One Year Ago Today...

...This was me.

I was just about as pregnant as this lady is physically allowed to get...and you can tell. Not only by the watermelon protruding from my abdominal cavity, but also by the look in my eyes. Even through dark sunglasses, you can tell that this is a woman Who. Is. Done. 

I had been [erroneously, I think] diagnosed with gestational diabetes. (By one point! The Russian judge was unimpressed.) I was Done with eating sugarless "treats." I was Done with stabbing leg cramps, debilitating nausea, and a terrifying need for red meat. 

And it was around this time when The Doubt set in. The "maybe we rushed into this" kinda doubt. The "am I ever going to have time for my first kid" doubt. The "giving birth is not so awesome, maybe I can file a stay" doubt. So how did it end up? 

Spoiler: Roughly 24 hours later, while introducing my two daughters to one another...I got to experience the single greatest moment of my life.

And I really don't think the morphine can take all of the credit, either. 

Ice Cream, Anxiety, And Public(ish) Peeing.

Last night I had an illicit dream.

About ice cream.

Apparently, my subconscious wants a giant mug of ice cream with all of the add-ins, swirls, and goopy goodness. The best part? My older sister was in the grocer's freezer section with me (I never call it that, the grocer's freezer, by the way- I think that's commercial lingo finding its way into my vernacular) and SHE was the one who was all like- Diabetes? COME ON. You have less than a week. Have some cookies n' cream. (Which is totally weird, because she knows my favorite flavor is coconut. Or strawberry. Or something with mango.)

And you know what? I caved. It was great.

Also great is the apparent trend towards, fluffy, inconsequential "anxiety" dreams. I'd tell you the roundup of the past weeks' dreams and nightmares, but I guarantee you'd never want children ever ever ever because of the distinct possibility that these scenarios could occur OR for the very real chance that you'd have some of these dreams. I'm not sure which would be worse. (The scenarios for sure. Or maybe the dreams. THEY WERE SO REAL.)

So yeah, ice cream.

And yesterday was my very last prenatal visit for at least a couple of years- or so- ballpark- and I can't say I wasn't stoked to know this. My favorite moment came early on in the appointment when I had to do the mandatory 'pee in the cup' thing. (Nurse: The patient is here, Doctor. Doctor: Excellent, have her pee in a cup. Nurse: Why? Doctor: Oh, just to make sure she still can. Aim is a funny, funny thing.) And Nora always comes into the bathroom with me- because we are best friends. (Except my best friend hates the sound of the power hand dryer- HATES- which sometimes forces me to wipe my hands on wadded-up and quickly disintegrating toilet paper, which has the dual hilarious function of allowing other people to wonder if I've washed my hands at ALL since they haven't heard the dryer...which I HAVE, thankyouverymuch.)

Except yesterday, Nora was really interested in the whole peeing process and [loudly] announced- Mommy goes potty in the cup!

And then the kicker- Oh MOMMY, you DID it!!!

She was so proud of me. (Frankly, I was too.) But the real joy came when I walked back through the office and past all of the hysterically laughing nurses.

We celebrated (the end of the pregnancy, not the peeing) by getting a pumpkin "cupcake" and going to the Disney store to play/get a present for the baby/hoard all of the Donald Ducks.

It's a very old and respected ritual.

Someone Bring Me A Dustmop. Or A Pillow.

Putting on brass knuckles.

I should not be left to my own devices.

This includes all of the times where Nora is napping, I am caught up on household dirtiness, writing deadlines are breezed through, and P.J. is off doing something P.J.-like (i.e., watching Mad Men, showering, or building a door frame).

What, you ask? There are times when all of these forces align and you find yourself with free pockets of the day, gaps of the afternoon and/or early evening where you should go rest/shower and instead you fill in the blanks with the busywork of the insane?

Yep.

For I am in that final stretch of pregnancy. Even though I'm crazily floppy-headed exhausted, I get these bizarre and fleeting bursts of energy...and they're devious. They whisper things to me like- Launder The Bassinet Bedding. Again.

Do The Laundry Even Though There Are Only Four Pairs Of Socks And Some Pajama Pants In The Hamper.

Stack The Tupperware- Even Though It'll Make No Difference By Tomorrow Evening, As You Are The Only One Who Even Realizes Tupperware Can (And Should) Be Stacked.

Revise Your Will And Leave Heartfelt Notes For Your Husband/Daughter/Unborn Child. (Oh, that's right. It just got real.)

Nowhere on these mental lists o' crazy is the ever-popular Go To Bed Early or Read A Chapter Of That Dashiell Hammett Collection You've Been Digging. Because those would be nice, relaxing things for me, the orca of a pregnant woman. No no, the tasks that will be completed are for the people who will have to show up when I go into labor at 3am. Or passersby peeking through the window and judging the state of affairs. Perhaps the panel of judges who will apparently be white-gloving my mantel. WHICH I DO NOT YET HAVE. (Peej- this weekend? Build us a mantel. Put it somewhere the judges will see it.)

And I do realize- in a very small part of my rational being- that alllll of this stuff is aversion to the mind-numbing fear I have that, even though I successfully did all this before and am well on my way to raising an actual member of society, I shall fail to do so this time around. Or fail to do it as well. I am not sure which would be worse.

There's also a good chance that I am feeling feelings about each and every twinge, pop, twist, kick, and parry currently going on from the region beginning mid-thigh and ending juuust below my clavicle. As I have never been in labor (true) and have no such plans to do so any time in the near future (double true), each instance that indicates any sort of progress towards any sort of active birth sends me running for the Swiffer.

And before anyone feels the need to triple reassure me that I am fine, the baby will be fine, and the house will be fine...I really do know this. I do. That's what makes my insanity all the more funny. Cognizance.

And on THAT note, anyone wanna place your bets on this kid? I'm going to start it off with 20lbs flat, with a length of at least 37 inches- per octopus leg. As we're fairly certain that this child will be delivered on the morning of October 4th, you really don't have to feel compelled to guess a date. And I can't promise anything to the winner except for perhaps AN AWESOME SHOUT-OUT and/or a pack of Mickey Mouse stickers.

If Nora's cool with sharing.

On second thought, she might suggest that the warm, contented glow of victory should be enough for you.

She really digs her stickers.

He'll Be The Prettiest Of Them All!

Why do you need another?

Before we continue on to The Pressing Issues, I'd like to acknowledge that I'm just as sick of the pregnancy talk as you are. Maybe even moreso, since I've got the pregnancy thought and the pregnancy insomnia. What I wouldn't give for a good anecdote from the club. (It doesn't MATTER which club- so long as there's a decent bar special and a questionable DJ.)

That said, as I am 33 days away from having another human being in my care, I have no such tales. (So maybe be a pal and tell me yours?)

Peej and I embarked on a very sleepy Date Night Month- which sorely lacks the Awesome of the last pregnancy's final countdown- and have tried to do such stellar activities as Have Dinner Together and Be In The Same Room At Night.

Last night, after giving NJ an early supper, bath, and supra-snuggly bedtime routine, I began preparations for a Grownup Dinner; steamed crab legs, sweet corn, and this loaf of multigrained awesomeness from Costco. (I do not bake, this cannot be said enough.) This plan was sidelined (slightly) by the arrival of The Monkey's crib and mattress- which my parents had generously ordered on Sunday night. (Have you EVER heard of anything getting delivered that quickly? Except by, like, a guy on a sweaty horse?) We were going to leave it until later on to assemble, except we both knew two things to be extremely true:

-P.J. cannot leave a puzzle/project/something with many pieces alone.

-And he had a very real fear that I'd attempt it without him today. (Guilty.)

