The Art of the Lull.

Music is a constant in our house. We have cleaning mixes, Sunday morning albums, and classic vinyl on rotation. Nora can usually tell the who, what, and where of a situation by what's currently playing: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros? Time to dance with Dad before supper. '40s on 4, Sirius XM? Mom's doing a project in the kitchen. Sweet Baby James up in her bedroom? Time to line up the Beanie Babies and Trolls- it's playtime.

We've been compiling and collecting lullabies and our favorite kids' albums since the day we found out we were expecting. Some all-time favorites include In Harmony, any of the classic Sesame Street albums, Free To Be You And Me, and a still gender-nonspecific iTunes playlist entitled "Kid."

Nora loves them all. She digs a good melody, harmony, key change and rhythm. Here's what she doesn't like- pandering lyrics, saccharine sentiments, and downright boring composition. (Oh, did I say Nora? I meant me. But based on her refusal to stay in the room when something of that ilk is played...I can guess that she feels much the same.) So many kids' albums are that way. And most little ones I know can tell the difference between good and bad music, especially if they've heard a ton of it in their fifteen months.

I was beyond excited when I was approached to take a listen to Jane Roman Pitt's new album, Midnight Lullaby. She's a singer/songwriter with strong folk/country/classical roots, and her latest is a compilation of non-traditional lullabies from some pretty big names. It's already gotten some great reviews- at HuffPost, among others- so I figured that I'd give it to one of the toughest critics I know. She's 30 inches tall, has crazy hair, and a penchant for thumbs and frogs. Here's what Nora thought of the album.

We played Midnight Lullaby in the playroom, about an hour before I wanted to settle Nora down for a nap. It was a tall order, I realized, as she was darned busy laying waste to every puzzle and pretend piece of food in a three-room radius.

It started with Josh Ritter's Baby That's Not All- a song that warranted a bit of a hip wiggle (the universal sign for I Acknowledge The Music You Have Selected.) She also began to rock and pat her Valentine's Day cards. So, maybe she was feeling soothed. Or needing to soothe. Either way, those cards were getting the treatment.

Wilco's My Darling- a great tune- actually made me well up a little bit. It was so lovely. Nora paused the coddling of the cards to come give me a pat on the shoulder. Empathy! Or maybe embarrassment. Either way, the puzzle-flinging had ceased.

Tom Waits is an extremely welcome guest in our speakers, so when his Midnight Lullaby played, I decided to spread out a blanket on the floor and just enjoy. And yes, we've proven that this album succeeds at lulling the Exhausted Mother set...but Nora joined me, too. (I think the last time that she'd willingly snuggled in my arms was during her raging fever. Before that? Five months of age.)

Maybe it was the quiet time with Nora, or perhaps it was the sweetness of the song, but Bob Dylan's Forever Young got me sniffling again. And Nora even joined in with her nondescript 'ah' singsongy voice which I love. By this point I was ready for a nap, eighteen more children, and a pony for Nora if she'd just keep singing and cuddling.

There are so many highlights on this simple and gentle album: Donovan's La Moora is a soothing Scottish melody, Jane's own original tracks on the album add beautiful instrumentation and harmony, and the classic Beatles' Goodnight/Golden Slumbers is a must-have for parents, anyhow.

Here's the full track listing:
1. Baby That's Not All- Josh Ritter
2. My Darling- Wilco
3. Dreaming Sweet Dreams- Hugh Prestwood
4. Lullaby- Dixie Chicks
5. Midnight Lullaby- Tom Waits
6. Welcome Home To Love- Jane Roman Pitt
7. The Sweetest Gift- Sade
8. La Moora- Donovan
9. Whisper Warm- Jane Roman Pitt
10. Forever Young- Bob Dylan
11. Goodnight/Golden Slumbers- Lennon/McCartney

I have a feeling this one's gonna stay in our rotation. Want it to be in yours? I have an album for giveaway that I'm really stoked to share. Leave a comment below and tell me who needs lulling in your life. I'll choose a winner next Tuesday, so tell your friends, caregivers and discerning toddlers!

By the way, it worked. Sleep came- quite easily- a mere ten minutes after the album ended.

Oh yeah, and Nora napped, too.

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Say it with clowns.

Way too big for love.

It's Valentine's Day! That wonderful time of cellophane and glitter and overindulgence and tutus and sugar-crash naps.

This year, I've included a pic of Nora's valentine for everyone to see. First things first. You may be asking yourself why the card is so garishly big. Noted. And. Secondly, that is a grapefruit next to the valentine for size comparison.

Here is what went down. I made a handful of normal-sized valentines for the usual crowd. Nothing crazy opulent; just a nice graphic, some cool textured paper, a fancily scrolled phrase or two. Cinchy. But could I do that for Peej and Nora's cards? No... I happened upon this really fabulous site that featured vintage Valentine's Day images. How could I resist? Sure, the lack of a functional printer (long story) and a positively bewildering experience with FedEx Office led me to believe that I ought to have resisted in the long run. (I could more easily land a jet with their convoluted and excessively powerful website than do a simple upload. When I unchecked a box for 'collate,' the site crashed. It's two pieces of paper! Put them in any order you like!)

And of course, I had to be fancy. I ordered the two images to be printed on transparency paper. Why? Dunno. Maybe to justify paying six bucks for a simple procedure. Perhaps to alleviate my guilt at not dealing with the printer. Or it could just be 'cause it looked more awesome that way.

So. Yes. The hugeness. Well, I sized each image to 3x5in and sent them along. Got a confirmation of such. However, when P.J. returned home from running errands with the two pictures in a folder (I had asked him not to look- IT WOULD RUIN THE SURPRISE), I found that they had blown them up to near life-size. I did not feel like returning them. (Surprise, honey! Your wife is lazy! Here's a terrifyingly big graphic!)

And without giving away any details of P.J.'s card- other than its largetude- I can totally acknowledge that perhaps the images would have been charming in a slightly smaller size. I fear that at the current measurements of Nora's plastic clown, it'll put her off of valentines/clowns/transparencies forever. (Also, guess what the toughest material is to glue anything to? You got it! Transparency paper!) I hope she enjoys her wobbly, mushy, mildly threatening declaration of love. Happy Valentine's Day, daughter.

