Norman Rockwell It Ain't.

Happy Easter!

Love,
The Confused Todder (Awake Since 1:45am)
The Jellybean Thief (Vibrating With Sugar In The Background)
The Crab Apple Gal (Pondering A 4th Cup Of Coffee)
And The Determined Guy (Having A Magical Day, DARN IT.)

We Put The "Ire" In "Ireland".

As my Dad gears up for his sixth round of chemo, I'd like to thank him for my heritage. Namely, my fabulous half-Irishitude.

Back when I was a little kid, St. Patrick's Day was a major holiday in our household. (Are you catching on to the fact that everything was a major holiday in our household? We're a tad celebratory.) My Mom would make stellar corned beef and cabbage (no small feat, being an Armenian and all), we'd sit around the table with our cups full of dyed green milk (extremely Irish, that), and listen to songs that alternated between horrifically sad and raucously happy. (It always confused me that the weepy ones were about love and the hilarious ones were occasions where someone had died.)

You're right- this is not a St. Patrick's Day pic.
But I think it's pretty indicative of how festive we are.

On one special St. Patrick's Day in high school, we had just finished a great meal (and I was working on my seventh piece of soda bread with raisins) when my Dad decided to call his parents. Now, the Flynn side of the family has always prided itself on its one thousand percent Irishness. (And there are few things fiercer than an Irish family fiercely talking about their Irish heritage.) And, like many families do, they would retell the same stories to hear the same familiar towns and surnames over and over again. So this night was no different- my Dad, having placed his mother on speakerphone, asked her where her specific side of the Callahan/Flynns had hailed from.

She paused.

And mentioned the expected Counties Kerry and Cork and Galway...

And paused again.

"But my mother-" she answered thoughtfully. "She came from Paris."

"France?" Someone joked. Because obviously there must be a Paris, Ireland. Because we were NOT French. She assented yes, it was France. And that was that. We couldn't quite wrap our minds around the fact that this had never before come up. And we were all slightly stunned to be instantly [partially] French. (Except for my mother, whose one thousand percent Armenianitude was not at risk.)

And the next day, my Dad spoke with his brother and found out that he already knew. But no, we weren't French. Because even though my grandmother's mother was from Paris, she only lived there with the family who had adopted her.

From Italy.

So after spending the night as a [partial] Frenchwoman, I easily slipped into my new identity as a mostly Irish and Armenian gal with the smidgeniest of Italian somewhere in there. Like in the pinky.

But in honor of this upcoming St. Patrick's Day- and due to the fact that I wish I were celebrating with my Dad- I'm ready to be fully Irish, tell the girls about Counties Cork and Kerry and Galway (and Paris), and let everyone eat entirely too much Irish soda bread with raisins.

Dad, knock this round of chemo outta the park. Listen to some sad-meaning-happy Irish tunes and rest up until we can toast some green beverages again. I'll even let you pick.

As long as it's not green milk.

Christmas Makes Us Crazy, Part 29.

Helping!

So here's a thing.

Over this past weekend (when not putting out the blazing fire that was my toddler's 104 degree forehead), I had a realization: People cannot wait to de-Christmas.

Keeping in mind that the merchandising of the season starts roughly on September 1st...the actually acceptable Christmas Celebratory Decorative Period starts the day after Thanksgiving. That's when it's cool to wrap lights around beams and drag trees through foyers and inflate reindeer atop roofs. And people have stuff. Entire storage spaces full of ornaments and tinsel and German boots for mulled wine- lined up on window sills like so many confused little elves. (Ahem.) Fake snow is layered with smallish scenes recreated on any available counter space. Stocking are thwacked onto mantels or wall hooks. In a relatively short period of time, a goodly bunch of folks downright quadruple their existing clutter in the name of BEING FESTIVE.

But then, on December 26th? Boom. Back out come the bins. The bubble wrap for the delicate ornaments. Snowman hand towels are stacked away for another calendar year of disuse (because let's be honest; most people are way too freaked out about getting the "fancy" hand towels dirty that they probably don't even get used in the actual Christmas season, either).

