An Early Birthday Present, Dad.

Dad, 

Tomorrow is your birthday. Today is your 9th round of chemo. One of those things is awesome...and the other is rather annoyingly unfair. (Like when the segues between MST3k clips seem to go on and on and on and what is with all of the chatter, people?)

So to celebrate the former- and distract you from the latter- here's some stuff I'm pretty sure you'll just love. 

Like Johnny At The Fair:

Or this kid's school picture (courtesy of Awkward Family Photos):

This impossibly hard rock n' roll trivia game: 

How about he fact that I was so surprised to see someone I actually knew at my own wedding:

Maybe a good quote from Jack Handey:

If you ever fall off the Sears Tower, just go real limp, 

because maybe you'll look like a dummy and 

people will try to catch you because, hey, free dummy.

And definitely this pic that proves you know how to rock- on yours or anyone's birthday:

Happy birthday, Pop. 

Love, your obnoxious daughter 

...And a legion of awesome folks high-fiving you from across the internet. 

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.

3 Reasons. (Plus 6 More.)

"All of these are for me? Well, I'll give it a shot."

My darling, crazy, wild and affectionate Nora Jane,

Today is your third birthday. Your Dad and I continue to be astonished by how cool we can find one little person. You're rapidly reaching that age where we can easily see how good of friends we'll be down the road. (If you'll still return our calls. You're that cool. But also painfully empathetic, so it looks like this could play out well.) 

Here are just a few of the reasons why we think you're the best thing since Velcro shoes and washable paints:

The crazy amount of alone time you require is slightly hampered by our incessant need to make sure you're "safe," not "painting yourself with lipstick," or "dressing Bean Cat like a gypsy." You tolerate these check-ins, then go back to playing DJ for your babies and lining figurines up for bathroom breaks. 

You continue to be sweet, silly, and cheerful- but you also have a Signature Look. It's the doubtful one you give me, answering most questions with an upward and suspicious Ohkaaay? Your hands on your hips and declaration that they [Susannah/the cats/the next door neighbor] cannot be doing that [standing on the table/locking themselves in the bathroom/leaving our gate open] all lead me to believe that you will [someday, in the far off future] be the most intimidating parent ever. 

Clementines are "lemontines," Cheshire Cat is the Treasure Cat, and the word chocolate has a w somewhere in there. 

You've memorized an entire section of Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. When you think we're not listening, you'll "read" it to yourself, complete with "Alice answered indignantly" and "The Mad Hatter was the first to break the silence." If we catch you and ask you to say it louder, you'll whisper it even more softly, with an impish smile that seems to say we missed the boat on that one. (Suckers.)

You adore your little sister, and give her all the very best co-starring roles in your daily games of pretend: The Robot Butterfly to your Princess, Pig Won't to your Sally Cat (Busytown Mysteries, anyone?) and sometimes, rather inexplicably, she's the White Rabbit in your game of Mommy and Baby. 

When a song you love comes on the radio (or my laptop), I can always turn around to find you with hands clasped over your mouth and a look of utter glee on your face. I love that look. (I remember that look from 1993. It's called I've Waited Eight Hours For The Request Line To Play My Song And Here It Is. I always liked experiencing that Look. But yours is even better.) 

If I begin to cook a meal, I'll hear a familiar scrape of a chair and seconds later your blonde little self will pop up and hand me your miniature apron. "Need some mixing?" "Should I crack this egg?" "I'm just gonna poke this bag of flour with the carrot peeler." 

Your love of media falls a close second behind your Dad's. And you're always one pitch away from convincing us to watch a new movie (or the same one for the eleventy billionth time), your hands artfully splayed out and twisting for emphasis- "Maybe you...want to watch a little show? We can sit there? You know what you'd like? You'd love to just watch a little movie. I'll go get it."

You're such a grownup. Except when cuddle songs play- that's when you can be convinced to snuggle (or even be picked up!) for a slow spin around your room. Last night it was One Little Star from the Follow That Bird soundtrack and you held my neck and asked me why Big Bird was so sad, why why why wouldn't they just let him go home...and then you closed your eyes and I felt your head heavy on my shoulder. I told you that I loved being with you like this, it reminded me of the first night we knew you and I held you just like that, and you asked me- Right after I was in your belly? (Yep, just after that, I told you.) And now there's no one in your belly. (Nope!) But that's okay, you told me, because you can have Doc Bullfrog to be pregnant with. And you shoved your lovie down my shirt and pulled him [her?] out the other end. You wrapped Doc upside down in his/her attached blankie and gently presented it to me. 