We also celebrated the day by making a sizeable donation of housewares and clothing to the Epilepsy Foundation. (It's really not that philanthropic- they picked it up from my front stoop. Does my laziness know no bounds?!) Also, perhaps my intention of saying 'I love you' to the Epilepsy Foundation will not be as well received as I had intended- I chose to say it with mismatched steak knives and oversized shirts with hilarious verbage. How they read into it is entirely up to them.

On Saturday, P.J. and I went to Bonsoiree, a delightful- and redonkulously expensive- French/Japanese fusion joint o' small plates. (We used a gift certificate from OUR ENGAGEMENT. Yep, that would be four years ago this April.) It was eight courses of awesome. I embarrassed myself by openly weeping over some of the dishes. And yes, sure, I might have made some of the teensy pieces of food talk to one another. But for the most part, I was quite adult. (Except for when 'Long Time' by Boston came on. Did I mention they had the best B-sides classic rock mix playing? I almost moved in.) Another highlight came towards the end of the meal, when P.J. and I could not determine if the couple recently seated next to us were old friends, a hot new item, or brother and sister. It was- at once- hilarious, quaint and disturbing. This is so true.

And now I must finish preparations for tonight's fabulous gala in the dining room. I call it- We're Having Dinner In The Dining Room. It will include mammoth valentines, something I should probably decide upon and begin to defrost, and a few trinkets purchased via Amazon. (And, funnily enough, I know what every single item is! And here is why! My husband, ever the practical gent, decided the free shipping option on my Amazon Prime would be the best to use. And then, afraid that I'd figure out what he had bought me, he went into my email account and deleted the confirmation email from Amazon. Unfortunately, I had also bought his present from that same site. Killing all semblance of surprise on his part when he spied that email. And when he forgot about the 'item shipped' email that would come later, surprise died on my end too. It's like a bizarro, reverse Gift Of The Magi. For lazy people using the same online account and credit card to buy each other items under ten bucks in cost.)

Ain't true love grand? (Answer- yes. Always yes.)

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I am so lazy.

This floor is dirtying my nightgown.

"Fast, cheap, and good… pick two. If it’s fast and cheap it won’t be good. If it’s cheap and good it won’t be fast. If it’s fast and good it won’t be cheap. Fast, cheap, and good… pick two words to live by." - Tom Waits

That's one of my husband's favorite quotes. And it happens to be attributed to one of my favorite songwriters. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in terms of general housiness and productivity.

My trifecta, however, is more noun-related: Baby, Household, Writing. I cannot have more than two awesome nouns at a time. I've tried it. Repeatedly. It doesn't work.

On days where I feel on top of the mopping/scrubbing/folding and manage to teach my kid her colors/take a blanket tent nap (with her, of course), I feel like a really great Mom/wife/homeowner. Too bad my laptop doesn't get opened and zero projects get attempted, let alone completed.

Then there are times when the house is immaculate- or at least mildly sanitized- and I've blogged, essayed, scripted, emailed and filed. But Nora has watched five back to back episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Including commercials. Extra commercials, in fact.

The best of the three options happens when I play on the floor with Nora for hours on end, and follow it up with some stellar writing once she naps. Dual job-wise, I feel invincible. Food and homestead-wise, I feel hungry, dirty and cluttered.

(All bets are off on days when Nora and I are at work, however. On those days, my home actually gets messier and my documents begin deleting themselves word by word. Nora and I would be cool with each other on work days, if not for the fact that I wake her at least twice to run errands and pick up kiddos. I'm pretty sure she'd rather we not talk on work days. But then again, we don't get paid to clean our house/write an opus/snuggle stuffed frogs...and her braces aren't gonna fund themselves. So we must resign ourselves to a few grumbles. Besides, the trade-off is that she gets to be with her favorite big kids in the entire Chicagoland area. Some things are worth being woken up for.)

The other day I thought I could beat the system. Nora "helped" me fold an impossibly large number of laundry loads (I am still not entirely convinced that people are NOT randomly dropping off clothing to be laundered and then spirited away while I towel-nap. Who owns all these socks?) and clean the floor. (Her contribution was removing cat hair from the Swiffer while I mopped- and then holding dirt and furballs up to me with a disdainful "yuck." Then she'd empty out the Tupperware cabinet and throw bibs around.) But the house was decently clean. So we made Valentines. Really sparkly ones with extra stickers and purple crayons. We followed that up by opening the Little People playhouses across the floor and arranging a township's worth of plastic pilots, squirrels, princesses and backpack-clad kids on appropriate seating. Then we fed them tea. She had a multi-food group lunch (and so did I!) and then settled down for a big ol' after lunch nap.

And I opened my laptop. I knew that I'd have at least the next two hours available for some quality writing time.

A fact which apparently crippled me.

I got nothing done. Less than nothing, actually. I may have even killed some brain cells with the stupidity of the few sentences I managed to eke out. They were the worst sentences ever to be typed and then immediately deleted. If I could have deleted them multiple times, I would have.

They were that bad.

And I wasn't surprised. After all, I was taunting Fate- who had VERY CLEARLY laid out the rules of productivity. Choose two.

Most days I wish I could just choose Nora twice. 

The real low men on the totem pole are the cats, though. They used to be in the triple rotation, with special treats and five page manifestos for the cat sitters. And even though I still adore them, I fall back on this idea that- at heart- they're wild animals who prefer to fend for themselves. (If only they had thumbs!)

At least they're not the plants, which haven't been watered in months. 

Prioritizing is hard.

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Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

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Beyond Thundersnow.

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

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

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

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

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

Staring at nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

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Whine and Jeez.

Magical cookies.

I totally jinxed myself.

Why oh why would I put it out there to the cosmos that I was relaxed- especially after my drama-free flight? And how about the fact that yesterday afternoon I actually mentioned that I had NOTHING to blog about for Monday morning?

That'll show me.