We stand there and look at the corner currently being rented out by a drooping tree and say to ourselves, "Man, it'll be nice to get that space back again!" Like we're talking about finally getting the roof repaired after nearly a decade of being a main thoroughfare for squirrels.

And it's more than a little ridiculous.

Because even if you leave your decor up until January 6th to celebrate the epiphany...or to celebrate your own laziness...

That's less than five weeks between purposefully emptying the contents of our closets directly onto any nearby flat surface and the world-weary de-cluttering which is usually reserved for an episode of Hoarders.

Next year, I may just slap a few tinfoil snowflakes onto the front window and consider myself done.

Except for the army of boot-mugs. (They're so cute...)

2013 Is For Nappers.

Kinda like the Baby New Year (and her sister)...but noisier.

Happy Day After New Year's Day! Which isn't a real thing, but I'm still in yelly, celebratory mode from this intense holiday season!

So, I've gotta say, I enjoyed the heck out of my miniature blogcation- which is the last time I shall utter that word, I promise. (But I did.) It's been a kinda crazed past few weeks, and it was nice to be able to [guilt-free] omit something from my daily list.

And yeah, "Re-Cap Hilarity That Was Monday-Tuesday" is on my To Do list for my midweek post. Kinda feels like I'm revealing the ol' man behind the curtain a little, doesn't it?

ANYWAY. I hope you all had a wundy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus and that you didn't miss me too much. ('Cause I totally missed the heck outta you.) Another reason I felt okie doke with taking a bloggy break was because I know that a goodly cross-section of you follow me on Facebook and Twitter, et. al. (Because, yeah, this non sequitur/randomsauce display of verbal explosiveness/lifestyle wherein I overshare pictures of Nora drawing on Zuzu's head cannot be contained to thrice-weekly postings. I've tried.)

But if you're not a rabid follower (which is totally cool- it can be exhausting), here's whatcha may have missed:

At the risk of coming off as the most maudlin gal around, I helped close out the year over at Families In The Loop with Goodbye 2012, A Year Of Heartache, Loss & Hope.

On New Year's Day, I was stoked to be the first post of Project: UnderBlog for January with my slacktacular list of 10 Totally Attainable Resolutions For The New Year.

Speaking of 2013, New Year's Day was spent wonderfully. Because, as we all know, whatever you do on New Year's Day reflects what you're going to be doing throughout the year. Like a fortuitous Groundhog's Day. The Bill Murray vehicle, not Punxsutawney Phil. (Sidenote: MS Word just attempted to change "Punxsutawney" to "Subcutaneous." Helpful! It's rough when even your word processor thinks you're just batting words at the page like so many bundled gypsy "babies.")

So yes. New Year's Day. According to my January 1st, the entirety of 2013 will be spent sleeping in, reading, napping, taking baths, forcing my neighbors to provide gourmet feasts, playing board games on the floor, removing Play-Doh from Susannah's mouth, calling my family, and ordering Chinese food from up the street. That's a mostly amazing year!

P.J.'s will be spent re-watching Twister.

He did not plan ahead for this one.

Thanksgiving Party, Part 1.

The aunts and uncles are arriving! And they have boundless energy!

Pops are always good for a story.

When all else fails, put on a movie and someone
will most likely toss a blanket on you.

Who Posts About Halloween Movies In November?

Most people who grew up with me have seen this movie and/or video clip. (So have most people who spent any time with me at college. But those were two very different types of viewing parties.) It's from a eye-poppingly wonderful film called The Worst Witch, and it features a young Fairuza Balk. Yeah, that's right, she of The Craft fame. (Typecast?)

And yes, the movie has elements of Harry Potter (kids away at a boarding school for witches) without any of those details that make us crazy for Harry Potter (i.e. a gripping story line, fully fleshed out characters, classes that last longer than three and a half minutes).

But what keeps The Worst Witch in the upper echelon of filmmaking is this one sequence. It features Tim Curry. He is the Grand Wizard. And he gets a song. Go on, I'll wait.

