Snow, Enya, and Confusing Friends & Family Since 2008.

So, Midwest: This snow thing. Come on. There's been a slight disconnect lately between anticipated snow and the subsequently unwarranted freak-outs. Having been a resident of Chicago for over a decade now(!) and being in the [poorly plowed] trenches for the majority of those winters, I'd like to remind my neighbors of what snowfall is. And four inches of ground cover within the city proper wouldn't even have been a blip three years ago.

You call this snow?

For example, during the blizzard of February '11, our fair city was downright pummeled with a whopping two feet of snow. Chicago Public Schools were closed for the first time in decades. And Nora sported her first wicked awful fever (upwards of 104 degrees) and it was so gross outside that we decided to take our chances at home instead of the ER. (And for all y'all first time parents, you KNOW that's some serious weather outside.)

But this? This week's pre-cancelled classes and fear-mongeration which caused hordes of people to hunker down and wait out the storm with walls of canned goods at the ready? Sure, last March's temps that soared into the 90s may have caused temporary winter amnesia, but...FOUR. INCHES.

People.

Unrelated/semi-anticipatory-cabin-fever related: The girls were absolutely wild this morning. Like, they would've given the screaming banshees something to really scream about. So I opened Spotify on my computer. Culled every single Enya song ever penned. Caribbean Blue. Orinoco Flow. The whole shebang of The Celts album. And then I watched as the girls blinked at me, gathered their lovies close, and begin to gently spin around the kitchen- not entirely unlike a few parties I attended at good ol' Hampshire College. And they [my kids, not the burnt-out hippies] looked at me, like- what IS this magic?

Enya, I benevolently informed them. It's just Enya.

Second tangent: Peej and I chose the theme from Far and Away to be our wedding recessional, written by- you guessed it- Enya. (And played by a myopic organist.) It was, for our Catholic-wedding-attending guests, confusing and awesome. Confusome. But go download that track right now. Because it'll change your day. It will change your day.

Our processional, for the record, was Boston's More Than A Feeling, which surprised literally no one on my half of the guest list. And inspired the the rest.

Except for the myopic, rather sleepy, organist.

Whom P.J. feared had kicked the bucket during the ceremony.

And for which scenario he wanted to leave the altar to "go take care of it."

But that's more of another feeling.

Winter Games. (For An Hour.)

On Saturday, we took the girls sledding. In case you're curious, here's what sledding in Chicago looks like. Careful, it's pretty extreme.

First, you bundle your offspring within an inch of
their lives. It's cool, they love this part.

There are zero chair lifts. But that's fine, it's good
for them to learn how to walk at a 10 degree angle uphill.

There will be snowflake eating. (A few sticks, too.)

"Lemme tell you about Chicago weather, Zuzu..."

Braving the elements. 

And if you're wondering what the actual "sledding" looks like? Behold. Pretty sure this is why people used to think that the world was flat.

Weekends Aren't For The Weak.

Close-up of ugly door.
Close-up of blogger's old promo pic.

P.J. loves it when I start a new weekend project. No really, he just adores it. What's not to love? Go on, honey (he says), why on earth would I prefer to sit here and pound through episodes of Firefly? It would be much nicer (he agrees) to help you prep, clean, facilitate, and be the sounding board for all of your ideas and/or misplaced anger. And even though my preferred color and state is white paint/unadorned walls (he acknowledges), I can totally get on board with a Mayan red door and Cajun red walls. Since you've already begun.

I'll admit it. I blindsided him with this weekend's project. But the front foyer and door had been staring me in the face with their ugliness for close to three years. And we're not talking just outdated or just a state of disrepair.

It was both. A lot of both.

The foyer was a yellowish hue, punctuated with poorly sanded holes, poorly covered holes, and smears of pink handprinty-type things. (And/or faded bloodstain handprinty-type things. Nothing surprises me anymore.) The door was chipped, water-stained, and rather warped "original" wood residing in a chipped, rusted, brownish frame.

Super old pic of Nora.
Super discolored foyer. 

You know how, sometimes, things are so bizarrely ugly and impossible to deal with that your brain actually stops seeing them? That's the only way I can explain how this entry point into our home lasted like this for so long. (Unless you factor in exhaustion. And laziness.)

Well, the fog finally lifted on Saturday morning and I had to do something. So I ran to Home Depot. Bought new edgers, new paint (Mayan red for said door and Eurolinen for said foyer- the latter of which is just a fancy word for...cream.)

While there, I racked up a two hundred dollar bill for...absolutely indeterminate items, but that's an entirely different story. And issue. (And credit card.)

Once home, I realized that we were down to one sole paint roller. And my project would require [at least] two. This revelation- while potentially explosive- was tempered by P.J.'s cautious suggestion that we could make a run on the following day and just focus on the door for Saturday. Whatta guy.

So I sanded. And wood-filled. And scraped. (And removed Mayan Red paint from an eight-foot radius. Because I become positively Jackson Pollock-esque when I renovate.) I had literally no fear about turning the front door into an eye-catching thing of awesome...as opposed to its current life as an eye-catching time capsule from the 1970s [after some natural disaster had occurred].

