Y2k10! That seems more like a 'captcha' than a 'year.'

In honor of the impending new year- and in consideration of the wee babe in an aquarium bouncer by my knee- I shall jam out a brief review of the year that was '09:

January- We failed to buy a house. This was sad. I began taking Pilates lessons to combat the "extra ten pounds"- ha HA. (I would KILL for an extra ten pounds right now. Well, not exactly. Rather, I'd kill to only have ten pounds to lose. If I had to lose the baby weight on top of an extra ten pounds, I might actually kill someone BECAUSE of it. Maybe we should forget the ten pounds altogether.)

February- I became pregnant! Although, since I didn't find out until it was almost MARCH, maybe we should place this sentence in next month's blurb. (This could explain why it was really, really difficult to lose the aforementioned never-to-be-mentioned again ten pounds.) Traveled to Boston for my nephew Cole's first birthday and came back to a week where the temp surged to 70 degrees, only to be immediately followed by -30. Thanks, Chi.

March- Realized I was pregnant. Had fun with that for awhile. Immediately changed plans from "Napa trip" to "San Francisco trip." (Less vineyard-pressure.) Threw the annual St. Patrick's Day Party O' Corned Beeves. Also may have let slip the fact that I was pregnant to fifteen of my closest friends. Here's a fun way to see if you've got a "social drinking" problem: if you fail to pour yourself a drink at your own party and people ask you every ten minutes WHY you're not drinking, you may have a social drinking problem.

April- Spent a goodly bit of this month gripping the couch, housing Italian ice, lemonade, tacos and onions, marathoning Law & Order and Harper's Island. But the beginning of the month? Oh my- I hugged Scott Bakula. Hi-fived Donald Bellisario. Won an international novella competition. Rode a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and almost yuked over the side of the Alcatraz ferry. Best month of '09 (so far.)

May- Jaunted back to Massachusetts for a weekend of pretending I attended Harvard/Williams with Rachel/Emily (and Kate- woo, college!) Nothing like pretending to be an undergrad with two little dudes in tow and one obviously preggo twenty-something. Then, upon my return, P.J. and I purchased a house that may or may not have been haunted. Also celebrated our first anniversary! And they thought we'd never make it...(Who's been saying that?! Stop it.)

June- Turns out, it wasn't haunted. Just falling apart. But once we made the decision to replace the boiler, water heater, roof, appliances, light fixtures and five of the windows, WE WERE REALLY IN BUSINESS. Also, this was my birthday month. And the month where we saw the 20-week ultrasound of OUR CHILD kicking, flipping and opening a terribly wide mouth. We also went to Myrtle Beach with P.J.'s family, where I had the distinct pleasure of scaring a group of hoodlum teens into permanent celibacy. (What the heck was I thinking? A red-checkered tankini, while sweetly "country" on a toddler, looks positively "picnic table" on a pregnant adult.)

July- Bought a car! Signed the papers on the house! Had my parents come for a week to fix...everything...in the new house. Moved into the house with the help of Peej's dad. Realized that the new master bedroom had neither mastery nor a bed. (Or a window that would allow "air" to "circulate.") Cried.

August- Had a superbly fun baby shower in Pittsfield, MA, thrown by my Mom & sibs. Enjoyed floating in the pool like a beached whale and eating about thirty of my favorite dishes that my Mom kept placing in front of me. Back in Chi, built a bed in the sweltering heat of my "master" bedroom. Later that night went to the premiere of my one-act at 20% Theatre's 'Snapshots' Festival. (Yes, I HAVE been writing, thankyouverymuch. Practically every month at Chicago Dramatist's Instant Theatre, where I am allowed the exquisite joy of being the most pregnant woman in the room and thusly the recipient of the most "pity clapping." I care not.) Also, this was the month where a man FINALLY came and removed our wedged sectional sofa from the stairwell. With a saw! It took its rightful place in the living room, freeing up the stairwell for such important tasks as "allowing passage up the stairs."

September- Had a terrific Chicago baby shower, thrown by my Mom-in-law and attended by my Midwestern besties, my Mom and my big sis. Less awesomely, sat through four of the scariest childbirth classes known to [wo]man, due in no small part to the extremely graphic videos depicting the majesty of labor and delivery. And the entirely unnecessary bit on c-sections? NO, THANK YOU.

October- Had a c-section. Turned out to be a small price to pay to get to KEEP this glorious little gal, Nora Jane Schoeny. The wily, wedged-one was born in the same month as her Daddy (two days apart!), which will forever go down in history as the Best. Month. Of. My. Life.

