Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to Thursday.

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

Awfully.

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

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

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

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Maybe even let the children join you.

Just like a feral cat!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

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

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

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

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

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

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

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

It's the little things.