And you know what? It looks awesome. There wasn't much I could do about the rather dated diamond shape window facing the street, but the door's new deep mahogany color at least says- Hey, we're trying.

I felt quite proud. Prouder still once I managed to finagle the doorknob and dead bolt back into place. Whimsical poll: Do you know what makes a doorknob incredibly difficult to secure? Previously stripped screws and/or painted hardware. COME ON, PEOPLE/PAST OWNERS. I AM NOT A MAGICIAN.

Close-up of door at night
(in incredibly poor lighting.)
No artistic blog awards, here.

The next day- once the paint rollers were secured- I began the spackling and sanding and priming and painting of the foyer. It was a time of discovery. For instance, I discovered that the wall underneath had previously been teal.

This part was really easy. In fact, at one point I proposed marriage to my paint edgers. (P.J. yelled from the other room- You can HAVE her!)

Then, I touched up the trim and baseboards with white paint. (See, P.J.? Compromise.) However, it's a slippery slope from painting the trim in one section and not letting it drag you all the way around the house. Because where in a home's identical trim do you stop and say, "Nope, this area can remain dingy even though it's attached to the other twelve feet of newly shiny baseboard?" But seriously, that conversation needs to happen, or else you're painting the staircase railing and adding another layer of tar to the roof.

But it was when I was wrapping up the foyer/door project when I noticed the interior door frame. Perhaps, even moreso than the previously ugly door, the rusty spikes by the doorknob would act as a Feng Shui deterrent. (Maybe also burglary?) So I sanded and painted and hammered down spikes. (It'll just take a sec, I told myself. And P.J. And Susannah, who had now been waiting for someone to just feed her since roughly 8am on Saturday morning.)

New door, new trim,
new walls, same ugly tile,
same crazy miniature person.

During this time I was kept company by my next door neighbor's attempt to sand a bike that may or may not have been his. The weather, however, was so warm and pleasant that I paid no heed to fact that the potentially hot ten-speed was being stripped of colors that may or may not signify a certain gang. And across the street, my neighbor blared an incredibly loud homemade mix tape that consisted solely of Linkin Park and Nickelback.

If nothing else, it really drove home that I needed to hurry up and finish this frickin' project.

So I did.

And, at the end of the day, the walls were one color, the trim didn't extend onto the hardwood floor, and the door actually latched. And locked. (Twice.)

You can't be too careful.

After all, there are Nickelback-lovers right across the street.

Gettin' Back To Nature- And Potentially The ER.

Happy Labor Day!

Communing.

Why are you reading this today? Go! Go outside! Good God, man, it's almost winter! (However, if you're not reading this until Tuesday or later, I'm quite hurt- wounded, really- at your disloyalty.)

There, now. I think I've sufficiently alienated everyone. Onward!

The reason that I'm able to post today is because of my daughter's proclivity towards 4am Beanie Bear tea parties in her crib. Thusly, she faceplanted at an ungodly early 10am for her nap, freeing me up to do all sorts of things like blog, sweep the stairs, and French braid my hair. (But aren't you exhausted, Keely, you ask? Nope! But Peej is! As I've stated before, my Mama Bear-like aptitude for hearing when my child is awake has not yet been fully realized. I don't hear her. P.J., however, has not slept through the night since grade school and is aware of block parties beginning across town. He's ZONKED tired.)

Her early nap will actually serve us well, as Peej scored seven buck tickets to the Cubs game for this afternoon. Nora's never been (and has a superbly cute hand-me-down Cubs onesie!), and the last time I went...was when I was nine months pregnant with Nora. (Sports!) We're only a few miles from Wrigley Field, and since the air is feeling all crisp and autumnal, it's gonna be a much better time than if we had gone during the past few weeks. (I think the combo of humidity, discomfort and athletics would have forced me to have a tantrum, kill a man, and eat all of the jumbo hotdogs in the surrounding area. The last still may occur. There's this one stand that sells ridiculously loaded footlongs that you crave in your sleep. For example.)

Other highlights from this long weekend included brunch with Peej's cousin and her husband, which facilitated a full-on clean of the house (which allowed me to ease up on chores/ease up on demanding that P.J. do chores the rest of the time...which everyone likes). There was a three hour family nap. A slow hike through the forest preserve up at Peterson Park (during which time my child found the only wood chip/dirt pile incline in all of the 46 acres and proclaimed "slide!") and had a picnic. A major Craigslist posting for all of the free/crazy reduced items which we just need to get out of the downstairs/closets/garage, and which- strangely- is yielding positive results and non-crazy people actually taking our things. And, nestily enough, we're blazing through the Important Things checklist for The Monkey and his/her room. Plus, we're mini-seriesing through Mary Poppins before Nora's bedtime each night- and she could NOT love it more. Spoonful of Sugar, jumping into chalk art, waiter penguins, sliding down banisters, girls named Jane, it's all like it was tailor made for our kid. Sure, I'm getting a little weary of singing each song eleven times in a row, but the vigorous applause is pretty sweet.

