You Can Take The Mom Outta The Diaper Zone, But...

On Saturday, I got to drive up to Green Lake, Wisconsin, and take part in a beyond-terrific bachelorette party. (Okay, technically the party started the night before- in Madison, at the bars n' such- but out of respect to The Roo, I kept my pregnant self home until the lake house part of the festivities.

And it was festive. Seriously. The gals were a great bunch, and we did all sorts of lake house-y things such as sit on a dock for hours, have a wine tasting, eat n' eat n' eat (until it became downright laughable how much I had consumed), play games around a table until the wee hours, and even did crafts for the upcoming wedding. (As P.J. responded to me when I said we were doing bridal crafts: "...Ah." Why, don't guys usually do this kinda stuff at bachelor parties?)

I was even given a ridiculously awesome king-sized bed in my own room with an attached bathroom. (At this point in the pregnancy, those gestures alone reduced me to tears.) I WAS SO EXCITED for a solo night of opulent, decadent, glorious sleep.

YAY FOR BACHELORETTE PARTIES! (And cheese curds.)

Sometimes you just need to chill with your girls, amiright?

In fact, it would rank up there as one of the best overnight/get outta Dodge/gal times I've had in a looong time...except for the minor fact that, as I was climbing into said king-sized bed in said solitary room (with private bathroom)...

...I realized that I was not alone and that someone was in fact in my bed...

...and that someone was very drunk...

...and mistook the edge of the mattress for a toilet (same with the floor...and part of the hallway)...

...and so my hedonistic plans of sprawling in a bed and not gettin' up for no one were halted for about an hour...

...while I placed said drunk gal back in her bed, cleaned said pee-peed bed, cleaned said pee-peed floor (with help, oh, I had lots of help from just about every other non-drunk, non-pee-peed gal at the party) and cleaned my pajama pants because ohmyGodallthepee.

But it was fine. Because I [eventually] got to sleep. (Alone.) And it's like that old adage: If You Must Erroneously Pee On Someone In The Middle Of The Night, It Might As Well Be A Mom. (No one has ever actually said that.)

So yes, you're reading correctly. My oh-so rare chance to get a lot of sleep (alone) and not clean up a peed-upon mattress (and person) in the middle of the night was upended when I didn't get a lot of sleep (alone or otherwise) because I was cleaning up a peed-upon mattress (and person) in the middle of the night.

Sigh.

But I'll still chalk it up to a really great time away where I got to hang out with awesome ladies, talk about non-toddler things, replace all of the city air in my lungs with fresh air caught straight off the dock, and listen to British books on CD during the drive (because I am approximately 97 years old).

And when I came home to my girls and P.J.? I appreciated them so much. Because it's good to have a lengthy drive and [most of] and evening without tending to someone and time to actually miss them the people with whom I live.

Best of all? P.J. had put new sheets on the bed.

Cold Cereal Would've Been Faster.

We were approaching hour six of the drive home yesterday- right around dinnertime. The girls had been good. SO good. They'd napped, read, played, and watched individual media like champions.

I had also been good. (SO good.) I'd written and filed and emailed and kept my passenger seat comments to a minimum. (Hush up, P.J., I did. Ponder THAT.)

So when we hit the city limits, Peej suggested we stop and pick up dinner to make that aspect of mealtime (and clean up) that much cinchier. I called in an order, pausing to ask P.J. which street the restaurant was located on.

"Clybourn. Right by the store, so I'll go grab some milk, too."

I phoned in dinner (in more ways than one), and quietly prided myself on having a night that was shaping up to be extremely easy. We pulled up to the restaurant and I ran in to grab it.

"Name?"

"Keely."

"Spelled?" (I spelled it.)

"Did you call it in?" (I had.)

"...Was it phoned into this location?"

I took to a sec to breathe, not roll my eyes at this moron, and even pulled out my phone to confirm that I had called them- these flighty people at the Clybourn restaura-

"Wait a sec. We're on Elston, aren't we?" (He nodded patiently.)

