to the place upon moving in. Maybe a footnote could be included about not using a drywall screw as a drillbit? Maybe?***

Anyhoo- it was Sunday night and I was fully exhausted from the act of neglecting my children's hygiene all weekend. I also had less than no desire to cook- and even less to clean. Because we do the trade-off; whomever cooks, the other cleans. Except that sometimes it's more work to put away the eight gazillion spoons and lids that P.J. utilizes on his nights than it would be to just defrost a pizza. But I couldn't even manage that.

I convinced Peej that we should order Chinese from the place down the street because the girls would love it (which is a lie: they are firmly ambivalent on the ordering of Chinese food), and because we could totally swing it in the budget this week (also mostly false, but I made up my mind then and there to not buy anything questionable online in this coming week). He agreed. Because he loves me. (And also because he didn't have it in him to cook/clean, either.) So we laid out a blanket, fed the children in front of the TV, and watched an episode of Wishbone. (For my husband is a media superdemon who can find any show he wishes just by thinking about it.)

After supper, we shook off the girls onto the blanket, shook off the blanket itself, and tossed the whole thing into the washing machine. (Not the girls, just the fabrics. Although I'm sure the kids could've used detergent by this juncture.) And then we finally finally washed our children in a bathtub in our house.

They now smell great.

And if you totally disregard the fact that we failed to leave the house on Sunday and in fact watched television from the '90s with our questionably young children...it was kinda like we went camping.

Camping's the best.

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.

It's Coming From Inside The House!

So, I've always had an overactive imagination. But I've got nothing on my child. 

If you're a close n' personal Facebook friend, then this image got all up in your feed all day yesterday. Apologies. But it still just boggles my mind. Lemme 'splain:

Nora, since she was roughly eighteen months old, has always pointed at our kitchen cabinet and told us about her bunny that lives there. We're artists. We believe in imaginary play and all that other hippie stuff. So we humored her. 

"Tell us about him- what is he wearing?" 

Nora would always look vaguely disgusted and change the subject. But yesterday, after mentioning the bunny and hearing my agreeable tones, something inside of her just snapped. 

"Mom," she said, smacking my hand against the cabinet. "This. Is. The. Bunny."

I almost jumped out of my face. There's a frickin' bunny rabbit IN THE CABINET. (And he looks none too pleased with us for not paying full attention to our child.)

Yeesh. It's like the eyes follow you.

And for fun, I've added a picture from my 3rd apartment here in Chicago. This was an actual, non-retouched water stain on my bedroom ceiling. I called the landlord once to fix it, but didn't follow up. I had become increasingly fond of my mystical unicorn friend.

He's a baby unicorn, too. That means he's magickier. 

Mystical creatures just follow me around from abode to abode.
I'm clearly the best person to live with, ever.

Cheer Up, Zuzu.

Thrilled.

An Open Letter To My Daughter Susannah:

Zu. You are nine months old, as of yesterday. Also, as of yesterday, you inspired multiple people to consider having a baby. (Actually, that's been the case since you entered this world. You're kinda the poster child for Awesome Baby.)

And now, you're entering the competition for Awesome Child. You have many things going for you; sleep habits (nonstop), eating preferences (all of them), and general ability to jive with nearly any scenario. But my favorite thing you do is beam. You beam all day long, just like a sunbeam.

We shove you into the backseat of the car for a six hour drive to Cincy: through the rearview mirror, you chew on a giraffe and beam at us.

I stick you into a pile of toys and books and lovies while I clean and write and convince your sister to pee into the potty: you occasionally clear your throat (in a polite "ahem, in case you're wondering where/how the baby is"), and then you beam at us.

Your big sis bodyslams you under the guise of saying hello: you grab fistfuls of her hair, scream a velociraptor-esque no thank you into her face...and then you beam at her.

But yesterday, you out-Zuzu'd yourself. It was the Fourth of July, your first Fourth. It was also a day that reached a whopping 106 degrees. We saw a bunch of friends, and dragged you around in your sweaty finery. You wilted pleasantly at people, even snuggling up to a few.

Your real stellar moment, however, came at 9pm. Well past your 7:30pm bedtime. Like the negligent parents that we are, we kept you (and your over-sugared sister) up to watch the fireworks at Winnemac Park. (A truly spectacular series of displays set off- to the best of my knowledge- by completely random people, whenever they felt like it.)

