My Family's Ridiculously Close Call At The Boston Marathon.

This is not my story. It's my family's story.

My family was in Boston on Marathon Monday. My entire side of the family. My marathoner sister Rachel- who raised over 11k in honor of my Dad for Dana Farber- my parents, my sister Emily, Rachel's best friend Barry, my sister Kate, her husband Tom, and their three little boys Quinn, Cole, and Declan.

I wasn't there. I was at Disneyland. (More on that bizarre juxtaposition later.)

When the first bomb went off, my family was seated in V.I.P. bleachers at the finish line. As fate would have it, they had recently been gifted these stellar seats by a wonderful family friend, otherwise they would have instead been mere feet across the street to watch Rachel cross the finish; the spot where they normally stand and cheer, the exact location of the first bomb.

In fact, Kate and the boys were standing on that spot only the day before, cheering on Tom for a 5k he ran on Sunday.

This picture- which made the front of the New York Post and Boston.com- is an image of my family fleeing the bleachers. They're the ones looping around and running down the stairs. This photo simply haunts me.

Photo credit: David L. Ryan/ Globe Staff

If they had been standing in their usual viewing area, I might not have my family.

If my Dad hadn't decided to stay back at the hotel because he wasn't feeling well, or if Tom hadn't decided on a whim to run the last two miles with Rachel, or if Tom hadn't brought his cell phone, or if Kate- at eight months pregnant- hadn't been so quick to grab Declan, or if Emily hadn't taken off work or Barry hadn't decided to adjust his plans or if Emily and Barry and my Mom hadn't been so quick to grab Quinn and Cole, and if and if and if.

Back in Anaheim, P.J. had been holding my phone and saw that a call was coming in from my Dad. We were on a gigantic carousel with the girls at the time, and more than a little confused as to why my Dad would be calling right around the time Rachel was hitting Mile 24.

"Something's wrong," P.J. told me.

As it was, "we" were very lucky. Tom helped Rachel finish her marathon- albeit by the waterside- and my family members eventually all met back up after taking convoluted routes through Boston, staying well away from the crowds and main thoroughfares. As Kate told us- "Clearly someone crazy had planted devices in the area, so how was I to know which way to go?"

I'm grateful that they were able to contact Tom (whom, as Kate informed me, never runs with a phone) and Rachel, diverting them from the finish line and letting them know everyone was okay.

I'm angry that Rachel, after training so hard and earning this for herself and our Dad, was denied the thrill of crossing the finish line for her first marathon.

I'm devastated for the innocent victims and their families. Crushed. Horrified.

I'm guilty that I was so incredibly far away, waiting in line at the tea cups and pretending normalcy for Nora and Susannah, while simultaneously waiting on reassuring texts that the group had found one another. Watching people shove to the front of the churro cart while refreshing our browsers and feeds.

I'm saddened for my nephews, who saw and smelled and felt things which no one should ever have to experience.

And I'm grieving that this- which is not my story, but instead a retelling from someone standing at multiple "30 minutes to ride from this point" signs- is a slap in the face to the marathon and Patriot's Day and everything Boston holds dear.

I'm so lucky to have my family safe and sound. Others weren't lucky. This is a national tragedy and a horrifying state of affairs and the stuff of nightmares. But right now, I can't help but feel lucky (and all of those messy emotions which come along with it) that they're okay. That a series of coincidences added up to have each of them in the right place at the right time. And I have to go with that one. Blessed. Fortunate. Providential.

Lucky.

Why I Should Never Travel Alone; Ghost Story Edition.

And now, filed under Things Which Make Me Question/Hate Myself:

The other morning, as I made my way to the train- laden with bags and more than a little guilt at leaving my children for the weekend- I thought about my parents, whom I was excited to see. My kids, whom I already missed. The amount of work which might never see the light of day. My imminent flight sans children or [non-psychological] baggage, and the pressure I was putting on myself to just enjoy this, dammit.

So yeah, I was a little distracted.

By the time I was was seated on an orange line bound for Midway Airport, I was in a better place. (Mentally. The orange line is a little questionable.) And I looked up from my nauseating self-reflection (and YouTube videos) to see a man, seated across the train from me. He seemed pleasant. He had a nice smile.

And he had a hook for a hand.

Now. My mind went in all sorts of places- most embarrassingly the Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark, Volume Eleventy-Billion where the dude has a hook for a hand and it ends up on the car door handle and people are afraid.