Did you watch it? Are you crying jubilant tears of awesome?

If not, did you see (and I mean really see) his cape change colors? Were you unmoved by the green screen effects unrivaled by Pixar (or your friend's basement studio)? Did you not see the dog turn into the cat?

Most importantly, Tim Curry has NO IDEA where his tambourine is. Are you made of stone?

They, quite literally, do not make them like this anymore. I don't even think we have the technology to make something quite so low-budget these days. Even the average camera phone has better capture than this synthed-up wonder.

But the point is- it doesn't matter. It will remain my favorite Halloween movie of all time. I will watch this clip multiple times between August and November 1st for all of eternity. (And so will my confused children and tolerant husband.)

Because it brings me back to a time when I was thoroughly blown away by these graphics. I so badly wanted the Grand Wizard to see how hard the witches had worked on the Broomstick Display. And this movie- this movie my whole family adored- could only be watched once a year when it aired. There was no YouTube. No internet to speak of. It was a lot like the radio request hour- it came on when it damn well felt like coming on, and sure, eventually you managed to tape it on VHS, but even then you missed the opening sequence because your VCR meshed it up with a cat food commercial.

AND WE LIKED IT THAT WAY. (Of course we didn't, but it's fun to be a martyr about times past.)

And my kids will never ever know the feeling of not having every single bit of media at their [hologrammed, flying car] fingertips. I envy them.

But then, when I watch an earnest clip like that and remember how special and new that technology was, I think that maybe they should envy me a little, too.

The Spooky Salon.

I was pulling together costume pieces (and sorting the copious piles of clean/dirty laundry), with my two miniature helpers- namely, half-dressed Orange Butterfly and fully dressed [pajama-outfitted] Brown Puppy. Nora announced that she wanted to play Jeremy (the dude who cut her hair, not the Pearl Jam song, sigh). I handed her a small pink comb and the water spray bottle, and opened Susannah's closet with an armful of sweaters. I turned back not three seconds later to find-

-A confused Susannah, drenched from head to toe, and a startled Nora, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Nor, did you just open the spray bottle and dump it on Zuzu?"

"Yes, I did."

I grabbed a towel and dried off the already cheerful toddler, who was totally ready to forgive and forget.

"Nora, you can't dump water on people, especially not your little sister."

The Orange Butterfly stood with her hands on her [glittery] hips and exclaimed, "Well, if she didn't want a trim, she should have SAID SOMETHING."

(Happy Halloween, from our [slightly damp] home to yours.)

Glitter Ghosts, a.k.a. We Are Having FUN, Darnit!

This morning, the three of us decided to make some glitter ghosts. Now, I'm not inventing the wheel, here. It's pretty awesomely basic. Glitter, construction paper, crayons, and contact paper (or packing tape for the- ahem- less prepared). I used to do this project with the kids I nannied and, basic as it is, if the kids have never seen this done before, you kinda feel like a wizard.

STEP ONE: Make sure your baby is really, really crabby. Cutting a tooth would help. Take roughly three crayons out of her mouth before putting her down for an early nap.

STEP TWO: Cut out teensy ghosts. Let your [currently] awake child color them any way she pleases. (Like you could instruct her otherwise.) Include faces if you want. Keep others blank, because "they just want to be left alone." 

STEP THREE: Lay out contact paper...or packing tape, sticky side up. Sprinkle glitter on the tape. (Points if you can get a little bit of cat hair in there.) Lay the ghosts end to end. Make sure none of them feel sad about it.

STEP FOUR: Sprinkle some more glitter on top of them. Turn your back for one minute and discover a newly glittered cup o' joe. Drink it anyhow. 

STEP FIVE: Press another sheet of contact paper (ahem, tape) on top of the strip, sticky side down. Do your darndest to contain the glittery little guys. Make sure none of the ghosts "misses their Mommy." 

STEP SIX: Cut out the ghosts and marvel at your miniature pouches of spooky glitter. Sweep the floor five times.

