I have a crush on my husband. How nerdy.

She's fine.

Pre-bloggy-blurby: For those of you interested in winning this toy, please please leave a comment on that post telling me how many entries to give you. I'm totally digging all of the votes and clicks, but I have NO way of knowing who's doing what, when and how. You can do one humongous comment on Friday that lets me know how many chances to give you, or you can do one comment daily. Whatever's clever. Just want to give you credit for giving me credit. I love you.

Okay.

We are entering a very exciting time in our household. This week marks the beginning of All Things Festive. First up, we've got Peej's birthday on the 27th. Followed by Nora's [first!!!] birthday on the 29th. And Halloween. Then it's just a hop, skip and jump to Auntie Kate's birthday, Nat-Nat's birthday, Mim's birthday, Thanksgiving, Pop-Pop's birthday, Christmas, New Year's...and on and on and (wonderful) on.

Started off quite nicely, with a Southport Ave Trick or Treat and a Raggedy Nora tentatively asking for candy. (Oh, she got the hang of it.)

And as Nora has fallen asleep in a pile of construction paper- with eyeliner freckles permanently etched into her head- I thought I'd take this opportunity to mention my husband.

In honor of my darling Peej's upcoming 29th birthday (yes, I am a cougar- hush), here are the summy-uppest reasons (that I can manage) of why I am SO lucky that he remains married to me/returns my texts/thinks I'm neat:

1) He keeps things 'wick' in the garden. More than once a year, which, apparently, is how you garden.
2) He knows how to break into our house.
3) That coupon thing actually saves money. Who knew? (Besides P.J.)
4) He can effectively argue with the neighbors in Spanish.
5) He can effectively argue with our contractors in English...and Spanish.
6) Peej has made room in his all-encompassing Netflix obsession for my childhood movies...for Nora, obvie.
7) He convinced me to watch fireworks on our garage roof even though I was scared. And it was rad.
8) He endures my sleep antics.
9) He tucks me back in, too.
10) With a humongous blanket and the heat on, even though he's usually on fire.
11) Even if he wanted to be Yoshi, he always allows me to choose him first.
12) When I suck at certain Mario Kart tracks, he blames the computer.
13) When we plays against worldwide players, he blames them.
14) He holds his tongue (and his breath) when I Feng Shui the house.
15) But he's always the first to genuinely complement the new room.
16) And this has happened seven separate times this month.
17) P.J. invents really nice stories to gloss over really yucky things.
18) He has exceptional taste in music. And a large collection of vinyl/mp3s/cassettes. (And plays them all!)
19) Every Sunday night he shoves me out the door for Pilates.
20) And feeds/bathes/tucks in Nora...and gets din ready for me, too.
21) This weekend he dressed Nora in brown velour pants, a red onesie, a purple hood and fuschia socks.
22) He thought she looked STUNNING. She seemed pretty pleased, too.
23) Even though he prefers the left lane and top speeds, he's amended his driving skills/habits.
24) I do not presume that this is for me.
25) Remember that rat shenanigan?
26) When he calls us from work, he actually has convos with Nora. He waits for responses, too.
27) Even though it is no longer dangerous to me, I have not cleaned cat litter in two years.
28) He will buy anything at the store, no matter how embarrassing for a guy it may be. Uses a coupon, too.
29) P.J. keeps a wooden baseball bat next to the bed. Just in case.

I love you, sugar. To quote Joe Esposito and the Karate Kid- you're the best around.

(Nothing'sEverGonnaKeepYouDowowowowowown.)

(Except maybe your chore list.)

I also made a really sweet frog! Kinda.

Chewing it over.

Today's blog posting is about a toy.

A really rad toy.

One that you could win. (Curiosity piqued? I know.)

Thanks to our pals at thenewtoy.com- a nifty online site that only features nine handpicked toys at a time- Nora and I received a fuzzy set of awesomeness known as Brain Noodles. They're humongo pipe cleaners with a twist (and that you can twist)- they're silky, non toxic and sans any sharp edges. (This is crucial in our household. For me, mainly.)

The Noodles come in a big ol' bunch and are brightly colored. My favorite is the zebra striped set. (Try finding that on a pipe cleaner. That's right, it doesn't exist. Unless you have a very fancy pipe with specific cleaning needs.)

Here is why this product is brilliant: it's an extremely simple toy. Its predecessor was a basic staple of craft projects in my childhood. You could glue them, twist them, decorate edges, poke your sister in the nostril, sky's the limit.

Opening this toy produced an 'aha' moment for me, like when I realized that no matter how awesome the birthday present, Nora was always gonna want to play in the recycling pile afterwards. Having Brain Noodles around equates having that fabulous refrigerator box in the kitchen- minus holes in the side, packing tape stuck to your hair, and metal staples gouging your forehead. That's right, buying this toy is like buying your favorite childhood activities...but bigger, cooler, and with less forehead-gouging.

And it comes with an instruction booklet! I've never been much for those, but having grown up with a sister who very much was- she could actually make the Lego car- and having married a guy who thinks methodical directions= a pitch perfect sonata, I decided to give it a go.

First off, I had to convince Nora that it was totally cool to touch the Brain Noodles. (Sure, she'll kiss her reflection in the oven window, but grab a soft toy? Mother May I?) After we did a series of patpatpat and kisses, it was on.

We started by forming a puppy. Kinda. Granted, written directions make my head a little wonky, but it didn't really look like a dog so much as an anemic wombat. Plus, Nora was "helping" me make the woofie. The tail may be a little over-bent. With love. I accept full responsibility for the wombat.

Then we went all freestyle and made a crown with antennae. We both wore it. And one of us may have chewed on it. (Note- Nora may be a little too young for unsupervised play with this toy, non toxic though it may be. However! She definitely got a mouthful of orange Noodle with ZERO side effects. Score!) I was also hit by one of these and am pleased to report that the claim of no sharp edges is correct. I've definitely been thwacked by worse things (a wet noodle, for example.)

Later, we straightened the Brain Noodles back out and laid them in her toy box (patpatpat) for later use.

So, by the numbers:
26 Brain Noodles
For ages 5 and up (or a really awesome almost 1-year old)
7 idea booklet instructions (with snippets of trivia!)
3 trillion creative options
1 really great toy store (they have hilarious product videos AND, with packaging, send stickers and notes about recycling. Awesomesauce.)

0 reasons why you shouldn't try to win this set

And now, How You Can Win This Set!

In honor of the Nora Jane First Birthday Extravaganza, The New Toy will generously donate a brand new set of Brain Noodles to one of my readers. Here's how to score it:

1) Vote every day at Top Mommy Blogs. (One click to the page, one to vote.)
2) Tweet about this blog, the giveaway, whatever you like. But it has to be nice. I can give you tons of ideas. For example- Isn't Keely looking trim today?
3) Facebook about the blog, the giveaway, whathaveyou. (And no, 'whathaveyou' is not a legit thing to post.)

Once you do all that, comment below and lemme know how many chances to give you on randomizer.org. (It's on the honor system- after all, did you know that 'Nora' is derived from the word for 'Honor?') The contest is open from now until her actual birthday on Friday, October 29th (and the winner will be selected on Saturday the 30th.) You could potentially score three votes a day until then.

And then we could all have a playdate. And thwack each other with Noodles. Just like in the old days.

