Chicago Is- Briefly- All Full O' Summer.

For the uninitiated, this is what the first 80 degree day in Chicago looks like.

To be fair, this is also what the first 68 degree day in Chicago looks like. (By 55 degrees, we've thrown winter coats into deep storage.) So yeah, it's just as euphoric as it looks.

Take that, nine months of winter!

Free Day At The Adler Planetarium!

...Well, at least it was for us. We got the elusive CPL Adler free pass ('cause seriously, that thing is never there. The only available passes are usually the ones with free admission anyhow...or the museum of surgical science, which I'm gonna take a pass on for my Under-3 set, yeah?)

Ain't it always the way? You trek across town and all
your kids wanna do is play with the Planetarium's blocks.

"Mom! They have BLOCKS!"

Okay, they have a riding moon rover, too.
That's pretty boss.

...And we definitely don't have a rocket simulator
in our house. Yet.

Blurry for three reasons:
1) She's a baby, perched precariously on a rocket launcher.
2) The rocket launcher shakes.
And 3) OMG SO EXCITING MAMA AAAAAH!

Too Busy For Hygiene.

Crawling towards soap.
The dirt makes her blurry.

My laziness has reached new heights. Or lows. (Let's go with lows, since I'm currently on the floor.)

This weekend was truly fun. Exhausting fun. But- let's put it into perspective, here. I wasn't scaling mountains with the girls strapped to my back. There were no death-defying underwater cave expeditions. (That's next weekend.) There was just good ol' fashioned Why Is Everything Covered In Food fun. The kind that you get from having two little kids (or one really sloppy husband or maybe a smallish dog).

Friday night found us with friends in Highland Park and then at Ravinia, picnicking with N & S and enjoying the croony croons of Lyle Lovett. (Two people snored on our blanket before the night was over. And it's not the two you'd think. I wasn't one of them. I've given away too much.) Our girls didn't get bathed that night. And they kinda could've used one. Maybe two. But by the time we got them home, they were asleep in our arms, and- this cannot be stated enough- we are lazy, lazy people.

Saturday brought us a BBQ with lovely pals (and their son, whom Nora informed me was going to buy her a ruby. A red one). The kids were having such a fun time playing with garden hose parts that I didn't have it in me to corral my girls for a bath. That's right, by this point you could've written your name on their forehead dust. Again, they fell asleep in our arms and we promised that we'd bathe them in the morning. Before breakfast, we told ourselves. Maybe we'd even wake them early.

But wouldn't you know it? They slept in[ish]. And it didn't make sense to bathe them in the midst of waffle-eatin'. And then the morning got away from us in a flurry of phone calls and a game that Nora calls "cupboard," whereupon she empties a section of the room onto the floor. (Did you see via my Facebook page that she also invented a game called "storage?" Nature vs. Nurture, folks. Nature vs. Nurture.) I also got wrapped up in the task of spackling, sanding, and re-painting parts of Nora's room, due to the gaping holes created when we moved baby furniture out, big kid furniture in, and when I realized that I had done a pretty junky job of some of it in the first place.

***Side note: There should be a manual that describes the various stages of fixer-upper homeownership, much like grief. One of those chapters should detail how a goodly month of your life will be spent undoing the subpar work that you yourself did to the place upon moving in. Maybe a footnote could be included about not using a drywall screw as a drillbit? Maybe?***

Anyhoo- it was Sunday night and I was fully exhausted from the act of neglecting my children's hygiene all weekend. I also had less than no desire to cook- and even less to clean. Because we do the trade-off; whomever cooks, the other cleans. Except that sometimes it's more work to put away the eight gazillion spoons and lids that P.J. utilizes on his nights than it would be to just defrost a pizza. But I couldn't even manage that.

I convinced Peej that we should order Chinese from the place down the street because the girls would love it (which is a lie: they are firmly ambivalent on the ordering of Chinese food), and because we could totally swing it in the budget this week (also mostly false, but I made up my mind then and there to not buy anything questionable online in this coming week). He agreed. Because he loves me. (And also because he didn't have it in him to cook/clean, either.) So we laid out a blanket, fed the children in front of the TV, and watched an episode of Wishbone. (For my husband is a media superdemon who can find any show he wishes just by thinking about it.)

After supper, we shook off the girls onto the blanket, shook off the blanket itself, and tossed the whole thing into the washing machine. (Not the girls, just the fabrics. Although I'm sure the kids could've used detergent by this juncture.) And then we finally finally washed our children in a bathtub in our house.