STEP SEVEN: Demand that your camera-shy preschooler display the ghosts. Decide that- yeah- this is still the best photo option.

STEP EIGHT: Make sure that you've created a completely random number of ghosts- something like eleven- just to ensure your li'l OCD brain doesn't feel comfy around the decorations all month long.

STEP NINE: Tape the little guys onto your front window. Pretend that the fingerprints are of an ethereal nature. 

STEP TEN: Watch your neighbors explode with The Jealous. 

STEP ELEVEN: Wonder how it's possible that only ten minutes have passed because, by this point, it seems like you've been wiping glitter for days. Put on a movie.

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.

'Not Gonna Labor' Day.

In honor of Labor Day, I'm gonna do what I do every Monday of a long weekend:

Complain that we didn't get as much done as I had wanted...

And wonder why I completely lose my drive and energy as soon as there's one more adult in the house.

Don't be like me. Enjoy this day to its fullest! Eat some ice cream.

Stop and smell the flowers.

And don't even think about doing the laundry.

Patriotism Makes You Blurry.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

Happy Gals, A Melty Car, And A Double Stroller.

There are so many good pix from Memorial Day weekend that need their day in the sun. (The ridiculously hot sun.) Here are a few more:

That's rather warm for May.

Random passersby wondered why I was snorting with laughter.

Beach fail= backyard win.

It wouldn't be a weekend without a pic of smiling Zuzu.

V takes a break from helping us unpack the new rooms to make a pal.

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.

Easter Is A Full Contact Sport.

Those are some pretty special-looking eggs.

I spent a good part of last week preparing for Easter with the girls (and Peej).

We made paper Easter bunnies and plastered them to our front window. We braided traditional Armenian cheoreg biscuits to consume on Easter morning. Eggs were [carefully] dyed. We even unleashed the girls onto a wealthy neighborhood's egg hunt. Everything was in place for a cinchy, relaxing, and nice Easter morning.

Even though P.J. wanted to go to 8am mass at our church (to beat the crowds!), which is precisely two hours earlier than the usual mass that we attend/stroll into five minutes later. No worries. Because everything was set.

And even though Nora woke up at 3:30 in the morning, laughing like a loon AT NOTHING, we didn't worry. She'd fall back to sleep and be rarin' by 6ish. And when Suzy woke for the day at 5:45am- roughly an hour and a half early than normal- we still didn't fret. RELAXING, RESTFUL SUNDAY MORNING, that's us.

The girls discovered their Easter baskets- and indeed, Nora found Susannah's first and had to be pried away from it to continue searching for her own- and settled in to play with their pinwheels, Where's Waldo books, and new sippy cups. (For the allotted ten minutes before breakfast. Did I mention that we had to leave the house at 7:45?)

Nora actually went willingly to the breakfast table- perhaps fueled by an extra kick of sugar along the way- and was thrilled about the imminent egg wars. (My sisters and I have always thwacked Easter eggs against each others' eggs. The one whose egg comes through unscathed is declared the winner forever and ever Amen.)

She picked up a vibrant teal egg. I chose my trusty cherry red creation. She came at me with her egg.

It exploded.

BECAUSE THE EGGS WERE STILL RAW INSIDE.

Why? I have no flipping idea. It's not rocket science, nor is this my first rodeo. I've boiled eggs before. Like, on every Easter prior since I've had my own apartment. (Also, any time I want egg salad.) So I know how to play the game.

I was now covered in splattered egg whites and, by the time that I cleaned it all up, my allotted five minutes for breakfast was way beyond up. So I devolved into what P.J. would kindly term "a mood." He offered to scramble some eggs. I bit off his head and yelled that there was NO TIME. So I proceeded to re-hardboil the eggs, stripping them of any remaining lovely colors. P.J. attempted to help me walk away from the eggs, just walk away, but I was beyond reason. So I added a bunch of food coloring into the boiling water- all of the colors, in fact.

During this time, Nora and Susannah ate their [remaining] breakfast slowly, watching me with more than a little trepidation.

