Eat It, Just Eat It, Open Up Your Mouth And Feed It.

Neither picky nor choosy. Yet.

Nora has recently become a choosy eater.

Not picky, mind you. Choosy. There's a mammoth difference.

Our choosy eater consumes eggplant parmesan. Spinach pies. Sweet potato fries dipped in blue cheese dressing.

WHEN SHE FEELS LIKE IT.

And there are many days when she feels like it. And even more when She. Does. Not.

I try not to let it get to me (because, after all, that would be a tantrum of my own) and try to acknowledge that she is two, and she has virtually no power over anything besides what goes into or out of her body. (Which, on its own, is a staggering amount of stuff.)

There are days when I am less than successful with this mindset. Because I really can't stand choosy eating, and am even less tolerant of picky eating. To me, selective eating is a first world [middle to upper-middle class] problem. This may be steeped in my many years as a nanny, beginning with a family who insisted that I cook separate meals for each of their children- at any ol' point in the day when they were hungry. (But it had to be organic and healthy. Unless the kids didn't feel like it. In which case just keep them fed/quiet.)

I've cared for children with very real allergies, and then those whose parents imagined allergies for them.

One kid ate baby food until kindergarten.

Another had never tried a vegetable because she didn't think she would like it. (Her parents agreed.)

So, sadly for Nora, she gets the brunt of my eye-rollitude towards kids' eating habits.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has foods that they love and others they can't stand. Totally cool. When I was little, I abhorred crusts of bread and plain potatoes. (I used to go so far as to excuse myself from the dinner table with a full mouth so that I could spit them out in the bathroom.) And I know a bunch of people with texture issues. Less universally acceptable, but also totally cool in my book- so long as they're not a pain in the butt to spend an evening with.

But here's my thing with Nora- every dayI put good food on her plate. Not an overwhelming amount, by any means. And at least one of the things I'm serving her is something she really likes. Another part might be something that I like. Perhaps even something new. Because- and this is the super strict part- I ONLY COOK ONE DINNER EACH NIGHT.

I am not a sous chef. And I'm certainly not a toddler's caterer.

The same thing that she's scoffing at tonight could be the exact same meal that she had thirds of last weekend. But for reasons only known to herself, tonight it ain't jiving.

It's not earth-shattering when she decides this. The other morning she woke up and announced that she only wanted to eat blue m&ms all day. (Good for you, I almost said. I wanted to star in the remake of Quantum Leap, but perhaps we all need to adjust our daily expectations.)

She also has moments when she says that neither her beloved Doc Bullfrog nor the constant Ritz crackers are "very good friends," so there's another indicator that I shouldn't be taking menu cues from someone so erratic and untrustworthy.

So what do I do when she's not feelin' the eatin'?

Nothing.

She eats? Awesome. She doesn't eat? She goes to bed slightly hungry. And, as my pediatrician keeps reminding me, little kids are hard-wired to not starve themselves to death. I'm reminded of this when Nora demolishes her breakfast the following morning. I also have no problem wrapping a plate and presenting it again for lunch the following day. (No takers? Peej gets it for lunch the following following day. Sorry, Peej.)

We don't make a big deal of this eating/not eating thing, either. (Outwardly, that is. Inwardly, there are tears. Threats. Fistfuls of food shoved into mouths.) The main thing I want to impart to Nora is: manners. Not royalty manners, either. Just: Be A Nice Person To Sit Near manners. Not hungry? Fabulous. Try one bite of everything and drink your milk and talk about something pleasant. For at least ten minutes. After that, feel free to hop down from the table and let everyone else try a bite of everything and drink their [alcoholic] drink and talk about something pleasant.

There are rewards for successes. There are zero rewards for non-successes...nor are there repercussions. (Other than an early dismissal from the table and a gurgling belly at 3am.)

The other night, as Nora housed a entire plate of salmon in a citrus soy and maple sauce, P.J. and I frantically (and silently) high-fived and kicked feet under the table.