"Aw, here's a little baby for you! It's so nice."

Kiddo, it really, really is.  Thanks for making us parents.

(Happy birthday.) 

31 Reasons.

This guy. Seriously.

My husband has a habit of aging. (A year and four months behind me. It's a good trick.) To commemorate the awesomesaucitude that is P.J., here's a list of the top 31 reasons he's known and loved and is the coolest thing since the introduction of the IBM personal computer (also unleashed on the world in 1981):

31. He makes being a guy who just happens to own and love cats look kinda cool.

30. Dude has more computers in his home office than Max Headroom. (Bonus points if you're not fifteen and can remember Max Headroom.)

29. He wears Italian leather shoes and neon green sneakers with equal aplomb.

28. P.J. knows what "aplomb" means, as well as dozens of other words that he can pepper into conversation with one thousand percent accuracy.

27. Guy gives a massage that can make one cry and/or fall into a deep slumber. This isn't a creepy assertion- lots of other folks (some related, some notsomuch) can attest to this as well.

26. There's a Louisville Slugger next to his bedside table- just in case some fool thinks breaking in would be a grand idea. I have zero doubt that he'd be just fine. (P.J., I mean. Maybe the bat. Prolly not the intruder.)

25. On that note, he has yet to leave me after I've repeatedly shrilled "What's that sound?!" Instead, he has quietly walked downstairs, checked the place out, and come back to bed with soothing words. At 2am.

24. Have you heard him rap Ice, Ice Baby? How about sing Whatta Man? Highly recommend. (Word to your mother.)

23. The other morning, I awoke to find P.J. and Nora playing in hushed tones in N's bedroom. At 6am. He had originally gone in to tell her try to get some more sleep, but at the slightest request there he was- knee deep in Barbie outfitting drama. (Who needs an extra half an hour of sleep when you've got a three year-old who thinks you're a superhero?)

22. Even though he hasn't the slightest experience in concrete repair, as soon as our stoop started to crumble he armed himself with Quikcrete and his finest ripped jeans- and proceeded to cheerfully spend the next six hours of his Saturday bailing water from the sinking ship that is our home's exterior.

21. Despite really wanting to fall asleep on the couch in front of Real Time With Bill Maher, he makes it up to his actual bed (and his hates-to-sleep-alone wife) by a decent hour.

20. P.J. makes the best blueberry pancakes in the known world.

19. He power-washed an irate rat from under our tool shed...and didn't even bat an eye.

18. Peej is extremely frugal and coupon-happy, yet will always use our AmEx points to treat us to an awesome night out at one of Chicago's best restaurants. It's a thrilling combination.

17. When something breaks in our house, his first thought is never Whom should we call? Dude gets on it himself. (Questionable, yet admirable.)

16. This guy really loves (and is wicked loyal to) his family. All two thousand members of his immediate, extended, by marriage, long distance, and/or clinically insane family.

15. He can talk to anyone. Anyone. (Admittedly, for hours...)

14. Daddified or not, he continues to have (and have knowledge of) the best music out there. (And he'll happily burn you a CD.)

13. P.J. is about as Bleeding Heart, Flag-Burnin' Liberal as they come...but can (and will) respectfully converse with people of differing political opinions. (Now tell me that's not rare and admirable these days.)

12. He has worn fairy wings to be the prettiest princess with his two daughters. Many, many times.

11. His cocktail-mixing skills are second to none. (And he doesn't even roll his eyes at a request for extra maraschino juice.)

10. The guy is incredibly smart, and picks up knowledge, trivia- and languages- rather easily. I'd find it annoying if not for the times I've found myself in other countries without the ability to ask for the bagno gratuito.

9. He's impossible to surprise- yet constantly surprises me. This one falls into the good/bad category, but I grudgingly admit that he'd make a stellar ninja.

8. Remember that time he killed a rat with his bare hands?

7. Immediately after walking in the door from work, P.J. strips down to a tee shirt and jeans. (Comfort be damned- it's so he can carry two sauce-covered beasties directly to the tub after dinner.)