So now we have a sweet crib with an extraordinarily decorated Enchanted Princess pink mattress (my Mom said it was a great mattress and we can always cover it up- which is true- but I'm fairly certain we've just guaranteed the birth of my son). And the 10pm dinner was terrific, made all the more romantic by the propping up of each others' heads.

All that we have left to do now is...panic over inconsequential scenarios. (Okay, maybe that's just me.)

Like how Nora is going to be SO SAD when we're in the hospital. Especially if I die in childbirth. Keeping in mind that- despite the Pony Express-like delivery of last night's furniture- we do not live in the Wild West (though I could use a little Young Guns action right about now) and there is a fairly good chance that I will survive the birthing of this kid. But the sadness over the hospital stay? That just crushes my face in.

Or how it's imperative that I finish birthday plans for Nora's second birthday- ON OCTOBER 29th. Because if I do not, I certainly cannot have a child on October 4th. Especially when one is planning a party as high maintenance as two hours at the playlot park with cupcakes.

I will attempt to put such Very Real Things aside for the evening- and the second installment of Date Night Month: Reloaded. For we are seeing the final Harry Potter in the theater tonight! It will be great. It will (thanks to the generosity and fabulousness of our our newly instated Babysitting Swap with Angie and Tim) be FREE.

And it will be, due to the very good chance of one or both of us snoring smack dab in the middle of the theater, more than a little embarrassing.

But I hear there's popcorn.

What A Guy.

Home sweet miniature home.

And Now...

A Love Letter To My Husband To Thank Him For His Endless Works O' Awesome (A.K.A A Very Public Plea To NOT Leave His Increasingly Insane Wife)-

Dear P.J.:

You are terrific. Really. No, wait, lift your head back up out of your coffee mug/desk/computer screen- this'll be worth it.

You are so incredibly tolerant and so incredibly choosy with your words. Specifically the cuss ones when you think Nora/our unborn child will hear them and be forever negatively affected. I especially admire this when things don't go according to plan/the door frame cracks/THE SCREWS ARE SOMEHOW ALL WRONG.

Here is what you accomplished this weekend for me/us/my neuroses/the children/the upcoming cold months known as The Rest Of The Year In Chicago:

-Doors on closets and remaining bedrooms that did not possess them. This endeavor required multiple backyard sawhorse projects which you pulled off in a timely manner...despite the fact that your daughter has a near-crippling fear of the sound of a saw in use. And can only be consoled in such moments of terror by you, her Dad. This slowed you down only slightly.

-The moving and painting of three laughably heavy pieces of the furniture in the baby's room. This was because I got a bee (hormone) in my bonnet (face/tears) about the slapdash nature of this new kid's possessions. Forget the fact that mismatched and chipped furniture was good enough for Nora- I was not having it this time around. And now they look great. Hope that hernia heals soon.

-That break you took to read at Mass, do a Costco run, and put both Nora and I down for simultaneous naps. (I'd be embarrassed to admit that I still need someone to put me down for a nap...except for the fact that it was the best nap ever. And nothing beats being tucked in to the words of "I'll take care of everything." Not a thing in the world beats it.)

-Removing the ceiling fan blades, helping me soak them in the bathtub, you scraping decades of grease from the undersides (I'm pretty sure our kitchen used to moonlight as an Arby's), and then reattaching them to the fans at midnight- despite the knowledge that most fans are assembled safely on the ground and not teetering in midair.

-Making sure that you and I sat on the couch- together- to watch The Soup and a goodly bit of House Hunters International before falling asleep. DATE NIGHTS ARE IMPORTANT, DARNIT. (I had been ready to tuck in with a bottle of seltzer and the newest Professor Layton game on the DS, but no sir. Not when romance is alive and well.)

-Drilling that hole to run those cables, saving us crazy ADT rewiring fees and allowing the closet door to close, no longer impeded by the bundle of wires acting as a doorstop. (It's almost like a real house, now! Also, who's been authorizing us to just have bundles of wires acting as doorstops?)

-Taking a "break" to supersonically speed-clean the house when you received the intel that your out-of-town uncle was not only stopping over for a surprise visit...but was, in fact, parking the car up by the neighborhood bar as we spoke.

-Dishes, dishes, dishes. Also, the recycling.

-Taking a break to drive to a friend's house, disassemble a playhouse in their backyard, strap it in, out, around and through our car, drive it back to our place, reassemble the awfully heavy and realistic house...and then spend a copious amount of time in said structure with your toddler. And lots of chalk.

None of these things include the little activities you do daily, like the cat litter (which I haven't done in years, despite not being pregnant for "years"), Nora's nightly routines, or making sure that I nevereverever run out of almond milk.

You are swell. Let's not abandon our wives five mere weeks before she has yet another of your clone-like offspring, okay? But I understand if you need some downtime.

I hear there's a super sweet little house in the backyard these days. What say I toss a beer through the shutters, yeah?

You've earned it.

This Is How I Nest.

Mama, please stop being a Nut.

Just shy of six weeks until this kiddo makes his or her Monkey debut. Sounds like a ton of time, right? Sure, if you're a sane being.

Which- in all fairness- I must not have been to get pregnant so soon after my daughter's first birthday knowing full well that the end of this pregnancy would align with multiple heat waves. But that's nothin' compared to my recent jaunts from reality.

Last night, right before said daughter's bedtime, I implored my tolerant Peej to bring some gender-neutral newborn clothes out from the storage area over the stairs. While he was there, I inquired about the bassinet. (IT NEEDS TO AIR OUT, PEOPLE.) Also, the BundleMes and winter blankets. Because- sure- it may be really warm now...but what the heck will I do when the cold snap hits and I've got abdominal stitches? (Who's laughing now? Probably...all of you.)

And then once the clothing was safely accessible down in our laundry room, I gently requested that he move the tall dresser from the new baby's room up to Nora's room. And maybe- just maybe- he could move her dresser to the nursery?

There is logic to this, I swear. The new dresser is way bigger, and Nora has a killer [hand me down and gifted] wardrobe that cannot be confined to a regular ol' dresser. Besides, her closet is rather eh in terms of space...whereas the baby's room features a tricked-out closet into which we could place an easy chair. If we were so inclined. Probably wouldn't shock anyone at this point. (Least of all my husband.)

I would have left me years ago.

The level of cleaning going on in this house would lead one to believe that a visiting dignitary will be boarding with us this Fall- and not a squinty baby who will (if I'm lucky) be able to barely make out my features.

And I've been cooking with a vendetta. Last night I made my Tomato Thief of a daughter some garden Roma tomato gazpacho with sweet peppers...so that she'll always remember how much I loved her. Same with P.J.'s daily sandwiches (with included "love" note, thankyouverymuch- okay, sometimes they're just random observations, but I try to create them on something resembling a heart).

I'm not entirely sure where it is I think I'm going, but I've made sure that my family is well fed.

My photo albums are almost up to date. Because can you imagine the horror if I gave birth and no one at my house could easily locate the pictures from Thanksgiving '08? CAN YOU?

And just yesterday the fabulous Peej gave me a gift to actually help the nesting along- a Groupon for a closet makeover. That's right, the haphazard jobbie that I threw together whilst nesting for Nora can finally be put to rights; the plank of wood that I staple-gunned to the ceiling for a shelf, the one foot hanging bar propped up by a bookshelf and a dresser, the shoe rack nailed into the wall...it'll almost be like it never happened.

I am stupidly excited about this.

Because sometimes- to truly nest- you've gotta call in the pros.

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

The Only Thing To Fear Is A 20lb Baby.

Abandoned.

Pregnancy dreams are rotten.

For the past two nights, I've had some doozies. Now- granted- I've been having extraordinarily vivid dreams since I was a little kid (they used to be nightmares, but now that I've "grown up" and kinda had FEAR redefined...the dreams just seem harmlessly freaky in retrospect. Although the recurring one I've had about someone screaming at me in train tunnel- since I was four- still qualifies). But these are pretty nitro.

