California, A Wedding, And Some Stoked Little Girls.

Since I'm still very much so in the midst of California-vacationin', here's a sneak peek of the awesomeness that has been this week. For starters, I attended a wicked beautiful wedding of some college pals. The venue was on a gorgeous Southern California bluff overlooking the ocean where I kinda want to have my next wedding. (Take notes, Peej. If you're lucky, it'll be to you.) 

There was dancing (led largely by my three year-old). There was fabulousness with friends. And, if you were a certain attendee, there were naps.

Um, you said ALL the single ladies, right?

Nora knows some nice people.

The beautiful bride and groom, a beaming friend, and the love between a girl and her cupcake.

I LOVE WEDDINGS.

Y'all, dance like this.

Weddings are simply exhausting.

Happy wedding, Wilder and Barb. Even happier marriage. (And lots n' lots of naps.) 

The One For Val.

This is a post for Annie. Or rather, it's for her mother Val- her kind, thoughtful, amazing soul of a human being mother. Can it be for both? Let's make it for both.

Annie has been one of my best friends since 2002, since I moved to Chicago and promptly realized that I had no friends, a barely tolerable serving job, and only the faintest glimmer of actual theatrical work on the horizon. And after I met Annie at a bar night for a theatre group (and decided that we were artistically, socially, and drinkily compatible), I promptly friend-stalked her for the next 11 years.

And she let me. Of course she let me. Because not only is she a sweetheart of a pal, but she's also British. They're not big on public scenes or rudeness.

Over the years, we've done all sorts of friend-type things together; place toothbrushes in our apartments for each other (in case it gets way too late to take the train back home/there are four more Sex & the City episodes left on this disc), cheer each other on in bizarre performances/raucous cabaret drag shows, and get stuck in the backseat of a smallish car for an eleventy gazillion hour drive to New Orleans while losing our minds with laughter at things that ceased being funny two hours ago, seriously-you-guys-she's-banging-her-head-against-the-window-can-we-please-stop-the-car-for-a-sec.

No, for real. Stop the car.

And a few years ago Annie got married and I got to a) wear an awesome dress in her wedding, and b) finally hug the woman who gave life to this hilariously fun/marvelously polite girl- Annie's mother Val.

Her mother is one of those women who just hug like a Mom should hug, you know? The kind where you almost want to weep, because you feel like even though you didn't confess anything, she's already forgiven you. And made a snack. That Annie's Mom Val. And if I felt honored to be hanging around her for that week, I can only begin to imagine the impact she's made on folks she's known and loved for decades.

Here's the thing, though: Val is really sick. She's been battling bone cancer for years. But seeing her at Annie's wedding, you'd never know it. All I saw was a radiant woman, thrilled to host family and friends and throw her baby girl the party of the year.

And this weekend her family moved her into hospice care.

And she reads this blog. And I've loved knowing that these stories- the tales of Chicago and theatre and our friendships and trials and travails of fully realized adulthood- have connected me to Annie and her Mom, and have hopefully given her moments of laughter, and made Val realize without a moment's doubt just how much we love and treasure her daughter.

And it doesn't seem right that the balance is so far off on this one, that this remarkable woman shouldn't have a million and seven years to spend with her husband. Her kids. Her grandkids- especially the ones that haven't yet graced this earth. That she should be in pain. That she should be so very tired from such an unfair and horrific illness.

So I want to say thanks, Val. Thank you for the love and support you've always shown Annie's friends. For the notes and gifts to celebrate my baby girls. And for Annie. Thank you so much for Annie.

Sending all of the love and prayers and wishes for peace from our family to yours, Annie and Val (and your whole, magnificent family)-

-And wishing it were even a fraction of enough.

When Did Monday Become "Photo Essay" Day?

It's now officially Fall, so this weekend was mandatory Drive Your Kids Across State Lines For Apple Pickin' Day (Observed). We went to a super sweet orchard in Hobart, Indiana, and had a great time- even though there weren't any actual "apples" on the "trees." Due to the awful growing season, they had to think outside the box. Er, branch. 