And that is horrifying. For. I am a 32 year-old adult with a mortgage and children and a dental appointment already set up for six months from now. And not only should I be able to contain my immediately fearful response to cheaply penned ghost stories, but I'd also hope that I could maintain an appropriate facade in the presence of folks who clearly have bigger fish to fry than a gal emoting wildly before a solo weekend.

But the dude had a hook for a hand.

And it looked like a functional hook, the kind that could grip things and be a useful tool and scritch scritch scritch through the roof of a parked car-

I never claimed to be a good person. Or a sane one.

I am, however, extremely well-read.

Keely Brings The Mood Down A Notch.

Summer. And maybe a touch of roughhousing. 

Last summer, when I was humongously pregnant with [the-yet-to-be-determined] Susannah, Nora and I had a terrific time. Really. We had picnics every place that featured tables (and some that didn't). There were nature hikes, tamale stand stalkings, and midday naps in my bed (because we couldn't fit into hers).

I was so [beyond] thrilled to be having another baby, of course, but I couldn't shake this sense of sorrow, like- "Well, this is it for Nora n' me," or "No more naps in my future." Which is ridiculous, because Nora and I are ohmystarsthisclose every single day, and sometimes I can swear she's actually hanging from the tag of my shirt. (Especially if I have to return a phone call.)

And I will always- always- make time for naps. (I mean, there's crazy and then there's crazy.)

But then Zuzu was born and things continued to be good. So good. And we've had a pretty banner summer this year, what with all the beachiness, culture we've been foisting into our kids' faces, and even bigger blankets on which to nap. You'd think I'd lose some of my End Of The Season nutsy, right?

Nope. Because, even though I love the Fall and all it stands for (pumpkin patches, more hoodies, and new folders for my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper), I can't help but feel sad that this summer is coming to a close.

Because Susannah isn't going to be a baby next summer. And Nora will be A Kid Who Has Been To School. (We probably won't even have any fun at all.)

It's almost like I believe that each season's close is its ending for good. Like- No More Summer. (Wasn't Summer Nice That One Time?) I try (really, really hard) to remember that, with very few exceptions, each season I've experienced in my adult life just keeps getting nicer than the one that preceded it.

Then I get annoyed at myself for slathering such a saccharine statement all over my psyche. (Then I get mad at my self-bullying. Then I have a sandwich, because by then I'm tired- and I get hungry when I'm sleepy.)

My point is that I'm trying oh-so hard to not hold onto each moment between clenched fists- because's that's no way to live. (And also because I'm holding a sandwich.) And that's not to say that my life is perfect; far from it. I wish we had more money. I wish I wasn't so godawful tired every day. And I wish I didn't have to scramble so hard to keep our home together.

But the girls and Peej? That's the stuff I want more time for. More of this. More of the same with them. Because there's so much atrocious, junky stuff in the world, and I'm [hyper]aware that it could all be gone in an instant. And (God forbid) if it were, I'd think back and want today again. Or last week. Maybe two months ago on a Wednesday. Nora's flyaway blonde curls, covered in sand and peanut butter. Suzy's ecstatic realization that I came to get her out of her crib. (Again!) A backyard beer with P.J., and a peaceful moment to reflect upon our neighbors' colorful rants. I want these moments and I never want to live in a time without them. But each passing season comes with the realization that the past is just that. And if I'm super-beyond-lucky, I'll get more chances. And more days, weeks, summers.

I hope I'm lucky.

I also hope that my kids continue to nap.

And I wouldn't turn down a few more sandwiches, either.

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.

T Minus WHAT?!

Donesville.

Okay, this is getting nuts.

By tomorrow morning at this time- if all goes according to plan- I will be holding the newest member of the mini Schoeny family.

Which blows my mind right outta my head and plops it onto the dining room table, which I have yet to stop dusting.

It's very strange to know precisely when your pregnancy will be done. And at the same time, you almost wish you'd go into labor (regardless of how wonky that would be) if only to break up the inevitable and breakneck locomotion towards surgery and a certain deadline. I love suspense. But I also hate it.

In some ways, I'm more excited about the birthing process this time around. With Nora, I was afraid. Of the c-section, of being a first time mother, of getting to the hospital itself, pretty much anything I had read on the interwebz...But at the same time, there was a kind of bliss in not knowing how hard the healing process would be or what to expect when.

But I had had no idea how euphoric that first moment holding her would be. Or how perfectly wonderful that first couch nap at home with Nora would be. So in that respect, I simply can't wait for this baby. AT ALL.