Two nights ago, I had what seemed like an eighteen hour-long dream wherein P.J. left me. Rather rudely. He passed me off to a friend, telling him what I liked and didn't like, habits, food preferences...and oh- how I was seven months pregnant. (Why the friend didn't know this seriously leads me to doubt the magnitude of their friendship.) And did I mention that this leaving took place in a hospital cafeteria? Not even a decent one, like at Prentice.

And why was he leaving me, you might ask? He needed to go study abroad, obviously. His theatre career needed...something...and he had to make a clean break. Sure. He explained this to me on our walk from the cafeteria to the Loews Cineplex where he forced me to sit in the front row and watch Scream 2. Firstly: I hate horror movies. He knows this. Secondly: Scream 2? Thirdly: That movie is not even showing anywhere right now. I have checked.

The next night's dream took place in the delivery room where I was undergoing a c-section. They were mighty casual about it, even letting me walk around during the surgery. (Medical advancements are CRAZY these days, people.) I even got to hold Nora. Which is less What A Treat these days and more Typical. Do I Have To Do Everything? Anyhow, had the kid. And this conversation went down: "Mrs. Schoeny, how big was Nora?" "Six pounds, fifteen ounces." "This one's a little bigger." "It would be hard not to be. How much bigger?" "He's twenty pounds."

That wouldn't have bothered me as much if not for the fact that they went on to tell me that they had nicked at least five major organs (and perhaps a few minor ones) and unless they gave me another spinal I'd probably bleed out. But since I was still holding Nora (typical!), I had already lost track of my son. Whom they had- obviously- placed on the ground. We found him crawling around and stuck under a chair, which I'm told is normal for toddler-sized newborns.

It was, however, pretty cool to have two same-sized children, even if one was a full two years older.

And yeah, it's pretty obvious what these pregnancy dreams say about my fears: my movie-going taste is deemed inadequate by my husband and I would ignore a fat child.

Obviously.

It might be time to curtail the late-night snackin'.

But I think we all know I'm not one for rash decisions like that.

And no baby classes this time, either!

A good friend of ours (and neighbor! Like real people who have neighbor friends!) recently lent me his copies of Brain Age 2 and The Curious Village for the Nintendo DS. This is timely. As someone who cannot for a day lapse on the staving off o' dementia, not to mention the much-debated Preggo Brain ('cause as much as I hate to rely on hormonal excuses, I showed up for work last month sans diapers and/or milk. For a  ten hour day!), I need all the help I can get.

Also, I recently remembered that I possessed a Nintendo DS. My friend Nat gave it to me back in the day (pre marriage/pre baby/pre homestead/post brunch- sigh) and I had hidden it in a fit of traumatic guilt after I had accidentally starved my Nintendog to death. (Maybe they should TELL you that, even though the game is powered off, the dog is still requiring food and rolling about in his own filth!)

I'm sorry, Nat. I didn't want you to find out this way.

So, yes. Brain teasers.

Apparently I have the Brain Age of an 82 year old. (This is the truest thing I've ever typed- it literally came up as "Uh...82. The ideal Brain Age is 20!" Yeah? So is body type, but you don't see me fretting that one.)

And sure, maybe the perfect time to try out new software/test the ol' brain is NOT at 10:30pm, in jammies, under the covers, pretending that one's husband is pretending to not drool on one's shoulder. (See, kids? The awesome does not have to fully stop after your childless twenties! Just most of it!)

I promise to give it another go. I'm clearly a work in progress as, just this morning while emptying the dishwasher, I put my full coffee mug away in the cabinet.

And I realize that I haven't posted about this pregnancy as much as I had with Nora, formerly known as The Bitsy. And yes, I also realize that it would be impossible to fill as many self-absorbed tomes as I did with my first pregnancy ("No one else has ever had an ultrasound like this"/"Turns out heartburn is REAL"/I've decided to go BPA-free...and I'm the first one, ever").

But seriously, what do we really know about this kid, other than his/her birthdate (October 4th), penchant for cured/processed meats (liverwurst and microwaved salami- breakfast of champions), and facial features (just like Nora's and P.J.'s- shocking)?

Okay, not much.

But the stuff I know I really like. I have less fear this time. (Which is an absolutely asinine thing to say- anyone who's ever even been around a kid knows that you should never lose your terror, ever.) However, the things that used to send me for the baby manual, nurse's hotline, and sister's cell in the middle of the night (sorry, Kate), doesn't freak me out so much anymore.

Crippling nausea? Take a box of Triscuits to bed. (It also discourages any pesky cuddle time.)

Peeing every hour on the hour? Nope- not bladder cancer. Just regular ol' pee. Sometimes there's nothing even there! (Oh, HAH.)

Kid kicking way too much at 3am? No, she/he's not trying to tell me that something is horribly wrong with the umbilical cord (I was a mess, this I realize). It's just the kid's way of saying hullo, thanks for the soft tacos.

Perhaps this knowledge combined with the fact that we are not rebuilding a foreclosure in the 7th month this pregnancy also helps with my feelings of well-being. I'm not [too] garishly huge [yet], my cravings are still whimsical, and this new kid already has multiple places in which to sleep once he or she makes a grand arrival.

I like The Monkey a lot.

So does Nora, but she fully believes that her sibling is already here, in the form of my swelling tummy. That's right, she kisses "the baby" and pats him/her, and believes that is that is that. Sibling rivalry NOTHING. Having a baby is easy when it makes no sound and requires no additional attention from her parents. Mainly Dad. Which is good. Status quo is awesome.

I don't foresee any major obstacles, do you?

No change needed, here!

Strangely, True Blood did not play into the dream AT ALL.

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

However, we no longer have 8,000 glasses, cups, and mugs in/on the sink/ dishwasher/ countertops. (Flynn girls pride themselves on hydration.)

No one is making me laugh like a loon by announcing "Hey, brotherrr" (a la Arrested Development) every time someone enters the room.

But then again, no is giving me palpitations by making me wonder what train stop they're taking home/if the alarm is properly set/did someone grab an umbrella for the flash monsoon? (This must be what it's like to have kids...in their mid twenties.)

Seriously, in the past...couple...of years, I've totally forgotten what it's like to stay out past 9:30pm. I mean, I did it. There was a time when 6am was considered time for bed and not a toddler's brekkie. After all, Peej and I spent the formative months of our friendship in a late night show that ended at 1am. So obviously we had to get a drink around 1:30 or 2am. And you couldn't leave before the Tamale Guy showed up. (See? The Mexican food's not just a pregnancy thing.)

But these days, it's just another planet which I no longer orbit. Perhaps in a different solar system.

When Dan and Em suggested going to see an improv show at midnight, I actually laughed. But, as it turns out, these things still happen. (Go to bed, people!) On Friday night, after the four of us watched The Soup- which, uh, is the Schoeny late night event...at 9- they left for the 10:30pm I.O. show and stayed for the midnight one as well. By 10:30 in my house, we had watched the last forty minutes of Good Will Hunting, half an episode of House Hunters International (in Italy!), and fallen fast asleep...where we would remain until midnight. Then we groggily dragged ourselves upstairs to bed and remained there until the smallest and loudest of us needed bacon at 6:30am.

That said, we had a lovely, quiet morning (except for one impromptu mix CD dance party)- and even that wasn't until 10am. (Sorry, Em and Dan, who didn't wake until 11am. Hope you liked the ceiling music.)

I'm pretty sure I just sent a dozen people running to refill their birth control prescriptions. But- and here's the kicker- P.J. and I were early-fall-asleep-on-the-couchers way before we were even married. Homeboditude (read: lameness) knows no age. But the age thing doesn't exactly help.

