Nora's Practically A Money Guru.

And now, an exceptional money saving tip from the most unlikely of sources: Two year-old Nora Jane.

Looking to save a little bit extra on those peskily expensive items of produce? Live n' learn, folks, live n' learn. Here's how Nora does it:

We walk to Cermak Produce, our favorite exceptionally affordable Hispanic grocery store. Walking through its vast aisles of fruits and veggies, Nora happily announces that she wants apples! Eggplants! Whatever that spiky thing is! (One of those vaguely Dora the Explorer-shaped pinatas!)

I let her choose her favorites because, after all, hands-on toddlers in the grocery store and kitchen equals hands-on toddlers at the mealtime table! She asks to carry the eggplant. I thank her for her help and mentally pride myself on having such a helpful (and healthy!) child.

Nora surreptitiously takes two bites of the raw eggplant. I let it slide, even though I find it to be very weird.

She carries the eggplant to the checkout. I carry her sister and the rest of the groceries. We pay. Nora tells the cashier "adios." My heart simply bursts with the knowledge that I'm raising an intelligent citizen of the world.

We walk the block and a half home. Right in front of our house I tell Nora- yet again- what an awesome helper she is. She beams up at me and asks if I want a high-five.

I do.

As she lifts her left hand, she shifts the contents of her arms to her right side...

...So that she doesn't drop her stolen eggplant.

The donut was most likely lifted as well.

Can We Swap "Wordless" With "Instagram?"

Avocado Face.

The Burger Princess.

...And I call this one "Look At The Goober On The Side."

Eat It, Just Eat It, Open Up Your Mouth And Feed It.

Neither picky nor choosy. Yet.

Nora has recently become a choosy eater.

Not picky, mind you. Choosy. There's a mammoth difference.

Our choosy eater consumes eggplant parmesan. Spinach pies. Sweet potato fries dipped in blue cheese dressing.

WHEN SHE FEELS LIKE IT.

And there are many days when she feels like it. And even more when She. Does. Not.

I try not to let it get to me (because, after all, that would be a tantrum of my own) and try to acknowledge that she is two, and she has virtually no power over anything besides what goes into or out of her body. (Which, on its own, is a staggering amount of stuff.)

There are days when I am less than successful with this mindset. Because I really can't stand choosy eating, and am even less tolerant of picky eating. To me, selective eating is a first world [middle to upper-middle class] problem. This may be steeped in my many years as a nanny, beginning with a family who insisted that I cook separate meals for each of their children- at any ol' point in the day when they were hungry. (But it had to be organic and healthy. Unless the kids didn't feel like it. In which case just keep them fed/quiet.)

I've cared for children with very real allergies, and then those whose parents imagined allergies for them.

One kid ate baby food until kindergarten.

Another had never tried a vegetable because she didn't think she would like it. (Her parents agreed.)

So, sadly for Nora, she gets the brunt of my eye-rollitude towards kids' eating habits.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has foods that they love and others they can't stand. Totally cool. When I was little, I abhorred crusts of bread and plain potatoes. (I used to go so far as to excuse myself from the dinner table with a full mouth so that I could spit them out in the bathroom.) And I know a bunch of people with texture issues. Less universally acceptable, but also totally cool in my book- so long as they're not a pain in the butt to spend an evening with.

But here's my thing with Nora- every dayI put good food on her plate. Not an overwhelming amount, by any means. And at least one of the things I'm serving her is something she really likes. Another part might be something that I like. Perhaps even something new. Because- and this is the super strict part- I ONLY COOK ONE DINNER EACH NIGHT.

I am not a sous chef. And I'm certainly not a toddler's caterer.

The same thing that she's scoffing at tonight could be the exact same meal that she had thirds of last weekend. But for reasons only known to herself, tonight it ain't jiving.

It's not earth-shattering when she decides this. The other morning she woke up and announced that she only wanted to eat blue m&ms all day. (Good for you, I almost said. I wanted to star in the remake of Quantum Leap, but perhaps we all need to adjust our daily expectations.)

She also has moments when she says that neither her beloved Doc Bullfrog nor the constant Ritz crackers are "very good friends," so there's another indicator that I shouldn't be taking menu cues from someone so erratic and untrustworthy.

