Sunday Night Funday Night.

Peej sure knows how to keep the excitement going 'round here.

Last night, as we were prepping the gals for bedtime, he acknowledged that the left side of his face had gone completely numb- something that had been growing in intensity since the night before, along with painful ear pressure. (He had mentioned this when he got home on Saturday night, but me- awesome wife that I am- told him to suck it up. He had just flown from Seattle to Chicago and had been riding the Sniffles Carousel like everyone else in the city proper this season. Ear pressure happens. Happy weekend!) 

But it was the continued mentioning that gave me pause, as did the fact that he called our doctor. 'Cause P.J. only brings up medical intervention if his elbow is hanging off of his body at a bloody, 90 degree angle. Or if a piano falls on him. Stuff like that. 

The doctor confirmed the suspicion that- yes- a numbed face was cause for concern. So we called our ever-awesome neighbors to stay with our confused-by-the-pace-of-bedtime children. And even though P.J. said he'd drive himself, I took him to the E.R. 

As we approached the check-in desk, we overheard a conversation between a police officer and two nurses. Something about jambalaya and like, surprise shrimp or something that no one could believe. Strangely, their conversation kept up for the next five or so minutes while we waited behind them. I mean, I wasn't expecting them to Noah Wylie us all up in there and strap him to a gurney, but maybe- just maybe- the shrimp story could wait until someone asked if P.J. was bleeding out? Maybe?

Finally, the cop nodded towards P.J. and apologized to me. “That’s ok!” I brightly replied. Because, if nothing else- I AM SUPER POLITE AND PLEASANT in times of stress. So one nurse asked P.J. what was up and he explained about his facial numbness, etc., etc., and the police officer nodded sagely and offered up “That’s serious.” (I agreed. Politely.)

So they “fast tracked” us a room, where I had the completely inappropriate excitement over being checked out by a passing-by male nurse three times. He even did the showbiz triple take. I tried to high-five P.J. over it, but he was unimpressed. (I mean, I’m sure I was eyefuls better than the cuffed prisoner one waiting room over, but I chose to take it as a compliment.) 

Once they determined that P.J. was not, in fact, having a stroke or a seizure or bleeding out, we had a lot of time on our hands to do stuff like look at the artwork. 

How cute is he? Also, how totally bizarre is that artwork?
I'm not completely sure what's happening there: unwise balancing,
a strange proportion/depth sorta thing...and the sun is reading? What?

Long story kinda shorter; they did a whole lotta weird stuff to P.J., we had the whole Sunday night "time to just talk" that I'm always craving, and the doctor stated that Peej had a) a deeply impacted ear infection, b) a blocked sinus infection, and c) insane pressure from that facial Venn diagram which caused nerve hilarity. 

And, while that was incredibly painful for him, it was a massive relief for me. Because as I told him- I wasn't truly feeling spoon-feeding him rice pudding while draping him with a plaid blanket at the seaside.

Which is how I visualize recovery from a stroke, apparently. 

Anyhow. Horse pills have been consumed, thank-you casseroles need to be prepped, and no one is any worse for the wear. Except for that artwork. 

That thing will be haunting my dreams for years to come.

I'm Sorry, WHAT Was A Weekend?

What do you mean, you need to "shower?"

On Friday night, Nora threw up. (Alllll over P.J.) And as we cleaned her- and the kitchen, and the tub, and ourselves- up, I wondered...was this what Friday night had become? Two consecutive Friday nights with undigested pasta, boiling hot faces, and people screaming every two hours...

This is the worst discotheque I've ever attended.

Saturday brought the diagnosis of an ear infection. And with it, more antibiotics, more kiddo ibuprofen, more kiddo Tylenol, more children skipping their midday naps, more purple Popsicles, and the exact same episodes of Dora the Explorer. 

That night, there was also a slight uptick in the amount of alcoholic beverages poured. (Very rapidly. Because- why are people awake again?!)

There was a marked downshift in the output of completed scenes. (Unless you're the among the producer/director/company members staging my show in a really short amount of time. Then- Oh my God, you guys. This play is totally awesome and stupidly close to being done! Forever!)