You, clad in jammies and my noise-cancelling headphones, were appropriately awed by the first round of fireworks. You applauded the second. By the third, you were snoring like a kitten against my shoulder. By the fourth, while your sister alternated between dancing around her friend's wagon and reading a book, you were snuggled on the blanket, peacefully sucking your thumb.

Every day, it seems, is simply the best day of your life, evereverever. You remind me of this when you arrive in my bed for a 6am snuggle (and/or nursing session, playtime with Dad's face, or appointment to meow at the cats). You remind me of this when I plop you- covered in carrots and pasta sauce and Ritz crackers- into a bath, whereupon you promptly remember that you love bathtime, ohmigod, THANK YOU!

And you remind me of this when I feel your sweaty baby curls against my cheek, and you reach up to pat my shoulder every now and then. Just making sure that I'm still there.

Thank you for showing me that life with two kids is terrific. And exhausting. And messy, loud, chaotic, hilarious, and covered in blueberries.

And thanks for reminding me that, even though you're cutting a tooth and I probably won't shower today, it's easily the best day of my life.

Love,
Mom

Surfin' Safari It Ain't.

"There's some good chompin'
sand over here, Susannah!"

There are days where you feel like you've unlocked the door to Competent Adulthood. Then there are other days where bang your head on the beam of Ignorant Idiocy.

Today would most likely skew towards the latter.

It didn't start out that way. No, the morning began with a cleaned kitchen, three loads of put-away laundry, prepped lunches, and an invitation to join our friends (and their daughter Emily, who happens to be Nora's favorite short person ever) at Foster Beach. While Zuzu took an utterly conflict-free morning nap (a half hour earlier than normal to ensure a 10am beach arrival, at that), Nora and I packed the car with all manner of beach gear. I blogged. She used the potty. The day seemed like it was skipping towards Easy Street.

During the [ten minute] drive towards the harbor, however, Nora conked out. Hard. She slumped over in her seat and snored. ("Peace out, afternoon nap," I whispered to the sunroof.)

Now, I've lived in Chicago for ten years. I've been to the beach a multitude of times. I've been to Foster beach dozens upon dozens of afternoons. I pulled off onto the harbor drive and drove for a few blocks until I reached the free lot. ("Seems to be farther than I remembered," I said to the sunroof. "Stop talking to me," the sunroof retorted.)

Unloaded one bag. Popped Zuzu into a sling. Unloaded the cooler. Grabbed the portable seat. Woke Nora. Woke Nora. Poked Nora. (Carried Nora.)

After hefting two children and potentially too much gear across the [Hotttttt...I lost a Crocccc...] sand, I set up camp- and realized that I had left our beach blanket in the trunk. (As I looked wistfully back across the sand over a dune towards the parking lot, I bid the blanket adieu. 'Cause that trip wasn't happening again.) Didn't see our friends, but figured they were either coming shortly or perhaps farther down the beach. So I texted them. By this point, Nora was already half in the water and Susannah had consumed her first fistful of wet sand, so I knew I needed to keep communications brief.

I asked where they were. (They asked the same.)
I'm in front of the Mexican restaurant, I told them. (Which one?)
Near the dog park. (There are no dogs here.)

I had a sinking suspicion that one of us had arrived at the wrong beach. And, if I had to wager...

I Googlemapped myself. (Because I live in the future.) And yes, turns out, even though I had driven down Foster Avenue, I had taken the side road that connected to Montrose Beach. (Damn you, Chicago Parks Department and your interconnected web of parks and grasslands and free beaches!)

By now, Nora was catching herself in her fishing net and Zu was yelling at her second fistful of sand, so I knew we had to stay put. I sheepishly apologized to my friends. I know they understood, but I accepted my punishment in the form of sitting amongst some of the loudest examples of questionable parenting this side of the internet. (Actual quotes: "You are so stupid. Not everything is about you." "Why you gonna run off? Bring 'er back and here and hit 'er for me.")

I missed my friends.

So did Nora. As she ate a sand-covered pb&j, she sadly announced that "Emmanee" was at a different beach. She used a passive tense for her statement, but I felt every inch of the blame.

Susannah was just happy to tag along, wherever it was that she got to eat her handfuls of sand. The presence of the beach blanket might have cut down on some of this roughage consumption, but she seemed to prefer it this way.

Proving yet again that ol' chestnut: One person's foray into dementia is another person's bacteria-ridden prize of a snacktime.

10 Ways Kids Are Like Ravers.

High on life and/or fruit leathers.

