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.

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.

Birthdays are for memories.

My youngest sisters turn 24 today. I, frankly, am shocked.

Shocked because I'm pretty sure I'm still 24, and they're definitely...a year or two younger than me. Or so. Ballpark.

Also shocked because a good part of my childhood was spent doing really, really fun things that had incredible potential to damage one or the both of them. (And can't twins feel each other's wounds and stuff like that? So- definitely both of them.)

Do NOT leave us alone with her!

For example.

Once, when I was babysitting for the pair of six year-olds, I got a rather important phone call. (From an unnamed eighth grade boyfriend. Fear not, I was also in eighth grade.) Before taking the call, I instructed the two of them to stay inside; directions that they immediately disregarded and that I immediately forgot to enforce.

This was way back in the day- so when you got a phone call, you were practically married to the one spot near the kitchen counter where you picked up the phone.

It couldn't have happened this quickly, but the next thing I remember is hearing the THWACK of a branch snapping, a scream from one or both of them, and- once I stuck my head outside the sliding glass door- the image of Rachel flyyyying through the air. And hitting the ground. With a branch impaled through her armpit.

Thankfully, a nice neighbor lady/doctor was walking her dogs past the house at the time and it all ended just fine. Plus, Chelly now has a simply incredible scar. But Emma's scars might be a bit more of the psychological variety.

Moments before dropping Emily.

They were also the subjects of my short-lived career in photography. I would thumbtack their baby blankets around various pieces of furniture and surround the girls with desk lamps. They would then be forced to hold objects I deemed worthy of immortalization: silk flowers, important-looking books, and my stuffed animals. Once set up, I borrowed my parents' camera and took a positively blinding number of shots. Most of them were awful, especially the ones towards the end of the roll where they would be blinking, wincing, and looking a little glazed.

The twins were my only clients when I was a detective in my bedroom closet. They were the only ones who could fit in there with me.

I forced them to stay under the dining room table for hours when we were bears. I named them Cubby and Cubs and thought myself quite clever.

There were talent shows where I not only told them what their "talent" was, but I would also cut them off mid-act and make them go serve people from the Fisher-Price kitchen. (You wanna act? You've got bus your own table.)

I once tried to make Rachel swallow her own hand.

I left Emily in a pile of my stuffed animals and went out to ride my bike, completely forgetting that I'd told her not to move.

Despite all of these atrocities, they've turned into stellar human beings. (Also, inexplicably, I've had a really successful career as a nanny.)

Rachel is one of the wittiest people I know- yet she rarely makes me feel dumb. Nor has she attempted to make me swallow my own hand. (Yet.)

Em is the person to whom I've emailed pictures of entire outfits- begging her to tell me what to wear. And despite my teasing of her hair into absolutely marvelous pigtails...she helps me.

Chel lives in NYC and acts and auditions and tutors for the SATs and knows the best place to have anything, ever.

Emily lives in Cambridge and saves the world and once lived on a boat and is the nation's greatest dancer and dissects lyrics with a surgeon's precision.

We usually bring Kate, too!

So...happy birthday, gals. Despite my outward attempts toward the contrary, you've clearly done a-ok with yourselves- to which I can only respond with these two phrases:

I'm sorry.

And you're welcome.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.

Intensive porpoises.

[Note: This posting was, for all intents and purposes, ready to go this a.m. However, apparently I wasn't. Really, all I had to do was do a li'l spell check, edit some late night phrases that don't do so well in the light of day (and vice versa) and hit 'publish post.'

Yup. Couldn't even manage that. 

To be fair, I was awfully busy ruining my daughter's life and stranding a three year-old in the line for preschool pickup. One super sick baby (she got the illness lovingly passed on by a good half of her party guests) in addition to one semi-sick three year old, and throw in a seven year-old outta school due to a teachers' conference. Add in a stalled recycling truck outside of two schools with simultaneous pickup times...and oh, let's just pretend that the non-sleeping baby didn't care to be stopped in traffic (with or without garbage truck fumes) and, just for fun, let's say that the middle kiddo felt thoroughly abandoned after a ten minute wait...and the littlest one decided to get her only nappin' of the day in whilst car bound. 

That leaves about three hours of unfulfilled nappage and 9.5 hours of fulfilled crabbage (that's a combo crab/cabbage/cribbage)- but plenty of opportunity for five cups of caffeine. 

The day might've been destined for crabbagetude, however, since I woke up from a nightmare that seemed about eight years long. In a nutshell, the dream took place on my wedding day. Sans P.J. or any actual items or locations of that day. Especially without Peej- because he had stood me up on the altar. All I remember was being very sad, and then, when I woke up, being very mad at P.J. (He hates when these things happen. Awake P.J. and Dream P.J. need to have some words.) 