United Airlines Strike Number 1: The flight was delayed. For mechanical reasons. In fact, it hadn't even left Chicago by the time I got to the airport, less than an hour before takeoff. (Kid at the counter: Uh, we updated the flight status twenty minutes ago. Me: I usually give myself a little more transit time than that. Do you think I live in the airport parking lot?) Also- To Whom It May Concern, rounding an hour and forty minutes delay down to "an hour" is NOT whimsical nor is it refreshing.

Nora Jane Point 1: "Mama- dat!" This was exclaimed happily toward every single piece of artwork, display window and ceiling installation...which, truth be told, I would have entirely missed due to grumpiness.

United Airline Strike Number 2: The kid at gate counter (what, is it Take Your Surly Tween To Work Day?) was eye-poppingly rude. Because of the late hour in which we'd be landing, I wanted to check on the availability of two seats together and the Economy Plus seating- which, hilariously enough, was the same free option on the fight out east. He snapped that they don't just GIVE those seats out, there's a reason people PAY for them. (Blink, blink.) Really? Is my money no good here? Am I a little match girl begging for crusts of bread? HAVE I OFFENDED YOU BY ASKING YOU TO DO YOUR JOB? He also demanded to see my boarding pass before he'd let me put a gate tag on Nora's stroller. Yes, because during all of this fun, I'm going to pointlessly hand over the easiest method of transporting my kid onto a flight which I have no intention of taking. Would you also like her sippy cup and spare diaper?

Nora Jane Point 2: She rustled up some good will amongst the cranky passengers, hopefully buying us some time on the flight for peace, love and understanding. She also attempted to share what appeared to be the best shortbread cookies in the history of the world, ever.

United Airlines Strike 3: The gate kid refused to acknowledge priority boarding between groups 1 and 2- which the flight heading east most certainly did. I realize that this is not a humongous deal except for the pain in the buttitude for those boarding directly after me having to wait and watch me heft two carry-ons, my child, and fold a stroller for AN OBVIOUSLY GOVERNMENT-REGULATED GATE CHECK. And this is before we even get on the darned plane. And- and- I could've just sucked it up and acknowledged the fact that we were all running late, let's get on the plane and shut up, if not for the fact that he was giving me The Eye during the boarding process (and I am not normally paranoid), daring me to say or do something. In terms of Example Making, he wanted me to be the Piggy to his Jack. (Anyone?)

Nora Jane Point 3: She let me hoist her under one arm with nary a peep during the boarding shenanigans.

United Airlines Strike 4: (Seriously, if I had had any other options at this point, I would've lit someone on fire. Maybe this is unwise to post in conjunction with an airport story?) United seated me in a two seat row next to an extraordinarily obese woman. (No joke- she needed two seatbelt extenders. I didn't know that EXISTED!) And, most magically of all, she was holding a nine month old baby. Two kids on the whole flight and they're wedged together. (Also, I do believe that United's rules prohibit that kind of thing in one row, but I wasn't about to whip out the rule book at this point.) I had to sit sideways with Nora's legs dangling over my armrest into the aisle. This is no exaggeration- the woman took up her seat and over half of mine. NOT COOL. I asked an attendant if there were any other seats so that the kids didn't keep each other up during the flight- she said she'd check.

Nora Jane Point 4: Babies! We love babies!

United Airlines Strike 5: There were multiple single seats open next to people who really really wanted extra space for their Kindles and nap pillows. The flight attendant asked if anyone would be willing to move or have a baby next to them. NO ONE WOULD. So we took off. And did I mention that the massive woman reeked of stale smoke and her kid was already starting to do that hehhhh whine of extremely overtired babies? (I know it well. I was doing it, too.)

Humanity Point 1: Some generous soul reluctantly agreed to be moved to Economy Plus- IN HIS OWN ROW- and this allowed Nora and I to take the back row of seats before the toilet. Win. The rest of the flight progressed as follows: snacks, books, twenty second increments of Dora the Explorer on iPhone, five minute increments of app deleting, snacks, books, stickers, snack of stickers, Chex mix massage for laptop, hiding of blueberries (later to be found directly on the butt of jeans), the hour long version of Itsy Bitsy Spider, tweaked laughter, no sleeping.

I'm not entirely sure how I managed to birth a better traveler than myself, but I'm eternally grateful. Another fun fact: Did you know that certain economy jets do not come equipped with a changing table in the bathroom? None. Nor do some flights offer any dairy products aside from powdered creamer? The combination of apple juice and nary a spot for diaper swapping inspired some awfully creative changing action. It didn't phase her.

Nor did the fact that during this quick change, I got a nose bleed.

I'm amazed she's even talking to me today.

Upon getting home, I became a pile of Useless and was promptly tucked in at 10pm CST- if it was even that late. I inexplicably woke later on to check on Nora and make sure tags were displayed somewhere. I checked the clock, thrilled that I had gotten such a good night's sleep so far and that Nora hadn't yet stirred.

It was 11:41pm.

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Can I write a Trip Advisor review?

Nice.

I am really, really relaxed.

This does not make for a compelling read, I realize.

But let's see if I can create some dramatic tension, twists n' turns, and cliffhangers for bloggy's sake.

On Tuesday morning we got Nora out of bed at 5:45am to head to O'Hare. I had booked the earliest flight possible, thinking that it would be easy that way. (Sure, 'cause nothing says 'easy' like an exhausted toddler.) And an accident on 90/94 made me panic about dragging NJ through the baggage check and security. (TENSION!) But...P.J. got us there in [safe] record time, we were first in line to check our bag, and security took all of three minutes. "She's such a good traveler," an agent told me. (Not really, I wanted to reply. Her carry-on bag? Not to mention her ziplock baggie? Chaos. She also wholly disregards the three ounce rule.)

Winning the Mom Of The Year award, I let my kid scarf a sausage McMuffin and a hash brown in front of an airport TV.

We boarded a positively dwarven plane- you know a plane has a low roof if the 5'4" gal complains- and sat in the front row. Awesome! Except...you know that wall at the front of the plane? Plenty o' leg room, but not so much in the storage department. I was told that I needed to stow both of our carry-ons in the overheard compartment. (So, uh, the seven hours of kiddo entertainment? Yeah, I'd have access to none of that.) I shoved as much as I could in my pockets (a surprising amount) and put N on my lap. Oh- and I had booked a single seat as opposed to the double seats across the aisle...but when our gate changed, so did our commuter plane. Reversing the seats. So now I was in a window seat with no access to the overheard sanity-savers, anxiously awaiting the unfortunate soul on the aisle who was to have my child directly up their nostril for the flight. (TENSION!)