Today, however, she spit a mouthful of [chewed] string cheese onto her chair because she Does Not Like Cheese.

I never said it was foolproof.

Best Holiday Visit Ever.

(Miss you guys already, Seavers!)

I Hate To Leave You But I Really Must Say...

For the first time in almost ten years, I am not a nanny.

For the first time in over eight years, I'm not Julia and Lily's nanny.

And it's odd. Because it was more than a job- it was a welcomed lifestyle shift and endless sparks of creativity for writing and a flower [bubble] girl and a duo of best friends for my daughter and a family.

It all started with an infant named Julia and an endless flight delay during an East Coast summer storm. And a set of young parents all-too-willing to let an eager (and out of work) nanny hold their strawberry blonde baby gal. And a job interview the next afternoon, once they all realized they lived mere 'hoods from each other. And a hiring before the 23 year-old left their lovely home. Both sets of grandparents (and aunts and uncles and cousins) made the nanny feel like just another [valued] member of the family.

Before long, the little gal became an integral part of the nanny's weekly routine- and all of her best stories. Heck, even her friends' best stories. (There are very few friends from that time period without their own tales of Snow Cones or Smelling Candles At Pier 1.)

The little girl eventually started pre-school, but the parents were sweet enough to have another child to keep the nanny fully employed. (I'm sure there were other reasons as well, but it was still an awfully nice thing to do.) So along came Baby Lily, and things became twice as nice with The Big Girl and The Little Girl.

And when the nanny became engaged, the whole family celebrated with dinners out and copious wedding planning with The Big Girl whom, obviously, was a member of the wedding. The Little Girl celebrated in her own way.

And just to make things fun, the nanny decided to have her own little girl to add to the mix. The fam put out a portable crib in a guest room and stocked the house with baby necessities- because The Nanny not being their nanny was never a valid option. So then there was The Biggie, The Middle, and The Little Little. And shockingly, things were still seamlessly great. There were collages and day trips and story-writin' and incredible amounts of snacks (most of them corn dogs and/or Pink Frosters.)

But now there's a Big Move to London. And The Nanny and her kid[s] can't go. The Middle and The Little Little don't fully understand that there won't be afternoon-long Every Toy In The Room Fests punctuated by hiccup-inducing belly laughs. The Biggie and The Nanny, however, are all too aware that their projects will now have to be done long distance. But there's Skype. And phone calls and texts and picture messages and letters and carrier pigeons and good ol' fashioned visiting. And it'll be okay, because family is family even across oceans.

And I miss them already.

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

Ranty McRanterson

Okay.

Listen. (And, incidentally, have you ever noticed how people only say "listen" when they're sick and tired of doing so, themselves?)

I'm tired of listening.

The studies and articles about delusional parents and the improbability of parental happiness need to dwindle out, please. It's getting really old.

This study from Time.com, in a nutshell, set out to prove that the more miserable parents were with their daily stress/boredom/noise levels, the happier they pretended to be. Even this one from Slate.com used the idea of chemical dependency in parents' brains to solidify the idea of happiness...but it still kinda missed the point for me.

All of these articles seem desperate to break down this idea that people could happy in their life choices. And really, that's all that parenting is. Not a status symbol, not a necessary milestone, but a job. One that- hopefully- you chose. Because this job, this one I took with a miniature yet noisy boss- would be hellish to someone without the desire to have it.

Because parenting is incredibly hard work. It's a 24/7 gig that requires non-stop stores of patience and energy. But the payoff is incredible. Seeing a kid say, do, or realize something brand new is an exceptional reward- and not just because it reflects on my skills as a Mom, either. The experience of creating a family member and then co-existing with her is something that can't be explained away by momentary levels of adrenaline nor can it be summed up by reactions to simulated stress.