So what do I do when she's not feelin' the eatin'?

Nothing.

She eats? Awesome. She doesn't eat? She goes to bed slightly hungry. And, as my pediatrician keeps reminding me, little kids are hard-wired to not starve themselves to death. I'm reminded of this when Nora demolishes her breakfast the following morning. I also have no problem wrapping a plate and presenting it again for lunch the following day. (No takers? Peej gets it for lunch the following following day. Sorry, Peej.)

We don't make a big deal of this eating/not eating thing, either. (Outwardly, that is. Inwardly, there are tears. Threats. Fistfuls of food shoved into mouths.) The main thing I want to impart to Nora is: manners. Not royalty manners, either. Just: Be A Nice Person To Sit Near manners. Not hungry? Fabulous. Try one bite of everything and drink your milk and talk about something pleasant. For at least ten minutes. After that, feel free to hop down from the table and let everyone else try a bite of everything and drink their [alcoholic] drink and talk about something pleasant.

There are rewards for successes. There are zero rewards for non-successes...nor are there repercussions. (Other than an early dismissal from the table and a gurgling belly at 3am.)

The other night, as Nora housed a entire plate of salmon in a citrus soy and maple sauce, P.J. and I frantically (and silently) high-fived and kicked feet under the table.

Today, however, she spit a mouthful of [chewed] string cheese onto her chair because she Does Not Like Cheese.

I never said it was foolproof.

Seeing What All The Fuss Is About.

Susannah, meet Real Food.

(I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.)

Green Means Fun, Darnit!

Sorry, Zuzu, it's picture time.

This was the best summer holiday I've ever had for St. Patrick's Day.

Because it was ninety degrees outside.

(I did, however, have a momentary fear for all of the revelers. Irish holiday plus Saturday plus downright 4th of July weather conditions? Happy, drunken, glittery folks being swept downstream in the Chicago river. Wearing skimpy tops proclaiming bold statements. Perhaps even singing.)

Our festivities were way more low-key. It would be hard not to be. (Even with the ten children under seven years of age, it was quieter than anything going on a few 'hoods south. Even when they brought out the kazoos. And even after the sugar. Sugar and kazoos and ten little ones. Still quieter.)

We had the usual corned beef and cabbage. (I did, however, have no less than two people tell me that it reminded them of their Irish grandma's meals. Which could be good or bad, I suppose. Irish people do have a way of boiling dishes to death. Mine, however, is always fantastic. The secret is a brown sugar and Dijon mustard glaze- I've said too much.)

Boden hugs the Zu. She approves.

There was a potentially unwise amount of Harp, Smithwick's and Guinness. (And for someone who doesn't drink a ton of beer, a wall o' beer in the fridge is more than a little daunting.)

Picnic blankets and lawn chairs graced the [green!] backyard. For, as previously stated, it was midsummer.

We even had a glorious tiramisu cake, courtesy of a completely wise choice made by a four year-old dude. (Thanks, Calder!)

The baby wore a green tutu and a sweet onesie proclaiming her to be "A Wee Bit Irish." (Thanks, Annie!) The girl wore a green top and belted denim skirt and promptly announced that she would not be in any photographs. We agreed, but told Susannah that she did not have such an option.

Uncle Nat snuggles Suzy, Nora
accidentally gets her picture taken,
and Boden looks on in abject horror.

It was a lovely weekend of friends and family and over-eating- made all the more awesome by P.J.'s bro and his kiddos staying for the past few days. (Trains and parks and bistros and museums and picnics, oh my!)

Mondays are always tough, especially after a jam-packed few days. (Why do you think so many kittens have to Hang In There and Don't Do Mondays? Because the day is so universally rough, that's why.)

But I'm ready to face this week with energy and zest.

Powered by the remaining tiramisu in the fridge.

Priorities.

This is the story of how one day- when things are wonderfully calm and simple- you suggest to your two year-old daughter that you bake something. Brownies, perhaps.

And how she then proceeds to tear apart the kitchen in excitement, looking for wooden spoons, looking for aprons, trying to eat through the cardboard box to see what color the sugar is, etc., etc., etc.