So they rigged- I kid you not- gutters between the trees and filled them with apples from all over the Midwest so people could still feel like they were "picking." The gals all had an amazing time because, while living in our neighborhood, they've seen far weirder things hanging from trees and houses and cars. 

And as my friend Tim observed- Bad season for the apple growers. Excellent season for the plastic gutter industry.

Mom, I have ONE tooth.

Apple Dumpling herself.

Confused Dumpling.

C'mere, doll. Eat this thing in your face.

Hey big girls- can I have some?

No, for real...can I have one?

Mooooooom...

Owww...

Fine. Here. Eat this apple. Just take it.

Psych!

Unsafe Driving Practices.

This year, Labor Day brought a picnic with some terrific neighbors and friends and- most importantly- the neighbor's Barbie Jeep. This wonderful contraption allowed certain parents to drink Riesling while their children proceeded to shove each other out of [semi] moving vehicles. 

Thank you, unions.

Just checking the specs on the endline for the...rotary...girder...

You got a jumper cable?

Pretty sure one us is supposed to be watching the road.

Um, Miss? You seem to be...oh, nevermind. Enjoy your book.

Too Busy For Hygiene.

Crawling towards soap.
The dirt makes her blurry.

My laziness has reached new heights. Or lows. (Let's go with lows, since I'm currently on the floor.)

This weekend was truly fun. Exhausting fun. But- let's put it into perspective, here. I wasn't scaling mountains with the girls strapped to my back. There were no death-defying underwater cave expeditions. (That's next weekend.) There was just good ol' fashioned Why Is Everything Covered In Food fun. The kind that you get from having two little kids (or one really sloppy husband or maybe a smallish dog).

Friday night found us with friends in Highland Park and then at Ravinia, picnicking with N & S and enjoying the croony croons of Lyle Lovett. (Two people snored on our blanket before the night was over. And it's not the two you'd think. I wasn't one of them. I've given away too much.) Our girls didn't get bathed that night. And they kinda could've used one. Maybe two. But by the time we got them home, they were asleep in our arms, and- this cannot be stated enough- we are lazy, lazy people.

Saturday brought us a BBQ with lovely pals (and their son, whom Nora informed me was going to buy her a ruby. A red one). The kids were having such a fun time playing with garden hose parts that I didn't have it in me to corral my girls for a bath. That's right, by this point you could've written your name on their forehead dust. Again, they fell asleep in our arms and we promised that we'd bathe them in the morning. Before breakfast, we told ourselves. Maybe we'd even wake them early.

But wouldn't you know it? They slept in[ish]. And it didn't make sense to bathe them in the midst of waffle-eatin'. And then the morning got away from us in a flurry of phone calls and a game that Nora calls "cupboard," whereupon she empties a section of the room onto the floor. (Did you see via my Facebook page that she also invented a game called "storage?" Nature vs. Nurture, folks. Nature vs. Nurture.) I also got wrapped up in the task of spackling, sanding, and re-painting parts of Nora's room, due to the gaping holes created when we moved baby furniture out, big kid furniture in, and when I realized that I had done a pretty junky job of some of it in the first place.

***Side note: There should be a manual that describes the various stages of fixer-upper homeownership, much like grief. One of those chapters should detail how a goodly month of your life will be spent undoing the subpar work that you yourself did to the place upon moving in. Maybe a footnote could be included about not using a drywall screw as a drillbit? Maybe?***

Anyhoo- it was Sunday night and I was fully exhausted from the act of neglecting my children's hygiene all weekend. I also had less than no desire to cook- and even less to clean. Because we do the trade-off; whomever cooks, the other cleans. Except that sometimes it's more work to put away the eight gazillion spoons and lids that P.J. utilizes on his nights than it would be to just defrost a pizza. But I couldn't even manage that.

I convinced Peej that we should order Chinese from the place down the street because the girls would love it (which is a lie: they are firmly ambivalent on the ordering of Chinese food), and because we could totally swing it in the budget this week (also mostly false, but I made up my mind then and there to not buy anything questionable online in this coming week). He agreed. Because he loves me. (And also because he didn't have it in him to cook/clean, either.) So we laid out a blanket, fed the children in front of the TV, and watched an episode of Wishbone. (For my husband is a media superdemon who can find any show he wishes just by thinking about it.)

