Holy Holy Moly.

It's official.

Zuzu is legit.

(In the eyes of Christianity, anyhow, and not in the whole She Doesn't Look Like Anyone Except For Maybe P.J.'s Best Friend Neil A Tad When The Light Makes Her Hair Slightly Reddish- But I Swear She's A Schoeny, Have You Seen Her Mouth kinda way.)

P.J.'s awfully excited.

We had a small baptism yesterday for our secondborn buttercup...and I'm not kidding you, she was an incredibly good baby. Which is no surprise. But it's still really nice when it occurs publicly.

When Father Bevin poured the water over her head (three times), she barely flinched. Although she did give a Look that seemed to say- Oh, please stop that. Soon-ish. Whenever, really. Oh, forget it- you're fine.

She didn't even mind when Nora "blessed" her forehead rather roughly. (To make sure it stuck, I imagine.)

Her godfather Nat (one of my oldest pals) and her godmother Dorrie (P.J.'s sis) did a really good job of a) getting Susannah to smile, and b) making sure the baptismal candle didn't tip/light anyone aflame.

"I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!"

Zu wore the Schoeny fam christening gown (which, when Nora wore it, inspired my sister Rachel to blurt out "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!) It is rather eyelet lacy. And there was no hope of getting the bonnet on Susannah's head.

Let's just say that we waited so long to baptism this kiddo that there was a very real chance she would answer all of the priest's questions herself.

But she looked absolutely sweet and wonderful. And her after party dress (obvie) was a sailor dress.

Because nothing says I Now Know Jesus like an embroidered anchor.

Our families did an awful lot of work. (I think my Mom got off the tarmac and already had two things on the stovetop and hummus in the Cuisinart. And no one complained.)

Monkey bread, a.k.a. Eating A Bowl Of Sugar.

P.J.'s mother washed everything in the kitchen twice. (Because it got dirty repeatedly. Not because she thinks my house it filthy. Although- man, does she think my house is filthy?)

Two of my sisters came to play- which is always super fun- and I repaid the favor by making them sleep on the couch/on a half-inflated air mattress.

My gal (both gals, really) were spoiled rotten by family and our smallish group of pals. And I've already consumed my caloric intake for the month.

Which means...nothing, really.

Because I'm still about go do some damage to leftover Baptismal Quiche.

Can someone superimpose Rachel's head in here? 

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.

Hint- If You Give Nora A Sip, Don't Expect It Back.

We're heading back to Chicago in a little bit- and you'll all be thrilled to know that I forgot only the barest minimum of necessities. We made do. (Although Nora might beg to differ, as one of the forgotten items was her hair detangler spray, and Miss Nimbus had to suffer through plain ol' conditioner and combing and yelling.)

As time is of the essence, the car is not even remotely packed, and I'm not entirely certain where Susannah is, I'll just post a smattering of my fave pix from the weekend (so far).

There was a dance party on Saturday night with seven aunts and uncles, seven cousins of Peej's generation, nine cousins of the next generation, (and even two yet to be born cousins- not mine, oh no, not mine- calm down, interwebs). This is a rough count, mind you, and I don't even have pix of this stompy li'l affair. It was too bizzy.

There was a Mardi Gras parade downtown, slightly dampened by the fact that Nora was a) overtired, b) cold, and c) terrified of the clown-like dancers. We left a little early.

But, as always, there was way too much great food, and no shortage of loving arms for Nora and Zuzu.

I even got a nap.

Which will always render any weekend a roaring success.

Malt? Don't mind if I do. (Mini P.J. strikes again.)

Baby Greta and Baby Zuzu- two months apart and holding hands.

Hannah holding the babe- best Mother's Helper EVER.

Stay close, Dad. Those clowns might come back.

Santa Baby.

Oh Mom. Zuzu looks odd.

Merriest of Christmases, everyone! Or rather, a superbly happy Boxing Day to you all. I love boxes, boxed lunches, boxty, the boxstep, and Oscar De La Hoya.

Our Christmas Eve was spent at a church in the Berkshires that we don't regularly attend, but which was quite nice, nonetheless. There were carols, there were lessons, there were snacks and books shared over the pews by miniature cousins, there were inopportunely timed 'Amens' from smallish blond children, and there was at least once incredibly good (and sleepy) infant in her finest velour duds- complete with ruffled headband.

