Things That Actually Happened.

Yesterday, as I sat on the couch and tried my darndest to write, I realized that my fingers were frozen solid. Despite the thermometer doing its best to tell me it was a balmy 70 degrees in here, I believe that it told a lie. (I think P.J. might actually have paid it off.) My actual thought to myself was- Good Lord, this blanket is unwieldy. Can't someone just give me something as cozy yet infinitely more wearable?

Then I realized I was a walking (sitting) infomercial for the SNUGGIE. I experienced a moment that I myself had mocked as unrealistic. Yet there I was. Having a need for something not entirely unlike a Snuggie.

I felt shame. Yet that was nothing compared to what happened a mere two hours later.

I was sitting on the bathroom floor at Nora's request- to come hear the exciting story line she was reading- and was also listening to Susannah protest her first real nap of the day. Suddenly, I had an almost out-of-body experience; fueled by the buzzing of my children's voices, the questionable middle of the previous night's session of Life Questions, and the after-effects of way too much coffee. I leaned my head back against the bathroom door, closed my eyes, and marveled at how GOOD that felt.

The very next thing I knew, I was being nudged awake by an irate preschooler's foot, telling me that this was NOT "good behavior" and this was NOT "what we do." (I don't remember ever having had the Don't Sleep On The Bathroom Floor convo with her...but she has a mind like a steel trap. She'd know. Also, I had the niggling suspicion that perhaps I shouldn't be teaching her to sleep on the bathroom floor.)

So, yeah, the first two events were prime examples of my dorkiness (and potential poor circulation) and conditional narcolepsy. It wasn't a banner day in terms of self-image.

But then the craziest thing of all happened:

...Which is by far the wackiest thing that a human can do. Just- one day- stand up and start moving around like you hadn't spent the first 12 months of your life on hands and knees and bellies and occasional faces? And sure, I can't take too much credit for Susannah's motorin' about...but I can count it as something that upped the coolness factor of my day. 

Which, let's be honest, was rather off the charts.

Keely Brings The Mood Down A Notch.

Summer. And maybe a touch of roughhousing. 

Last summer, when I was humongously pregnant with [the-yet-to-be-determined] Susannah, Nora and I had a terrific time. Really. We had picnics every place that featured tables (and some that didn't). There were nature hikes, tamale stand stalkings, and midday naps in my bed (because we couldn't fit into hers).

I was so [beyond] thrilled to be having another baby, of course, but I couldn't shake this sense of sorrow, like- "Well, this is it for Nora n' me," or "No more naps in my future." Which is ridiculous, because Nora and I are ohmystarsthisclose every single day, and sometimes I can swear she's actually hanging from the tag of my shirt. (Especially if I have to return a phone call.)

And I will always- always- make time for naps. (I mean, there's crazy and then there's crazy.)

But then Zuzu was born and things continued to be good. So good. And we've had a pretty banner summer this year, what with all the beachiness, culture we've been foisting into our kids' faces, and even bigger blankets on which to nap. You'd think I'd lose some of my End Of The Season nutsy, right?

Nope. Because, even though I love the Fall and all it stands for (pumpkin patches, more hoodies, and new folders for my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper), I can't help but feel sad that this summer is coming to a close.

Because Susannah isn't going to be a baby next summer. And Nora will be A Kid Who Has Been To School. (We probably won't even have any fun at all.)

It's almost like I believe that each season's close is its ending for good. Like- No More Summer. (Wasn't Summer Nice That One Time?) I try (really, really hard) to remember that, with very few exceptions, each season I've experienced in my adult life just keeps getting nicer than the one that preceded it.

Then I get annoyed at myself for slathering such a saccharine statement all over my psyche. (Then I get mad at my self-bullying. Then I have a sandwich, because by then I'm tired- and I get hungry when I'm sleepy.)

My point is that I'm trying oh-so hard to not hold onto each moment between clenched fists- because's that's no way to live. (And also because I'm holding a sandwich.) And that's not to say that my life is perfect; far from it. I wish we had more money. I wish I wasn't so godawful tired every day. And I wish I didn't have to scramble so hard to keep our home together.

But the girls and Peej? That's the stuff I want more time for. More of this. More of the same with them. Because there's so much atrocious, junky stuff in the world, and I'm [hyper]aware that it could all be gone in an instant. And (God forbid) if it were, I'd think back and want today again. Or last week. Maybe two months ago on a Wednesday. Nora's flyaway blonde curls, covered in sand and peanut butter. Suzy's ecstatic realization that I came to get her out of her crib. (Again!) A backyard beer with P.J., and a peaceful moment to reflect upon our neighbors' colorful rants. I want these moments and I never want to live in a time without them. But each passing season comes with the realization that the past is just that. And if I'm super-beyond-lucky, I'll get more chances. And more days, weeks, summers.

I hope I'm lucky.

I also hope that my kids continue to nap.

And I wouldn't turn down a few more sandwiches, either.

Big Kid Bed! (NOW Can I Nap?)

Yesterday, it happened. No more crib, no more toddler bed with a rail, no more shoving her feet up the wall and attempting to get comfy until 10pm. (Because when a kid in the 5th percentile complains of feeling cramped, you know it's time for a Big Kid bed.) We recently inherited a bed from P.J.'s fam that had been P.J.'s Mom's childhood bed- and her Dad's before that. That was exciting because a) I love family heirlooms, and b) we spent all of our moolah on a twin mattress. (SERIOUSLY. Why are they so expensive?!)

