Holy Holy Moly.

It's official.

Zuzu is legit.

(In the eyes of Christianity, anyhow, and not in the whole She Doesn't Look Like Anyone Except For Maybe P.J.'s Best Friend Neil A Tad When The Light Makes Her Hair Slightly Reddish- But I Swear She's A Schoeny, Have You Seen Her Mouth kinda way.)

P.J.'s awfully excited.

We had a small baptism yesterday for our secondborn buttercup...and I'm not kidding you, she was an incredibly good baby. Which is no surprise. But it's still really nice when it occurs publicly.

When Father Bevin poured the water over her head (three times), she barely flinched. Although she did give a Look that seemed to say- Oh, please stop that. Soon-ish. Whenever, really. Oh, forget it- you're fine.

She didn't even mind when Nora "blessed" her forehead rather roughly. (To make sure it stuck, I imagine.)

Her godfather Nat (one of my oldest pals) and her godmother Dorrie (P.J.'s sis) did a really good job of a) getting Susannah to smile, and b) making sure the baptismal candle didn't tip/light anyone aflame.

"I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!"

Zu wore the Schoeny fam christening gown (which, when Nora wore it, inspired my sister Rachel to blurt out "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!) It is rather eyelet lacy. And there was no hope of getting the bonnet on Susannah's head.

Let's just say that we waited so long to baptism this kiddo that there was a very real chance she would answer all of the priest's questions herself.

But she looked absolutely sweet and wonderful. And her after party dress (obvie) was a sailor dress.

Because nothing says I Now Know Jesus like an embroidered anchor.

Our families did an awful lot of work. (I think my Mom got off the tarmac and already had two things on the stovetop and hummus in the Cuisinart. And no one complained.)

Monkey bread, a.k.a. Eating A Bowl Of Sugar.

P.J.'s mother washed everything in the kitchen twice. (Because it got dirty repeatedly. Not because she thinks my house it filthy. Although- man, does she think my house is filthy?)

Two of my sisters came to play- which is always super fun- and I repaid the favor by making them sleep on the couch/on a half-inflated air mattress.

My gal (both gals, really) were spoiled rotten by family and our smallish group of pals. And I've already consumed my caloric intake for the month.

Which means...nothing, really.

Because I'm still about go do some damage to leftover Baptismal Quiche.

Can someone superimpose Rachel's head in here? 

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.