We were on Elston, of course we were. This was the one we always went to, not their other place on Clybourn, nearly two miles south of here. I smiled jovially. (I think they were glad to see me go.) I got back into the car, giving the same bright smile to my quizzical husband.

"Hey!" I beamed. "We called in order to CLYBOURN!"

He gave me a weird look. "Of course we did. And it's right- GAH."

So we drove to Clybourn, berating ourselves for acting like tourists (and not the braindead parents who had resided here for over a decade). My monologue was silent. P.J.'s was not. And as we drove, we gave the evil eye to the people clogging the roads at 6pm on a Sunday, all of these other folks who were out and about wanting dinner. (Jerks.)

We got to Clybourn and I ran inside. Gave my name. And got a strange look.

"I just gave you your food."

"No, you didn't."

"To your husband?"

"Ah, definitely no."

She went to the back room. Came out with a manager. Who conferred with a third party, the order-taker.

"Yeah, Keely," he said.

"Yep!"

"The guy who just came in."

"Nope!"

The manager listed my order- exactly- and stared at me. I confirmed. After a painfully long time of re-listing, re-confirming, re-questioning, and trying to figure out if I was some sort of prankster, they checked their phone. Turns out, there were two identical orders placed, one right after the other; same salads, pasta, soup, all of it. Hilarity.

So they made me a fresh order. Took a nice discount from the price. And I got back to the car roughly ten minutes later, greeting my confused family and waving a gigantic bag of food. P.J. was miffed. Really miffed.

"They gave away our food? They had to make us new food?"

I showed him the receipt with the sizeable discount.

He smiled.

And he agreed that everything had worked out for the best, after all.

Five Ways A Roadtrip With Kids Is Just Like That One You Took In College.

Love and thoughts and honored memories:

United Way Fund For Newtown, CT 

CeaseFire 

Newtown Facebook Memorial Fund

***

Five Ways A Roadtrip With Kids Is Just Like That One You Took In College:

Sleeping it off.

5) Someone is hungry. Again. That same person also has to pee with alarming frequency. 

4) I'm sorry, what is this music we're listening to? And I don't care how good a song is, we do not have to listen to it three times in a row.

3) At the rest stop, at least one person is completely stoked by the presence of an arcade game and good Lord could we please just all get back in the car!? (And when everyone is back on the road, someone suggests that something may have fallen out of the car at the rest stop. Can we loop back? And hey, I'm just gonna hang out at this arcade game until the thing is found.)

2) There's someone sulking over a slight misunderstanding with someone else. And it's gonna color the next three hours of transit, because everything that other person is doing IS JUST ALL WRONG.

1) Not one person is satisfied with their seat assignments- except for the front seat passenger. (And even she's starting to wonder if it would be quicker to walk.)

(Happy trails and even happier holidays, folks.)

Over The River And Through The Woods...

We could've saved a ton on beds. 

Early Saturday morning, the four of us took off for my folks' house in Massachusetts, a roughly seventeen hour drive. (Because a 2k pricetag to voluntarily drag my kids through holiday week airports didn't quite compute.) My brain, spine, and eyeballs have yet to fully recover (from things like stopping three times in the first two hours)...so for now, here's a few key highlights of the journey. 

-Adding to our Thanks A Lot, Ohio, list: We were pulled over for doing a bit more than sixty in a sixty zone. Which P.J. erroneously believed was a seventy zone. (But it was even a slight bit more than seventy.) Double unfortunately, we were seven hours into the drive and the girls had just fallen asleep. P.J., fearing that his wife would divorce him over the potential for their crabapple children to awaken, whispered to the state trooper and asked if he could step out of the vehicle because of his sleeping kids. The trooper wasn’t impressed. Told him to stay in the car. Seemed disproportionately annoyed. And handed out a whopper of a ticket.