But then you turn on the oven. And, as the room becomes full- maybe overfull, even- of tools necessary (and completely unnecessary) for the act of baking brownies...you notice that the room is becoming full of something else as well.

Smoke.

Thick, black, puffy clouds of burnt toast smoke. Or, to be more accurate, burnt pizza crust smoke. From a section of pizza that had- somehow- fallen off of the frozen dinner from the previous night's meal and ended up incinerating itself way back against the broiler's flames.

So you turn on the oven's vent fan, the kitchen fans, and [inexplicably] the bathroom fan. The windows are opened. The doors are opened. Rags are waved uselessly.

And, through all of this Non Panicky Take Chargitude, the two year-old demands (politely at first) that You Promised We Would Make BrownieCookies.

And you explain (gently at first) that the kitchen is in very real danger of charring to a crisp and, since the brownie-cookin' needs to take place in the kitchen, First Things First.

But she does not jive with your "logic."

So she begins to have a full-on tantrum about the very real lack of baking happening in front of her face. And she proceeds to hit you with a wooden spoon.

And so then you drag the toddler to the Time Out chair- waving her smallish body at the smoke detectors along the way- and have a very timely discussion of Why We Do Not Hit and Why We Need PATIENCE, DAMMIT.

Meanwhile, the infant is sitting nicely in her bouncy seat and staring up, quite possibly preparing for a future epileptic seizure due entirely to a strobe light effect caused by poorly placed track lighting behind the ceiling fan.

But the smoke eventually clears.

And the toddler apologizes- especially when she sees it's Game On for brownies and not so much for fire extinguishers.

And you can fully admit- once you see the infant blinking normally, that is- that maybe you just experience the weirdest three minutes ever.

At least for that afternoon.

Eaten Alive By Tonka Trucks.

Someone else who liked her
 toys a LOT...

Do you ever have the kind of night where you're dying to make a pan of brownies, eat more than your fair share, and just kinda need everyone to be okay with that? Only- you go to find the mix only to find no mix, and you wonder just what kinda jerk would banish all junk food from the house after New Year's...only to remember that it was, in fact, you?

So you make yourself a mug of hot cocoa...only you make it a questionably large mug, and when faced with the choice of mini marshmallows or whipped cream (I guess we didn't obliterate all of the junk, now did we?), you choose...both. Lots and lots of both.

And you feel no shame over this.

Except for maybe a twinge or two the next morning you begin to post a blog. For example.

I suppose it's my week for inconsequential whining.

After the rush of an absolutely perfectly organized (and clean!) dining room, I decided to tackle the playroom, formerly known as the family room, also formerly a space where one could sit even if one were not a miniature person.

I can admit my mistakes when I make them.

And I made one.

Irrationally enough, I thought it would be a great idea to have all of the kids' large toys and stuff in the room where they, you know, play. Because there was a ball pit in the kitchen (or, as Nora calls it- a pit ball. Which sounds too much like pit bull. Which I also do not want in the kitchen). And there was a multi-room tent in the living room. A trampoline in the unfinished downstairs room. And in the playroom? A kitchen, two bookshelves, a train table, an art table, stacks and stacks of "projects," a stroller, a Lego wagon, a wagon wagon, a ride-on Lion King safari car, and babies. Not even including the real one.

And since Suzy got, well, more mobile, she's brought an exersaucer and a swing into the room.

You know it's bad when your new kid brings two pieces into the mix (as opposed to your toddler's fifteen pieces) and you're all like- THIS BABY IS CHANGING EVERYTHING.

We're not spendy, nor are we actual hoarders. We just happen to know some incredible gifters, and we happen to have been on the receiving end of some insane hand-me-down action. And if you think I'm bad about loving my possessions too much...well, you should see Miss N.J. in action.

She loves everything.

She is playing with everything.

Yes, even that thing under that other thing.

But since I was hot off of my dining room victory, I thought I could tame the beast that is childhood play. And I was schooled.

It was like playing a game of Jenga with Escher.