My Dad read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas to all of his grandchildren...with extremely varied reactions. There were boys who completely dug every single line. There were girls who pointedly disagreed with the entire endeavor. There was one snoozer. But- and most importantly- it was all captured on film, including a poignant moment where I yelled at my biggie daughter to sit on the couch RIGHT NOW. (Fa la la.)

After the kids fell asleep, my father found and played a video from Christmas morning, 1991. (My finest year, fashion/face/hair-wise.) A few filmed moments were pretty incredible:
-The fact that someone- quite possibly my folks- actually gifted my 4 year-old twin sisters tinny microphones attached to tape decks.
-That my '91 Era Dad received a flannel which he recently gave to my '11 Era husband...which would have blown the mind of '91 Era Keely, playing with a porcelain doll recently positioned on the shelf of '11 Era Daughter.
-And the weird realization that an awful lot of [colorful] pens were presented back and forth that year.

On Christmas morning, my daughters actually slept in. Which was completely overruled by my nephews' excited pre-dawn pre-game.

And guess what? Santa really did a number on the under-6 set. But apparently he needlessly overdid it. For Nora was disinterested in ANY other gifts once she spied a [2 buck] Strawberry Shortcake activity book. Really. At least Susannah feigned interest in her teething rings and rainbow sock monkey. Nora was done.

As for me, Santa Husband was pretty darned terrific. Among my gifts were some pretty sweet cards for clothing which- once I get my pre-baby body back (a week from now, tops)- will be used the heck out of, a monogrammed charm for Suzy for my bracelet, a new Nora Roberts novel, and- one of the coolest things ever ever ever- an oversized mug proclaiming me to be the World's Best Mom...

...With "Somehow I Manage" on the opposing side. (Anyone? "Office" fans? What if I made a dramatic shrugging motion while saying it?)

P.J. received a day at a Russian spa/bath in Chicago for a day of relaxation/detox/potential nudity and a pair of hiking boots (which he promptly decided to exchange.) At least one present was received happily. This is better than my usual present to Peej/Peej's immediate return rate.

Nora got a personal DVD player- for all of her personal viewing needs. Susannah got a pewter baby cup and a fascinating number of sock monkeys. (A new red wagon for two is waiting for them under our tree at home- shh...thankfully my girls cannot read/are not fans of my blog.)

And- for real- we were all spoiled by a downright insane number of gifts from sisters, boyfriends, parents, nephews, aunts, uncles, and daughters. Cincinnati giftitude (in the form of delightfully Ohioan food) was shipped in from my in-laws.

I took a bath. And a nap. And read. Ate way too much terrific wonderfulness at the hands of my parents. (Well, their cooking abilities. But I used my hands.)

Suzy's first Christmas was extremely special.

But I'm not surprised- they're all extremely special.

Especially back in '91 when I was (on camera) quite stoked to receive a) a new Barbie (Really, Keely? At 11? Really?), b) hot pink paperclips, and c) shoe deodorizers.

I'm pretty sure there's a lesson in there somewhere.

Deep down.

Also "Lords A'Leaping." I Also Wish You That.

In light of the fact that I am currently traveling through Chicago's luxurious Midway Airport, I'll keep my Christmas greeting brief (yet full of love- and perhaps only a bit of pith):

During this holiday season (and anytime else, really), I wish you cookies without slightly burned undersides, rendering the whole cookie kinda smoky...

...And helpful people. Like mail carriers who remember to close the mailbox on rainy/snowy days. And toddlers who don't remove their boots in public places. Like restrooms. While we're on that note, I wish you more Helpful Toddler and less Public Restroom in general.

I wish you naps. Glorious, snuggly, 3-blanket drowsy naps with nary a responsibility in the world...except maybe to inform someone what kind of beverage you'd like upon awakening. Maybe even the type of nap where a fabulously droney documentary is playing in the background, so you can sleep with the fuzzy knowledge that, by napping on the living room couch, you're still being borderline "social."

I wish you abject joy. The kind of joy that comes from explaining- with as much technical jargon as humanly possible- how exactly Santa Claus works. I hope you have a season where you get to concretely affirm the existence of magic (at least once).  

And lights. And decorations. And really, truly, eye-poppingly crazy displays of holiday cheer that- yeah, sure- are placing obscene amounts of money directly into the pocket of ComEd...but I still wish it for you. Because garish ornamentation at Christmastime makes one feel like a seven year-old. And, for real, is there anything better than being a seven year-old at Christmas?