Speaking of baby-related perks, I've been having more than my fair share of hormone dreams lately. These are a joy (for P.J.) and I can't tell which my tolerant husband least prefers:

A) The dream in which I have an epic relationship with someone whom I've not-so-quietly crushed on for the past few years. Most recently, Alexander Skarsgard of True Blood fame. I like him a lot. Now, these dreams aren't the kind where you wake up and wonder if you should mention anything to your faithful and devoted husband. Nope, these are the five hour sagas wherein a love affair begins, comes to fruition with a full blown Ikea jaunt, has each and every step along the way (even the Saturday Afternoon Listening to Vinyl On the Couch, Wondering Who's Gonna Make the Hamburger Helper phase) and its eventual breakup. All of these in EXTRAORDINARY detail. By the time I woke up from this dream the other morning, there was no question about whether or not to tell Peej. I was downright mournful (of my painful breakup with Alex) and contrite (about living with another man while carrying the first's child).

P.J. really didn't want to hear about that one. But he may actually savor those mornings over the ones where the other option has occurred-

B) P.J. is a jerk. A real meanie. For example, the other night, Dream P.J. was getting high in bathrooms with girls that looked like young Heather Grahams and Did. Not. Care. that this made me unhappy. Later in the dream, he changed religions to one where he could no longer be in the same room with me. (I have no idea why this was stipulated, it just was.) He also told me that I was stupid. (Because my worst dreams involve second grade insults.) This was also a really lengthy dream, so Peej got the pleasure of awaking to me glaring at him. I seriously had a good mad on for my first hour of the day. Which, admittedly, is not fair. But come on, Heather Graham?

I never said I was easy to cohabitate with. (In fact, I may have even suggested the opposite.)

None of these things (complete 180 of schedules/nighttime habits/things you couldn't possibly know for which to apologize in advance) are included in marriage vows. Part of me thinks that this should be amended.

The other part wants to gleefully wait and watch people find out for themselves.

Says the girl who has been married for three years...and has people watching her to "just wait."

In a nutshell, I'm a lame-o, I watch fabulous television, babies make you get up early, we consume a lot of bacon, pregnancy is crazy, illicit dreams are an excusable sin, and I have unfair rules and standards.

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

Monkey in the middle...of my bladder.

An Open Letter To My As-Yet Unborn Baby...

(Whom My Mother Thinks We've Found Out The Gender Of...)

(But No, We're Still Waiting To Be Surprised...)

(Even Though I Kinda Think You're A Little Girl...)

(But Look How Accurate My Psychic Prowess Turned Out During The Last Pregnancy...)

(When We Had Your Sister- A Girl. And Not A Boy.)

(I Really Hafta Learn To Condense Before I'm In Charge Of Your Baby Book.)

Hi, little baby. You're 13 ounces humongo now. I do not have hopes that you will be some sort of giant or giantess, as your Dad is of average height (note: never refer to a guy as "short," even if you know a lot of tall people. Not if you really like him, anyway) and I'm just happy to have cleared Nana Alice's lofty 4'11". As for your sister, she's the original Thumbelina.

We had your 20 week appointment today and you did great! We're going back next week for an actual profile shot and some back measurements, but I don't really mind. And sure, you rebelled at the prodding and poking and stress (I did too, but less obviously) by covering your face with your hands. I know this move. I invented this move. We will be friends.

Okay, turn your head to the side. Pretend the thing in the middle
is someone kissing a photocopier. Lips and nose. Crazy, right?

Right now you're breech- but you know what? Your sis was, too. And we think she's just the coolest. And I totally get why we could only get an eyeful of one foot at a time. Stretching is important. So are Pilates. The Flying Wallenda thing you've been doing during the day could use a breather, but I'm not a stifler. Be free! Kick my spleen...but only if it makes you Happy. And if the spleen Treats You Well. (The Money Will Come.)

I want to apologize for the crazy amount of heat we ingested two nights ago. Your Dad and I were celebrating with insanely good Thai food- and I guess I got a little carried away, what with the superpower you've given me of being immune to chilies. (Usually after curry I look like a bad Botox patient with emphysema. (You don't know what either of those are. May you never.) Regardless, I was tempted, it was delicious, and you showed your displeasure with Swiss timepiece-like precision throughout the wee hours of the morning. Point to you, shorty. The bladder action was particularly devious...although that could have easily been on me, what with the pitcher of water I consumed between each of the seven courses. 

Speaking of food, do you like liverwurst or do you just like making me eat amounts of it for which even a puppy would feel shame? Either way, we're not slowing. And the shame has yet to come.

The best shadow puppet bird I have EVER seen.

A note- that voice that you hear at night? The one that gets way up close to where [we guess] your head is and sings/speaks soothingly/snores? That's your Dad. He loves you. And you, for your part, already have his mouth. Surprise, surprise. Though, if I had to wager, you've also already got my temper. Speaking of your sister, she's the one with the bossy sentences and emphatic labeling tendencies. Her voice is much higher pitched and also much louder- but that last part is because of her constant proximity to your face. [We guess.] She loves you, too, and tells you this constantly through my bellybutton...but at this point, she actually believes that you are the bellybutton. So we'll gently ease her into this new role, shall we? For now, I hope you like the stickers and murmured choruses of "rockabee."

Sleep well tonight, Monkey. I promise to quit rolling around so much...if you do, too.

Kicky Joe.

I love you more than all of the liverwurst and pickles in the world (and other stuff that non-crazy people like as well) and can't wait to kiss your button nose.

If you'll ever let me see it.

And Another Thing...

Spinning some Slayer.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day.

And I am not playing any tricks, nor am I currently accepting applications for tricks to be played upon me. In fact, heads will roll. Real ones. (Not pretend, April-Foolery ones.)

Last year I convinced my family that, while caring for a five month-old, I was ecstatic to announce a new pregnancy. (Ha HAH!) And, if you'll recall, my sister Em- having not the TIME to read down to the bottom of the email- believed this to be the case for a good week.

But somehow, it's just not quite so chuckly anymore. No fake announcements. No ice cubes in shoes. No spiders, dead or otherwise, anywhere in the vicinity of my face or anywhere my face may be tomorrow.

Have you ever seen a [me] pregnant woman cry? Imagine Ugly Cry times Frightened Cry times Frustration Cry times a thousand. And toss in some extra hormones and a few more pounds. Minus a little sleep and anything that could pass for a normal level of internal balance.

You've been warned.

Now, onto The News.

Have you heard the newest Britney Spears song? It. Is. Awful. And not just because I'm *cough30cough* getting a little older, and not even because she has never (ever) been my type of jam. (Mmm, jam.)

It was "penned" by the train-wreckiest gal of them all, Ke$ha.

Give it a li'l listen.

Here's my biggest problem with it: Britney's people spent a good decade trying to convince the world that she's Not A Girl (Not Yet A Woman,) Not So Innocent, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Now it's all like- Hey, I'm a seven year-old girl. Let's modulate my voice into an even younger sound! While we're at it, let's toss in some vaguely threatening sexual lyrics aimed at, to the best of my knowledge, the DJ. (And not to be super judgey, but did we really need another song about a DJ not understanding your need to get out on the floor and, you know, dance like you've been needing to do all day? I'm pretty sure the DJ gets paid hourly. He WILL spin some tunes.)

From the lack of crazy tabloid exposure, I'm gonna assume that Ms. Spears has it together with her kids (no more soda in baby bottles, etc.,) and is by all accounts A Woman. Would it kill her to sound like a grownup, musically?