Terrifyingly off-the-wall party or simply an afternoon hanging out with the kids? You be the judge:

10. There is definitely someone with an oral fixation next to you who keeps trying to eat your bracelet.

9. At least one person is completely naked for no discernible reason. 

8. Someone is babbling about getting some food. Again.

7. There is a girl, standing alone, sobbing uncontrollably about nothing of consequence. (We will get you another lollipop!)

6. You're fairly certain that the same track has been playing for the past twenty minutes. Or maybe it's a different one. They all sound exactly the same. 

5. There is so much touching.

4. I'm sorry, did that dude just wet himself? And what's that mess over there?

3. You start laughing so hard at someone else's dance moves that you might actually pee. 

2. There's a moment where you contemplate calling your mother and asking her to come get you. (She always said there would be no questions asked...)

1. And, exhaustingly enough, you have a sinking feeling that this party's gonna be in full force at sunrise.

*

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We Still Got It.

Abandoned.

We had another whirlwind weekend in Cincy. (And really, aren't they all whirlwinds? Every darned last one of them. Especially the ones where you're hurtling down the Indiana Turnpike for six hours at a time. That rather zips the time along.)

We had a great time with family. P.J.'s aunt had a lovely 60th birthday shindig (wherein my eldest child ate nothing but black beans and blue frosting and my youngest ate everything not tied down). There was a jaunt to the pool (wherein I realized that my eldest was fearless...and my youngest ate everything not tied down).

And after that pool trip? The extremely amped girls- after a teensy bit of coaxing- proceeded to crash hard into naptime. P.J.'s parents offered to hang out with them if we wanted to go do anything.

After the slightest bit of demurring, we locked eyes, grabbed the keys, and hopped into the Passat.

We rolled the windows all the way down, opened the sunroof with nary a thought of how much wind was rushing into the backseats, and cranked the music. Really. Loud.

And the playlist was full of completely inappropriate music that should really be called No Children Are In This Car.

The sun was shining, the wind was whipping, and we were screaming along with Super Mash Bros. It was awesome. This unencumbered-arms euphoria was made all the sweeter with the knowledge that a) the girls were fine, b) the girls were sleeping, and c) we were almost at the Gap Clearance Store in Hebron, Kentucky. (I really don't think this should diminish our cool cred at all. Besides, who among us doesn't require affordable tank tops?)

Some people just really don't let the whole "having children" thing affect their swagger.

And I'd like to meet them someday.

Broken House Still Broken.

See? The crumbling stoop loves me!

I was extremely ready for the weekend. This is largely in part because I love weekends, but even more largely in part (how many parts am I allowed?) because the house broke even further on Thursday night.

P.J., having ventured downstairs after work to, you know, inspect the demolition team's work- because boys simply HAVE to poke the drywall, ask about the coils, and guess how many RBIs it gets. (I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.) I'm glad he did, however, since he found that the newly exposed area behind the sink and toilet was experiencing- what we call in the business- A LEAK. From the ceiling. That's right, a leak was coming from the bathroom directly on top of the broken bathroom. An area which (aside from a couple weeks prior's unsecured bathroom sink) was generally a top notch room in our house. In fact, it was the newest. Which, sadly, was a mammoth selling point back in '09. ("A new bathroom? What, is this the Hilton?")

Also, it was discovered that the upstairs bath had been placed in the floor by cutting through support beams. (I cannot even expand upon this further, it hurts my face too much.)

So, we called the plumbers back. (At this point, I'm pretty sure they're just living in our alley waiting for the bat signal to come back and fix our place. The gushing water symbol? Perhaps a teardrop?) They arrived the next morning- just as our renovation team showed up to finish up the bathroom's walls. (Definitely a teardrop.) And, being Contractor Guys, they disagreed on certain issues with each others' work. The tile, drywall, and electrical guys tried to work around the plumbers as they went up and down all three levels, flushing toilets, filling and draining sinks, and running showers- all to find out which thing had most recently failed us.

On a positive note, the contractors finally found some common ground. The water continuing to spill from the upstairs was pinpointed to the main floor toilet, eliciting a unanimous- "That ain't good!"

One of our plumbers lifted the toilet to find that it was never secured to anything, ever. It might as well have been a bathroom chair. No bolts. In fact, the reason for the leak was because the toilet had been placed at a slight angle ON TOP OF THE OLD TILE FLOOR. The lower level's jackhammering had cracked the tenuous wax seal and whoosh, Leak City. The previous owners hadn't felt like ripping up the floor, you see, and had only made minor attempts to cut the new tile around the askew toilet. Under the toilet was a substance that we're gonna go ahead and call mud. And water was everywhere. There was a risk of dry rot on these floors, as this problem had apparently been going on for awhile.