I wish you love, family (or a decided lack o' family, if that's your happy place), and more than your fair share of nog. (Again, only if you like it. If not- NO NOG.)

And I hope you receive the noisiest, sparkliest, newest, and pokey-eye-outiest toy this side of A Christmas Story.

Oh yeah, and I also wish- as I have since I started writing letters to Santa in 1986- for world peace. (But also the sparkly toy, if that's cool.)

(Merry Christmas.)

Nora Just Learned ALL The Words To 'Jingle Bells.'

Cousins are for hugging.

Well, it's officially the Christmas Season.

It was rung in by the Official 7.5 Hour Gridlock Post-Thanksgiving Trans-Indiana Commute Day (Observed).

Thankfully, Peej and I have been blessed by some pretty rockin' travel companions. I think you'll recognize the archetypes: One likes to read the entire time, occasionally stopping to inquire about snacks. Seated next to her is that one person who always dozes off for entire states, waking momentarily to announce that they'll drive the next leg...before sleeping well into Ohio. Then there's the gal who Just Has A Little Work To Finish Up, but still berates anyone who doesn't acknowledge the stellar harmonies and transitions on her playlist. She also has to pee a lot. Finally, we've got the guy who has taken up the glove thrown down by I-65. And Is NOT Driving Too Fast, Thanks. He also has a positively Rain Man reaction to various townships' gas prices. And will recite and repeat them with regret until the vehicle passes into a better county with even cheaper gas. WHY DIDN'T WE STOP!?

Thanksgiving itself was a whirl of fabulous meals (and meal reduxes) and insanely good pie (and redux plus a thousand), plus lots of lovely family- and an incredibly large number of Zuzu-holdin' arms. I even took a nap. I got my Graeter's and Skyline fixes, saw Nora lose her shiz with excitement over Cousin Time, and- awesomesauciest of all- saw my mother-in-law onstage in a musical revue. (Due to various Susannah-related constraints, I actually got to see a preview performance and had the whole theatre to myself. No big deal, just the kinda V.I.P. stuff I do in Ohio.)

And now, aside from a few moments of head-cold snarfiness (as a result of germy hands/toys, etc. shoved directly into my ocular cavities), I'm fully ready to embrace the holidays.

My Christmasness cannot be rushed. I'm a big fan of not celebrating one holiday until another has had its due. I realize I'm in an ever-dwindling crew of folks who do not care for Santa sales in August, but it's something I really try to hold to. Among this is my (perhaps misinformed?) disdain for midnight or 4am sales on Black Friday. Why? Well, it's because we're shockingly wealthy. (Oh, P.J. hates that joke. I think it's a rollicker.) Okay, the real reason is this: when I hear of people camping out immediately after Thanksgiving dinner, I wonder if they've done the math. For every hour they're sitting in the cold, waiting to "save" money, is pretty much an hour on the ol' personal time clock. And even if they only value themselves at minimum wage (which I do not- I'm downright six figures on the payroll of Me Time), you really hafta add that total to the items on which you've saved. I'd rather spend extra money than stand in the cold for even an hour.

Okay, I think I just gave my husband an aneurysm.

Besides, if Christmas feels thrust upon me too soon, I'm not really in the whole Christmas spirit thing. And if I'm not listening to fabulous holiday music and sipping a [large] peppermint schnapps on ice while signing cards and comfily shopping online, well then...I might as well just do an automatic transfer into each person's bank account and call it a day. ("Five dollars for you...and five dollars for you...")

But now I'm ready. And I've taken the ol' WishBook and circled pages 4-271 with easily decoded margin notes for optimum toy purchasing. (Okay, only two people will get that reference. And they are both my parents.)

Fa la la.

I Am Also Thankful For Pie.

I am thankful for so many things this year. My family (and their health.) My friends (and their continued awesomeness- and, uh, health.) Bean and Ender- even though they continue to wake us up at ungodly hours to let us know their kitty bowls are half-full. The fact that I get to write every day...and have people sometimes want to see it.

I am excruciatingly thankful for the crazy-easy six hour drive we took yesterday with the girls.

But mostly? I thank God and fate and luck and chance and exceptional timing for these three right here:

(Thanks for reading.)

Happy Thanksgiving.

The New Normal.

Sure thing, Mom.

Things are finally starting to settle into a routine around here.