But...they never showed. The flight attendant tapped my shoulder and smiled at Nora. "She can have that seat, if she wants."

I buckled Nora into a seat after we took off and watched her sit and read. (I hadn't planned for that.) It was awesome. She had a juice. Played with some dolls. Charmed her fellow flyers. And sure, had a high-stakes standoff on the changing table of the loo, but that was fleeting and ended well.

We landed early. Our stroller was the first item off of the plane. We rolled to meet my mother at the gate and got the suitcase- the first one on the conveyor belt. Nora napped on the drive home while I had one of my favorite sandwiches in history- liverwurst and mustard on dark rye. (Seriously. My Mom makes this amazing sandwich for me when I'm sick/visiting/home for lunch from kindergarten. I was the coolest five year-old ever.)

Oh, Mim.

I got to take a nap that day. And eat stuffed pork chops. Watch an MST3k with my Dad. And let my Mom feed/bathe/change/play with Nora. (TENSION...was completely nonexistent.)

Even being the solo Nora-getter in the wee hours of the morning hasn't been so crazy. Maybe she's catching up from a nutso past few weeks, but she's napping and sleeping like a champ- this has allowed us to have some terrific excursions around town. These include a life-changing free chair massage and a stellar reading from a talented lady. Today we're having lunch with an honorary Mom of mine (she's earned the title by taking me to the ER as many times as my own mother) and later going for a swim.

Maybe I'll even get a nap.

To those who say you can never go home again- they are sadly misinformed. Not only can you go home, but it'll be a seamless trip, your Dad has new music for you to hear, AND THERE'S SEAFOOD FOR SUPPER.

Plus all of the Clifford episodes one could hope for. If you like that kind of thing.

They've got everything here.

Let us pray.

Hi!

Nora's a really good little kid. I feel like I haven't been blogging about her as much as I used to- back in the days of first food, first sounds, first episode of The Office- because she's always just around. Being cool. Sure, she's in the stories a ton, but hasn't gotten a ton of solo press lately. So here's what's up with the biggie little in the house:

-Anytime I've helped one of my kiddos out on the potty, she toddles in and points to them and then herself. She then pats her bum and says "Dipe." THIS IS AWESOME. As anyone who's ever tried to train a kid to use a toilet well knows- Obstacle One is getting them to realize where they should pee. And not pee, so much.

-This kid needs a ton of alone time. Not that I blame her. I feel like I'm forever hoisting her into the car for work, appointments, and errands. So when she gets to choose, she's happiest in a tiny nook of her own making, turning the pages of board books. This can go on for a while. You know what else can go on during this time? Showers, meal preparation, towel naps...

-We've had bedtime rituals since day one, and no one knows them better than Miss Bossy Britches. Right before bed, I hug her and hand her to P.J. for The Final Countdown. We always say "Goodnight Nora/Goodnight Mommy/Goodnight Stairwell", etc., etc. (I am NOT kidding. It can take an hour.) The other night, right after the hand-off, she leaned back over to me with an 'mmm' for a kiss. On her own volition. (Without me badgering her- "Kiss Mommy goodnight, gimme a kiss. Kiss kiss, Nora." She never had. But I wouldn't kiss me either with that kind of pressure.) The point is, she did it. And I almost peed, I was so excited. (That would've put the kibosh on further kissing, no?)

So why all the NJ love? Cinchy.

I am trying to convince the cosmos of how much I adore my child. That way, they can return the favor just in time for our upcoming flight tomorrow morning; in the form of a docile child, speedy flight, and the safe arrival of every single thing and person aboard- with nary a threat of someone riding the wing.

Here are the items that I have packed in our carry-on as a) a mother, b) a nanny, c) a savvy passenger, and d) a person whose first rodeo this AIN'T:

-Enough diapers/medicine/wipes/ointment/sanitizer/tissues/bibs/placemats to catch/clean/treat the bodily functions of eight children twice her size.
-Seven books (my hope is that by the time she gets to the last book, she'll have forgotten all about the first one.)
-One baby doll named Dot.
-One frog named Doc (her syllables are shockingly similar- but those in the know can tell the vast difference between a cry for Doc and Dot.)
-Snacks in a Snak-trap, snacks in a baggie, snacks in their sealed packages, bananas.
-Milk that I've been assured will not be thrown away at the security checkpoint- but which, come on, will.
-Two episodes of something or other concerning baby animals.
-Stickers/paper/crayons/packaging of the stickers (it's all about buying time, people.)
-A toy cell phone with which she'll happily play and then demand...
-...My cell phone.

And if all goes according to plan, we will be on the plane for a little less than two hours.

Pray for us, St. Christopher. Pray for us, United Airlines. Pray for us, Patron, patron saint of miniature liquor bottles.

I probably need a few more stickers.

Sleep Is For The Awesome.

P.J. likes me. I know this.

But sometimes I have to remind myself that just because you like someone doesn't mean you have to like sleeping next to someone. (Don't get me wrong- his sleeping options haven't changed. This is not a democracy, it's a marriage. But he can have his feelings.)

Lemme 'splain.

I'm a bit of a...hmm...an ambitious sleeper. My goal is to cover as much ground as possible. I am Lewis and/or Clark and your pillow is the Pacific Coast.

P.J. is a Zen Buddhist monk. (Perhaps by necessity at this point.) He requires very little, sleep-wise: a pillowesque thing, a corner of a blanket (if he is especially lucky), four solid hours. He sleeps with one eye open, a hand on the Louisville Slugger propped by the nightstand, ready for anything. He scoops up Nora in the morning at her first babble. He brings the cats downstairs for feeding if they yowl at her door.

As for me, I've slept through thunderstorms, car alarms, and a good portion of my toddler's early morning antics. (I tell people that she's slept through the night since seven weeks. I actually have no idea if this is true. Bottom line- Mama slept. We all slept!) I can't help it. My Mom recently informed me that I took two naps a day until I was three and even napped in the afternoons after I started school. I am either a really stellar sleeper or severely vitamins D and B12 deficient.

