Is that not the best short fiction title EVER?

I was not kidding.

I've recently begun a new project.

Which means I've been talking about it nonstop and whining about it to my big sister.

But not so much actually "doing" it. (We all have our process, right?)

And it's a big undertaking; I'm going to attempt to scan and file every single document of importance ever, so that future generations can marvel at my utter inability to throw away a napkin.

Picture this- I've kept a scrapbook binder of STUFF since middle school. One for each year. I am now 31. And I've been keeping one for Nora since her birth. She's gonna be two this year. Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm getting some pretty scary exponential numbers in my head here. (Okay, on my fingies.)

Plus, I've been watching an awful lot of Clean House lately...and it's always the same. Women who don't have a problem, confronted with their problem, crying about how they didn't know they had a problem, and later yelling at the people who are trying to take their problem stuff away to the Salvation Army. Television magic, sure, but it hit a couple of crowded nerves. (My elbows were resting on binders and scrap boxes at the time. Scrap boxes, you ask? Oh, that's when she's too lazy to actually rubber cement or three hole punch something- and just shoves it into a random shoe box for later sorting. I could open the worst Foot Locker ever.)

It got me thinking. This kind of keepsaking is a type of vanity, isn't it? Like I'm thinking to myself, not only is my stuff amazing, but the trajectory of my life has been so unreal awesomesauce that people I don't even know will want to analyze my dating history. And who thought I was great enough to send me a postcard from Rome that one time. Or ponder the significance of the one Highland School Field Day ribbon, circa 1987. (None. Everyone got one.)

Not to mention all the room this stuff takes up. I already have a lot of- er- collections. Teacups. Handbags. Leather boots. Books n' books n' books n' books. Quantum Leap fan fiction- whatever- we don't have to psychoanalyze it. The point is, I've always entered into any relationship with a bucket o' parts. I married this last guy and we darn near completed a wedding registry. (That's expensive stuff!) And now that I've passed a good chunk of my childhood possessions onto my kid (provided she plays with them correctly), I'm starting to see what's important and what isn't.

Starting to.

My new guideline is this: if- God forbid- there were a mammoth fire tomorrow, what personal documents would I be devastated to lose? (I have to keep this hypothetical situation strictly to random documents. The idea of a real, Lose Everything kinda fire makes me want to run around screaming with armloads of knicknacks, Ender and Bean, and that new pink armchair I love. Nora's got new sneakers- not only can she follow me outside, but she can grab my Kate Spade china mugs as she goes.)

The problem- beyond a culture that prides itself on ownership- is that I have an eighth grade-esque love for every single thing I own. It's true. There are very few things in my home to which I'd give a disinterested shrug. (Which would also be odd to see.) I love dreaming over things, organizing them, moving them around, and telling other people how much I adore them. (The things, not the people. If the people don't know how much I love them, well- one can only do so much.) And I realize that we are not our possessions. I know this. I do.

Baby steps.

So. Yes. My plan is to copy every document, save and tag it, and file it on a big ol' external hard drive. That way I can take a walk down memory lane without getting beaned in the head by 1998. (A good year for memorabilia.) Hopefully, that will free me up to toss out napkins and movie stubs, saving room in my ONE scrapbook for truly important things.

I have not yet narrowed down what that may be.

Pretty sure all of my writings penned around second grade need to be immortalized in hard copy. Especially the ones where I was also the illustrator. Double especially the ones with a foreword- by me, obvie- and credits. Which was...all of them.

Definitely yes. Those need to stay.

I can sense that I may run into some difficulty, here.

Who doesn't love a good tummy flower?

Remember how I said that one month/six months/eleven months was my favorite age? I was wrong.

Turns out, my all-time favorite is a week shy of twenty months. (It's true.)

Sure, we're smack dab in the middle of the Terrible Twos on-ramp...which is really just a dramatic way of saying that someone is incredibly bossy and specific, with simply awful fall-out if not instantly heeded. (But I've worked in the theatre since the age of nine. This is nothing. Ever seen a diva with a improperly set wig head? A stage manager with a lost clipboard? A sound designer with a half-drank Snapple...by someone else?) I fear not my daughter.

Besides, I've always been exceptional at placating/distracting/tickling.

Last night, as a special treat (for me), I decided to forgo the nightly bath and let her play with her Little People instead. It was a humid night, her playroom is wonderfully cool, and her father is in tech rehearsal every night this week. (Besides, it wasn't like she was covered in blue cookie cake frosting- again- or anything.)

She set up a village for herself (out of a cast of hundreds) starring a fairy castle, airplane, carousel, train track, and small fleet of emergency vehicles. Nora sat herself in the center and quickly went about placing pets on the Ferris wheel. Fairies in rail cars. A king in the pilot's seat. When each seat and room was filled to capacity...she Godzilla'd them down. And then offered up an empathetic apology full of contrition and tears. Then she rebuilt the town. And promptly caused a car crash into a nearby farm stand. She finished it up by berating a character wearing bunny ears that We Don't Hit.