Bleeding.

It's almost enough to make up for the nightmare-inducing guilt I feel over watching my daughter trip into the coffee table and bite clear through her lip. Especially since she was running towards me. With a stack of books in her arms. And a cheerful grin. Happily announcing that she and Mommy were gonna read. And I was a split second too late to catch her. And the blood- oh God, the blood.

She cried for seven seconds. I cried for half an hour. She assured me that she was "fine," especially once the bleeding let up and she enjoyed a lemon Italian ice for the better part of an hour. (I think she'd willingly do it again for another Italian ice.) And later we rocked on the hammock and she fed herself fistfuls of mint and raspberries from the garden. So I know she's okay.

She has been accused of being too pretty- a fat lip will give her some street cred. And it's good for her to have some stuff to tell her future therapist.

You're welcome, Nora.

We Have A Work Order Attached To The Window By Animal Stickers.

I'm not kidding.

I have some excellent news for folks who are planning to stay with us from here on out- you will not burn in your sleep! Isn't that exciting and homey?

For those of you who have slept at the Schoeny Chateau (all eight of you since mid-June)- nice work on that narrow escape.

Turns out, even though I really wanted to work on something we could SEE as opposed to boring ol' electrical work, it desperately needed rewiring. And sure, there was a crazy breaker box deeply embedded in Nora's crawlspace insulation...but dude. A deck.

So we had our electricians come two months ago. This laid the groundwork for them to show up roughly once a week and tell us work would begin soon. Once they had the permits. And parts. (We had so many delays due to "parts" that I almost began forging my own in the basement made entirely of broken picture frames and toys Nora has yet to grow into. Yes, I have enough of both.)

And I think, in my next life, that I shall endeavor to be an electrician. Based on what I've seen, the hours are incredible. 11am to 3pm...with a two hour lunch break. One day they texted and told me it was too hot to work. (But uh...is it cool if I plug in this fan? You know, into the outlet you said would burn the house down?)

There would be huge chunks of the day without power. Sometimes they'd be nice enough to run an extension cord from Nora's bedroom window out to a generator so she could take a nap with some semblance of circulating air. Unfortunately, that would be when they'd choose to drill into the brick directly on the other side of her crib. (It's not like they didn't have three full floors into which they could drill at that time, all with timely and explodey wiring.) This also severely cramped my Eating Directly Out Of The Fridge habit, what with needing to conserve the coolness of the darkened fridge and all. I still did it, but my style was cramped.

And there were days that they warned me there would be "extensive" power outages- starting at 9am- and I should make "alternate plans" with Nora. So I would. I'd put the cats on the lower level with food and extra water, I'd pack up Nora and prepare to let the electricians into the house and then take off. Which would inevitably happen around 1pm, leaving me sitting on our stairs like a kid who missed the camp bus.

And there was the day- during "sporadic outages"- that I loaded Nora into the car to return a thing of yogurt to the grocery store (long story), to discover that there was no power in the garage. For no good reason. And since the electricians were on an indeterminate lunch break- and since Peej had loudly forbidden me to lift the garage door manually (sheesh)- I unloaded N (and the yogurt) to cloister ourselves in her closed-off room (to conserve previously conditioned air) where we awaited their return by peering out the window...without lifting the shades too high. It was hot.

I fully believe we can file this whole escapade into the category of First World Problems...but still. Our home is safe. Unless ComEd and their inspection team and their indeterminate 5-10 hour window within 5-10 business days says otherwise. Seriously, Nora. Trade schools. Look into them.

And then return home to care for your parents' abode. For we shall never be able to afford to leave.

Not with the sweet deck and patio I'm planning.

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.

The sun'll come out...in August.

Not only not recent, but not even ME.

I am le tired.

Perhaps it is the weather- this eternal just-on-the-cusp-of-March drizzle with twenty minute long bursts of quickly disappearing actual light- that makes me want to jump out a window. Except that my first floor is a half story up and the top level not high enough to really make a dramatic impact. (But maybe- just maybe- that's the kinda window jumping I prefer.)

(And then I remember that a goodly bit of the nation is having a WAY worse time of it, weather-wise. And I feel badly for wanting a consistent amount of sunlight at the end of May.)

Or perhaps it's the fact that I am still reeling from the smackdown I received from the LIBRARY two days ago regarding my wallet theft. No, they were not the first call I made (didn't even make the top ten), and no, I would not be filing a separate police report for the sole item of the library card, but yes, I will try and be more conscientious in the future. (I hate them.)

(But then I remember how lucky I am that the worst of my wallet-thievery is a bruised ego at the Sulzer branch of the CPL.)

Or it could be the recent development of this blog's traffic exploding to nearly eight times its usual weekly numbers...but because of an odd tracking glitch wherein no one can tell just where the numbers are coming from, I'm getting [monetary] credit for an less than an eighth of it.