Susannah is in the Totally Better, Except Still A Liiiittle Off phase of things. You know the kind. No fever, no symptoms, eating and drinking like a champ...but CANNOT BE MORE THAN HALF AN INCH FROM YOUR NOSTRILS AT ALL TIMES. Or it's a freakout fest of velociraptor proportions.

I expect Nora will be there in a day and a half. As will my completed script. I totally promise.

I hope you guys enjoy ridiculously awesome dialogue and gripping character development.

Printed on paper slightly dampened by Ugly Tears.

Sick Day/Night/Weekend.

...And then there are the nights when your youngest child wakes up simply covered from head to toe in vomit. (And you fail to realize this for a goodly ten minutes, seeing as you and your husband- both hanging out on different floors- thought that the other one got her. This, in particular, makes you feel like a special kind of monster.)

When you [finally] see your drenched, shivering, and horrifically smelling one year-old, you are rendered completely immobilized. I mean, you'd still take a bullet in the eye for the kid but, like, someone should really pick her up, right?

So you do. (Every other hour for the next two nights.) And you bathe and scrub and change your freaked-out, chilled, and exhausted baby. And attempt to rock her back to sleep...when she vomits down the front of your shirt. (A lot.) So you and your husband play that game of Pass The Baby Back And Forth Until Every Layer On Us And The Kid Is Puke-Free. (It takes a while.) It gets later and later. And you watch her temperature spike to 103.9 and her eyes go all glassy. (Your husband reports this from the floor where he face-planted at roughly 4am on the second night.)

The next morning your three year-old asks for something to drink and you become irrationally angry at her.

You realize that all three of your writing deadlines have skipped merrily by and there's no way you'll play catch-up before Monday morning. You cry along with the sick baby and the confused pre-schooler. (Your husband doesn't cry, but he's very good at keeping those things in check.)

By now it's Sunday and there's no way your doctor can see her that day- but he's "concerned." So he sends you to a Minute Clinic over at CVS. You bundle your toddler who- come on, really just fell asleep?- and drag her out into the 20 degree afternoon. Your sleepy and magenta-faced baby smiles at you via the rearview mirror and your status as a monster has absolutely been clinched.

You get to the clinic. There's a line around the corner of hacking, sobbing children. You debate getting a bucket of leeches and heading home to take care of this thing yourself. But then your youngest starts moaning and shivering again so you check in at the counter. And find out that they can't see your kid because she's fifteen months old. And they only see eighteen months and up.

The next place will see her. In two hours, they pleasantly inform you. Or, as their doctor suggests, you should really just take her to the ER. Would the [shaking] baby like a cookie while you wait? (You do not wait.)

You weigh your options at this point: taking her to the emergency room (and paying out a fair piece of her college tuition) and potentially waiting for multiple hours with horrifically sick people...or trying one more clinic (for a lesser co-pay and perhaps more immediate attention).

You try one more clinic. They tell you that a) they can see her now and b) they'll accept your insurance. Maybe. Because the server is down and you'll have to pay $110 out pocket and see about reimbursement on Monday. You mentally bang your head against the window and sign anyway. (With one arm. The other is wrangling your now-perky toddler. (Come ON.)

Finally, they say they can see "Savannah." You correct them. They nod and smile. They take her temperature- which has gone down considerably in the past three hours of transit. You're happy for your daughter's brain- maybe the sub-zero temps were good for her system?- but more than a little ticked that this happened after you slid the AmEx across the counter.

She tests negative for the flu. (Twice.) Same for ear infections. Same for pneumonia. The test for strep will be back in 48 hours. Just a virus, most likely! Then her temperature starts spiking again (and you feel validated and immediately hate yourself for it) and they prescribe a strict regiment of dosing the bejesus out of her.

That night, her temp holds steady at a pleasant 102 degrees and she deliriously attempts to walk from your face to your husband's between the hours of midnight and six a.m. (You and your husband calculate that you've gotten an hour and half of sleep between the two of you. Since Friday night.)

The next morning, the baby's fever is slightly lower and you feel reassured that flesh-eating bacteria has not succeeded in eating your kid's brain stem. This lasts until your husband kisses the kiddo goodbye and she spews all over him. (This makes no one happy.)

So you take your baby into her actual doctor where he expresses concern over how sick this child is. He runs some more tests. Lets her play with the stethoscope. (She's such a happy baby, isn't she? ...Usually.) Determines that she has strep throat, which is "extraordinary" for this age. You inform your baby that she's extraordinary. She takes it in stride.