And sure, there are lazy- and lousy- parents out there...but look around you. Aren't at least three of your co-workers playing Farmville right now? Work's what you make of it. (And yes, there are days when I'm a Farmville type of parent. That's why they send those Burger King coupons to you right in the mail.)

I've also been a nanny for close to ten years. And I love that job. I really dig watching these kids grow into fabulous, articulate people with exceptional collaging skills. Now that's a job surrounded by kids all day- am I deluding myself into thinking I'm content with my work there, too? If so, WHO IS ALLOWED TO BELIEVE THEMSELVES HAPPY?

There are so many things in life that people believe to be the height of adventure and excitement- deep sea diving, cliff jumping, eating terrifying foods- none of these are appealing to me in the least. But you won't see me decrying them as a valid way to live one's life, because here's the kicker: WHO CARES? And can you imagine if I wrote a series of articles on how single, childless people are deluding themselves in their supposed happiness and how their frittered away free time is actually a chemical response against boredom? I would be stoned to death. (More importantly- I'd be wrong.)

I could not possibly explain to the general public what I love about having a child, enough so to make you immediately want to adopt or give birth. P.J. and I have realized that the things we love about our little beastie are moments that sound unimpressive in the re-telling. Even between other parents the magic of your kid's hilarity isn't quite captured the same way. And that's just fine, because it's not my job to tell you how much you want kids. Just like it's no one else's job to convince me that I don't.

Am I ever bored? Elated? Tired? Hungry? Sure, but so are singletons, Asians, carpenters, and the obese. Everyone is happy and everyone is sad. And then it'll change in ten minutes and then it'll be the same for a month.

Listen. There's a really simple solution to this one. Don't want a kid? Don't have one. Want a brood of five? Mazel tov.

And take those kids/no kids water skiing, truffle hunting, and to the library. Go to work, drink eight glasses of water a day, and- at 103 years of age- drift away peacefully in your sleep.

Be happy.

Odd Hygiene and Noisy Celebrations.

I've been noticing a marked difference in my Nanny With Nora versus Nora At Home routines. There are just certain things that I can do In House that wouldn't fly whilst on the clock.

For instance, I attempted to shower while Nora played on the bathroom floor with squeezie toys and bath books- in my own bathroom. (General rule of thumb: Keep your clothes on/don't bathe in the workplace. This is just something I've always tried to live by.) Believe it or not, this whole "shower" thing actually jived. Kinda.

It took about two minutes in- and for Nora to be happily playing- before I realized that this shower was lacking shampoo or conditioner. (I usually shower upstairs, but in that postage sized loo Nora would have had to play directly on my unshowered head.) Faced with the prospect of either disturbing Nora's solo playtime of awesome OR forgoing a shower altogether, I opted for an unusual third choice: I used Nora's bath stuff. Granted, it smelled great, but I'm pretty sure it lacks any actual soap or soaplike product. But compared to the alternative...I was fairly washed that day. [I can totally see the dollar sign/coupon/exclamation points over P.J.'s head: You used her organic baby stuff? Why not just use the good bottle of pinot noir?!]

Maybe next time.

After said shower, once the Little Little realized that she no longer cared for this locale of play- and would like a snack, sankyousomuch- I crawled into bed with her (me in a towel, she in her half-soaked jammies- did I mention she tried to climb into the bath?) and let her have a bottle while I chilled and contemplated pants.

I later realized that this may have been an odd start to the day, compared to- oh- days when I shower solo and dress myself and feed my child at a table. But it's certainly not my oddest shower/nekkie/Nora tale.

Also, at work- the kiddos I watch generally are allowed a half an hour of TV every so often. Good, quality, pre-screened programming. Generally. I monitor this and check with parents and older sibs (the youngest ones will swear up and down they haven't watched a show since their first birthdays.)