But back to P.J.

His dream of dreams is to sleep sans wife, baby, two cats, sippy cup, bib, five board books, eighteen blankets (did I mention I am never warm,whilst he is one of those Amish wood-burning furnaces?) and perhaps- just perhaps- somewhere he could stretch out his legs. It's good to have dreams.

This will never happen, however.

Unfortunately, my happy sleep is occasionally interrupted by terrifying nightmares and wacko sleepwalking stints. His job is to talk me down, hold my hand, and prevent me from eating toothpaste caps. (I know the household tasks seem inordinately skewed towards Peej at this point, but rest assured. I hold my own. You'd gag if I told you from where I removed poop this week alone.)

We spent a good part of Christmas week at his folks' house in Cincinnati, sleeping on the third floor in separate beds- in his childhood bedroom, in fact. His mother asked if we wanted to push the beds together. "Nope!" he happily exclaimed. And so for three days we slept all Ozzie n' Harriet style, waving goodnight to each other. With the occasional high five.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, I pushed the beds together. Crestfallen isn't a word I bandy about, overmuch. But he was. I calmly explained to him that I did not get married and fix up a house and have someone's baby only to sleep solo in a twin bed on the eve of a major holiday. He couldn't argue with that. (Or didn't.)

He falls asleep on couches, later apologizing for coming up to bed so late. But I know what's up. I even asked him point blank last night- You don't even want to sleep next to me anymore, do you?

His response? "No! I love sleeping in the same bed...room as you."

But I think things will stay as they are for now. I could be bought, however, with two special, magical little words.

"Vintage Vespa."

He has his lifestyle holdout, I have mine.

(Three more-) "With A Sidecar."

Your move, Philly Joe.

January must be Customer Service Month.

It was a good, albeit frigid, weekend here. We actually saw more people than we do for some combined weeks.

We went with one pal to an awesome creperie up the street from here- I highly recommend it. Nora also gave it two miniature thumbs way up- but they're covered in cheese, so I wouldn't shake her hand or anything. There was a bit of a language barrier, so my Moroccan chai latte actually came as a fresh mint infusion- but happily, I'm a superbly easygoing diner. Also- he must have known that I actually needed mint more than all that sugar.

Our neighbor friends invited us over for dinner- again! (Okay, for any newcomers: we have one set of friendly neighbors that a) are sober, b) speak some semblance of English- heck, I'd take sober Spanish at this point, and c) have repeatedly made plans with us. This is great. What's even better is that, beyond those three stellar qualifications, they're actually superbly cool people who have an adorable one year old. That's right- they even come with a friend for our kid. And sure, Nora and Emily spent the better part of the evening shrieking directly into each others' faces...but I think that toddlers have a really intricate and evolved way of communicating. Besides- they made TACOS for dinner!

Another good friend came over for sugary treats a la El Trigal Bakery- the place where I get a a tote bag full of pastries and cookies for under five bucks total- and gabbed about her currently preggo form. Attention friends: a really cool way to be in my heart forever? Walk in the door and announce- Keely, you were right. Pregnancy is work! (Now, I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, nor do I want to take credit for others' hardships...but every now and again it's nice to be reminded how much of a hypochondriac I am not.)

Here's what else made this weekend deserving of a super silver star: I went shopping. Alone. For fun. Sure, it was at the Marshall's at Harlem and Irving (read: not "fancy" or "clean"), but boy oh boy, do they have clothing for grownups that aren't necessarily hoodies and sweatpants! Although they have those, too! In fact, I specifically went out for items that were cheap, pretty, and "grownup." (Is the fact that it's in quotes give away how novel that type of clothing might be?)

I filled a cart with sweater dresses, ruffled tops, skinny jeans (hahahahahahaha), and soft wrappy-type things that should not be anywhere within the vicinity of a child's hands. Even though I intended to only buy four items, I wanted to make sure I tried on everything in the Misses, Petite and Juniors section. (Shush.) When I went to try them on, though, I encountered a problem in the form of a really elderly, really non-English-speaking woman. (Seriously, I don't even know what language she spoke. She was THAT old.) She was, however, perfectly clear about the Ten Items Or Less rule. It was even written on the tag. No worries, I'd just take ten items and move the cart to- nope. That angry finger didn't want me to leave the cart anywhere near the changing room. Certainly not by the entrance. We compromised by having me shove it behind a rack of shoes, one store section away.

Now I couldn't enjoy the art of shoving myself into questionable clothing- complete with nerve-destroying staticky hair- because I kept thinking about the THIEVES who were at that very moment STEALING CLOTHING FROM MY CART.

The next problem came when two of the items actually fit me in the first round. Uh oh. Now I had only eight items that I could take in for the next bunch. Because, as the lady sorta babbled at me, I couldn't have more than ten. And they wouldn't watch my cart. (Basically, her job was to stand there and irately fling tags at people. And yell 'no.' Nora would rock that job.) Unfortunately, a couple of other items fit me as well- and though I couldn't afford to buy everything that fit, I wanted the good stuff on hand for the Lightning Round. So the next handful only contained six items. And so on. Eventually I was taking pieces in one at a time, getting fully dressed and putting my boots and coats back on, because NO PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN STALL.

I finally approached the woman in a Not Very Polite way, one boot half on, my hair standing up to the fluorescent lights and pointed at an empty rack. "I am putting my clothing here. I am buying them." (I lied.) "All?" "Yup." (Nope.) "And I am taking these items from my cart into the stall. I am trying all of them on, all in the same go-round." "Only ten." "I KNOW."

Tried them on, feeling pret-ty proud of my ability to stand up for myself after half an hour of abuse. That is, until, I came out of the changing room to find multiple girls taking items from the clothing rack! Again, channeling my daughter, I pleasantly grabbed the items from their arms with a big 'ol smile.

And I bought six. (Which, as P.J. pointed out, is totally fine for my once a year shopping trip.)

We rounded out the weekend by having a decidedly grownup date night after N.J. went to bed. We made Manhattans- extra cherry juice, thankyouverymuch- and put on a DVD of 'Double Wedding,' a glorious old movie with Myrna Loy and William Powell. We loved it so much that we...