BYORefrigerator Box.

Did I just nickname my blog?

Leaves a bad taste in my mouth, too.

So many good and positive things have happened lately- the kind of stuff that makes me really dig my life and reflect on how blessed we all truly are.

Also.

There's been a slooowly growing list of minor irritations that, if left unchecked, could level the entire north side of Chicago.

This is that list.

Politics:
I'm just kidding.
While there certainly are plenty o' things to find a) hilarious, b) sad, or c) infuriating in the current political arena...that is NOT the job (nor point) of the Loll Blog. L'blog? LoBlo? I like LoBlo.
Besides, I know so many other folks who can (and will) give those shenanigans their proper [written] due. I'd instead like to focus my extremely narrow attentions on-

Unsubscribing:
Why must I wait ten business days to stop receiving spam email correspondence? Really, ten days? You have no problem hammering out insignificant updates of things for which I do not recall signing up and yet no one's manning the store? Ten days? Are you on safari? Take me off of your list. I could WALK there in ten days.

Incorrect Decorations:
Yes, I realize that none of this is groundbreaking...but come on. Costco is decorating for Christmas at the end of September? Real Simple magazine's Thanksgiving issue is 3/4 Christmas ideas, tips, gifts and budgeting? Why hasn't this been properly dealt with yet? Christmas season= the day after Thanksgiving to the day before New Year's Eve. (There. It's been decided.)

It gets earlier and earlier each year. I have a very real fear of this pre-sale stuff going back and back until it actually gets right back on track for the actual holiday season. Only catch is: you're a year too early. Then what?

Improper Bummage:
Seriously- leggings are not legit pantsware. Use this handy dandy rule of thumb: if you would not wear tights that revealed as much, do not ask things of your leggings that it can not deliver. Again, leggings= really thick tights. Not pants. If I must see your spandex-clad bum, you'd better be: a) leading the Peloton in the Tour de France, or b) on the 1996 Olympic women's gymnastics team. (Okay, it could be any gymnastics team I suppose- but weren't they incredible? Oh, Kerri Strug.)

To reiterate: wearing leggings with an indecent mini skirt does not lengthen the skirt nor affect the acceptability therein. It simply makes your legs a different [loose-moraled] color.

Being A Terrible Person, i.e. Do Not Do This To Me:
Let's say, hypothetically, that I'm patiently waiting for a parking spot at a popular children's sporting venue. (The typical sports class generally has seven or eight kids. About six classes are running simultaneously. The parking lots allows for- oh, nine parked cars.) There are painted arrows that helpfully guide the direction of In and Out, This Way and That, Stay On the Right, etc., all kinds of good things that validly licensed American drivers [should] know. And let's pretend that I left ten minutes early to queue up for this mind-destroying melee of really nice cars...and mine. And, oh, let's just go ahead and admit that I was second in line. And saw two cars pull out and leave before the class even started- which is crazy unheard of- and perhaps even that my panicked, hardened and adrenalined heart got kinda excited.

And so the first car- the one ahead of me- parked. And I wished them well. Then, being the good-hearted, law-abiding citizen that I am, I allowed them to straighten their car. After all, my time wasn't any more or less valuable than theirs, am I right? And what would I have to show for a dinged-up fender other than Loud Words with someone to whom I may or may not be legally wed?

But as I turned the corner to take my rightful spot, a car zipped in through the exit and parked in it. Poorly. As I sat there, mouth agape, giving her the universal sign for Are you kidding me, she flipped (flipped!) her hair at me, scoffed and pointed at her kids and then the door as if to say I have to go inside for a class.


OH MY GOD, BY ALL MEANS. You're here for a CLASS? Don't mind me- just huffing some carbon monoxide and singing You Are My Sunshine to quell the kiddos (that do not rank quite as highly as yours, obvie) for the eleventieth time.

Enjoy your latte.

And the one and a half spots you've somehow managed to find and squander.

I'll wait. And remember.

(I feel much better now...my neighborhood is safe from my rage. But seriously-)

I'll remember.

Don't Mind If I Do.

Jared and P.J. were there, too.

(See what I did there? I do? Get it- weddings? Ah HAH. Marriage humor.)

So Peej and I have just returned from Napa and the glorious wedding of our two pals, Annie and Jared. Here are some summed-up highlights (for to give each terrific day the review it truly deserves would cause Blogger to wonder if they should charge me more):

Our bed and breakfast, the Wine Way Inn, was RAD. We stayed in the Oakville room, there was always a bottle of wine decanted in the sitting area, the breakfast was gourmet and at least eleven courses, we had a private terrace that expanded onto a public terrace that worked its way up to a treehouse, and I got to sleep in as late as I wanted. (Sure, I had bridesmaid-y duties and my internal clock/Mom alarm didn't really allow much more than 8am- but dude! I got to sleep until 8am!!)

The rehearsal and reception took place at Hans Fahden Vineyard. Which is a kinda nice mix of Narnia, Terabithia and a postcard of a vineyard- you know, the type of place you see in an ad that makes you scoff, wondering how daft they think we are that we believe those places exist? (Those places exist!) We rehearsed for the ceremony at a little bend in a rock wall that overlooked a fish pond, vineyards and hills. The gals entered from a covered bridge that was surrounded by some very Alice In Wonderland-y pockets of nature. (The coordinator warned us not to go off of the path, however, since there were some recent rattlesnake sightings. I'm not sure if this was to keep the children in check- or to get me to stop wandering off and babbling about like a loon about the charm. Either way- path= 1, off the path= 0.)

The rehearsal din was at a "beer garden." Except, replace "beer garden" with "magical fairy light secret garden with marscapone thingies on trays!" And guess whose husband decided to try out the ridiculously tall mojito at the bar? That's right, folks. Mine. That started an unfortunate trend of other people trying out the mojito at the bar...and then we had the kind of scene that can only occur when people are drinking really tall mojitos. I've already said too much. But, Point One- the bartender was a member of The Guild. We had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important and we trusted his judgement. And Point Two- there may have been some dancing in the attached bar for Reggae Night, and there may have been a time when I cornered the DJ and informed him that not only did I NOT like reggae (at all) but that I really did kinda want to hear some hair metal and classic rock. Now. I think we all know who won that round.

The AC/DC air guitar champ, that's who.

And now, a side note about Max. He's Annie's three year old nephew (I'm pretty sure he's three.) He's a ball of awesome loaded with sugar and coated with grass stains. Peej and I really dug Max. Here are some of his gems:

-"Is she a boy?" [in reference to a vineyard pup]

-"She smells like FUR!" [happily, in regards to same pup]

-"My BOOBIES are falling!" [racing around the bride's room, in a poor attempt to attach the bride's strapless bra to himself]

-"Not off the path, there are rattlesnakes!" [announced mere seconds before he was to walk down the aisle as a ringbearer, and moments after he announced that he had to pee- badly- and couldn't hold it. They ceremony waited.]

Also worth a side note: Our darling little Aveo. Rental car companies love to give us Aveos. (There are actually only fifteen in the world. We've driven them all.) P.J. made an aside that he loves economy cars- not because they're affordable- but because they're Good For The Environment. Like he's putting the 'eco' in economy. He still hasn't cracked a smile on that one, so I'm only half sure he's kidding. Another clue he may not be into saving the world? As we were leaving San Fran, a guy with a long white beard decided to make his own crosswalk- and Peej muttered that Santa was about get to run over by an Aveo. Oh, we laughed and laughed. (I swear to God he's a good person.)