Even after I had stacked and sorted and made piles (to donate- shh...) and hid some larger items in the closet and cleaned and dusted and mopped and lost Susannah under some toys and then found her but lost Doc Bullfrog...it was still too much. There wasn't enough wall space.

I debated getting rid of Zuzu's swing but, as she was still in it, I realized that perhaps she could keep that one item. 

So I lofted. I channeled my first year room at Hampshire and perpendiculared that shiz. I cleared out more stuff and pulled the couch out into the center of the room and shifted furniture and put the wagon in P.J.'s office (sorry) and STILL there wasn't enough room.

It beat me. The playroom won.

The judges might hafta strip me of the Feng Shui Master title [that I've given myself].

In other First World Problem News, The Food I'm Eating Is Too Delicious and My Fifties Are Too Crisp.

I'm still really smarting over the brownie thing, though.

The New Normal- Christmas Edition.

Christmassed out.

I don't think 25 year-old Keely would recognize 31 year-old Keely, nor her way of celebrating the holiday season. Nor what she considers totally par for the course.

Mid-twenties Keel would don her best grey leather boots and mod minidress for a round of Christmas shindigs that featured precariously balanced martinis/vodka tonics, extra lime.

Early-thirties me considers it a night well-spent if she gets an after-dinner dance with both of her girls (and maybe even her husband) to the sweet sounds of The Vince Guaraldi Trio's Charlie Brown soundtrack. Any time I can bust out my mad Peanuts dancing skills is a gold star moment. Nora's got the arm thing down. Zuzu excels at the floppy head part.

Christmas treats used to include the mandatory evening out at Emilio's Tapas for the seasonal triumvirate of bacon-wrapped dates, baked goat cheese marinara, sangria pitchers. Lots of them. Lots of all of them, in fact. These nights would be late. Very late. Happily, cheerfully, sloshily late.

Mama K wears the same red hoodie (dating back to 8th grade, back when we wore things awfully roomily) to determinedly bake festive cookie-like vaguely reindeer-shaped things with her daughters. Even though she [most definitely] does NOT possess this skill set. Because two year-olds (and two month-olds) need this memory with their mother. This morning activity comes right on the heels of an excruciatingly, astonishingly sober, and painfully late night. The main players in this little skit included a slightly snarfy newborn, a little kid whose overnight diaper threatened to leave without her, and a husband who remained awake to bake cookies for his wife's party- the one for reviewing the new ABBA Wii dance game the following night, obviously.

Business as usual.

One thing that has stayed- painfully- the same is the number of awful, annoying, and atrocious songs that are played in mind-numbing repetition on holiday stations. I mean, come on, Sirius XM- you have access to literally thousands of Christmas and seasonal songs. Yet I still hear this combo once an hour: Dominick the Donkey (hee HAW), I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas, and- more recently- that ol' Spongebob classic, Don't Be A Jerk (It's Christmas).

They should just play Josh Groban's O Holy Night and anything by Mannheim Steamroller/Transiberian Orchestra (whom I'm not entirely convinced are NOT the same group. They might also be Manhattan Transfer).

And this afternoon? It's the traditional crafting of the Christmas paper chain while viewing Jeopardy.

I'm not even gonna pretend that one's new or different.

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.

Date Night Month Meets Tired Parents And Toddler

I shall not be moved.

Remember waaay back in the Fall of '09, pre-Nora Junebug Jane, to be exact? We deemed that frantic and aggressively fun time Date Night Month. It was great. It was fulfilling. And- as it turns out- it was a completely unnecessary step for which to greet a new baby. In retrospect, we probably should have saved those pennies for things like diapers, wipes, and boxes of Franzia. (Having a baby is stressful.)

Past helpful knowledge totally disregarded, I've been attempting to repeat the same activities (sorta) with Nora and Peej this month. I call it Oh My God, Let's Do Something Fun With Nora While We Still Have [A Little] Energy Left And She Can Recall SOME Happiness From Her Early Years.

We have largely failed with this. Namely because we are already zonked. Sorry, N.J.

This weekend was an attempt to rectify at least a little bit of this situation.