So I now present to you a li'l photo array of Before, During, and After: 

Crib/toddler bed with toddler rail removed ('cause one of us kept pressing against it until the mattress flipped onto the floor). Please forgive the not-yet-removed wall anchors from a prior shelf. Also, the weird sound-proofed ceiling. Also- oh, forget it.

The girls are a crucial part of the bed-building process.
(Says Peej, crouched in the background.)

Peej continues to build the bed, Nora continues to
bring toys directly atop the bed-building site.

Measuring for the slats that need to be cut down.
He's practically Bob the Builder. (Or Wendy.)

I get all the fun jobs: like polishing with scratch cover, and keeping
the metal part of the tape measure out of Susannah's mouth. 

Tightening the specs on the lug nut with the thing for the...
(I'm just saying it's a very good thing he had help.)

Completely dwarfed by her awesome Big Kid bed!

I think we've got a winner. Or an overstimulated kid who's been
playing with the varnish. Either way, she's got a terrific place to sleep.

Nora Plays Favorites.

Oh, she's a cool one.

Two nights ago, something momentous happened:

Nora asked me to tuck her into bed.

Me. Her mother. Even though her father was totally in the room and available and hadn't lost an iota of his Favorite Person In The Land status. Well, maybe just a little.

Because she asked me to tuck her into bed.

Back in the day, I tucked her into her crib every single night. Oh, sure, P.J. used to try. And I'd elbow him [nicely] in the face as I squoze my daughter between my chin and chest until she was lulled/short of breath. I couldn't get enough of her- this newborn who was better than any doll...and then this smiley baby who'd hum as she drifted off to sleep...and then this newly toddling toddler who would request songs by singing the first three notes. I loved rocking her, pacing with her, smelling her [mostly clean] sweet baby skin, and feeling her hair wisp against my face in the breeze of the fan. I adored watching her blink tiredly up at me from her crib, her eyes carefully watching to see if I left her room the same way as I had the previous night (through the door), and then I'd listen as she babbled to Doc Bullfrog about the exhilarating things she'd done that day.

The nighttime routine was our thing, and my chance to quietly snuggle this rapidly growing wiggle of a worm. And even though Dad's comings and goings were the highlight of the day (and week...and year...), she respected that bedtime was a Mom thing.

Until it wasn't.

Because the older she got, the more she realized how much she had missed her Dad that day. And couldn't he just be the one to help brush her teeth? And pick out jammies? And read one book (two, three, four- HEY, DAD LETS ME READ AS MANY BOOKS AS I WANT).

I tried not to let it bother me because, really- all kids should be so lucky to have such one-on-one time with their fathers. And kid affection changes like the breeze. These are all things I know. I know these things. I do.

But I still missed her.

Because now, the only snuggle time we had was if I belly-flopped with her while building blanket tents. Or if I snuck in to wipe her hands and face and surreptitiously grabbed her for a cuddle. And I'd get the impatient wriggle, and the rote "Iloveyou,too."

So when she made her proclamation the other night, I played it cool. Even though it felt like that time during freshman year Spanish class when the kid I thought was so great asked to borrow a pen even though he totally had one in his backpack- I saw it... I played it cool.

And it was awesome. I picked her up for a big snuggle hug, her legs dangling way lower than I remembered them being just a few months prior- and then she asked me to just kinda put her into bed. (Please.) We chatted. Mentioned some people in prayers. Sang a song or two. (Little did she know that I would've sung an entire canon if she had just said the word.)

And then her eyes watched me as I walked out the door (per usual). She talked with Doc for a little, while I went downstairs and tried not to gloat to P.J. about how I was probably her favorite person in the land. Most likely.

Last night, she asked P.J. to tuck her in.

So the only snuggle for me came when I tiptoed back into her room (when she was fully and truly asleep) to smooth her hair and kiss her forehead like I've done every single night since the night we met. But it's okay. Because it's clear that she has a favorite (and we all know who that is).

She's just playing it cool. Way cool.

I know the signs.

Surfin' Safari It Ain't.

"There's some good chompin'
sand over here, Susannah!"

There are days where you feel like you've unlocked the door to Competent Adulthood. Then there are other days where bang your head on the beam of Ignorant Idiocy.

Today would most likely skew towards the latter.

It didn't start out that way. No, the morning began with a cleaned kitchen, three loads of put-away laundry, prepped lunches, and an invitation to join our friends (and their daughter Emily, who happens to be Nora's favorite short person ever) at Foster Beach. While Zuzu took an utterly conflict-free morning nap (a half hour earlier than normal to ensure a 10am beach arrival, at that), Nora and I packed the car with all manner of beach gear. I blogged. She used the potty. The day seemed like it was skipping towards Easy Street.

During the [ten minute] drive towards the harbor, however, Nora conked out. Hard. She slumped over in her seat and snored. ("Peace out, afternoon nap," I whispered to the sunroof.)

Now, I've lived in Chicago for ten years. I've been to the beach a multitude of times. I've been to Foster beach dozens upon dozens of afternoons. I pulled off onto the harbor drive and drove for a few blocks until I reached the free lot. ("Seems to be farther than I remembered," I said to the sunroof. "Stop talking to me," the sunroof retorted.)

Unloaded one bag. Popped Zuzu into a sling. Unloaded the cooler. Grabbed the portable seat. Woke Nora. Woke Nora. Poked Nora. (Carried Nora.)