-Checked into a Red Roof Inn in Erie, PA. P.J. and I took one bed, Nora [happily] took another “stretch out” bed, and a pack n’ play for Susannah was shoved between the two. Which would’ve worked out fine, if not for the fact that Nora WAS SO EXCITED until about midnight (roughly two hours after her father began the Dead To The World snore) and Zu was curiously peeking over the side of her crib like a concerned meerkat every half an hour throughout the evening and morning. Let’s just say that, if this were The Little House On The Prairie, Livin’ In A One Room House era, we would’ve lasted precisely one night.

-Entering into New York state and immediately seeing picturesque trees and shadowy hills, all encrusted with fairylike frost. P.J. and I excitedly pointed out the new landscape to the girls…who were wildly unimpressed. Nora purported to see “nothing.” Susannah grunted unhappily and filled her diaper.

-Shortly thereafter, I was humongously unprepared to see a deer pass us in the righthand lane. Quite dead. Strapped to a bicycle rack, posed in a questionable Superman position. I informed Peej that I needed a bit of warning for that type of peripheral ambush, but he didn’t share my dismay. “That deer is flying like Superman! He is having a great time!”

-We stopped at a recently renovated McDonalds in Owego, NY. The reopening of this establishment had been written about in the Pennysaver, and apparently caused the whole town to come out and wait in hourlong lines. Also, every single person interviewed was over-the-top enthused about reclaiming their Mickey D’s, a fact that brought me to Ugly Tears with its genuine Americana pride.

More later. But for now, more coffee. More [amazing] food. More forced naptimes for kids who aren't exactly sure in which time zone they currently reside. 

But no more car for a little bit.

When Did Monday Become "Photo Essay" Day?

It's now officially Fall, so this weekend was mandatory Drive Your Kids Across State Lines For Apple Pickin' Day (Observed). We went to a super sweet orchard in Hobart, Indiana, and had a great time- even though there weren't any actual "apples" on the "trees." Due to the awful growing season, they had to think outside the box. Er, branch. 

So they rigged- I kid you not- gutters between the trees and filled them with apples from all over the Midwest so people could still feel like they were "picking." The gals all had an amazing time because, while living in our neighborhood, they've seen far weirder things hanging from trees and houses and cars. 

And as my friend Tim observed- Bad season for the apple growers. Excellent season for the plastic gutter industry.

Mom, I have ONE tooth.

Apple Dumpling herself.

Confused Dumpling.

C'mere, doll. Eat this thing in your face.

Hey big girls- can I have some?

No, for real...can I have one?

Mooooooom...

Owww...

Fine. Here. Eat this apple. Just take it.

Psych!

Fall Is For Dressing Like A Cowgirl.

I'm feeling awfully autumnal today (in the crunchy leaf/hot spiced cider kinda way, not the Phase Of Life way- please don't feel the need to send seasonal affective disorder lamps), so I'm posting one of my favorite childhood pix. 

Every Fall, my family would go to the Cummington Fair with some family friends- it was the countriest of fairs. I adored every second of it. That's me, by the way, in the Texas Tuxedo. That was the rule (to which my older sister and I held strongly): You HAD to look like you belonged in the country. Or on a farm or something. (Even though travelling from our hometown of Pittsfield, Massachusetts to Cummington, Massachusetts wasn't exactly your classic City Mouse/Country Mouse tale.) 

So I wore jeans and a denim shirt. Insisted upon braids. Even found a leather belt to cinch my improbably high jeans to my nine year-old waist. 

In this pic I'm clutching a family friend, and on his other side is one of my younger sisters. She looks game. (The good thing about Chel is, she's always game. I should've had that printed on a onesie for her.) She also looks good in her country overalls. 

Pretty sure this was the year I got to see the pig races. And the tractor pulls. Pet a few bunnies. Beg my parents for one. (Pout.) Eat an unwise amount of corndogs. And cheerfully fall asleep on the drive home, waking to find a denim pattern etched into the side of my face. 

All autumn events are still measured by this annual shindig. 

Even though I still haven't found anyone who'll buy me that lop-eared bunny.

Cincinnati In REALLY Short Spurts.