This is good news, as Susannah is exactly a month old tomorrow and that's a rather long time for a hazy, crazy bit of whirliness.

It's also juuust about long enough for Nora's panic/insanity/full-body-tantrums-every-time-the-doorbell-rings to have run its course. Some might say it's actually a few days too long, but we try not to judge, overmuch.

We're beginning to discover what the New Normal means- which is way different from the New Normal of Oct. '09 (and waaaay different from the New Normal of Newlywed Oct. '08, triple sigh)- and it's actually pretty nice.

Sometimes Susannah sleeps for five or six hours at night, letting us get more rest than is actually allowed at this stage of the game. Other times she keeps us guessing and wakes up every hour just to say hi. (Hi! Go back to bed!)

The two year-old gets up each a.m. with her Dad- unless, of course, she's spent a solid three hours berating or laughing with her Beanie bears at positively awful hours of the early morning- in which case she awakens at 9am. Or 8:30. Or 6. (Keep 'em guessing, that's her motto!) Then the team of gals waves off Peej, sometimes from the picture window, sometimes from the stairwell, and proceeds to list/negate every breakfast choice offered. Unless it's bacon.

Sometimes "breakfast" consists of the smallest member of the team getting nursed on the kitchen floor by the biggest, with the middle debating whether or not she needs a straw/a diaper/a shoe. Martha Stewart Living, it ain't.

Then there's writing, some paid, some not so much. Nora does her part during these interludes by coloring, puzzling, and stickering the baby. Suzy generally sleeps on me/near me or poops on me/near me. A surprising output of work comes from these sessions.

Occasionally we go out, bringing slightly more stuff than would be needed for a Transatlantic crossing. (That's ALL Zuzu- Nora and I had it down to the science of a wallet, some wet wipes, and Doc Bullfrog. My youngest apparently needs three pairs of jammies to accompany us to the grocery store.) Sometimes we go to a fabulous playgroup. Other times we jaunt to the Middle Eastern bakery to get scolded about how I am carrying the baby.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, with slightly more clothing. Usually. Occasionally I'll try to clean a room while we are still using it. This yields mixed results; sometimes I get depressed at the non-change in the area, other times I'm thrilled its dirtiness is remaining status quo.

Some days are way harder than others, what with varying temperaments (mine included), varying activities, and varying degrees of unmatched socks. The best days, obviously, are those with a minimum of activities, a decent amount of agreement, and a maximum of easily put-away-able laundry.

Then there is mandatory naptime. People always say "nap when the baby naps." Dude, I've been napping- with or without babies- since day one. Sometimes I'll try to squeeze in about twenty more minutes of writing immediately after Nora's book/book/book/song/snuggle/bed routine...but not always. Once Nora is in bed, the baby and I are in bed. (And that is why this will always be the best job, ever, anywhere, Amen.)

Upon waking, there is Jeopardy. Laundry. Glitter. The eight thousandth diaper change- per girl. Books books books. Frequent attempts to kickstart an Arena Rock dance party. The park, the playhouse, harvesting of green tomatoes, and forcefeeding the pacifier to the baby sister.

We make/defrost/order dinner, since the dinner train has pretty much left the station. (Okay, I really miss that part of the Old Normal.)

P.J. returns home and, after waiting for my turn to have his attention (it can be a whiiiile, what with dancing, hugs, and re-enactments of Strawberry Shortcake and pals' escapades), we have dinner. Bathe the girls. Pretend to clean the kitchen. And on nights when N goes to bed at 7:45 and Suzy settles into her room for a lengthy nap...we find that we have a smallish window of time.

In which to fall asleep on the couch.

Okay, so perhaps the New Normal looks a bit like the Old one.

Only with way more socks.

But Who Will Prepare My Latte?

Going A'Work.

We have had non-stop staff here at Chez Schoeny. And it's been great. Crazy and [slightly] hard to get used to [initially], but great.

My Mom flew in the Sunday before Susannah's birthday. She quickly set the kitchen to her order, all the better to stock the freezer with pans, Tupperwares, and Ziploc baggies full of our (okay, mostly mine- but Peej is NOT complaining) favorite foods. Also, there is no laundry hanging out anywhere in our bedrooms or bathrooms. I once saw the woman do a load of laundry with three items. Plus, she got the task of Nora-wranglin' while we jaunted off to have Suzy.

