Full Disclosure: I Am Not A Contractor.

I'm with you, kid.

There are many things that I just know:
-The vocal lineup of most classic rock bands since 1972.
-An innate awareness of when a ladybug sticker is being placed on an item of good furniture.
-How to fall asleep on any surface despite exterior influences.

And then there are things for which I fall woefully short:
-Being able to relax/move on with my life when things are out of order.
-Apologizing first.
-And anything having to do with the putting-back-together of my house.

That last one has become painfully clear during this past month. I have been asked- nay, expected to answer questions [correctly] about the how/when/why of my home's implosion. Why was this house built on a cesspool? (Cheaper real estate.) Where's the shut off valve for the mitochondrial rotator cuff? (That isn't a thing.) Does this pipe run up to the third floor/were you insane for buying a short sale? (Yup.)

And I kept it together (kinda) for the first few weeks. But now we're in the home[ish] stretch. And there are choices to be made. Shower tile. Floor tile. Faucets- with correct backings. (Did you know that they let you buy incorrect backings? They totally do.) A sink. Laundry room tile. Lighting that works with the wall spacing. A mirror that's wide enough for the vanity- but not that wide. (That's too wide.) Paint paint paint paint paint.

I thought I'd be good at this. I am not. We fell in love with the first sink/vanity we found. (In LOVE, I tell you!) But then it went out of stock. So we ordered the bigger size. But it was waaaay too big. So we found one that was- nice. It would do. Then I chose some backsplash tile that was clearly the best tile ever: tan and cream and white glass bubbles on a neutral background. But (as P.J. can probably tell you), I have expensive taste. That shower would end up being more expensive than my wedding gown. (By about fifty bucks.) So I decided on a mosaic glass in Moroccan colors. Which was the wrong absorbency level for a shower. (Would be great in a kitchen, I was told. Sadly/happily, we are not gutting the kitchen just yet.) I picked a third tile in brown glass- which, again, was not the right level of water resistance. (Clearly, I was meant for designing kitchens.) I finally ended up at a tile warehouse one night, pointing at a floor display and asking if that one would work. (It wouldn't. But they could find something close.) And that what's being installed today. The "close" one that "would work." (It'll be lovely.)

Picking out tile that would work a) in a family room, b) over radiant heating, and c) wouldn't cost more than my college education was next. We chose wood-grain tiles made of recycled materials and porcelain that would look kind of unassuming yet warm. (I should write ad copy.) There was a pricing war between our contractors and the flooring guys- of which there were no survivors. (The flooring guys didn't seem too interested in my business, however, as they actually shut the lights off on me and almost locked me in. "Oh hey- we didn't see you in our store for the last forty-five minutes.) I'm pretty sure it was a front for something illegal. A front with really nice flooring options, but still. The color and width of my choice changed about five times- and not because I had any sort of crazy stake in it. I originally chose teak. But that one "wouldn't work." So oak was installed yesterday. (It'll be lovely.)

I had to choose how I wanted the tiles spaced. ("Like...that.Yes. That's how I'd like it. Leave them there. Now everyone go home.") "Is 3/16th of an inch okay between planks?" ("For sure. That's how I always do it, anyway.") "Which grout would work- this one or this one?" ("Whichever grout will make me the least aware that I'm looking at grout. Sure. That one. I simply love it.")

Then I got a call last night telling me that the grout I wanted wasn't going to work. Now, there are many things that "I want," but grout doesn't even crack the top twenty. So we went with the other one.

The paint colors I had chosen were no longer available. The floor isn't level enough for these types of planks. You shouldn't be wearing patterned pants with those hips.

It feels like every single tiny detail that I have to decide upon is inevitably the wrong one. Every hardware and decorating choice I've made in the past few weeks has inevitably been scrapped. Because here's the thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.

It's like I'm expected to solve an Encyclopedia Brown mystery without knowing how many Tigers were actually at the baseball game. I simply don't have all of the information.

But it'll be okay. Eventually everything will be done and everyone will be out of our house. The girls will regain another level of the home in which to fling their toys and I'll be able to flop onto pleasantly grouted tiles while waiting for the third load of laundry to cycle through. Lights will turn off and on, painted walls won't show a trace of uneven plaster, and there won't be even a whiff of sewer gas anywhere on the premises.