After hefting two children and potentially too much gear across the [Hotttttt...I lost a Crocccc...] sand, I set up camp- and realized that I had left our beach blanket in the trunk. (As I looked wistfully back across the sand over a dune towards the parking lot, I bid the blanket adieu. 'Cause that trip wasn't happening again.) Didn't see our friends, but figured they were either coming shortly or perhaps farther down the beach. So I texted them. By this point, Nora was already half in the water and Susannah had consumed her first fistful of wet sand, so I knew I needed to keep communications brief.

I asked where they were. (They asked the same.)
I'm in front of the Mexican restaurant, I told them. (Which one?)
Near the dog park. (There are no dogs here.)

I had a sinking suspicion that one of us had arrived at the wrong beach. And, if I had to wager...

I Googlemapped myself. (Because I live in the future.) And yes, turns out, even though I had driven down Foster Avenue, I had taken the side road that connected to Montrose Beach. (Damn you, Chicago Parks Department and your interconnected web of parks and grasslands and free beaches!)

By now, Nora was catching herself in her fishing net and Zu was yelling at her second fistful of sand, so I knew we had to stay put. I sheepishly apologized to my friends. I know they understood, but I accepted my punishment in the form of sitting amongst some of the loudest examples of questionable parenting this side of the internet. (Actual quotes: "You are so stupid. Not everything is about you." "Why you gonna run off? Bring 'er back and here and hit 'er for me.")

I missed my friends.

So did Nora. As she ate a sand-covered pb&j, she sadly announced that "Emmanee" was at a different beach. She used a passive tense for her statement, but I felt every inch of the blame.

Susannah was just happy to tag along, wherever it was that she got to eat her handfuls of sand. The presence of the beach blanket might have cut down on some of this roughage consumption, but she seemed to prefer it this way.

Proving yet again that ol' chestnut: One person's foray into dementia is another person's bacteria-ridden prize of a snacktime.

Wynken And Blynken And Nod.

Even when things get awful and messy and smelly and chaotic, it never fails to amaze me that the simple act of watching these two dynamos nap can make everything seem a teensy bit sweeter.

(Still messy. Just nicer to look at.)

Keely Comes Unhinged.

At least SOMEONE'S sleeping like a baby.

This house has turned me into a Nervous Nellie and a Doubting Thomas.

Whenever something new is opened up (the floor, a pipe, a line of credit), I fully expect that something "surprising" will happen. A rat's nest will be exposed. We'll all discover that there is actually no "foundation" to this place. Little things like that.

And when people estimate that a job will take two days ("three days, tops"), I no longer believe them. Besides, if each person lining up for their turn takes the allotted two/three days, I'm pretty sure we'll be playing Contractor-Go-Round well into the girls' adulthood. Because I do not believe that this home will ever be done with exploding on us.

"Homes are never really done," Experienced Homeowners frequently tell me. And I realize this. But I'm pretty sure relative "doneness" doesn't usually equate with major house catastrophes.

And I no longer want to be the Blue Ribbon standard for worst home ever. It sorta hurts the morale, you know?

We had a really nice weekend with P.J.'s sister, niece, and parents for Katy's 11th birthday. It was actually pretty terrific to get to take the weekend "off" from sporadically mopping/moving/sobbing and get to play tour guide. I did feel pretty awful, however, about the fact that our home stunk like an outhouse and the downstairs bathroom may as well have had crime scene tape across it. (I swear I am a decent wife to your boy, Schoenies.)

The jackhammering currently shaking my computer (and Susannah's chubby cheeks- sorry, Zuzu) punctuates the fact that my brain is full of irrational little marbles. It could also be the lack of sleep, however. I keep falling asleep only to wake up each hour with those annoying little half-awake nightmares.

Susannah fell down under the house in one.

Nora was covered in sewage in another.

The cats were- inexplicably- on the ceiling, making it all too Trainspotting-y for me.

In each scenario, I am completely unable to save anyone or help anything. And it doesn't take Freud to dissect the anxieties behind these dreams- but it does make for an exhausted next day. And when I'm tired, I cry. And when I cry, contractors feel UNCOMFORTABLE. And then I stay up late feeling anxious about how I'm stressing out the contractors. It's a vicious cycle.

But- to the best of my knowledge- this is not the end of the world. Sure, a huge chunk of my house no longer exists, but the girls are healthy. (Covered in concrete dust and breathing in methane, but healthy as smallish horses.) So far, our insurance has decided to play nicely with the whopping costs that keep piling on. And P.J. has not yet left me.

It could be a lot worse.

It could smell a lot better, but it could be a lot worse.

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.

On The Road Again. (Seriously?)

Whee!

So what does a pack of Schoenies do when they find themselves without a houseguest and/or crazy weekend plans? They get outta Dodge. For 24 hours. (Which, some folks might speculate would create a ton of work on the part of the two people packing/planning/toting the toddler...but any time I don't have to clean the kitchen after a meal is a good excuse for a trip. Unless you count the mad dash cleaning immediately prior and the post-return explosion of last night. Saving me...a lunch cleanup, I guess. Sigh.)

Best behaviors. 

Anyway, we jaunted up to Oconomowoc, WI (land of many summering Schoenies) and stayed at The Inn At Pine Terrace. Gorgeous. Also, they don't take children- ha ha. But somehow P.J. worked his P.J. Magic (not at all like P.J. Sparkles, mind you) and convinced them that our mannerly beastie would be a better guest than his cranky hippo of a wife.