(And yes, yes, yes, First World Problems. I'm extraordinarily lucky to be getting anything at all for babbling about...whatever it is I usually babble about. But the potential to earn more than a dime a day is rather tempting. Especially when the numbers are there. Unless it's a mistake. Or a bot. I LOVE robots. But only the nice, non-enslavey kind.) [Side note- Nora hates ALL robots, including, but certainly not limited to, our Roomba Wally.]

Maybe it's how I'm feeling ginormous and am one day away from being halfway through this pregnancy. That's right, this show's about to get bigger. We're not just taking it on the road, I'm BECOMING the road. And the nearby counties. And Peej is no help, as he says I look good. Great, even. But I am seriously beginning to doubt his ability to discern, as he has never once told me that my butt looked big. And I've worn some awfully big butt-ed pants.

(And this one stings the most, because we really, really wanted this pregnancy- and uh, still do- and the fact that I'm becoming an orca is a decent sign that we'll get a healthy baby and and and...)

And I hate whining. And whining about hating whining. It's a vicious cycle.

My point is, I'm tired. And batting incoming household/money/fatness issues away with Toddler Tantrum hands. (Can you picture it? Some of you have seen this.)

I promise to chin up.

While I still have a single chin.

Which is a rapidly closing window of time.

Just sayin'.

There was also popcorn in bed. Doctor's orders.

Sadly, Blogger has still (as of 9am CST today) not reinstated Thursday's post. So, uh, maybe check back later if you're dying for a mid-week recap? (And I know you are.)

Also, Wordless Wednesday explanations? The first pic is a magnetic version of a paper doll, one that the girls for whom I nanny love to dress in ball gowns and the fanciest of gear. They decided to make one that "dresses like Kiki."  "Can't I get a tiara or a snazzy dress?" "You don't look like that." So, rainbow tee and baggy jeans it is. (Also rad sneakers.)

The second pic is Nora, clad in jammy shorts, moments after gazing at herself in the full-length mirror and proclaiming herself to be "so pretty in blue [so pitty in boo.]"  Life Skills: Self-esteem in the face of questionable attire- check.

***

Last week was a jaunt through Crazyville. Not just the extreme temps (almost reaching 90 one day and then dropping to 37 the following night. I actually wept on Saturday morning. But that could've been due to a number of things), but the unexpected weirdness that permeated almost every single day.

Monday we flew home. And even an uneventful trip with a toddler is still a numbing journey through Overly Alert What-If Town that I wouldn't wish on my enemy. (Except that one. And she has it comin'.)

Tuesday gave me the unsettling experience of having my wallet removed from my person. (And again, lots of Ugly Cry. I cannot stress enough how unnerving this cry is to the random passerby. It also renders the Ugly Cry-ee unaware of blocks of time. My sister Rachel told me later in the week that we had had a lengthy conversation on Tuesday. We did?! Was I a refreshing conversationalist? She said yes.)

The rest of the week was spent at the DMV, the Police Station, the Social Security Office, and on the phone with various companies that, at one time, had my business. To up the challenge, I brought along a child well off the beaten nap path just to see what that would look like. Turns out, our precinct is remarkably nice and helpful- and rather slow at 7:45am on a Wednesday- and the DMV is a sucker for a good sob story/attractive baby. No kidding. The guy in line ahead of me had only his passport and was denied even a place number to wait for the next seven lines. He was sent on his way with stern words and an eyeroll. I handed my passport- warily- and explained that I had been robbed. ("Oh you POOR thing- and hi there, pretty little gal!" I think she meant Nora.) We were outta there in fifteen minutes, new license in hand. I didn't even need to take a new pic! Which is good, 'cause Bloated and Tear-Stained Keely does not make for a great I.D. We even breezed through the Social Security Office in FIVE MINUTES. (And isn't it sad when one's dealings with government offices is the high point of the week?)

Because Friday brought a trip to the dermatologist (during which time the receptionist mocked my name to the billing department- two feet away from me- and also had me wait for an hour.) I had developed a rash under my wedding rings, leading me- briefly- to believe that Peej purchased said rings at the Dollar Tree. The doc told me that, nope, it was just a rash. And- GET THIS- I should avoid washing dishes and/or getting my hands wet. Sounds GREAT! (And if I must do the dishes, I should wear non-latex gloves with a new pair of cotton gloves underneath each time. And I should remove my rings, adding two separate lotions after drying my hands with a clean towel each time they got wet.) That all sounded feasible to me.

I was all prepared to go home- expensive lotions in hand- especially since I had only put two hours on the meter, when the dermatologist asked about a spot on my back. And [TMI ALERT] I had dismissed it as a weird and isolated spot of bacne. He said that, no, it was in fact a "suspicious looking cyst" that he didn't "like the look of AT ALL." Then he left the room.

Oh boy. Well, I prepared to make a further appointment and then leave, being as I had ten minutes left on the meter and it would take that long to get back down the hallways and elevator and more hallways and north a few blocks to my car. (Forgoing parking garages is how I say I Love You to my husband.)