After supper, we shook off the girls onto the blanket, shook off the blanket itself, and tossed the whole thing into the washing machine. (Not the girls, just the fabrics. Although I'm sure the kids could've used detergent by this juncture.) And then we finally finally washed our children in a bathtub in our house.

They now smell great.

And if you totally disregard the fact that we failed to leave the house on Sunday and in fact watched television from the '90s with our questionably young children...it was kinda like we went camping.

Camping's the best.

Piercings, Birthdays, And More Drinking.

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

I have some news.

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

I have recently removed my tragus piercing.

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

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

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

Decisions have been made on less.

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

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

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

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

"Nah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll toast to that.

Tuesday Is No Longer The Weekend.

I am failing to understand why she is no longer in Chicago.

Please pardon the fact that I did not post yesterday morning: I was having way too much of a weekend to be bothered with things like computers (and showers).

My college bestie came to visit, and we proceeded to engage in activities that our 19 year-old selves would've popped eyeballs over. For instance, pushing a double stroller through a tree-lined neighborhood. Convincing a toddler to finish her corndog. Asking (for the thousandth time) if anyone needs to use the potty.

Maybe that last one isn't so different.

A baby's hours are not unlike a collegiate's.

We also did some very grownup things, like getting drinks at The Violet Hour. And falling asleep on the couch in front of a movie.

And thanks to that same bestie, Peej and I were able to go out for an anniversary dinner at Schwa (because my husband transcends limitations like Impossible To Get Reservations At and Volatile Chef Who Sometimes Decides Not To Open Said Restaurant)- but that stellar dinner is another post in the making. And everyone already knows how much I adore my supra-cool husband.

And even though we utterly failed at finding beach parking (but witnessed the absolute worst of humanity in the form of a U-turn cutoff, stolen parking spot, and subsequent terrible behavior in front of their own kids), we still enjoyed the gorgeously hot weather and exceptional company.

Only Auntie Kivvy will do.

So many, many thanks to the men and women who gave their lives to provide not only a long weekend's break but to keep our country safe. Which frees me up to write about completely inconsequential things like what I ate for my nine course meal. (Black truffles.)

As Nora said- Oh, thank you soldiers.

While she devoured a rapidly melting cup of ice cream.

But it was from the heart.

Grateful. And full of sugar.

Guest Blog: Little Stories Everywhere.

Today is a first for me: a guest blog! My pal Molly at Little Stories Everywhere is a riot- and has the exact same parental neuroses as me. It's refreshing. Enjoy!

***

Molly and her positively edible kiddos.

When you have a baby there are scores of things that people never tell you...things that are ugly, horrible and completely disgusting.  One of these sad truths is venturing out to the Pediatricians office for the first time.  It was...hmmm....an experience.

Bitzy was only 4 days old when we ventured out to the Pediatricians office.  Take in mind that I was still bleeding profusely (that's one of those sad disgusting truths that no one told me about, or perhaps I just ignored them), my emotions were doing jumping jacks, and as a new mama, my baby was much too young to be going anywhere.

It also didn't help that my baby girl came out of my body screaming her brains out and didn't stop until she was 6 months old. So there's that.

But alas, we  had to do it.  This wasn't the first time that we had been in the office as we had come to check it out when I was preggers, but this was the first time with a precious little person that was outside of my body, who, might I add, elicits a strong fear of germs in me with each step outside of the house.  I used to notice wall colors and vases in the homes, offices, stores & restaurants...not anymore.  Now I hone in on anyone who is coughing, rubbing their eyes, or breathing too heavy. "Hello people, I have a newborn!  Stay inside you nasty selfish people!!!," I wanted say.  

So anyway, at Bitzy's first appointment I noticed that there was a "well side" and a "sick side" thinking, "Oh that's nice that the germy little monsters can't get near my precious & perfectly healthy child."  I went on my merry way trying to make it through the appointment with a screaming baby eyeing every child in there, looking for cues to their unhealthiness. At that first appointment, one thing was clear, I didn't want to ever be on the "sick" side of this office.  The "sick" side is germy, dark and stuffy with the stench of dirty diapers and vomit. However, the "well" side was bright, healthy, and breezy that smelled of clean laundry and lavender.