Royalty.

Obviously, we stopped at the Mars Cheese Castle. (I cannot resist dill and garlic cheese curds. Nor their recently completed castle with actual turrets.) And sure, we may have stopped at an antique emporium. Which- if you've never attempted with a toddler in tow- I highly encourage!

Nora napped on the short drive up and thusly allowed us to skip the whole "waiting in the hotel room for your kid to awaken" part of the journey. Which was great because, as I said, we only had 24 hours. Like that show. Only there were definite bathroom breaks in our program.

Serious bear puzzle action.

We had lunch at The Depot, which had the perk of humongo train cars blazing by the windows every so often. P.J. and Nora thought that was great. Also, the chocolate chip cookies. But there was no time to dawdle, so we went to the public beach (and had more snacks.) Now, being from MA, I had always found the idea of lakes "charming," read: "where's the salt?" (Actually, that's pretty much how I view everything.) But since I married a Midwestern boy, I've truly come to appreciate a nice lake. Or a Great Lake. The small one we visited was super clean, warm as anything, and even came with a set of ridiculously strict lifeguards. Actual mega-phoned directives: "Please only front crawl to the floating pier," "No piggy back rides," "The ladder is only for climbing up," "Get the seaweed off of the pier," and "Beach balls are for beyond the rope only." Seriously. Now, the drunken teens smashing volleyballs into Nora's beach blanket...carry on. Because they were friends with the lifeguards. But whatever.

Ruffle bum.

And there was a playground mere feet from where we had been swimming. Which is always cool. Unless you have any desire to remain in the water with your toddler, in which case- sorry 'bout your luck. Because the chorus of "IclimbIclimbIclimbIclimbIclimb" will soon start up like you've got your very own Rain Main/acrobat/Rhesus monkey amalgamation in a ruffled swimmie.

Eventually we had to head back to the Inn to remove some of the sand from Nora's body (and it was mostly successful) so we could have a nice din at Spinnaker's in the center of town. And aside from the fact that Nora was completely exhausted and only ate half of one mozzarella stick alongside the tomatoes from my salad, we all had a fine meal. The server warned me, however, that the lid from Nora's milk might fall off so I'd want to "watch her" and that the mozz sticks were really hot so I'd want to cut them and wait a minute. Which was nice, considering I'd just met Nora. (But, as P.J. pointed out, it's better than having a server not give a damn.)

When we got back to the room, N.J. fell asleep [mostly] without incident, although she did question the Inn's playpen in the corner of our room as sleeping quarters. I told her it was just like a Pack n' Play but BIGGER! It also made me seriously miss the days of playpens. And once N was asleep, Peej and I were free to...play cards in the solarium. Have tea on wicker chairs. Name two constellations before agreeing that it would be rad to fall asleep. Which we did- happily- until Nora woke up freaked out about something or other and climbed into bed with us. And then she happily slept while her parents slept the sleep of having a shifting boulder between themselves.

Terabithia.

The next morning was a little rainy, so we drove over to the Honeybee Museum (obvie)- which...was closed until noon. Ha ha! But they had some sweet trails that we explored for a few as the sun began to come out. There was even a bridge, so Nora was ecstatic.

And yes, maybe we stopped at another antique store on the way out of town.

Lunch was a mandatory stop by The Kiltie, a carhop diner, where- if I hadn't been a newly diagnosed diabetic- I would have given myself sugar shock with their lime malt. After which I named my old, beloved, and stolen bike Limey. (That's right, I named my bike after a malt. Take a sec to let all of those facts sink in.)

Donesville.

And then Nora dozed on the drive back. It was a good time. A quick time. But sometimes you've really just got to spend an overnight in Wisconsin.

Sometimes, when I hear the things I say, I even shock myself.

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.

I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.

Can I write a Trip Advisor review?

Nice.

I am really, really relaxed.

This does not make for a compelling read, I realize.

But let's see if I can create some dramatic tension, twists n' turns, and cliffhangers for bloggy's sake.

On Tuesday morning we got Nora out of bed at 5:45am to head to O'Hare. I had booked the earliest flight possible, thinking that it would be easy that way. (Sure, 'cause nothing says 'easy' like an exhausted toddler.) And an accident on 90/94 made me panic about dragging NJ through the baggage check and security. (TENSION!) But...P.J. got us there in [safe] record time, we were first in line to check our bag, and security took all of three minutes. "She's such a good traveler," an agent told me. (Not really, I wanted to reply. Her carry-on bag? Not to mention her ziplock baggie? Chaos. She also wholly disregards the three ounce rule.)

Winning the Mom Of The Year award, I let my kid scarf a sausage McMuffin and a hash brown in front of an airport TV.

We boarded a positively dwarven plane- you know a plane has a low roof if the 5'4" gal complains- and sat in the front row. Awesome! Except...you know that wall at the front of the plane? Plenty o' leg room, but not so much in the storage department. I was told that I needed to stow both of our carry-ons in the overheard compartment. (So, uh, the seven hours of kiddo entertainment? Yeah, I'd have access to none of that.) I shoved as much as I could in my pockets (a surprising amount) and put N on my lap. Oh- and I had booked a single seat as opposed to the double seats across the aisle...but when our gate changed, so did our commuter plane. Reversing the seats. So now I was in a window seat with no access to the overheard sanity-savers, anxiously awaiting the unfortunate soul on the aisle who was to have my child directly up their nostril for the flight. (TENSION!)

