You're driving me to snack.

Not me. Or Mii. 

My Wii Fit (Plus) and I need to talk.

Actually, it may be better if someone else spoke to him. (Her? Probably "her." No one condescends quite like a woman.)

I decided to hop up on the ol' Wii balance board yesterday- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to really feel like you're living the good life.)

Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh HI, Keely. Been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky that I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm, however (regardless of the inherent truth.) But boy can they dish it out.

"Seen P.J. lately?"

"Yep. We high-five before bed."

"I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?"

Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races.

I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!

It then asked me if I'd like to do my weigh-in. No, thank you. I really don't need a cruel piece of machinery documenting my slow descent into obesity. For real- they have a weight option of whether or not you're holding your dog. But pregnancy? Impossible to chart. So I've been refusing weigh-ins. And it's making the Wii Fit console antsy. I can tell. And it feels good.

After I [randomly] selected various workouts to be mashed together (totaling half an hour), the program paused to say- "Whoa. That certainly is a LOT."

WHICH IS IT, Wii Fit Plus? Am I a lazy heifer or am I gonna keel over during my Sun Salutation? 'Cause the ten minutes you programmed aren't gonna even break a sweat, nor will they begin to decrease the poundage you're clearly jonesing to document! So I clicked Yes, Continue. THAT'S RIGHT.

Onto more First World Problems. Don't you hate it when the Wii Fit graphics don't quite match up in real time to your HD TV? (I know.) Thusly, I'm throwing punches and the thing is berating me, asking if I'm still there or not.

We moved onto hula hooping. At this point, Nora was no longer content to dance along with the grating soundtrack, nor was it enough to merely laugh at the weirdo moves her mother was attempting. So I fake hula-hooped while holding a toddler. (Now THERE'S a workout. Betcha didn't know you could rock the triceps in that one.)

A few exercises later, Nora had decided that the room had had enough. She pressed the Wii's Off button and closed the doors of the TV cabinet, saying "Bye bye, show." And it's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So then we did that calorie-scorcher called Lie On The Floor And Put Blankets Over One's Head.

I'm feeling pretty svelte already. Don't be jealous...this once a month workout lifestyle isn't for everyone. But I'm still just a normal gal.

I put on my third-day-in-a-row sweatpants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

I will drown my sorrows in nacho cheese.

Let's just keep on walking, Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It got real awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was GREAT.

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

She should probably go change.

After she checks the fridge for leftovers.

Is there a statute of limitations on stealing music?

Last night, as I was driving to Target (and thoroughly enjoying the alone time; I think it was Louis C.K. who deemed the walk from putting the kids in the backseat and getting to the driver's seat as a mini vacation), I flipped through the radio stations. Happily for my solo singin' time, the song Rosanna came on the radio. (I love Toto. Have since I was six, which is roughly when that song came out.)

Inexplicably, hearing it made me think of college. More specifically, downloading buckets of music in my friend and frequent hallmate Wilder's room. He always had a) better computers, b) newer software, and c) a jug of Carlo Rossi wine. More importantly, he possessed an extremely new invention called NAPSTER.

Now, kiddos, keep in mind that this wasn't just a new way to get free music, it was the first time this kind of thing had ever been done. Before that, you had to buy entire albums, at the store (or with a BMG circular, thusly signing away the rest of your credit- because really, no one ever bought one album at list price.)

And Napster had everything. EVERYTHING. I'd type in a random track or band I half-remembered from my childhood, and I could choose from eighty sources within a minute. I didn't care (or really know) about copyright infringement. It was just music on some kid's computer. It was like a stranger was making me the best mix tape ever!

Some days Wilder would return to his room to find me at his desk, downloads going for hours. Sometimes I wouldn't be there at all, but he'd find a queue of songs fifty deep, all one percent downloaded.

"Keely?" He'd call across to my door. "I might need this computer today."

To keep his PC moving beyond a crawl, he'd burn songs onto CDs for me, sometimes tapes- if you can believe THAT whackness.

Sometimes the mixes were so fabulous that I'd stay in his room for hours, and we'd blare the music straight out into the quad. (We were doing them a favor.) Other times I'd start an impromptu dance party. (Once, we jumped on the bed to an 'NSYNC song. True story.)

Sure, I had my own computer and stereo and plenty of places to jump during parties...but my window faced the loading dock.