Back to the romance.

The wedding day was perfection; sunny but not crazy warm, people mostly being where they ought, and a cool as a cucumber bride with a checklist three miles long. And I am not in the least ashamed to admit that, when I saw Annie being walked down the aisle by her Dad, I wept with all the grace of a toddler. There was some sniffling, a snort or two. More than a little runny makeup. I cared not- their vows were beautiful. And having gotten to know the fam and other close friends and seeing EVERYONE react the same way...it was simply a great wedding.

And the reception! After a neato unveiling of the room where we'd be dining- accompanied by Europe's 'The Final Countdown' (Jared! Yes!)- we were escorted into a wine cellar that was outfitted like a different kind of Narnia/Terabithia wonderland. (Clearly, the apex of my happiness can be achieved by simulating children's books.)

Best dinner ever.

Best slide show ever. (Again, more Ugly Crying. What is WRONG with me?)

Best first dance/parents' dance/new friends/old friends/tipsy friends dancing.

Brunch the next day at a spot so pretty that, had I known, I would've camped out with Annie and Jared the night before. (Hi guys!)

And then- AND THEN- OMG vineyards. Like, Napa vineyards. Where they letcha drink the wine. We met up with some darlin' pals at A. Rafanelli Winery and entered with a secret code. (I live for stuff like that.) Not only were we given wine glasses the size of globes and strict instructions to 'catch up,' but we were then taken on a private tour of the rooms where they were pressing the grapes and storing them in 1k apiece oak barrels [Nat: "As you do..."] And we got to taste grape foam! And stick our heads in barrels and almost pass out from a C02 blast that nearly exploded our nostrils! And see the Prohibition Era washbin that started it all! (As another gal on our tour announced tipsily, "It's like Willy Wonka- BUT BETTER.")

And there were more vineyards. And vintage stores. And naps. And dinner at Mustard's, a fancy schmancy bit of awesomeness- which we took to calling Moutarde's- that we discovered on the Food Network. That seems to be our thing, lately. And it was really, really good. All of it. Except, maybe not the girl passed out on the parking lot dividers. She wasn't so awesome. But her friends were there to make sure she wasn't too drunk. And to cheer on the game of some sort they were watching on the bar area's TV. Go sports. 

Of course, we had to have one last drink with the bride and groom- at the site of the first evening's revelry. I had a Diet Coke. This led Annie to believe that I was dying. (She has never seen anything like that in my possession at a bar.) 

When it was time to go, I hugged her for a million years. It hit me that this pal, this terrific friend and massive part of my life, really lived in California now. With her husband. (And their two cats, but that's a different story.) And I was SO excited to be going home to my bitsy gal (whom I missed like an amputated arm- did I mention I cried on the flight out? Maybe I have a hormone imbalance) but the thought of not seeing Annie for every single event in my life, inconsequential or huge, was gonna be HARD. 

But you know what made it easier? Knowing how happy she was. And how well taken care of she was gonna be. And I really can't mention the happy part enough. They're gonna be blissfully married for the rest of their lives and I got to play a small part in it. That's forever, too. And so I'm content and a little weepy and grateful and kinda tired and stoked and fearful of my American Express bill. 

And wondering if I even know the meaning of "summing up."

Vacation + Blogging= Vlog!

(That IS what it stands for, yeah?)

So, in light of the fact that I am currently in Napa for the wedding of two darling friends...here's something kinda sorta completely different.

A Vlog that Nora and I recorded last week. You're welcome. And...if you hate it...

...I'm sorry. (But you won't.)

love, Keely
(p.s. This is the most still my child has ever been. Ever.)

I think we all know who really needs the night light.

Let's take a trip down memory staircase, shall we?

I love you, Graco. Give me another chance. 

If you'll recall, a few weeks back I [accidentally] chucked my beloved monitor down the stairs with all the grace (and holding back) of an irate bison. Shockingly, it broke.

Even more shockingly, kismet and the kind souls at Graco sent me a brand new digital monitor to try for free- if I'd be so kind as to write a few words about it. (I have arrived. Maybe I should break something bigger next time?)

So. The Graco Direct Connect digital monitor. Lights, sound, temperature, vibration, a 'talk' option to the nursery- a belt clip. It showed up, all shiny and full of promise. Nora and I were understandably excited. While I figured out the charging action and gave the directions a cursory glance, she made short work of the packaging. 

I decided to go about my review the way that I tend to treat new techie purchases in my life: flying by the seat of my pants and seeing just how "user friendly" the product really is. The results?

I should really start reading the directions. For I'm rather below average on the user error scale. 

The first night we had it, Peej and I had a glass of wine outside after Nora fell asleep and brought the monitor to the backyard. The audio was crystal clear- granted, her bedroom was directly above us a couple of floors, but still. Crystal clear. At one point I wanted to check the temp in her room and pressed the button for light to see what the display read (it was pretty dark out, after all.) Nothing happened. Pressed it again. Turns out, I had been activating various levels of a night light on her monitor. Whoops! 

Later that night as I was charging the jobber, it crackled slightly. And once every now and again it would cut out for the shortest of milliseconds. Then again, I also have an iPhone in the city of Chicago. Slight gaps in communication shouldn't phase me at all. 

On to the temperature gauge. I REALLY like this action. I am, in no small manner, obsessed with this feature.  Glancing over and knowing in an instant if Nora needs an extra blankie or a cracked open window? Rad. Although I do bug Peej with the slightest temperature fluctuation- and he reminds me each and every time that she survived July in the city. (This makes me feel like a bad parent, retroactively. And presently. Maybe even a little bit for the future.)

The 'talk to baby' option is hilarity incarnate. I love walkie talkies. Always have. (Kate and I used to rock them in bedrooms that shared a wall. "Can you hear me?" The NEIGHBORS could.) That said, Nora hasn't needed my soothing voice over the intercom- yet- but I can totally see it having future uses as she gets older: "Make smart choices, Nora Jane." "...God?" "...Yes." Also, my voice sounds really good over this monitor. This is neat. 

The size of the parent base is slightly bigger than my palm. A good size for something that you'll be hefting around in the evenings and at naptime- especially if you use the belt clip. Which I currently am. Granted, I still miss the incredibly teensy size of my lamented mini Graco. I kinda liked having an object that made me feel like I lived In The Future. However, this trumps the smaller one insomuch as it looks like it could totally take a fall down some steps. (I'll let you know, eh- in about a month. That's my rate of household incidences these days.)

Nora and I decided to road-test it. With the nursery base on, we took a stroll down to the corner pub. Not in, mind you. (It was closed.) Sadly, the monitor only had range past the neighbor's house. But still- that's awesome. Especially if you consider that our home is on a double lot and her room was 2.5 floors up. In the back. Through brick. And lots of stuffed animals. Then we took it into the backyard, past the garden, through the garage and into the alley. Total range. Which is great for those times when- wait a sec. I will never ever be alone in this alley. Ever. Especially not at night. Not even with a glowy monitor to protect me. 

But I could be, and that's my point.