6. At the slightest mention, he'll drop his evening plans (catching up on work, taking out the trash, etc., etc., etc.) to make a gigantic bowl of popcorn and watch a movie. No, really. Just ask. Really.

5. He's seen every movie. Twice. And he owns most of them. And yeah, they're alphabetized in gigantic sleeves. Want to watch one? He'll burn you a copy.

4. Peej's ideal Saturday morning is making a large platter of bacon, playing on the floor with his daughters, scrolling through various Words With Friends games on his phone, listening to something vinyl, and staying in pajama pants until roughly 1pm. (Who cares if there's still breakfast stuff to clean up from? Lemme show you this hilarious article on Slate.com...)

3. He hates to cuddle. Space is space is please shove back over to your side so we can sleep. Yet there he is- cuddling.

2. P.J. drives like a man on fire being chased by zombies. Yet he takes it as seriously as if it were going to be on the test.

1. He's my biggest and most relentless supporter- and I'm only one of a large group lucky enough to say the same.

(Peej- I love you more than coconut milkshakes and Murder She Wrote reruns. Happy birthday!)

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.

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

Ten Years Old! Plus Twenty Two!

In honor of my own birthday, I'd like to revisit a stellar Birthday Past. Join me, won't you? 

This is my tenth birthday. June 6th, 1990.

There are so many things that I love about these two photos:

I had a serious love for cropped tops/wearing cute outfits way past their intended levels of appropriateness. However, at the moment that this photo was being taken, I knew for a fact that I looked incredible. (And a kind Thank You to my friend Angela for ensuring that my sister Chelly did not ruin everything. Although you can totally see that Emma was ready to make some sort of move towards the cupcakes.) There is a flower in a Clearly Canadian bottle. I'm donning a neon orange scrunchie. My Dad has a "concern face." 

 

Can you see what I'm proudly clutching in my right hand? Oh, that'd be a brand spankin' new cassette tape of Step By Step, by New Kids On The Block. (Rachel is nonplussed. Callie is excited for me. Kate is feeling blurry.) I'm exuding joy, pure and simple. 

And isn't that what's it all about, folks? For my birthday wish, I hope that each and every one of you has  your own personal I'm-Holding-Step-By-Step-And-Wearing-A-Fruitacular-Crop-Top-Because-I'm-Double-Digits kinda moment today.

Whatever that means for you. 

Or you can just borrow my definition. 

If you're feeling fancy. 

Piercings, Birthdays, And More Drinking.

Stealing Bethany's drink/getting a picture with it while she
was in the ladies room because it was funny/delicious.

I have some news.

No, not that. Not that other thing, either. And it doesn't even involve my gloriously fallin' down house.

I have recently removed my tragus piercing.

Now, before you get all creeped out and feel the need to excessively Google, I shall explain; the tragus is that bizarre flap of skin on your ear right before the ear canal. And I had it pierced when I was twenty years old.

It was a random piercing, in an even more random locale. I'm not even entirely sure why I wanted to have it done; I wasn't particularly [at all] punk. I wasn't at risk of being described as "edgy." And I had a crippling fear of needles. But I did have the need for something new and rather different, a car to take me all over Amherst and surrounding towns, and a modmate who encouraged me to either get the piercing done or stop yammering about it like Rain Man.

And it hurt. Good God did it hurt. I had a feeling that it would hurt as soon as I spied the deadly hook that was supposed to filet a chunk of my ear. However, I had finally made up my mind. I had already paid the cash. And the guy wielding the hook was sporting a red bandanna, making him look like a ridiculously hot pirate.

Decisions have been made on less.

However inconsequential the beginnings of this relationship were (the ring n' me, I mean- the pirate never even gave me a second glance, probably because I screamed directly into his face that he had mutilated me), I soon became quite attached (ha ha) to this ring with its ball bearing. I took it out on very rare occasions; surgery and my wedding day being two of the most prominent. But immediately afterwards, back in the ring would go. I wore it for so long that I began to forget that I was wearing it. I wore it as a nanny. An actress. A writer. A new Mom. Hangin' out with the inlaws. Just me...with a random piercing. 

But the other morning, nearly twelve years later, I looked at P.J. and announced "I think I'm gonna take out the tragus ring." He blinked. Thought for a second. Tentatively spoke.

