A Mother's Day Card. In Blog Form.

I've been talking a lot about my Dad lately- and oh, how he totally deserves it/wishes I'd kinda stop- but there's another key player in the saga called How I Got To Be So Awesome.

My Mom.

You can just feel that I'm her favorite.

She's a cheerleader, an advocate, an advice-giver (whether you need it or not, dammit- although you do; admit it, Keely), a creator of favorite meals, a freezer-stuffer, an eradicator of laundry, and a champion Skyper. (As long as her connection isn't wonky.)

When I get a rejection letter, her favorite response is "You want me to give them a call?"

My mother also thinks that I'm the funniest writer she knows. There's no use arguing with her- she's seen a lot, baby.

She loves old movies and classic mysteries- even though she never sits down to watch them. After all of those hours spent watching our favorite series, she knows that she had a lot to do with why Nora was named after Nora Charles.

And she's also the reason my Dad will beat cancer. Because while everyone else's notes and gestures and constant stream of love keep him going through his utterly rough treatments, it's my Mom who will berate that cancer right out of his body. Because she doesn't believe in it. And she does not accept.

With this- as with so many aspects of her life- she won't give up. Ever. And those stupid people who have wronged her children/publishing houses/cancers better just step aside and realize that she's never going to stop fighting.

It must be an amazing trait to have in a wife.

And I can tell you what it's like to have in a Mom.

(Happy Mother's Day.)

Turns Out, You CAN Go Home Again. (If You Clean It.)

On Thursday afternoon, I flew home to spend time with my folks for a wicked long weekend. I wanted to poke my Dad until he laughed during his fifth round of chemo (which is a medically and historically proven way to get smacked upside the head) and berate my mother into Feng Shui-ing the heck out of her living areas.

So yeah, you could say I was a big ol' helper.

Here are a few things I realized (and reaffirmed) about my parents and our family's home:

-If you're looking for duffel bags, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Super sorry. But you can't have any. Because we have them all. In one closet.

-The worse the Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode, the better (according to my father and the level of evoked laughter). Unless you're my mother. Then it's directly proportional to the times she will walk through the room and plaintively ask- Really? This episode again?

-If you're looking for CDs, vinyl, recordable media and filmed anything, Rest Of World, you're out of luck. Because my Dad has them all. In one closet. But now they're alphabetized and sorted by height.

-The plethora of decorated and drawn angels people have been sending from all around the world for my Dad's treatment and recovery could paper our home. No, for real. Rooms are papered with these pieces of awesome.

A corner of the family room.
ONE corner of ONE room.

-And any trip home (especially one sans kiddos) goes entirely too fast.

(Get better soon, Dad, or I'll be forced to fly home again and move even more of your stuff.)

Happy Anniversary, You Crazy Kids!

This couple.

They met and decided to go have some wild adventures and then he built her a house on Cape Cod.
Then they had a kid.
(And then they had this kid.)

And then two more kids, which everyone agreed was a) not "a little brother" and b) not "a trip to Disney World."

Then came two more houses, at least three business ventures, and a whole menagerie, which [eventually] included five dogs, five cats, two hamsters, and at least thirty fish.

And they are now these folks. (Smushed in the back.)

And we clearly no longer allow them to take pictures by themselves.

Today is their 39th anniversary. (40th for dating.) Here's what I wrote to them two years ago. And it's still all true. (Especially the bit about my Dad not being able to brush a decent ponytail. But since he's more than come through in other aspects, we'll continue to let it slide.)

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. May you have another 40 [gazillion]. The traditional gift for "39" is lace. But I think we all know what your hearts desire...

A much bigger couch.

My Mom Wrote Me An Early Dismissal Note.

"Keely, you're awesome."
"I know, Mom."

There are days when you feel so on top of the world and think that no one can even come close to touching the gigantic lead you've got on the rest of the human race...

...And then there are the days when you completely disregard the "suggested serving size" for your container of ice cream. For four containers of your ice cream.

There are moments where you get your stuff done like a competent member of society and actually produce stuff that makes you want to call up your fourth grade English teacher and thank her for inspiring you. (This tearful scene even plays out in your mind to the swelling of music. Perhaps Wind Beneath My Wings. Oh my God, that would be so pretty.)

...And there are moments where you wonder why anyone believed you when you said you could do all of these things with words and paper and deadlines and "work" and "returning phone calls," because now- apparently- you're expected to "do them." (And now you're feeling more Miss Otis Regrets than Wind Beneath My Wings- except you're feeling like the guy that Bette Midler shot in the former song. Have I lost all of you?)

There are the times when your kid tells you that you look so good that you must be going to a meeting. And when she asks if you took a shower, you regally nod and affirm that you have. Because you're wearing mascara. And pants. And socks that match and deodorant and shoes that are inappropriate for the season.

...And there will always be the times when you wish you were half as great as your mother thinks you are. Or at least that everyone knew how great she thinks you are. This one may actually be doable.

Because she's offered to call/write/email/show up in person to tell them.

And the encouragement/potential embarrassment of that scenario playing out is what keeps you going.

At least until your husband replenishes the sad state of affairs in the freezer.

Travel Tips.

Our [sandy] nomadic days have come to an end. We've eaten and road-tripped our way up the Eastern seaboard and here is a smattering of the things I've learned:

-Outdoor showers (while totally amazing-feeling) never quite get one fully clean.

-For that matter, no matter how many loads of laundry one does while staying at the beach, one will find a veritable desert of sand in her washing machine at home.

-Even though my mother purports to hate a fuss being made over her, she'll cry with happiness at each new surprise partygoer walking through the door (with a combination of joy and anger that I'm going to go ahead and term "janger." Example: "This is ridiculous. You did not have to travel all this way to see me," she exclaimed jangrily.)

The birthday girl with her favorite daughter.
Also, an epic photobomb by Rachel.

-The new Trivial Pursuit Bet You Know It game is incredibly fun but- like any other game which requires placing bets against other players' knowledge- is incredibly detrimental to a marriage. (One of us may have thrown a wedding band against a couch.)

-Susannah does not want to leave the water, whether the ocean is in Massachusetts or Maine. So don't even try that junk anymore.

-Nora has eaten all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

-My Dad has purchased for Nora all of the chocolate munchkins on the East Coast.

You missed a crumb there, kid.

-Lobster should be Maine's chief export. (Is it?) Or maybe it used to be, before I ate it all.

-Watching Olympic gymnastics makes me feel a) patriotic, and b) like maybe I could have actually participated in Olympic gymnastics.

-If, for example, one nannied for a family for nine years, extreme shock will occur upon the realization that the eldest is almost as tall as the nanny and the youngest is quite good at walking around with the nanny's baby.

If they're this grown up, that makes me...close to nineteen years old. 

-Vacations with one's children are not as restful as traveling without one's children (but a thousand and two times more restful than traveling with someone else's children).

-And finally: if the traveler has the childlike sensibilities of sheltered ferret, it will take roughly one week for the traveler to not bolt upright at every little sound on their godforsaken street at 3am, wondering whose bed/cat/baby is in the room, and inform her husband that ocean sounds "a little weird."

However, if the traveler's husband is anything like mine, he is no longer surprised by anything the traveler says or does, nor is he alarmed by the possibility of a weird ocean.

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

"Weird ocean? Sure thing, honey. I'll take care of it."

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.