But...they never showed. The flight attendant tapped my shoulder and smiled at Nora. "She can have that seat, if she wants."

I buckled Nora into a seat after we took off and watched her sit and read. (I hadn't planned for that.) It was awesome. She had a juice. Played with some dolls. Charmed her fellow flyers. And sure, had a high-stakes standoff on the changing table of the loo, but that was fleeting and ended well.

We landed early. Our stroller was the first item off of the plane. We rolled to meet my mother at the gate and got the suitcase- the first one on the conveyor belt. Nora napped on the drive home while I had one of my favorite sandwiches in history- liverwurst and mustard on dark rye. (Seriously. My Mom makes this amazing sandwich for me when I'm sick/visiting/home for lunch from kindergarten. I was the coolest five year-old ever.)

Oh, Mim.

I got to take a nap that day. And eat stuffed pork chops. Watch an MST3k with my Dad. And let my Mom feed/bathe/change/play with Nora. (TENSION...was completely nonexistent.)

Even being the solo Nora-getter in the wee hours of the morning hasn't been so crazy. Maybe she's catching up from a nutso past few weeks, but she's napping and sleeping like a champ- this has allowed us to have some terrific excursions around town. These include a life-changing free chair massage and a stellar reading from a talented lady. Today we're having lunch with an honorary Mom of mine (she's earned the title by taking me to the ER as many times as my own mother) and later going for a swim.

Maybe I'll even get a nap.

To those who say you can never go home again- they are sadly misinformed. Not only can you go home, but it'll be a seamless trip, your Dad has new music for you to hear, AND THERE'S SEAFOOD FOR SUPPER.

Plus all of the Clifford episodes one could hope for. If you like that kind of thing.

They've got everything here.

Sleep Is For The Awesome.

P.J. likes me. I know this.

But sometimes I have to remind myself that just because you like someone doesn't mean you have to like sleeping next to someone. (Don't get me wrong- his sleeping options haven't changed. This is not a democracy, it's a marriage. But he can have his feelings.)

Lemme 'splain.

I'm a bit of a...hmm...an ambitious sleeper. My goal is to cover as much ground as possible. I am Lewis and/or Clark and your pillow is the Pacific Coast.

P.J. is a Zen Buddhist monk. (Perhaps by necessity at this point.) He requires very little, sleep-wise: a pillowesque thing, a corner of a blanket (if he is especially lucky), four solid hours. He sleeps with one eye open, a hand on the Louisville Slugger propped by the nightstand, ready for anything. He scoops up Nora in the morning at her first babble. He brings the cats downstairs for feeding if they yowl at her door.

As for me, I've slept through thunderstorms, car alarms, and a good portion of my toddler's early morning antics. (I tell people that she's slept through the night since seven weeks. I actually have no idea if this is true. Bottom line- Mama slept. We all slept!) I can't help it. My Mom recently informed me that I took two naps a day until I was three and even napped in the afternoons after I started school. I am either a really stellar sleeper or severely vitamins D and B12 deficient.

But back to P.J.

His dream of dreams is to sleep sans wife, baby, two cats, sippy cup, bib, five board books, eighteen blankets (did I mention I am never warm,whilst he is one of those Amish wood-burning furnaces?) and perhaps- just perhaps- somewhere he could stretch out his legs. It's good to have dreams.

This will never happen, however.

Unfortunately, my happy sleep is occasionally interrupted by terrifying nightmares and wacko sleepwalking stints. His job is to talk me down, hold my hand, and prevent me from eating toothpaste caps. (I know the household tasks seem inordinately skewed towards Peej at this point, but rest assured. I hold my own. You'd gag if I told you from where I removed poop this week alone.)

We spent a good part of Christmas week at his folks' house in Cincinnati, sleeping on the third floor in separate beds- in his childhood bedroom, in fact. His mother asked if we wanted to push the beds together. "Nope!" he happily exclaimed. And so for three days we slept all Ozzie n' Harriet style, waving goodnight to each other. With the occasional high five.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, I pushed the beds together. Crestfallen isn't a word I bandy about, overmuch. But he was. I calmly explained to him that I did not get married and fix up a house and have someone's baby only to sleep solo in a twin bed on the eve of a major holiday. He couldn't argue with that. (Or didn't.)

He falls asleep on couches, later apologizing for coming up to bed so late. But I know what's up. I even asked him point blank last night- You don't even want to sleep next to me anymore, do you?

His response? "No! I love sleeping in the same bed...room as you."

But I think things will stay as they are for now. I could be bought, however, with two special, magical little words.

"Vintage Vespa."

He has his lifestyle holdout, I have mine.

(Three more-) "With A Sidecar."

Your move, Philly Joe.

By the numbers.

This was Nora's holiday week- let's break it down.

On Wednesday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members were hugged.

Thursday: (5) meat products were consumed, (30) family members were hugged.

Friday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members- not including her touchy/feely parents.

Saturday: (6) meat products were consumed...plus (5) cheese appetizers, (29) family members were hugged.

Sunday: (5) meat products were consumed, plus the rest of the cheese/etc., appetizers, (10) family members were hugged.