My Dad fixed and built things all over the house, including an incredibly impressive revamp of our laundry/work room. Like, one can now walk into the room and do laundry and/or work. Shelving, storage, and work benches, oh my! This room is also the home of P.J.'s new tool chest. It's an early birthday present from the Flynn side of the fam, and it's the manliest of manly accoutrements. (My Dad went to go heft that thing home, too.)

Bethany came over yesterday, right as my Mom was cabbing it to Midway- and a good thing, too. My Mom and I, while both extremely in touch with our weepy sides, are extraordinarily hesitant to do so in front of "company." (Even though B has a) seen me cry, and b) napped with me.) Thusly, my Mom leaving me forever to flounder in new Mommyhood was not as tragic as it could have been. Bethany followed up this gem by promptly making me a snack, tucking me into the couch with Susannah for a nap, and proceeding to play "restaurant" with Nora for close to an hour. Did I mention that she also brought piping hot lasagna, salad and rosemary bread for supper? (Bethany For Mayor.)

And late last night, my big sis Kate arrived via O'Hare- just in time for my late night lasagna snack. She's spent the a.m. chasing down N.J., dealing with some seriously serious diapers, snuggling Suzy, and giving us presents. There's also talk of taking someone out in the jog stroller if the rain lets up. (I don't know if she means me or the Biggie Bug, but either way- it sounds just lovely.)

This weekend will herald in the Week O' Schoenys, as my in-laws will take charge once Kate leaves...but I'm a little worried what will happen once my built-in staff takes their well-earned rests in the own homesteads. Am I going to have to do laundry? The dishes? Diapers? Who will hold my children when I shower?

Okay, that'll be the first thing to go.

We'll be just fine. And I'll start to be more hands-on with housework, et. al really, really soon.

Maybe after my nap.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig!

The New Normal.

This is the first time- in recent memory- when I've posted this blog with the extremely attentive help of a toddler (hell-bent on showing me each rattle in her sister's collection) and a newborn (hell-bent on making me stare at her face for no urgent reason whatsoever).

Okay, that last issue is totally mine.

Maybe it's the Norco, and maybe it's the wild amount of cooking/cleaning/Mother Hen help I've been getting from my Mom (and my Dad and my husband...) but I think this Two Kid thing is absolutely neato.

Nora has gone from curiosity ("Is that Baby Sister Susenanna?") to horror ("Do you want to hold the baby?" "Oh NOOOO.") to pleasure at having a new baby doll on which to pile hats and scarves and shaky toys. Plus, I held The Little for most of the weekend, freeing P.J. up for pretty much anything The Big could ask of him. Like sitting still and holding her.

Susannah, for her part, is impossibly good. She's mellow, happy as a clam to be held by anyone, and slept for two 4.5 hour stretches last night, waking for a paltry fifteen minute late night snack in between. I like her more than myself right now. I also have a minor obsession with her shock of pale yellow ducky hair. It is awesome and I will cry myself to sleep when it falls out.

Back to the sleep thing. For this kiddo, I had purchased a ridonkulously cheap (five dollars) co-sleeper that slides in bed between the two of us. It's the greatest thing since sliced bread for so many reasons:

a) I am, at heart, a humongo hippie. (Sigh.)
b) The first 17 months of the pregnancy and ending fifteen months are still SO vivid in my mind that it's kinda cool if Peej and I just high-five for a little while.
c) It sure beats the fright fest that was letting newborn Nora loll around between us in the middle of the night. Ah, first time parentude.

So, this co-sleeper business allows me the dual purpose of indulging my selfish desire to not get out of bed all night and the peace of mind that I won't trample her in my sleep. Glorious. Plus, she sleeps exceptionally well in it, which would equal a tremendous amount of sleep for all of us if I were not afflicted with the twice-hourly desire to awaken, wondering a) why she's sleeping so well and b) how she's so goshdarn cute. 'Cause seriously, it's an issue.

We've also been having fun playing around with her nicknames- because, for real, how can you nickname   someone before you've seen them laugh? And while we love the name Susannah, it's an awfully big one for such a teensy brownie bite. (Also- I live to nickname.) Our standard has become Suzy (with a Z, not an Sie, because I want to keep her on her toes. Also, it looks cooler in print). But we've also been rocking the 'Zuzu,' because we apparently adore naming our children after Golden Era Cinema females. (Zuzu's petals, anyone?) 'Miss Mae' has made an appearance, as has the hilariously sleep-deprived choice of 'Shumai.' I think Peej may have just been hungry, though.