So. Yes. Lack of bloggin' for the day. Amended. With apologies for the late hour.]

Previously Penned Posting o' Prose and Puns:

This was, quite obviously, a good time o' year to be born'd. I don't think I had realized just how many pals were Scorpios in addition to my husband, daughter, sister and Mom. 

Lots of passionate, deep thinkin' arguers. 

I didn't exactly need the zodiac to tell me that.

And a happy birthday week to my big sis Kate. She's awesome. Awesomer than me, in fact. Here's why: she had her first kid on my birthday. (06.06.06- and I turned 26. Neato/frightening!) I could not manage the same, despite an original due date a mere day before her birthday. (11.04.09. Kate's is the 5th. Nora was delivered on the 29th of October. Darn you, modern medicine!) 

So there's that. There's also the fact that she's a computer whiz, soccer star and baking genius (seriously- ask her to make you a banana cake. On second thought, don't. It's for me.)

If only I had enough floss, I'd string up a pulley/basket contraption- like the kind that used to hang between our bedroom doors- and send a secret birthday message as big as the Midwest. In fact, maybe I'd send myself in the basket and save on airfare. Or...or...I could send others and charge for it! Then I could see her whenever I wanted!

Birthday magic. Brilliant.

Some other little-known tidbits and magical facts about this week:

1) Despite having mopped the floors and both staircases repeatedly over the last few days, there are miniature cat hair tumbleweeds rollin' on by...and rollin' on over random sticky spots near the fridge. I'm gonna go ahead and presume that they're made of juice. Also, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that this all is the work of one thing and one thing only- a ghost. 

2) I am getting a new laptop delivered any time between right this very second and tomorrow in an hour to be determined...and oh, it will be determined. Because my nose will be pressed against the window until the very second it arrives, prompting my daughter to wonder why she's being neglected and I will tell her that MOMMY IS GETTING A NEW COMPUTER. Drink your juice. But not by the fridg- oh well. 

3) This new computer is teeeeeensy...and yes, it already has a name. 

4) And a customized skin. Like the 13 year-old girl that I am. 

5) My bloodstream is comprised of 79% sugar. And not even the fructose kind. Like, straight up candy corn and brownies and caramel apples and cupcakes and Kit Kats. I find that this affects things like "energy," "sleep," and "mood." This has not slowed me down in the least.

6) And many, many of my friends have seen this already...but P.J. and I are exceedingly proud of the following 12 second clip:

...Because it means that our darlin' girl has put the 'fun' in FUNCTIONAL. 

        

Anagram: ANTIC FLU NO.

A.K.A.: Keely, go to bed.      

November is for sleeping.

Firstly and foremostly, congrats to Kelly F, winner extraordinaire of the Brain Noodles giveaway! (And no, that does not read 'Keely F.' It doesn't.) Hope you have some fun kiddos in your life- or enjoy a good crafty evening by yourself. 'Cause who doesn't?

Except for autophobes.

Hmm. So. Where did October go?

Ah yes, now I remember. We sent it packing with armloads of confetti and [impossible to open] plastic toy enclosures, a face full of Trick or Treat makeup and frosting up its nostril.

Maybe a frozen Reese's cup in its back pocket. (I'm kidding. I ate all of those. In the state.)

Hey gorgeous. Cupcake? Sure!

Yes. This weekend. Friday was a crazypants day, full of tutus, graphic tees proclaiming 'ONE,' zoo trips, zero naps, and all sorts of good foods. And some really bad ones. We took Nora Noodle to the zoo for her big day and decided to make up for the other afternoon where we tried to squeeze an entire visit into the last fifteen minutes before closing time. We failed.


Here is what she dug:
-The cats. And they were all 'cats.' The lions, servals, panthers, tigers, seals...
-The birds. Flamingos, ducks, nearby chickadees and street pigeons.
-Dad was there. Dad! DAAAAAD!
-Smelling the gardenias inside the conservatory.
-Walking about on the pavement.
-The snack I had brought.

Here is what she did not care for:
-The fact that the monkey house was indoors and dim. Also, kinda smelly.
-That she could not hold the snake.
-Not being allowed to walk about on the pavement the entire time.
-The near-freezing temps.
-Not being allowed IN the koi pond at the conservatory.
-When I removed the empty snack container from her hands.