Due to my jaw-dropping new levels of lazitude, I'm feelin' more like posting a few of my favorite pix from this past weekend (as opposed to blathering on for a thousand words) AND haven't had a chance to watermark any of these photos, either. So, if you're like the one person who keeps trying to steal these images...do me a solid today and leave 'em alone, yeah? 

Without further ado (oh, who am I kidding- there's always "ado" for days around here)...I present to you: Pictures From Our 36 Hour Jaunt To Cincinnati In Order To FINALLY Meet The Newest Members Of The Family. 

A bluegrass festival was attended. Nora, who protested her nap for a goodly two hours,
fell asleep as we hit the parking lot. Peej, ever-game, laid on the steps with her like a
good pair of street urchins. Susannah looks really weirded out.

Oh, Pop-Pop. You're hilarious.

I love this pic because they look a) simultaneously really
involved in something,and b) like a pair of twins, size-wise.

Everyone spent the festival teaching the baby how to toast her
sippy and yell "cheers!" THANKS, EVERYONE.

Dorrie is the Pied Piper. Boden, Mikey, Nora, and baby
Finn are having a blast. Dorrie is more than a little dizzy.

The babies themselves! Peej's Mom snuggles Rian, while P.J. holds Miss Finley.
(Note- I did not try to steal them, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time smelling
their baby heads. Seriously, people, seriously. Baby Head Smell.)

Zuzu gives pat-pat-pats to Grandma Jane. (Which is good, because Nora roundly snubbed Grandma in
favor of attempting to fall into the fish pond. She later came back with a dandelion for her-
to match her sweater- but then promptly took it back to give to me. So, uh, thank you
Susannah. Way to bring a little charm to this team.)

Travel Tips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You missed a crumb there, kid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes him a key element in future travel plans.

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

We Still Got It.

Abandoned.

We had another whirlwind weekend in Cincy. (And really, aren't they all whirlwinds? Every darned last one of them. Especially the ones where you're hurtling down the Indiana Turnpike for six hours at a time. That rather zips the time along.)

We had a great time with family. P.J.'s aunt had a lovely 60th birthday shindig (wherein my eldest child ate nothing but black beans and blue frosting and my youngest ate everything not tied down). There was a jaunt to the pool (wherein I realized that my eldest was fearless...and my youngest ate everything not tied down).

And after that pool trip? The extremely amped girls- after a teensy bit of coaxing- proceeded to crash hard into naptime. P.J.'s parents offered to hang out with them if we wanted to go do anything.

After the slightest bit of demurring, we locked eyes, grabbed the keys, and hopped into the Passat.

We rolled the windows all the way down, opened the sunroof with nary a thought of how much wind was rushing into the backseats, and cranked the music. Really. Loud.

And the playlist was full of completely inappropriate music that should really be called No Children Are In This Car.

The sun was shining, the wind was whipping, and we were screaming along with Super Mash Bros. It was awesome. This unencumbered-arms euphoria was made all the sweeter with the knowledge that a) the girls were fine, b) the girls were sleeping, and c) we were almost at the Gap Clearance Store in Hebron, Kentucky. (I really don't think this should diminish our cool cred at all. Besides, who among us doesn't require affordable tank tops?)

Some people just really don't let the whole "having children" thing affect their swagger.

And I'd like to meet them someday.

But What If I Forget The LIST?

Photo courtesy of Emi Clark.
Doc's color courtesy of Tide.

Packing for the girls is always a big deal.

I wish it weren't.

But the one time I pushed my borderline OCD tendencies aside and just, you know, threw stuff into a bag...No one had socks. Susannah didn't have nearly enough diapers. And I actually packed one half of a baby monitor. (The part that lets you know what the kid is doing. Helpful, so long as you also have the part that goes near the kid's head.)

Back in the old days (three years ago), back when I was way thinner and cooler than I could be convinced of by any mirror image, I packed precisely and neatly.