This a.m. is too soon to calculate. But I can imagine it'll be a doozy on the food/smooch front. Some other important numbers:

- (500) rows of large families with small babies at the family mass- and (1) Nora who began singing her own "song" any time a new intro was played. Also, (1) freakout when an elderly lady belted the descant.
- (2) Baby dolls that smell like vanilla powder. That Nora will get to play with REAL soon.
- (1) Plush rocking horse with realer-than-real whinny. (Thanks, Aunties.)
- (300) Dessert-esque things. (Gotta keep your energy up to digest all of the protein.)
- (1) Really nice camera For The Family- but which Santa will have to pry outta my greedy, snappy hands.
- (2) Trips to Skyline, each time warranting (1) cheese coney and (1) small 4-way, extra onions. (Why, what are the rest of you having?)
- (1) (6)-hour trip back to Chicago, roughly (4) hours from now. In addition, (3) loads of ruffly socks of which to wash/pack.
- (40) miniature creatures: snails, kitties, bears, firefighters, policeman-in-car, at least one Bushwoolie, and a Doc Bullfrog to pack into the car along with the full size ones.
- (1) meat-stuffed and overstimulated toddler, laughing herself into a frenzied half-sleep every few hours. Only to wake at 3am. And then sleep past 8am, burning the morning nap. Which threw off the afternoon nap. Which would, obviously, make her wake up at 3am. HahAhaHahAhaH.

And (1) shocking revelation that it's currently Monday morning at 9am Eastern, not Wednesday at 1am, any time zone.

See you Thursday, at some morning hour.

At some time zone.

With some semblance of sentence structure and throughline.

One can dream.

It's the little ones you hafta watch.

Bath Pingu also frightens me.

I am easily frightened. I think we all can agree on that. However, the other day my bravery reached an all new low.

I was taking advantage of a quiet/resting Nora by doing all sorts of exotic and glamorous activities in the upstairs bathroom; brushing my teeth, using moisturizer, contemplating a braid.

Glancing up into the mirror, I saw into Nora's open room through the reflection. I saw her crib, I saw her lovies, I saw...her miniature face staring at me through the bars, in a position she had clearly been holding for a good while.

She giggled at being seen. Maybe she also laughed at how hard my heart thudded against my ribcage. That's right, I was completely freaked out by the image of my own kid. The idea of anyone staring at me without my knowledge, no matter how related they may or may not be, still gives me a chill. Yup, even typing this- chill. And I don't know, but I'm pretty sure catching anything in a reflection is even creepier. Like- oh man, it's coming to get me and I haven't even turned around yet!

This could all easily be traced back to the misjudgment on my part of tearing through the entire series of Twin Peaks in two days. I pretty much always expect someone to crawl out of the furniture or dance backwards or do something equally terrifying.

On a somewhat tangential note- did anyone catch the Twin Peaks episode of Psych? Sheer, awesomesauce brilliance. They nailed it. Cadence, character, creepiosity...and poor P.J. barely saw any of it, due to my squeezing of his arm and squealing of his eardrums about that NAME and oh my goodness that's an ANAGRAM and that was the SONG they...(etc.) But it's okay. He wasn't a thousand percent invested as a) he oddly falls asleep towards the end of Psych episodes and b) he's actually never finished Twin Peaks. He's still pretty sure Laura Palmer's gonna be okay.

Back to the fears.

I really don't have a [shivery] leg to stand on, what with my penchant for scaring the bejeebers out of my poor parents. My Dad likes to tell the story of how I sleepwalked my way into the fridge. Or that time I made it outside. I personally like the time I ended up mid-staircase.

My Mom's zinger came the night I ended up standing over her sleeping body, staring evilly and chomping on something indeterminate. After a lot of incomprehensible babble [on my part] and prying of the jaws [on hers,] it was concluded that I had stolen the toothpaste cap and had attempted to grind it to death.

She put it back. And, I'm assuming, me as well. But man, what a freakish way to be woken!

That is why I- one thousand and two percent of the time- sleep with a blanket over my ears and up to my forehead, making a little tent for breathing room. (I tried to get my sister Kate to help me invent elastic straps to keep sheets securely fastened to the ears- but nooo.)

It's a well known fact that the mere presence of a blanket acts as a barrier to all sorts of undesirables: axe murderers, ghosts, vampires, hooligans, ruffians, and cats.

Okay, it actually encourages the cats.

I really hope Nora hasn't inherited these phobias from me. I'm pretty sure she's okay so far, given that she's the toughest thing around. From falling onto her back [Oh wowww] to laughing like a loon when upside down (something her folks have never and will never be cool with for themselves), she's a Brave Little Toaster already.

And P.J.'s a pretty brave guy, what with the [reluctant] hunting of That Sound Downstairs and going outside at all hours to Have A Word With The Neighbors.

He's already planning on taking big kid Nora to theme parks for their birthday week. I can just see them now- rollercoasters, splash rides, crazy spinny things in the dark...

...And I'll see them just fine from my perch on the kiddie carousel.

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.

Maybe Haunted Posts need their own blog day.

How can she post again so soon, you ask yourselves? What could have POSSIBLY gone down since Tuesday that's worth blogging about?

Not much, really. But that's kinda the point- when one's main trifecta of posting involves bodily functions/petty grievances/insignificant minutiae, it's never a slow news day.

Update- 10pm bedtime month has been defiled. Disrespected. Nay- disregarded.

And by 10pm's strongest- and loudest- proponent, no less.

I'm talking to P.J., Mr. Falling Asleep On The Couch Until 11ish. Plus, PLUS, we had gotten completely ready for bed prior to the season finale of Psych at 9pm (saved by CST programming)...and he fell asleep during the first half hour anyway. He says it counts because at least he was resting, but I say J'ACCUSE.