I still own all of those mixes- one of which boasts the track Rosanna. I play them for Nora, who revels in grooving to anything with a beat (and pressing 'stop' and 'pause' on the stereo's tape deck.) They never fail to bring me back to the early Aughts, a time when my most pressing early evening issue was getting to Saga before the wok was rendered unusable by burnt stir fry.

But not before lining up hours' worth of Def Leppard and Lyle Lovett for downloading.

So this is where my mind went on the four minute drive to Target. It was pleasant, that jaunt through nostalgia. In that moment, it was late Spring on the Merrill quad and there was plenty of veggie pizza and Lucky Charms for everyone. And it seemed like it could've been yesterday.

Then the song ended and I glanced down at the radio station.

And it had been on the oldies channel.

Ouch.

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

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

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

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

Yes. So. The weekend.

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

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

Motorin'.

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

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

Password?

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

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

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

I think we can see who has the real problem.

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

There's no problem there.

And Another Thing...

Spinning some Slayer.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day.

And I am not playing any tricks, nor am I currently accepting applications for tricks to be played upon me. In fact, heads will roll. Real ones. (Not pretend, April-Foolery ones.)

Last year I convinced my family that, while caring for a five month-old, I was ecstatic to announce a new pregnancy. (Ha HAH!) And, if you'll recall, my sister Em- having not the TIME to read down to the bottom of the email- believed this to be the case for a good week.

But somehow, it's just not quite so chuckly anymore. No fake announcements. No ice cubes in shoes. No spiders, dead or otherwise, anywhere in the vicinity of my face or anywhere my face may be tomorrow.

Have you ever seen a [me] pregnant woman cry? Imagine Ugly Cry times Frightened Cry times Frustration Cry times a thousand. And toss in some extra hormones and a few more pounds. Minus a little sleep and anything that could pass for a normal level of internal balance.

You've been warned.

Now, onto The News.

Have you heard the newest Britney Spears song? It. Is. Awful. And not just because I'm *cough30cough* getting a little older, and not even because she has never (ever) been my type of jam. (Mmm, jam.)

It was "penned" by the train-wreckiest gal of them all, Ke$ha.

Give it a li'l listen.

Here's my biggest problem with it: Britney's people spent a good decade trying to convince the world that she's Not A Girl (Not Yet A Woman,) Not So Innocent, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Now it's all like- Hey, I'm a seven year-old girl. Let's modulate my voice into an even younger sound! While we're at it, let's toss in some vaguely threatening sexual lyrics aimed at, to the best of my knowledge, the DJ. (And not to be super judgey, but did we really need another song about a DJ not understanding your need to get out on the floor and, you know, dance like you've been needing to do all day? I'm pretty sure the DJ gets paid hourly. He WILL spin some tunes.)

From the lack of crazy tabloid exposure, I'm gonna assume that Ms. Spears has it together with her kids (no more soda in baby bottles, etc.,) and is by all accounts A Woman. Would it kill her to sound like a grownup, musically?

Granted, my standards are pretty high. My favorite female singer of all time is Etta James (and a close second is my sister, Rachel.) I was a little kid during the height of arena rock, but I learned pretty quickly that Lita Ford was no one's little girl. And the only reason Joan Jett wanted a certain song to play was because she was gonna seduce the heck out of seventeen year-old boy leaning against a jukebox. And Pat Benatar? She could've transitioned from "We Belong" to an "Aida" aria without blinking. (In fact, you EXPECTED her to.)

Okay, no more soapbox. I'll stop waving my cane at the youngsters.

Nora wants to go hear some Tori Amos, anyhow.

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

Does Mickey D's deliver?

Poor abandoned kid, living in a milk crate.

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

Now. For the serious news.

P.J. has left me.

For four days.

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

What about dinner?

Who was gonna set the alarm?

What if THE TRASH CAN GOT FULL?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

But, video:

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

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

Onwards.

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

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

I'm questioning maternity.

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

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

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

It's Diptictastic.

Folks, it's happened.

The fine folks who brought us the Diptic app have combined two of my greatest loves: documenting my child and not using Photoshop or GIMP.

What's Diptic, you ask? It's a photo manipulation program that lets the user resize, colorize, collage, and border images together. You know, the kind of thing that takes me a good weekend in Photoshop and GIMP. (And the kicker is- I know how to use those programs! Kind of.) Turns out, flicking an image bigger or smaller on one's iPhone or iPad is more my speed. I had a feeling.

My first attempt was nothing to write home about. Unless you're writing home about the cutest toddler, EVER. I pasted and resized two pix of Nora's that I really dug- and was stalling on cropping, editing, etc., for printing out. It took me three minutes on my phone.