They now smell great.

And if you totally disregard the fact that we failed to leave the house on Sunday and in fact watched television from the '90s with our questionably young children...it was kinda like we went camping.

Camping's the best.

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.

Travel Tips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You missed a crumb there, kid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

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

Probably The First Truly "Wordless" Wednesday.

Everyone Should Have Fireworks Commemorate Their Swimsuit Choices.

Haven't we all had a weekend like this?

Some weekends are just unexpectedly nice. Even when you've got nothing planned ahead of time; except- ahem- for a lengthy To Do list involving lumber, shelving, and copious amounts of storage for one's husband. (For his stuff, rather. He doesn't need to go into storage. He can stay right out here in the open. As long as he finishes his To Do list, that is.)

On Saturday, I braved Marshall's to view their picked over, off season swimsuits. (Also, why is it considered No Longer Summer on July 7th? Color me confused.) The remnants of the "season" were hung on one rack, all inside out and [incorrectly?] marked 2XL. But I am not so easily deterred. Besides, being as my maternity suit might not jive for this summer, I really needed a new one.

(Marshall's was a fun crowd that day. Actual overheard convo between a mother and her teenaged daughter:
Mom (holding up a swimsuit): Oh, honey, this might look cute with the bottoms from last year!
Daughter (rolling her eyes): Which ONE? There were SO MANY from LAST year.
Don't worry, America, I decked her for you.)

Anyway, I overcame such hurdles as yicky angst (other peoples') and physical limitations (my own). For instance, on the two-piece bathing suits, the security tags went through the cup of the tops and the hip of the bottoms. Binding them irrevocably together. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not magic.

Despite this, I managed to come away with two swimsuits. TWO. Like I'm afraid of being photographed in the same one twice during my [sadly nonexistent] St. Bart's weekend. But here's the kicker- they were both bikinis. And I assure you that they were not of the 2XL variety. (But they were inside out. And extremely painful to try on, due to the inappropriately placed security tags.)

And once I got them home, turned them right-side out, and tried them on again sans metal stabby devices, they still fit. (Even better, in fact.) It felt awfully good to feel decent in any swimsuit within a year of having had Zuzu, let alone a bikini- something that I hadn't rocked since my honeymoon. (And before then...never. I was kind of a tankini girl.)

It just goes to show you. Eating right, exercising...and stressing your own face off while your house and sewer system collapses around you just melts those pesky pounds away!

Later that night, I found myself as the date of my good pal Sara to watch a musical- and attempt to order drinks from a phone app. (WE LIVE IN THE FUTURE.) She was successful. My phone wouldn't lemme. (I think P.J. may have found a way to block me. FOR HE LIVES IN THE FUTURE, TOO.)

Yesterday was just a mess o' awesome: tons of writing during various people's naptimes, backyard lolling about on blankets and hammocks and tricycles, a nap for ME, Rocky's Tacos for lunch, projects with Nora where I actually felt like I was one thousand percent paying attention, and having Susannah happily chew on my face while saying things like "Mama," "Dad," "Ba" (Bean? Bear? Bananagrams?), and Zhjee. (Which, obvie, means Geo. Her monkey. She's clearly a genius.)

Weekends like this are almost a reward for all of the janky stuff that the first half of this year brought. And it's hardly even detracted by the sonic booms coming from my alley as hilarious kids (adults?) ricochet impossibly loud fireworks down the block. Barely even noticeable. And it certainly doesn't take the shine off the fact that I FIT INTO TWO BIKINIS, YOU LOUD FIREWORKERS, and I don't even mean at the same time.

Maybe they're just celebrating for me.

That must be it.

Nothing But The Best.

It's official- Susannah is a Chicagoan. Not because she's been to the lake or complained about the heat or had deep dish...but because she attended her first Parking Lot Carnival. 

And she really, really liked it.

Yes to everything!

Nora, quite the daredevil lately, happily fulfilled her longstanding dream of "CAN I DRIVE THE CAR IN THE FRONT SEAT AND HOLD THE STEERING WHEEL?!" (This was surprising for two reasons: 1) She eked by on the height requirement. I think she was actually stretching. And 2) Not ten minutes prior, she had clung to me on the carousel, telling me she didn't like her horse any longer.

I am still somehow in the backseat! 

Nora and I waved at the townspeople (like the toothless chain-smoker who offered me parenting advice and the girl selling the four dollar corndog). I liked this ride. It made me feel like a giantess.