Granted, my standards are pretty high. My favorite female singer of all time is Etta James (and a close second is my sister, Rachel.) I was a little kid during the height of arena rock, but I learned pretty quickly that Lita Ford was no one's little girl. And the only reason Joan Jett wanted a certain song to play was because she was gonna seduce the heck out of seventeen year-old boy leaning against a jukebox. And Pat Benatar? She could've transitioned from "We Belong" to an "Aida" aria without blinking. (In fact, you EXPECTED her to.)

Okay, no more soapbox. I'll stop waving my cane at the youngsters.

Nora wants to go hear some Tori Amos, anyhow.

Nora gets on her wee little soapbox.

The wha-?

Okay, we all have an announcement to make over here- there's gonna be another little[r] Schoeny. We're having a baby! In early October, as a matter of fact. (And considering that I'm the only member of this family without a birthday in the month of October, I'm either really special or just a specific type of carrier. Because- without getting too detailed- this was not the planned month. Guess we weren't in charge of this one.)

But I gotta say, on this luckiest of days- I'm acknowledging that I certainly have luck. And also that "luck" can look a goodly bit like food poisoning.

I'm already ten plus weeks in- and had intended to keep it hush for at least another week- but as people are already approaching me on the street with congrats(!) and questions, it was time to 'fess up.

Here's what you've missed.

I've been really, really sick. So I wouldn't exactly say you've "missed" much.

The "morning" sickness began at around four and a half weeks. (My- that's early, I can hear some of you saying. Yup!) I was actually pretty jubilant about it at first. The nurses who took my blood at the first appointment asked if I was having any symptoms. Tons- I told them. But it's great! Because that means it's working! They exchanged a look and wished me well.

I actually lost a few pounds, which, at any other time in my feminine career would have been awesome- but is generally frowned upon when one is attempting to sustain an actual life. Two, really. I suppose I need food for me, too. (But if I remember anything at all about the second trimester besides crying about missing beds and wedged couches in hallways...it's that I'm a pretty good weight-gainer when I wanna be. And I hear my Mexican neighborhood makes a pretty decent taco.)

I had been subsiding on grapefruits, cantaloupes, Triscuits, and lemonade. And that is all. (No scurvy here!) Thanks to two stellar shipments of citrus from my aunt's Arizona lemon and grapefruit trees, my diet needed never change.

Whatever. I'm so utterly stoked about this kid.

And not to worry. This week I've seemed to have turned a culinary corner. It began with a late night confession to Peej that cheese popcorn might be a good idea. Like Smartfood, he wondered? No- less real. More orange. He offered to melt some cheese on top of popcorn, a suggestion that sent me careening to the loo.

Shortly thereafter, a bag of orange popcorn appeared. And it was good.

This paved the way for the truly bizarre suggestion that maybe I wanted liverwurst and mustard. (No you don't, said P.J. You will throw up.) He offered to run out to Jewel and get me some. I demurred, because I didn't want to be a bother. Also, I feared throwing up.

The next morning, during our regularly scheduled grocery run, I begged P.J. to pick up some liverwurst. He did, and eyed me warily as I ATE THREE SANDWICHES. And you know what? It was terrific.

Since then, I've had no less than one liverwurst sandwich a day. Sometimes more. Most recently, I ate it directly from the package with a knife. I feel [like I should have more] shame. Liverwurst, you're my liverbest.

Also, did you know that liverwurst has forty percent of your daily iron?

We've gleefully been re-reading our favorite pregnancy books. Not the stupid ones that tell you how to play with your kid or how many ways your child might die, but superbly cool illustrated play by plays of what the baby looks like each week. And what they're rather busy with at the moment. (Week 10- fingernails and spinal nerves. Keep going, kiddo!!)

My nanny kiddos are stoked beyond belief at the addition of a new ready-made pal. Lily has begun a campaign to name the baby either a) Nora or b) Lillian. This is regardless of whether or not it's a girl.

And I'm pretty sure Nora will be thrilled, once she realizes why Mommy's belly is getting mammoth and the deal with all of these floppy-headed floor naps. Any time she sees a baby- actual or in a picture- she joyfully screams at the top of her lungs: BABY! That, and her penchant for body-slamming her dolls to the floor (with LOVE), clearly shows some stellar Big Sister potential.

Trust me, I should know.

January must be Customer Service Month.

It was a good, albeit frigid, weekend here. We actually saw more people than we do for some combined weeks.

We went with one pal to an awesome creperie up the street from here- I highly recommend it. Nora also gave it two miniature thumbs way up- but they're covered in cheese, so I wouldn't shake her hand or anything. There was a bit of a language barrier, so my Moroccan chai latte actually came as a fresh mint infusion- but happily, I'm a superbly easygoing diner. Also- he must have known that I actually needed mint more than all that sugar.

Our neighbor friends invited us over for dinner- again! (Okay, for any newcomers: we have one set of friendly neighbors that a) are sober, b) speak some semblance of English- heck, I'd take sober Spanish at this point, and c) have repeatedly made plans with us. This is great. What's even better is that, beyond those three stellar qualifications, they're actually superbly cool people who have an adorable one year old. That's right- they even come with a friend for our kid. And sure, Nora and Emily spent the better part of the evening shrieking directly into each others' faces...but I think that toddlers have a really intricate and evolved way of communicating. Besides- they made TACOS for dinner!

Another good friend came over for sugary treats a la El Trigal Bakery- the place where I get a a tote bag full of pastries and cookies for under five bucks total- and gabbed about her currently preggo form. Attention friends: a really cool way to be in my heart forever? Walk in the door and announce- Keely, you were right. Pregnancy is work! (Now, I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, nor do I want to take credit for others' hardships...but every now and again it's nice to be reminded how much of a hypochondriac I am not.)

Here's what else made this weekend deserving of a super silver star: I went shopping. Alone. For fun. Sure, it was at the Marshall's at Harlem and Irving (read: not "fancy" or "clean"), but boy oh boy, do they have clothing for grownups that aren't necessarily hoodies and sweatpants! Although they have those, too! In fact, I specifically went out for items that were cheap, pretty, and "grownup." (Is the fact that it's in quotes give away how novel that type of clothing might be?)

I filled a cart with sweater dresses, ruffled tops, skinny jeans (hahahahahahaha), and soft wrappy-type things that should not be anywhere within the vicinity of a child's hands. Even though I intended to only buy four items, I wanted to make sure I tried on everything in the Misses, Petite and Juniors section. (Shush.) When I went to try them on, though, I encountered a problem in the form of a really elderly, really non-English-speaking woman. (Seriously, I don't even know what language she spoke. She was THAT old.) She was, however, perfectly clear about the Ten Items Or Less rule. It was even written on the tag. No worries, I'd just take ten items and move the cart to- nope. That angry finger didn't want me to leave the cart anywhere near the changing room. Certainly not by the entrance. We compromised by having me shove it behind a rack of shoes, one store section away.

Now I couldn't enjoy the art of shoving myself into questionable clothing- complete with nerve-destroying staticky hair- because I kept thinking about the THIEVES who were at that very moment STEALING CLOTHING FROM MY CART.

The next problem came when two of the items actually fit me in the first round. Uh oh. Now I had only eight items that I could take in for the next bunch. Because, as the lady sorta babbled at me, I couldn't have more than ten. And they wouldn't watch my cart. (Basically, her job was to stand there and irately fling tags at people. And yell 'no.' Nora would rock that job.) Unfortunately, a couple of other items fit me as well- and though I couldn't afford to buy everything that fit, I wanted the good stuff on hand for the Lightning Round. So the next handful only contained six items. And so on. Eventually I was taking pieces in one at a time, getting fully dressed and putting my boots and coats back on, because NO PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN STALL.

I finally approached the woman in a Not Very Polite way, one boot half on, my hair standing up to the fluorescent lights and pointed at an empty rack. "I am putting my clothing here. I am buying them." (I lied.) "All?" "Yup." (Nope.) "And I am taking these items from my cart into the stall. I am trying all of them on, all in the same go-round." "Only ten." "I KNOW."