Suddenly, the door opened again (no knock- THERE WAS NO TIME) and a team of dermatological nurses wheeled in a tray featuring some very scary instruments, (a la Hostel, if I had seen it, which I did not) and the brisk instructions to remove my shirt. Uh, okay, I thought, looking down at Nora and then at my pregnant belly. And how exactly was this gonna go down?

They advised me to lay on my side, and that my daughter would be "fine just walking about." Sure. Until they began the procedure and she screamed bloody murder, necessitating a nurse to place her in the crook of my fetal position on the table, laden with a episode of Dora on my iPhone and a rubber glove balloon puppet. (This was not the time to restate my latex allergy, I decided. I just hoped no one would repeatedly thwack me in the face with it and all would be okay.)

The doctor informed me that the local anesthetic on my back would "sting." I informed him that my previous spinal had probably stung a little harder. He proceeded.

Have you ever received stitches while clutching a toddler who cannot decide if up or down is the place she would best like to be? I highly recommend.

Thankfully, I have Tylenol to get me through this Cannot Lay On My Back Nor Stomach Nor Right Side Nor Left Unless I Arch My Lower Back To Not Touch The Stitches Phase of my week. 'Cause everyone knows that Tylenol is a great narcotic, akin to putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun.

The week was redeemed- yet again- by Peej, laden with Mediterranean food, enforced early bedtimes, and allowing me to purchase [more] Little People village stuff and two antique wingback chairs at the Ravenswood Manor Garage Sale- all for twenty six bucks.

Who needs Tylenol?

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

I will drown my sorrows in nacho cheese.

Let's just keep on walking, Dad.

This past Friday, I suffered my first middle school breakup...since middle school. It was rough. It was also, oddly enough, with a bank.

I've long touted the fabulousness of Chase Bank's plethora of ATMs. And sure, that's about it- but for a little while, it was enough.

My first bank account in Chicago was with them, back in '02. And yeah, absolutely, back then they were Bank One. But the transition to Chase was easy enough. And I felt loved. Kinda. Even when P.J. and I started a joint account, I kept the Chase one just for the heck of it. There were a few perks. For instance, the air miles [for United, which I abhor flying. But whatever.]

They weren't the nicest to me, but they certainly looked the other way once or twice when my account suffered the back-breaking transactions that come part n' parcel with adult braces and a crippling shoe habit.

But this past month, I had twelve dollars removed from my account. Just 'cause. Upon inquiry, it turned out that all accounts without monthly balances of fifteen hundred dollars or hefty (and regular) direct deposits would have twelve dollars removed each month forever.

Now, since arriving here in Chicago, I've been a bartender at a crappy bar, a cleaning lady, a nanny for various families around town, and a freelance writer. None of those leave a balance of fifteen hundred dollars, unless you're going by per year. And direct deposit? Uh, okay. I'll deposit it directly from my fistful of tens.

I explained this to the smug banker the other day. He nodded and told me that a lot of their customers are closing accounts due to low balances(!) and maybe I should "ask [my] husband to bring the account over to Chase(?!)." Indifference AND condescension? Sounds like a seventh grade boyfriend to me!

When I asked to close my account, he shrugged and didn't even TRY to keep my business. (Or my love.) He made a big show of handing me the last forty five cents in change (there were a few bills, too) and then stared at me, indicating our business was done.

It got real awkward.

I hate moments like that, which is probably what prompted me to perkily say that maybe I'd see them again in the future.

"Yeah," he [almost] scoffed. "Maybe."

But you know what soothes a bad business breakup? A stellar weekend with a husband who thinks my forty five cents are just GREAT. And who tolerates my Supermarket Sweep through the garden section of Home Depot, nodding in agreement when I scream that these ranunculus blossoms ARE AMAZING.

The 80 degree weather yesterday didn't hurt, either.

And cheering Peej on for the 8k Shamrock Shuffle downtown yesterday was pretty fun, too. I don't know how he did it. I was wilting standing by the two mile marker. And sure, I was corralling a toddler who celebrated her Dad's race by peeing directly through all of her clothing and soaking the stroller...but who can't be appeased by a bag of munchkins and a session with the backyard splash table? (NO ONE.)

P.J.'s folks zipped through town for an overnight, having just enough time to cheer him on, spruce up our yard, stock our fridge, and play with Nora while I showered.

It was GREAT.

Today is a true spring day. Which, normally, would bring rejoicing in our city. But due to yesterday's August-y weather, I think everyone's a little sad. There might be a few tears. At least one person might still be defiantly wearing a tank top.

She should probably go change.

After she checks the fridge for leftovers.

Nora's the coolest and her parents are the laziest.

You’ll have to excuse the tardiness of the blog today (cue Van Halen: I don’t feel tardy…) due to my inability to hold facts, dates, or appointments in my brain or on my phone.