"If that's what you want. Should we have some sort of ceremony?"

I pulled out the ball bearing. Slid out the ring. Placed it on the counter.

"Nah."

And you know what? It was totally fine. Because it was no longer something that I needed. It was the final vestige of the arbitrariness of my twenties (even- ahem- when I was 31 years of age).

The other night, P.J. threw me a surprise birthday party. (Stick with me, here.)

What had started out as a surprise was revealed a few days early due to extenuating circumstances with an extended family member's memorial in Cincinnati. (Keep sticking with me.)

I had suggested that we drive down to Cincinnati with the girls, cancel the dinner for two we had planned at Wildfire for Saturday evening, and reschedule sometime later in the month. P.J. did not like this plan. Loudly. When pushed, he irrationally yelled that PEOPLE HAD BEEN PLANNING TO SHOW UP TO MY SURPRISE DINNER FOR MONTHS AND OH MY GOD WHY DID I JUST TELL YOU THAT?!

I was touched, concerned for the very real possibility of more yelling, and unsure how to proceed with my husband's obviously fragile state of being. So I put on my Agreeable Hat.

Long story extremely short, we drove back home to Chicago on Saturday, arriving home with a couple of hours of preparation time to spare. (Read: we got to shower.) A [wonderfully wonderful] co-worker of P.J.'s stepped up to the plate and babysat for our sleeping children, as that day we had found ourselves in an unexpected babysitting bind. (There's a special place in heaven for friends who save the day like that.) We arrived at my "surprise" party to find some exceptionally good friends waiting for us. The kind of friends that I always want to see, but who frequently have shows, need sitters, or just possess completely opposite schedules from P.J. and me.

And we enjoyed the heck out of our time at that Golden Age supper club. Martinis were made out of desserts. I ate things off of gigantic spoons (some say they were for "serving," but the jury's still out). People let me try things off of their plates and sip things out of their glasses- not just because it was my birthday, but because I have really nice friends. (Good Lord, this paragraph makes it sound like I was raised in a barn, table manners-wise.) The point is, I had lovely conversations and felt truly lucky to be surrounded by so many great people.

And I kept glancing over at my husband, this guy who felt that I needed to have a special birthday celebration. (After all, nothing says "surprise party" like the big 3-2. It's not a milestone birthday! Surprise!) I loved him a crazy amount at that moment, this guy who wanted to help me pretend that the last two months of household insanity hadn't mentally snapped us in half.

I so totally don't need a tragus ring to define me. P.J. unwittingly let me know that I'm defined (and am continuing to be defined) by our life together. Our daughters. My writing- for which he clears paths and spaces and wrangles some quietude. Our impossibly constructed house. The family members both near and far-flung. The friends who consistently show up and remind me, Yes, you're generally awful at "getting together" and "keeping in touch," but we love your face and general looseness with the English language.

So I'm ready to turn 32 in two days. Because, as saccharine as it sounds, each year just keeps getting nicer. P.J. has shown very few signs of being done with me. Good things are promising to happen, writing-wise.

And, finally, because it means that I will never- ever- have to be twenty years of age again.

I'll toast to that.

The Big Six (Months).

Oh Susannah,

Yesterday, you turned six months old.

This is crazypants.

It's sometimes hard to believe that you did not even exist until your Dad and I said to each other, "You know what? This Kid Thing is so awesomely fun that we should have another, and then the fun will never ever have to stop, not even once."

A few things have happened between then and now, such as you grew fingernails and blood cells and simply wild amounts of blonde hair. Your sister figured out that high-pitched noises make you laugh like a loon. And food, as Nora would put it, Is A Very Good Friend.

During this half of a year (very recently, in fact), you've started to express pleasure and recognition and sheer joy by waving. Not just a simple salute, mind you. Nor is it a coquettish wiggle of fingers. Your wave is a forceful acknowledgement and request for attention, starting with the hinge of your shoulder and ending with your splayed fingers.

You're no shrinking violet. I like that.

Suzy, we like everything about you. Including all eight million of your names.

A long time ago- way back before you were even the gleam of a second baby and, in fact, Nora was barely a realized first baby- your Dad and I were at a Magnetic Fields concert. (It was great, by the way. You should see them sometime.) Then, for no particular reason whatsoever, I leaned over to your father during a quiet moment and whispered- "I like the name Susannah if we have another girl." He leaned back. "Can Mae be her middle name?" "Sure. That's pretty."