November- Began considering this month for nomination as Best Month as well. Took more naps and watched more episodes of "The Office" than ever before. Kissed my child perhaps too much. Enjoyed visits from my folks, Peej's folks, my big sis, and a slew of fabulous friends bearing meals, Starbucks, books & toys. (And some were for Nora.) Attended a reading of one of my plays, produced by 20% Theatre...and gave the least intelligible "talk back" afterwards. My mind was NOT on star-crossed lovers and bantery humor, but instead on a pint-sized ball of grins and snuggles that I left at home with her Dad, LESS THAN A MILE AWAY. (So what if I cried? It's the hormones. I will rock this excuse until her wedding.) Held a real Thanksgiving. Cooked a turkey. Panicked. Succeeded in not burning the house down nor tweaking out my child. Subsequently amended my standards of "success."

December- Prided myself on successful car trips and flights with my infant, not to mention exceptional visits with both sides of the fam for Christmas gloriousness. Ate more than was wise, slept more than was expected. P.J. and I enjoyed the heck out of our first holiday season in Chicago with the gal (who are we kidding? We enjoy EVERYTHING with her now.) And to all the folks who paraded the pre-baby "enjoy it now" mantra around like a...parade, I can honestly say that I don't remember having this much fun when I was left to my own singular devices. (Except for maybe that one time. But this is a family blog.)

And to the year that brought me a successful first year of marriage, house, trips around the country, car, kiddo and a few writing acknowledgements- thanks.

Hopefully 2010 will bring glorious things as well: an end to that SMELL in the downstairs pipes? A cease-and-desist for the neighbors- the puking on the stoop one with the slight drinking problem and/or the seventeen-year old autistic dude who is simply IN LOVE with Peej? A bit o' cash for the writing ventures?

Dream big.

(Happy New Year!)

Eight weeks! Also, Christmas Eve! Also, naptime.

Being home is fun.

Take, for instance, the bonding, the "face time" that you get when sitting next to your big sister, also updating her blog. On warring laptops. It's this kind of togetherness that warms the cockles of my heart. So does her blog. [ www.grant-wishes.com ] Also, what's a cockle? Is it like a ventricle? Do those need warming? Discuss.

So. New England. The holidays. The holiday TRAVEL. The holiday travel over-packing. Why does Nora need her own full size suitcase? She barely has hands, does she really need multiple mittens? Let alone four different blankets? (Nap, bedtime, travel and play? Okay, fine. Yes.) I was worried about taking her through the airport and the crazy amount of time it would take to prove that she was under the age of two (an actual airline concern) and that she wasn't concealing anything under her pointy elf hat.

However, from the moment we stepped outta the car for curbside check-in to the moment we got to the gate: 25 minutes. And for all of the hilarious moments I was PLANNING to blog about concerning a traveling infant? They never occurred. Smooth sailing. (Damn you, Midway efficiency!) When we got to the airport, I expected a madcap scramble to check the bags. Nope. There were five people in line ahead of me and they oohed over Nora's Santa hat (as planned- never underestimate the benevolence that holiday-esque newborns evoke.) P.J. had to park the car, leaving me with Nora in a sling, a carry-on bag, and a piece of luggage in each hand. Something hilarious HAS to happen here, right? A skycap took my bags and wished Nora a happy and safe flight. Hmm.

Tickets in hand, we got into the Family & Medical security line (this hurt my soul, personally. I have been an Expert Traveler for as long as the term has existed.) I planned on hanging out, screaming child stuck to me, for at least three hours. Five minutes later, I removed my boots and carried a sleeping baby through security. (I DID have to remove her from her sling and they DID have to squeeze the tip of her hat- I removed the baby sized derringer moments before.)

Carried her to the gate, preparing for a crushing crowd of irate travelers. I was guided to a comfy seat and was soon regaled by VICTORIAN CAROLERS. They called Nora "darling" and "so Christmassy." They were correct.

The flight was delayed, due to the lateness of our flight crew. Okay, NOW it was gonna get ugly, right? An hour later, Nora was still sleeping and the arriving flight crew was APPLAUDED. We boarded in the family section (Group A and half, baby!) and settled into the easiest, quietest flight in the history of Southwest Airlines.

That'll teach me to travel during the holidays.

And now, a slice of Christmas Eve afternoon in the Flynn household of Pittsfield, Massachusetts:

Emily and P.J. walk back into the house from running errands in my mother's car. Emily informs my mother that Peej filled the tank on the way home.

"He didn't have to do that," my mother exclaims, full of Christmas spirit towards her second son-in-law.

"The light was on," Emily says.

"Oh. I guess maybe he did."

Laughter abounds in the living room, and a few chuckles are heard in the kitchen as well.

"Don't put that in the blog," my mother scolds me.