For our epic trip to Rome, I actually drew out each day's proposed outfits in my travel journal. Because- and this cannot be stated enough- I had too much time on my hands. (But I looked awesome. This cannot be stated enough, either.)

I seemed to have lost a goodly amount of brain cells between then and now, however, since I'd probably forget the girls' carseats if they weren't attached to the car.

So I make lists.

And even though it can be painful to know you have to write down things like "shoes" and "cups," it's more painful to arrive somewhere without the darned "shoes" and "cups."

It'll be good to get out of Dodge for a few days- even for a short road trip- with everything neatly packed into three duffels. One can almost pretend that all of one's worldly possessions are listed on one tiny little piece of lined paper. (And not jamming multiple rooms in one's dilapidated Money Pit, most of which are decorated on all sides by foam stickers.)

In other This Gal Needs Some Real News news- Doc Bullfrog has lost his rattle. That's right, Doctor Bullfroggy- the lovie who has had the green loved right off of him- has lost the soothing shakey sound located somewhere within his bulbous head.

This may be bigger news to her parents, who have long detected their eldest daughter's a.m. stirrings by the familiar tinkling rattle. Now Doc is a ninja. And now Doc is showing signs of aging.

My sister told me that there are few things sadder than having your kid say he doesn't need to bring the lovie somewhere...and the feeling of desperation where you kinda want to remind him to, anyhow. Because that object of affection is the last tie-in to actual babyhood- something Nora's been leaving behind in leaps and bounds.

And on days where she's a sticky-headed monster, a shrieky bundle of fuzz, and crabby pile of tired...seeing her clutch Doc to her nose and suck her left thumb ("Is it okay to suck my thumb, Mom?" "Sure, babe.") is a poignant reminder that my soft, sweet baby is still in there. Under all that peanut butter.

I'm gonna put Doc on my pack list. And I'll underline it twice. Because that threadbare greenish frog head is an important member of the family and a comforting, familiar face (for all of us).

At least 'til he loses his face.

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.

And Now...We Sleep.

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

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

We're not leaving, are we?

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was Nora's way of helping.

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

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

Bringing us to...

Tomato thief.

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

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

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

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

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

Schoenies Go East

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

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

Mold N' Neuroses N' Manipulation

Everyone's feeling the crazy.

Motherhood has made me a new kind of crazy. (And- before- I used to think that my neuroses knew no bounds.) Which just goes to prove my extremely new theory that having a kid makes you MORE of what you were before. And that's not even one of those lovey, sentimental sampler stitchings- I was nuts before, but my insanity has been amplified since having Nora. I was kind of a clean freak before...now I'm a downright germaphobe. (But really, you'd never even guess at that by the state of my kitchen.) Same goes for being a defensive driver, kiddo movie fan, and tired.

But I digress.

My newfound nutsiosity has manifested itself in my upcoming trip to Cape Cod with N.J. and P.J. For which I've been packed since last night. We leave on Saturday. Okay, and to be fair, I'm not totally packed. My two iPhone checklists (yup) for Nora's stuff and my stuff is mostly done. There's a bunch of stuff that I can't pack until about ten minutes before we leave/right after she wakes up. And there's a checklist for that, too. I also have a list for last minute things like "water the plants," "make sure no cat is locked in the bathroom," etc. (P.J. is on his own for packing and lists. But, from what I've seen, he does just fine half an hour before by throwing some shoes, a shirt, and someone's toothbrush in a duffel. Boys.)

And the reason for all of this planning and pre-planning and post-planning is not so that I'll have a Martha Stewart-like calm about my house (btw, did you know that Martha turned 70 a week ago? Does that seem crazy? It does to me. And I should know). Oh no, the reason that I do things so early- and so written out- is because I can no longer keep a list of thoughts in my head. There are so few things that I truly need to bring for our trip (Doc Bullfrog, various medications, four pairs of shoes) but if I didn't write them down I'd be on the plane wondering why I had a carry-on full of dirty laundry and was panicking about the cat stuck in the hall closet.