The result was a batch of weirdly purplish eggs, most of which cracked on their way to the pan. They were also entirely too hot to consume. Eat up, kids!

By now it was 7:30 and we needed to leave in fifteen minutes. I ran upstairs, gesturing wildly/rudely at my husband, and tossed on some semblance of non-wrinkly appropriateness. By the time I came back downstairs, P.J. had dressed Suzy in her starched white dress with blue trim- and it promptly wrinkled itself into oblivion. (Thanks for nothing, STARCH.) I wrangled Nora into her dress and attempted to take a sister picture of my two Easter bunnies- while Peej announced that he needed to go shave. (What? WHAT? If I had known we were taking the time for personal grooming, well then, I would have added another step or two upstairs, friend.)

The picture-taking was an abysmal failure. That's all. Just- abysmal.

A cross-section of the mayhem.

And we left the house at 8:02.

When we got to the church, it was jammed. We were led upstairs to the choir loft (which, okay, initially I was stoked about because, you know- I got to play in the choir loft!) But the view was terrible (except for an occasional glimpse of empty middle rows downstairs, come ON), and ridiculously poor audio...until P.J. turned the speakers on.

Followed up by a little boy turning it off again- ha ha! Great game! Another lady allowed her kids to run around and play video games on her phone. Someone behind me was snoring.

But Zuzu slept on me, filling me with a sense of peace (and also longing for some sleep of my own), and Nora happily placed ladybug stickers all over everything. Peej and I held hands. The sun was shining. And- despite everything that had happened in the morning and the fact that we could not hear a thing- it was a lovely service. We decided to hit the reset button on the morning's craziness and enjoy the rest of the day together. This cheerful proclamation filled us with a renewed sense of purpose for our morning.

And it lasted until we all stood up and realized that the fly on P.J.'s suit had been down the whole time.

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.

I Wonder Where She Gets It.

I'm sorry, did someone say "decorations?"

We finally took down our tree and Christmas decorations this past weekend. I agree, it is on the later end of the whole Removal Of Holiday Stuff spectrum, but- as Peej pointed out- it was the Epiphany this weekend, the actual end of the Christmas season.

Which is totally why we kept them up this long.

Totally.

Also, last week, a pillar of the community helped him/herself to a few of our gate lights and at least one red bow. Fa la la la la.

So we wrapped and bundled and dragged...and will be living with pine needle remnants until next August. (They should build homes outta the stuff- there is no more stubborn material in the universe.)

And there's nothing like taking down festive decorations to remind you just how inept and unaware you truly are. Like when you believe you're finished with the packing up and then happen to spy a giant red, glittery reindeer right at eye level. (Does that count as Christmas stuff? Yes, Keely decided, I think it does.)

Even though Nora had said goodbye to the tree right before her nap, she still burst into the living room like the Family Guy monkey and pointed accusingly at where the tree had previously resided. And Was. Not. Happy. I finally convinced her that Santa needed our old tree at the North Pole. She grudgingly admitted that this was probably the case.

So what does one do with a newly (kinda) cleaned living room, devoid of all the hulking holiday accouterments? Why, we put up the royal play tent in all of its primary-colored goodness. And, at the time of this posting, it is chock full of items that normally reside in every single other room, excepting this one. (Books, baby cups, stuffed animals, copies of The Economist, and at least one cat. We've got a miniature Hoarders situation going on.)

It's a nice thing to see right by the front door.

Sure, Nora and Zuzu each have their own rooms and a playroom large enough to house Camelot itself...but nope. This proves that a) one can never be too classy, and b) P.J. and I are both eight year-olds if we see nothing amiss in keeping a nylon tent in the front living room.

Come play sometime- you can't miss us. We've got giant snowman gel clings on the front window...

...and a trail of pine needles down the block.

I Love Me A Good Even-Numbered Year.

The Baby New Year is a girl?!

Happy New Year!

Aaand, the posting of today's blog is about three-ish hours late today. Nice start to 2012, yes?