I'm pretty well rested, for my part, though probably not as well as you'd expect. Rage is sapping.

Other things that keep me in a state of not-quite-restiness...How about the fact that, despite public opinion and lack of actual "evidence," I know that we are 1000% haunted? It's true.

The baby gates swing open when there is NO WIND. (And only when they're unlatched/Nora's asleep. That would just be downright unsafe, otherwise.)

Or when the doorbell went nuts the other day, chiming long and short and half-rings, only to find that NO ONE WAS AT THE DOOR. (Okay, so P.J.'s fairly certain this can be explained by my getting nails and screws from the storage drawer where the backup doorbell is also stored- but that seems TOO EASY.)

And there is NO explanation for the day the TV turned itself off multiple times. Not the cable box, DVD player or Wii- although, come to think of it, why were all of those things on?- but just the TV. And no one was even sitting on the remote.

And what about those eerie sounds and unintelligible babbling at every hour of the day and night?

...Oh, right. Those are our neighbors.

Every so often, it's nicer to be haunted.

Computer screens are kinda reflective, too...

Just so you're all aware- September is 10pm Bedtime Month. This isn't a national thing or even a local thing, overmuch. Okay, maybe really locally, like the third floor of my house.

This is why we've been colossal lame-os for- oh, the last week. We eventually got tired of being tired all the time. (Initially, the proposal was for 9pm Bedtime Month but, as was pointed out to us- Thanks, Mom- 9pm is an awfully ambitious bedtime for people who like to do things such as eat dinner and acknowledge the other party in their marriage. And it is a party.) It's been going well, insofar as we've actually conked out on the couch at 9:30 a couple of times and disregarded it entirely Saturday night. (12:30- woo! Take off the lampshade, P.J.!)

Also, are you aware of how much time is wasted in that hour after dinner/kiddo's bath/kiddo's bedtime/hosing down of the homestead? That's usually when we find ourselves flopping on furniture and whining about how TIRED we are and how much we have to DO. That usually kills about an hour. Ironically, this was the hour that we reserved for Getting Things Done. Most likely, we'll ultimately find that we really don't have anything that we need to be doing, ever. That would be great.

Here were our obstacles and strengths: I don't like to go to bed super early 'cause I don't want to miss anything...but I'm quite good at writing something down and sticking to it. P.J. doesn't believe in "bedtime" if there's stuff to do like rewiring the downstairs or cleaning the gutters...but if there's any type of media present and a couch or two, he can be out like a light in ten seconds. So we've started watching movies in our bedroom around 9pm, knowing full well that I'll feel like it's a special occasion and P.J. will be lulled to sleep by the end of the opening sequence. Especially if it's subtitled.

This past weekend was one of enforced hibernation, which we thought would go hand in hand with the early bedtime thing. (I can see our list of pals slooooowly dropping away. Sigh.)

We organized all of our vinyl albums- no small task, as we've probably acquired a few hundred by this point- into stuff we need to have in the living room with the record player (Boston, Frank Sinatra, Burns & Allen Radio Hour, etc.) and stuff that could hang out in the newly available rec room off of the family room/Nora's Zone O' Toys (Christmas stuff, a positively alarming amount of Julie London records, etc). Shelves were hung- finally- and yet more mirrors now grace our walls, nooks, hallways, etc. Little known fact: Schoenys cannot walk by a mirror without turning and peeking at their reflection. True story. They can carry on convos and even be surreptitious about it- but no reflective surface can be passed without even a cursory glance.  This includes storefront windows and stainless steel fridges. The little one now winks at herself.

She gets that from her Dad, like everything else on her face.

The only time we left our property was when we had definite outdoorsy destination in mind- no more than ten minutes away, walking. Turns out we didn't need to venture all that far. Over Labor Day weekend other holidays were celebrated: The 100th anniversary of Our Lady of Mercy, the gold domed church up the block that celebrates each mass afterwards with amazing Mexican and Filipino food on its stoop, and the Central American parade that went by our block- not to be confused with last month's Ecuadorian parade nor next week's Mexican Independence Day parade. Seriously, it's been a nonstop march of crepe paper and mariachis all summer. It is THE BEST.

We took Nora over to the church's street fest for a lunch of flautas and arroz con pollo- and to allow yet more people to say hello to our "little boy." (Actual question- is pink a traditional boy color in Hispanic cultures? I would truly be unsurprised to find out that this is so.) Some teenagers performed a nifty Filipino bamboo dance...followed up by six year-olds dancing to that traditional tune, 'Pokerface' by Lady Gaga.

And a really nice gal approached me with an obvious case of mistaken identity (at least I think so- my pregnancy brain should all but be dissipated by now, yes?) and asked about my life, and so-and-so, and was I still doing whatnot? So, another burning question: is it more polite to vaguely play along in these situations, or to bluntly admit that I don't know her from Joe- or José - but that the other gal sounded really great? It's true. This Other Me apparently works with children in theatre- both things that I have done, sure- but she somehow seemed more altruistic and giving.

Because I totally went along with it. And when she told me that my son was lovely...

...I thanked her.

Home is where the Swiffer is.

My Wii Fit was snarky to me this morning. We have a history, that thing and I do. Back in January it called me obese. Then the boxing instructor openly mocked me. And if it's been a bit of time between sessions, the Wii console character is all- Well howdy DO, lazy butt! 

