We did other stuff, too. Really.

The Bitsy Bug is dozing off a low-grade fever this a.m., which means P.J. and I are finally leaving her alone. Seriously. I fully realize that a fever under 104 degrees truly doesn't warrant any more medical attention than a cool washcloth, the occasional Tylenol and a vodka tonic, extra limes- hey, the whole house is dealing with the kiddo's discomfort, okay?- but you should try telling that to us in the middle of Taking Care Of Nora. We have entire, hushed convos In. Very. Clipped. Tones. Tempers flare. Books are consulted. Nora looks at us like "It's prolly just my teeth, guys," but her statements go unheard. For she is just a baby. 


Sure, people say. JUST WAIT until your kid has the chicken pox/scarlet fever/The Grippe, but no. I don't need to. I freak out when her boogs are too big for her nostril. A corner of her big toenail bent a little bit the other day and I wept. (Although, strangely, when she faceplanted on her blocks while trying to stand I actually applauded. Motherhood is weird.) Maybe I freak out about the stuff that I should directly control, the things that she clearly cannot do for herself. Clearly she's on her own for the gravity thing.


So. Weekend. There's this awesome game we play (no, it does not involve mallards or puzzles- 'cept when it does) called Neighborhood Watch. Here's how you play: Push your bed against a huge, street-facing window, turn out the lights, prop your chin on the headboard and...watch. Occasionally murmur something about informing the authorities. Mutter to each other that the Alderman should really put speedbumps on Troy- it's not a flippin' freeway! Marvel at the "kids" going out at 11:30pm on a Saturday night. (Sample dialogue: "I'm exhausted just looking at them!" "Boy, they're gonna be late for mass!") Translate angry, drunken Spanish. Giggle at angry, crazy-person English. Pretend that noise you heard was a firecracker. Yep. Loads of firecrackers. Awfully festive out there tonight! Doze off- momentarily- until you hear a car speed by. Jump back into position with a renewed zeal and an overly macho "I'm on it." Wait for your husband to laugh at you, but then tell you how wonderfully stalwart you're being. 


This game can literally go on for twenty or so minutes! 


We've also been watching a lot of Clean House: Search For the Messiest Home In the Country (2!). Remember when I said how much I hated reality TV? Perhaps I just hadn't found my niche. Well, here it is, baby! Slobs. This show is incredible. It kinda focuses in on the crazy excess of Americans. We have so much that we could actually drown in our own collections of feather boas and sequined purses. Part of me used to think that in order to get on the show, people would empty out closets, desks, and dressers onto the floors. Then they'd stomp around, all "Look how I hafta live!" Turns out, people actually do live like that. We saw one episode where a woman had never thrown out any mail. Not since '73. Another guy refused to make room in "his" house for his wife and young son, because that would mean getting rid of his long-deceased grandmother's things. (In my mind I shot him in the face.) This show inspires rage in me.


Also, concern. I have a lot of hobbies. A lot lot. Sure, I decorate them prettily enough, but I am just one color-coded bookshelf away from an avalanche of romance novels. Also, Foucault. 


That said, we've toyed with the idea of spilling stuff into a room, taking a picture and pleading 'HELP' to Niecy Nash. One part of the downstairs isn't all that far off, anyhow. That that said, on the commercial breaks we find ourselves sorting bills and doing dishes. And shivering. 


Sure didn't stop us from going on a garden walk/neighborhood garage sale tour yesterday! Okay, the "gardens" were in Ravenswood Manor, where- technically- I do not live. But I sure do live right smack in Garage Sale Central. (As one guy said of his own wares- "Eh, it's all crap." Gosh!) We bought a vintage schoolhouse desk for eight bucks and found a small wooden wingback chair in an alley. Sure, it was painted turquoise and magenta. But, if you'll remember- the inside of our house was originally even worse. Yeah, I can handle a chair. The gardens were fabulous and made me Think Thoughts. P.J. hates when I Think Thoughts. (That's usually when rooms change place and he has to bring out the Little Giant ladder.) 


And a big ol' weekend thank you to my sister Kate. She's been redesigning my blog (okay, building a new one from scratch) over on Typepad. She could also, quite possibly, give birth any second now. Seriously. Which makes her Radface McAwesome[stretchy]pants. And kudos to my youngest sister Em for giving me free access to all of her jaw-dropping photography for use on the new site. 


Leaving me only one thing to say to my middle sister Chel:


Slaaacker!


Insert defensive maternal rebuttal...here.


And witty sibling-related banter...here.


And comment that- perhaps- goes too far.


Additional tempering responses by the husbands.


One last jibe.


Sincere commentary on younger sister's recent accomplishments. 


Eye roll, curtsey, Arabesque, fin.


Last word from my mother.


(See if I'm wrong.)

Better than what it usually smells like.

For one brief moment, even before I opened my eyes, I thought I was at the beach. Sure, it was 6am in muggy, slightly overcast Chicago- but the air had that heavy beach quality.