My point is- I could watch her play with her things all day long. And sure, I'm not feeling the sharpest mentally that I ever have (although I knocked the socks offa The Curious Village the other night, I will have you know). But I think I still have a pretty decent sense of humor. And this kid is funny.

She is a pitch-perfect mimicker. The phrases that she remembers (and she remembers all of them) and reuses are frighteningly spot on. And frightening.

NJ also has reached that critical age where she no longer requires my services at the park. (In her mind.) I still think that a ten foot high shaky bridge is no place for an assertion of independence- especially when its flanked by a) a twisty slide and b) a ten foot ladder drop-off. But I guess I'm just old fashioned. And way too girthy to squeeze up the ladder to retrieve my kid any longer. (For the next three months, at least.)

Last night she helped me make supper; salmon in a yogurt and mint sauce. The mint was from our garden, and every time we pass it, she needs to take a bite. ("Oh, my mint!") Every. Time. So last night I took a gamble that she'd dig the recipe. And she did. "My mint! Dip, dip, dip." The running commentary can get a little old, but hey- have you ever dined with a foodie?

Sometimes she seems impossibly grown-up, with big kid preferences ("I take my vites, now") and an uncanny awareness of exactly which devices and gadgets are capable of playing Dora videos.

But at night, after she's jammied and basted with apricot oil (or frosting), after the eight trillion books and sips of water, but right before the interrupted songs with requests for different ones...

...she's just my baby, resting her head against mine, with Doc Bullfrog pressed between us. And until she starts kicking her little soccer star legs against my sides with impatience, I can almost pretend that she's a lumpy little newborn again.

But then she kisses me- with added sound effects- and I snap back into the reality of how much more fabulous this is, anyway.

And that feeling lasts until I discover yogurt on the cat.

It might be Laying Down Time soonish.

Hide n' seek foyer time.

There are few things nicer than lining up hordes of Little People (the teensy, plasticky ones- not folks with dwarfism) and shoving them into neon-colored houses and miniature fairy castles. It helps if one's assistant is a miniature, round-cheeked gal herself. Farm equipment and bus stop accessories optional.

Nora loves her toys. Loves putting them precisely where they ought to go and then belly-flopping them into smithereens. Both activities make her so happy that it's hard to be concerned about the three-plus hours it'll take to find each and every worker, child and forest creature. (Hint: Check the VCR.)

Yes, we still have a VCR.

Here's what makes playing with Nora so great: she has no concept of spatial limitations, thusly, anything is possible. Her newest manner of playing with her dollhouse is to upend it, feed dolls and toys and blocks through the windows, and then somehow shove the thing up on its side to admire her handiwork. Then she stands on it. The whole thing comes off looking like Godzilla meets The Poseidon Adventure. There are few survivors.

Sure, in some regards she's all girl; she constantly taps her chest with a tutu or small apron before handing it to me and declaring "dat" and patiently waiting for me to dress her in it. She holds her babies to her neck (sometimes upside down) and pats their backs, singing "Rockabeeeeee." But then she bodyslams them to the ground. And hits them with a shoe. Or tries to wrap an apron or dishtowel around a wayward cat.

The other day she tried to eat the cats' dry food. When I took it away from her with a 'no' and a reminder of whose food that was, she raced to the other room and dumped a bowl of water down her shirt. And shook her finger at herself- No. With a smile.

During dinner prep two nights ago, it was quiet for about fifteen seconds. I poked my head around the corner and saw her eyes go big. Because she was standing in the middle of the couch, arms splayed as if she were about to jump or fly. When she realized I had caught her in the act, she slowly slid down the couch to to her bottom. And smiled. You know, the kind of smile that suggested I ought to go back into the kitchen...no, really. I'll just wait right here. On my bottom.

But when she finds a book- or stack of books- that she really likes (for example, all of the ones in the kitchen, bedroom, and playroom), she'll sit for a good forty minutes and read. She turns the pages and oohs and ahhs over babies, animals, and old issues of Time. Sometimes she talks to them. Or berates them. But mostly she just flips the pages and smiles. And it's awesome, because during those moments of fabulous stillness and silence, I get to cook and fold and clean and write and sometimes- just sometimes- go to the bathroom.

When I'm not feeling well, she allows me to sit on the floor and feed her instant oatmeal for breakfast. She patiently kneels in front of me and sighs with each bite, knowing that I'm really gonna be phoning it in today.

And on days when I'm really not feeling well, Nora lets me lay facedown on the floor for pretty decent stretches of time. She even brings her trolls and superheroes and small cars over to kiss my cheek and jump on my back.

I think I was wrong, before. Really. Sixteen months is the best age for a person to be, ever. I mean it this time.

A jury this large (and varied) cannot be wrong. Except for maybe the trolls.

They'll say whatever you want to hear.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.