The Lincoln Square Apple Festival was going on, as was a promotion for a ton of area museums through the Smithsonian (P.J. misses nothing on the internets), so obviously we decided this was a perfect opportunity to take our toddler to the Planetarium. All in the same morning. In addition, the weather alternated between torrential downpour, blazing heat, and frigid winds. So, regardless of the current weather, I had inappropriately dressed/prepared my family/myself. It felt good.

Despite all of this, the day was fabulous. Nora was really stoked to find that her neighbor/bestie Emily was at the fest with her folks. Also that there was a booth with vintage toys for kids to play with. And apple pie slices as big as a smallish child. (Darn you, diabetes! I could have done some damage at this place.) Duck confit was also available, obviously, as well as gargantuan bags of the bestest apples in the Midwest. (I have a serious apple problem lately. Which is only a "problem" if I don't pair them with some carbs. I am such a bore lately.)

We set out to the Adler Planetarium about an hour later than intended, which had the obviously terrific result of a tired kiddo and two Determined Parents. And because I adore my husband, I will not mention the hilarious carnival ride called Rotary Parking And/Or Jockeying With Inept/Aged/Outta Town Drivers. (Think Peej is all laid back charm? Try either taking away his chocolate malt or messing with his driving mojo. He becomes The Hulk in corduroys.)

Onto the museum. Things Nora Liked: Lights, Stars, Running Amok. Things Nora Did NOT Like: Taking Turns, Being Carried, Not Being Able To Touch The Sun.

We'll try again later.

The rest of the weekend was a lovely amalgamation of naps, snacks, Sunday comics on the couch, stellar music in the speakers, and really, really good dinners. Nora had some Emily playtime yesterday afternoon while her folks had a day date (Brilliant! DAY dates!) and everyone went to bed [relatively] early with the appropriate reading material.

We. Are. Hell. Raisers.

(But rested ones. So there's that.)

On The Road Again. (Seriously?)

Whee!

So what does a pack of Schoenies do when they find themselves without a houseguest and/or crazy weekend plans? They get outta Dodge. For 24 hours. (Which, some folks might speculate would create a ton of work on the part of the two people packing/planning/toting the toddler...but any time I don't have to clean the kitchen after a meal is a good excuse for a trip. Unless you count the mad dash cleaning immediately prior and the post-return explosion of last night. Saving me...a lunch cleanup, I guess. Sigh.)

Best behaviors. 

Anyway, we jaunted up to Oconomowoc, WI (land of many summering Schoenies) and stayed at The Inn At Pine Terrace. Gorgeous. Also, they don't take children- ha ha. But somehow P.J. worked his P.J. Magic (not at all like P.J. Sparkles, mind you) and convinced them that our mannerly beastie would be a better guest than his cranky hippo of a wife.

Royalty.

Obviously, we stopped at the Mars Cheese Castle. (I cannot resist dill and garlic cheese curds. Nor their recently completed castle with actual turrets.) And sure, we may have stopped at an antique emporium. Which- if you've never attempted with a toddler in tow- I highly encourage!

Nora napped on the short drive up and thusly allowed us to skip the whole "waiting in the hotel room for your kid to awaken" part of the journey. Which was great because, as I said, we only had 24 hours. Like that show. Only there were definite bathroom breaks in our program.

Serious bear puzzle action.

We had lunch at The Depot, which had the perk of humongo train cars blazing by the windows every so often. P.J. and Nora thought that was great. Also, the chocolate chip cookies. But there was no time to dawdle, so we went to the public beach (and had more snacks.) Now, being from MA, I had always found the idea of lakes "charming," read: "where's the salt?" (Actually, that's pretty much how I view everything.) But since I married a Midwestern boy, I've truly come to appreciate a nice lake. Or a Great Lake. The small one we visited was super clean, warm as anything, and even came with a set of ridiculously strict lifeguards. Actual mega-phoned directives: "Please only front crawl to the floating pier," "No piggy back rides," "The ladder is only for climbing up," "Get the seaweed off of the pier," and "Beach balls are for beyond the rope only." Seriously. Now, the drunken teens smashing volleyballs into Nora's beach blanket...carry on. Because they were friends with the lifeguards. But whatever.

Ruffle bum.