You know when a good time to remember when you’re working the next morning is not? The middle of the night. A good, cold shock of adrenaline really starts the week off correctly. Hence the stellar packing of All Things Nora and the less than ideal packing of All Thing Keely, for example, a fully charged laptop.

But the important trifecta of Doc Bullfrog, a spare diaper, and a cup of milk made into the bag…so what else does one really need? (Besides a nitro tablet for my kickstarted heart.)

Yes. So. The weekend.

We enjoyed the most boring weekend known to man. It was fabulous. The amount of sleep that I got was kinda impressive. (P.J. and Nora? Not so much. But it's really hard to tell the floppy-headed mother figure on the kitchen floor that she CANNOT nap. Physiological terrorism at its finest.)

Nora rode an incredibly miniature tricycle for the first time.  Even though there were no pedals and she wasn't even rolling, she managed to flip over the handlebars and faceplant on the pavement. (She's just like both of her parents already!) Impressively, she laughed. Even more impressively, she tucked her head and shoulders just right. (Not like her parents there at all.)

Motorin'.

Last night also marked the second occasion wherein she used a potty for its intended purpose. Quite by accident, I'm certain (the shock on our faces was eclipsed by the shock on hers), but STILL. Not since college have I been more pleased to know that a toilet was being used.

To celebrate, we built her a castle tent. Okay, fine, we had already bought the tent. (But it's so cool!) And, to give credit where credit is due- her father, he of coupon-clipping, penny-pinching fame, found it on Kids Woot. And informed me that his daughter needed it. Which, once I saw it, I admitted that she really did.

Password?

And last night brought a thunderstorm of monsoon proportions. This, of course, after a grey day that threatened storms but brought nary a drop. It stayed rather dark and in the mid 50s to 60s. Then, as soon as the sun went down, the temp skyrocketed to 76 degrees. So, of course we went out into the backyard and enjoyed the peace and quiet of our bench...with sirens, irate neighbors, and traffic. (I closed my eyes and pretended they were waves on the shoreline. Really noisy, irate waves.)

And then the rain came. But no worries, by then we were safely ensconced in bed and watching Mad About You, season 2 on Netflix. (Anyone who tells you that marriage isn't awesome is a terrible, rotten liar.) And we got to see the sideways rain and pelting branches from the safety of our [closed] windows. Neighborhood Watch goes tropical!

The past couple of days also included a French farce (on Netflix) and an hour of radio (on NPR.) Sometimes it's nice to just consume all of your monthly media in one weekend. (I haven't even included the flicks that P.J. watched a) before Nora and I awoke, b) while he was waiting for me to watch our real movie, and c) that I boycotted but he viewed anyhow while Nora napped.)

I think we can see who has the real problem.

And it's not the girl who marathons episodes of Ghost Adventures.

There's no problem there.

Aaand...by posting time it's partly sunny.

Not to be all whiny about the weather...but seriously. What is up with this weather?

Having lived in Chicago for 8.5 years (yeah, it was originally supposed to be for under a year), this should not surprise me. Chicago does not have a Spring. We have seven months of Winter, followed by a week of rain, then it is SUMMER. But each and every year I find myself surprised- nay, angered- by the lack of springtimeliness.

Last week was a tease. A 70 degree (and sunny!?) day followed by a mid-60s (and SUNNY) day, followed by...grey sludgery.

Here is a vid from those happier moments. Nora had a superb time catching and playing with her shadow. Yes, those are the big sister jammies from the other day. And double yes, we're listening to an "End of Summer" mix tape of P.J.'s from high school. (We've recently gotten into playing our old teenaged/party/breakup mixes. This is an awesome thing to do. Also warranting of its own post.)

But, video:

Today is another jammie day, due to the fact that sludgery plus [Nora's] runny nose equals lolling about and [Keely's] whining re: weather. No sunshine, no shadows. What we do have is one snortle-y girl wearing an ever-changing assortment of bibs for which to dab her faucet-like nose. (Is that gross? I mean, I know that it is, but should I not have mentioned it?) I am keeping it REAL. Tissues are 'spensive and bibs have a never-ending dance into and out of the wash.

It's like a velcroed handkerchief. If I am gross, then so is the pocket handkerchief.

Onwards.

We saw some terrific friends this weekend, ate way too much decadent food, (hosted no less than three other pregnant women!), and watched five kids run amok. And walk amok. And climb amok. My daughter wore a miniature apron (because she was the hostess, obvie), and I completely failed to capture it on film. I mean, really. I took eight videos of her dancing with her shadow and a flipbook's worth of swingset pictures...but a day when my child held and ate entire potatoes and welcomed folks in a frilly apron? Nada.

Also, some of you may be aware of my ever-abiding distaste for the potato. (I dig them in things, but a plain potato undisguised? Blech.) We recently discovered that Nora loves them. Adores them. Eats them whole, like an apple, then points for more.

I'm questioning maternity.

And wondering if this next kiddo could possibly be a little more like his/her dark-haired taco fiend of a mother.