I had made all of her favorite foods for that day- in fact, for the whole week. P.J's as well- because, as everyone knows, she's taking notes. And will remember. These foods included: French toast with bananas, mini croissant sandwiches, a sweet potato and apple bake, eggplant parmesan, and a chocolate cherry cupcake (from Sweet Mandy B's. I cannot bake.) I'm rather surprised she didn't explode.

As for the cupcake itself, we had a very cool (and rather Epcot World of Tomorrow moment) where my parents got to Skype and see Nora blow out her first candle. (We live in the future!) It was pretty neat, especially when everyone got a close up look at my delicate daughter smashing her face (hands-free...she's a LADY) directly into the frosting.

We undressed her right over the bathtub and she took a nice long soak surrounded by cake and eggplant bits. YUM.

Dux.

She awoke the next morning to find her parents in a frenzy. Why? Oh, because they had decided on a no-stress mini party for their toddler at her favorite nearby playlot. And that required multiple trips to multiple stores. And they needed to get food and drinks (and adult "juice") and presents and paper goods and wipes and candles (and and and) to the park that may or may not have available picnic tables because, once again, it is a free city park. Also, the forecast had- ever so helpfully- been fluctuating between  a pleasant mid-60s sunny day and a positively frigid rainy 40-something. Which meant that the party MIGHT have had to take place at the homestead. Which was also frantically being cleaned for the arrival of P.J.'s parents sometime that day. (Sorry Nora, happy birthday and all- go lay down.)

And when she decided to nap for a whopping twenty minutes that day? No one was surprised. But thankfully, the day turned out to be gorgeous, Nora was thrilled when she realized where we were taking her, even more ecstatic when she realized that other people she knew were there (Hey guys! You're at my park!), and she devoured a second glorious cupcake (punkin' this time, made by the fabulous Cindy/Julia Team O' Excellence) with all the acumen of a seasoned pro.

Of course, we had decided to have it at the park to best accommodate all of her miniature friends...four of whom were able to show up. (There were various illnesses and weekendy plans. You know how it goes.) However, a whopping 90% of our friends made it, allowing for a positively creepy number of adults san children at a public playlot. Lots of bench-sitting and "juice" drinking. I had fun. Nora thought it was terrific.


That night she passed out atop brightly wrapped boxes, clutching a questionably "food"-covered Doc Bullfrog. Party over, I could almost hear her bitsy (and racing) mind decide.

Miiine.

Except.

The next day was Halloween. A day for masks, Skyping with a good half of Trick or Treating cousins (what's a telephone?), carving pumpkins (you're doing WHAT to the punkins?!), giving buckets of candy away to other kids (they get ALL of it?) and dressing up as Raggedy Ann (I did this last week, weirdos.) Aside from the oddity of hearing the doorbell every five minutes, she had a pretty decent time. She even got to take a bath with all of the leftover cupcake ducks.

There's a sentence I've never before typed.

But now that it's November, maybe we can all agree to take a nap? Specifically the shorties? I need all the extra time I can get to dispose of the veritable kitchen candyland we're got going on (immediately into my face) and find some sort of order for the F.A.O. Schwartz open for business in our playroom. (Nora: It is fine the way it is. Leave it. LEAVE IT.)

Raggedy Tired.

I might start by doing a big ol' load of laundry. That's right. Let's start with the upstairs bedding. I'm probably gonna need to crawl under the sheets to make sure I can reach all of the blankets. And I should rest there for a few.

This hand holding the cupcake is getting heavy.

Like a Sharpie with a chisel. Of diamonds. Big ones.

It continues to be Birthday Week.

On Monday I enjoyed regaling my pretty terrific husband P.J. with a list of 29 reasons why he should remain married to me.

Today's featured birthdaygoer (and haver) is none other than Nora Jane, One Year Old Extraordinaire (well, tomorrow, anyhow.)

What?! How can she be that aged already, didn't you carry her for thrice this long, you exclaim? (AGREED.) But since it wouldn't be fair to only list 1 reason why she should continue to remain my daughter (and how thoroughly incredible she is)...I've decided to compile a number that shall reveal itself when I finish this post, as I shall make it up then.

Dear N.J.,

1. You may be small (in size as well as years), but you have already- undeniably- learned the important life skill of getting exactly what you want. And- despite my tireless reinforcement of  rules, politesse and patience- whenever you want. What's your trick? Why, it's the same as your Daddy's- offering up a stunning and genuine smile before and after the event or object of your fascination.

It goes like this: grin/point/thatthatthat/applause/poke/patpatpat/grasp/beam.

Here's your pony.