It'll be lovely.

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)

Today's Wordless Wednesday Is Brought To You...

...By the Letter 'P'...and the Number 4[am]. 

Can you find all of the 'P' words? (The 4am is evident everywhere.)

Daylight Savings AGAIN?!

Out of sorts. But not Emo malaise.

It has come to my attention- and not for the first time, either- that the institution of Daylight Savings is a terrible idea. Truly awful.

Lemme 'splain.

1. Neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family or scope of reference, has now or at any time been A FARMER. I care not about an extra hour of crop harvestin'. Or an hour less. (I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHICH ONE IT BENEFITS.) All know is that it is now getting dark at 4:30pm. And my internal clock has no idea when Jeopardy should be on.

2. Babies and/or toddlers have no respect for this time change. They still get up when they get up- except now it can happen as early as 5am. Naptime has the potential to blend with lunchtime, sometimes rendering both events nonexistent. You know what's better than a two year-old who has forgone eating and sleeping?

Absolutely anything you could list. Anything is better than that.

3. There is the distinct possibility that you'll forget to change at least one crucial time-telling device in your home- sometimes it's the car- leaving one with an awfully Twighlight Zoney feeling (at best) and gut-clenching panic at one's own tardiness (at worst). Or it can manifest itself as a vaguely uneasy confusion every time one checks a clock. I readily admit, this could just be me.

4. Even an hour difference makes me feel like I've just taken the red eye from Brussels. And jet lag without even getting served international airline food is not any jet lag worth having, thankyouverymuch.

I like my hours ordered the way they're supposed to be. 7, 8, 9am- I like those hours to look like those hours and feel like them when I see my phone display. 4, 5, 6am- I don't like those hours, overmuch, but I'd prefer to not be shocked by them.

Well, no more shocked than the startling realization that, between those hours, I've become a veritable 7-11 for the snacky newborn set.

But that's a different Letter Of Great Concern.

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.

Someone Bring Me A Dustmop. Or A Pillow.

Putting on brass knuckles.

I should not be left to my own devices.

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

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

Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Nora's cool with sharing.

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

She really digs her stickers.

He'll Be The Prettiest Of Them All!

Why do you need another?

Before we continue on to The Pressing Issues, I'd like to acknowledge that I'm just as sick of the pregnancy talk as you are. Maybe even moreso, since I've got the pregnancy thought and the pregnancy insomnia. What I wouldn't give for a good anecdote from the club. (It doesn't MATTER which club- so long as there's a decent bar special and a questionable DJ.)

That said, as I am 33 days away from having another human being in my care, I have no such tales. (So maybe be a pal and tell me yours?)

Peej and I embarked on a very sleepy Date Night Month- which sorely lacks the Awesome of the last pregnancy's final countdown- and have tried to do such stellar activities as Have Dinner Together and Be In The Same Room At Night.

Last night, after giving NJ an early supper, bath, and supra-snuggly bedtime routine, I began preparations for a Grownup Dinner; steamed crab legs, sweet corn, and this loaf of multigrained awesomeness from Costco. (I do not bake, this cannot be said enough.) This plan was sidelined (slightly) by the arrival of The Monkey's crib and mattress- which my parents had generously ordered on Sunday night. (Have you EVER heard of anything getting delivered that quickly? Except by, like, a guy on a sweaty horse?) We were going to leave it until later on to assemble, except we both knew two things to be extremely true:

-P.J. cannot leave a puzzle/project/something with many pieces alone.

-And he had a very real fear that I'd attempt it without him today. (Guilty.)

So now we have a sweet crib with an extraordinarily decorated Enchanted Princess pink mattress (my Mom said it was a great mattress and we can always cover it up- which is true- but I'm fairly certain we've just guaranteed the birth of my son). And the 10pm dinner was terrific, made all the more romantic by the propping up of each others' heads.

All that we have left to do now is...panic over inconsequential scenarios. (Okay, maybe that's just me.)

