18 Months.

Susannah Mae- Suzy, Zuzu, The Zu, Monkey, Buttercup, Little Baby Seester-

Happy 18 months. This milestone is huge for so many reasons, among them the fact that you're no longer a baby and we get to stop annoying non-parents by counting your age with months. (Hey kid- you're one and a half! Wicked.)

Ready for anything.

You are awesomely smart and alarmingly impish. You climb- Good Lord, you climb. Before you came along and other parents bemoaned their little cabinet scalers, part of me thought to myself- Why don't you just tell them no? (Hahahaha.)

You know the word "no." You know time outs. But you also know body parts and animal sounds and what to say when your sister runs into a wall. ("Icee?") You've got buckets of empathy and the easiest laugh this side of vaudeville. You are a clown and a [momentary] thumbkin snuggle and a tiny dancer, spinning and singing soft la la las to yourself behind the curtain.

We love when you act out pages of stories as your Dad reads them to you. We love when you call hippos "hippies." (Because you know what? Maybe they are.) And we love when you stare at your sister with absolute hero worship, ready to squeeze yourself into an impossibly small space at her say so.

Today was your first gymnastics class and, as 18 months was the final cut-off, you were absolutely, positively the youngest one there. But I didn't worry. Because I know you never do.

Strong like bull.

When your teacher asked you to hop up on the high mats, plant those hands and pike, you did it. Never mind how on Earth you learned what "piking" was (although I suspect your sister), I was wildly impressed/not surprised/rather fearful that you just WENT for it.

I hope you always do.

Unless you're diving from cliffs or speeding around a racetrack. Then, I advise you to either wear the maximum amount of protective gear allowed by law, or simply paint a watered-down account for your mother after the fact.

I thank you in advance.

And hey, take your time on that whole race towards "two." I know you won't- because you don't pull any punches with races-

But let's both just pretend that you will.

(I love you, Monkey.)

17 Months Is The Best Age [For Face-Planting].

Baby's first ponytail. Baby's second colander. 

This girl. This teensy tinsy person who bodily flings herself over the side of the couch. (Again and again and again...) And then the other side of the couch. And then the back. All the while, she points between herself and the couch, shaking her finger and admonishing herself "Nonono."

And the one who climbs the radiator to push herself onto the windowsill with her elbows- pausing like a deer in headlights when she thinks I'm approaching- sticking her chubby diapered bottom up into the air like it's the most natural position in the world, like no, this is not what a person looks like who is about to climb a radiator and a windowsill.

The smallish person who eats spicy tamales verdes with both fists. And eggplant. And pasta and beef and veggies dipped in blue cheese dressing...but who will angrily sign noTHANKyou when someone makes the mistake of offering her a lemon square. Oh, she'll eat it. And then spit it out into her hand and present it to you, seeming to say "You're the jerk who tried to poison me, you clean it up."

The excitable little lady who hears her favorite song on the stereo- or, let's be honest, Nora's favorite song and the one Zuzu's been convinced by her sister is the one they really should be listening to- and reaches her arms up, up to be lifted and spun and snuggled. Until the next song. The one where she needs to be firmly on the ground so she can stomp her foot like a miniature caller at a hoedown.

The snuggly not-quite baby who requires her monkey and his backup for all quiet times, passing the furry hands back and forth to herself, trying to smell which is the "right" one for naptime and which one gets the distinct honor of sleeping under the small of her back.

The pint-sized Picasso who would happily spend an hour sorting Play-Doh colors into their respective cans- and she does not need any help from anyone. Unless you want to roll some Play-Doh balls for sorting. Or open this lid. Or that one. Or the other one. Could you pick that speck up from the ground for me?

And the one who is pretty sure her sister hung the stars and moon and skies. Until her Dad comes home and flies her upside down. Or unless someone is going for a walk or making a snack. (Then they're her favorite.)

I just love her a crazy amount. Even on days when she doesn't nap and hasn't quite adjusted to the time change and is instead walking around like she just got off a red-eye from Japan.

I love her because she's got A Plan. And  a super-cute blonde with A Plan? Yeah, you should always keep one of those close by.

I keep mine on the windowsill.

Trust me.

The Perfect Day (Doesn't Exist).

"No, please, tell me more about your Plan For The Day."

Some mornings I wake up with A Plan. And I know exactly how the day will unfold:

I'll finally finish that scene. That one that's kinda holding back the progress of this, the latest draft of twenty for this godforsaken play, and it will All Make Sense. (The success of this show, of course, will catapult me into crazy Financial Comfort. Because let's be honest: I really don't want fame. I'm way too tired for that. I want a nap. A nap in a super nice [yet well within our means] bed. Dream big, Flynn.)