Hi, townspeople.

And Nora eventually really liked the carousel. Because- come on- it's a carousel. And this horse is bringin' it. (Also, are you shocked at how many pictures I'm featured in?)

The horse is shocked, too.

Zuzu had her first corndog. Don't let the sleepy eyes fool you. She and I "shared" one. I got maybe three bites in before she almost ate my hand.

No, really. Take your bite. I'll wait.

And we brought this guy, too. We let him do that all-too-male thing of plummeting to the earth for no discernible reason. Boys. 

I'm pretty sure this voids our policy.

After a weekend like that (oh, who am I kidding, it was two hours), I'm ready for a rest. Maybe a corndog. Corndog first, then a rest. 

Happy Monday.

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.

Sum-Sum-Summertime.

I should really just start calling Wednesdays This Week In Instagram.

Tuesday Is No Longer The Weekend.

I am failing to understand why she is no longer in Chicago.

Please pardon the fact that I did not post yesterday morning: I was having way too much of a weekend to be bothered with things like computers (and showers).

My college bestie came to visit, and we proceeded to engage in activities that our 19 year-old selves would've popped eyeballs over. For instance, pushing a double stroller through a tree-lined neighborhood. Convincing a toddler to finish her corndog. Asking (for the thousandth time) if anyone needs to use the potty.

Maybe that last one isn't so different.

A baby's hours are not unlike a collegiate's.

We also did some very grownup things, like getting drinks at The Violet Hour. And falling asleep on the couch in front of a movie.

And thanks to that same bestie, Peej and I were able to go out for an anniversary dinner at Schwa (because my husband transcends limitations like Impossible To Get Reservations At and Volatile Chef Who Sometimes Decides Not To Open Said Restaurant)- but that stellar dinner is another post in the making. And everyone already knows how much I adore my supra-cool husband.

And even though we utterly failed at finding beach parking (but witnessed the absolute worst of humanity in the form of a U-turn cutoff, stolen parking spot, and subsequent terrible behavior in front of their own kids), we still enjoyed the gorgeously hot weather and exceptional company.

Only Auntie Kivvy will do.

So many, many thanks to the men and women who gave their lives to provide not only a long weekend's break but to keep our country safe. Which frees me up to write about completely inconsequential things like what I ate for my nine course meal. (Black truffles.)

As Nora said- Oh, thank you soldiers.

While she devoured a rapidly melting cup of ice cream.

But it was from the heart.

Grateful. And full of sugar.

Green Means Fun, Darnit!

Sorry, Zuzu, it's picture time.

This was the best summer holiday I've ever had for St. Patrick's Day.

Because it was ninety degrees outside.

(I did, however, have a momentary fear for all of the revelers. Irish holiday plus Saturday plus downright 4th of July weather conditions? Happy, drunken, glittery folks being swept downstream in the Chicago river. Wearing skimpy tops proclaiming bold statements. Perhaps even singing.)

Our festivities were way more low-key. It would be hard not to be. (Even with the ten children under seven years of age, it was quieter than anything going on a few 'hoods south. Even when they brought out the kazoos. And even after the sugar. Sugar and kazoos and ten little ones. Still quieter.)

We had the usual corned beef and cabbage. (I did, however, have no less than two people tell me that it reminded them of their Irish grandma's meals. Which could be good or bad, I suppose. Irish people do have a way of boiling dishes to death. Mine, however, is always fantastic. The secret is a brown sugar and Dijon mustard glaze- I've said too much.)

Boden hugs the Zu. She approves.

There was a potentially unwise amount of Harp, Smithwick's and Guinness. (And for someone who doesn't drink a ton of beer, a wall o' beer in the fridge is more than a little daunting.)

Picnic blankets and lawn chairs graced the [green!] backyard. For, as previously stated, it was midsummer.

We even had a glorious tiramisu cake, courtesy of a completely wise choice made by a four year-old dude. (Thanks, Calder!)

The baby wore a green tutu and a sweet onesie proclaiming her to be "A Wee Bit Irish." (Thanks, Annie!) The girl wore a green top and belted denim skirt and promptly announced that she would not be in any photographs. We agreed, but told Susannah that she did not have such an option.

Uncle Nat snuggles Suzy, Nora
accidentally gets her picture taken,
and Boden looks on in abject horror.

It was a lovely weekend of friends and family and over-eating- made all the more awesome by P.J.'s bro and his kiddos staying for the past few days. (Trains and parks and bistros and museums and picnics, oh my!)