Or healthy. I'd be pleased with "healthy."

Which I'm sure a strict diet of liverwurst and Italian ice will guarantee.

I call dibs on this weather.

Okay, the whole "dibs" thing really needs to end. Like a week ago. For those not in the greater Chicagoland area or not aware of the debilitating bonkertude that a day and change of snow can inflict, I am not speaking of those delicious chocolate covered ice cream wonders. Those are permitted.

I am speaking, of course, about every single one of my neighbors and their household furniture. Holding parking spots. Ones that they'd shoveled. TWO WEEKS AGO. Sure, I totally get it. Some people couldn't even see their cars after the Great Snow. And I agree, if you spent the three hours necessary to undo the damage that a blizzard plus a snowplow digging a single file lane down the street by way of coating your vehicle with more snow, then sure. By all rights if you run to the store, it should be waiting for you when you come back. The next day when you return home work? Okay, fine. I'll give you that. Maybe you had a hard day and your arms are still screaming at you from the previous day's workout. But to expect that "your" spot stay available through the weekend? Dude. People need to go to brunch. Sometimes that involves parking. You may have to move the stroller/folding chair amalgamation that is currently marking your domain like so much pee.

And now? Two weeks later? It's 60 degrees. There are rivers of melting snow washing away your grandpa's walker. (Doesn't he NEED that walker?) Put your questionable belongings back into your foyer and let's all pretend that we don't know how many laundry baskets you own.

No one pities your inability to find parking on a damp street.

Onward. My darling daughter Nora went out yesterday without a hat. For the first time since she began walking. (This is true- she took her initial steps mere days after she turned one. The next day? Whomp. Frostbitten baldish head.) The mild temps shocked the both of us on our jaunt to Cermak Produce, so I whipped off her whimsical animal-eared cap and encouraged her to let some breezes tousle that tuft of hair. Maybe take some deep, cleansing breaths- but not towards the alley. Or Montrose.

She reacted the way any stoic Chicagoan would after a particularly bitter stretch of winter- she began to laugh. And squeal. (Sure, the baby noises o' happy are reserved for a special group of smallish person- not necessarily Chicago At Large- but she embodied what I was feeling as well.) After a few moments of joy, she stared mistrustfully at the clear sky and sunshine, wondering Just What Was Their Game. She then jolted and peered over her shoulder each and every time a gentle wind would tickle her ears.

Perhaps the abrupt (and temporary) change of seasons has made her more than a little crazy. Perhaps her parents' decision to live in the Midwest has given her a lifetime of nervous twitches.

But just wait 'til Real Spring and...dare I jinx it? SUMMER. The ability to run around barefoot- in specific locales- and watch [fewer] outdoor films and eat unhealthy stick foods at street festivals and splash in the positively frigid lake waters... Oh, I cannot wait. And dearest N.J., you're gonna forget winter. You will. It'll be like the last ten months didn't grate on your nerves like so much rock salt on the floors.

It'll be fabulous. Maybe we can even built a sweet fort from all the Dibs debris.

I call the ironing board.

***

And I gotta do one final blogesque plug: this is the last post before The Bloggies voting closes. Go! Go now! I promise not to say anything too meaningful in the last couple of sentences.

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

And this. Okay, I think we both know that I can just do this all day. Be the bigger person, please.

 I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

  I made it to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

No babies were harmed during this posting. I'm pretty sure.

If this jinxes it then I am sorry, but...it seems to be Spring. Real Spring. Like, average of 50 degrees (sometimes 85! Sometimes...40), at times darned rainy, but always with that smell of fresh(ish) air. And perhaps that scent coming from the neighbor's yard. But whatever. I'll take it.

This past week alone I took Nora outside in no less than five baby-totin' contraptions: the Maya sling, the hip carrier (as in, on my hip- I have lost all hopes of being "hip." Which may not even be a word anymore), the Snap n' go stroller with the carseat, the Maclaren strolly...and straight up carrying her. Wild, I know.

She loves every single one of these ways of being held. Really. In the sling: "I love grabbing your hair and chewing on your collarbone!" The carrier: "I'm going to happily kick you in the belly and back simultaneously!" The Snap n' go: "Look at you looking at me in the garage!" The Maclaren: "These big girl straps are fabulous- as long as we stay in the dining room!" And carrying: "Do not let my wild noodle/starfish amalgamation dance convince you that I am not THRILLED to be in your arms!"

Until...we go outside.

Then it's the same pose, regardless of contraption: face against mine (if applicable), hands acting as blinders against the awful onslaught that is Fresh(ish) Air. If she's in her stroller, she takes a blanket, animal, extra fabric from the suncover- whatever- and holds it to her face.

And this prompts some well-meaning person to "suggest" that Nora probably can't breathe.

To which I reply that I'll promise to keep an eye on her!

And on the topic of advice...in my short time as a mother and my lengthy time as one being unable to receive constructive criticism, I've realized that there are two types of acceptable advice. They are as follows:

Timely: "Oh my goodness, your child is floating away!" This is especially helpful if you didn't know that your child was floating away.

and...