The knowledge that I've done something Artistic and Useful will really free me up to examine our home and all of the ways which I've [oh-so recently] been neglecting the heck outta it. Kitchen floors will be devoid of crumbs and whatever that thing in the corner by the table is. At least for an hour.

Obviously, the ability to balance a creative endeavor and maintain a non-filthy home will pave the way for what I really want for this day- and all of my days- I will be an Awesome Mom. Books and art projects and snacks that aren't from week-old car seat Ziplocs. My daughters will hold my hands as we dance to totally appropriate music and snuggle on the [completely cat hair-free] couch.

My husband and I, drunk on the knowledge that we're raising superb people in a relatively clean environment, will share Grownup Conversations and Meaningful Moments. (And be snoozing by 9pm.)

Doesn't that sound like a wicked terrific day?

I think about that imaginary day at 8:20am, by which time I've already said things like "Is that what we do with fried eggs?" and pried the younger child's leg from the freezer door. An hour later the script stares me in the face, taunting me with its lack of definition and overabundance of run on sentences. (Are you shocked?) This, of course, could all be due to the fact that I'm sitting on my knees on the kitchen chair, attempting to avoid touching crusts of Floor Bread with my socks.

And moments later, when a smallish person asks for help removing fitted sheets from her sister's wonky dresser drawer, I manage the pull the entire thing down on my own foot, crushing my pinky toe into unsympathetic oblivion. (Because really- who gives a darn about someone else's pinky toe, regardless of its future inability to be used? Ever.)

But while I'm down on the floor, wondering how the crime scene investigator will piece together the circumstances of my demise...the baby hands me a book. And then backs up into me, seating herself on my lap with nary a glance, absolutely certain that I'll be there to catch her diapered bum.

And so I read to her. And she looks at me like I'm magic.

Which is all I really wanted out of this day, anyhow.

The Zuzu Monkey.

This girl.

This girl who stands on things she shouldn't and gets into spaces that you'd think she couldn't...

And preemptively berates herself with a pointed finger and a Nonono...

And thinks that EVERYTHING is simply amazing, including that thing you're holding or drinking or putting on a shelf. Unless it's a diaper or sleeves, then- Gah...do NOT want, do NOT want. (Nosankyou.)

The one who will perch in a corner with an anticipatory grin for as long as it takes you to notice her, whereupon she will promptly fall over herself yelling S'PRIZE at you. And her reflection. And the cat. And there will be much laughter.

The girl who faceplants onto the floor for the third time that day- the kind where you actually hear face smacking into tile- and who will then stand up with a dazed "Whoa." And much laughter.

Who prefers to fall asleep holding all of the hands of both her slightly sticky monkeys right to her nose...

And who thinks that the sun rises and sets in her big sister's expressions and hand gestures and great ideas. (Until her Dad comes home.)

I just love her, this little girl.

Zuzu In The Box.

Still sending love, still sending thoughts, still sending donations:

United Way Fund For Newtown, CT 

CeaseFire 

Newtown Facebook Memorial Fund

***

This is Zuzu's new favorite game:

She brings us her Jack In The Box (or really, her Sock Monkey In The Box) and immediately sits back to watch. She winces from the first turn of the handle. Each subsequent turn is more suspenseful than the last. And finally, when the monkey pops out, she jumps like she had no idea this one was coming.

Then she belly laughs. And demands you do it again.

Fifteen months is hilarious.

Five Reasons My Heart Feels Good Today.

Wearin' our buttons for Pop! Socks, no. Buttons, yes.

So maybe I missed the boat on the whole pre-Thanksgiving Giving Thanks thing...but I've compiled a nice little list of stuff that makes me exceptionally cheerful today.

5) My Dad is officially Dave: Unplugged. (From the wires and IVs and pokey things that make it hard to sleep.) Even though he's still in the hospital, he's now Mobile[ish] Dave. And that makes my heart grin.

4) My daughters, walking around this morning, had the following exchange-
Susannah: Nah Nah! My Nah Nah!
Nora (running into the room): Yes, my dear little sister! I am coming to you!
Susannah (happily): Nah Nah.
(It was practically a straight Chekov translation.)

3) While driving Nora to preschool, Marc Cohn's Walking In Memphis came on the radio. And I sang it to my kids via the rearview mirror. I sang that song. And they looked...confused. But polite. Zuzu gamely nodded her head along with me as I belted out Every. Last. Word. ("Ma'am I ammmmm tonight...")