Nora clearly felt it, too. That's why, when she joined me in bed, she fell back to sleep. The sea air does that.

All morning long, even as I looked into my backyard and peeked around to Kedzie (most definitely not the bastion of seaside quietude), I could not be convinced that it wasn't a "beach day." I could even smell the salt.

Perhaps something has happened to the Morton salt factory downtown and that is certainly something to look into- but for now I'll just pretend that I am a coastal being. And not a landlocked Midwesterner tendin' the Back 40. Don't get me wrong- I really dig our lake. And I never knew how hard I'd fall for a small, Wisconsin town and kayaking in its picturesque waters. (Also- apropos of nothing water related- I really and rather inexplicably adore Indiana. That was surprising as well.)

But nothing compares to a body of water comprised of salt. Maybe I just like to be buoyant.

And speaking of the Back 40, we've [P.J. has] spent a ton of time priming the yard on Troy Street. He's seriously so good. Of course, he'll tell our friends and family that we work out back and we've figured out where to place such unruly beasts as the Hosta plant (seriously, they're a bit intimidating)- but he's just being a good sharer. As I've told him many times, the garden is his. But the yard is mine.

It's like that part in Dirty Dancing: "Our Baby is going to change the world." "And what's Lisa going to do?" "Oh, Lisa's going to decorate it."

I'm the Lisa to his Baby.

And baby, can he garden! So far, he's managed to keep alive the following: lilacs, roses, hosta, lilies, tulips, azaleas, holly, clematis, peonies, strawberries, raspberries, tomatoes, peppers, grapevine ivy, lavender, geraniums, petunias, impatiens, a pear tree, a birch, a maple, a slew of decorative grasses, and a jade plant. But the jury's still out on that last one. It looks like it went a few rounds with a Hosta.

And me? Oh, I pretend to garden. I am excellent at pretending to garden. Gimme some gardening gloves and potting soil and I will poke, water, and stomp around the backyard like a true [five year-old] professional. I have no green thumb. I have a black thumb. Really, a black stump of a hand. (Which sounds terrible.)

I over-love. I'm taking copious notes on my gardening style, because these are traits I fear will transfer over to my parenting skills. Really. I just can't leave the darned plants alone. If Peej asks me to water them (which he has sorta ceased doing, lately), I'll waterwaterwater them like it's my sole mission on Earth. Or- I'll forget about them. For weeks. (Which I can't imagine reflecting on my parenting style, overmuch.) Or I'll prod them. And move them. And smother them (with love.)

P.J. is kind. He tells me that I'm a GREAT gardener, that I'm doing JUST FINE. He gave me the job of potting some flowers in the backyard...and now the yard is covered with more potting soil than could ever be in a planter. And potting soil is NOT cheap. (Nor are any of the materials that I squander with my over-loving.) But I needed extra soil to get the darned plants to stand straight! They kept giving up and flopping to the side like wilty little children having tantrums. I showed them! (Some lost their heads. This was unavoidable.)

I swear I am good with kids.

I was, however, clutch at placing backyard-y type furniture. That black, wrought-iron glider between the trees? That was all me. The big, stripey hammock (thanks, Nat!) swaying by the back brick wall of  the house? Yep. As was the fabulous patio set with green paisley umbrella that may be in the mail as we speak. (Thanks for nothing, Home Depot. I don't mean that. I love you.)

And just wait for the fairy lights. And the Tiki torches. And the miniature Enchanted Forest's worth of garden creatures: the bunnies, the frog prince, the helpful gnome, the decapitated turtle (always a big hit. P.J. has promised to "see what he can do" about that one.)

After all of this "gardening," I was fully covered in potting soil, poorly applied sunscreen and a few other questionable substances. So I took a shower with the windows open and lights off. I pretended that it was the outdoor shower in Cape Cod- the one we'd look forward to all day, to rinse off the salt and sunshine and stickiness, the one that was a private oasis of cool water, ocean breezes, heavy scents of roses and food being placed out on the deck. The shower in which you were rarely alone- swimsuits on, of course, this IS a family blog- and would have to fight one's sisters for the Dove shampoo and the single towel not covered in tree bark. It was so pleasant an experience that sometimes we'd finish a shower, jump back into the ocean and then barge into someone else's shower moments later.

My shower at home was good. Not as good as the one in Onset, MA. (But very few nouns are as good here as they are in Onset, MA.)

I'm grateful to be going in August. And I'm thankful for the lovely home we're creating here in Chicago. And I'm indebted to those who protect all of these special places...

...And allow me to live the kinda lifestyle where I get to blog about the difficulty of potting soil.

Which is seriously still everywhere.

It's wick!

This past weekend we jaunted over to the Elston Farmer's Market Garden Center- don't let the "farmer's market" part fool you, it was more "garden center" than anything else. Although they had a really sweet selection of stone mushrooms to decorate one's yard- but I guess that's pretty "garden," too.