...conked out and drooled on each others' sweats before the opening credits finished.

Happy Monday, grownups.

Maybe we'll just take a boat.

Nora and I are taking a trip in a couple of weeks. But this post is not regarding air travel, nor does it concern my staggering amount of arrogance to think I can wrangle a toddler solo in an airborne contraption.

No, this is about customer service. Or rather, customer disservice.

I live about twenty minutes down the highway from O'Hare International Airport. This is important to note because yesterday, whilst dealing with a booking representative, it occurred to me that it might have been easier to walk up 90/94 and throttle the agent rather than speak with her any longer. This would've proved extremely difficult as: a) I am a pacifist, and b) SHE WAS IN INDIA.

And I had to call, you see, because there was no way to add Nora on to my ticket during the purchase without speaking to United. Which has their major hub in Chicago. Where I live. But not the booking agent. She does not live here.

And even though the website informed me that there was NO WAY a lap baby could be added without speaking to someone, my helpful representative warned that there "may be a surcharge" for speaking with her. (The previous recording also told me that call volumes were "higher than average" and asked me if I wouldn't just rather try out their website.)

The helpful overseas woman asked me to spell my name and list my mileage number- despite having been forced to punch in such information before I was even allowed to hear the proper recording. (Why do they make me do this? Are they giving me brain teasers to stave off boredom/dementia?) And even though I spoke it, dialed it and repeated it, she still got the last name wrong, mucking up any hopes of pulling up the correct itinerary. (Where are you flying from? Chicago. Where I live. That should be in the ol' file, too.)

She seemed really confused when I told her I wanted to bring my daughter with me. (You're bringing your baby?! Yep. I like her. We go places together.) I then began spelling out my kid's first and last names to expedite the process- N like Nancy, O as an orange, R as in rhinoceros... She then snapped at me to use "real phonetics," as the connection was "very bad." This was said accusingly. Well gee, KAREN, I can see United's office from my house. But you're right- it's most likely trouble on Chicago's end. (Also, we are not in the Army. Rhinoceros is a perfectly fine R word.)

I then attempted to spell out Nora's names with "real" phonetics. This is awfully hard! I had enough trouble coming up with "orange," it took me darn near a year to remember "Oscar." Finally, towards the end she asked- "Oh, Schoeny? Like your last name?" YES! JUST LIKE MY LAST NAME.

Towards the end of our relationship, she had a bit of a sneezing fit. She then apologized. "I have a very bad cold." There was a weighty silence. I did not acknowledge it.

I'm pretty sure someone owes me money. Surcharge, indeed.

*

And how about this gem? I was having trouble logging into an account which I needed to close. The email was correct, but I just couldn't finagle the password. Finally, I hit the 'email password' button, which I hate doing- I'm pretty sure doing so signs you up for mailing lists for the next eighty years- and I got this reply:

Retrieved lost password: bYdRfaPxcWzQduaQMda7Mba3dtvJgjzg


Ah, there it is! My ol' password! Good old...that thing. 


I don't know what kind of shenanigans those people are trying to pull since a) that is no automated password that I've ever seen, and b) there is no way I'd ever choose that monstrosity since I've been using BillyIsHott since roughly 1991.


*


And I promise promise promise that this is last time I'll blog about this (here, anyhow): Head on over the The 2011 Bloggies site and vote for your favorite inane Blah Blah Blog in multiple categories. One ballot per email address, per favore! Here are categories that I like: Most Humorous, Best Writing, Best Kept Secret, BEST BLOG EVER...and ones I don't have crazy odds of winning: Science, Religion, Asian. Put Lollygag Blog as the name, www.lollygagblog.com as the URL...and wait by the mailbox for your congratulatory corn dog. Need rec's for the other two blog slots in each category? Leave a comment here and I'd be more than happy to help you out. I read a lot.


Sometimes there aren't even pictures.

I'm half kidding about the pine needle project.

This post, by all rights, should have been ready for publication about an hour ago. However, an incredibly cute and persistent toddler has been giving what I like to call The Adorable And Timely Awareness Of Fleeting Moments Face.

It involves a lot of belly laughs and doe eyes.

Thusly, a good portion of my morning has been spent rocking any combination of four baby dolls (rotated at will by The Empress herself) with a pointed finger and the simple direction to "La la la." That's my cue to sing the babies to sleep- accompanied by Nora's wiggling hip dance. When she stops, so do I.

She never stops.

Another of Bossy Belinda's recent habits is to protest any action or removal from a situation or transit she deems unnecessary- by twiddling her lips in a grumbly manner. (Side note- what is that called? Recent Google searches term it 'flubberdubbing,' 'wabba wabba-ing,' and any other multitude of highly improbable, slightly pornographic monikers. Side side note- Do not attempt this search on your own. Sometimes I do not feel like the interwebs are as innocent as I pretend them to be.)

Nora has also recently acquired a [hopefully fleeting] fear of nose-blowing. Not her own. She's always hated that. No, what she protests is the action of someone else clearing their nose. I have no idea why this noise bugs her so much. We live a block and a half away from a fire station. Random parades are known to break out on our cross street. She is frequently awoken by striped tabbies demanding attention from her negligent parents. But regardless, as soon as you blow your nose, there she is- finger pointing like the evil monkey from The Family Guy. If you ignore her polite request, she flubberdubs her lips like the most scorned woman in the world.

People can no longer suggest that I have not negatively impacted this poor, sweet child.

Speaking of loved ones whom I have beaten down with my crazy, P.J. was awfully busy this weekend. It was the traditional Christmas Ended Two And A Half Weeks Ago Tree-Taking-Down Festival. (Our poor balsam was so beyond dead that its needles were shedding needles. While we were cleaning the living room, I half-convinced Peej to start a new business of making pine sachets...mixed with cat hair and dust. Also some crayon shavings. Who wants in?!)

After the house was cleared of all our lovely decorations (dead and/or alive), the natural progression of the afternoon was to move my office from right off of the living room to the third floor nook. Obviously. P.J. was less than convinced that this had be done on free weekend...but I bribed him with a solo trip to Home Depot. He could get all of the thunky, bangy, pipey Man Projects that his heart desired. (Shameless!) But, boy- did that desk move up those stairs!