2) As I walked between rooms, gathering laundry and shoes and sippy cups, I had a vivid flashback of playing Scattergories with my sibs over Thanksgiving. Particularly, the moment where my youngest sister attempted to convince us that a) "fennel cake" was a thing, and b) it could be purchased from a vending machine. Indignantly. For the next twenty-four hours. And for some reason, during that recollection, I laughed until I was in danger of doing that high-pitched-can't-breathe-squeal-of-she's-not-coming-back-from-this-one kinda laugh. (And it felt nice.)

1) Finally, after logging on to Facebook this morning, my heart done swole at the number of "likes" and messages of support for my Dad that have poured in from (quite literally) all over the world. That, combined with the texts, emails, phone calls, Tweets, Instagrams, and blog comments, makes for a pretty sweet Word doc for me to present to my [completely overwhelmed-with-all-the-love] father.

And so I'm happy.

In Dog Years It's A Lot Longer.

We look so, so awesome in this picture.

To my darling, patient, better-than-I-sometimes-deserve but always-exactly-what-I-need husband on our fourth anniversary...

Nothing has changed yet everything has changed and I wouldn't change a thing. (Except for maybe one or two teensy things regarding our homestead.) But let's review those crazy ol' vows, shall we?

When I said "for better," I was most likely talking about Sunday mornings with our daughters, the paper, a questionable amount of bacon, and one of your stellar mixes playing on the stereo.

When I said "for worse," I might have been imagining that time when the lower level of our house gave up and disintegrated. (Was there a "for louder" part of our vows, too? Because that may be a three-way tie between the jackhammering of said house, the drilling of samesuch, and my entirely-too-related Ugly Crying on your shoulder.)

When I said "for richer-" well, that part hasn't exactly showered down on us yet, but we do lead a pretty darned fancy lifestyle (due almost completely to your obsessive love of coupons, Groupons, and Craigslist).

When I said "for poorer," I had no idea that I'd someday decide to send our kids to trade school. (Because seriously if an in-family plumber wouldn't have come in handy these past five weeks.)

When I said "in sickness," I'm pretty sure I was preparing for that cold you had this past winter. Good God, did I want to smother you with a pillow. (But I didn't. And I'm glad for it.)

When I said "in health," I couldn't possibly have known that I'd get that same cold one week later. (Thanks for not smothering me.)

There's still no one else with whom I'd rather tend a feverish child at 3am, argue over the necessity of antique store "treasures," and watch old movies while consuming enormous vats of your secret recipe popcorn.

Here's to the next four (times four times four).

And even though we're not in Virgin Gorda this May, getting to wake up next to you (and the girls and the cats) in Chicago each morning still seems like I hit the marriage jackpot.

Which may or may not actually be a thing.

But which I wholeheartedly mean, nonetheless.

(Happy anniversary.)

The Big Six (Months).

Oh Susannah,

Yesterday, you turned six months old.

This is crazypants.

It's sometimes hard to believe that you did not even exist until your Dad and I said to each other, "You know what? This Kid Thing is so awesomely fun that we should have another, and then the fun will never ever have to stop, not even once."

A few things have happened between then and now, such as you grew fingernails and blood cells and simply wild amounts of blonde hair. Your sister figured out that high-pitched noises make you laugh like a loon. And food, as Nora would put it, Is A Very Good Friend.

During this half of a year (very recently, in fact), you've started to express pleasure and recognition and sheer joy by waving. Not just a simple salute, mind you. Nor is it a coquettish wiggle of fingers. Your wave is a forceful acknowledgement and request for attention, starting with the hinge of your shoulder and ending with your splayed fingers.

You're no shrinking violet. I like that.

Suzy, we like everything about you. Including all eight million of your names.

A long time ago- way back before you were even the gleam of a second baby and, in fact, Nora was barely a realized first baby- your Dad and I were at a Magnetic Fields concert. (It was great, by the way. You should see them sometime.) Then, for no particular reason whatsoever, I leaned over to your father during a quiet moment and whispered- "I like the name Susannah if we have another girl." He leaned back. "Can Mae be her middle name?" "Sure. That's pretty."

BOOM. Named.

It also helped that we had fallen really, really in love with James Taylor's version of your eponymous song.

Your nicknames- Suzy and Zuzu- are even more whimsical. Back in the mid-80s, there were two things that I liked a ton. (Okay, there were a bunch, but for the sake of time, let's just call it two): My set of Suzy's Zoo stationary and Tesla's album Mechanical Resonance, featuring the song "Little Suzi." (What kind of little kid were you, you're wondering? One with multiple penpals and a drummer godfather who liked to gift me awesome hair metal. That kind.)