We walked away with, among other things, marigolds, a rose bush, a peony and a raspberry plant. The reasons (besides the fact that it's really fun to buy things) are as follows:

-My Nana actually used to have "prized marigolds." This makes me feel warm and fuzzers inside to [have P.J.] plant something that she used to "prize." Also- the yard rabbits (much like garden gnomes but more dangerous) cannot stand the smell of them. This way, we'll actually get to eat the stuff we [P.J.] plant[s]. We don't want to go more proactive against the rabbits, since, as everyone knows, rabbits have overtaken the rats in the city. This is true. And awesome.

-P.J. actually did promise me a rose garden. And I'm collecting on that.

-We believed that peony bush I received for "free" from the Arbor Day Foundation (card-carrying member, baby) perished over this past winter. As some of you may recall, this was the plant which beat our new house to the finish line in the race of Things We Actually Own. I illegally planted it in the yard well before any passing of any keys. (But, if you consider all the illegal things this house had been used for in the past handful of years- I feel that guerrilla gardening falls well under the radar of punishable offenses.) Anyway, while the peony flourished last summer and early fall, we [P.J.] may or may not have forgotten to winter it. (I don't even know what that means.) But to quote Dickon in The Secret Garden, one of my favorite books ever: "It's as wick as you or me!" I say this a lot. Even when something isn't necessarily "alive." Like I've mentioned before, P.J. is the gardener. (Also- we now have two peony bushes that are "wick.")

-The raspberries will join the strawberries which we- ahem- borrowed from our lovely garden on Oakley. My hope is to eventually have enough backyard fruit to open a jammerie. Jammery? A place for squashing berries. Kate and I used to pick raspberries and blackberries from the neighbor's yard (see? I come by this stealing naturally) and sell them in little Dixie cups in our lemonade stands. Also- I used to make leaf rubbings for which we had the gall to charge a dollar. It was a one-stop emporium. However, the extension of Hancock Road had very little traffic to speak of- although the occasional biker (motorcycle, mind you) would be convinced to slow down. I'm sure the chalk drawings and notifications of LEMONADE AND BERRIES AND LEAF RUBBINGS down the block helped. Kate would make the hard sell of fruit and beverage, and, like Jojo the Idiot Cirus Boy, I'd shill some rubbings. We cleaned up.


So I've done my part. Now it's up to P.J. to plant, to maintain, to seed some grass, to water, to mow, to weed, to mulch...you know, his part. He has a green thumb. Perhaps a whole hand. Since I over-love, my thumbs are, sadly, black.

Which sounds like a circulation issue.

And speaking of discolored appendages, I spent the better part of this week in excruciating pain. Since I'd recently been led to believe that my pain tolerance is decently high, I was concerned. Okay, not "concerned" so much as "whiny." (But let's be honest here: I was unaware of bursting ovarian cysts and my c-section recovery was kinda peachy. The last time I whined about pain was when Nora was wedged on my right lung. So that's where pregnancy fell on the scale of things.) Anyway, I couldn't lift my left shoulder any higher than my mid-section, it couldn't be touched- and, since I can't take anything stronger than Tylenol whilst nursing, nothing helped the pain.

Whine, whine, whine.

I finally got in to see my fabulous chiropractor and discovered that I had a) a pinched nerve in my neck, b) a popped shoulder, and c) a slightly dislocated rib. A couple of adjustments and one stellar wellness massage later-(Thanks Dr. Bouvin, Dr. Vargas and Kelly!)- I'm starting to feel better. So how did I get this way? No idea. I sling the baby girl a lot, plus I lift multiple children up multiple staircases, but you wouldn't think that would equivocate the loser in a bar fight. (I never lose bar fights.) It must've been one of those awesome, happenstance, increasing-strain injuries. The kind that happen rather often to me. Since my joints weren't amazingly well-formed by the time I was born.

As my Dad is fond of telling me, "You weren't fully cooked."

My Dad used to have to make emergency trips to my elementary school playground to pop my elbows back in their sockets. This is true. It is an art and a skill. I was so proud of my Dad's abilities that I'd brag to school nurses and ER doctors that "my Dad pops my elbows in and of out of their sockets all the time!" Which I'm sure indicates a troubled home and not a troubled musculoskeletal system.

Sorry, Dad.

This is also the Dad, however, who taught us to makes crepes (always separate the egg whites), the importance of a brilliantly timed key change, and why the Three Stooges are clutch. He's the guy whom I'll associate with the scents of sawdust in a house and chicken on a grill. A stellar guitarist. The ultimate handyman. The kind of Dad who would watch the X-Files every Friday night with his fourteen year-old daughter- and, later that year, take her to see Etta James to help her get over a particularly tragic break-up.

So, in honor of my Dad's impending birthday, here's a clip that he and I will always, always find funny. Because he's just that awesome. (And this clip is really, really funny.)



(Happy birthday, Dad!)