Here's what I got: super cute big pic, super cute small pic. Dust bunnies and uneven paint cropped out. Zoom in on that toothy grin. Border it in grey. Brighten it up a tad (and pretend the "natural" light wasn't a rather yellow foyer jobbie.)

Pretty cute, also pretty mug-shotesque.

Next I put a skinny pic of a field (taken by my youngest sister Em- photographer extraordinaire) with a recent photo from our neighborhood playlot park. It was the first really spring-like day in Chicago and we both had a raging case of Spring fever. I like the image of the sunny field against a picture of my daughter, moments before she happily slumped to the ground to rest in a pile of wood chips. Brought out the green in both pix and adjusted the lighting a tad. Gave it the slightest of Spring green borders and ta-da. 

I'm sure people could easily find ways to take more advantage of this software- it's kind of like I borrowed a rocket ship to go to Taco Bell.

There's also a cheap upgrade to more- and customizable- photo layouts, but I dig the six offered ones.  And I cannot stress enough how ridiculously easy this stuff is. I take pictures of Nora all day long on my phone- and now it's cinchy to create a new pic and upload it to Flickr, Facebook or Posterous. 

Word on the street is that one can use it for non-kiddo photos, too.

Like I even know what those are anymore. 

Nora gets on her wee little soapbox.

The wha-?

Okay, we all have an announcement to make over here- there's gonna be another little[r] Schoeny. We're having a baby! In early October, as a matter of fact. (And considering that I'm the only member of this family without a birthday in the month of October, I'm either really special or just a specific type of carrier. Because- without getting too detailed- this was not the planned month. Guess we weren't in charge of this one.)

But I gotta say, on this luckiest of days- I'm acknowledging that I certainly have luck. And also that "luck" can look a goodly bit like food poisoning.

I'm already ten plus weeks in- and had intended to keep it hush for at least another week- but as people are already approaching me on the street with congrats(!) and questions, it was time to 'fess up.

Here's what you've missed.

I've been really, really sick. So I wouldn't exactly say you've "missed" much.

The "morning" sickness began at around four and a half weeks. (My- that's early, I can hear some of you saying. Yup!) I was actually pretty jubilant about it at first. The nurses who took my blood at the first appointment asked if I was having any symptoms. Tons- I told them. But it's great! Because that means it's working! They exchanged a look and wished me well.

I actually lost a few pounds, which, at any other time in my feminine career would have been awesome- but is generally frowned upon when one is attempting to sustain an actual life. Two, really. I suppose I need food for me, too. (But if I remember anything at all about the second trimester besides crying about missing beds and wedged couches in hallways...it's that I'm a pretty good weight-gainer when I wanna be. And I hear my Mexican neighborhood makes a pretty decent taco.)

I had been subsiding on grapefruits, cantaloupes, Triscuits, and lemonade. And that is all. (No scurvy here!) Thanks to two stellar shipments of citrus from my aunt's Arizona lemon and grapefruit trees, my diet needed never change.

Whatever. I'm so utterly stoked about this kid.

And not to worry. This week I've seemed to have turned a culinary corner. It began with a late night confession to Peej that cheese popcorn might be a good idea. Like Smartfood, he wondered? No- less real. More orange. He offered to melt some cheese on top of popcorn, a suggestion that sent me careening to the loo.

Shortly thereafter, a bag of orange popcorn appeared. And it was good.

This paved the way for the truly bizarre suggestion that maybe I wanted liverwurst and mustard. (No you don't, said P.J. You will throw up.) He offered to run out to Jewel and get me some. I demurred, because I didn't want to be a bother. Also, I feared throwing up.

The next morning, during our regularly scheduled grocery run, I begged P.J. to pick up some liverwurst. He did, and eyed me warily as I ATE THREE SANDWICHES. And you know what? It was terrific.

Since then, I've had no less than one liverwurst sandwich a day. Sometimes more. Most recently, I ate it directly from the package with a knife. I feel [like I should have more] shame. Liverwurst, you're my liverbest.

Also, did you know that liverwurst has forty percent of your daily iron?

We've gleefully been re-reading our favorite pregnancy books. Not the stupid ones that tell you how to play with your kid or how many ways your child might die, but superbly cool illustrated play by plays of what the baby looks like each week. And what they're rather busy with at the moment. (Week 10- fingernails and spinal nerves. Keep going, kiddo!!)