BOOM. Named.

It also helped that we had fallen really, really in love with James Taylor's version of your eponymous song.

Your nicknames- Suzy and Zuzu- are even more whimsical. Back in the mid-80s, there were two things that I liked a ton. (Okay, there were a bunch, but for the sake of time, let's just call it two): My set of Suzy's Zoo stationary and Tesla's album Mechanical Resonance, featuring the song "Little Suzi." (What kind of little kid were you, you're wondering? One with multiple penpals and a drummer godfather who liked to gift me awesome hair metal. That kind.)

And Zuzu comes from "It's A Wonderful Life's" Zuzu Bailey, the little kid with all the petals. (Factoid- that movie makes all men cry. I've seen not only your Dad well up, but also your uncles and both grandfathers, too. That's a movie.)

And so we gave you all of these monikers, knowing that you'd grow into some and outgrow others...and maybe even come up with a few of your own. That's totally cool.

I can't wait to see what kind of name you'll become.

I think you'll be a bit of a hippie (like your father). You already exude this sense of peace and subtle mirth, like- It's all going to be fine, it's actually really funny, isn't it? Let's have some more applesauce.

Or maybe you just really like your applesauce.

Either way, I hope that no one ever takes advantage of your easygoing nature- and that you never let them. The world is too wonderful to settle for someone else's mediocre plans.

The other day, as Nora was attempting to kneel on your chest and touch your eyelids, you grabbed two fistfuls of her hair and dragged her head to your mouth. The shriek you let out didn't indicate pain, didn't show exhaustion, and wasn't a cry of sadness.

It was a battle cry of- STOPPIT. (And oh, how it worked.)

So I think you'll be just fine. Because, really, it's the Slow Boils that everyone's gotta watch out for.

Especially if they have killer pale blue eyes like you do.

Come to think of it, maybe I should watch out for you, too.

I love you to the moon (and back), Buttercup-
Your Mom.

Half A Year!

Two days old. Full of questions/concerns/comments.

Two and a half months old. Full of joy/covered in stickers.

Six months old. Full of sunshine/applesauce/butternut squash.
Also, covered in stickers.

Zuzu's Three-Monthiversary!

We love you, Buttercup. Especially when you're wearing bear ears...

...Or leaping through time and space...

...Or just doing your best Winston Churchill.

We Like Her A Little Bit.

Two!

My wildly wonderful Nora Jane,

You are- unequivocally- two years old. While I'd long suspected this age (since- oh, you were nine or ten months old), the calendar finally backs me up. Two years going on fourteen, that's you.

In the color spectrum, you are neither grey nor pastel, but every single bold and definite shade. In the '80s, back when Day Glo was a very real concept, you would have been those short-lived (but much adored) neon Crayolas. Maybe a set of Sharpie pens.

When you love, it's euphoric and contagious. (Impossibly small stickers. Eggplant. Moments of unexpected independence. Daddy's arrival home each night.)

Sorrow is akin to the most epic Greek tragedy ever staged. (Babysitters. Closing credits. The tomato you grew that rotted before you could eat it. Daddy's departure each morning.)

Beyond promoting me to my favorite job ever, you've opened my eyes to things I had never before thought to do. Like, why did I never pair a wide-brimmed sunhat with fleecy footie pajamas? Or wear a cape to read [stacks and stacks and stacks] of books? When we dance each night (or rather, when you allow Suzy and me to join in on the nightly routine with your Dad), we all must dance vigorously, maintaining lyrics and energy- which, if you think about it, is the whole point. And how come, when walking down the street, I was never aware of how many sticks were on the ground at all times?

I'm fine with the icing, thanks.

Saturday was both your birthday and the party at your personal Disneyland- the neighborhood playlot. You were a gracious (if somewhat sleepy) host- barring a few moments when your pals attempted to wrestle/touch/view the gargantuan "2" balloon that threatened to lift the very picnic table. You were dressed in your Mom's version of lazy/park appropriate Rainbow Brite; layers, whimsy, and loads of color. Although, to be fair, you chose the shiny red shoes and white tutu. And you simply loved the cupcakes that I had baked inside of ice cream cones (thanks for the idea, Auntie Kate!), even though you never got beneath the frosting. There was too much else to do. And besides, when you came back for it (a good forty minutes later), a squirrel had made off with it. This caused feelings.