And by the way? We love you. It's unreal how wonderful people have been in terms of cards, messages, calls, flowers, food, and sweet offers to take Nora places.

And these aren't even from people who gave birth to me.

(Not entirely, anyway.)

It's fabulous, and would make me feel warm and fuzzy even without the post-op drugs.

Really.

Date Night Month Meets Tired Parents And Toddler

I shall not be moved.

Remember waaay back in the Fall of '09, pre-Nora Junebug Jane, to be exact? We deemed that frantic and aggressively fun time Date Night Month. It was great. It was fulfilling. And- as it turns out- it was a completely unnecessary step for which to greet a new baby. In retrospect, we probably should have saved those pennies for things like diapers, wipes, and boxes of Franzia. (Having a baby is stressful.)

Past helpful knowledge totally disregarded, I've been attempting to repeat the same activities (sorta) with Nora and Peej this month. I call it Oh My God, Let's Do Something Fun With Nora While We Still Have [A Little] Energy Left And She Can Recall SOME Happiness From Her Early Years.

We have largely failed with this. Namely because we are already zonked. Sorry, N.J.

This weekend was an attempt to rectify at least a little bit of this situation.

The Lincoln Square Apple Festival was going on, as was a promotion for a ton of area museums through the Smithsonian (P.J. misses nothing on the internets), so obviously we decided this was a perfect opportunity to take our toddler to the Planetarium. All in the same morning. In addition, the weather alternated between torrential downpour, blazing heat, and frigid winds. So, regardless of the current weather, I had inappropriately dressed/prepared my family/myself. It felt good.

Despite all of this, the day was fabulous. Nora was really stoked to find that her neighbor/bestie Emily was at the fest with her folks. Also that there was a booth with vintage toys for kids to play with. And apple pie slices as big as a smallish child. (Darn you, diabetes! I could have done some damage at this place.) Duck confit was also available, obviously, as well as gargantuan bags of the bestest apples in the Midwest. (I have a serious apple problem lately. Which is only a "problem" if I don't pair them with some carbs. I am such a bore lately.)

We set out to the Adler Planetarium about an hour later than intended, which had the obviously terrific result of a tired kiddo and two Determined Parents. And because I adore my husband, I will not mention the hilarious carnival ride called Rotary Parking And/Or Jockeying With Inept/Aged/Outta Town Drivers. (Think Peej is all laid back charm? Try either taking away his chocolate malt or messing with his driving mojo. He becomes The Hulk in corduroys.)

Onto the museum. Things Nora Liked: Lights, Stars, Running Amok. Things Nora Did NOT Like: Taking Turns, Being Carried, Not Being Able To Touch The Sun.

We'll try again later.

The rest of the weekend was a lovely amalgamation of naps, snacks, Sunday comics on the couch, stellar music in the speakers, and really, really good dinners. Nora had some Emily playtime yesterday afternoon while her folks had a day date (Brilliant! DAY dates!) and everyone went to bed [relatively] early with the appropriate reading material.

We. Are. Hell. Raisers.

(But rested ones. So there's that.)

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.

Baby Brunches And Potential Rodents

How is it Monday already?

Oh right, because the term formerly referred to as "weekend" has been replaced by "super-sonic crazyfest." Aka "summer."

Zumba behind us!

This past crazyfest was especially lovely, as my big sis Kate was in town to boss me around- er- make sure everything got done before The Monkey had his/her arrival. She even threw me (and The Monkey) a sweet brunch at Selmarie in Lincoln Square and hosted a few wonderful friends! Some highlights:

-My salmon scramble.
-The party favor coffee mugs- which I have yet to stop using for every single beverage.
-The enclosed biscottis...brand name THINaddictives. Wundy product. RIDICULOUSLY wundy name.
-Watching the blue-haired flash mob Zumba in the square. "Watching" it.
-Vintage shopping with Kate and convincing her of the necessity of items.

I NEED this.

She was also a massive help getting stuff sorted for the upcoming neighborhood yard sale- for which I have an embarrassing amount of stuff to contribute- and clearing out the rec room downstairs. Which has been a major wish list project for me. For I am a-nestin'. And by "rec room" I mean "musty old apartment second kitchen which has not been not been a functional KITCHEN for years but is in fact a fully operational storage unit." (For the kids playing along at home, do not attempt to turn a multi-unit into a single family home. It is NOT whimsical. It is not.)