Here is what the nook between the bedrooms looked like in July of '09:

Pretty spectacular, right? I personally enjoy the fact that no doors were on any frames during this time period. And forget about what's going on in the bathroom to the left. (It was three months before I would be alone on this floor.) Up until this past Saturday, the nook had hosted a miniature library of Nora's books...and Nora's friends' books...and a gigantic giraffe, courtesy of my mother in law. You've seen this giraffe before.

Here's what My Office Of Awesomeness looks like now:

You'll notice how spectacularly clean and organized my new office is. This is partially due to the fact that, during the move, I failed to relocate any of the clutter which had disenchanted me from my previous office space. I have no plans to amend this.

It is also not usually this pink nor is it quite so vintage. But I've found that the Hipstamatic hides dustballs and cat hair quite nicely.

Am I giving away all of my housewifely secrets?

You're the welcomest.

***

And now, random begging. If you stop by the Bloggies and feel like casting a vote for Lollygag Blog for any ol' category which you see fit (and Mama Moderne- mamamoderne.com- for Best Parenting and Design), well, that would just be great. Sure, you need to nominate a few others for each category, but that's not too hard, is it? Heck, you're on the internet right now! Clearly, you enjoy some websitery. The nomination process ends this week. After that, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to piles of cash and corndogs for all.

Which, just a reminder, you love.

But not half as much as I love you.

It's also All You Need.

I could use a little Valentine's Day.

Now, before a horde of angry and over-holiday'd anti-consumerist solo flyers attack me for my God Awful ways like so many rabid geese...

...lemme 'splain.

The kind of Valentine's Day I want is of the second grade variety. That's right; first-rate, second grade. And here, in no particular order, are the five best reasons I have for wanting such a thing:

5. There is nothing in the world quite as awesome as having a cute boy write your name on a love note/paper with a piece of glued-on candy. There are people who will argue that there are many things better than this but they are WRONG. (And they are also probably: a) of the aforementioned first paragraph group and b) bound to see this little list fail.)  And sure, these days I'm pretty limited to which cute boy brings me what kind of paper...so maybe this is all a thinly veiled request for my husband to bring me something to eat. And to write something on it first.

4. Cellophane and shiny red paper makes my heart flutter. Who couldn't use a good heart flutter? (Except for people with pacemakers.) There's something about really fancy paper that makes even the dreariest, froziest, Chicago-for-seven-straight-monthsiest day seem a little more special. And maybe- just maybe- during the midseason break of my programmes, I need something a little bit more special than sugar free pistachio pudding. (That last comment was aimed at no one. I'm sure he meant well.)

3. No mailbox has ever been as special to me as the one that I folded and taped to the front of my particle board desk in Mrs. Hodsoll's classroom, Highland Elementary, Pittsfield, Massachusetts, 01201. There was a feeling of anticipation that could not be matched- certainly not by any city mailbox attached to a chainlink fence in any part of Chicago, 60618. I don't know what the heck kind of missive I was expecting- I don't think I even kept any of them past Valentine's week. (You didn't celebrate the whole week?) Maybe it was just the notion that something mind-blowingly wonderful COULD find its way in there. When's the last time you stood and anxiously watched your mailbox, knowing that today, SOMEONE was going to DELIVER something WONDERFUL. (They had to! It was a classroom rule that you had to give out Valentines to everyone!) I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like my mandatory overwhelming correspondence. And I'd like it to be a surprise.

2. Love is a many splendored thing. It also keeps us together, lifts us up where we belong, can't be hurried, will lead you back, will never do without you, don't cost a thing, is a rollercoaster, a hangover, a power, a glory, a vision, a dream, all around, everlasting, hot and justified. (And yes, sometimes it bytes, stinks, hurts, won't wait, is tainted, fools fall into it, and it makes you a prisoner.) You'd do anything for it- but not that. And sometimes- only sometimes- it grows where my Rosemary goes. (And nobody knows it but me!)

1. And lastly- though not leastly- the best declarations of awesome are of the found art and free material variety. They always have been. It's January 6th. You officially have five and a half weeks to find a doily and glue a Hershey's kiss to it. You've all been given a pretty decent heads-up.

Although...come to think of it, if you find a piece of candy on the ground...leave it be. Really. Just a simple doily will suffice.

A simple mammoth one with questionable amounts of glitter.

My house doesn't even spin.

Let me be among the top five hundred to welcome you into 2011, three days in.

I am deeply consumed with confusion over my absent flying car, meal tablet, robotic housekeeper...or any housekeeper at all, for that matter. (Do you hear that, P.J.? Do not feel limited by any type of maid. I would take Amelia Bedelia at this point.)

Our New Year's Eve was pretty normal and quiet, by rest home standards. The three of us stayed in our jammies- actually, I changed into daytime jammies and Nora wore a fancy dress for part of the afternoon, but only 'cause she wanted to. There were copious amounts of television, naptime, and Super Mario Brothers 3 for the Wii. (I excelled at two of those activities and got skunked at the third.)

You'd never know that dinner was to be for three individuals- one of them smallish, at that- by the amount of Trader Joe's appetizers procured and prepared. Let's just say that bacon-wrapped things played a huge part. Also, regular bacon.

The most exciting part of the evening by far came around 11pm (or midnight in The Future where my East coast family resides) when I decided to cook up the last round of baconesque foods...and forgot how temperamental our Doesn't Mess Around oven gets when faced with such an opponent as wooden toothpicks.

Long story short, wood became charred wood. Smoke detector went crazy. P.J., previously downstairs and now very much so concerned about Nora's continued sleep, raced up the stairs to swat at the alarm with a towel. Crisis averted.

He went back downstairs.

A moment later, the other smoke detector went off. (Question to self: We have two kitchen smoke detectors?) Highlight of the year: P.J. flying back up the stairs and LEAPING into the air to rip the alarm off of the ceiling (after a second or two of confused glancing around) and then to smash it to the ground.

Problem solved.

P.J. offered to finish with the bacon. Also to repair the smoke detector[s].

Happy New Year.