Then it happened.  At the tiny age of 12 weeks old, my perfect baby came down with a cold.  I, being a completely insane mother called the office and asked for her to be seen.  While they discouraged me because after all, they couldn't do anything for her, I still wanted to go.  It was HEARTBREAKING seeing my baby with a stuffy nose and darn it, they should know how to magically make her better.  "What did they go to medical school for anyway?!  Come on! Again, people of the world, I have a newborn baby. Make her feel better!," I'm sure I said under my breath. (I think it's safe to say that with a sick, colicky baby I was a real treat in those first few weeks). 

So off we went, what I didn't remember was the awful "sick side."

As we walked into the foyer I automatically turned left into the "well side"...then pausing to the remember that runny noses are normally not a sign of perfect health. Sadly, we turned right into dark grimy sidewalk to Germville.  As I looked into the room I didn't see children, I saw germs.  My perfect child didn't belong in there!  She deserved her own room away from all the gross germys.  I practically buried her head in my chest to somehow keep the germs away.  It didn't help that every child in the room seemed to be hacking up a lung. Gross.

But alas, we made it.  Basically I paid $30 for them to tell me that there's nothing they could do and to be scarred for life after sitting in the "sick side."  I would rather wait in line at "The Wal-Mart" for an hour than spend 5 minutes in that nasty room...although something tells me that when we've got child #4 under our belts I'll just be happy to sit anywhere...even on the sick side.

***

Love Molly? Go check out her fabulous blog- and don't forget to "like" her Facebook page!

But Who's Watching The Baby?

My favorite blue-eyed cherub...

...And her jaunts to the park...

...With her two babysitters. 

It's Like A Staycation Where You Leave.

Maxin' and relaxin'. Circa 1988.

Last night, I  babysat for our neighbor’s sleeping toddler. Nora does NOT know about my evening’s whereabouts and, since their Emily is her BFFAEEMTMWYNT (Best friend forever and ever ever, Mom, take me with you next time), she will NEVER know. The Coopers and the Schoenys do a childcare swap every now and again. And it’s amazing. Because, for real? I have going-out needs. So do the Coopers. But I imagine that they have the same kinda We Should Prolly Pay These Bills needs, too. It’s a truly great arrangement, except for the one teensy annoying detail of We Can Never Go Out With The Coopers. Who are our only friends in the neighborhood, unless you count the drunken dude on my stoop.

Which I do not.

Back to my evening of babysitting. Susannah stayed home with Peej and Nora since she fell asleep right after dinner. Plus, I didn’t want to deprive P.J. of that all-too-critical 3 month-old and Dad bonding time between the hours of 7 and 11pm.

So I was alone. On a couch, with tons of projects that I didn’t even HAVE to do if I didn’t feel like it, and the knowledge that my arms were free to flail about (at any time!) because I was not laden down with any person, toddler, or baby of my very own…

…And since their kiddo is quite possibly the easiest child ever EVER ever, well, I kinda felt like I hit the luxury jackpot.

I finished my thank you notes. (God, I’m boring MYSELF right now.)

Got a little writing done.

Rendezvoused with Professor Layton and my old pal the DS.

Spent a little more time flailing my arms.

Hydrated. (See? Who SAYS I people can’t follow through on New Year’s Resolutions?)

Leaned back on my arms- which one CANNOT do whilst holding a child of any size.

And then wondered if Suzy was eating okay. And if Nora was feeling better from the previous day’s awful cold. Speculated on whether or not P.J. was watching something on Netflix- and if it was something we were gonna see together. These kind of thoughts can quickly derail the spa-like effect of laying still by oneself.

I overcame and was victorious. It was an incredibly relaxing evening.

Unless you’re P.J., reading this at this very moment. Then, I am exhausted from the trials and tribulations of childcare.

But if you’re Tim and Angie- can you go out again tonight?

Okay, Girls...Naptime!

Both had late nights this weekend.

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

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

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

I swear I am not depressed.

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

I swear I am not crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yeah? What did they say?"

"They said hi. That's funny."