And there was a playground mere feet from where we had been swimming. Which is always cool. Unless you have any desire to remain in the water with your toddler, in which case- sorry 'bout your luck. Because the chorus of "IclimbIclimbIclimbIclimbIclimb" will soon start up like you've got your very own Rain Main/acrobat/Rhesus monkey amalgamation in a ruffled swimmie.

Eventually we had to head back to the Inn to remove some of the sand from Nora's body (and it was mostly successful) so we could have a nice din at Spinnaker's in the center of town. And aside from the fact that Nora was completely exhausted and only ate half of one mozzarella stick alongside the tomatoes from my salad, we all had a fine meal. The server warned me, however, that the lid from Nora's milk might fall off so I'd want to "watch her" and that the mozz sticks were really hot so I'd want to cut them and wait a minute. Which was nice, considering I'd just met Nora. (But, as P.J. pointed out, it's better than having a server not give a damn.)

When we got back to the room, N.J. fell asleep [mostly] without incident, although she did question the Inn's playpen in the corner of our room as sleeping quarters. I told her it was just like a Pack n' Play but BIGGER! It also made me seriously miss the days of playpens. And once N was asleep, Peej and I were free to...play cards in the solarium. Have tea on wicker chairs. Name two constellations before agreeing that it would be rad to fall asleep. Which we did- happily- until Nora woke up freaked out about something or other and climbed into bed with us. And then she happily slept while her parents slept the sleep of having a shifting boulder between themselves.

Terabithia.

The next morning was a little rainy, so we drove over to the Honeybee Museum (obvie)- which...was closed until noon. Ha ha! But they had some sweet trails that we explored for a few as the sun began to come out. There was even a bridge, so Nora was ecstatic.

And yes, maybe we stopped at another antique store on the way out of town.

Lunch was a mandatory stop by The Kiltie, a carhop diner, where- if I hadn't been a newly diagnosed diabetic- I would have given myself sugar shock with their lime malt. After which I named my old, beloved, and stolen bike Limey. (That's right, I named my bike after a malt. Take a sec to let all of those facts sink in.)

Donesville.

And then Nora dozed on the drive back. It was a good time. A quick time. But sometimes you've really just got to spend an overnight in Wisconsin.

Sometimes, when I hear the things I say, I even shock myself.

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

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.

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

Aaand...by posting time it's partly sunny.

Not to be all whiny about the weather...but seriously. What is up with this weather?

Having lived in Chicago for 8.5 years (yeah, it was originally supposed to be for under a year), this should not surprise me. Chicago does not have a Spring. We have seven months of Winter, followed by a week of rain, then it is SUMMER. But each and every year I find myself surprised- nay, angered- by the lack of springtimeliness.

Last week was a tease. A 70 degree (and sunny!?) day followed by a mid-60s (and SUNNY) day, followed by...grey sludgery.

Here is a vid from those happier moments. Nora had a superb time catching and playing with her shadow. Yes, those are the big sister jammies from the other day. And double yes, we're listening to an "End of Summer" mix tape of P.J.'s from high school. (We've recently gotten into playing our old teenaged/party/breakup mixes. This is an awesome thing to do. Also warranting of its own post.)

But, video:

Today is another jammie day, due to the fact that sludgery plus [Nora's] runny nose equals lolling about and [Keely's] whining re: weather. No sunshine, no shadows. What we do have is one snortle-y girl wearing an ever-changing assortment of bibs for which to dab her faucet-like nose. (Is that gross? I mean, I know that it is, but should I not have mentioned it?) I am keeping it REAL. Tissues are 'spensive and bibs have a never-ending dance into and out of the wash.

It's like a velcroed handkerchief. If I am gross, then so is the pocket handkerchief.

Onwards.

We saw some terrific friends this weekend, ate way too much decadent food, (hosted no less than three other pregnant women!), and watched five kids run amok. And walk amok. And climb amok. My daughter wore a miniature apron (because she was the hostess, obvie), and I completely failed to capture it on film. I mean, really. I took eight videos of her dancing with her shadow and a flipbook's worth of swingset pictures...but a day when my child held and ate entire potatoes and welcomed folks in a frilly apron? Nada.