Home sweet home.
Also, I am a boat.

She and Peej were a two-person demolition crew for the mammoth Formica island and skinny shelving unit...which- inexplicably- was cemented to the floor. That's right, someone had filled the base of the shelf with cement. And cemented it atop the ceramic tile. And for good measure, they drilled into the tile floor to hold it in place. The countertop, however, was just gently laying on top of the base. No screws, no glues, just hanging out. And when they ripped out the base and- miraculously- chipped away the cement without hurting the tile, what was left was...water damage from the recent monsoon. Underneath the window. Also, a large hole left by gaping baseboards/wavy drywall. (And we all know how I feel about rodent entry points. Psychotically against.) So, uh, the yard sale stuff is all sorted and most of the rec room is neatly organized.

And I'm waiting on a few calls from contractors. (And I'm taking referrals, Chicago peeps.)

But still, it was fabulous to have a sibling in town for the past 48 hours.

Even though I think my fam's gonna stop returning my calls soon.

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

There was a fountain here a sec ago.

Emma and Dan have left. Boo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, I miss my sister and her boyfriend.

(Hey, brotherrr.)

My kinda town. And beach.

My youngest sister is in town!

Em and her boyfriend Dan have been here since Tuesday night. It's part visit, part graduation trip for Dan, and part Nora seeing the people that go with the faces in her picture book. (Win/win/win.)

It's pretty fun having people from out of town- especially if said people are sisterish types- because it allows me the chance to do something for which I so rarely find the time: be a tourist.

Yesterday we spent the afternoon at Montrose Beach. It was Nora's first real time at any of the city beaches (not counting our completely overprotective windswept panic fests of her early youth) and she completely dug it. With a plastic cup, even. Emily and Dan lucked out with the weather; at 100 degrees (by the lake!), the scorching sun actually made the frigid water a refreshing swim. It was crowded but not crazy, and we had a pretty sweet perch right by the water...where I could easily convince Nora that all of the passing balloon and cotton candy sellers were showing fun things to wave at. (I love this age.) We picnicked (and ate more than a little sand), went swimming (to wash off a goodly bit of the face sand), and chilled on our towels, where some of us determinedly crayoned despite the melted wax mixing with sand.

We drove home wearing swimsuits, completely wind tousled, sun baked, and boiling hot, and each of us took our second (chilly) shower of the day. Okay, one of us took a bath. And then most of us napped. (Seriously, who's on vacation, here?)

Dan and Em have a pretty full dance card of stuff to see and do this week- some of the museums are even free for the next few days- and N.J. and I are going to try to get in on as much Chicago action as we can. Later today the gals and I are joining them for corn dogs and cheddar curly fries at Navy Pier (okay, maybe that was MY suggestion), and tonight is Dan's requested din of deep dish at Gino's East. (Nora will LOVE that drawing one's signature on the walls is not only acceptable behavior, but in fact encouraged.)

The stormy skies of the next few days will most likely not be a deterrent for them. After all, they're in their twenties. For seriously. (My thirties friends are nodding.)

I'm sure we'll still manage to squeeze in some more backyard barbecues and beers [for everyone else, sigh] under positively balmy nighttime skies. More day trips to some of Chicago's most fabulous neighborhoods. And plenty more iconic food.

You know, the stuff that makes living here worthwhile?

And I will leave you with this last little glimpse into what life in Chicago is all about...

...my daughter yelling (and bossing) at the waves for more! More! More!

I love summer.

Back to reality...and the inflatable giraffe pool.

Happy Day After Memorial Day, everyone!

Or, to The Monkey, Happy 21 weeks.

To Peej- Happy Day Back At Work...

And to me, Happy Oh My God, There's A Lot Of Laundry Here- and How Long Was That Sippy Cup Stuck Under The Passenger Seat, Anyway Day. (Observed.)

Some weekend highlights: Family, naps, pooltime, Skyline cheese coneys, miniature people in sundresses, multiple improbable yet highly successful mammoth group photos, a stunning black tie wedding, dancing with my husband...and other people's husbands, more food, more family, and one more nap.

A note on all of the foodliness- my in-laws are terrific cooks. They throw together a mean meal. (Or seven.) Cincinnati has some of the best fast food options in the nation. The wedding meal featured filet mignon with lobster ON TOP OF IT. (As I said to Peej- lobster again?) The passed hors d'oeuvres were so intensely good that I flirted with a waiter and somehow got him to seek me out each time the cheese puffs came out of the kitchen. (No big deal, you're saying? I'm five months pregnant. That requires a serious A game.)