But then again, as someone who's had slightly more than the national average of surgeries (some minor and some not-so-much), I will never lose my apprehension at feeling like a human pincushion. Sure, I can deal with the post-op metal staples, but please don't make me watch while you put in an I.V. and draw blood. There are limits.

That said, after the last few nights of waking up with insane false contractions and an internal (child-sized? Debatable?) foot in my sternum, I would willingly jab the needle in my own arm. Especially if you include last night's sideshow of a full leg cramp that made me a) shriek in pain, b) wonder why someone was stabbing me into ribbons with scissors, and c) if contractions have ever been brought on by leg pain.

On a fun note, I had my first gender-related dream in recent memory. And it was a boy. Meaning...absolutely nothing. Because, if anyone remembers, I was certain that N.J. was a boy. Which I'm decently sure she is not.

In my dream, I was so thrilled to meet my kid and announce his birth that I promptly sent a mass text...to all of the past year's contractors. Like my mold guy and the plumbers, et. al. But it never sent. Leaving me to panic. (Great- one more thing to stress about.)

So, uh, this is the last day to lemme know your guesses for The Monkey's weight and gender! I've been receiving them via Facebook, text, and in person...overwhelmingly, people feel that the baby will be a girl and under 7lbs.

So I'm gonna go on record and say BOY, 7lbs, 13oz.

P.J. thinks it's a dude as well, but he's sticking with 7lbs, 10oz- which is very The Price Is Right of him.

My youngest sister is thinking Girl, 5lbs, 8oz. Because a) she was a preemie and a twin, and b) she has not, in recent memory, hefted a full term infant.

My Dad thinks it's a boy. My Mom, to counter that, is going with Girl. Even though she really thinks it's a boy. (Especially since she made gorgeous wooden letters for the baby's name- both gender options, in fact- but really likes how the boy name came out.)

So I'm curious what YOU think. Again, I can promise you nothing but my undying impressitude and bragging rights on a blog of medium publication. Oooh.

And I'll seeya Wednesday for a [blissfully] wordless post. And probably something exuberantly drugged on Thursday.

Plan accordingly.

Ice Cream, Anxiety, And Public(ish) Peeing.

Last night I had an illicit dream.

About ice cream.

Apparently, my subconscious wants a giant mug of ice cream with all of the add-ins, swirls, and goopy goodness. The best part? My older sister was in the grocer's freezer section with me (I never call it that, the grocer's freezer, by the way- I think that's commercial lingo finding its way into my vernacular) and SHE was the one who was all like- Diabetes? COME ON. You have less than a week. Have some cookies n' cream. (Which is totally weird, because she knows my favorite flavor is coconut. Or strawberry. Or something with mango.)

And you know what? I caved. It was great.

Also great is the apparent trend towards, fluffy, inconsequential "anxiety" dreams. I'd tell you the roundup of the past weeks' dreams and nightmares, but I guarantee you'd never want children ever ever ever because of the distinct possibility that these scenarios could occur OR for the very real chance that you'd have some of these dreams. I'm not sure which would be worse. (The scenarios for sure. Or maybe the dreams. THEY WERE SO REAL.)

So yeah, ice cream.

And yesterday was my very last prenatal visit for at least a couple of years- or so- ballpark- and I can't say I wasn't stoked to know this. My favorite moment came early on in the appointment when I had to do the mandatory 'pee in the cup' thing. (Nurse: The patient is here, Doctor. Doctor: Excellent, have her pee in a cup. Nurse: Why? Doctor: Oh, just to make sure she still can. Aim is a funny, funny thing.) And Nora always comes into the bathroom with me- because we are best friends. (Except my best friend hates the sound of the power hand dryer- HATES- which sometimes forces me to wipe my hands on wadded-up and quickly disintegrating toilet paper, which has the dual hilarious function of allowing other people to wonder if I've washed my hands at ALL since they haven't heard the dryer...which I HAVE, thankyouverymuch.)

Except yesterday, Nora was really interested in the whole peeing process and [loudly] announced- Mommy goes potty in the cup!

And then the kicker- Oh MOMMY, you DID it!!!

She was so proud of me. (Frankly, I was too.) But the real joy came when I walked back through the office and past all of the hysterically laughing nurses.

We celebrated (the end of the pregnancy, not the peeing) by getting a pumpkin "cupcake" and going to the Disney store to play/get a present for the baby/hoard all of the Donald Ducks.

It's a very old and respected ritual.

Ten Years Later.