At home- Nora will "watch" a DVD or OnDemand show while rolling around in piles of [clean-ish] laundry. Sure, she's young, and I know I'm rapidly approaching the days where TV will be a magical box of eyeball glue...but for now I generally just have stuff on in the background. A lot. She's seen almost every season of Psych. And anyone who's read the blog through the early maternity leave knows her Pavlovian response to The Office opening theme. And during our block-buildin' extravaganza the other afternoon, I purposefully turned on Jeopardy. (Hey- the periodic table of elements ain't gonna teach itself. At least not 'til 9th grade. And maybe not even then.) Yes, she has hours of the day with plenty of music and sometimes no sound at all...but I think I never realized how cool with TV I was until I was in charge of Nora's brain.

Poor Nora. At least she has Work Mommy to lay down the law about media and venue and clothing.

And may I personally wish Albany Park (and the rest of the world, to a lesser extent) a Happy Mexican Independence Day? I'm quite certain that my block will be celebrating the 200th anniversary with a 200 Firework (or worse) Salute around 3am. 'Cause my neighborhood reeeaaallly digs a good celebration, Mexican or otherwise. I saw multiple cars driving around with huge red, white and green flags atop their roofs. And not just little antenna flags either- huge honkin' flag poles sticking out of the top of cars. And that was YESTERDAY.

Though, to be fair, the Fourth of July isn't exactly known for tasteful and reserved displays of patriotism.

And, as Peej pointed out this a.m., every St. Patrick's Day people paint their faces and bodies with all sorts of "Irish" symbolism. I'm pretty sure that hasn't been a genuine tradition since the people of Ireland were called The Celts.

So happiest of days to all- whatever your nationality, personal grooming habits or mode of transpo. Clearly this block has room enough for us all.

If my neighbors can handle my soap-less Wednesdays and 70s rock blaring out the front stoop...

...I can dig a car horn symphony before sunrise.

Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

Today is rainy and, as my youngest sister used to be fond of saying, dank.

It's hard to get moving on days like today. I've found it's made harder when one is woken up- not by one's newborn- but by one's humongo tabby at 5am. To be fair, the cat had important business to deal with at 5am. Atop the armoire. Whining over our heads. And then shrieking as he rode the pivoting standing mirror to the floor. And by "rode" I mean "fell onto."

He may or may not have taken frames and a vase with him.

(Nora, in bed between us, slept through this! She was, however, woken up when an email on my Bberry vibrated my bedside table.)

6am: The kitchen trashcan (and thusly the kitchen) smelled like coffee and onions, not exactly one of those invigorating 'get up and go' scents.

Although, to be fair, that's probably what I smell like, too.

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

I wish someone would take me out. (See what I did there?)

I vaguely remember telling PJ at 4am that I was happy the glass of water next to the bed was lime seltzer. 'Cause that's really fancy.

This joint [lifestyle] is really jumpin'  [tucked in at 8pm].

Nora, bedecked in a squirrel (sqwo) tee and yoga pants, is looking at me like "TGIT.' The mini nanny (nani?) workaday life is really taking it's toll on her. If it's possible for an almost-5 month old to adapt the facial expression of a sullen 14 year old whenever she's in the car...well, then I spend over an hour a day in the Passat with my teenage self. (Pleasant and thankful.)

I feel like Nora starts out the day with a jar of goodwill towards us all- and, without fail, I spend my day squandering it. Transit! Interrupted naps! Incorrect bath friend choices! (Always the starfish. Do not pull that orca junk.)

And it's a big jar with which to begin.  Epcot big.  (I originally felt the need to elaborate with "Spaceship Earth," but I have a feeling you were on it with 'Epcot.')

Back to Thursday.

Nora just sneezed and Lil asked if that was Nora or her. Presumably she'd  know if she had sneezed, but the plastic big band set she's rockin' IS awfully distracting.

Awfully.

And when I sang You Are My Sunshine upon request, Lily asked who it was for.

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

"Please don't look at her for my song."