And Zuzu comes from "It's A Wonderful Life's" Zuzu Bailey, the little kid with all the petals. (Factoid- that movie makes all men cry. I've seen not only your Dad well up, but also your uncles and both grandfathers, too. That's a movie.)

And so we gave you all of these monikers, knowing that you'd grow into some and outgrow others...and maybe even come up with a few of your own. That's totally cool.

I can't wait to see what kind of name you'll become.

I think you'll be a bit of a hippie (like your father). You already exude this sense of peace and subtle mirth, like- It's all going to be fine, it's actually really funny, isn't it? Let's have some more applesauce.

Or maybe you just really like your applesauce.

Either way, I hope that no one ever takes advantage of your easygoing nature- and that you never let them. The world is too wonderful to settle for someone else's mediocre plans.

The other day, as Nora was attempting to kneel on your chest and touch your eyelids, you grabbed two fistfuls of her hair and dragged her head to your mouth. The shriek you let out didn't indicate pain, didn't show exhaustion, and wasn't a cry of sadness.

It was a battle cry of- STOPPIT. (And oh, how it worked.)

So I think you'll be just fine. Because, really, it's the Slow Boils that everyone's gotta watch out for.

Especially if they have killer pale blue eyes like you do.

Come to think of it, maybe I should watch out for you, too.

I love you to the moon (and back), Buttercup-
Your Mom.

Is This A KISSING book?

Next, I shall paint my sister.

It's totally almost Valentine's Day. And I have plans.

Huge ones.

For starters, Nora and I have already chosen pink and red outfits for ourselves. And for baby Susannah. And for P.J. (Sorry, P.J.)

We've lined up a few messy, glittery projects for the day- among them, a fabulous Martha Stewart craft that will either a) light up our home and 'hood with sparkly loveliness, or b) burn down the block.

I'm planning on pestering my best friends, sisters, and parents with badgerly texts of enduring love. They will reciprocate. Or I will be forced to use my phone to call. Or Skype. Or hit them with it at the next available juncture.

Breakfast and lunch will be eaten off of potentially non-food-safe decorative plates and platters adorned with hearts and cupids. Doilies- the ones not shredded by safety scissors- will most likely line the kitchen table, and holiday napkins will be utilized. (And if Nora decides to eat only one bite of each thing, I will not force the issue. Because on a day of Love, we all get to do what makes us happy. And if the crusts do not make you feel full of Love, then- by all means, Nora- do not eat the crusts.)

A Valentine's Day nap will be had. For it is a holiday, and I always nap on holidays. (Always.) And even if Nora and Zuzu aren't really feelin' this one, we shall nap. This differs only slightly from the Full Of Love rule mentioned just prior to this one. (Food is food, but sleep...? There are rules.)

There may or may not be an awesomely decadent dessert project in the works...which may or may not lose all of its Wow Factor due entirely to the two year-old sous chef leaving her own special li'l mark on the treat, on the counters, on the walls, and on her little sister. But I bet it'll still taste really good.

Dinner will be a ridiculously extravagant affair, naturally. What will she be preparing, you might ask? Is it her husband's favorite meal? Nope. Her favorite meal? Not so much. It is, in fact, the toddler's favorite meal; eggplant parmesan, extra parmesan. (Getting to wash the red sauce out of her hair that evening will just add to the day's festivities.)

And there are presents, obvie. Since neither girl (to the best of my knowledge) knows how to read/has internet access...I can spill the goods. An Angel Cake friend of Strawberry Shortcake's for Nora. (Since, every time she plays with her "Strawberry Girls," her sad refrain is: "I don't even have Angel Cake.") And for Susannah, a pink sock monkey. (By the time she reaches adulthood, she'll either have a deep and abiding affection for these sock monkeys...or a definite and very real fear.) And for P.J...

NICE TRY, P.J. You'll have to wait and see. (But hint: It's covered in glitter and fingerprints. Actually, that's not so much of a hint. Everything in the house is currently covered in glitter and fingerprints. It's one of the cats- surprise!)

But I do have a list of expectations for this bright n' shiny day. And it doesn't even include flowers. (Because P.J. brought me purple tulips yesterday. He knows that Holiday Flowers are way trumped by Any Ol' Day Flowers.) And it doesn't include couples massages or fancy dinners (because you cannot get fancier than our eggplant dinner- you cannot) or jewelry or even songs dedicated on the radio (a la Live 105.5. Anyone?)