Also, a tiny missive to the wedding bands of the world- When you start a reception with a live version of 'Brick House,' it makes me seriously question your intention to have this party "go all night."

Back to the family.

There was a cousin bath. (Of just the Little Littles. The Middle Littles helped while the Bigs looked on and the Parents attempted to shampoo.)

The paparazzi are EVERYWHERE,

There were two really yummy brunches. One featured a hammock. (For the Middle Littles, obvie.)

Just about at capacity.

We (in Peej's immediate family) cleaned up pretty nicely. And most of us stayed still. (Looking at you, Schoeny.) That joke is even funnier in this context.

Pic courtesy of Leah Brady Photography

And between P.J.'s siblings and their first cousins, Nora hung out with seventeen other little relatives this weekend. Most of them were blonde. This is also where the fabulous sundresses came in. Finally, one last pic just to illustrate two incredibly important points:

Also by Leah Brady!

My daughter is positively edible.

And I smile way too hard.

Birthdays are for memories.

My youngest sisters turn 24 today. I, frankly, am shocked.

Shocked because I'm pretty sure I'm still 24, and they're definitely...a year or two younger than me. Or so. Ballpark.

Also shocked because a good part of my childhood was spent doing really, really fun things that had incredible potential to damage one or the both of them. (And can't twins feel each other's wounds and stuff like that? So- definitely both of them.)

Do NOT leave us alone with her!

For example.

Once, when I was babysitting for the pair of six year-olds, I got a rather important phone call. (From an unnamed eighth grade boyfriend. Fear not, I was also in eighth grade.) Before taking the call, I instructed the two of them to stay inside; directions that they immediately disregarded and that I immediately forgot to enforce.

This was way back in the day- so when you got a phone call, you were practically married to the one spot near the kitchen counter where you picked up the phone.

It couldn't have happened this quickly, but the next thing I remember is hearing the THWACK of a branch snapping, a scream from one or both of them, and- once I stuck my head outside the sliding glass door- the image of Rachel flyyyying through the air. And hitting the ground. With a branch impaled through her armpit.

Thankfully, a nice neighbor lady/doctor was walking her dogs past the house at the time and it all ended just fine. Plus, Chelly now has a simply incredible scar. But Emma's scars might be a bit more of the psychological variety.

Moments before dropping Emily.

They were also the subjects of my short-lived career in photography. I would thumbtack their baby blankets around various pieces of furniture and surround the girls with desk lamps. They would then be forced to hold objects I deemed worthy of immortalization: silk flowers, important-looking books, and my stuffed animals. Once set up, I borrowed my parents' camera and took a positively blinding number of shots. Most of them were awful, especially the ones towards the end of the roll where they would be blinking, wincing, and looking a little glazed.

The twins were my only clients when I was a detective in my bedroom closet. They were the only ones who could fit in there with me.

I forced them to stay under the dining room table for hours when we were bears. I named them Cubby and Cubs and thought myself quite clever.

There were talent shows where I not only told them what their "talent" was, but I would also cut them off mid-act and make them go serve people from the Fisher-Price kitchen. (You wanna act? You've got bus your own table.)

I once tried to make Rachel swallow her own hand.

I left Emily in a pile of my stuffed animals and went out to ride my bike, completely forgetting that I'd told her not to move.

Despite all of these atrocities, they've turned into stellar human beings. (Also, inexplicably, I've had a really successful career as a nanny.)

Rachel is one of the wittiest people I know- yet she rarely makes me feel dumb. Nor has she attempted to make me swallow my own hand. (Yet.)

Em is the person to whom I've emailed pictures of entire outfits- begging her to tell me what to wear. And despite my teasing of her hair into absolutely marvelous pigtails...she helps me.

Chel lives in NYC and acts and auditions and tutors for the SATs and knows the best place to have anything, ever.

Emily lives in Cambridge and saves the world and once lived on a boat and is the nation's greatest dancer and dissects lyrics with a surgeon's precision.

We usually bring Kate, too!

So...happy birthday, gals. Despite my outward attempts toward the contrary, you've clearly done a-ok with yourselves- to which I can only respond with these two phrases:

I'm sorry.

And you're welcome.

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.

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.

Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.