So then I took a look at the actual spex for this monitor. (A good time for it, no? After I've taken it all over the neighborhood and used it for two straight nights?) Beside the features I've mentioned, here's what else it does:

-If Nora cries (not that uncommon of an occurrence), a bar on top of the parent unit lights up to the degree of her yells. (It can go up pretty high. So can she.) It also vibrates, much like her head and body do in the midst of a [rare] tantrum. 

-There's an out-of-range [2000 feet!] alarm. Like for when you're at the bar. (KIDDING, MOM. I just said it didn't reach that far.)

-I cannot mention the belt clip enough. I love to accessorize.

-The 900MHZ frequency means there's no other gadgety interference. (Although, again, in Chicago, this cannot be said 100% of anything. Not even on an Etch-A-Sketch.)

-There's a parent unit finder button on the nursery base. This is clutch! I lose things much bigger than this thing all the time. (I initially read it as "parent finder." That would be unnecessary in this household. Her other parent is the one who gave her that giant grin and furrowed brow. He's been "found." Unless they mean a Search Out P.J. function. Like if he's at the bar.)

-The digital technology on this baby is secure, ensuring that no one can listen in on my kiddo's shrieks of dismay. (Whatever. It's my feeling that if Nora has teething pain, we should all teething pain. Especially my neighbors.)

I'm pretty stoked with this baby monitor. It does the job very well- and has enough new stuff to make me feel futuristic. (That is important.)

The only slight design flaw is the lack of lighting on the parent unit display. It's a pretty sad state of affairs when, at 2am, I have to read the monitor from the light of my phone. (But at least there's no interference!) Maybe the lesson is that I should stop checking the temp in her room at 2am. 

Or at the very least stop hitting the light bulb button.

The mini nursery rave is very distracting, and she's trying to sleep.

Nora got to choose a punkin'. We didn't COMPLETELY abandon her.

Did they leave me AGAIN?

I've pretty much guaranteed that P.J. will never again leave the house- for real this time.

Saturday was innocuous enough; a few errands and appointments and general loafishness. It was Sunday that hit him like a ton of bricks. 

Over coffee (mine), Ovatine (Peej's) and Costco waffles (all Nora's- she doesn't even begin to think about sharing those), I made a list. A little list. Of stuff we HAD to get done before this coming week. And before the winter. Or really the shank of the Fall. And certainly before we left our daughter for four and a half days. 

P.J. agreed. Warily. Because, sadly, there is no "right" answer. (You're either on board with the overhaul or against my personal freedoms.)

So I sent him out to Home Depot (where everybody knows your naaaaame...) and I got to work. You see, regardless of the heaps of laundry, personal correspondence or the positively Sisyphean battle of child-proofing left to do...I had a little thorn in my side called the Storage Room.

It should not have been called the Storage Room. It's actually a second kitchen, on the lower level. Same size as our main kitchen, huge picture windows, enough room in which to house a bouncy castle. (Ooh!) But it has been a way station for building supplies, actual storage, and friends' furniture. And it was filthy. And more than a little musty. And- most importantly of all- the paint was awful.

SO. Despite all of the tasks looming before me, I'd decided that I could not live another day without putting new paint on those walls. Cinchy. 

Trouble was, to even get to the walls, I needed to remove an entire Home Depot's worth of oak doors, baseboards and planking, and random pieces of wood that WE ABSOLUTELY NEED, KEELY. 

During Nora's first nap, I secured the cats in the laundry area, propped open the side door, and lugged a potentially unwise amount of heavy lumber up the stairs and into the backyard. (Once there? Who cares? It's like I tell my Littles- if we don't find places for your toys, maybe we should put them in the yard? Where other kids might like them and want to put them away? Honestly, the best case scenario would've been if someone robbed our yard then and there.) I got some serious elbow splinters and more than one ugly scrapes from broken hardware. The neighbors think I'm totally crazy. Crazier.

Side note- Did I mention my tetanus shots aren't up to date? I have a bit of a sulfa allergy. Not sure whether it's worse to be violently ill for a week or get TETANUS, but we may soon find out. 

The look on P.J.'s face when he returned home was one of shock (How did you CARRY all of that?) and dismay (So- we're doing this?) And I kept on keeping on: scrubbing, degreasing (did I mention it was an olllllld kitchen?) and paint-taping until my fingers threatened to fall off. And this was just the prep work. 

Long story kinda short, I finished up at 10pm. (Fun tip: Find a paint edger at around 8:30pm. Then you'll realize how much of your edging/paint taping/finger misery was rendered completely superfluous! Seriously. Then go back and re-edge the entire room in- oh, about five minutes. Then- and this part is really important- jab out your eye with a corner of the paint edger in protest of your lost afternoon.)

And I fully realize that the cleaning and organizing frenzy of which has consumed the past month is solely due to the fact that I am freaking out over my impending trip. (Not the trip so much- that part will be AWESOME- but the leaving of my kiddo.) So yeah, nothing has been done in terms of actual Stuff We Needed To Get Done...but hey, at least Nora has a rec room in which to console herself over the lack of clean clothes/secured cabinets. In "spring morn" [green], no less. 

That sorta makes up for your parents jaunting off to northern California for awhile, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

(p.s. Please go vote for her on the left-hand side! The sting of bad parenting is easily soothed by a huge prize from Baby Gap.) 

Her therapist thanks you.

On The Town With Keely.

Have you ever injured yourself in a really embarrassing way? The kind of OW that you'd rather no one know about- yet that you CANNOT keep to yourself? Like, despite your shame at your own awkwardness, you really need someone to ask if you're all right? Except, when they do, their query is disproportionate to the amount of sympathy a body-ending pain like yours warrants? And when they ask, sighing, if there's anything they can DO, you respond that- No, you do not need an ambulance, but maybe, just maybe, an acknowledgment of the potential severity of the catastrophic near-miss that just occurred would make the death knell ring a little more softly. Maybe. Or perhaps a moment of silence would help.

No? Never happened to you? Me neither.

And now, in Costco news:

Things That I Have Seen-

An elderly woman elbow me in the neck for a spanikopita sample...

A guy fondly ask his friends- Remember when I ate ALL of your almonds?

A couple acknowledge to each other that they're "not really into the pot pie."

And a Dad rub his hands together and gleefully announce to his kids that "NOW we shop for pleasure."

Costco, as I have learned, is no place for the casual shopper nor the novice. You will be tread on and crunched down like gravel under the wheels of a semi. And forget asking for help- no one actually WORKS there- they're all "independent contractors" working for various spanikopita vendors.

But I still love it there. A ton. Because there's a kind of [American] fulfillment you can only get by finding a 3-ton box of granola bars. And I don't even LIKE granola bars!

The shoppers there are something else. While at her Costco in Boston, my sis Kate was badgered by an elderly man who wanted her opinion on various track suits. Her reply that she liked them all only aggravated him. There MUST be a winner! I think she pointed to one and apparently he went away. I don't know. He might still be there. In his workout-y finest.

And a tiny, not at all self-incriminating bit of advice? Skip the gelato. Sure, it's dollar gelato. But you know what dollar gelato tastes like? Gelato made for a dollar.

In other marketing news, I've recently noticed in Pilates (while face-planting in various ungraceful positions) that the mats at the studio boast the phrase "The Total Body Solution."