I'm not much of a Bandwagon-Jumper...nor am I inclined to be a Dolores Downer (my Mom's name is Deb- and she's rather peppy), but I'd be extremely remiss in not acknowledging the 10th anniversary of September 11th.

It seems like everywhere I turned yesterday, there were flag wavers, remembrances of the day, and country lyrics galore.

Well, I have no country lyrics for you (except, randomly, I do have Folsom Prison Blues stuck in my head), and the only flag I have is miniature, left over from the Fourth, and has recently been confiscated from my toddler and her attempts to impale the cat.

I guess that leaves us with my tale of Where Were You. Even though, frankly, it's completely unimportant in the grand scheme of events and wholly unrelated to anything that was going on in New York, Pennsylvania, or Washington, D.C.

I was 21 and a senior at Hampshire College, on a tiny apple orchard in the middle of Amherst, MA. I was a teaching assistant for a theatre class- it took place at 10:30am or some other ridiculously late in the morning hour (but for which I remember lamenting my "early" bedtime of midnight the evening prior). My mother called and woke me that morning- but honestly, all I recall was the panic in her voice over a plane crash and her pleading with me to stay safe. (And in the bubble of The Valley, it was really, really hard to feel anything but.) So, honestly, I didn't give it as much attention as I ought to have. Until I turned on the common area TV and saw the second plane hit.

And it was so weird- SO weird- that I simply went about the rest of my morning prep. I was extremely shocked and worried, of course, but in the protective cocoon of my life up until that moment, I had no basis for the type of horror I was witnessing.

I walked to class. All around me people were moving like zombies and waiting for someone to tell them that Things Were Okay.

We sat in class for about ten minutes- and I swear to God, some of the students were looking to me for direction. (Really? I barely know the syllabus I helped to create. I'm hardly a source of authority for an American crisis.) Our professor eventually dismissed us all- and it turns out that all of the day's classes had been cancelled as well- so I went back to Mod 96. (Aside to non-Hampshirites; that's what on-campus apartments were called. Ours had a balcony, a God Door, a catwalk and...other details completely irrelevant to the story.)

My roommates and I remained glued to our TV, unsure as to what to do...but feeling though it was our job to keep watching. Some of my best friends hailed from NYC, and their panic was mine as they were unable to reach their parents for hours. Someone brought out a bottle of whiskey and- though I much prefer vodka with a mixer of some sort- I'll admit that I did a shot or two.

The rest of the day (and that week) was a blur. And not due entirely to the whiskey. We all felt a mix of sadness and unease that eventually made way to a sense of national pride (extremely rare at our age/demographic/enrollment at a hipster college where dissatisfaction and too-cool-for-schoolitude was de rigeur). 

(And that pride inevitably led to bafflement and outrage, but that's another story, too.)

But like I said, my story- one of safe, secure, witnessing- has virtually no impact on the day's events.

Except that it ties me into the fabric of a society that remembers.

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.

The One In Which P.J. Almost Offs Himself.

Friends, I was almost widowed this weekend. 

And it would've been painful. Painfully embarrassing, that is. For me. 

In less stressful times.

On Friday night, after Peej's show opened, he returned home and complained of having lower region pain. At first he thought he was dying of a hernia or something else that I didn't take entirely seriously (because a- he is either completely fine OR on death's doormat with no middle ground ever and b- he later told me that my Braxton Hicks contractions were "sympathy pains." For him. Yes).

So he took a bath- another oddity, for he is A Man who only lies down in pain when something heavy is pressing upon him, like an anvil.

Side note: I remained in the other room, still reeling from the movie that we accidentally watched in its entirety. Killing Me Softly, ever heard of it? Joseph Fiennes and Heather Graham? Aw-ful. With an emphasis on awe. As we shuffled through the channels, we landed on this "erotic thriller" (which sadly, was neither) and watched five minutes as a joke. Then we literally could not look away. We were stunned into watching the masterpiece in one fell swoop. (What kept me going was that the plot line was almost exactly that of So I Married An Axe Murderer, sans Mike Meyers, Nancy Travis, comedy, or haggis.)

Huge digression, I realize, but I need to set the stage for why such a long period of time passed before I went to check on Peej. I needed a Cheers marathon to wipe away all of the poignant looks and incredibly trite dialogue.

Anyhow. Opened the bathroom door a while later to see if he needed anything for the triage...and heard "Careful!"

Because my husband, the love of my life and half of my kids' DNA- was in the tub with a plugged-in laptop sitting on the edge.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING," I CALMLY ASKED.