Rachel dances into the room, singing 'Police Navidad.' P.J. hands me a Ritter Sport candy bar, under the guise of getting me a treat at Target. He's just biding his time until he can gracefully steal it back. Emily is eating something unidentifiable and commenting harshly on reality television. I think my Mom just asked if something was Rachel's "personal seltzer." It may have been seltzer. There's a very good chance that "Chasing Liberty" will be played for the second time in 24 hours. Nope. It's "White House Christmas." Much more holiday-appropriate. Kate is still blogging her "daily updates." She's up to December 21st. My daughter is sleeping in my mother's arms- my mother asked if kissing Nora would wake her. Yes. She kisses her anyhow. (The baby has recently been bathed. This is powerfully magnetic.) Tom has walked through twice in his runner's tights. He doesn't like when we call them tights. Em just said something unrepeatable about a Christmas tree on TV. Quinn and Cole are still sleeping upstairs, after an hour long battle with their beds, each other, and Auntie Rachel (the turning point- "Auntie Rachel, I like your nose.")

"Don't put the thing about gas in there. I mean it."

And tonight we put out our first presents from Santa Claus, ever. Does this mean that I'm officially an adult? Or just Santa?

Nora has been so good and we can't wait to spoil her with presents.

Hint- One's a large stuffed otter.

As three-year old Jack tells me- "Sleep in heavenly peas. Like the kind in your macaroni."

(Merry Christmas!)

Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl? Yeah, she digs that one, too.

How on Earth has it been seven weeks since Nora arrived and filled my dryer with hundreds of miniature pastel socks? (They're printed with Mary-Janes on the toes- she has about fifteen different colors, quite a feat. HAH.)

Other big changes: our upstairs is now outfitted with a cool mist humidifier (no one ever gave a damn about MY nose in the winter!), various play areas in brightly contrasting hues are present on each floor (okay, only half are Nora-specific), and P.J. now consistently drives in the righthand lane.

This was especially amusing given our drive to Cincy this past weekend- Nora's first roadtrip! Now. I love her Dad more than anything. (Except maybe Nora. And Scott Bakula. These are givens.) But, in the oh-so-recent past, stopping at rest areas was a VERY SERIOUS DECISION. ("Do you HAVE to pee?" "Yes." "Can you hold it for thirty more exits?" "No.") And I was allowed one- ONE- pee break in Indiana, perhaps two if gas was really cheap at the Flying J before the Ohio state line. I accepted this. We had to 'make good time.' I'm not sure why- we weren't being timed or anything, and most of the people we were arriving to see would undoubtedly be asleep anyhow- but it was clearly a strong point with P.J. so I let it go. He's proven uber-effective in other areas (coupons, hairball prevention, turning off lights even before you've fully left the room) so maybe he was on to something.

TURNS OUT, maybe he just didn't love me enough. For. Nora slept most of the way down to Ohio and we prided ourselves on being stellar parents. But she woke up. And we had half an hour left to go. P.J. pulled over in a rest area (we only ever stop at places with a decent Wendy's) and suggested I get in the back with her.

"She's lonely."

I must have looked stunned, because he then suggested that perhaps I should drive and he'd sit in back with her. The only way P.J.'s not in the driver seat is if he's tied up in the trunk. So I sat in the back. P.J. was still stressed, but I think that 'making good time' was the farthest thing from his mind. On the way home she hardly slept AT ALL, alternating between making the saddest faces out the window and screaming like her toes had been chopped off. WE STOPPED FOUR TIMES.

I will let that sink in.

Nora loves loud music and drifts off happily when we sing and dance with her- the latter wasn't an option, but we sure tried the first. We frantically searched our iTunes library for anything that seemed to make Principesa PurpleFace happy. She quieted down when Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do' came on (yup) so we sang our hearts out- in exceptional two part harmony, no less- and she dozed off for twenty minutes. Sadly, this is not a Nora-specific occurrence.

The weekend itself was great. Two of Nora's cousins were being baptized and we dug hanging out with seven of Peej's sibs and six of the kiddos. Nora had a look of permanently wide-eyed bafflement. (And she didn't touch the ground for 48 hours. No one loves the bebe.) I did, however, qualify for a Worst Mom award when I almost offed my daughter in a Catholic church.

Yep.

During the baptism, Nora was sleeping soundly in her carseat. I placed her sideways on a pew and sat next to her, watching P.J. wrangle his adorable godson Boden two pews up from us. Ten minutes later, OUT OF NOWHERE, Nora's carseat fell to the side. I immediately shot a hand out and steadied it (and, truthfully, the seat in front of us would have caught her before she even made a 45 degree dip- it's a huge carseat.) She didn't even wake up. HOWEVER, it was a silent moment in the ceremony and the tilting seat made such a God-awful clatter that it made everyone turn, mouths agape, to stare at the bad mother. I joked that I was gonna keep her in her carseat until she was 12.

No one laughed.