Dad, let go. I've Got This.

And sure, the day was dampened slightly by the end-of-party Diaper Situation that has forever changed the car/car seat cover/stairwell/bedroom floor/bathroom/tutu, but hey! You've successfully had your first shower! And I feel like we bonded further, what with me cleaning things from parts I wasn't even aware you had. And absolutely- you did not care for the removal of clothing/fluids/yourself from the party, nor did you overmuch think the shower was a great idea...until you informed me it was a little like a sprinkler. And that I had pink soap in my bath. Party on, Garth.

Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by how much information you retain- not to mention the exact intonation and 'tude with which you parrot. Or how sweetly you play with your toys (Hi, how are you? Oh, I'm good. I'm good, too. Let's kiss? Sure! Kisskisskiss. Go to the beach? Sure!) or how frighteningly you give them Time Outs, shoved backwards between the crib and the wall, getting an earful about every thing they've done wrong. (Okay, that part breaks my heart and makes me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West. Also- how they can breathe like that?)

The night before I left for the hospital to have your little sister, I cried. A lot. Buckets and vats of Ugly Cry. I was so terrified that something would happen in surgery and I'd never again get to touch your hair as you slept (as I do every single night). Or that things would change. We'd never again get quiet moments on the couch as sun streamed in and we alternated between forehead kisses and your proclamations that we were both going "a 'work," me to my writing and you to lining bath toys on the windowsill for all the block to see.

And you know what? Things absolutely did change. But I've gotten to see you love on your sister, kissing her in the mornings before anything else. And the pride in your face as you help me care for her, doing Big Girl things (even as you revel in the avalanche of her baby toys and equipment).

We still have our time. And we always will. You will forever be my tea party partner, my master puzzler, my blanket tent snugglebug. We will have treats and long walks and dance parties and I will always let you put stickers on my face.

And even though I kinda need to continue combing down the mat of wild honey-colored (and flavored) curls each day, I promise to let you become the gal you're so rapidly becoming. But don't grow too fast, okay? We have a ton of adventures ahead and all the milkshakes in the world.

I love you, Bitsy.

love, Mom

P.J. Is The Awesomesauciest.

You know, just hanging at Alcatraz.

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

In list form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. But he's a gracious winner.

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

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

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

We love you to the moon, P.J.

(And back.)

(Happy 30th.)

Okay, Girls...Naptime!

Both had late nights this weekend.

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

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

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

I swear I am not depressed.

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

I swear I am not crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yeah? What did they say?"

"They said hi. That's funny."

"IT SURE IS!"

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

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

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

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

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

Hence, the sweatpants.

Which may just be my favorite typed sentence EVER.

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.

Okay, I had WAY more than one.

This past weekend- to quote The Office- rocked my face off.

To start the festivities, our lovely friends Annie and Jared came for a visit on Wednesday night (which, I realize, is not the weekend. Unless you're 20 years old. Which I am!) and stayed through today. This is great. And I'm superbly happy that they stayed with us, as their dance card was quite full with friends and a wedding and such...that it was a good way to guarantee we'd see them at least twice a day.

Anyone want some blue?

On Friday, N.J. and I surprised Peej with a cookie cake from Jewel (the grocery store)...but it was no ordinary cookie cake. It was one that kids could DECORATE! (Apparently, when you give my child a choice of any color frosting or sprinkles or decorative cake-like things, she will choose...blue. Lots of blue. (It was ridiculously delicious, btw.)


On Saturday, A and J drove to Iowa for a wedding (which, Massachusetts friends, yes- it's possible to do from Illinois) and the mini Schoeny fam walked over to our neighborhood's block party. (Peej made brownies because he's amazing. Also because I do not bake.) There was an insane amount of food (and coleslaws. Neighborhood parties require a boggling amount of coleslaw). 


There were free snow cones. (As many as you wanted, turns out! Trust me on this one.)