Which is questionable. Sure, it's A body solution. Quite a nice-ish one. But at the time all I could think in terms of body fitness totality:

Lipo.

But whatever. There's something to be said for working out and earning it.

And I absolutely think we should all continue to.

As soon as our bodies heal from the pelvis-cracking baby gate injury that we've recently incurred.

For example.

Insulation Confrontation- The Sequel

This needs insulatin', too.

The insulation guys are upstairs. So, I'm assuming that our crawlspaces are being done up. (Hopefully the right side up this time.)

There was a momentary glitch this a.m. when a neighbor flung my lawn chair (previously gracing a parking spot in front of the house) into a different neighbor's yard. Then he parked his car. So Nora and I ran outside to a) retrieve our chair and b) give an evil eye to the chair flinger. Of course, that was when the 40-foot insulation truck pulled up. The car driver feigned ignorance. The truck driver raised his arms at me like- What?! But I know that move, too.

He argued with me that I was supposed to have a spot blocked off. I told him that I did- and in fact had four blocked off. LAST WEDNESDAY. (I am rarely confrontational. It felt good.)

I went inside (after I yell, I always retreat) and was sure that a) I was in trouble or b) we weren't gettin' no insulation did. However. The truck driver and the car driver argued in Spanish. Guess who won? That's right- the guy insulating the third floor.

I should argue more. HEAR THAT, PEEJ?

Half an hour later, one of the workers asked if he could use one of the bathrooms. I told him sure and pointed to the one on the second floor. (Nora and I were downstairs at the time.) He chose to use the one on the third floor, which- ha HAH- recently lost its ability to be flushed. He apologized. I assured him that it was previously broken and not to worry. I then realized that I missed an awesome chance to get the toilet fixed on someone else's dime! But the Pollyanna side of me could never let that fly. Besides, I'm an awful liar. (I was about to say that I'd make a terrible spy- but I couldn't remember the word. What did pop into my head was the word 'Decepticon.' I'd make a TERRIBLE Decepticon as well.)

So. This weekend.

I engaged in what P.J. considers his personal hell- and Feng Shui'd the bedroom. He seriously hates when I move anything to any other locale. Also making his nerves work overtime? The fact that I have the most rudimentary knowledge of Feng Shui (like, kindergarten Feng Shui) and frequently change my mind after the heavy lifting has been done. That said- it needed to happen. Our bedroom is a pretty good size, but narrow from the door over to the double window. We used to have the window as our headboard because it looked awesome. And it was great to get a breeze in the summer. And- really- who doesn't like hearing someone break a bottle on a car at 3am?

But here's what convinced me that we needed a change. I read- online, obviously- that one of the worst bed positions was with the headboard against a window. Noise! Energy! Frantic dreams! (I will start to blame all previous problems on this headboard placement!) And the worst bed position? Feet to the door- the Chinese position of DEATH. (That sounds way more intense than they probably intended. I may have gotten the wording wrong.)

So I fixed it. Everything, really. And it looks quite good. And even P.J. liked it- once I got him into the room under the pretense of getting something for Nora. (Subterfuge. Hey- maybe I would be a good Decepticon!) I guarantee that Peej won't be running errands for longer than an hour anymore. He'll be too afraid of what he'd come home to.

I also did some heavy duty fixin' up of some found objects (God bless Craigslist's Free Stuff section)- namely a partition screen that someone was just giving away! It was blue and white checks with broken buttons on crisscrossed ribbons- obviously we needed it. I stripped and recovered them with heavy brown velvet curtains that had been gifted to us--

[Major side note: P.J. does not like when I repurpose things. What if we need them for their originally intended use? I assured him that, unless we wanted a sickroom with dim, dusty light spilling onto my prone, plaid blanket-covered figure, we would not be using the heavy curtains any time soon. He wasn't convinced- what if we need them for one of the kids' bedrooms someday? If he wanted his kid to be Colin from The Secret Garden, then sure. Let's hang the curtains. He gave me the blessing for the fabric.]

--and I got to use the staple gun. Which makes such a satisfying 'ker-thwunk' when you use it. And then it's stuck there forever. With metal. While I worked on this project, I helped P.J. run lines for an audition. I don't know how helpful I was.

"But then there would be no play, Mr. Merrick." [ker-thwunk]
"If he did not love her [ker-thwunk], why should there be a play?" [ker-thwunk ker-thwunk]
"Keely."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm reading. I am."
[ker-thwunk.]

He really didn't need me, anyhow. He's the best actor ever. And the partitions look fabulous. 'Cause he's the most tolerant husband ever. And thanks to the insulation, he'll be the warmest one, too.

Which is good, because I'm certain our neighbors will be flinging eggs at our door in due course...

...And it'll be chilly tonight when he has to go clean it off.

Insulation Cancellation...*

Overshot the Peekaboo.

...and My Kid Is Terrific (Parts 1 and 77, respectively.) *Thanks, Dorrie.

Yesterday, we were going to have a guy come and fix our crawlspaces. They are seriously hurting. Four attic-like rooms off of the upstairs bedrooms- two the size of [really awful] bedrooms themselves- and all with upside down insulation...if at all. (There are, however, crazy amounts of notebooks, beer bottle caps and at least one high school prom mug. Good Counsel, Class of '83, if anyone's missing it.)

So I was excited to get them fixed for storage and general not-freeziness. But I was also wary. Here's why. This is how a contractor deal works at our house:

1. P.J. and I choose 3 companies.
2. I meet them all, listen to their spiels and Little Lady pitches, all roughly three hours apiece.
3. I suggest the company I like best.
4. Peej goes with the company of which he's just Googled something crucial.
5. On the Big Day, I ready the area, lock the cats in the laundry room and adjust Nora's naps accordingly...and wait. And wait. And sometimes wait.

Yesterday was no different- except- the insulation truck needed THREE SPOTS in front of my house. First thing in the a.m. Okie doke. Because, you know, I live on an extremely busy one-way street off of an extremely busy two-way street with rather expensive metered parking boxes (thanks, Daley), making our busy street the only free, non-zoned parking for blocks.

But sure, three spots.

However, I peeked out the window at 6:45am and saw the spot right in front of our gate had vacated. I ran outside in jammies, a hoodie and Crocs to place a questionably light folding chair in the space. Which is totally your best bet for staking a spot. Nothing says Back Off like a folding chair.

And somehow another spot opened up. And another. AND A FOURTH. I was so stoked and took it as a sign.

Oh, it was a sign, all right. It was a surefire way to guarantee that after I'd gotten the spots secured (as well as the wrath of my neighbors) and after I'd sealed off Nora's door against dust and shards, and after I'd settled the kiddo into a confused sleep in the downstairs pack n' play...that I'd get a call at 10am canceling the appointment. You see, the head supervisor's wife had had a baby the night before. I mean, mazel tov and all that, but THAT shut down operations for the day? And we're not talking about a Mom and Pop operation, here.

They said they were sorry. I said it was okay. (Grr, I always say that. And I so rarely mean it.)

But then I got to spend the rest of the day with Nora in a half-clean/half-rearranged household. And there's nothing like spending the day with Nora and her Doc Bullfrog and Jeopardy and the park.

I love my kid. I really do. As I was singing her to half-sleep and she was doing a patpatpat on my cheek in acknowledgement, it hit me (not her hand) that I'm blown away by this little child almost every day.