Tried them on, feeling pret-ty proud of my ability to stand up for myself after half an hour of abuse. That is, until, I came out of the changing room to find multiple girls taking items from the clothing rack! Again, channeling my daughter, I pleasantly grabbed the items from their arms with a big 'ol smile.

And I bought six. (Which, as P.J. pointed out, is totally fine for my once a year shopping trip.)

We rounded out the weekend by having a decidedly grownup date night after N.J. went to bed. We made Manhattans- extra cherry juice, thankyouverymuch- and put on a DVD of 'Double Wedding,' a glorious old movie with Myrna Loy and William Powell. We loved it so much that we...

...conked out and drooled on each others' sweats before the opening credits finished.

Happy Monday, grownups.

Y2k10! That seems more like a 'captcha' than a 'year.'

In honor of the impending new year- and in consideration of the wee babe in an aquarium bouncer by my knee- I shall jam out a brief review of the year that was '09:

January- We failed to buy a house. This was sad. I began taking Pilates lessons to combat the "extra ten pounds"- ha HA. (I would KILL for an extra ten pounds right now. Well, not exactly. Rather, I'd kill to only have ten pounds to lose. If I had to lose the baby weight on top of an extra ten pounds, I might actually kill someone BECAUSE of it. Maybe we should forget the ten pounds altogether.)

February- I became pregnant! Although, since I didn't find out until it was almost MARCH, maybe we should place this sentence in next month's blurb. (This could explain why it was really, really difficult to lose the aforementioned never-to-be-mentioned again ten pounds.) Traveled to Boston for my nephew Cole's first birthday and came back to a week where the temp surged to 70 degrees, only to be immediately followed by -30. Thanks, Chi.

March- Realized I was pregnant. Had fun with that for awhile. Immediately changed plans from "Napa trip" to "San Francisco trip." (Less vineyard-pressure.) Threw the annual St. Patrick's Day Party O' Corned Beeves. Also may have let slip the fact that I was pregnant to fifteen of my closest friends. Here's a fun way to see if you've got a "social drinking" problem: if you fail to pour yourself a drink at your own party and people ask you every ten minutes WHY you're not drinking, you may have a social drinking problem.

April- Spent a goodly bit of this month gripping the couch, housing Italian ice, lemonade, tacos and onions, marathoning Law & Order and Harper's Island. But the beginning of the month? Oh my- I hugged Scott Bakula. Hi-fived Donald Bellisario. Won an international novella competition. Rode a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and almost yuked over the side of the Alcatraz ferry. Best month of '09 (so far.)

May- Jaunted back to Massachusetts for a weekend of pretending I attended Harvard/Williams with Rachel/Emily (and Kate- woo, college!) Nothing like pretending to be an undergrad with two little dudes in tow and one obviously preggo twenty-something. Then, upon my return, P.J. and I purchased a house that may or may not have been haunted. Also celebrated our first anniversary! And they thought we'd never make it...(Who's been saying that?! Stop it.)

June- Turns out, it wasn't haunted. Just falling apart. But once we made the decision to replace the boiler, water heater, roof, appliances, light fixtures and five of the windows, WE WERE REALLY IN BUSINESS. Also, this was my birthday month. And the month where we saw the 20-week ultrasound of OUR CHILD kicking, flipping and opening a terribly wide mouth. We also went to Myrtle Beach with P.J.'s family, where I had the distinct pleasure of scaring a group of hoodlum teens into permanent celibacy. (What the heck was I thinking? A red-checkered tankini, while sweetly "country" on a toddler, looks positively "picnic table" on a pregnant adult.)

July- Bought a car! Signed the papers on the house! Had my parents come for a week to fix...everything...in the new house. Moved into the house with the help of Peej's dad. Realized that the new master bedroom had neither mastery nor a bed. (Or a window that would allow "air" to "circulate.") Cried.

August- Had a superbly fun baby shower in Pittsfield, MA, thrown by my Mom & sibs. Enjoyed floating in the pool like a beached whale and eating about thirty of my favorite dishes that my Mom kept placing in front of me. Back in Chi, built a bed in the sweltering heat of my "master" bedroom. Later that night went to the premiere of my one-act at 20% Theatre's 'Snapshots' Festival. (Yes, I HAVE been writing, thankyouverymuch. Practically every month at Chicago Dramatist's Instant Theatre, where I am allowed the exquisite joy of being the most pregnant woman in the room and thusly the recipient of the most "pity clapping." I care not.) Also, this was the month where a man FINALLY came and removed our wedged sectional sofa from the stairwell. With a saw! It took its rightful place in the living room, freeing up the stairwell for such important tasks as "allowing passage up the stairs."

September- Had a terrific Chicago baby shower, thrown by my Mom-in-law and attended by my Midwestern besties, my Mom and my big sis. Less awesomely, sat through four of the scariest childbirth classes known to [wo]man, due in no small part to the extremely graphic videos depicting the majesty of labor and delivery. And the entirely unnecessary bit on c-sections? NO, THANK YOU.

October- Had a c-section. Turned out to be a small price to pay to get to KEEP this glorious little gal, Nora Jane Schoeny. The wily, wedged-one was born in the same month as her Daddy (two days apart!), which will forever go down in history as the Best. Month. Of. My. Life.

November- Began considering this month for nomination as Best Month as well. Took more naps and watched more episodes of "The Office" than ever before. Kissed my child perhaps too much. Enjoyed visits from my folks, Peej's folks, my big sis, and a slew of fabulous friends bearing meals, Starbucks, books & toys. (And some were for Nora.) Attended a reading of one of my plays, produced by 20% Theatre...and gave the least intelligible "talk back" afterwards. My mind was NOT on star-crossed lovers and bantery humor, but instead on a pint-sized ball of grins and snuggles that I left at home with her Dad, LESS THAN A MILE AWAY. (So what if I cried? It's the hormones. I will rock this excuse until her wedding.) Held a real Thanksgiving. Cooked a turkey. Panicked. Succeeded in not burning the house down nor tweaking out my child. Subsequently amended my standards of "success."

December- Prided myself on successful car trips and flights with my infant, not to mention exceptional visits with both sides of the fam for Christmas gloriousness. Ate more than was wise, slept more than was expected. P.J. and I enjoyed the heck out of our first holiday season in Chicago with the gal (who are we kidding? We enjoy EVERYTHING with her now.) And to all the folks who paraded the pre-baby "enjoy it now" mantra around like a...parade, I can honestly say that I don't remember having this much fun when I was left to my own singular devices. (Except for maybe that one time. But this is a family blog.)

And to the year that brought me a successful first year of marriage, house, trips around the country, car, kiddo and a few writing acknowledgements- thanks.

Hopefully 2010 will bring glorious things as well: an end to that SMELL in the downstairs pipes? A cease-and-desist for the neighbors- the puking on the stoop one with the slight drinking problem and/or the seventeen-year old autistic dude who is simply IN LOVE with Peej? A bit o' cash for the writing ventures?

Dream big.

(Happy New Year!)

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

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.

Just like a feral cat!

Firstly, let me terrify everyone who may be having a child within the next nine months...

Have you read about the woman who got pregnant WHILST pregnant?
http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/
For serious, this is a bit much. One woman, pregnant- twice- within three weeks. PUT HER HUSBAND IN ANOTHER ROOM, PLEASE! No matter how "rare" the doctors say this may be, *one* case within earshot of my pregnancy is entirely one too many. Pretty much the only perk of the first trimester is that this should NOT happen. (Granted, if you were anything like me, you spent the first three months sobbing into your Italian ice and throwing shoes at anyone who happened to walk into the living room, especially if he was the one who did this awful thing to you. This was before I was deeply in love with my bundle o' joy, let the record show.) But seriously, this is how the mother of my cats was impregnated, and Bean and Ender (though dearly beloved) are kinda nuts! I wonder if one of the babies this lady is bearing will be a tabby. I guess only if the father is a carrier.