And boy, I write down the weirdest stuff on my phone. (And here as well, but again...that's a digression.) You'd think I could remember that my child needs shoes on her feet for travel, but there it is. "Crocs on Nora." I'm shocked that I haven't yet felt the need to note "buckle Nora into car," but there's a few things I can feel decently confident about. Besides, Peej will be there.

It's not totally my fault, however. We have yet another contractor who began work this week. And having part of one's home gutted and mold-remediated and rebuilt can jar one's concentration. Especially if you're as giddy about it as I am.

This is the room that was initially a second kitchen when the home was a stately multi-family house. Then it  became a flophouse for wayward animals/drunk dudes/pizza menus. Then, once we moved in, it became storage. First ours, then for P.J.'s best friend. Once he moved his things out, it became a lumber yard for doors, shelving, and baseboards. (But never was it a kitchen. We paid someone to remove the defunct and foul appliances- and gave them extra to never again mention the things that they had seen.) And one day, during a long nap for Nora and a long audition for P.J., I cleared out the room. Doors were stacked in the backyard, lumber was slid out the picture window, I scrubbed down the place as best I could, and painted it a light spring green. (P.J. was shocked. I told him to put away his "toys" or I'd do it for him. Via the recycling trucks. He did.) And when I was done...it was still filthy. Because there was still water damage behind the sink and hints of mold and a general dinginess to the area.

But thankfully, we are having another kid. And this kind of thing makes P.J. wonderfully receptive to ideas, especially if I mention Nora's propensity for climbing in that room (which she doesn't have) and my plans to leave the newborn there for hours on end (which could be a bluff. But might not).

And these contractors are great. Remember the multitude of guys we've had working on the house for the past two years? The ones who show up at 11? Leave at 1 for a two hour lunch break? The ones who fail to secure parts or give us accurate quotes or show up at all? THESE NEW GUYS ARE NOT LIKE THEM. Yesterday was the day to gut the room. They showed up at 7:45am, stayed until 6:15pm and never left. The room is gutted and stripped and now the air is being filtered for 24 hours. And these dudes are pleasant. To me! No "little lady" condescension, no asking what my husband might think, no ignoring...they even remembered Nora's name and that we had two cats (stuck somewhere in the house). Pretty superb.

So yes, packing. Made slightly more difficult by the fact that the laundry room (and the playroom and lower stairwell and side door) and inaccessible due to plastic sheeting, like that part of E.T. or that particularly horrific episode of 24. Which means that I cannot do laundry. OH WELL.

Maybe I'll plastic off the kitchen sink and fridge this afternoon and tell P.J. that the contractors are doing something. Maybe we'll spring for pizza.

But I think he's on to me.

Just as motherhood has made me crazier, fatherhood has made him savvier.

Unless it comes to packing.

On The Road Again. (Seriously?)

Whee!

So what does a pack of Schoenies do when they find themselves without a houseguest and/or crazy weekend plans? They get outta Dodge. For 24 hours. (Which, some folks might speculate would create a ton of work on the part of the two people packing/planning/toting the toddler...but any time I don't have to clean the kitchen after a meal is a good excuse for a trip. Unless you count the mad dash cleaning immediately prior and the post-return explosion of last night. Saving me...a lunch cleanup, I guess. Sigh.)

Best behaviors. 

Anyway, we jaunted up to Oconomowoc, WI (land of many summering Schoenies) and stayed at The Inn At Pine Terrace. Gorgeous. Also, they don't take children- ha ha. But somehow P.J. worked his P.J. Magic (not at all like P.J. Sparkles, mind you) and convinced them that our mannerly beastie would be a better guest than his cranky hippo of a wife.

Royalty.

Obviously, we stopped at the Mars Cheese Castle. (I cannot resist dill and garlic cheese curds. Nor their recently completed castle with actual turrets.) And sure, we may have stopped at an antique emporium. Which- if you've never attempted with a toddler in tow- I highly encourage!