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

9am: Seven year old J asked for colder water. I suggested ice. She rebutted that adding cubes takes too long to cool water. I begged to differ and proceeded to take her water bottle, added ice, shook it up all fancy-like (lots of extraneous elbow action) and gave her the COLDEST WATER SHE'D EVER HAD. (Her words.)


I felt awesome, until I realized that I had inadvertently shown a first-grader how to chill a martini.


And in Aneurysm Watch 2010 News: I've broken two more things from other people's fridges this week. One was a container of Greek yogurt (the only honey one, of course- there were loads of blueberry yogurts just waiting to be annihilated, but NO) and a hand-crafted root beer.


Two more signs that these situations did not occur anywhere near my fridge: those are awesome things to have in one's fridge.


And since I have a habit of not wasting food (except perhaps a fudgesicle in the freezer that I do believe we moved with as well as a tupperware of cabbage that may well have fermented) I had to finish these two items off.


The families for which I nanny would have no problem with me tossing these items- in fact, they'd probably be concerned otherwise- but it's not in my nature. Sadly.


The yogurt was fabulous. Sure, there were a couple of plastic shards that I narrowly avoided (nice try, shards) but the honey on the bottom [top] was truly delicious. Sadly.


The root beer was an exercise in stealth, for if anyone under the age of ten had seen me downing it, they. Would. Have. Wanted. Some. And I try not to push root beer for brekkie. As soon as it hit the floor and started fizzing, I rushed it to the sink and saved as much as I could- as covertly as I could- as quickly as I could. Sadly.


I think I got the one with extra carbonation. (And bourbon vanilla extract!)


There's only so much you can expect on days like today. So, you put on your Hampshire College hoodie (motto: Try To Come To Class, Okay?), make a blanket tunnel for wombats and curl up until the sun comes back out.


Maybe even let the children join you.

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...

Reluctant parrots, Double bears & Nekkie wombats

Nora and I are currently on Day 4 of a four day work week. Granted, compared to my past schedules that used to total 50+ hours a week, it's positively relaxing- but we're used to the One Day On One Day Off workaday life. This kinda feels like bootcamp. (However, as I type this, 2-year old Lil is stirring in her bed for the day and Nora Jane is snoozing in her car seat, clutching Otto the otter like a flotation device. So, uh, wah wah, right? Yes.

I love my jobs. I love my families. My work options are so much cooler than I'd even hoped they'd be when I got pregnant. That said, yesterday I ran after a screaming miniature person WHILE breastfeeding Nora. (Is this a lot of info?) Turns out, she's extraordinarily portable and is kinda okay with meals-to-go. (Like a milkshake! Ew.)

It's been pretty exceptional to have every other morning with just Nora and have her smile peacefully at me- as opposed to the terrified wince toward flying objects, shrieking pitches and sudden immersion into the frigid Chicago air. Plus, whenever we go outside, I'm forced to layer the fleece car seat cover over her head for the quick trip into the car; 6:30am air in February feels like daggers on one's eyeballs. I'd like to give her eyeballs a chance. She doesn't care for the fleece-over-face action. I don't blame her. She's like a reluctant parrot, refusing to acknowledge the onset of dark. (Plus, I shove extra blankies, lovies, mittens and burp cloths into the car seat under her toes. So make that a reluctant CROWDED parrot.)

And it's been so cold and snowy that even when she doesn't have to endure the indignity of a blanket wrapped around her head, she does have to put up with the layering of hats under hoodies. Most articles of her clothing possess ears, leading us to dub such bundlings a Double Bear. She does not enjoy the Double Bear, either.

Thankfully, tomorrow morning she can be a Nekkie Wombat.

But because of the rushed mornings and crazytown days, I've acquired a list of Burning Questions that I can neither answer nor find time to Google. Help me, will you?

1) Why does a cut on your [my] pointer finger hurt worse than recovery from a c-section? And why does a bandaid refuse to stay put on such a wound? It's like a flap of skin that exposes the bone at this point. Do you know what gets in there and makes it even worse? EVERYTHING.