My nanny kiddos are stoked beyond belief at the addition of a new ready-made pal. Lily has begun a campaign to name the baby either a) Nora or b) Lillian. This is regardless of whether or not it's a girl.

And I'm pretty sure Nora will be thrilled, once she realizes why Mommy's belly is getting mammoth and the deal with all of these floppy-headed floor naps. Any time she sees a baby- actual or in a picture- she joyfully screams at the top of her lungs: BABY! That, and her penchant for body-slamming her dolls to the floor (with LOVE), clearly shows some stellar Big Sister potential.

Trust me, I should know.

Ranty McRanterson

Okay.

Listen. (And, incidentally, have you ever noticed how people only say "listen" when they're sick and tired of doing so, themselves?)

I'm tired of listening.

The studies and articles about delusional parents and the improbability of parental happiness need to dwindle out, please. It's getting really old.

This study from Time.com, in a nutshell, set out to prove that the more miserable parents were with their daily stress/boredom/noise levels, the happier they pretended to be. Even this one from Slate.com used the idea of chemical dependency in parents' brains to solidify the idea of happiness...but it still kinda missed the point for me.

All of these articles seem desperate to break down this idea that people could happy in their life choices. And really, that's all that parenting is. Not a status symbol, not a necessary milestone, but a job. One that- hopefully- you chose. Because this job, this one I took with a miniature yet noisy boss- would be hellish to someone without the desire to have it.

Because parenting is incredibly hard work. It's a 24/7 gig that requires non-stop stores of patience and energy. But the payoff is incredible. Seeing a kid say, do, or realize something brand new is an exceptional reward- and not just because it reflects on my skills as a Mom, either. The experience of creating a family member and then co-existing with her is something that can't be explained away by momentary levels of adrenaline nor can it be summed up by reactions to simulated stress.

And sure, there are lazy- and lousy- parents out there...but look around you. Aren't at least three of your co-workers playing Farmville right now? Work's what you make of it. (And yes, there are days when I'm a Farmville type of parent. That's why they send those Burger King coupons to you right in the mail.)

I've also been a nanny for close to ten years. And I love that job. I really dig watching these kids grow into fabulous, articulate people with exceptional collaging skills. Now that's a job surrounded by kids all day- am I deluding myself into thinking I'm content with my work there, too? If so, WHO IS ALLOWED TO BELIEVE THEMSELVES HAPPY?

There are so many things in life that people believe to be the height of adventure and excitement- deep sea diving, cliff jumping, eating terrifying foods- none of these are appealing to me in the least. But you won't see me decrying them as a valid way to live one's life, because here's the kicker: WHO CARES? And can you imagine if I wrote a series of articles on how single, childless people are deluding themselves in their supposed happiness and how their frittered away free time is actually a chemical response against boredom? I would be stoned to death. (More importantly- I'd be wrong.)

I could not possibly explain to the general public what I love about having a child, enough so to make you immediately want to adopt or give birth. P.J. and I have realized that the things we love about our little beastie are moments that sound unimpressive in the re-telling. Even between other parents the magic of your kid's hilarity isn't quite captured the same way. And that's just fine, because it's not my job to tell you how much you want kids. Just like it's no one else's job to convince me that I don't.

Am I ever bored? Elated? Tired? Hungry? Sure, but so are singletons, Asians, carpenters, and the obese. Everyone is happy and everyone is sad. And then it'll change in ten minutes and then it'll be the same for a month.

Listen. There's a really simple solution to this one. Don't want a kid? Don't have one. Want a brood of five? Mazel tov.

And take those kids/no kids water skiing, truffle hunting, and to the library. Go to work, drink eight glasses of water a day, and- at 103 years of age- drift away peacefully in your sleep.

Be happy.

Birthdays are for memories.

My youngest sisters turn 24 today. I, frankly, am shocked.

Shocked because I'm pretty sure I'm still 24, and they're definitely...a year or two younger than me. Or so. Ballpark.

Also shocked because a good part of my childhood was spent doing really, really fun things that had incredible potential to damage one or the both of them. (And can't twins feel each other's wounds and stuff like that? So- definitely both of them.)

Do NOT leave us alone with her!

For example.

Once, when I was babysitting for the pair of six year-olds, I got a rather important phone call. (From an unnamed eighth grade boyfriend. Fear not, I was also in eighth grade.) Before taking the call, I instructed the two of them to stay inside; directions that they immediately disregarded and that I immediately forgot to enforce.