(Confidential to my Mom- Yes, I know. I usually don't. No. Of course I do! She was fine. Yes. MOM. I HAD HER. I promise. I agree. Okay.)

Earlier this week Nora was in the running for a Worst Daughter award- well, to be fair, only for about five minutes. I had my six-week checkup and took her to the doctor's office- I don't trust nannies- and she slept really well for most of the visit. However, since they had me waiting in the exam room for almost thirty minutes, she eventually stirred. And then eventually wailed. And as I was clad in a "sheet," which is code for "large paper towel," I was powerless to do much except rock her stroller one-handed and murmur useless phrases. It didn't work. So. I got down from the table and attempted to soothe my kiddo whilst gripping a largish piece of paper around myself. Can you guess when the doctor arrived? Sure, this is a guy who, mere months ago, held my stomach and spleen in his hands. But still. You've gotta have standards. I currently do not, but I wish to.

And I think Nora has finally acquired a nickname with sticking power, given to her by one of my nanny fam kiddos. Three year old Jack was looking at Nora with adoration, gently playing with her feet, and said, "She's so pretty...she looks just like Gordon."

You know, Gordon? Tall, bald, black man from Sesame Street? Shiny head? Yes. As it was said with such admiration I couldn't help but feel proud. (Gordon's kinda awesome.) And besides, Jack pointed to his fluffy-haired baby bro a moment later and referred to him as "Big Bird."

At least she's not Slimey.

Nighttime isn't for sleeping! It's for rockin' the party.

I fear I've become...bland. Don't get me wrong, I totally and fully dig my current life, but I worry that my "adventures" have become a little PG to those of my pals sans kiddos. I will strive to be racier.

Let's try it out.

This past weekend...we bought our Christmas tree. (Sigh. Oh well.) We quite possibly spent waaay too long debating the merits of Balsam vs. Frasier Fir. Couldn't tell you what they are NOW, but at the time it was as crucial as the paint choice for the kitchen walls. (Victorian pearl- turned out to be the wrong decision, but not so with the Frasier Fir. Fragrant as a wooded...woodland.) The guy tied it to our car and we drove it home. This beats out last year's trek by 2000%, as LAST year we got to walk our tree from Ashland to Oakley. Eight blocks. In the frozey, biting wind and snow. (Kinda like today!) I even got the heavier end of the tree- not sure how that worked out, but I certainly wasn't silent about it. For eight blocks.

This year's journey was nicer. Plus, Nora got to witness her Dad turning trees around and guesstimating "fullness" and "freshness." I'm sure he made up half of the things he noted, but it's my job as a wife to nod solemnly and appreciate. (Heck, *I* don't want to hafta lug the tree around and inspect low branches.) And by "witness," I mean that Nora slept the whole time. Oh well. Fresh, piney air counts for something, even if she's bundled, swaddled and layered within an inch of her life. She seriously looked like a miniature, turquoise Stay-Puft Man.

Later on we went downtown to the Christkindlmarket for some mulled wine in a boot. (See? Drinking! That's...PG-13.) The boot is green this year, for those of you who collect them in pairs and line them on your countertop like some sort of home for wayward elven footwear. Anyone? Annie- lookin' at you. (And...at myself.) P.J. got to enjoy firsthand the feelings of imminent danger when taking Nora out of doors. Walking in the Loop we realized (yet again) that ANYTHING could happen. Weather, building materials, errant elbows...and boy, did P.J.'s 'tude towards the outing show it. Bundled (once again) up to to her forehead and strapped to P.J.'s chest in an "active back" Baby Bjorn (like he's gonna go spelunking), P.J. kept his arms around Nora in a boxing-out position with his eyeballs perhaps TOO alert.

"Having a good time?" Annie and I asked Peej.

"Yes."

So I had a second boot o' wine. And it was glorious. I also bought Nora a miniature blown-glass giraffe the size of her pinky nail (thank God- she was hurting in that department) and later saved the day when a blown-glass fishie went careening through the air, sent there by some member of a huge touristy family. Tourists. Yeah, I found the fish, (contemplated keeping it- briefly- decided it wasn't the right colors) and returned it to the table. 'Tis the season.

The next night I went to a re-gifting party, hosted by one Miss Kat (and copious amounts of smallish foodstuffs- they were so terrific they deserve second billing) where we each brought five items we no longer needed or wanted and swapped them for the other gals' castoffs o' awesome. It. Was. Great. We bargained, cajoled and swiped items that, were they not in the pile (and were we not imbibing) we would have raised eyebrows at them and thanked the gifter with what Kat calls "the office laugh." HAHaha.

I swear I am not a wino.