"Work."

"Why is the computer plugged in?"

"It's dying."

I informed him- pleasantly- that he was being a moron. He politely disagreed. I pointed out that our insurance policy would not cover acts of stupidity. He rebutted that sitting in a tub with a computer wasn't exactly like jumping out of a plane. (I agreed with him on this one. 'Cause at least one would've made a better tragic death.)

Afraid I hadn't made myself clear, I told my husband that I would dispose of his body in the neighbor's recycling bin if he killed himself so idiotically. (Why the neighbor's? Because the city hasn't yet given us our own blue bin. Sorry Anita, I didn't want you to have to find out this way.) P.J. agreed that this was fair.

I told him that I wished I could blog about stuff like this- but had, until this very moment, refrained out of kindness towards my spouse. He gave me the green light, asking what 'being nice' had ever gotten anyone? (Besides respect, integrity, and a sense of humanity, I kinda had to agree with him.) He then went on to quote an episode of Blossom in which her Dad dated a stand-up comedian who used him for material. The Dad was rightfully upset, but then realized that the woman was who she was. And to change her would be wrong. (I had been SO READY to ridicule him...but then remembered that I had also seen this episode. Wind= taken out of sails.)

As he didn't want me to be tired and stressed out(!), he told me to go on up to bed, feeling confident in his abilities to both a) not die and b) also impart a life lesson.

I fell asleep wondering a) if my husband was going to die horridly and b) when he had ever watched Blossom, since he had grown up without cable. College? Was he watching Blossom with his roomies?

All ended well, even though P.J. ended up falling asleep, too.

In the tub.

Does Mickey D's deliver?

Poor abandoned kid, living in a milk crate.

First things first: happiest of birthdays to one of my oldest pals (in years of closeness, that is, not oldest-living-friend.) We love you, Auntie Jen! Test the waters o' 31 for me, I'll be there in a couple of months.

Now. For the serious news.

P.J. has left me.

For four days.

And it's...weird. Quite weird. At first, I panicked. You mean I hafta do all of this alone? Feed and bathe and entertain Nora, not to mention single-handedly bulldoze the trails of trolls and miniature bears?

What about dinner?

Who was gonna set the alarm?

What if THE TRASH CAN GOT FULL?

This fear kept me paralyzed for a good...fifteen minutes into Wednesday morning. Then it hit me. What the heck do I do on Wednesdays with P.J., anyhow? Basically, my daily routine wouldn't change until dinner- which, coincidentally, is my dealie anyway- and bath would be a solo affair. Well, kinda. And sure, meal cleanup would be on me, as would the bulldozing and toddler-wrangling...

...But as P.J. pointed out, I use less dishes than him. I'd probably get a little too used to how clean the house remained. And I certainly wouldn't have any gigantic clothing to wash (why are men's clothing so ridiculously heavy in the washer and dryer? Give me a baby's onesie any day).

This did not stop me from starting a load of laundry at 7am- not my "normal" time. (I usually only do laundry under duress. Like when all the hampers are busting at the sides. Or when Nora is wearing a sundress in March.) I was so impressed at my impressiveness that I did another load. And all of the hand-washing (which had been hanging out for way too long *coughOctobercough*). I scoured the kitchen immediately after Nora had had her breakfast- instead of whining about it right before lunch. I even made breakfast for myself- and ATE it!

It felt like I was going for a medal, like someone was gonna step in and congratulate me on that day for all of the things I do on a normal morning. And, frankly, that I often do for other families during the weekdays. (But- her husband is traveling, the amazed spectators shouted. And she even refilled the cats' water bowls before they died of thirst!)

I have friends whose husbands travel for work- a lot. And friends with husbands overseas (which brings its own share of awfulness). I've seen how hard that can be. And this isn't that. This isn't hard. It's just...weird.

It's like the absence of my husband makes all of the things I do- without a second glance or thought- seem like Playing House. Each action seems deliberate and with an air of seriousness.

I flossed my teeth this morning. Because the house was clean and the laundry put away and it seemed like something grownup and "in charge" to do.

My sister put it to me best when she said that these are the things you do when you realize there's NO backup coming. No cavalry. And I think she's right. Tasks I would've saved for after Nora fell asleep when it would be "easier" are just sorta being done. (Purposefully, as if for an audience, but DONE nonetheless.)