The delay was well worth it (at least for me), because our darling friend Natalie came over to smooch Zuzu and play magnetic dolls with Nora. (She also chatted with us, but I'm fairly certain we're no longer the main draws.)

So. Yes. A new year.

2011 was a pretty good time, overall. It started off on a rather sad note, but steadily increased in its sheer awesomesaucitude.

We did a fair bit of traveling. Fixed up the house some more. Wrote more than during all four years of college combined. And met Susannah, one of the nicest people I'll ever have the pleasure of knowing.

But there's still something exciting about beginning a new year- it's like a clean slate, even though there's very little that changes from December 31st to January 1st. But hey, there's very little that changes each time I rearrange a room (except for the furniture), and that always has a bizarrely inspired effect on me.

We all need our rituals.

Our festivities this year were slightly more subdued than, say, ten years prior. (Thank God.) But the crowd was just as terrific; one really fun guy, two smallish chicks prone to dancing, and me. (Also prone to dancing.) Depending on who you were, sushi was consumed. Or a grilled cheese with pesto. Bacon-wrapped appetizers that didn't even need to be removed from the baking sheet. (Yay, formality and politesse!) A potentially unwise amount of baked brie was consumed well into the morning hours. The growns split a bottle of champagne. The Sound Of Music was started. (That flick is loooong.) There was music, dancing, and multiple episodes of Clean House on Netflix.

It was kinda my favorite celebration ever.

And you know how they say to do on New Year's Day what you'd like to do all year long? Apparently 2012 will include naps, movies, Skype calls with family, nonstop food, Wii Fit, and a brief interlude with Professor Layton on the DS. (I specifically put that one on the docket for the express purpose of getting to do it all year.)

This year will bring some pretty neat-o things. But I've gotta say, I'm already a ridiculously happy camper at this, the start to my new clean slate of a year.

I think back to my resolutions ten, fifteen years ago, and I'm stupidly pleased at the fulfillment of close to all of them. I have the two jobs I've wanted for my entire life. I'm married to P.J., whom at this very moment is picking up an order of beef broccoli, veggie rice, and an egg roll for me (the latter of which was not a resolution whilst in college- but which would've been, had I really been a planner), and he's really indulgent in the whole "not earning a ton of money" thing while pursuing my two dream jobs.

So in light of the fact that, wish-wise, I'm doing pretty nicely, I'm only adding two new things to my resolutions:

-Patience. For Nora, for Suzy, for P.J., for all interactions with family and customer service and transit.

-And hydration. 'Cause seriously.

Happiest of 2012, everyone.

Now please excuse me while I go patiently drink a glass of water.

Santa Baby.

Oh Mom. Zuzu looks odd.

Merriest of Christmases, everyone! Or rather, a superbly happy Boxing Day to you all. I love boxes, boxed lunches, boxty, the boxstep, and Oscar De La Hoya.

Our Christmas Eve was spent at a church in the Berkshires that we don't regularly attend, but which was quite nice, nonetheless. There were carols, there were lessons, there were snacks and books shared over the pews by miniature cousins, there were inopportunely timed 'Amens' from smallish blond children, and there was at least once incredibly good (and sleepy) infant in her finest velour duds- complete with ruffled headband.

My Dad read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas to all of his grandchildren...with extremely varied reactions. There were boys who completely dug every single line. There were girls who pointedly disagreed with the entire endeavor. There was one snoozer. But- and most importantly- it was all captured on film, including a poignant moment where I yelled at my biggie daughter to sit on the couch RIGHT NOW. (Fa la la.)

After the kids fell asleep, my father found and played a video from Christmas morning, 1991. (My finest year, fashion/face/hair-wise.) A few filmed moments were pretty incredible:
-The fact that someone- quite possibly my folks- actually gifted my 4 year-old twin sisters tinny microphones attached to tape decks.
-That my '91 Era Dad received a flannel which he recently gave to my '11 Era husband...which would have blown the mind of '91 Era Keely, playing with a porcelain doll recently positioned on the shelf of '11 Era Daughter.
-And the weird realization that an awful lot of [colorful] pens were presented back and forth that year.