And that brings us to this week. Nora and I have fallen into a routine of wearing our pajamas and smiling at each other a lot. One of us digs being worn in a sling, napping in twenty minute increments with one eye open...in case something good happens. (I keep telling her that I'd WAKE her in that scenario, but apparently she doesn't believe me.) If I want her to really, really have a nap, sometimes I have to lie down with her. Which, come to think of it, is probably what she wants anyhow. And, to be completely honest, when I'm snuggled on a couch, bed or floor with Nora, I have a moment of thinking- What the heck was I doing that was better than this? Answer- probably nothing. At least, not since I was Nora's age and was snuggled on the floor by someone. Most likely one of my parents. If I had to guess.

(Side note- during yesterday's nap, Nora let out her first real belly laugh. It was the best and funniest sound ever. Sadly, since she had been in such a deep sleep it FREAKED THE HECK OUTTA HER. This caused a terror-filled rage cry that freaked ME the heck out. This jolt on my part caused full-body hiccups on Nora's part. This led to a gastrointestinal explosion (for Nora) that made her diaper give up. It was an intense fifteen seconds.)

Last night Peej and I had our first real date night since having the kiddo. Sure, Nora was there, but more importantly- two dollar tacos were there. And margaritas! (Fine. I drink, okay?) Nora slept through the date while we discussed an article about Facebook friendships...which led to discussions on...our Facebook friends. We also talked about the tacos and margaritas! It was just like the old days.

And that leads to...today. Nora ended up in bed with us again early this a.m., so I awoke to a wide-eyed, toothlessly grinning face inches from my own. Nora was there, too. (Oh, I kid. P.J. has plenty of teeth.) There are few better things in life than waking up next to someone who is stoked beyond belief to see you. I thought I had this kind of relationship with my husband. I was clearly wrong. No one loves me more than my daughter. It's like cocker spaniel love x a trillion and two. With smiles.

That said, I desperately needed her to nap- a real nap- this morning so that I could finish up a bunch of projects before this weekend. We're off to Cincy tomorrow for family time and a couple of baptisms, so I needed to pack for both of us as well as get all things Christmas done. And perhaps take a shower. SO. The moment she started looking droopy-eyed I rushed downstairs and started her swing. Singing to her and swaying, I attempted to match the swing's rhythm in order to do some sort of Double Dutch jumpin' in handoff to a piece of equipment. Now, anyone who knew me between the years of '80-'92 knows that I am simply wretched at Double Dutch. So it took a few tries. But it took!

Once she was asleep I stood in the living room for, oh, five full minutes staring around blankly. Then I hopped into action, pulling out enough outfits for Nora for a good month and a half (maybe I should pack her a steamer trunk? How many onesies are required for two days?) and laid out possible choices for her to "try on" later. This should be fun. Have you ever tried to wrangle the arms of a squirmy, yelling, angry kitten? No? I highly recommend.

Then- I had to decide what to pack for myself. I included a case of Kleenex for all of the tears. Turns out, at six weeks postpartum, NOTHING fits. My preggo clothes looking vaguely muu muu-ish and my pre-preg clothes make me look a little bit like a hoochie. I don't THINK I was that kinda girl before I had a kid- but let's be honest. Hips don't lie. (As of right now, all I've packed are some socks and a nursing bra. I AM a hoochie!)

As Nora was still sleeping, I gave into the glorious luxury of a shower. Sadly, once I was IN the shower I realized that I had intended to dye my hair before heading out to a big gathering of Schoenys (yep- I dye my hair sometimes. Let's just keep that between you, me and Lady Clairol, shall we?) and, as everyone knows, you need DRY hair for this. Hopped out of the shower. Cleaned the kitchen. Did some laundry. Finished the Christmas cards. Waited for hair to dry. (Yes, I realize I could've used a hair dryer, but as someone who doesn't even get to "do" her hair for a nice occasion these days, I'm certainly not gonna waste a beautifying ritual right before I wash my head once again. It made sense at the time.) So. I mixed the hair dye, began to lather it into my hair- admittedly, not as precisely as I've done in the past- and Nora began to wail. I raced downstairs, chemicals singeing my eyes, and soothed her back to sleep WITHOUT touching her nor letting the fumes anywhere in the vicinity of her swing. I'm sure the confusion alone put her back to sleep. (Please don't take my baby away from me.) In fact, the first part of this post was typed with my hair quite gooped-up, wearing a towel and sweats, finishing a cold cup of coffee and lurching towards the stairs every time Nora snorts in her sleep. My MY how things have changed around here.

And to think, when P.J. and I were newly in love, I'd fall asleep wearing makeup so he'd believe I was always stunning in the mornings. It worked! It got me ALL THIS.

It might be the post-preg hormones, but I still feel pretty lucky.

Or it could be the cold coffee.

Or, just maybe, it might be the knowledge that in a few moments, a gal who thinks I'm better than McGyver will wake up and want to hang out.