Same with the antibiotics. And the next dose of Motrin. And some juice. And a frightening portion of the foodstuffs in the pantry cabinet.

You determine the rest of the day to be a movie-watching, blanket tent-making day. Where the blanket "tent" is really just a towel thrown across the floor. The baby takes this news well. So does the [largely neglected] three year-old.

Everyone is [kinda] happy.

Except that you've now this persistent little ache in the back of your throat...

Guest Blog: Little Stories Everywhere.

Today is a first for me: a guest blog! My pal Molly at Little Stories Everywhere is a riot- and has the exact same parental neuroses as me. It's refreshing. Enjoy!

***

Molly and her positively edible kiddos.

When you have a baby there are scores of things that people never tell you...things that are ugly, horrible and completely disgusting.  One of these sad truths is venturing out to the Pediatricians office for the first time.  It was...hmmm....an experience.

Bitzy was only 4 days old when we ventured out to the Pediatricians office.  Take in mind that I was still bleeding profusely (that's one of those sad disgusting truths that no one told me about, or perhaps I just ignored them), my emotions were doing jumping jacks, and as a new mama, my baby was much too young to be going anywhere.

It also didn't help that my baby girl came out of my body screaming her brains out and didn't stop until she was 6 months old. So there's that.

But alas, we  had to do it.  This wasn't the first time that we had been in the office as we had come to check it out when I was preggers, but this was the first time with a precious little person that was outside of my body, who, might I add, elicits a strong fear of germs in me with each step outside of the house.  I used to notice wall colors and vases in the homes, offices, stores & restaurants...not anymore.  Now I hone in on anyone who is coughing, rubbing their eyes, or breathing too heavy. "Hello people, I have a newborn!  Stay inside you nasty selfish people!!!," I wanted say.  

So anyway, at Bitzy's first appointment I noticed that there was a "well side" and a "sick side" thinking, "Oh that's nice that the germy little monsters can't get near my precious & perfectly healthy child."  I went on my merry way trying to make it through the appointment with a screaming baby eyeing every child in there, looking for cues to their unhealthiness. At that first appointment, one thing was clear, I didn't want to ever be on the "sick" side of this office.  The "sick" side is germy, dark and stuffy with the stench of dirty diapers and vomit. However, the "well" side was bright, healthy, and breezy that smelled of clean laundry and lavender.

Then it happened.  At the tiny age of 12 weeks old, my perfect baby came down with a cold.  I, being a completely insane mother called the office and asked for her to be seen.  While they discouraged me because after all, they couldn't do anything for her, I still wanted to go.  It was HEARTBREAKING seeing my baby with a stuffy nose and darn it, they should know how to magically make her better.  "What did they go to medical school for anyway?!  Come on! Again, people of the world, I have a newborn baby. Make her feel better!," I'm sure I said under my breath. (I think it's safe to say that with a sick, colicky baby I was a real treat in those first few weeks). 

So off we went, what I didn't remember was the awful "sick side."

As we walked into the foyer I automatically turned left into the "well side"...then pausing to the remember that runny noses are normally not a sign of perfect health. Sadly, we turned right into dark grimy sidewalk to Germville.  As I looked into the room I didn't see children, I saw germs.  My perfect child didn't belong in there!  She deserved her own room away from all the gross germys.  I practically buried her head in my chest to somehow keep the germs away.  It didn't help that every child in the room seemed to be hacking up a lung. Gross.

But alas, we made it.  Basically I paid $30 for them to tell me that there's nothing they could do and to be scarred for life after sitting in the "sick side."  I would rather wait in line at "The Wal-Mart" for an hour than spend 5 minutes in that nasty room...although something tells me that when we've got child #4 under our belts I'll just be happy to sit anywhere...even on the sick side.

***

Love Molly? Go check out her fabulous blog- and don't forget to "like" her Facebook page!

Best Birth Control On The Market.

Great story, Mom.

Let me set the stage for you.

Nora, having recently begun the whole All Underwear, All The Time show, was having a hit or miss kinda morning. That said, by 9am I had already sanitized everything on which a little bum could fit. (Because, the sad reality is this: Potty training a two year-old is awfully akin to chasing an incontinent velociraptor.)