Jovial relating: "I remember that my son used to love floating away! Sometimes I tie him to the dock, though. Have you ever thought of that? Isn't having children fun?" This is okay because it a) makes you feel like you're not an awful parent and b) makes you feel like you're in a secret club. Secret clubs are fun.

The type that is not okay is Talking At Someone And Refusing To Stop Until You Agree To Rear Your Child Identically To Theirs. For example, "My kid hated the water. I wouldn't put yours in the water. Have you thought of having her tested for water allergies?" These people have Experience and they need to be stopped. This type of advice-giver Means Well and belongs to the club of That's Not How We Did It In My Day.

Which is quite possibly true.

But a long time ago people used iodine as suntan oil and sold women as property. These were not the same two time periods, but I think I've made my point.

I think it's safe to assume that if the mother-like person is nearish to the small, babylike person and- (and this is a big 'and')- the child is not aflame, submerged or has something poking in or out of them, we can all rest assured that the semi-competent adult is On It.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that my stomach-sleepin', binky-mashin' infant hasn't wrapped her blanket around her head.

But not before I eat three more of the Easter cheoreg biscuits- the recipe for which has been passed down from my Armenian nana...and tastes more like my Irish nana's soda bread. I am not the world's best baker- I admit this. However, they are tasty, they are sweet, they are portable.

Victory.

And maybe perhaps I'll snag some more of Nora's Easter candy. She loves the coconut Hershey's kisses and Reese's mini cups. She does.

But not as much as her parents love playing Easter Bunny. Just as good as playing Santa, in my opinion. Cannot wait to try out "Tooth Fairy."

But, I really can. I'm enjoying the heck out of my five month-old daughter's daily routine and am not gonna rush this aging process AT ALL. Although, it'll be nice when she can hold the beer bottle on her own.

My arms get tired by the end of the day.

Too nice of a day...

...to play each other for a fool.

But I did, anyhow.

I spent a goodly bit of the morning trying to convince my immediate family that I was expecting our second kid before the end of the year. Oh, the hilarity of mass emails. Here's how it went down:

-Kate, the savviest and quickest on the email draw of all of 'em, thought it was hilarious.
-Kate's second email reminded me of the time I put ice cubes in shoes and forgot the "baggie" part. (Look- this kind of awesome wit takes a few years to hone.)
-Tom was stoked at the beginning of the email...and then a little disappointed by the "April Fool's" line. I regret this.
-My mother, with a point for snappy comeback, pretended she was unable to read to the end- but would later- and was SO EXCITED for us. (I responded with a 'p.p.s.' saying that, with futuristic technology, I already knew that they'd be twins. Mazel tov!)
-Emily, apparently unable to read to the end of the email because she was on the commuter line (It's not a trial subscription of the NY Times, E, you can read beyond the headline), was genuinely excited. She even convinced our nephew Cole to call me up and scream 'Congratulations!' That part was fabulous, even if Em is no longer speaking to me.
-Rachel, my father, and- most notably- P.J., have yet to check their email. (That last one is the most troubling. Maybe he did read the email and is now drinking away the morning. He's a busy guy. Maybe he didn't read to the end, either? He could have been on a commuter line.)

And now, for the real news.

Or something I like to call All Of These Thoughts Occurred During Twenty Minutes In The Car With The Radio On:

-There is a band called Rock Sugar. The track I heard was a mashup of "Don't Stop Believing" and "Enter Sandman," called "Don't Stop The Sandman." It's like they knew I'd be listening and wanted me to cry tears of gratitude. Unfortunately, the closet they're coming to Chicago is Elgin, IL. We'll probably miss the tour, this go-round. But now I am aware.

-Different station said they'd be playing "all Vans, all the time." Off the top of my head I listed Van Morrison, Van Halen (Van Hagar, potentially?), maybe Ludwig van Beethoven? Throw in a showing of Van Helsing and I will not leave the car.

-New station: new question. When did Cher become Cher? If you listen carefully- or actually not that carefully- there's a big difference between "I've Got You, Babe" and "Believe." Okay, there's a lot of differences. But specifically, vocal quality and mouth shape. When did Cher's mouth shape become a parody of a drag queen's impersonation of a Cher song? Think about it. And discuss.

-And finally, there's a Telemundo ad for a new show called Donde' Esta Elisa(?) that I am absolutely going to watch. They got me- and I hated them for this- by plastering 'missing' posters all over my neighborhood (95% Hispanic, so it very well could have been legit) with a picture of a smiling mid-twenties girl named ELISA. The ad yesterday clarified it (slightly) by admitting it was a show, it's airing on Telemundo, and Elisa is missing. There is absolutely no room on my TV docket- let alone for a show that is 1000% in another language- but I think it'll be a cross between Lost (which I hate) and Twin Peaks (which I love.)

So I will watch.

By the way, I know what killed Laura Palmer.

It was ADD whilst driving.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...