This was way back in the day- so when you got a phone call, you were practically married to the one spot near the kitchen counter where you picked up the phone.

It couldn't have happened this quickly, but the next thing I remember is hearing the THWACK of a branch snapping, a scream from one or both of them, and- once I stuck my head outside the sliding glass door- the image of Rachel flyyyying through the air. And hitting the ground. With a branch impaled through her armpit.

Thankfully, a nice neighbor lady/doctor was walking her dogs past the house at the time and it all ended just fine. Plus, Chelly now has a simply incredible scar. But Emma's scars might be a bit more of the psychological variety.

Moments before dropping Emily.

They were also the subjects of my short-lived career in photography. I would thumbtack their baby blankets around various pieces of furniture and surround the girls with desk lamps. They would then be forced to hold objects I deemed worthy of immortalization: silk flowers, important-looking books, and my stuffed animals. Once set up, I borrowed my parents' camera and took a positively blinding number of shots. Most of them were awful, especially the ones towards the end of the roll where they would be blinking, wincing, and looking a little glazed.

The twins were my only clients when I was a detective in my bedroom closet. They were the only ones who could fit in there with me.

I forced them to stay under the dining room table for hours when we were bears. I named them Cubby and Cubs and thought myself quite clever.

There were talent shows where I not only told them what their "talent" was, but I would also cut them off mid-act and make them go serve people from the Fisher-Price kitchen. (You wanna act? You've got bus your own table.)

I once tried to make Rachel swallow her own hand.

I left Emily in a pile of my stuffed animals and went out to ride my bike, completely forgetting that I'd told her not to move.

Despite all of these atrocities, they've turned into stellar human beings. (Also, inexplicably, I've had a really successful career as a nanny.)

Rachel is one of the wittiest people I know- yet she rarely makes me feel dumb. Nor has she attempted to make me swallow my own hand. (Yet.)

Em is the person to whom I've emailed pictures of entire outfits- begging her to tell me what to wear. And despite my teasing of her hair into absolutely marvelous pigtails...she helps me.

Chel lives in NYC and acts and auditions and tutors for the SATs and knows the best place to have anything, ever.

Emily lives in Cambridge and saves the world and once lived on a boat and is the nation's greatest dancer and dissects lyrics with a surgeon's precision.

We usually bring Kate, too!

So...happy birthday, gals. Despite my outward attempts toward the contrary, you've clearly done a-ok with yourselves- to which I can only respond with these two phrases:

I'm sorry.

And you're welcome.

I read The News, too.

Am I the only one who thinks Bruno Mars' song 'Grenade' sounds like it could be a B-side from Thriller? Anyone?

(...Aaand I just Wikipedia'd him and saw that the singer/songwriter/producer is heavily influenced by Michael Jackson and Motown. RESEARCH.)

But seriously. It does.

And while I generally leave the in-depth musical analysis to my darling sister Em, I'd be remiss if I didn't comment on at least a few of the [startlingly dark yet catchy as anything] lyrics:

I'd catch a grenade for ya

Throw my hand on a blade for ya

I'd jump in front of a train for ya

You know I'd do anything for ya

I would go through all this pain

Put a bullet right through my brain

Yes I would die for you baby

But you won't do the same (no no no no)

Okay, now, not to be all Sassy Gay Friend- but What what WHAT are you doing?! None of these are declarations of love. None of them. I would never ask these asinine things of you...yet you're ticked because I won't stand on the train tracks for you? Clearly you have misjudged the level of angst in our relationship. I ain't no Juliet, and I'm sure as heck no pre-teen. 

Here's a love song I'd really swoon for:

I'd fold up the sheets for ya

Put the baby to sleep for ya

Warm up the car with heat seats for ya

Netflix a funny release for ya

I would clear hair from the drain

Salt the steps during the icy rain

Yes I would fry for you-

Some bacon in the flame (wo wo wo)

See that? LOVE SONG. 

Also, Bruno Mars? I think you need to take a page from the Ricky Martin 'La Vida Loca' book and realize that a bullet through the brain does not prove anything- nor, according to Mr. Martin, does it make you "insane." It makes you dead. La Vida Muerta. 

God, between this and Taio Cruz's "Dynamite," it makes me kinda long for simpler, less violently named songs. Like "Sister Golden Hair."