Nora napped on the short drive up and thusly allowed us to skip the whole "waiting in the hotel room for your kid to awaken" part of the journey. Which was great because, as I said, we only had 24 hours. Like that show. Only there were definite bathroom breaks in our program.

Serious bear puzzle action.

We had lunch at The Depot, which had the perk of humongo train cars blazing by the windows every so often. P.J. and Nora thought that was great. Also, the chocolate chip cookies. But there was no time to dawdle, so we went to the public beach (and had more snacks.) Now, being from MA, I had always found the idea of lakes "charming," read: "where's the salt?" (Actually, that's pretty much how I view everything.) But since I married a Midwestern boy, I've truly come to appreciate a nice lake. Or a Great Lake. The small one we visited was super clean, warm as anything, and even came with a set of ridiculously strict lifeguards. Actual mega-phoned directives: "Please only front crawl to the floating pier," "No piggy back rides," "The ladder is only for climbing up," "Get the seaweed off of the pier," and "Beach balls are for beyond the rope only." Seriously. Now, the drunken teens smashing volleyballs into Nora's beach blanket...carry on. Because they were friends with the lifeguards. But whatever.

Ruffle bum.

And there was a playground mere feet from where we had been swimming. Which is always cool. Unless you have any desire to remain in the water with your toddler, in which case- sorry 'bout your luck. Because the chorus of "IclimbIclimbIclimbIclimbIclimb" will soon start up like you've got your very own Rain Main/acrobat/Rhesus monkey amalgamation in a ruffled swimmie.

Eventually we had to head back to the Inn to remove some of the sand from Nora's body (and it was mostly successful) so we could have a nice din at Spinnaker's in the center of town. And aside from the fact that Nora was completely exhausted and only ate half of one mozzarella stick alongside the tomatoes from my salad, we all had a fine meal. The server warned me, however, that the lid from Nora's milk might fall off so I'd want to "watch her" and that the mozz sticks were really hot so I'd want to cut them and wait a minute. Which was nice, considering I'd just met Nora. (But, as P.J. pointed out, it's better than having a server not give a damn.)

When we got back to the room, N.J. fell asleep [mostly] without incident, although she did question the Inn's playpen in the corner of our room as sleeping quarters. I told her it was just like a Pack n' Play but BIGGER! It also made me seriously miss the days of playpens. And once N was asleep, Peej and I were free to...play cards in the solarium. Have tea on wicker chairs. Name two constellations before agreeing that it would be rad to fall asleep. Which we did- happily- until Nora woke up freaked out about something or other and climbed into bed with us. And then she happily slept while her parents slept the sleep of having a shifting boulder between themselves.

Terabithia.

The next morning was a little rainy, so we drove over to the Honeybee Museum (obvie)- which...was closed until noon. Ha ha! But they had some sweet trails that we explored for a few as the sun began to come out. There was even a bridge, so Nora was ecstatic.

And yes, maybe we stopped at another antique store on the way out of town.

Lunch was a mandatory stop by The Kiltie, a carhop diner, where- if I hadn't been a newly diagnosed diabetic- I would have given myself sugar shock with their lime malt. After which I named my old, beloved, and stolen bike Limey. (That's right, I named my bike after a malt. Take a sec to let all of those facts sink in.)

Donesville.

And then Nora dozed on the drive back. It was a good time. A quick time. But sometimes you've really just got to spend an overnight in Wisconsin.

Sometimes, when I hear the things I say, I even shock myself.

But Nothing Will Stop Me From Over-Sugaring My Toddler!

Pos'sicle.

This weekend was nuts.

Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).

And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)

What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)

The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.

And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)

I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)

I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.

So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.

Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.

My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.

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.

From somewhere in the Midwest...

Happy Memorial Day!

In light of the fact that many of you are traveling...and many of you are on your third brunch of the weekend- for example- we're gonna go ahead and do a real post tomorrow.

Love and thanks and hopes for a wundy day,

Keel n' Peej n' N.J.

Thumbnail pic courtesy of Clark Street Photography
Happy weekend, indeed!