I looked down at her sleepy 11 month-old face and was kind of amazed by the fact that she was, indeed, this old. And still this young. And so, so busy all of the time. And such an independent little thing but still so happy to be held and rocked and kissed.

And she's ours. And she looks like both of us and no one else at all but herself and she never even used to exist. That blows me out of the water. I think it always will.

Parents always say that Having A Baby Changes You and You'll Never Be The Same and You Cannot Imagine The Capacity For Love and blahblahblah. And you nod and smile and roll your eyes, thinking- yeah, I know how to love. I'm gonna dig my kid. Yep.

But it's seriously unlike any other feeling I've ever felt. Even towards my husband. And I like him. A LOT. But here's the kicker: This feeling towards Nora? This wildly out of control love and constant gleeful surprise? I still couldn't explain and do it justice to an expectant parent.

I think it's kind of like how humans can't hold the full memory of pain in any sort of constant way- nor would one want to. You'd never get anything done, remembering exactly what it felt like when your arm shattered after a fall from a bike or that last migraine that left you incapacitated for days. But you know it hurt. And you tell friends how much it hurt. But even you've forgotten- just a little- how overwhelming that pain is.

And that's what it's like with Nora.

Except non-painful. (Unless I'm in a mood and full o' tears.) Because I think I have moments like I just did as I got her ready for bed because I can't keep that kind of awareness going 24/7. And so it's shocking and wonderful and silly when I do.

It's funny- I did not intend to write about this today. Really. I had planned on whining about insulation and home repair. Maybe gripe about laundry a bit. Share an anecdote about how people will still not talk to me at the park.

But as I started typing, here I was- again- extolling the virtues of being a parent. And I imagine- to my friends who have no desire to have babies- it's worthy of a little eye roll of their own. But here's another kicker: I think the majority of this amazement and love comes from the fact that I had SO little to do with how wildly cool this girl is. She just showed up, guns of awesome a blazin', and decided to change our lives.

And for that I have nothing but love in my heart.

And little but sweet potato on my shirt.

Cheese Royalty.

The Cheese Queen & Princess.

Our toes are just beginning to thaw, I've got a shelf full of vintage treasures, and I found a cheese curd in my pocket.

We've safely made it back from Wisconsin.

Now, back in the old days, way before I was married to a Midwesterner and was simply a gal from the 413, I couldn't have differentiated between Wisconsin and Iowa on a map. Really. Granted, I'm kinda terrible at geography, but in Massachusetts (a puzzle piece of a state so teensy that you could step back, squint your eyes and pinch it from across the room) all of those states Over There are kind of one big nebulous corn (or cheese) borderin' square. Even the ones that are decidedly not squares.

But I married a Schoeny. And to a Schoeny (or Verkamp, to be fair), Wisconsin is a Narnia/Disneyland combo of epic summer proportions. (And yes, that's 'summer' as a verb.) And I was wholly unconvinced. Until the summer of '07 when, as a fresh-faced fiancée, I accompanied P.J. to a week of family togetherness in neighboring lake houses.

I kayaked every day- at least three times. I pretended to swim- in the way I do that's not actual swimming (I don't even know if I can anymore)- even though I still do not care for the feel of lake bottom on any part of my being. I rode the well-loved and oft-lamented oldie bike Limey. (With our hoodies and bare feet, Peej and I could have been just another two kiddos at camp.) I ate fresh produce and more cheese than was wise. We had bonfires and bottles of wine on the dock, went stargazing and yard-saling. Fireworks were viewed from boats. I found a cove that I pretended to have discovered (though, in all honesty, I do this all over the world.)

In short, I dug the place.

So this past weekend, when we were invited to spend time with P.J.'s Mom, sister and nephew (the guy born just five days before Nora), we were stoked to take our little Bitsy up North.

It was a little colder than it had been a few summers ago- but it just gave me an excuse to break out the baby hats with animal ears. And sure, Nora's lunch one afternoon consisted of me feeding her leftover pizza in the backseat of our car...but I know she had a good time.

The kids attempted to toddle in a pumpkin patch. They crawled on piers (and each other). They shared pack n' play time, all of their toys, and more than a few of their germs (Sorry, Dor.) The grownups shared lovely meals, crisp Fall afternoons, and a spin in the sauna. (I could have happily slept there.)

And we got to go antiquing- one of those clichéd activities that women supposedly love and men are obligated to grumble about. But it's true- I love poking around antique and vintage stores. P.J....tolerates them. Nora thinks they're awesome, but sadly, they do not feel the same way about her. So yesterday, Peej gave me the most fabulous of gifts- he took Nora to go visit some family friends in town...and left me to chill at an antique emporium FOR AN HOUR. (I actually teared up. And my heart palpitated with excitement. Seriously. I've so rarely felt that fondly about another human being.)

And it was great. Overpriced as heck, but great. Especially since I found The Find of All Finds.

Lemme take you back a little- back when I was a kid, I loved having tea parties and using fancy glasses and plates. My mother- possessing a fabulous assortment of such pieces (not to mention the patience required of a mother to a fancy child) let me use these lovely things for special occasions. She also let me arrange her cabinets and ooh and ahh over the very fanciest. (I LOVE to arrange fancy things. Have you seen my dining room? Or living room? Or- heck, the upstairs?)

But there was a set of glassware that trumped everything else. Frosted Libbey iced tea glasses, all with a different brightly-colored carousel animal. A green and black zebra, chartreuse lion, reddish orange giraffe, yellow lion, pink elephant, teal deer...and a red pony. I loved the red pony best- loved it. And I would use these with all of the reverence and care of the queen's finest china.

Until the day that I dropped and broke one.

And it was the red pony.

I cried and cried. I don't even remember my mother being angry with me- I think she knew how heartbroken I was, and that it was an awful punishment to never again be able to hold that wonderful glass. And we moved on (somehow) and she even promised me the set to keep way down the road.

But now, here I was in the antique emporium.

Looking at the red pony on a frosted carousel glass.

And yes, there was also a blue tiger, an orange and tan pony, a pink and red elephant, and an orange and black zebra (how many did they make?)- but I am not even the littlest bit ashamed to admit that I wept in the middle of a Wisconsin antique store. And I called my mother. She was excited (but really, I don't think my level of excitement can be topped by anyone, ever.) And I finally feel like I have atoned for the horrible crime I committed back when I was eight years old.

And I have my red pony back.

Best. Trip. Ever.

And sure, we took a long overdue trip to the Mars Cheese Castle (it is a CASTLE MADE OF CHEESE- you cannot ever begin to convince me differently) and I felt like royalty with my bag of cheese curds...

...but seriously? The trip was made when I found that glass.

For two dollars and fifty cents. The one item in the store not marked for a hundred bucks.

Making it an act of Fate.

Or maybe an act of Wisconsin.

Hmm. Awfully muggy for "Fall."

Rearranging the dining room.

It is officially Fall. I know this because a) I own a calendar [app], and b) people keep wishing each other a Happy Solstice on Facebook. (What did I DO before Facebook? I'll tell you- I wrote in a paper journal and called P.J. eighty times a day to tell him hilarious anecdotes. I think we can all agree that Facebook has kickstarted my blogging and saved my marriage.)