I would like a Valentine from my husband. The kind where he's actually sealed the envelope. (He's notorious for not sealing the envelope, which comes off looking like it was just handed to him on the darned train. Invest the time! Seal the envelope!)

It would be great if we could watch one of the most romantic movies of all time. Here's the trifecta: The Princess Bride, The Thin Man, and So I Married An Axe Murderer. (As You Wish, William Powell, and Haggis? I'm swooning.)

Maybe a crossword puzzle in bed. Especially if I'm allowed to hold the pen, sparing me that sideways-head-cramping-my-shoulderblade thing that always happen when people share crosswords.

I live large, I know.

Wishing you a Valentine's Day of love and unironically played power ballads,
Keely

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.

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.)

I Am Also Thankful For Pie.

I am thankful for so many things this year. My family (and their health.) My friends (and their continued awesomeness- and, uh, health.) Bean and Ender- even though they continue to wake us up at ungodly hours to let us know their kitty bowls are half-full. The fact that I get to write every day...and have people sometimes want to see it.

I am excruciatingly thankful for the crazy-easy six hour drive we took yesterday with the girls.

But mostly? I thank God and fate and luck and chance and exceptional timing for these three right here:

(Thanks for reading.)

Happy Thanksgiving.

She's In Real Danger Of Getting Noshed, Here.

Is it so wrong to want to eat another person's face? ...Yes?

Okay, but how about if they have positively Winston Churchillesque cheeks on a newborn's sweet-smelling li'l head? Isn't that an edible juxtaposition? ...Still no?

There is something about this kid's Thousand Yard Stare that makes me feel faintly apologetic for the things I know she knows about me. She's a Very Old Soul. (Maybe a grandmother of mine. Maybe a great. Maybe someone else's- who also knows something about me.)

Making Susannah smile and coo (the precursor to the baby belly-laugh which I know is coming any day now and will undoubtedly break me into a trillion eyeball-poppingly ecstatic pieces) is baby crack to me. Now, I've never really been into any sort of crack...but I imagine it's the kind of thing that, once experienced, you want more of. Immediately. Forever. But especially right now.

I realize it sounds like I am endorsing drugs. But I am not. I am endorsing babies. Specifically mine. (Suzy for mayor!)

Her frown, which usually precedes a full crying jag, gets downright Vaudevillian. Like those neon clown paintings on velvet that you see hanging in friends' parents' basement rec rooms. Except sadder.

Those moments are fleeting. They usually only last until she makes eye contact and realizes that- yet again- she KNOWS you and that things are completely and utterly copacetic.

This is followed by a shy smile and a look so utterly innocent and eager that it makes me want to take a needle directly in the face rather than have her experience a moment of pain in her entire [lengthy] lifetime.

But of course, a life devoid of conflict results in some pretty boring people. (And if there's anything my kids ain't- it's boring.) I want her to have Character. And Self-Sufficiency. (But also Her Mother's Number Forever On Speed Dial...or whatever they call it in the future.)

There's something about a kid like this- both of 'em, in fact- that causes me to stop and realize that every single moment of my life (even the ones that were questionable at the time) have all led up to being with this guy in this town with these sets of circumstances...and have resulted in a smallish human being (lightly scented by apricot oil, at that) kitten-snoring against my collarbone and dreaming of something that makes her teensy heart twitterpate against my rib cage.

And then I realize that I'm doing everything right.

The New Normal.

Sure thing, Mom.

Things are finally starting to settle into a routine around here.

This is good news, as Susannah is exactly a month old tomorrow and that's a rather long time for a hazy, crazy bit of whirliness.

It's also juuust about long enough for Nora's panic/insanity/full-body-tantrums-every-time-the-doorbell-rings to have run its course. Some might say it's actually a few days too long, but we try not to judge, overmuch.

We're beginning to discover what the New Normal means- which is way different from the New Normal of Oct. '09 (and waaaay different from the New Normal of Newlywed Oct. '08, triple sigh)- and it's actually pretty nice.

Sometimes Susannah sleeps for five or six hours at night, letting us get more rest than is actually allowed at this stage of the game. Other times she keeps us guessing and wakes up every hour just to say hi. (Hi! Go back to bed!)

The two year-old gets up each a.m. with her Dad- unless, of course, she's spent a solid three hours berating or laughing with her Beanie bears at positively awful hours of the early morning- in which case she awakens at 9am. Or 8:30. Or 6. (Keep 'em guessing, that's her motto!) Then the team of gals waves off Peej, sometimes from the picture window, sometimes from the stairwell, and proceeds to list/negate every breakfast choice offered. Unless it's bacon.