On Christmas morning, my daughters actually slept in. Which was completely overruled by my nephews' excited pre-dawn pre-game.

And guess what? Santa really did a number on the under-6 set. But apparently he needlessly overdid it. For Nora was disinterested in ANY other gifts once she spied a [2 buck] Strawberry Shortcake activity book. Really. At least Susannah feigned interest in her teething rings and rainbow sock monkey. Nora was done.

As for me, Santa Husband was pretty darned terrific. Among my gifts were some pretty sweet cards for clothing which- once I get my pre-baby body back (a week from now, tops)- will be used the heck out of, a monogrammed charm for Suzy for my bracelet, a new Nora Roberts novel, and- one of the coolest things ever ever ever- an oversized mug proclaiming me to be the World's Best Mom...

...With "Somehow I Manage" on the opposing side. (Anyone? "Office" fans? What if I made a dramatic shrugging motion while saying it?)

P.J. received a day at a Russian spa/bath in Chicago for a day of relaxation/detox/potential nudity and a pair of hiking boots (which he promptly decided to exchange.) At least one present was received happily. This is better than my usual present to Peej/Peej's immediate return rate.

Nora got a personal DVD player- for all of her personal viewing needs. Susannah got a pewter baby cup and a fascinating number of sock monkeys. (A new red wagon for two is waiting for them under our tree at home- shh...thankfully my girls cannot read/are not fans of my blog.)

And- for real- we were all spoiled by a downright insane number of gifts from sisters, boyfriends, parents, nephews, aunts, uncles, and daughters. Cincinnati giftitude (in the form of delightfully Ohioan food) was shipped in from my in-laws.

I took a bath. And a nap. And read. Ate way too much terrific wonderfulness at the hands of my parents. (Well, their cooking abilities. But I used my hands.)

Suzy's first Christmas was extremely special.

But I'm not surprised- they're all extremely special.

Especially back in '91 when I was (on camera) quite stoked to receive a) a new Barbie (Really, Keely? At 11? Really?), b) hot pink paperclips, and c) shoe deodorizers.

I'm pretty sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Deep down.

Also "Lords A'Leaping." I Also Wish You That.

In light of the fact that I am currently traveling through Chicago's luxurious Midway Airport, I'll keep my Christmas greeting brief (yet full of love- and perhaps only a bit of pith):

During this holiday season (and anytime else, really), I wish you cookies without slightly burned undersides, rendering the whole cookie kinda smoky...

...And helpful people. Like mail carriers who remember to close the mailbox on rainy/snowy days. And toddlers who don't remove their boots in public places. Like restrooms. While we're on that note, I wish you more Helpful Toddler and less Public Restroom in general.

I wish you naps. Glorious, snuggly, 3-blanket drowsy naps with nary a responsibility in the world...except maybe to inform someone what kind of beverage you'd like upon awakening. Maybe even the type of nap where a fabulously droney documentary is playing in the background, so you can sleep with the fuzzy knowledge that, by napping on the living room couch, you're still being borderline "social."

I wish you abject joy. The kind of joy that comes from explaining- with as much technical jargon as humanly possible- how exactly Santa Claus works. I hope you have a season where you get to concretely affirm the existence of magic (at least once).  

And lights. And decorations. And really, truly, eye-poppingly crazy displays of holiday cheer that- yeah, sure- are placing obscene amounts of money directly into the pocket of ComEd...but I still wish it for you. Because garish ornamentation at Christmastime makes one feel like a seven year-old. And, for real, is there anything better than being a seven year-old at Christmas?

I wish you love, family (or a decided lack o' family, if that's your happy place), and more than your fair share of nog. (Again, only if you like it. If not- NO NOG.)

And I hope you receive the noisiest, sparkliest, newest, and pokey-eye-outiest toy this side of A Christmas Story.

Oh yeah, and I also wish- as I have since I started writing letters to Santa in 1986- for world peace. (But also the sparkly toy, if that's cool.)

(Merry Christmas.)

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.