"You might have to take this bathroom down to the studs, too," we were informed. "Don't use this bathroom for 24 hours while it dries out." (So that's two bathrooms down. We are very quickly running out of real estate in this place.)

While this was happening, I was fielding questions from the downstairs crew (and running outside to circumvent the plastic sheeting still on the stairwell), and sprinting back up to point out things at the request of the plumbers. While carrying Nora and Susannah. Because it was quickly becoming another riddle of whom to carry on each trip; the chicken, the wolf, or the bag of grain. (Still with me?)

There were easily fifteen people in the house. Jackhammering and chiseling from the downstairs, thunking and clanking from the upstairs (and yells to each other along the way: "Still got water coming down?" "Oh yeah!") And a thoroughly freaked out Nora- who responded by "accidentally" head-butting Zuzu with the full force of her body. And that resulted in tears from just about everybody.

Nora eventually crumpled to the couch with a wailed "There are too many people SEEING me right now!" Which I totally sympathized with, but which didn't quite rank as high as another failing level of our home or her baby sister's potential concussion.

Anyway. That day eventually ended. And I still consider it a check in the positive category for a few simple reasons:
-Our general contractor goes above and beyond. (And has not yet blocked my phone number.)
-Our plumbers have stopped charging us for "minor" repairs to our house. Pity? Whatever.
-My mother-in-law sent stargazer lilies and roses, with a [hilariously misinterpreted] note hoping that "the proyeet" was going well.
-My mother is on speed dial- and also has yet to block my phone number.
-And, on a walk that night, we let Nora "convince" us to stop at the ice cream truck.

This weekend was also an A plus: cards and photographs and brunch and pre-prepared coffee and two(!) naps and more walks and even a few moments where we all forgot that we lived in a funhouse. It was reaffirmed that the world's most perfect gift is a handmade card from one's offspring. Always thought my folks were just being kind on that one. But nope- having a hand-scrawled smiley face (with legs!) on a card more than makes all this stuff worth it.

And the naps. The naps are good, too.

Best Birth Control On The Market.

Great story, Mom.

Let me set the stage for you.

Nora, having recently begun the whole All Underwear, All The Time show, was having a hit or miss kinda morning. That said, by 9am I had already sanitized everything on which a little bum could fit. (Because, the sad reality is this: Potty training a two year-old is awfully akin to chasing an incontinent velociraptor.)

Susannah, for her part, had been constipated for two days. And was covered with mashed avocado after a messy "lunch." Simply coated in the stuff. Between that and her sister's combo of soaked pants and a runny nose, I figured that both of them could use a nice, relaxing, cleansing bath.

Except.

Once in the bath, Nora freaked out from [her newly acquired and very real fear of] water in her eye. She cried. A lot. This caused two things to happen: Nora's boogs started to stream down her face AND Susannah was frightened into her own set of tears.

Zuzu, also in the bath, cried so hard that she pooped everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

And I had one of those moments where I had to decide whom to save first. The child whose feces these weren't, or the one who was not yet sick? The toddler with a so-so immune system or the infant with none whatsoever? The child who had yet to pee on me that morning, or the one who had just given me her favorite sticker heart because I was the best Mom ever?

I chose Susannah, figuring that the baby would be quicker. I CHOSE INCORRECTLY. Because.

While attempting to dry and/or clean the baby on the bathroom floor, Nora decided [rightfully so] that the water swirling down the drain was gross. So she helped me out by flinging it all over the bathroom to get it out of the tub. That's right, handfuls of poop, flying everywhere.

Both girls went back into the tub for a makeshift shower while in my arms. And I still could not guarantee that anyone in that room was actually clean.

As we exited the bathroom, one of the cats puked three times in front of me: a hairball, some followup hairball, and a third puddle just for fun.

And playing on the radio that whole time? Hall and Oates' timeless classic, You Make My Dreams Come True. (Forget that- I clearly make my own dreams come true.)

Later on, when both girls had finally settled into naptime and I was able to super clean the bathroom for the third time that morning, I called P.J. to regale him with my epic o' bodily fluids. I expected sympathy, hoped for empathy. But his response?


CONCERN FOR THE CAT.