Susannah, for her part, had been constipated for two days. And was covered with mashed avocado after a messy "lunch." Simply coated in the stuff. Between that and her sister's combo of soaked pants and a runny nose, I figured that both of them could use a nice, relaxing, cleansing bath.

Except.

Once in the bath, Nora freaked out from [her newly acquired and very real fear of] water in her eye. She cried. A lot. This caused two things to happen: Nora's boogs started to stream down her face AND Susannah was frightened into her own set of tears.

Zuzu, also in the bath, cried so hard that she pooped everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

And I had one of those moments where I had to decide whom to save first. The child whose feces these weren't, or the one who was not yet sick? The toddler with a so-so immune system or the infant with none whatsoever? The child who had yet to pee on me that morning, or the one who had just given me her favorite sticker heart because I was the best Mom ever?

I chose Susannah, figuring that the baby would be quicker. I CHOSE INCORRECTLY. Because.

While attempting to dry and/or clean the baby on the bathroom floor, Nora decided [rightfully so] that the water swirling down the drain was gross. So she helped me out by flinging it all over the bathroom to get it out of the tub. That's right, handfuls of poop, flying everywhere.

Both girls went back into the tub for a makeshift shower while in my arms. And I still could not guarantee that anyone in that room was actually clean.

As we exited the bathroom, one of the cats puked three times in front of me: a hairball, some followup hairball, and a third puddle just for fun.

And playing on the radio that whole time? Hall and Oates' timeless classic, You Make My Dreams Come True. (Forget that- I clearly make my own dreams come true.)

Later on, when both girls had finally settled into naptime and I was able to super clean the bathroom for the third time that morning, I called P.J. to regale him with my epic o' bodily fluids. I expected sympathy, hoped for empathy. But his response?


CONCERN FOR THE CAT.

Ferris Bueller Ain't Got Nothing On Me.

But I already ATE all the sugar.

There comes a point in any illness where high-pitched whines and manic energy overtake any real cold symptoms- excepting, of course, a positively astonishing sea of boogs.

Our household reached that point roughly two and a half days ago. That said, there is nothing particularly wrong with today.

Except.

I find myself possessing less than no desire to wipe or scrub or fold or sort or sanitize anything whatsoever.

In fact, it would be terrific if today could be declared A Day Where People Don't Hafta Touch Anything Unless They Wanna.

Let's go one step further. Let's add an addendum for this Day where, because we clearly don't give a fig for organic- or even hot- food on a Day like today, we get to eat cereal straight out of the box. Maybe we'll even make cookie dough that will never even see the inside of an oven because, on this Day, our apathy makes us stronger than salmonella.

On this Day, I want to remember how wonderful it feels to pull a heavy down comforter up to the side of my face as I snuggle in for a midday nap. I want to remember it AS I AM DOING IT. The kids can come, too. As long as they know that we are there to sleep. Not talk. Not play with figurines. Not chew on my shoulder.

Today, my word count is at 45,909. I would like- for this Day only- to have the word count remain at 45,909 and for everyone currently in the house to be totally cool with this. Guilt-free. Proud, even. This will be the thought in my mind as we all settle in for the blanket-on-the-face nap.

This is also the Day where I am not The Queen Of No. So when Nora, clutching an armload of winter gear and chasing Ender, informs me that "kittens need mittens and cats need hats," I'll nod appropriately and see how that storyline unfolds. And if- just as a suggestion- I tell her that the cat might snap at her from underneath his fleece earflaps, I will take her gleeful hope that it'll turn into a choreographed number from West Side Story as a truly valid one.

Today could be the day where I find out just why, exactly, those Birds are so Angry.

It will definitely be a Day where my kids could tell you- in great detail- How To Get To Sesame Street.

And as soon as I extract my toddler from beneath the couch and remove the glittery stickers from her eyelids, I'll tell her so.

Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Intensive porpoises.

[Note: This posting was, for all intents and purposes, ready to go this a.m. However, apparently I wasn't. Really, all I had to do was do a li'l spell check, edit some late night phrases that don't do so well in the light of day (and vice versa) and hit 'publish post.'

Yup. Couldn't even manage that. 