Sometimes "breakfast" consists of the smallest member of the team getting nursed on the kitchen floor by the biggest, with the middle debating whether or not she needs a straw/a diaper/a shoe. Martha Stewart Living, it ain't.

Then there's writing, some paid, some not so much. Nora does her part during these interludes by coloring, puzzling, and stickering the baby. Suzy generally sleeps on me/near me or poops on me/near me. A surprising output of work comes from these sessions.

Occasionally we go out, bringing slightly more stuff than would be needed for a Transatlantic crossing. (That's ALL Zuzu- Nora and I had it down to the science of a wallet, some wet wipes, and Doc Bullfrog. My youngest apparently needs three pairs of jammies to accompany us to the grocery store.) Sometimes we go to a fabulous playgroup. Other times we jaunt to the Middle Eastern bakery to get scolded about how I am carrying the baby.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, with slightly more clothing. Usually. Occasionally I'll try to clean a room while we are still using it. This yields mixed results; sometimes I get depressed at the non-change in the area, other times I'm thrilled its dirtiness is remaining status quo.

Some days are way harder than others, what with varying temperaments (mine included), varying activities, and varying degrees of unmatched socks. The best days, obviously, are those with a minimum of activities, a decent amount of agreement, and a maximum of easily put-away-able laundry.

Then there is mandatory naptime. People always say "nap when the baby naps." Dude, I've been napping- with or without babies- since day one. Sometimes I'll try to squeeze in about twenty more minutes of writing immediately after Nora's book/book/book/song/snuggle/bed routine...but not always. Once Nora is in bed, the baby and I are in bed. (And that is why this will always be the best job, ever, anywhere, Amen.)

Upon waking, there is Jeopardy. Laundry. Glitter. The eight thousandth diaper change- per girl. Books books books. Frequent attempts to kickstart an Arena Rock dance party. The park, the playhouse, harvesting of green tomatoes, and forcefeeding the pacifier to the baby sister.

We make/defrost/order dinner, since the dinner train has pretty much left the station. (Okay, I really miss that part of the Old Normal.)

P.J. returns home and, after waiting for my turn to have his attention (it can be a whiiiile, what with dancing, hugs, and re-enactments of Strawberry Shortcake and pals' escapades), we have dinner. Bathe the girls. Pretend to clean the kitchen. And on nights when N goes to bed at 7:45 and Suzy settles into her room for a lengthy nap...we find that we have a smallish window of time.

In which to fall asleep on the couch.

Okay, so perhaps the New Normal looks a bit like the Old one.

Only with way more socks.

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.

Splish Splash.

Nora and Susannah are two very different ladies. Nora was the teensiest little Bitsy of a baby, with her dark hair eventually turning a really cool honey color. Her eyes (and temper) are just like mine- dark. Other than that, she's a mini doppelganger of her Dad; wide mouth, curly toes, and the opinion that the deep knee bounce is the world's best dance move.

Zuzu entered the world a full pound and inch larger than her "big" sister. Last night- at two weeks- her measurements equaled Nora's- at one month. Her white-blonde hair is gloriously confusing to us, as are her bright blue eyes. The only traits that she and I currently share are a penchant for snuggling and the ability to sleep exceptionally well on any surface. We have no idea whose doppelganger she is.

But aside from having dustily Victorian names and a mother who tends to over-kiss her young...here is something else that the sisters share.

They both abhorred their first bath.

Since the photos were almost identical- and identically hilarious- I thought I'd indulge in a little photo essay. 

Nora's first splash.

 Suzy's first splash.

Nora can't handle it.

 Susannah has words for us.

Identical mouths.

But this gal's mouth isn't that far off, either...

Okay, maybe we do know to whom she belongs. And yet again, it's P.J.

Mazel tov.

No, really.

But if they're anything like Mommy, I give 'em a year before they're lounging in the deep tub with bath salts, a good book, and the finest of classic rock playlists on Spotify.

B.Y.O.Sippycup.

Blatant Displays Of Excessive Affection.

Auntie KT loves Zu.

And now, a bit of a love letter to my newest crush, Susannah Mae.

I know that all new parents believe their infant to be the sweetest, most even-tempered child ever created. But they must be mistaken. For it is my multiple-nicknamed baby.

She is so good- which I realize is a terrible mantle to place upon a child- but seriously. She is. Suzy only cries for two reasons; extreme hunger and extreme nudity. I completely understand.

Completely content to snuggle and kitten snore in anyone's arms, but she positively coos and shows a deep left cheek dimple (which I swear is an early smile- it just is) when she's with me.

I love being someone's favorite.