2. You have a miniature library containing hundreds of titles. Despite this, we are captive readers each night of Ten Little Ladybugs. This in and of itself is not amazing- but what is is your ability to be constantly enchanted by these twenty pages, sometimes flipping back to marvel at earlier plot developments. So much so, in fact, that we find ourselves laughing along with you, excitedly pointing out characters in a tale that, frankly, had long ago ceased to be suspenseful. ("Previously, on Ten Little Ladybugs...")

In short, you make everything really, really fun. And did you know that your father would be so adept at voicing grasshoppers and butterflies?

3. You eat pesto and eggplant and Armenian delicacies. Actually, "eat" is too ladylike of a term for how you destroy plates of food. Actually, same goes for "plate." It's a good thing you're strapped into that highchair and it's made of fairly solid and toxin-free wood. Watching you consume food is an almost daily revelation. You've never tasted this or that- your reactions are immediate and for the first time ever.

That is so cool.

Subsequently, you make us feel like really, really good cooks. Which is awesome! Even though sometimes you eat to mimic us and pack teensy bites of bread into that cavernous mouth of yours like the squirrel-cheeked beastie that you are...you NEVER lie or pull punches. If the alfredo sucks, then the alfredo sucks- and it's going on the floor.

4. Our days together kinda always feel like a Saturday, early in the afternoon. We have a good time. You're game for strollin', car seatin' (usually), being slung (slingin'?), ridin' in the shopping cart, swingin' at the playlot...and pretending that you don't know how to walk. (I know you do. I've seen it when you think I'm not looking, lazy bum!) We watch Jeopardy. (You get super excited when Alex Trebek laughs. And the other day, when they showed a pic of a cat sarcophagus, you squealed "catkittycatmeowhihihihimeow" for, oh- a good half an hour.)

You climb on our tall speakers and tap them for emphasis, announcing to the room at large that it would be great if someone could make something happen here. You love music. All music. But especially stuff that lets you dance with lots of hip and knee action. (Again, this is a lot like your Dad.) And speaking of him...you innately know when he's due to arrive home and you bounce impatiently by the speakers, clapping and cheering like an Elvis sighting when you hear the key in the lock. And then he plays songs that the two of you have deemed your favorites. And then you dance identically.

But there are also afternoons where you are beyond content to sit and play with a pile of blocks, dolls and books by yourself. Happily turning pages, patting babies' eyes, shoving smallish pieces into your mouth or shirt or underneath a pile of something that will be unearthed later in the week (you've recently discovered the concept of a "nook")...this is when you allow me to return emails, write, start dinner, lay facedown on the area rug in unfolded laundry...

We've discovered, you and I, what so many relationships strive to attain throughout years of togetherness: we can just be. Sure, me more than you, but you've allowed me to work on the discipline of Not. Having. To. Work. On. Something. At. All. Times. (And yes, definitely, that's still a work in progress.)

5. Nora Noodle Junebug Jane, you've made me a more prolific writer. (I hesitate to say "better," because I'm barely functional in terms of grammar and punctuation in my casual writing.) And it's not all about sunlit beams over sleeping babes and blah blah- because, as most people are well aware, my poetry is God Awful. (It's really bad. It even rhymes.) But, when I need to write something down and explain it (and tangent it) to death, you've inspired me to write and write and write. 'Cause babydoll, now I know fear. And rage. And comedy so dangerous to bladders it should have its own warning label.

Granted, the stuff I write isn't exactly the apex of literature- but then again, in my kid-free days, I wasn't exactly penning Chaucer. [Note: Really? Chaucer? I've been an avid reader since the early 80s and my go-to example of literary greatness is the Canterbury Tales? Really?]

Oh, Nora, I've failed you in this list. The idea of even pretending that individual numbers correspond to itemized ramblings is a little inane. So...

20. Everyone said how hard IT was. How hard IT was gonna be. Few people said- or were even able to let on- how unimaginably wonderful IT is. How full of wonder, joy, exquisite sadness and shocking hilarity this whole shebang was gonna turn out.

And, weirdly enough, "life-changing" (as overused as it is) doesn't seem big enough to cover it. Because it was- obviously. But any time you do something new and nutso, your life is bound to change. I need a new term for something so upside-down-making, so outside the realm of one's comprehension, that you can't help but be immediately catapulted into a stronger and more strongly defined person.

Nora, you've so thoroughly outlined my edges that I've been Etch-A-Sketched. With a Sharpie.

And, no I don't think that this kinda transformation is exclusive to parents- I can think of at least five other Life Etch-A-Sketching events- but I think I was lucky enough to get it right with you, kiddo.

I think I was lucky.

(Happy birthday.)