To be fair, I was awfully busy ruining my daughter's life and stranding a three year-old in the line for preschool pickup. One super sick baby (she got the illness lovingly passed on by a good half of her party guests) in addition to one semi-sick three year old, and throw in a seven year-old outta school due to a teachers' conference. Add in a stalled recycling truck outside of two schools with simultaneous pickup times...and oh, let's just pretend that the non-sleeping baby didn't care to be stopped in traffic (with or without garbage truck fumes) and, just for fun, let's say that the middle kiddo felt thoroughly abandoned after a ten minute wait...and the littlest one decided to get her only nappin' of the day in whilst car bound. 

That leaves about three hours of unfulfilled nappage and 9.5 hours of fulfilled crabbage (that's a combo crab/cabbage/cribbage)- but plenty of opportunity for five cups of caffeine. 

The day might've been destined for crabbagetude, however, since I woke up from a nightmare that seemed about eight years long. In a nutshell, the dream took place on my wedding day. Sans P.J. or any actual items or locations of that day. Especially without Peej- because he had stood me up on the altar. All I remember was being very sad, and then, when I woke up, being very mad at P.J. (He hates when these things happen. Awake P.J. and Dream P.J. need to have some words.) 

So. Yes. Lack of bloggin' for the day. Amended. With apologies for the late hour.]

Previously Penned Posting o' Prose and Puns:

This was, quite obviously, a good time o' year to be born'd. I don't think I had realized just how many pals were Scorpios in addition to my husband, daughter, sister and Mom. 

Lots of passionate, deep thinkin' arguers. 

I didn't exactly need the zodiac to tell me that.

And a happy birthday week to my big sis Kate. She's awesome. Awesomer than me, in fact. Here's why: she had her first kid on my birthday. (06.06.06- and I turned 26. Neato/frightening!) I could not manage the same, despite an original due date a mere day before her birthday. (11.04.09. Kate's is the 5th. Nora was delivered on the 29th of October. Darn you, modern medicine!) 

So there's that. There's also the fact that she's a computer whiz, soccer star and baking genius (seriously- ask her to make you a banana cake. On second thought, don't. It's for me.)

If only I had enough floss, I'd string up a pulley/basket contraption- like the kind that used to hang between our bedroom doors- and send a secret birthday message as big as the Midwest. In fact, maybe I'd send myself in the basket and save on airfare. Or...or...I could send others and charge for it! Then I could see her whenever I wanted!

Birthday magic. Brilliant.

Some other little-known tidbits and magical facts about this week:

1) Despite having mopped the floors and both staircases repeatedly over the last few days, there are miniature cat hair tumbleweeds rollin' on by...and rollin' on over random sticky spots near the fridge. I'm gonna go ahead and presume that they're made of juice. Also, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that this all is the work of one thing and one thing only- a ghost. 

2) I am getting a new laptop delivered any time between right this very second and tomorrow in an hour to be determined...and oh, it will be determined. Because my nose will be pressed against the window until the very second it arrives, prompting my daughter to wonder why she's being neglected and I will tell her that MOMMY IS GETTING A NEW COMPUTER. Drink your juice. But not by the fridg- oh well. 

3) This new computer is teeeeeensy...and yes, it already has a name. 

4) And a customized skin. Like the 13 year-old girl that I am. 

5) My bloodstream is comprised of 79% sugar. And not even the fructose kind. Like, straight up candy corn and brownies and caramel apples and cupcakes and Kit Kats. I find that this affects things like "energy," "sleep," and "mood." This has not slowed me down in the least.

6) And many, many of my friends have seen this already...but P.J. and I are exceedingly proud of the following 12 second clip:

...Because it means that our darlin' girl has put the 'fun' in FUNCTIONAL. 

        

Anagram: ANTIC FLU NO.

A.K.A.: Keely, go to bed.      

We did other stuff, too. Really.

The Bitsy Bug is dozing off a low-grade fever this a.m., which means P.J. and I are finally leaving her alone. Seriously. I fully realize that a fever under 104 degrees truly doesn't warrant any more medical attention than a cool washcloth, the occasional Tylenol and a vodka tonic, extra limes- hey, the whole house is dealing with the kiddo's discomfort, okay?- but you should try telling that to us in the middle of Taking Care Of Nora. We have entire, hushed convos In. Very. Clipped. Tones. Tempers flare. Books are consulted. Nora looks at us like "It's prolly just my teeth, guys," but her statements go unheard. For she is just a baby. 