2) Why do Pampers have diaper stripes on them to indicate wetness? (Thanks, Michelle- I'd been wondering about this one, too!) I mean, it's kinda cute to be all, "Look, the stripe is BLUE, she must have PEED," but seriously. do you know how I tell when Nora needs to be changed? It's the trifecta called She's Very Heavy/What's That Smell/Why Is She Screaming? If all else fails, poke her bum. Sure, sure, babies' bums are squishy by nature, but they shouldn't feel like those Victoria's Secret water bras. (THAT is ANOTHER question...)

3) Why do I turn into Law Abiding Citizen whenever I pass a police cruiser in traffic? I'm no Johnny Rebel to begin with, but I find that I become extra "good," more attentive and polite, heck, even my posture improves. This is embarrassing. And on the topic of driving around town, have you ever noticed that the cars with the pro-Armed Forces bumper stickers also have flags that seem to defiantly wave in a frantic, patriotic manner? (Patrioticpatrioticpatriotic, they seem to yell.) Also- when one happens to speed through a yellow light, why is the customary reaction a high-pitched, singsongy "Soooooory!" Others outside of the car cannot hear your humorously self-effacing tone of acknowledgment, they just think you're a jerk.

4) Why is the hard Jello skin the worst feeling to ever feel in one's mouth? And why won't anyone eat the Jigglers in the fridge? (True story- the Chicago Dramatists' Network Playwright meeting was a couple of weeks ago and it was potluck. Outta luck- everything in the house had gone to pot. Except for two boxes of Jello. One was orange, the least-favored flavor ever. For anything. I actually failed to make Jello Jigglers. Yep, couldn't even get that done in time. So, I bought a bag of cookies and left the Jigglers in the fridge to, um, congeal. At press time, the congealed orange Jigglers were in no actual danger of being eaten.)

5) Do jeans *sometimes* go in the dark laundry load and *sometimes* in the light? I've really never been able to wrap my head around this one. What about stonewash jeans? And are those actually washed with stones? And why haven't I seen them in awhile? Ripped jeans never went out of fashion, why the wash o' stone?

6) Why does 70 degrees out of doors feel like summer and make you wanna plant a tree or, I don't know, set up a profitable lemonade stand that also sells classy leaf rubbings...when 70 degrees INSIDE drafty old house feels like the Arctic Circle itself and make you want to yell at your [or anyone's] husband?

These are questions needing prompt answers. If I MUST wait until after work to deal with these, I'll probably search online. Or call my sisters so THEY can search online. Ooh, or maybe I'll wait and write in to Parade Magazine!

I feel a 'steak dinner' bet coming on.

A new year, a new pack o' Pampers.

Week ten, back to work!

Armed with a diaper bag the size (and shape) of Guam, Nora and I set out to see what needs doin' in the world of two to seven year olds. Apparently, a lot lot. Eggs need scrambling! Hair needs to be braided- evenly- and/or clipped back with appropriate bows (but not too matchy-matchy.) The stegosaurus' tail needs to be found...on a puzzle piece the width of pencil eraser. Stories need to be performed with the correct accents and correlating hand motions. Tents need to be blanketed, boats need to be shored up with cushions, lunch needs to be CRUST-FREE, and naptime needs to become a one-strike-you're-out-offense-yes-laying-there-with-your-eyes-closed-counts endeavor.

Not to mention the poops. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I think everyone within a five mile radius of me has pooped their diaper or potty seat off in the past four days. AT THE SAME TIME.

I do, however, think Nora's getting the hang of this nanny business. She's strict but fair. And veeeeery cute. (Believe it or not, this helps. To get one kiddo to brush her teeth I simply turned Nora around in her sling so her chubby cheeks were facing outwards. The 'aw' that it elicited was perfect for reaching molars.)

The hours for a couple of the days are superbly early- I'm getting ready at 5:45am and WAKING my daughter (something the books say you should nevernevernever do) at 6:20. The first morning when I put her in her carseat, fully jammied and sleepsacked, she actually laughed at me like I was insane.