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

Does Mickey D's deliver?

Poor abandoned kid, living in a milk crate.

First things first: happiest of birthdays to one of my oldest pals (in years of closeness, that is, not oldest-living-friend.) We love you, Auntie Jen! Test the waters o' 31 for me, I'll be there in a couple of months.

Now. For the serious news.

P.J. has left me.

For four days.

And it's...weird. Quite weird. At first, I panicked. You mean I hafta do all of this alone? Feed and bathe and entertain Nora, not to mention single-handedly bulldoze the trails of trolls and miniature bears?

What about dinner?

Who was gonna set the alarm?

What if THE TRASH CAN GOT FULL?

This fear kept me paralyzed for a good...fifteen minutes into Wednesday morning. Then it hit me. What the heck do I do on Wednesdays with P.J., anyhow? Basically, my daily routine wouldn't change until dinner- which, coincidentally, is my dealie anyway- and bath would be a solo affair. Well, kinda. And sure, meal cleanup would be on me, as would the bulldozing and toddler-wrangling...

...But as P.J. pointed out, I use less dishes than him. I'd probably get a little too used to how clean the house remained. And I certainly wouldn't have any gigantic clothing to wash (why are men's clothing so ridiculously heavy in the washer and dryer? Give me a baby's onesie any day).

This did not stop me from starting a load of laundry at 7am- not my "normal" time. (I usually only do laundry under duress. Like when all the hampers are busting at the sides. Or when Nora is wearing a sundress in March.) I was so impressed at my impressiveness that I did another load. And all of the hand-washing (which had been hanging out for way too long *coughOctobercough*). I scoured the kitchen immediately after Nora had had her breakfast- instead of whining about it right before lunch. I even made breakfast for myself- and ATE it!

It felt like I was going for a medal, like someone was gonna step in and congratulate me on that day for all of the things I do on a normal morning. And, frankly, that I often do for other families during the weekdays. (But- her husband is traveling, the amazed spectators shouted. And she even refilled the cats' water bowls before they died of thirst!)

I have friends whose husbands travel for work- a lot. And friends with husbands overseas (which brings its own share of awfulness). I've seen how hard that can be. And this isn't that. This isn't hard. It's just...weird.

It's like the absence of my husband makes all of the things I do- without a second glance or thought- seem like Playing House. Each action seems deliberate and with an air of seriousness.

I flossed my teeth this morning. Because the house was clean and the laundry put away and it seemed like something grownup and "in charge" to do.

My sister put it to me best when she said that these are the things you do when you realize there's NO backup coming. No cavalry. And I think she's right. Tasks I would've saved for after Nora fell asleep when it would be "easier" are just sorta being done. (Purposefully, as if for an audience, but DONE nonetheless.)

I do not, however, enjoy falling asleep without P.J. Sure, it happens all the time, but that's usually because he's face down in some couch laundry, working late at his laptop, or Netflixing a war epic that I'd really hate. But he generally comes up to bed sooner or later. After taking out the trash and setting the alarm and [inexplicably] shutting off the hall night light. (Hey! Some of us need that light for multiple bathroom trips. No names, but maybe that same person just saw a particularly creepy episode of Ghost Adventures.)

And it's the oddest thing. But when he's not sleeping next to me, my body somehow knows. When he IS there, I sleep through the night and miss the early peeps from our daughter's baby monitor. When he isn't? I wake up every fifteen minutes and smack his pillow. (Perhaps it's best that he's not there.) Most irritatingly of all, each of these wake-ups ensures another potty break. So that's fun.

If he must travel (and since he's already left it looks like he just might) I'll be a big girl and set the alarm by myself. And maybe- just maybe- take out the trash. Yeah, sure, there might be a light left on upstairs...but that's just smart. And I'll do my darndest to not consume any beverages after 6pm...and I'll try to sleep soundly through the night.

But the first weird noise gets a Louisville Slugger to the face first, questions second.


And if they seem innocuous enough, they can take out the recycling.