Five weeks! I'm thinking 'ice cream cake.'

Last week, we saw our heroine attempting to baste a turkey, clean a house, soothe a newborn and prepare for partygoers. Did she succeed? (You bet your sweet mushroom gravy she did.)

The key? Help. LOTS o' help. A task-oriented dude, for one. Really, really good friends bearing yum dishes. Showering also gives a nice li'l bit of pep. Also- a baby who decides to prolong her morning nap for three hours. Nora Schoeny for the win!

P.J. and I had a moment over a carved turkey whereupon we contemplated our first housewarmyesque party, the newborn plastered to me in a sling and the big ol' MAN OF THE HOUSE carving knife in P.J.'s hand. People seem to think we know what we're doing, we mused. We laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

Black Friday was another first for me, as we found ourselves torn between "We'd be crazy to go out in that madness' and 'Five dollar sales at Old Navy!' So, we drove around for a few hours and took turns hopping in and out of the car, the shopper armed with a cell-phone and detailed list, and the carbound party remaining with a snoozing Nora Jane. (Take HER into a crammed store? I may be slightly nuts but I'm not STUPID. The number of times I got shoved and sneezed upon? I sorta wished for one of those HazMat showers every time I returned.) But, oh- the deals!

We continued our Friday night tradition of watching The Soup- you know, pop culture without that pesky TV immersion or hours wasted? We dig having inside jokes about shows WE'VE NEVER WATCHED (nor ever would), and instead enjoy following the mock-commentary each week about characters and reality stars that we wouldn't recognize, were they to show up on our doorstep. (Talk about needing a HazMat shower.)

My disdain of reality television does not in any way shake my deep and abiding love for my "programs," mind you. I am currently mourning that I can no longer watch five episodes (or more!) of The Office each day. Maybe they can make it a daily occurrence? Weekly episodes don't really fill my need. But don't pity me. P.J. has queued up entire seasons of 30 Rock and Lost for me- although that last one might take a bit more persuasion. I have a 'Lord of the Flies' thing. It's akin to the scene in So I Married An Axe Murderer, where Mike Myers has an 'earwig thing.'

But way more traumatic.

Kat came over last night and introduced me to a fabulous British web series called "Green Wing." I highly recommend it. But only if your sense of humor is superior and you enjoy your zany comedy whip-smart. Only then. (Optional, however, is the added layer of bouncing a fusserpot baby every ten minutes and asking, "What did he say? Oh, that's hilarious!" It's the anti-Dolby experience.)

Before you fear for my rotting mind, let me assure you- I'm still reading (one-handed), staving off dementia with crossword puzzles and Scrabble matches, and even managing to return emails and update the blog (one-handed, once-weekly)...so I'm fine. Really. Television is not a problem.

(It's the solution!)

*******

Confidential to PJS: My daughter and I truly appreciated your late-night reading and apologize if our open mouths and thrown back heads indicated anything but rapt enjoyment. Perhaps your voice is too soothing? (When I awoke an hour later, I saw that you, too, had fallen victim to your own powers with a similar sleeping posture.) Please do not let this dissuade you from such ventures: Vonnegut makes us chuckle in a different (and entirely welcome) manner than E! programming.

The turkey innards need to come outtards.

I decided to post a day early- why not? There's no reason I HAVE to post on Thursdays...I can still be wild, fancy-free (whatever that means), not tied down to convention...

Okay.

Or it's because we're hosting our very first Thanksgiving tomorrow and there is NO WAY ON EARTH I can get Nora ready, the house ready, the food ready (a turkey? I may end up serving deli slices) and enjoy a leisurely blogging session. So, I'm enjoying my leisure time now- typing one-handed, feeding Nora and signing a Christmas card (complete with personal message) between burps. Hers, not mine. I would feel pretty fabulous about all of this, were it not for the fact that I haven't showered in a while (the actual amount doesn't really matter) nor have I changed clothes since that moment between Nora and I when I told her, "I should really change out of this now." And didn't.

And now, two extremely inappropriate things to blog about, condensed to lessen the gross-out factor:

One. A word of advice- buy your nursing bra BEFORE you have the baby. Buy many, even if you don't know what size you'll end up being. The experience of having an incorrectly-sized bra still trumps the experience of trying on bras once you've begun to sustain a child. I have said too much.

And two. When using a breastpump for the first time, it is awfully helpful to have the suctioning function working correctly. Perhaps bring a towel. Do not allow others to witness it, either. It has the potential to turn away friends and destroy relationships. There are few things more horrifying than an incompetent pumper. Skype tutorials are fine, but keep in mind that you are one exposed body part away from internet pornography at all times.

(If this weren't such a family blog, I guarantee I could have soda coming out of your nose within minutes. Regardless of your beverage of choice.)