Maybe I am. So far this week she's taken the business end of a hard juggling ball directly in the face and made that startled newborn OMHMYGODOHMYGOD wince at least three times. She may also be part possum, as her favorite new sleep position is facing my sternum while in the sling, hands gripping the sides of her head.

On the plus side, I've never held her more!

On a more negative side, I've never held her more. The left side of my body where the sling places the most pressure may just give out one of these days, rendering my arm eternally noodle-like and reducing my authority to ineffective flopping about.

Thankfully, Tuesday was my day off.

That is, until the upstairs furnace broke Monday night, turning our bedrooms into an Artic tundra. (Thanks, negative-degree Chicago!) At least we had the first floor bedrooms, which were on their own, oddly-zoned boiler system! The boiler, of course, being stuck on SAHARAN temperatures! Nora slept in a diaper, sadly not for the last time, given her parents' obvious ineptitude at adulthood.

So, Tuesday was the day that our heating and cooling guy came and quoted us 600 bucks (to fix a part) or 2.2k (to replace the since-discontinued furnace.) Oh yeah, and they'd have to rip the wall apart to get it out- apparently the wall was built AROUND the furnace. Of course it was! We chose the 600 buck option, telling ourselves we'd upgrade to an A/C and furnace unit soonish. (Of course we would!) Then the guy left, saying he'd try to replace it soon, maybe by that night, maybe by Thursday.

WELL. Knowing I couldn't face another night on the surface of the sun downstairs, I started to move my main floor office around to accommodate the bed in P.J.'s office. Two hours later, I had just finished hooking up all the computer plugs, lighting and anything else needing an outlet...when the heating guy came back with the repaired part. Rendering the afternoon spent swapping things about needless, ha hah!

But at least my office looks fabulous.

And, sadly, Nora is now in the thick of her first real cold. It is tragic. For those of you who have never experienced the magnitude of an infant's first real sickness- it's a treat. I highly recommend sitting on a bathroom floor in the middle of the night, shower-steaming a baby into a miniature wonton and alternating between suctioning each impossibly long boogie with a bulb aspirator and cleaning up the diaper blowout as a direct result of the ensuing freakout. (Apparently, they do NOT care for this action!)

And somehow, hours later, she still smiles happily at me. Making me feel like even more of a jerk for bundling her into the dark, frigid, Chicago mornings.

There was more I had planned on noting about the previous week...but my darling baby gal, the angelic infant in the aquarium bouncer on the floor beside me, has just chosen to have another poo-splosion in the carefully selected outfit for today's workload. Sometimes I think she plans these. Maybe she's taking orders from a higher baby authority. Like an evil cartoon villain, clad in a diaper and clutching a cigar. I'm slightly tempted to poke a finger into her chubby cheeks and demand WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR, a la Jack Bauer.

But then she'd just smile that famous Schoeny smile.

You know, the one that got me here in the first place?

Are they trying to intimidate me?

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.

It's kinda like camping.

Shameless self-promotion: the 'Snapshots' festival that 20% Theatre Chicago produces every year is this weekend! One of my better one-acts is featured, as are two pieces that P.J. gets to rock. Come play! Thursday through Saturday at 8pm, Sunday at 7pm. Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway, Chicago. Email at twentypercentchicago@yahoo.com for reservations (and a good time.)

Business done? Yes? (Not even remotely.)

Yes, we have a new house. Yes, I'm wildly pregnant. But no, I don't feel like blogging about the movers who spoke only Spanish, the boxspring stuck in the door, the sectional couch stuck in the hallway, the more nights we've been away than present in the new place or my ever-expanding belly button shelf. At least not right now.