And now, the beginning of what I'd like to call Suggested Resolutions For All:

1. Can we all agree to stop leaving lengthy outgoing voicemail recordings? Personally, I've had some semblance of an answering machine since 1991 and am pretty confident in my ability not to be confused senseless by the beep. Telling them to leave their name is a bit of a gimme. No phone number? Google it. "Brief message" also kills me- there are certain nameless family members who have been known to leave a Homeric epic on my voicemail, pausing once or twice to start and complete conversations with passersby. As for "time you called"...well, my futuristic phone has been informing me of that tidbit since car phones actually had to be plugged into the glove compartment via curly wire.

Sure, it's nice to know into whose phone you're about to gossip, but it doesn't have to be opulent. You could leave the 'Uncle Jesse'. You know- "Talk to me." (I've never felt cool enough to pull off that one.) You could take advantage of the name function, allowing a metallic voice to announce, "You have reached," followed by an overenthusiastic "KEELY!" Anything short and sweet works, because here's the kicker- the majority of voicemails include the automatic "To leave a message after the beep, please press 1." Or something like that. Meaning, the same exact thing is being demanded twice! Do not make me wait that long to inform you that bacon is on sale.

Besides, if the folks you're phoning are confused by the lack of directions, they're probably also the ones who will be confused by the sound of your voice on the outgoing message.

"Hello? HELLO? Keely, it sounded like you were there- HELLO?"

This series shall continue, and it shall also take helpful ideas. Because, let's face it- there's a lot of inanity out there (some of it is RIGHT HERE!) and we have to stick together.

Like bacon speared with a toothpick.

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.

By the numbers.

This was Nora's holiday week- let's break it down.

On Wednesday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members were hugged.

Thursday: (5) meat products were consumed, (30) family members were hugged.

Friday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members- not including her touchy/feely parents.

Saturday: (6) meat products were consumed...plus (5) cheese appetizers, (29) family members were hugged.

Sunday: (5) meat products were consumed, plus the rest of the cheese/etc., appetizers, (10) family members were hugged.

This a.m. is too soon to calculate. But I can imagine it'll be a doozy on the food/smooch front. Some other important numbers:

- (500) rows of large families with small babies at the family mass- and (1) Nora who began singing her own "song" any time a new intro was played. Also, (1) freakout when an elderly lady belted the descant.
- (2) Baby dolls that smell like vanilla powder. That Nora will get to play with REAL soon.
- (1) Plush rocking horse with realer-than-real whinny. (Thanks, Aunties.)
- (300) Dessert-esque things. (Gotta keep your energy up to digest all of the protein.)
- (1) Really nice camera For The Family- but which Santa will have to pry outta my greedy, snappy hands.
- (2) Trips to Skyline, each time warranting (1) cheese coney and (1) small 4-way, extra onions. (Why, what are the rest of you having?)
- (1) (6)-hour trip back to Chicago, roughly (4) hours from now. In addition, (3) loads of ruffly socks of which to wash/pack.
- (40) miniature creatures: snails, kitties, bears, firefighters, policeman-in-car, at least one Bushwoolie, and a Doc Bullfrog to pack into the car along with the full size ones.
- (1) meat-stuffed and overstimulated toddler, laughing herself into a frenzied half-sleep every few hours. Only to wake at 3am. And then sleep past 8am, burning the morning nap. Which threw off the afternoon nap. Which would, obviously, make her wake up at 3am. HahAhaHahAhaH.

And (1) shocking revelation that it's currently Monday morning at 9am Eastern, not Wednesday at 1am, any time zone.

See you Thursday, at some morning hour.

At some time zone.

With some semblance of sentence structure and throughline.

One can dream.

You're gonna want to sing this one aloud.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a mortgage and a baby.


On the second day of Christmas, Chicago gave to me…two parking fines, and a Volkswagen and a Bitsy.


On the third day of Christmas, my kiddos gave to me…three blanket tents, two museum free days, and a "Sleep in 'til seven thirty."


On the fourth day of Christmas, my parents gave to me…four words of wisdom, three No Way naptimes, two ethnic bake shops, and a "Sorry the Brita's empty."


On the fifth day of Christmas, my kitties gave to me…FIVE YUCKY THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Do it now’s,” three paper airplanes, two taco joints, and a plate full of pasta for me.


On the sixth day of Christmas, my good friends gave to me…six rolls o’ sushi, FIVE HALF-DEAD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Doing great's,” three sticker books, two festivals, and some Kombat on the Wii.


On the seventh day of Christmas, my sisters gave to me…seven calls o’ gossip, six dates with bacon, FIVE INNARD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Write your thank-you’s,” three twigs and leaves, two clean playlots, and a kiss on my bruise-d knee.


On the eighth day of Christmas, my homestead gave to me…eight wonky fixtures, seven rants o’ lifestyle, six Pinot Grigios, FIVE MASSAGE-Y THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Go to bed’s," three trampolines, two new parades, and some programmes on the TV.


On the ninth day of Christmas, my daughter gave to me…nine gleeful babbles, eight missing light bulbs, seven money crises, six spicy tunas, FIVE SCRATCHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Have you done it’s," three princess wands, two vintage shops, and a love song sung on key.


On the tenth day of Christmas, my Blogger gave to me…ten featured postings, nine bossy gurgles, eight crazy neighbors, seven Call You Right Back's, six fried-up dumplings, FIVE COUGHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "You're my favorite's," three tutus, two car alarms, and a bag of my favorite coffee.


On the eleventh day of Christmas, the theatre gave to me…eleven brand new playwrights, ten front page write-ups, nine pointed mandates, eight scary thuddings, seven belly-laughings, six pickled gingers, FIVE LOUD YOWLIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "Eat your crust's," three mysteries, two barking dogs, and a trip to see the sea.


On the twelfth day of Christmas, my conscience gave to me…twelve thankful feelings, eleven non-eq epics, ten full page ads, nine 'dis' and 'dats,' eight "The smell is fading's," seven "Love you- bye now's," six sauce with goat cheese, FIVE GLAD PURRIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four thumbs way up, three crayon hearts, two lakefront naps, and permission to Feng Shui.


(Merry Christmas!)