A fire truck showed up- which usually signals a disturbance in the 'hood- but not this time! It was, in fact, there for eager kids- and some enthusiastic adults- to tour while wearing mammoth fireproof coats. As one kid who was a dead ringer for Jerry O'Connell in Stand By Me positively shrieked- "They're letting you GO INSIDE THE TRUCK!" (This kid also announced in the exact same voice that the firefighters were opening up a hydrant and that the prizes for all of the games were CANDY...so it's safe to say he was pretty darned excited about the day.)

Sankyou, siren.

We couldn't stay too long- for we had a barbecue to attend. (Lest people feel like we're the Swelly McPopulartons- rest assured. Come February, no one takes our calls. But we're a pretty good social occasion/big crowd bet. 'Cause, once again, P.J. bakes brownies.)


And the bbq was fabulous. Our pals Sara, John, and Owen had us over to their gorgeous backyard and we all had a blast watching our respective kids get muddy/splashed at the water table/cover themselves with creamsicles. And they have very cool friends with very cool/quite muddy/dessert-ed up kiddos. 


I even had part of a beer.


And it was really great. 


Since we had a feeling that Nora would conk out early and without incident, we planned a date night. Peej suggested taking his laptop out back and watching a movie under the stars. I mentally prepped the popcorn. 


Sheer seconds after tucking Nora in her bed, P.J. stretched out on our bed and- mid sentence- started to snore. I thought he was kidding. (He was not.) I amended the evening's plans by eating a column of brownies (don't your brownies get eaten in columns? No?) and finished Professor Layton and The Curious Village on my DS. (Because sugar makes me brilliant.) And yes, no need to tell me. I am an awesome date.

Dad, you're the daddest.

The next morning was Father's Day, and Nora celebrated by clinging to him like a barnacle, singing his name, and opening his present for him. (She made a silhouette of herself for him- I helped- and it looks awfully cute next to the one we made last year. We're also facilitating the buying of his new shoes- that he will choose. For he is terrible to surprise. Awful. The worst.) There was also a Mickey and Minnie card that, while not exactly Father's Day material, was The. Only. One. That. Would. Do. 


We even got to go to Victory's Banner, the brunchiest brunch in town! (Happy Father's Day to us all!) 


That night, after Annie and Jared returned to town, we surprised her with a li'l ol' surprise party to celebrate the big...29. Again. Again. Her loving husband threw the whole thing together and it was hosted by the gracious Brea. All I did was pick up and deliver the cupcakes from Sweet Mandy B's and show considerable restraint in not buying out their entire shelf of individual coconut cream pies. Seriously, people. 


I also got to lie to one of my very best friends for a good couple of weeks, up to and including the ridiculous whopper concerning Nora's sitter. ("Why are we spending money on a sitter for our Game Night at Brea's? Why not just have it here at your place, Keely?" "I...just feel like going out. On a Sunday. Even though P.J. has tech rehearsal. And the sitter's coming after Nora's bedtime. 'Cause we have a very specific start time to this Game Night. No reason.) Yet again, I would make a terrible spy. 


ALL worth it when we got to see her expression when a room of her closest friends began singing Happy Birthday to her...and recording it all on iPhones. Ah, the future. (Annie and I had shared birthday parties for a number of years- back when video capability didn't come on phones. Heck, phone capability barely came on phones. But the lack of documentation is most likely a check in the plus column. Ah, the past.)


The food was stellar, the company even moreso. (But seriously, the cupcakes. I had- more than one. My weigh-in for 24 weeks this a.m. is bound to be a good time.)


If this past week is any indication of the summer ahead of us, I am le stoked. 


And if I don't slow it down, I will also be le huge. 

31 is the new slightly-older-than 30.

OhKAY!

Today marks the anniversary of D-Day, the founding of the YMCA, and the coronation of the German King Henry II the Saint.

Way more importantly [personally/distressingly/not surprisingly] is my birthday. (It is also the birthday of my nephew Quinn, my cousin Eammon, and my favorite teacher Ed Udel. I think I've made my case. Also born today is David Abercrombie, founder of Abercrombie and Fitch, a brand which I have never worn- I'm about five...ish... years too old- but I'm trying to get some more star power up in here.)

I have a birthday request. A wishness, if you will. But more on that in a sec.