In other, viewer-friendly news, my daughter is losing her hair. This is something that is entirely out of my control but also something for which I feel 100% responsible. It bothers me a little too much. My daughter will always be gorgeous to me (and others- come on, she's stunning), but I do not wish to have Kojak as a kid. Maybe for an uncle. Remember in the early '90s when that colored hairspray was invented to "hide" bald patches on men and women? Thought it was an awesome idea then, even more relevant now. I'm going with that reddish-orange color.

Speaking of references only Kate will understand, my big sis came to play last week! It was fabulous for Nora Jane to meet her godmother and we had a lovely time napping and eating too much. It also gave me the opportunity to take embarrassingly long showers without fear of repercussion (or soap in the eyes) from Duchess Purpleface D'Yellipants (it's a family name.)

Kate and I went to the premiere of my workshopped play with 20% Theatre on Friday night, complete with a playwright talkback. Yes, I talked back. (I was so tired that in the midst of answering a question I blanked and admitted to the guy that I had no idea where I was going with all of this. Kate said it was handled seamlessly. They were all very kind.) The traumatic part of the evening was actually leaving Nora. She was fine, hanging out with her Dad and enjoying a previously pumped bottle (see earlier references), but I left the house feeling like I had left my hands behind or forgot to put on pants. (Kate helpfully informed me that since I was wearing a skirt, this was indeed the case.) After ten months of having her be RIGHTTHERETHISCLOSE it was extremely jarring. I cried. Then I had a great time. And was home two hours later on the dot. I even had half a beer to celebrate. (I used to wear lampshades, I swear to God I did.)

I think I've been using my time off from work to the fullest: I'm catching up on series that people have been raving about for quite awhile. Some have even ended. No matter. There has never been a better time in my life to watch things, in fifteen minute increments, throughout a 24-hour period. One of these shows is 'The Office.' I have been mainlining episodes of 'The Office.' I have gone through five full seasons in under a week. Yes. One side effect of watching a stylized show in such large quantities is that one begins to take on the patterns of speech and thought exemplified in a given series. For example, my inner monologue now sounds creepily like the explanatory asides on that show:

Keely to P.J.: These potatoes are fabulous. Just how I like them.

Keely (aside): I hate potatoes. Always have. I might throw them on the floor. Or develop an allergic reaction. Did I tell you I have an allergic reaction to iodine? Funny story...

Between that and the use of Skype as my main form of communication (keeping one's head directly in the sights of the webcam while holding a squirmy baby makes for stilted conversation at best- and don't even get me started on trying to feed her in the midst of one of these convos. See- earlier references about interweb exposure) has reduced my language skills to mush.

But who needs eloquence? I'm pretty blessed with a terrific husband, wonderful family and friends, a house that we adore, careers that stimulate us, a baby that fills my heart with joy...OHMYGOD NORA HAS FALLEN ASLEEP. Showershowershowertime oh boy clean socks!!!

(Happy Thanksgiving.)

Two minutes panic.

Ohhhkay.

So. I've been in possession of this child for exactly three weeks now. (Happy three weeks, Nora!) And. I've since realized that I will spend the next eighty or so years with my heart in my throat.

As it turns out, this little person, this amazingly loud and soft and alert little beastie, this darling cherub in whom I've placed all of my love and hopes and dreams...it turns out that eventually WE MUST LEAVE THE HOUSE and people, crazy people, people who wish to touch her face and ask questions and drive cars nearby, WELL, it turns out that they are somehow allowed to do so!

How do people do it? How do people LEAVE their children with others, even for a day, even for an HOUR? Granted, I'm a nanny. This is how I make my cash money. And it has recently come to my attention that people are frickin' INSANE to leave me with their children! And I LOVE their children! But how does anyone know anything about anyone? What if- WHAT IF- their children are hurt or sad or tired? This never bothered me before. Because children are resilient, happy creatures. But what if mine isn't? I'm not saying I want to turn into Mother Bates here (I do NOT want more people staying here, thankyouverymuch), but if at ALL possible I'd like to avoid any heartache, stress or emotional issues in my daughter's future.

I do NOT think this is too much to ask.

(But at LEAST stop touching the baby's face. It is cold n' flu season, for Pete's sake.)

On the topic of emotional distress, I've decided to start showering suuuper early in the a.m., well before the gal decides it's time for Second Breakfast. Sometimes this works out. Sometimes it decidedly does not. The hope is that I'll be able to hop in for a quick shower, get dressed for the day, start a load of laundry and down a [small] cup of coffee before my infant daughter stirs gently in her bassinet to greet the day with a miniature beam.

However.

I cannot trick this little being. She knows what I want, sometimes before I even want it. She has spent nine-plus months learning what makes me tick. She is the ultimate inside job!

She is ruthless.