Also, terribly, my first thought upon seeing this clip was how huge the woman looked. Which is awful. Because I've pretty much based a blog around the fact that people are so mean (i.e. careless in speech) to pregnant woman and how obese my doctor feels that I am. (However, this woman was wiiiiiide. Maybe she's carrying an ocelot.)

And now, sadly, it's my duty to announce the end of Great Expectations. Yep, we graduated. I have no idea what to write about anymore, frankly, since this class inspired a War and Peace-type of prolificacy in me and I have a few weeks of gestation yet to go. Last night was POSTPARTUM ISSUES NIGHT (the night least like Taco Night of them all, I think.)

Apparently, we have to take the baby home eventually. And some women have ISSUES. Like exhaustion, pain, worries and depression. (Aw, junk, that's how I feel NOW!) Plus, we'll have the added joy of the imminent Chicago winter. (Who DID this to me?!) And did you know that TERRIBLE THINGS can happen to the baby at ANY time? Basically, the safest thing you can do for your child is to place him or her (on their back, obvie,) in a barren crib, after ONLY feeding from one's breast (preferably the mother's), with three industrial-strength fans overhead (for circulating air), completely naked.

And these are the mothers who care too much! Sounds like a healthy dose of neglect would be comfier.

After a circumcision slideshow (which I DEFINITELY do not need to be able to perform, COME ON), and watching all of the terrible things they're required to do BY LAW to my child (Steroid eyedrops! Vitamin K needles the length and width of Guam!), a "goody bag" of postpartum necessities was passed around the room, one to a person, to ready ourselves for the next discussion. However, as I was busy texting my mother (Hi Mom!), down the street at the Apple store while we Lamazed, I was understandably confused when I was handed a gigantic sanitary pad.

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

P.J. gave me a look and I shrugged at him, as if to say, "You wanted a certificate or a medal?" I even put it in my bag. Later, when the nurse mentioned each item and the student held it up for discussion, I understood and sheepishly got it out of my bag to show the class. Sure makes a lot more sense why some guy was holding a bottle of stool softener.

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

But that's it. We are now child-havin' experts. Which is good, because according to the way people have been treating me, it could happen at ANY MINUTE. Which would NOT be good, as P.J. is out of town tonight and tomorrow for a super-secret mission on the East coast. (Plus, he desperately wants a Scorpio baby, ever since we received a super cute onesie proclaiming "Scorpio." A Virgo would not cut the mustard. Or spread it, for that matter. Who gets hard mustard?)

Plus, word on the street is that I'm getting showered with baby this weekend, so it would be nice to actually participate in THAT (as opposed to active labor)...and finally, I can't have the baby before the end of OCTOBER DATE MONTH. Yep, we're slowing home renovations (we are so nowhere close to done, but whatever) so that in the month of October we can a) make dinner, b) watch movies, c) go outside and d) sleep entire weekends away. (I think that 24-year old and 29-year old Keely would each be appalled at the other's idea of a swell date.)

We're done with travels (for now), finished enjoying the heck out of friends' and families' weddings for the year, no more baby showers in far-flung locales such as Cincinnati (although Dorrie's recent one at the Country Club was posh and superbly catered- I think I had twelve pieces of hors d' vours that may or may not have been potatoes- and I don't even like potatoes) and I'm wiiiiinding down the days of nannying. Before nannying again. With a baby. (As I was explaining to various people who say "Oh how easy for you! Taking the baby to work!", yep, it'll sure be lovely, but kinda hard. I mean, I'm not a forklift operator, but it'll still be two full-time jobs AT THE SAME TIME.)

But after eight weeks of "resting" with the baby, I'm sure I'll be ready for anything. Even finishing the two plays that were due August 1st. Or rediscovering where I left my bottom ribs. (Maybe under the last two banana-nut muffins.) Do not judge. At least I am carrying one, non-catlike baby from a one, non-alley cat father.

And at least I still have my delicately turned, non-swole ankles.

It's the little things.

Kinda like Buy One Get One Free...

...of a really bizarre infomercial product...

...for which you ended up paying a ton of shipping anyhow!

Week 33. TWO classes this week, folks. That's right. Double your awesome info. Starting with Tuesday...a.k.a. INFANT AND CHILD CPR AND FIRST AID NIGHT. Now, I've been a nanny for seven years and know (roughly) how to keep a kid alive. But a refresher course is a refresher course, especially considering a lot of this "practical" knowledge will fly straight out of my ears the first 4am I get to deal with a hacking cough during cold n' flu season. Plus, I'm pretty sure P.J. hasn't studied this stuff since the early Clinton years.

SO. We started out tilting the head and breathing into the nostrils and mouth (just like a puppy!) of our black plastic infant...who possessed a twisted air pipe. HE WAS LIKE THAT WHEN WE GOT HIM. After some minor tweaking by the instructor, I proved I could breathe (and look and listen) with the best of 'em. And then we got to follow along with the video! Oh, the video. The narrator of each scenario looked like a cross between Olivia Newton John and Jane Seymour...if either of them had ever been grinning coke addicts. Boy, was she eager to tell you the terrible things that could happen AT ANY TIME! For example, your baby, apropos of nothing, could JUST STOP BREATHING. Or your dad, at a family picnic, could fall down in the backyard. Imagine that you were playing Nintendo with a buddy, chowing on some pizza. YOU COULD CHOKE. (The worst part is that they never went back to the "acted-out" scenarios after the instructional parts - we were left to assume that all of these folks died from ineptitude.)

And, oh, the instructional parts. Multiple people, dressed in the same grey breakaway track pants and baggy red tee shirts (you need to be ready to bend and squat at any time, apparently. The business of saving lives won't wait until you change out of your three piece suit, no sir.) These folks all stood, one at a time, in front of a sheet draped over a wall (the technical quality of these portions were phenomenal) and acted out imaginary scenarios...to no one in particular. One Asian gal had absolutely no intonation or vocal affect ("Hey...you. Are you choking? Someone. Call. 9.1.1.) On the other hand, a Black lady with 'tude for miles and half of her track pants open at one side (I am not even kidding) told an imaginary passerby to call 911 with such force that I almost reached for my cell. Now THAT is who you want saving your life.

Also helpful- you should only try to remove a food blockage from someone's mouth if it's right at the tip of their tongue (in the video, an M&M was picked up with two fingers from the mannequin's lips). Now, where I'm from, that's not called "choking" so much as "eating an M&M," but I'm no medical professional.

The best part of the video? When the narrator came back onscreen, proudly proclaiming that now we had "all the tools" to save lives...just like Gary.

Um, what? Who the hell is Gary? Did we miss his vignette? Was he the dad in the backyard?

There was no time to worry about such trivialities, because before I knew it, it was WEDNESDAY. That's right, Great Expectations, week three.

C-SECTION NIGHT!! (Yep, I thought we briefly covered that last week as well, but apparently not enough to be able to perform the surgery ourselves. I can think of no other practical reason to make me watch that nightmare-inducing procedure twice.) As P.J. later told me, they were clearly going for the 'this isn't so bad, right?' hard sell, but no matter how sunshiney and rosy they tried to make it seem, there was still a woman strapped onto a bed, arms out in the t-position, being rotated like a pig on a spit (for circulation, obviously), unable to move anything below her chin and telling the camera how nauseous she was. (Out of my way, kids, I'm first in line for THIS ride!) Also, the bit about mother/child bonding was sweet...insomuch as the nurse had to hold the newborn to his mother's cheek as she was incapable of doing anything other than wiggling her chin at him for an hour and a half.