Also a marriage-saver: Last night P.J. found a mouse that had- ahem- ceased to be in the corner of the garage. Actually, it had ceased to be in any locale. He discovered and disposed of it in the time it took me to ask "What's so snicky?" This is a great skill in a husband. He also reassured me that there were no holes in the garage or the shed, that it most likely snuck in while the garage door was open one night. This bothered me greatly so he amended it, remembering that he had also spied a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's person- so he must have died of old age.

Food for thought- does a mouse have a person? Or is it a 'mouse?' There was a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's mouse.

Nope. Can't use it in that sense.

And have you noticed that a story involving a rat= panic/anger/hatred and a field mouse= confusion/sadness/whimsical storytelling? That's because mice are itty bitty squeakers and rats can suck it. (My mother: Keely! Me: Sorry!)

Back to the Solstice.

I have been feeling so crazypants lately and it's nice to have something new to blame it on. I've been cleaning and rearranging to a ridiculous extent; my office, my desk, the living room furniture, P.J.'s dresser (gave that one up midway through- I can admit defeat when need be.)

P.J. does not care for this. He does not like "change," overmuch. But then again, he wasn't too keen on moving in together four and a half years ago, nor was he ready to have a baby/buy a home/get a car before we had a chance to really thiiiiink it over. For what that's worth.

Besides, I can't help all of this moving things about. At the risk of sounding compulsive, the idea plants itself in my mind and I know the only way to get peace is to physically shift and poke and spin things around. And it works. Because the things- rooms, desk drawers, half of dressers- look fabulous after I tweak 'em. They always do.

And clearly, I can use a change. At the risk of my mother saying I'm being down on myself- I'm falling apart. For no discernible reason. 10pm Bedtime Month is still going [relatively] strong. (I mean, sometimes you hafta stay up late to scope Lamebook while eating PB out of the jar.) So I'm rested. Plus I'm happy with my new work/home ratio. And Nora's the easiest kiddo ever.

But twice last week I fell out of my shoes. All the way to the pavement out. Another time I tripped and, instead of catching myself on anything nearby, I compensated for balance by flinging the baby monitor down the stairs. (I'm fine. The monitor is not. Somewhere in mid-fling the audio wire snapped. Perhaps when it met the ground.)

And the other day while riding public transit, the elastic holding my hair up just sorta...pinged apart. I actually heard a 'ping.' Didn't know what it was. But it kinda felt like someone was poking the top of my scalp- which is not altogether unheard of on the CTA. And the other riders got to stare at me while my hair slowly fell to the sides of my face. Which I'm actually kind of sorry to have missed. (That's like- performance art!)

Maybe this is why the other Moms at the playlot won't talk to me. Falling down, throwing things and personal grooming failures are rather off-putting.

But, you know what?

It's probably just the Solstice.

I'll be the one stuck in the squad car.

During the time I've been a nanny- almost a decade- I've seen just about everything that goes in, on, or around a child- and most places in, on or around which a child can play.


I've carted kids to lessons, playdates and child "friendly" locales in the dead of winter and the sloshiest of springs, knowing full well there's only so many blanket tents and PBS reruns one can tolerate.


In some of these locales I've spent the entire time in fear; for the child's safety, for the strep virus he's licked off a toy, and for my brain cells. (Seriously. An hour and a half of structured play for an 18 month old? Time...ticks...by...) And sometimes, when you have to wake the kiddo to make a class for which you've already pre-paid, it can equal an overtired, pricey, dirty, boring mess.


And that's no fun.


The antidote to that is Fantasy Kingdom, an indoor playplace conveniently located in the bustling North/Clybourn area of Chicago.

This space is so great for kiddos ranging from six months to six years (although some of my older charges have dug it, too). And truly, I've been hanging out here for years. My most active dude has sprinted off his excess energy before naptime. My shyest boy has made friends. My independent-minded gal has done her own thing- thankyouverymuch- storming a castle, dressed like a firefighter.


They have a police station, firehouse, cottage, and grocery store, not to mention a humongous castle with interior stairs (yep, been up there- didn't even get stuck) plus a gallery of costumes.


And there are toys- lots of them. Superbly clean toys. Like- I've seen people wipe and spray things down. (And there's sanitizer and wipes and tissues and and and....) The music is always good, too. That's huge for me. Music in play areas is SO important. And so often lame.


The vehicles for ridin' are pretty rad as well- though, sadly, I cannot fit in those. But that frees them up for the kids I've brought. Which I suppose is the whole point.


One of the BEST parts is the sectioned-off play area for Little Littles. Yes! You no longer have to choose between letting big kids have fun and a non-smooshed infant! The toys in there are pretty spiffy, too, and the Bigs and Littles can see each other over the separating wall. If they want to. But they'll be pretty busy.


Okay, I lied- the real best part is the free coffee.


Or maybe it's the fact that my admission is free with a kiddo. Unless it's a drop-off locale or unless I get a really sweet craft project of my own, nothing is more irksome than having to pay to be there with the kids.


There's also a separate area for lunch or snacks or coffee or whatever you purchase. (They have lots of goodies for sale.) With a fridge. And a microwave. And- more wipes. The neato part about this area is that you're still mere feet away from the main play area. Meaning everyone doesn't have to take off their costumes just because I want a juicebox.


They have all sorts of membership and admission packages- including day rates- and additional sibs under the age of one are free. And the multi-pass cards do not expire. (I really enjoy non-stressy memberships. A lot.)


Birthday parties are a big deal here, and they have all sorts of packages and ways to make the day super easy. I've been to multiple events at Fantasy Kingdom. Three words: Well. Oiled. Machine.


Still feeling the need to educate and artsify your child? They have projects and storytelling and activities with local artists. And you can attend when you like, let your kid sleep in when you don't, and no one looks at you like you've squandered the equivalent of college tuition for a twice-weekly dance class.


And now that my darlin' Bitsy is extremely active- and, let's be honest, the 8 month hibernation known as Chicago Winter is imminent- I'm going to need a regular place to run around. (With her, I mean. I'm gonna bring Nora.)


Just imagine- parking in the attached garage, waltzing in to have coffee with a pal, enjoying a clean, bright, friendly environment, letting your little one dream and dance and run wild...and then scooping her up for naptime that you didn't have to reschedule...


...Bring on the bad weather.

Fall is for Nostalgia.

There's something so freeing about chilly- and overcast- Fall weekends. They totally give you permission to do what you whine about wanting to do all week...nothing at all.

So we snuggled in. Ate junk food. Watched the '80s version of Pippi Longstocking- for Nora. In case you're curious, it completely stands the test of time. (Life is a breeeeeze...) We also watched a classic episode of Sesame Street- from the 4th season, once they'd ironed out most of the kinks of Snuffy not being invisible, Oscar not being orange, and Big Bird not having a shrunken head. That said- who is this man with the 'fro they're still trying to pass off as Gordon? And Luis was a stud! P.J. and I gleefully clapped along when our favorite animated shorts aired...while Nora, quite neglected, wandered into the laundry room to poke at unmatched socks.

Also. Ernie told Bert that he hated something in that episode. P.J. and I nearly jumped out of our skins, which poses the question- When did saying 'hate' become so darned taboo in children's TV? Obviously sometime between the late '70s and now. I honestly can't remember, which means it was probably on the earlier end of things. Discuss.