Sure, people say. JUST WAIT until your kid has the chicken pox/scarlet fever/The Grippe, but no. I don't need to. I freak out when her boogs are too big for her nostril. A corner of her big toenail bent a little bit the other day and I wept. (Although, strangely, when she faceplanted on her blocks while trying to stand I actually applauded. Motherhood is weird.) Maybe I freak out about the stuff that I should directly control, the things that she clearly cannot do for herself. Clearly she's on her own for the gravity thing.


So. Weekend. There's this awesome game we play (no, it does not involve mallards or puzzles- 'cept when it does) called Neighborhood Watch. Here's how you play: Push your bed against a huge, street-facing window, turn out the lights, prop your chin on the headboard and...watch. Occasionally murmur something about informing the authorities. Mutter to each other that the Alderman should really put speedbumps on Troy- it's not a flippin' freeway! Marvel at the "kids" going out at 11:30pm on a Saturday night. (Sample dialogue: "I'm exhausted just looking at them!" "Boy, they're gonna be late for mass!") Translate angry, drunken Spanish. Giggle at angry, crazy-person English. Pretend that noise you heard was a firecracker. Yep. Loads of firecrackers. Awfully festive out there tonight! Doze off- momentarily- until you hear a car speed by. Jump back into position with a renewed zeal and an overly macho "I'm on it." Wait for your husband to laugh at you, but then tell you how wonderfully stalwart you're being. 


This game can literally go on for twenty or so minutes! 


We've also been watching a lot of Clean House: Search For the Messiest Home In the Country (2!). Remember when I said how much I hated reality TV? Perhaps I just hadn't found my niche. Well, here it is, baby! Slobs. This show is incredible. It kinda focuses in on the crazy excess of Americans. We have so much that we could actually drown in our own collections of feather boas and sequined purses. Part of me used to think that in order to get on the show, people would empty out closets, desks, and dressers onto the floors. Then they'd stomp around, all "Look how I hafta live!" Turns out, people actually do live like that. We saw one episode where a woman had never thrown out any mail. Not since '73. Another guy refused to make room in "his" house for his wife and young son, because that would mean getting rid of his long-deceased grandmother's things. (In my mind I shot him in the face.) This show inspires rage in me.


Also, concern. I have a lot of hobbies. A lot lot. Sure, I decorate them prettily enough, but I am just one color-coded bookshelf away from an avalanche of romance novels. Also, Foucault. 


That said, we've toyed with the idea of spilling stuff into a room, taking a picture and pleading 'HELP' to Niecy Nash. One part of the downstairs isn't all that far off, anyhow. That that said, on the commercial breaks we find ourselves sorting bills and doing dishes. And shivering. 


Sure didn't stop us from going on a garden walk/neighborhood garage sale tour yesterday! Okay, the "gardens" were in Ravenswood Manor, where- technically- I do not live. But I sure do live right smack in Garage Sale Central. (As one guy said of his own wares- "Eh, it's all crap." Gosh!) We bought a vintage schoolhouse desk for eight bucks and found a small wooden wingback chair in an alley. Sure, it was painted turquoise and magenta. But, if you'll remember- the inside of our house was originally even worse. Yeah, I can handle a chair. The gardens were fabulous and made me Think Thoughts. P.J. hates when I Think Thoughts. (That's usually when rooms change place and he has to bring out the Little Giant ladder.) 


And a big ol' weekend thank you to my sister Kate. She's been redesigning my blog (okay, building a new one from scratch) over on Typepad. She could also, quite possibly, give birth any second now. Seriously. Which makes her Radface McAwesome[stretchy]pants. And kudos to my youngest sister Em for giving me free access to all of her jaw-dropping photography for use on the new site. 


Leaving me only one thing to say to my middle sister Chel:


Slaaacker!


Insert defensive maternal rebuttal...here.


And witty sibling-related banter...here.


And comment that- perhaps- goes too far.


Additional tempering responses by the husbands.


One last jibe.


Sincere commentary on younger sister's recent accomplishments. 


Eye roll, curtsey, Arabesque, fin.


Last word from my mother.


(See if I'm wrong.)

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?