Modeling with Mim's handiwork.

And not only is she totally cool with her big sis Nora "kissing" her with a full-body tackle...but I swear she lights up at the mere sound of the biggie's voice.

Sure, it's a little biased of me, but she is easily one of the prettiest kids I've ever seen. I've seen a lot of cute kids, too. But none with crazy blonde hair like Zuzu sports. It shows no signs of thinning (yet- praise Jeebus) and her eyes get a brighter blue each day. The genetic improbability of this child really only adds to her magic.

She has three tooth buds. Now I'm no dentist and/or mystic, but that's awesomely advanced and lucky. This is a fact.

And did I mention that she sleeps five hours at a stretch each night, starting at the same hour each evening, waking only once for feeding and changing? I haven't gotten this much sleep since before this whole pregnancy thing started. It's kinda sick how the first few weeks with our newborn are easier than the entirety of the third trimester.

We shall keep her. And continue to pose her awkwardly. And potentially kiss her too much, mostly when she's trying to sleep.

Punkins.

Remember all of those pre-Susannah panics I had about time management, Nora's feelings, and strains on my marriage? Yeah, scratch those. I must have been insane to think our life with Suzy would be anything but awesomesauce.

I should have known better.

Second kids are obviously just meant for [sweet-natured] greatness.

Trust me.

But Who Will Prepare My Latte?

Going A'Work.

We have had non-stop staff here at Chez Schoeny. And it's been great. Crazy and [slightly] hard to get used to [initially], but great.

My Mom flew in the Sunday before Susannah's birthday. She quickly set the kitchen to her order, all the better to stock the freezer with pans, Tupperwares, and Ziploc baggies full of our (okay, mostly mine- but Peej is NOT complaining) favorite foods. Also, there is no laundry hanging out anywhere in our bedrooms or bathrooms. I once saw the woman do a load of laundry with three items. Plus, she got the task of Nora-wranglin' while we jaunted off to have Suzy.

My Dad fixed and built things all over the house, including an incredibly impressive revamp of our laundry/work room. Like, one can now walk into the room and do laundry and/or work. Shelving, storage, and work benches, oh my! This room is also the home of P.J.'s new tool chest. It's an early birthday present from the Flynn side of the fam, and it's the manliest of manly accoutrements. (My Dad went to go heft that thing home, too.)

Bethany came over yesterday, right as my Mom was cabbing it to Midway- and a good thing, too. My Mom and I, while both extremely in touch with our weepy sides, are extraordinarily hesitant to do so in front of "company." (Even though B has a) seen me cry, and b) napped with me.) Thusly, my Mom leaving me forever to flounder in new Mommyhood was not as tragic as it could have been. Bethany followed up this gem by promptly making me a snack, tucking me into the couch with Susannah for a nap, and proceeding to play "restaurant" with Nora for close to an hour. Did I mention that she also brought piping hot lasagna, salad and rosemary bread for supper? (Bethany For Mayor.)

And late last night, my big sis Kate arrived via O'Hare- just in time for my late night lasagna snack. She's spent the a.m. chasing down N.J., dealing with some seriously serious diapers, snuggling Suzy, and giving us presents. There's also talk of taking someone out in the jog stroller if the rain lets up. (I don't know if she means me or the Biggie Bug, but either way- it sounds just lovely.)

This weekend will herald in the Week O' Schoenys, as my in-laws will take charge once Kate leaves...but I'm a little worried what will happen once my built-in staff takes their well-earned rests in the own homesteads. Am I going to have to do laundry? The dishes? Diapers? Who will hold my children when I shower?

Okay, that'll be the first thing to go.

We'll be just fine. And I'll start to be more hands-on with housework, et. al really, really soon.

Maybe after my nap.

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.

The Story Of The Monkey.

So this is the story of Susannah Mae. I will attempt to toe the line between crazy gory details ('cause there are people who really, really wanna know) and uh, non-crazy gory details. 'Cause there are definitely people who DON'T.

And pardon in advance my odder-than-usual vernacular, as well as the moments where I appear to be trailing off mid-sent...

The drugs are my friends. Anyway.

On the morning of the 4th, we set our alarms for 5am, knowing that we had to be at the hospital for 6am sharp. Of course, this meant that I wouldn't get to bed 'til 11pm, waking three times with various concerns, needs to pee, and at least one dream where I had missed my alarm, was informed that I needed to go change Nora's diaper since I missed my surgery anyhow, and consoled myself with a sandwich.

