When Mom's Sick, We're ALL Sick.

Hasn't been changed in weeks.

Over the course of the past week, I experienced my first full-on Sicky since becoming a parent. We'd all been ping-ponging the same sniffles and such back and forth, but on the rebound I apparently caught them straight in the jugular.

I woke up one morning freezing cold, achy and bruised, swollen and stuffed o' face, and not really "awake" at all. The kind of sick where you can't even imagine sitting straight up, let alone going to put on some Day Sweatpants. The beginning of the kind of illness where you weep in the general direction of blankets and chairs- or really even the floor- all day long.

I felt awfully sorry for myself, the way I've done in the past whenever feeling Godawful.

Except this time, I was in charge of a perky infant and a toddler already in the process of dumping the entire contents of her closet onto her head. And apparently, they needed food. Something to drink. Maybe a diaper change. And another diaper change. And a third- COME ON, GIRLS.

I spent that first day in a sort of incredulous stupor. When was someone coming for these children? I could barely manage holding my vibrating head still- there was no way I could handle anything other than batting at the Wii mote to start yet another TV marathon on Netflix.

I'm not gonna say that Nora watched TV all day...but it's a fair bet that she knows the entire catalog of PBS, short of Masterpiece Theatre and Antiques Roadshow.

The next day was worse. I couldn't remember if I had nursed Suzy. Nora had oatmeal in her sticky-up hair until she was changed out of that day's pajamas into that evening's. P.J. fielded phone calls punctuated by snarfy deep sighs and unrestrained sobbing. We ate bland mashup dinners, seasoned and microwaved by a gal with no ability to taste, smell, or stir. I couldn't even handle being inside my own skin, so I felt an overwhelming amount of guilt over not being a good parent to the two healthy Littles in my house. (Heck, I was barely being a parent.)

And I felt guilty for getting sick. Like I had let everyone down. We ended up staying home from Nora's gymnastics class- sure, she had been up from midnight to 4am for no good reason and had completely overslept anyhow, but the weight of that still fell on my [melodramatic and achy] shoulders.

We'll never leave the house again, I thought.

I'm relegating the girls to a life of Emily Dickinson-esque confinement, I bawled.

There is food on the floor yet none in the fridge, I whined.

The Fischer-Price people are attacking my face, I fevered.

But I got better. By the next day, even. Because, after barely two days of drowning in an abyss of chills and delirium, I realized that This Was Utterly Ridiculous.

So I mopped the floors. Cleaned the bathrooms. Built a block tower. Found the last puzzle piece. Made some salmon. (For Lent.)

Bathed the children, bathed myself (twice), cleaned the bathrooms again, finished some completely overdue writing...

...And put the darned TV back on.

Slow It Down, Friend.

Soon I'm gonna be 15.

Time is skipping by.

Actually, no, that's not quite true. Time is racing, speeding, and zipping by- faster than a two year-old can unravel an entire roll of Charmin toilet paper.

Susannah is already three months old. And Nora is edging ever closer to actual big kid-dom.

Zuzu is making sport out of outgrowing newborn clothing...and three months clothing...and certain three to six months clothing of the fancy dress persuasion...

With Little Nora Thumbelina, we had her wearing outfits well past whatever the tag would suggest. 6 month pants on a one year-old. 12 month onesies on a two year-old. Even a pair of [mislabeled?] strawberry bloomers that said 3-6 months but were worn just the other day. Outfits stuck around for so long that they became members of the family. Inside jokes. Part of the furniture.

With Zuzu, I'm lucky to have her wear something once so I can say she did so. Before it gets thrown on the Little Baby Girl pile. It's done a number on my sentimentality and Susannah's patience. (She doesn't care for sleeves.)

Things that were the epitome of cute on Nora sometimes look a little forced on Suzy. And stuff that didn't quite work on Nora are just right on her younger sister. As I shove her little arms and legs into Nora's favored critter oufits, Susannah will give me a look that seems to say- I'm a different person, Mom. Stop trying to shove me into some sorta box. Or panda overalls.

And I promise her- fervently- that I will always [try to] remember that she's her own gal. But she still has to wear socks.

Zuzu appears to be popping at least one tooth. Which is crazy. But she's apparently gotten the memo that she's doing everything on fast forward. And while- sure- it's absolutely zero fun to soothe her through the drooly, achy, gnawy pain, it's even less fun to realize that she's careening through her babyhood.

Soon she's going to be bolting down the hallways, shrieking alongside her sister. And then they'll both be going to school and leaving this [cluttered, noisy, messy] living room startlingly quiet. I imagine they'll go off to college, allowing me to have the pristine and organized home that I so loudly feel I deserve on a daily basis.

And I'll remember back to earlier this week when I refused to let Nora do the glitter all by herself (because of The Floors! Think of THE FLOORS!) and instead held on tightly to each part of the paper and glue, rushing that activity along to get to lunch, to nap, to bath, and on and on and on.

And I'll think of how I looked over impatiently at Susannah's whines while I was attempting (again) to mop the kitchen- only to lock eyes with her in her bouncy seat and elicit the world's happiest coo and smile of recognition. Because- whereas she couldn't give a fig for how full the washing machine was- having me stand still long enough to reassure her that I was still there was the bee's knees.

As I put Nora down for her afternoon nap yesterday, she patted me on the back and told me that I was a good friend. I kissed the top of her wild curls (smelling like a perfectly natural combination of sunshine and maple syrup) and almost decided to forgo the nap.

"Come on, kid," I almost told her. "Let's go throw glitter all over the couch. You can even hold the container."

But I didn't. Because there was writing and cooking and sanitizing and diapering (and more sanitizing) to do. Besides, a Nora without a naptime is not anyone's "good friend."

I wanted to, though. That should count for something.

Today Nora has her first ever honest-to-goodness class. It's a gymnastics class, which speaks volumes as to how I'm letting my kids do their thing without placing my fears directly atop their miniature heads. For I am terrified of heights, being upside down, and having my face broken. And gymnastics embodies the threat of all of those things for me. But seriously- the girl is a wild animal with little to no actual fear of danger (unless she actually has to converse with the danger first). She needs to learn a good tuck n' roll. Monkey bar skills that her Mama could never teach her.

And how to stick a dismount that would make even the Russians proud.

Zuzu will be there, too. In the sling since, after all, she is still a baby. My baby. Watching her big sister- my other baby- learn to do stuff without her Mom's help.

And I'm already proud of her. And incredulous that I have one beastie this grown already. And another hellbent on racing her.

And covered in glitter. For we are all covered in glitter. (Even when it's me holding the container.)

Tidiness is overrated, anyhow.

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.