Like how Nora is going to be SO SAD when we're in the hospital. Especially if I die in childbirth. Keeping in mind that- despite the Pony Express-like delivery of last night's furniture- we do not live in the Wild West (though I could use a little Young Guns action right about now) and there is a fairly good chance that I will survive the birthing of this kid. But the sadness over the hospital stay? That just crushes my face in.

Or how it's imperative that I finish birthday plans for Nora's second birthday- ON OCTOBER 29th. Because if I do not, I certainly cannot have a child on October 4th. Especially when one is planning a party as high maintenance as two hours at the playlot park with cupcakes.

I will attempt to put such Very Real Things aside for the evening- and the second installment of Date Night Month: Reloaded. For we are seeing the final Harry Potter in the theater tonight! It will be great. It will (thanks to the generosity and fabulousness of our our newly instated Babysitting Swap with Angie and Tim) be FREE.

And it will be, due to the very good chance of one or both of us snoring smack dab in the middle of the theater, more than a little embarrassing.

But I hear there's popcorn.

Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

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.      

Sounds like all we do is watch TV and fail to sleep.

I looked at the clock this a.m. with a sense of pride. 7:30. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet and I had already: woken up (a big deal), fed the baby, bathed the baby, re-rinsed the baby (she had some Cheerios in ear-like places...and one right square on her cheek- my bad), decided against rinsing myself (yep, that took time), cleaned the first floor bathroom and half-heartedly done the dishes.

As I got Nora ready for her first nap of the day, I truly felt proud. Like, quite possibly too proud. Then I thought about it. And got sad. Quite possibly too sad.

I used to have dreams, people.

Okay, I lied. It was always this. I played the game of 'House' for potentially way too long- the pretending to be a grownup one, not the surly identification of crazy maladies one.

But at least now I get to write about it, which is cool. Never imagined that one, back when I was sharing the Commodore 64 and blowing on a floppy disk to play Speed Buggy.

Nor did I ever imagine that I'd be married to a guy who dresses himself with a complete and utter disregard for the weather outside his door. Truly. P.J. wears corduroys [side note- do you have any idea how hard that word is to spell?!] twelve months out of the year. Because he likes them. And long-sleeved shirts in August- because he needed something blue, for example. Red socks with his green sneakers. 'Cause they were at the top of the drawer. (And he is not, to the best of my knowledge, afflicted with any combo of color blindness.) Christmas boxers and undershirts from camp. His camp. Because they were on top.

And the guy has clothes. Like, a small fortune in perfectly tailored suits and Italian boots. Cowboy hats, fedoras and scarves. And he wears them equally, alongside the ripped jeans and Sea World tee shirts. I have a couple of theories as to why he doesn't discriminate:

1. He's usually running about five minutes late.
2. He is EXHAUSTED.

Just as I used to dream about babies and houses and impressive operating systems, he used to imagine himself as a grownup. And a Dad. But perhaps not one who argues with the neighbors in Spanish, attends CAPS meetings and prices cat litter online. And now that Nora's here, she is Constantly. On. His. Mind. Not just because he loves her, which obviously he does. But he thinks of his daughter in terms of food and growing and sleep cycles and random fevers and nice words and college funds. And dating. And he thinks about me, not just about how much he adores me and how rad a wife I am, but also my Roth IRA and stuff I tell him I want to do and the next baby we might have and my penchant for rearranging furniture as soon as he leaves the room. And all of that Thought, that near-constant Thinking and Providing...it's tiring.

Which is why I excused the fallin' asleep during last night's episode of Psych.

And the [backwards] head nods during True Blood.

And especially the pairing of cords n' mandals.

Back to my day of incredibly high productivity. And not a moment too soon- Nora and I had been viewing the very first episode of Sesame Street and a clip of a remarkably young James Earl Jones reciting numbers has just reduced her to tears.

And not due to artistic appreciation. She's got a lot on her mind, too.

Like her third tooth and trying to walk and differentiating the signs for "milk" and "more." She has very little time for boomingly monotone recitations of things that are not yet being dealt with in her baby stages book, thankyouverymuch.

And grabbing the laptop away from me, that's a big one, too.

Dream big, Nora.