"IT SURE IS!"

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

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

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

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

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

Hence, the sweatpants.

Which may just be my favorite typed sentence EVER.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig!

The New Normal.

This is the first time- in recent memory- when I've posted this blog with the extremely attentive help of a toddler (hell-bent on showing me each rattle in her sister's collection) and a newborn (hell-bent on making me stare at her face for no urgent reason whatsoever).

Okay, that last issue is totally mine.

Maybe it's the Norco, and maybe it's the wild amount of cooking/cleaning/Mother Hen help I've been getting from my Mom (and my Dad and my husband...) but I think this Two Kid thing is absolutely neato.

Nora has gone from curiosity ("Is that Baby Sister Susenanna?") to horror ("Do you want to hold the baby?" "Oh NOOOO.") to pleasure at having a new baby doll on which to pile hats and scarves and shaky toys. Plus, I held The Little for most of the weekend, freeing P.J. up for pretty much anything The Big could ask of him. Like sitting still and holding her.

Susannah, for her part, is impossibly good. She's mellow, happy as a clam to be held by anyone, and slept for two 4.5 hour stretches last night, waking for a paltry fifteen minute late night snack in between. I like her more than myself right now. I also have a minor obsession with her shock of pale yellow ducky hair. It is awesome and I will cry myself to sleep when it falls out.

Back to the sleep thing. For this kiddo, I had purchased a ridonkulously cheap (five dollars) co-sleeper that slides in bed between the two of us. It's the greatest thing since sliced bread for so many reasons:

a) I am, at heart, a humongo hippie. (Sigh.)
b) The first 17 months of the pregnancy and ending fifteen months are still SO vivid in my mind that it's kinda cool if Peej and I just high-five for a little while.
c) It sure beats the fright fest that was letting newborn Nora loll around between us in the middle of the night. Ah, first time parentude.

So, this co-sleeper business allows me the dual purpose of indulging my selfish desire to not get out of bed all night and the peace of mind that I won't trample her in my sleep. Glorious. Plus, she sleeps exceptionally well in it, which would equal a tremendous amount of sleep for all of us if I were not afflicted with the twice-hourly desire to awaken, wondering a) why she's sleeping so well and b) how she's so goshdarn cute. 'Cause seriously, it's an issue.

We've also been having fun playing around with her nicknames- because, for real, how can you nickname   someone before you've seen them laugh? And while we love the name Susannah, it's an awfully big one for such a teensy brownie bite. (Also- I live to nickname.) Our standard has become Suzy (with a Z, not an Sie, because I want to keep her on her toes. Also, it looks cooler in print). But we've also been rocking the 'Zuzu,' because we apparently adore naming our children after Golden Era Cinema females. (Zuzu's petals, anyone?) 'Miss Mae' has made an appearance, as has the hilariously sleep-deprived choice of 'Shumai.' I think Peej may have just been hungry, though.

And by the way? We love you. It's unreal how wonderful people have been in terms of cards, messages, calls, flowers, food, and sweet offers to take Nora places.

And these aren't even from people who gave birth to me.

(Not entirely, anyway.)

It's fabulous, and would make me feel warm and fuzzy even without the post-op drugs.

Really.

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.)

She Really Wanted To Go On Pharaoh's Fury, Though.

 One of my best friends in the whole wide world (and her equally fabulous husband) spent the weekend with us. Vicky was one of my college modmates- like roommates but awesomer- and my how things have changed since Hampshire.

For starters, I have a kid now. And this was their first time meeting her. Our activities have been- ah- slightly different since Nora came along, and this was Vicky and Dave's chance to see what a "typical" weekend with Miss N.J. looks like.

This weekend, it involved a street carnival on Irving Park. And it was Nora's first one. But since it had a petting zoo, we felt that she'd really dig it and not be too overwhelmed by the rides and noise. Nora, not Vicky.

So while Dave was busy getting culture downtown (the girls initially skipped out because we wanted to nap while Peej had his matinee)...              