I AM intrigued, however, by opinions. Strong ones. Ones that people have had since childhood and cannot be swayed by other opinions, science, medical facts or divine intervention. For example (and this is just an example): The truthful OPINION that Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, is a dinosaur. I used to think that she was a Brontosaurus, but since that's no longer a valid dinosaur (another OPINION, like the demotion of Pluto), I'll jive with Apatosaurus, Paleosaurus or whatever the going long-necked variety is now called. No one in the universe could convince me otherwise...and I won't even entertain statements to the contrary. Unless you're suggesting a different dinosaur that Nessie could possibly be. Then that's just fun conversation.

Do you have an opinion so strongly rooted that the absence of mere "facts" doesn't even register? I bet you do. I asked my sister Kate for her strongest held opinion...and waited. And waited. Finally, I heard the intake of breath that meant an OPINION was about to be offered. (Hah. That's a joke. No one ever "offers" opinions. Opinions are thrust! And demanded to be taken! And if not, something else is taken: offense.) Anyway, the payoff opinion was this:

"I think tamales are overrated."

That's it? That's your 'take it or leave it' view of the universe? There's only one noun in that statement! When I showed displeasure in her opinion (unfair, I realize), she amended it to use stronger words. It was still about tamales, however. I'll give her some more time.

And now back to the delightful slice of life I call "going to work and collecting a paycheck." (I'm enjoying a brief respite from doing something along the lines of gluing colorful things to other colorful things and also sanitizing rooms smeared with poo. This respite comes in the form of a savior I like to call "Sesame Street.")

Wednesday already?

I barely know where I live anymore.

(But it's easily identifiable by the large furnishings stuck in small spaces. Come visit sometime! Seating will be hilarious.)

Soon I'll need time to process the end of 'Harper's Island.'

We'll keep this one brief, as I've got a few pressing things on my plate. And my "plate," I mean "bladder." (How's THAT for mixing metaphors?) But I am indeed alive and well...well-ish...(Welsh?) and figured I could afford the time to jot down a few funny things of late...

Pregnancy (something I like to acknowledge between the all the goings-on with the house, apartment, car and, you know, work):

The baby has hiccups! Or I have rhythmic gas bubbles! Either way, it's really cute, but still not something I'd like to have happen for more than nine months at a time. Imagine being an elephant (this is a fun exercise anyhow) and being pregnant for eighteen months! I mean, I feel like I've been in a "delicate condition" for about three years now, but still. It could be longer. Like pachyderm long.

The cleaning lady of one of the fams for which I nanny told me DEFINITELY that I'm having a girl. "Really?" I asked. "Absolutely," she confidently told me. "A girl makes you tired and steals all your beauty." THANKS! I informed her that I've got a bit going on now and haven't really slept all that well lately, but she remained unconvinced. Perhaps my "beauty" is so far gone that even sleep couldn't restore it? Thanks, daughter.

However, a lady in the park came up to me and opened the conversation like this; "A boy. You are having boy, yes?" When I told her that we didn't know, she nodded and told me BOY, for I am out to HERE large. THANKS! She also told me how pretty I'm looking, so there. (Thanks, son!)

And some kidisms from work (that thing I try to do at least once a week):

Julia, 6 1/2, after rolling her eyes at how bossy her baby sister is becoming; "She just has to have her own way ALL THE TIME." I laughed and said, "Now who does that remind me of?" She thought for a minute and nodded sagely. "My friend Carl. He's from camp."

Chance, 4 1/2, completely out of the blue; "Kiki, I love you and don't want you to die." After thinking this through VERY carefully, I thanked him and asked why he didn't want me to die. He looked at me like I had three heads and replied, "Because I LOVE you."

And Lily, 2, grabbing my chest and saying, "Are these babies like in your belly?" I told her that was my chest and she has one, too. Laughing hysterically, she patted my back and said her new favorite phrase; "Kiki, you are so cute."

So the next time I post I will (God willing) have a new car, a packed-up apartment, an intact marriage and a house with floors, doors, windows and beds!

Some people just know how to live large, I guess.