My "trainer" is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I'm putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.

My favorite tip ever, though? "When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum." Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I'm an Orca AND a danger to others! 

I might start taking my ten minute [a week] cardio elsewhere. 

Other household items of importance. Let's start with the kitchen. I've recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You'd think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no. 

This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue. 

But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora's always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She's taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She'll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she's eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That's only when she's being a show-off.) 

I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol' thing of netting. Which I can't imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that's downright absurd. ("Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?")

So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It's been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I've been sticking with it. And here's what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here's what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass. 

I've been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn't it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad...and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It's that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen. 

Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.

And I'll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. ("The other guards won't show you this part...") Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.'s favorite nighttime activity of mine is...the continuation of the dream. 

I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let's just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying "Well, go ahead!" And he kept informing me that I wasn't doing it right. Or he couldn't reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him. 

"What?!" 

"You can do it now," I crossly informed him.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead."

I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But...I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he "click" the sheets. 

"WHAT!?"

"Click it!"

"I don't know wha-"

"CLICK IT!"

And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went 'CLICK' to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.

Sorry, P.J., I'll make it up to you.

You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.

Maybe a pan scraper.

Forget the SwaddleMe- swaddle ME.

I am tired.

I haven't been this tired since- well, never, I guess. Which is a horribly constructed sentence. As was that one.

Here's a bit of a confession: I never, not even once, pulled an all-nighter in college. Nope. Never needed to. Most of my classes were tailored towards subjects and habits in which I already excelled; crazy amounts of reading each night, papers about my feelings (like a blog!), projects and presentations wherein I basically got to make 'em laugh, show some shiny objects, and make it home in time for my afternoon nap. Not that I glided, but...I certainly wasn't pushing myself towards the Accelerated Sciences. Which we did have. I've heard.

Sure, I stayed up waaay too late working on shows, a fabulous TV series or two, the occasional layout meeting for one of the school's papers (the awesome one)- but those were fun. And I could sleep in until dinner the next day.

But this- this is new. This kinda eyelids-propped-up-by-toothpicks, accidentally-drooling-on-someone-ELSE's-shirt type of sleepy? Unheard of. It's so outside the realm of my imagination that, for the past few days, I've been absolutely certain I'm coming down with something horrific.

Sure, having a new kid is exhausting. Work also makes one tired. Owning a home? Absolutely. But- as our baby has slept through the night since one month of age (sorry), the kiddos at work have been Super Helpers, AND nothing has fallen apart on the house recently...I was sure that something else was up.

So I Googled my symptoms.

As it turns out, a combination of fatigue, slight queasiness, tiredness (apparently different than fatigue- I was surprised) and body aches could be indicators of the following:
-Pregnancy (I am not. I promise this. Although, cosmically, I do have it coming for joking about it.)
-Juvenile Diabetes (Or Diabeetus, as Wilford Brimley says. This is most likely not the case, however.)
-Apricot seed poisoning (Hmm.)
-Cherry seed poisoning (!!)
-Clubbed toes (I think I would have put "clubbing of my toes" as a symptom, thankyouverymuch)
-Sudden death (This is a disease? Apparently, a warning sign for this is- I am so serious- "truck accident.")

P.J. suggested that perhaps I was just really tired. I responded with a Fatality from Mortal Kombat. (Okay, not really. I keep forgetting to hold down 'B'.)  I then proceeded to microwave ABSOLUTELY NOTHING- for two minutes- and look around the kitchen for where I put a nonexistent bowl for the next ten. I followed that up by demanding that P.J. make some brownies and, when he awesomely did, I forgot that he wanted to have some of the batter bowl, too. Yep, I ate the whole thing. Didn't even realize that I had any until he asked me where it went. At this point, so overcome with guilt, exhaustion and, let's be honest, confusion, I began to cry like my arm was broken AND had just found out that there was no Tooth Fairy. 


I've never seen a guy's jaw drop so fast.


Since then, the past couple of days have been pretty cool. Sure, I'm still totally wiped, but now I have a husband who treats me extraordinarily delicately, kinda like a mental patient. This is not [entirely] necessary, but it has yielded some great dinners- one of which is something we've dubbed "engagement pasta" (nice try, buddy, I'm not falling for that one again)- and some special Jewel trips for yums which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. But make the soul feel good.

Also, when our daughter decided to wake up and say hello waaay earlier than was kind, P.J. went and hung out with her for a bit. This is a) really sweet and b) probably the safer option, as I was swatting at the baby monitor like a wayward alarm clock.

"What is that," I asked, looking for all the world like a stunned, trapped opossum.
"Nora," P.J. said, already holding our diapered and swaddled baby.

Have I mentioned how great he is? He's great.

So today I will make him dinner, pack him a sandwich for tomorrow, do some of his laundry, bathe the child (okay, that last one isn't really for HIM, per se, but she is kinda stinky) and try my darndest to not harm the homestead in any way. It's the little things that make a marriage work.

OH! And before I forget- hahahahaha- it's recently come to my attention that some fans o' the blog (people I'm not even RELATED to!) weren't aware that there's both a Monday and a Thursday posting. It's true. All this- twice a week! My goodness. That's a lot of minutiae and ramblings from a gal who- let's be honest- should really be doing about eighty other things.

Like the dishes.

Or writing something for which she could get paid.

Or- wait a sec- why is the fridge open?