I do not, however, enjoy falling asleep without P.J. Sure, it happens all the time, but that's usually because he's face down in some couch laundry, working late at his laptop, or Netflixing a war epic that I'd really hate. But he generally comes up to bed sooner or later. After taking out the trash and setting the alarm and [inexplicably] shutting off the hall night light. (Hey! Some of us need that light for multiple bathroom trips. No names, but maybe that same person just saw a particularly creepy episode of Ghost Adventures.)

And it's the oddest thing. But when he's not sleeping next to me, my body somehow knows. When he IS there, I sleep through the night and miss the early peeps from our daughter's baby monitor. When he isn't? I wake up every fifteen minutes and smack his pillow. (Perhaps it's best that he's not there.) Most irritatingly of all, each of these wake-ups ensures another potty break. So that's fun.

If he must travel (and since he's already left it looks like he just might) I'll be a big girl and set the alarm by myself. And maybe- just maybe- take out the trash. Yeah, sure, there might be a light left on upstairs...but that's just smart. And I'll do my darndest to not consume any beverages after 6pm...and I'll try to sleep soundly through the night.

But the first weird noise gets a Louisville Slugger to the face first, questions second.


And if they seem innocuous enough, they can take out the recycling.

It's the little ones you hafta watch.

Bath Pingu also frightens me.

I am easily frightened. I think we all can agree on that. However, the other day my bravery reached an all new low.

I was taking advantage of a quiet/resting Nora by doing all sorts of exotic and glamorous activities in the upstairs bathroom; brushing my teeth, using moisturizer, contemplating a braid.

Glancing up into the mirror, I saw into Nora's open room through the reflection. I saw her crib, I saw her lovies, I saw...her miniature face staring at me through the bars, in a position she had clearly been holding for a good while.

She giggled at being seen. Maybe she also laughed at how hard my heart thudded against my ribcage. That's right, I was completely freaked out by the image of my own kid. The idea of anyone staring at me without my knowledge, no matter how related they may or may not be, still gives me a chill. Yup, even typing this- chill. And I don't know, but I'm pretty sure catching anything in a reflection is even creepier. Like- oh man, it's coming to get me and I haven't even turned around yet!

This could all easily be traced back to the misjudgment on my part of tearing through the entire series of Twin Peaks in two days. I pretty much always expect someone to crawl out of the furniture or dance backwards or do something equally terrifying.

On a somewhat tangential note- did anyone catch the Twin Peaks episode of Psych? Sheer, awesomesauce brilliance. They nailed it. Cadence, character, creepiosity...and poor P.J. barely saw any of it, due to my squeezing of his arm and squealing of his eardrums about that NAME and oh my goodness that's an ANAGRAM and that was the SONG they...(etc.) But it's okay. He wasn't a thousand percent invested as a) he oddly falls asleep towards the end of Psych episodes and b) he's actually never finished Twin Peaks. He's still pretty sure Laura Palmer's gonna be okay.

Back to the fears.

I really don't have a [shivery] leg to stand on, what with my penchant for scaring the bejeebers out of my poor parents. My Dad likes to tell the story of how I sleepwalked my way into the fridge. Or that time I made it outside. I personally like the time I ended up mid-staircase.

My Mom's zinger came the night I ended up standing over her sleeping body, staring evilly and chomping on something indeterminate. After a lot of incomprehensible babble [on my part] and prying of the jaws [on hers,] it was concluded that I had stolen the toothpaste cap and had attempted to grind it to death.

She put it back. And, I'm assuming, me as well. But man, what a freakish way to be woken!

That is why I- one thousand and two percent of the time- sleep with a blanket over my ears and up to my forehead, making a little tent for breathing room. (I tried to get my sister Kate to help me invent elastic straps to keep sheets securely fastened to the ears- but nooo.)

It's a well known fact that the mere presence of a blanket acts as a barrier to all sorts of undesirables: axe murderers, ghosts, vampires, hooligans, ruffians, and cats.

Okay, it actually encourages the cats.

I really hope Nora hasn't inherited these phobias from me. I'm pretty sure she's okay so far, given that she's the toughest thing around. From falling onto her back [Oh wowww] to laughing like a loon when upside down (something her folks have never and will never be cool with for themselves), she's a Brave Little Toaster already.

And P.J.'s a pretty brave guy, what with the [reluctant] hunting of That Sound Downstairs and going outside at all hours to Have A Word With The Neighbors.

He's already planning on taking big kid Nora to theme parks for their birthday week. I can just see them now- rollercoasters, splash rides, crazy spinny things in the dark...

...And I'll see them just fine from my perch on the kiddie carousel.

Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.