...We had some street fair time. And boy, did we misjudge on the petting zoo. Despite housing some of the world's smallest and cutest animals (baby goats, ducks, lop-eared bunnies, a calf, a donkey, and a confused piglet), Nora hated it. Cowered from the bun. Had to be rescued from the advances of the calf (thank you, Vicky)! Denied eye contact to the goats (which were literally half her size). We moved on.

So we tried the carousel. Despite its shockingly fast speed (maybe I'm just getting old), she definitely wanted to try it out. And she chose one pony. And then another. And then applauded them. And applauded us. And her Dad. 

So we went on it again.

We would've stayed on it all day, if one of us had gotten her way.

So we tried the baby Ferris wheel. (Looks like Peej has found his amusement park partner in crime at last.)

And no, Ferris Wheel, I wasn't thinking about riding, due to my "exceptionally large" size.

But it's always hard to leave a ride.

Really, really hard.

But thankfully, there are always gonna be corn dogs.

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.

Mrs. Innes Thinks I'm Special- (my pencil says so.)

The blog is up mighty early today, I realize. 

There are few people in this world for whom I would early-blog. (Actually, it's a pretty vast category, but as it's a rather benign request I'd be more inclined to say no. And depending on the hour in which you asked me, it might not be as pleasant as all that. But why are we arguing so early?) My point is, my darling pal Lori- ahem, Mrs. Innes- asked if she could use my blog as a creative writing example for her AP Language and Comp class.

Just let that sink in for a second. 

Of course I agreed- happily- and then instantly wondered if I should go back and edit three years of incredibly loose grammar and imaginary words. Laziness won out. 

So, APLn'C class- welcome. Stay in school. Learn really important things, like how one should never begin a sentence with 'and.' And then how it's sometimes okay to write in your own style, anyhow. Go easy on the commas and other such punctuation. (I realize that this is reading like a letter to myself, circa last week.) 

A great rule of thumb for making up a person's nickname is as follows: Adjective Hyphen Noun, Part of Name (this is what lends gravity), Adjective Hyphen Noun. All is true. For instance: Radface McAwesomepants. Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs. (Actual names used in this blog, the latter being my baby.) In cases such as the second, the first adjective can be replaced with a title signifying royalty. I am not the one making up these rules. And "creative words" such as j'accusity and blahdiblah are a success only if they need no further explanation.

I also talk a lot about Mayor McCheese. Occasionally The Hamburglar. But NEVER Birdie the Early Bird, that minx. 

That's it. Those are all of my secrets and the sum of my writing knowledge. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Feel free to go browse some of my more "cohesive" posts or ones with "through-lines." Perhaps ones that don't "ramble." (Good luck.) 

Or...how about tales of your teacher when SHE was in high school? Yeah? 

Okay, I can't really go nuts on the storytelling for a few reasons: 

a) She's really, really strong. Quite possibly a lot stronger than she looks. Which is strong.

b) She was always popular. Which is insanely annoying. Even worse? Here was her secret: She was nice to everybody. She was fabulous to people so they liked her a ton. Jerk.

c) She has way worse stories on me, from fashion to dating to questionable hobbies. And besides- I was the "funny friend." You know the one. Not hilarious enough to be the ridiculously cool kid who happened to be funny- usually reserved for the varsity soccer captain whom, every now and then, said something witty and unbelievably well-timed- but the other one. The girl who sat behind the awesome girl in AP History and blurted out [what she thought were] appropriate quips regarding the Civil War? Yeah. 

But I will leave you with this fabulous image, forever to be sealed into your retinas...I give you Middle School, 1992.

That's right, shells. I won 6th grade.

And just how did she manage to make her oversized sweater looks less awkward than mine? She has POWERS.

Anyway, yes. Creative writing. 

It is my hope of hopes that I have not yet stunted your capacity for words nor your predilection toward actual, legitimate linguistics. 

Happy Thursday.

January must be Customer Service Month.

It was a good, albeit frigid, weekend here. We actually saw more people than we do for some combined weeks.

We went with one pal to an awesome creperie up the street from here- I highly recommend it. Nora also gave it two miniature thumbs way up- but they're covered in cheese, so I wouldn't shake her hand or anything. There was a bit of a language barrier, so my Moroccan chai latte actually came as a fresh mint infusion- but happily, I'm a superbly easygoing diner. Also- he must have known that I actually needed mint more than all that sugar.