Helpful tips: If you're feeling "anxious," (Good God, why on earth would that be?) ask your doctor to "explain each step of the procedure for you." Uh, if I'm having a panic attack about being strapped down and clothespinned open, perhaps telling me which layer you're dicing through won't have the calming effect you're expecting.

And the You Really Didn't Save Us From Witnessing the Graphic Awfulness Award goes to...the animated video showing how they clothespin you open and dice you up. In slightly more medical terms. That said, que sera, sera, right? If I get to experience a day like that, I can take solace in the fact that from shaving one's belly (Uh...?) to actual emergence of a child takes FIVE MINUTES. Perhaps we should slow down a little? That's freaky fast. Impressive, but maybe a bit too Get 'Er Done.

And, of course, I'd have P.J. there by my wiggling chin to, you know, poke me in the arm to let me feel his presence (an actual tip.)

With the A/V club portion over, we got to tour the facility (and pick up the slack. Okay, not really. We were actually probably in the way.) Turns out, these rooms are the reward for sitting through horrendous videos. It's like a day spa! Sure, a really crappy day spa wherein you leave a LOT less limber than when you entered, but still. Pretty. Floor to ceiling windows with views of downtown (do they have views of me? Ewww), wood paneling on the walls, a flat screen TV and Bose sound dock in each delivery room, plus none of that Oh My God I'm In An Operating Room lighting. I'd prefer to be backlit at all times, of course, but these options seem like a close second.

On our way out we passed a slightly shell-shocked woman in a wheelchair heading to Recovery, her dazed husband walking behind the nurse, clutching a duffel bag like his very life depended on it. Upon seeing all of us pregnant ladies, the nurse bent over and said softly, "Just think, yesterday that was YOU!"

I have no idea what sort of traumatic event THAT poor fool just went through, but God bless, right?

As I write this, my currently breech-positioned child seems to be kicking somewhere between my ribs and right side...certainly on the correct road towards a heads-down, can-do attitude, but most definitely in an area that CANNOT STRETCH ANY FURTHER. I am one lace-trimmed apron away from the knock 'em out ether, chloroform, whathaveyou method of labor from the 40s and 50s.

As long as I don't have to watch the video.

It's like a bee sting. From a truck-sized bee.

Week 32! Already four and a half pounds (the baby- I weight a biiiiiit more), blood pressure great for both mom n' kid, extremely active baby with a superb heart rate and...OH YES, the kid is standing straight up, a.k.a. breech, a.k.a., I'm gonna need that part of my lung and ribcage back. We had evidence of this acrobatic acumen with our latest ultrasound- our child, on its belly, ankles up to the forehead, hands pushing on its face. Impressive, uncomfortable and kickier than a donkey. Nice trifecta. The baby is currently in a position called 'frank breech' ("Frankly, your kid is breech.") This is no big deal medically, excepting the fact that if the Bitsy doesn't turn on its own (15% chance) my team of doctors will try to TURN THE BABY at 37 weeks (40% chance and um, ow) and if nothing happens, c-section at 39 weeks. The week of P.J.'s birthday and perhaps on the day of his lucky 27. I smell conspiracy. (And bacon. Who's cooking bacon at 1pm? Halfsies!)

I've gotten some pretty helpful advice for "turning the child" and some even includes doing it "naturally." An example of "natural?" Leaning an IRONING BOARD against a couch and propping myself upside down on it- something I couldn't have done even had I NOT been entering my 8th month of pregnancy, mind you- and letting the child decide that s/he doesn't care for that position any longer. What could be more natural? How about frozen peas on the head? (The baby's, not mine.) Perhaps clothespins attached to the outside of my pinky toes? Acupuncture, acupressure, prenatal massage, jiu jitsu (not really) and my personal favorite: getting in a pool (okie doke! Where is this magical pool?) and doing a HANDSTAND. Never mind the fact that I also cannot do a handstand, pregnant or not, in water or otherwise, and my balance is already atrocious. Do I want to flip this child or terrify it into submission? Why not just go on a roller coaster? Enter a chili pepper-eating contest? Make a funny paper hat and place it in a scrapbook? Bizarre suggestions all, but more importantly- holistic. (And thanks, Kat, for sending me a website solely for the reason you commented- "They used the word "foetal.") Now, I know that a c-section wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but...I've read Macbeth. I know how this kinda thing turns out. (Gettin' a little literary up in here, no?)

But more importantly- last night was week 2 of Great Expectations. Epidural Night! (I asked people if it was anything like Taco Night- which I LOVE- and all I got for my trouble was a resounding "Ah, no.") And that's fine. Because it wasn't.

It was BETTER!

We began with a ten second clip from the movie 'Nine months" with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore, in which Grant takes Moore to the hospital to have her baby. ("My water broke!" "Well, we'll get you another one!") Hijinks ensued, Robin Williams, M.D., produced an epidural needle the size of a small pachyderm and Julianne Moore's wheelchair got pushed down the hall and into an open elevator.

"That's how NOT to go into labor," our instructing R.N. told us.

I am not even joking.

We then saw a video with proper birthing positions (upright, seated, side-lying) to alleviate different kinds of labor pains. And the headbands! Ooh boy, last week's headbands had NOTHING on the bespangled creations this week, the kind that said "Out of my way, hair (and husbands), I GOT THIS ONE." And then there was a third video- obviously staged, as the best scene came when a 'laboring mom' huffed and screamed and sweated for a good while, looked up demurely and said "I think I'd like an epidural," and then when the attending physician came by, asked "Will it hurt?" Well, no more than the water buffalo you were apparently trying to dislodge! And then P.J.'s favorite part; after the placement of the epidural, the doctor and patient smiled at each other, the doctor signed off on a chart, left the room, LOOKED UP AT THE CAMERA and, still smiling, assured us "She'll be fine." Please continue to walk us through this hard-hitting slice of reality television! Is this Sesame Street? Can we now see a llama getting its teeth cleaned?

And lest you think that the husbands were not represented as well this week- oh no- we had a guy whose mustache would put Magnum, P.I.'s to shame who continuously pushed his wife's bangs out of her face (for she did not have a headband) and muttered like Rain Man "You're doing good. You're doing real good." (She asked for the epidural reeeally early on.)

Best yet, we got to practice what we saw! Balancing on yoga balls, bent over chairs, on all fours and purring like cats (okay, so she didn't SAY to purr like cats) and getting to breathe deeply while looking in each others' eyes. Turns out, if I hafta breathe deeply and look into P.J.'s eyes during labor, it may not work out. He is really, really funny. Even if (and might I add- especially) when he is TRYING to be SERIOUS. And when he had to massage out my "back labor," he really went for the gold. He destroyed that contraction. Also a hip joint. But he was SERIOUS.

They also snuck in a video about c-sections, which was NOT COOL TO DO. If I have to get a c-section (no) I'm fairly certain all I have to do is show up. The less I know about that needle and the clamps FOR MY SKIN the better. In fact, let's pretend we didn't see what happens on the other side of the curtain, lalalalalalala. (This goes double for episiotomies, bodily fluids and functions during labor, and gowns that fail to cover one's body adequately- none of this EVER happened.) Found out video taping during labor isn't allowed- aw, shucks!- but we're allowed to take as many pictures of our child AFTER the fact as we'd like. Thanks! You're sure we don't have to sign a waiver?

I think that getting pregnant is the best thing that has EVER happened to my writing career. Lamaze class is coming in at a close second. I plan to live-blog my labor and delivery. Or maybe I'll let P.J., if he's not too busy.

I'll bring a backup headband, just in case.