We had a date night- another of the 'no cash/no leaving the house' variety. We made our favorite cold weather drink of Hot Todgers- think Hot Toddy, but with ginger beer. We invented them. Watched Before Sunrise- which also remained a good flick. At least the first half did. After that, Mr. Snorey VonI'mStillAwakePants was "thinking about the movie" behind heavy eyelids.

But it still counts as a date.

We only left the house once this weekend and had a stellar brunch at our pals' Heather and John's place. The event had three major things going for it: It was in Albany Park(!!!), the shindig was kid-friendly, and they are exceptional cooks. I filled a plate to share with Nora- and she ate most of it. (Sure, I'll give you my pulled pork and goat cheese cornbread- but the Bloody Mary is Momma's.)

But this past weekend wasn't without its unnecessary display of hormonal tears, either.

*****ALERT- I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT BOOBS*****

I've slowly been weaning Nora onto bottles and sippy cups. And I'm totally fine with it. Absolutely. Except when I'm not.

The middle of the day feedings? Sure, give her a cup of formula. (Once I got over my initial feelings of neglect and abuse, I realized that not only was she not sad about the formula- but that she really, really liked it. A lot.)

But last night was the last evening nursing, leaving only the a.m. feedings for just a little while longer. So keep this in mind- this was the second to last feeding to be dropped. Nevertheless, as soon as she was done and started to doze off on P.J.'s shoulder...I lost it.

She was wearing footie pajamas that, mere weeks ago, flopped behind her like a cape when she crawled. Now they were snug. (And yeah, sure, they're still 6-9 month jammies, but STILL.)

It doesn't seem like that long ago that she was doing her little kitten snore in the bassinet next to the bed, waking at 2am for a feeding and having absolutely zero stuffed pals that traveled with her from locale to locale. What happened to that bundle that Peej would sleepily hand me? (Perhaps too bundled- between the hat, sleepsack, jammies and mittens, I could only see a small pair of irate, dark eyes staring up at me with a mix of hunger and baby rage.) And then I'd feed her and watch the tight little fists pressed against her cheeks relax. I'd see her eyes dart around in curiosity. I'd witness her valiant struggle to scoot around and do something to those bright lights and colorful shapes...and then fall back to sleep like a miniature drunken elf. I'd watch the rest of our late night programming, hand the wayward sprite back to her father, and then snuggle in until I got to hold her again.

And I already miss it. I never minded waking up with her. Sure, maybe the DuraMorph was extra Dura, but the euphoria of finally having her here trumped any petty ol' need for sleep.

Our bedtime routine was my favorite part of the day. We'd get her all cozied up (less bundling was completely okay, as we quickly learned) and I'd feed her as P.J. would alternate between reading her favorite books and singing her favorite songs with an [intentional] voice that somehow mixed Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. (This is 1000% true.) And, smiling sleepily, she'd be placed in her crib amongst a small army of hand-selected animals.

And P.J. and I would high-five. (This is also totally true.)

So, as P.J. carried her off to her room last night, these were the thoughts careening into my brain. And I cried. A lot. (As my friends can attest, I do not possess the ability to cry a little.) And neither P.J. nor I can be sure why it is that I think The End of Nursing= The End of My Bedtime Routine with Nora. I mean, I still live here.

And I can totally give her a bottle at night. And be an extra pair of  hands for jammies and books and snuggles. But I'm rapidly losing the one ability that no one else in her universe can even begin to emulate.

Which kinda made me a superhero for a little while.

With a superpower that she'll never even remember.

But we'll always have the opening strains of The Office. She'll hear it and laugh and become inexplicably hungry and that will be our little joke.

And it'll be okay.

Odd Hygiene and Noisy Celebrations.

I've been noticing a marked difference in my Nanny With Nora versus Nora At Home routines. There are just certain things that I can do In House that wouldn't fly whilst on the clock.

For instance, I attempted to shower while Nora played on the bathroom floor with squeezie toys and bath books- in my own bathroom. (General rule of thumb: Keep your clothes on/don't bathe in the workplace. This is just something I've always tried to live by.) Believe it or not, this whole "shower" thing actually jived. Kinda.

It took about two minutes in- and for Nora to be happily playing- before I realized that this shower was lacking shampoo or conditioner. (I usually shower upstairs, but in that postage sized loo Nora would have had to play directly on my unshowered head.) Faced with the prospect of either disturbing Nora's solo playtime of awesome OR forgoing a shower altogether, I opted for an unusual third choice: I used Nora's bath stuff. Granted, it smelled great, but I'm pretty sure it lacks any actual soap or soaplike product. But compared to the alternative...I was fairly washed that day. [I can totally see the dollar sign/coupon/exclamation points over P.J.'s head: You used her organic baby stuff? Why not just use the good bottle of pinot noir?!]

Maybe next time.

After said shower, once the Little Little realized that she no longer cared for this locale of play- and would like a snack, sankyousomuch- I crawled into bed with her (me in a towel, she in her half-soaked jammies- did I mention she tried to climb into the bath?) and let her have a bottle while I chilled and contemplated pants.

I later realized that this may have been an odd start to the day, compared to- oh- days when I shower solo and dress myself and feed my child at a table. But it's certainly not my oddest shower/nekkie/Nora tale.

Also, at work- the kiddos I watch generally are allowed a half an hour of TV every so often. Good, quality, pre-screened programming. Generally. I monitor this and check with parents and older sibs (the youngest ones will swear up and down they haven't watched a show since their first birthdays.)

At home- Nora will "watch" a DVD or OnDemand show while rolling around in piles of [clean-ish] laundry. Sure, she's young, and I know I'm rapidly approaching the days where TV will be a magical box of eyeball glue...but for now I generally just have stuff on in the background. A lot. She's seen almost every season of Psych. And anyone who's read the blog through the early maternity leave knows her Pavlovian response to The Office opening theme. And during our block-buildin' extravaganza the other afternoon, I purposefully turned on Jeopardy. (Hey- the periodic table of elements ain't gonna teach itself. At least not 'til 9th grade. And maybe not even then.) Yes, she has hours of the day with plenty of music and sometimes no sound at all...but I think I never realized how cool with TV I was until I was in charge of Nora's brain.

Poor Nora. At least she has Work Mommy to lay down the law about media and venue and clothing.

And may I personally wish Albany Park (and the rest of the world, to a lesser extent) a Happy Mexican Independence Day? I'm quite certain that my block will be celebrating the 200th anniversary with a 200 Firework (or worse) Salute around 3am. 'Cause my neighborhood reeeaaallly digs a good celebration, Mexican or otherwise. I saw multiple cars driving around with huge red, white and green flags atop their roofs. And not just little antenna flags either- huge honkin' flag poles sticking out of the top of cars. And that was YESTERDAY.

Though, to be fair, the Fourth of July isn't exactly known for tasteful and reserved displays of patriotism.

And, as Peej pointed out this a.m., every St. Patrick's Day people paint their faces and bodies with all sorts of "Irish" symbolism. I'm pretty sure that hasn't been a genuine tradition since the people of Ireland were called The Celts.

So happiest of days to all- whatever your nationality, personal grooming habits or mode of transpo. Clearly this block has room enough for us all.

If my neighbors can handle my soap-less Wednesdays and 70s rock blaring out the front stoop...

...I can dig a car horn symphony before sunrise.