Mondays are always tough, especially after a jam-packed few days. (Why do you think so many kittens have to Hang In There and Don't Do Mondays? Because the day is so universally rough, that's why.)

But I'm ready to face this week with energy and zest.

Powered by the remaining tiramisu in the fridge.

Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

It'd be great if you'd point that
camera somewhere else, yeah?

I may be the first person to actually be driven insane by spring fever.

My normal state of being is fairly tightly wound. I'm cheerful and playful, but I'm also borderline OCD. (Undiagnosed, actually, so there's a rather good chance they'd be all like- borderline? You are textbook. A neatly bound textbook, placed alphabetically and color-coordinatedly in a descending size row.)

These orderly tendencies keep me firmly planted in the day to day business of running a household, raising smallish people, and staying on task with completely unpredictable writing assignments. I make lists. Loads of them. (Those descend in size and color and stuff, too.) When I clean, for instance. Or when I section off [small amounts of] time to write (even if the writing is just "the the the pfbbbbbt"). Even stuff I do with the girls during yicky weather; I put museum free days in my calendar, make dates with pals so we can climb on their furniture as opposed to our own, and determine which days will be spent at the library (so we can also pay the unfair fines levied by power-hungry librarians. For example).

But this weather is destroying me.

It has been so unseasonably fantastic in the normally frigid city of Chicago (seriously- negative 20 wind chills is nothing new for March), that I'm not truly sure which end is up anymore.

It was eighty degrees yesterday. And sunny. At the same time. Out of doors.

During the past few months, Wednesday morning would mean some quiet activities with Nora, some writing while Susannah napped, and toilets. All things bathroom would be cleaned on Wednesday.

BABIES NEED HATS!!

Yesterday, however, it was a solid seventy degrees by 9am. Obviously, we had to go outside and marvel and try not to stare directly at the sun with our mouths agape. Actually, we went to the Nature Preserve in  Peterson Park. We were joined by our friends Angie and Emily and we had the best time ever. (Even when Suzy decided that she was DONE- ten minutes in- and Nora fell backwards off of a log...best time ever.) We came home, the girls were zonked, and I was so flummoxed by the morning's fresh air that I promptly did nothing of note until they woke up. And then I got all stressed like- darned kids aren't giving me any free time. I had time. I just apparently didn't have brain.

And it's been like this all week. We're so confused by the nice weather that we keep going outside and having a fabulous time.

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

I'm behind on my writing and my cleaning and my projects and I do not believe anyone has fed the cats. (And today's their 8th birthday! Happy birthday, Ender and Bean! I'll feed you so soon!)

You think you've got problems.
I've got no arms.

But it's pretty hard to stay grumpy about a boggling amount of unfolded laundry (and/or a potentially dangerous shower mold) when one's cheeks are pleasantly flushed and freckled, and when one's blonde children have faces that smell like apple juice and sunshine. (Yes, both of them. Even the infant. It's a long story.)

It feels like a test. Will she snap before the summer if: The dishes harden in the sink? The towel smells suspiciously like someone has peed on it? The cat hair actually stands and slinks away?


I've never been very good at tests.

But summer- that I've been good at. So I'll work on it.

(After I close these taunting, ajar, cabinet doors.)

And Now...We Sleep.

There is so much. There is always so much. Will you remind me of this in the dark days of early Chicago March when I want to chew my own face off with stir-craziness/no one returns my phone calls? (I had never previously believed those two items to be related. I now see the error of my ways.)

The last handful of days can be broken down into three very specific events:

We're not leaving, are we?

End O' The Cape (For Me, For Now).
It was hard to leave the mammoth vacation "cottage," the pre-made coffee (and brekkie) in the kitchen, the eighty extra sets of hands to tend to Nora/unwedge me from clearly too-low beach chairs, and all the nightly games- even if there were multiple cheaters. (Cheaters!)

It was extra super-duper hard to leave the beach where I played as a kid. Especially since the water was so warm and the waves were so gentle and and and...

Nora felt much the same. She thoroughly enjoyed what she termed "potato chip" waves. Meaning they were salty. Meaning she digs salt. Shocking.

I feel secure, however, in the knowledge that P.J. knows exactly what type of property (and things to fill said property) he needs to procure within the next- oh, five years to make me completely happy. I'm not pushy. I can wait.

Then, since Schoenys do not believe in dead air, that brings us to:

The Yard Sale To End All Yard Sales (Please).