If I may be permitted a bit of Pollyanna, I'm extraordinarily lucky. And blessed. And happy. This past year has been simply stellar; not only do I get to live in an increasingly livable home (in my absolute favorite city) with my super-duper crush and our wicked fun mini sidekick, but I'm actually [starting to get] paid [a little] more and [not that much] more for freelance and blogging, plus I'm carrying a little monkey who is threatening to be just as cool as every other current card-carrying member of my life.

And even though I wasn't feeling Birthday Party-ish, the King of Troy Street took me out to one of the nation's top restaurants last night (deets on that unreal experience soon). And two of our exceptional friends became our Pinch Hitter Sitters when Nora's regular gal came down with a fever. (They wouldn't even let us PAY them. I cried. In a good way.) Tonight's taco fiesta (party of 3.5) is brought to us via my folks, all the way from Western MA. Friends and family have been showering me with literature, my favorite foods, pedicures, certificates for spa treatments, and at least one Happy Birthday rendition that transitioned from classic to swing to Christina Aguliera to Little Richard.

My daughter even made me a card that proclaims me to be the Best Mommy in the World. (The world!) There was a collaged flower inside, so you know it's legit.

So how can I even hope to ask for more when presented with the actualization of every single childhood hope and dream [the trick- wish vaguely] I've ever had? Because I think it's a decently small and simple thing to request. (Tell me if I'm wrong. I'm rarely wrong on my birthday, but it wouldn't destroy me. Much.)

My Grand But Smallish Birthday Request is to have this be a really, really good year for my blog. This one. The one about the nothingness (but not in the NeverEnding Story kinda way). My ten year plan for this site is to have it fully finance my lifestyle in Virgin Gorda in a [tasteful] villa after my husband has retired and my [11 year old!] daughter has announced her plans to never leave my side, ever, and my as-yet-born kiddo has announced his/her line of How To books, detailing how motherhood Should Be Done, as shown by the mother figure in his/her life (making him/her the most precocious nine year old ever).

Or.

To have this be a really, really good year for my blog, as evidenced by the handful of new followers and/or advertising campaign or two.

If you'd like to help with either of these goals (for real, it's totally your choice), and wanted to repost this blog, or "like" it, or "love" it (which is NOT a current Facebook option but is, in fact, the only real option at Coldstone Creamery), or follow it on Google or Twitter or Networked Blogs (or recommend that someone else do so)...well then, I wouldn't be able to stop you. Except with my tears. Of gratitude. Which- I'm told- can be quite off-putting.

But now I must return to my tea party- currently in progress- whereupon my daughter has presented me with her choice of [plastic] birthday foods: ice cream, doughnuts, french fries, and a celery stalk. Mixed together with a fork and presented on a tray with some Legos.

Sure, I'm celebrating differently than I did ten years ago (21 seems like a different planet) but I wouldn't change a thing. (I love celery.)

And I love you, too. May you all feel so stoked on your individual birthdays, whether you celebrate with tacos or liverwurst- or (more likely) something that is decidedly NOT tacos nor liverwurst. Again, up to you.

Have a really good day.

Popapalooza '11

It was a really great weekend.

Sure, Keely, you say. You always have a good time/eat too much food/nap during the chaos/watch MST3k your Dad and old movies with your Mom. What made this trip so boss?

He shreds.

Well, there was live music. Featuring my Dad.

And two bands.

Three if you count my sister Chelly wailing on the vocals.

And the food was in a buffet- that means that no one really knew how much food was consumed. (Secret: new plate each time? Little convo with a new party guest each go 'round the food table? That's how it's done. "Oh, Keely, you should eat. Think of the baby!" "Well...okay.")

A rare, non-food table picture.

Learned that trick back in '92 from a good friend.

On one day alone, I made four (4) trips for a bowl of sausages ALONE. That's right. Not even a flower for garnish. Bowl o' sausages. And that was just that type of meat. There were others. And I had some enchiladas and oriental salad and salad salad and pasta and potato salad (even though I do not- generally- care for the potato) and chips and multiple cupcakes originally in the shape of a sunflower.

Where's your I.D.?

The night before, I had been in charge of frosting the yellow ones. There were many delicious (and temper-tantrumy) casualties.

Kazoo= instant party.

The music was epic. The groupies were out of hand.

But easily, the best part was the one-on-one (or, rather, sixty-on-one) with the birthday boy himself.

And the pulled pork sammiches.

But mostly my Dad.

You're the best at this, Pop.