Our neighbor friends invited us over for dinner- again! (Okay, for any newcomers: we have one set of friendly neighbors that a) are sober, b) speak some semblance of English- heck, I'd take sober Spanish at this point, and c) have repeatedly made plans with us. This is great. What's even better is that, beyond those three stellar qualifications, they're actually superbly cool people who have an adorable one year old. That's right- they even come with a friend for our kid. And sure, Nora and Emily spent the better part of the evening shrieking directly into each others' faces...but I think that toddlers have a really intricate and evolved way of communicating. Besides- they made TACOS for dinner!

Another good friend came over for sugary treats a la El Trigal Bakery- the place where I get a a tote bag full of pastries and cookies for under five bucks total- and gabbed about her currently preggo form. Attention friends: a really cool way to be in my heart forever? Walk in the door and announce- Keely, you were right. Pregnancy is work! (Now, I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, nor do I want to take credit for others' hardships...but every now and again it's nice to be reminded how much of a hypochondriac I am not.)

Here's what else made this weekend deserving of a super silver star: I went shopping. Alone. For fun. Sure, it was at the Marshall's at Harlem and Irving (read: not "fancy" or "clean"), but boy oh boy, do they have clothing for grownups that aren't necessarily hoodies and sweatpants! Although they have those, too! In fact, I specifically went out for items that were cheap, pretty, and "grownup." (Is the fact that it's in quotes give away how novel that type of clothing might be?)

I filled a cart with sweater dresses, ruffled tops, skinny jeans (hahahahahahaha), and soft wrappy-type things that should not be anywhere within the vicinity of a child's hands. Even though I intended to only buy four items, I wanted to make sure I tried on everything in the Misses, Petite and Juniors section. (Shush.) When I went to try them on, though, I encountered a problem in the form of a really elderly, really non-English-speaking woman. (Seriously, I don't even know what language she spoke. She was THAT old.) She was, however, perfectly clear about the Ten Items Or Less rule. It was even written on the tag. No worries, I'd just take ten items and move the cart to- nope. That angry finger didn't want me to leave the cart anywhere near the changing room. Certainly not by the entrance. We compromised by having me shove it behind a rack of shoes, one store section away.

Now I couldn't enjoy the art of shoving myself into questionable clothing- complete with nerve-destroying staticky hair- because I kept thinking about the THIEVES who were at that very moment STEALING CLOTHING FROM MY CART.

The next problem came when two of the items actually fit me in the first round. Uh oh. Now I had only eight items that I could take in for the next bunch. Because, as the lady sorta babbled at me, I couldn't have more than ten. And they wouldn't watch my cart. (Basically, her job was to stand there and irately fling tags at people. And yell 'no.' Nora would rock that job.) Unfortunately, a couple of other items fit me as well- and though I couldn't afford to buy everything that fit, I wanted the good stuff on hand for the Lightning Round. So the next handful only contained six items. And so on. Eventually I was taking pieces in one at a time, getting fully dressed and putting my boots and coats back on, because NO PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN STALL.

I finally approached the woman in a Not Very Polite way, one boot half on, my hair standing up to the fluorescent lights and pointed at an empty rack. "I am putting my clothing here. I am buying them." (I lied.) "All?" "Yup." (Nope.) "And I am taking these items from my cart into the stall. I am trying all of them on, all in the same go-round." "Only ten." "I KNOW."

Tried them on, feeling pret-ty proud of my ability to stand up for myself after half an hour of abuse. That is, until, I came out of the changing room to find multiple girls taking items from the clothing rack! Again, channeling my daughter, I pleasantly grabbed the items from their arms with a big 'ol smile.

And I bought six. (Which, as P.J. pointed out, is totally fine for my once a year shopping trip.)

We rounded out the weekend by having a decidedly grownup date night after N.J. went to bed. We made Manhattans- extra cherry juice, thankyouverymuch- and put on a DVD of 'Double Wedding,' a glorious old movie with Myrna Loy and William Powell. We loved it so much that we...

...conked out and drooled on each others' sweats before the opening credits finished.

Happy Monday, grownups.