In other Media Sound-Byte News Of Stuff That Bothers Me:

-Hello, Jello? Yes, thank you for your new Mousse Temptations ads, but the next time I reference anything as being "Me O'Clock" I sure as heck won't be referencing pudding. Maybe some chips. But my point is that the "time" won't be defined by eating. At least not entirely. (Can I eat pudding while napping?)

-Hey there, Hoverround. I agree that your electric wheelchair/scooter amalgamations sure look helpful. But perhaps we shouldn't still be offering to send out informative VHS tapes for the first people to call in. Because really, tapes? Lemme crank up the ol' party line and wait for the Pony Express. (I realize that those are two very different time periods. At least I'm aware that I should be aware of that. I'll Wikipedia it in a few.) VHS is old.

(Yes, I realize this isn't the commercial 

that offers a free VHS tape, but I really 

had to include it anyhow.)

-And "iRenew Bracelets?" Do you realize that, at a certain part of your infomercial, it sounds like your spokesperson is saying that the "customers" are unable to stay balanced "without irony?" I realize that he is saying the phrase "without iRenew." I do realize that. But the fact that these Man On the Street people can barely remain standing when you tug on their arms- wearing electromagnetic frequency bracelets or not- smacks of falsity to me. Or maybe scurvy.

And sure, perhaps it's not exactly irony so much as it is bad acting, but maybe it could be construed as irony in the Alanis Morissette-extremely-loose-definition-way?

I miss books.

It might be Laying Down Time soonish.

Hide n' seek foyer time.

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

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

Yes, we still have a VCR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They'll say whatever you want to hear.

I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.

Mrs. Innes Thinks I'm Special- (my pencil says so.)

The blog is up mighty early today, I realize. 

There are few people in this world for whom I would early-blog. (Actually, it's a pretty vast category, but as it's a rather benign request I'd be more inclined to say no. And depending on the hour in which you asked me, it might not be as pleasant as all that. But why are we arguing so early?) My point is, my darling pal Lori- ahem, Mrs. Innes- asked if she could use my blog as a creative writing example for her AP Language and Comp class.

Just let that sink in for a second. 

Of course I agreed- happily- and then instantly wondered if I should go back and edit three years of incredibly loose grammar and imaginary words. Laziness won out. 

So, APLn'C class- welcome. Stay in school. Learn really important things, like how one should never begin a sentence with 'and.' And then how it's sometimes okay to write in your own style, anyhow. Go easy on the commas and other such punctuation. (I realize that this is reading like a letter to myself, circa last week.) 

A great rule of thumb for making up a person's nickname is as follows: Adjective Hyphen Noun, Part of Name (this is what lends gravity), Adjective Hyphen Noun. All is true. For instance: Radface McAwesomepants. Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs. (Actual names used in this blog, the latter being my baby.) In cases such as the second, the first adjective can be replaced with a title signifying royalty. I am not the one making up these rules. And "creative words" such as j'accusity and blahdiblah are a success only if they need no further explanation.

I also talk a lot about Mayor McCheese. Occasionally The Hamburglar. But NEVER Birdie the Early Bird, that minx. 

That's it. Those are all of my secrets and the sum of my writing knowledge. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Feel free to go browse some of my more "cohesive" posts or ones with "through-lines." Perhaps ones that don't "ramble." (Good luck.) 

Or...how about tales of your teacher when SHE was in high school? Yeah? 

Okay, I can't really go nuts on the storytelling for a few reasons: 

a) She's really, really strong. Quite possibly a lot stronger than she looks. Which is strong.

b) She was always popular. Which is insanely annoying. Even worse? Here was her secret: She was nice to everybody. She was fabulous to people so they liked her a ton. Jerk.

c) She has way worse stories on me, from fashion to dating to questionable hobbies. And besides- I was the "funny friend." You know the one. Not hilarious enough to be the ridiculously cool kid who happened to be funny- usually reserved for the varsity soccer captain whom, every now and then, said something witty and unbelievably well-timed- but the other one. The girl who sat behind the awesome girl in AP History and blurted out [what she thought were] appropriate quips regarding the Civil War? Yeah. 

But I will leave you with this fabulous image, forever to be sealed into your retinas...I give you Middle School, 1992.

That's right, shells. I won 6th grade.

And just how did she manage to make her oversized sweater looks less awkward than mine? She has POWERS.

Anyway, yes. Creative writing. 

It is my hope of hopes that I have not yet stunted your capacity for words nor your predilection toward actual, legitimate linguistics. 

Happy Thursday.

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.

I call dibs on this weather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I call the ironing board.

***

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

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

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

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