I woke up really tired (but without having succumbed to said sandwich) and after P.J. finished packing (I had been packed for Exactly. Two. Months), we jaunted down Lake Shore Drive and checked ourselves in to Chez Prentice. (There was a woman whom I allowed to check in ahead of me, as she was In Active Labor And Was Not Pleasant To Be Around. I wished to move her along.)

Somewhere between the third blood draw, second hospital gown draped over me (backwards, natch, over the frontwards one- it covers slightly more area), and first I.V., I began to have doubts that this whole second kid thing was a good idea. Turns out, by this point, no one really cares about pausing the shebang until one gets one's courage back up. So, sometimes, one needs to fake it. Which works really well until an O.R. nurse soothes said patient and commends her bravery in a nice voice...causing the patient to well up and completely ruin the facade...which generally results in a ridiculously nice team of anesthesiologists to take turns holding the patient's hands while talking and joking her through an impossibly pain-free spinal. (Seriously. My only slight owie jolt was the first numbing needle, which, upon my flinch, caused every single person in the O.R. to rush over and tell me how wonderfully I was doing. I later commented that giving birth in front of an applauding team of twenty was the ONLY way to do it.)

Okay. Gory details time. BUT FIRST- may I state again for the record how incredibly pain-free the actual c-section was? 'Cause it was. I felt nothing. Not the broken popsicle stick test (I swear to God that is a real measurement of pain after numbing medicine is applied- they also said they had a paper clip they sometimes used to prod the thigh, hip, rib cage and sternum to test how high up the numbing goes), not the first, second, third (and on and on) incisions, and certainly not the cauterizing thinger- though I definitely could smell someone's burning flesh. Poor fool. By the time they invited my questionably married husband to look over the divider and inform me what we now had, I wondered what sort of mutilated carcass he'd see on his wife. I still don't know. But even after the crazy tugging, weird sounds, and elephant-like pressure on my rib cage to shove the kiddo's legs out (the ciiiiiircle of liiiiiiife), I was still off the charts excited to find out who this new little person was.

The one who really dug liverwurst. And melon. And making me sick as a dog for thirteen weeks- though that also might have been the liverwurst and melon.

And P.J., looking over the curtain to see the kid's head still emerging from my abdominal cavity like some bizarre cross between E.R. and Alien (he thought it was AWESOME, by the by), said in a quietly pleased voice- "It's Susannah."

BFFs.

And I cried because I was so happy.

Because she had a head full of the thickest, blondest ducky hair I had ever seen. And- when she eventually squinted them open- the brightest blue eyes. She had the Schoeny mouth, of course, wide as anything and tilted like a bow. Her skin felt like velvet and her chubby cheeks promised to be superbly kissable. I could already tell that we'd be great friends.

And once they'd unstrapped my arms from the T position, placed me on a board for transpo onto another gurney, and dangled all of my wires and tubes from the appropriate hooks...they placed her in my arms. And it kinda didn't matter that I had just undergone the complete opposite of a natural birth, nor that I'd feel like a Mack truck rolled back and forth on my belly in a matter of hours. As I looked into Susannah's weary face (I hear that, sister), I once again had the realization that it wouldn't have mattered if they had removed her from my ear canal with safety scissors.

It was worth Every. Single. Frightening. Pain. (Isn't it obnoxious when mothers say that? Even more obnoxious is when they're right.)

And sure, the past couple of nights have not been amazing, physically or emotionally; due to my gestational diabetes, Suzy's been subjected to way too many blood tests, tubes, force feedings, heart monitors, and an overnight in the NICU. But luckily we've been able to be with her nearly nonstop. P.J. especially has made a habit of chasing her rolling bassinet down the hall with whatever cranky night nurse  is currently finding him a pain in the ass. (And he has the 45 minutes of combined sleep since Tuesday morning to prove it.) We've had some lovely angels on our side, too, especially the NICU nurse who lobbied for our daughter to be sprung and sent back up to us. (And she made P.J. melt like a summer popsicle when she fashioned a bow for Suzy's tiny cap.)

But now the two gals are catheter, I.V., and needle-free...and the guy is slightly more rested. And tomorrow morning we'll all be going home, where a positively ecstatic biggie sister has already given Susannah Mae permission to play Sleep Tight in "the baby's room."

Little Miss Bow Hat.

There's kinda nothing better in the universe- not even the super white tuna sushi on its way to my hospital room right now. (Though- oh my God- so, so SO close.)

And now we'll go snuggle our little Monkey close while we watch our favorite shows and drift into a blissfully medicated sleep (okay, maybe just me).

But I know I'm not alone in thinking that life as Peej and I know it has just gotten a heck of a lot sweeter.