Also, some of you may be aware of my ever-abiding distaste for the potato. (I dig them in things, but a plain potato undisguised? Blech.) We recently discovered that Nora loves them. Adores them. Eats them whole, like an apple, then points for more.

I'm questioning maternity.

And wondering if this next kiddo could possibly be a little more like his/her dark-haired taco fiend of a mother.

Or healthy. I'd be pleased with "healthy."

Which I'm sure a strict diet of liverwurst and Italian ice will guarantee.

Nora gets on her wee little soapbox.

The wha-?

Okay, we all have an announcement to make over here- there's gonna be another little[r] Schoeny. We're having a baby! In early October, as a matter of fact. (And considering that I'm the only member of this family without a birthday in the month of October, I'm either really special or just a specific type of carrier. Because- without getting too detailed- this was not the planned month. Guess we weren't in charge of this one.)

But I gotta say, on this luckiest of days- I'm acknowledging that I certainly have luck. And also that "luck" can look a goodly bit like food poisoning.

I'm already ten plus weeks in- and had intended to keep it hush for at least another week- but as people are already approaching me on the street with congrats(!) and questions, it was time to 'fess up.

Here's what you've missed.

I've been really, really sick. So I wouldn't exactly say you've "missed" much.

The "morning" sickness began at around four and a half weeks. (My- that's early, I can hear some of you saying. Yup!) I was actually pretty jubilant about it at first. The nurses who took my blood at the first appointment asked if I was having any symptoms. Tons- I told them. But it's great! Because that means it's working! They exchanged a look and wished me well.

I actually lost a few pounds, which, at any other time in my feminine career would have been awesome- but is generally frowned upon when one is attempting to sustain an actual life. Two, really. I suppose I need food for me, too. (But if I remember anything at all about the second trimester besides crying about missing beds and wedged couches in hallways...it's that I'm a pretty good weight-gainer when I wanna be. And I hear my Mexican neighborhood makes a pretty decent taco.)

I had been subsiding on grapefruits, cantaloupes, Triscuits, and lemonade. And that is all. (No scurvy here!) Thanks to two stellar shipments of citrus from my aunt's Arizona lemon and grapefruit trees, my diet needed never change.

Whatever. I'm so utterly stoked about this kid.

And not to worry. This week I've seemed to have turned a culinary corner. It began with a late night confession to Peej that cheese popcorn might be a good idea. Like Smartfood, he wondered? No- less real. More orange. He offered to melt some cheese on top of popcorn, a suggestion that sent me careening to the loo.

Shortly thereafter, a bag of orange popcorn appeared. And it was good.

This paved the way for the truly bizarre suggestion that maybe I wanted liverwurst and mustard. (No you don't, said P.J. You will throw up.) He offered to run out to Jewel and get me some. I demurred, because I didn't want to be a bother. Also, I feared throwing up.

The next morning, during our regularly scheduled grocery run, I begged P.J. to pick up some liverwurst. He did, and eyed me warily as I ATE THREE SANDWICHES. And you know what? It was terrific.

Since then, I've had no less than one liverwurst sandwich a day. Sometimes more. Most recently, I ate it directly from the package with a knife. I feel [like I should have more] shame. Liverwurst, you're my liverbest.

Also, did you know that liverwurst has forty percent of your daily iron?

We've gleefully been re-reading our favorite pregnancy books. Not the stupid ones that tell you how to play with your kid or how many ways your child might die, but superbly cool illustrated play by plays of what the baby looks like each week. And what they're rather busy with at the moment. (Week 10- fingernails and spinal nerves. Keep going, kiddo!!)

My nanny kiddos are stoked beyond belief at the addition of a new ready-made pal. Lily has begun a campaign to name the baby either a) Nora or b) Lillian. This is regardless of whether or not it's a girl.

And I'm pretty sure Nora will be thrilled, once she realizes why Mommy's belly is getting mammoth and the deal with all of these floppy-headed floor naps. Any time she sees a baby- actual or in a picture- she joyfully screams at the top of her lungs: BABY! That, and her penchant for body-slamming her dolls to the floor (with LOVE), clearly shows some stellar Big Sister potential.

Trust me, I should know.