This was Nora's way of helping.

In which, despite crazy planning (on my part) and crazy manpower (on Kate and P.J.'s), we made a WHOPPING TEN DOLLARS. But Keely- you ask- wasn't the fee to participate in the neighborhood yard sale that exact same amount? T'was. I suppose the ten dollars went towards the three red balloons that popped in the sun (an hour into the sale- AUSPICIOUS) and bus fare to keep people out of our 'hood. That's only a guess. I even Craigslisted the sale, but somehow even the mention of all of our interior doors for sale didn't entice. (Whatever, yard sale losers- they are awesome doors.) And even the rock bottom price of ten cents for any single thing (or a bag full) didn't draw the crowds. For there were no crowds. None. We had a few folks walk by and scoff at our perfectly nice items that we really didn't want. I almost yelled at someone that I was sorry I couldn't offer him money to take my things. But I didn't. That would be bad for business. I'm just kidding- there was no business.

Guess what, Salvation Army? Happy birthday. Enjoy your espresso grinder and bag of shoes.

Bringing us to...

Tomato thief.

Lyle Lovett Plays At Ravinia For Keely.
We had missed the show for the past two years- the first being when I was pregnant with Nora and had inexplicably passed out in slumber on the kitchen floor an hour before we were supposed to leave, and last year when he played at the Morton Arboretum. And besides ticket and parking prices, we were expected to buy a day pass to the Arboretum. And drive for like eleventy billion years. Nosankyou.

But this year, flush with our yard sale pennies, we took Nora and enough food and activities to start a camp for hungry toddlers with attention disorders.

On the way we got to say an all-too-brief hello to Molly n' Lucas n' Peyton, a lovely fam for whom I used to nanny. (I started with Luke when he was two weeks old and now he's starting second grade, making me... about twenty three years old. Yes.)

And there are few things as lovely as sitting with one's fam on a cool summer night, surrounded by lilting music and too much food, snuggling with a crazy tomato-fiend of a toddler and a really cute husband pretending to pretend to sleep for the benefit of said daughter (but sneaking in an actual muffled snore here and there). And when you add in the visual of that toddler feeding herself cookies off of the nose of a Beanie Bear (and then tucking herself into bed under the low picnic table) and later dancing with one's husband (complete with toddler in backpack) to the final encore under a starry sky...well, that adds up to one pretty decent life you've got goin'.

Even if no one wants my darned Kenneth Cole messenger bag.

Just Beachy.

I am still on vacation. And it is great. Despite monsoon-like rainstorms for the first two days and near frozen bedroom conditions (due to a super eager a/c system and more than one family member with a predilection towards extreme body temps), we've had a stellar time. And so have my Mom and Dad and sister and her husband and their three kids and my sister and her boyfriend and her friend and my sister and her friend (and various day trips) and my mother-in-law and my husband's cousin and her daughter and my Dad's brother and his son and my sister's godfather and some family friends and some other family friends and lots n' lots n' lots of food.

But since I care about everyone, I won't make you all wait to hear about my most embarrassing of moments until after I've returned home to Chicago. Oh no, I will list two of them here.

Twice today I've had to be bodily helped out of my beach chair. This is because, in order to soak up as much of the elusive sun as is humanly possible, I've repeatedly positioned my chair (in the waves) towards the actual sun. For much of the day, this meant I was facing backwards, leaning into the actual, sloping sea. And wet sand- as it is wont to do- grabs ahold of flimsy beach chairs and sucks them downwards. And backwards. Couple that with very little abdominal strength (and a center of balance that is questionable at best) and you've got the makings for some pretty decent slapstick.

That visual not enough for you? How about me, curled in a fetal position, atop an inner tube and under a [baby's] beach umbrella, (with a towel rolled up to support my belly on the sand), sleeping with an open mouth and burning tops of toes? Throw in my red gingham maternity suit and I am a CAUTIONARY TALE to promiscuous teens everywhere. Or, more specifically, on the beach of Gray Gables.

And on that note- some pictures.

Seafood and faux hawks.

Safety first. Always stay close to shore.

That's right.

Sure, I'll try a Newton.

Come ON, Nora.

Schoenies Go East

On vacay. Back soon. Havin' a great time. No, really.

Love, The Guy Getting Up With The Toddler Each A.M., The Bitsy Who Is Not Sure About Those "Tides," and The Gal Who Leaves No Food On Trays.

We Love The Summer