So. Sometimes we compromise and she enjoys a little spin in the aquarium bouncer by the bathroom cabinet while her mother says things like "Look at the rushing water- isn't that FASCINATING?," while accidentally scalding herself in the pursuit of the fastest shower on record.

Or.

Sometimes we "compromise" by having Nora decide that Alone Time is over and I "compromise" by feeding her on the hallway floor, my bathrobe on the wrong arms and soap in my eyes.

And before the chorus of experienced moms chastise me- "Sometimes you have to Let Her Cry," I tell you this. I have let her cry. A good portion of our day is tears. But my daughter has a turbo button, a mode of play if you will, that turns the slightly French 'waa...le waa' into a tribal keening of supersonic timbre, complete with a vibrating purple face and ending with a truly terrifying Silent Scream.

I respect this kind of power. Hence, Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs and her trusty sidekick Sweatpants McDairyfarm.

(I wouldn't trade it for all of the clean tank tops in the world.)

***

Confidential to PJS: All this recycling totin', kitchen cleanin', DVD burnin', fridge stockin', nutmeg custard makin', late night Nora tendin' action...? Thanks.

I feel like I should want to remember how to desire non-baby things. Oh well.

First off, happy two week birthday to my little gal, Miss Nora Jane! (Two weeks? You mean, after all of this crazy pregnancy business and madcap preparation...two weeks can go by like THAT? I turned to Peej at the 4am feeding and sorrowfully told him that she's getting too big. He pointed at her and said "She is SO teense," with a 'Don't start that already' look on his face. This from the guy who wants twelve more.)

Also, Happy Belly-Button-Falling-Off-Day! To Nora, specifically. Unless it applies to others I know. In that case...Happy BBFOD to us all! (And, from across the room, I can see that she's trying to crawl up Nat-Nat's shoulder. Between that, rolling over three times and insane neck control, I'm fairly certain I've given birth to a three-month old.)

And- addendum. My kiddo's birth weight was 6lbs, 15oz. The doctors had suggested (strongly) that he or she was going to be a whopper of a kid with a ginormous head. They miscalculated, due to her extremely balled-up breech position (and the physical inability to get to other parts of my innards- Nora, not the doctors. I'm sure they could have if they had really wanted to.) So, they guesstimated based on how big she'd be IF she could have expanded to all four quadrants of my midsection- and not the upper 1/4 that she inhabited for three months.

THAT SAID, 6lbs and 15oz is NOT tiny based on the space she occupied. Imagine if I tried to balance a weight like that on your pinky finger. After a while, it would start to HURT. And on THAT note, why do people round down? After announcing her birth stats, more people than I care to count exclaimed- "Six pounds? Small!" Yep, six pounds IS small. However. She was one ounce shy of seven pounds. Which is painfully average. (That's my daughter- painfully average!)

And we get to weigh her again today at the doctor's office! I may supplement a protein drink or two to get some sweet poundage.

The craziest part of this whole thing is- I was not nutso about being pregnant. At. All. But now that she's here? I have no desire to put her down, ever, or to do non-Nora-centric activities. I leave the room for a few moments and have that bizarre WHAT AM I FORGETTING feeling, followed immediately by OH MY GOD, WHERE'S THE BABY? (Side note- she is with grandparents and friends whenever this happens. I am not a negligent mother. Yet. That I am aware of.) And I realize that this is wholly biological. (I'm learning a lot about biology these days: the kiddo looks like the father so he won't be tempted to eat her, and the mother cannot put the kiddo down and thusly abandon it. You win this time, Science.) Even with these facts, I cannot even begin to muster the ability to care. For I DO want to hold her nonstop. When I feed her in the middle of the night and see her ridiculously wide-awake eyes, I smile. (P.J. does not have the same biological reactions for the 4am feedings. He pats her on the head, hands her to me and mumbles something like "Daddy loves you." Or "dabble my shoes." At least he's not tempted to eat her. Yet.)

And this bliss-fest is only compounded by the glorious help we've had for the past two weeks. My parents being here was nothin' but fun. My mother's extended visit was the nicest one-on-one time we've shared since before the twin sibs showed up in March of '87 and ruined everything. (Ohmigod, Rachel and Emily, I AM KIDDING. But...we used to have tea parties and pretend to shop with fancy catalogs and watch Anne of Green Gables. Back me up on this, Kate. But...I joke. You guys Completed our Family. That's what we were told, anyhow.)

Regardless, the mom visit was fabulous. And this week Peej's folks are up! Totally great. (I'm sorta unsure as to how I'll "shower" and "get dressed" and "get things done" when people aren't here to hold the bebe in the mornings.) It's funny though, no matter how awesome people's parents are, unless they're your own it feels like Company. Not in a bad way...just in a "can I make you something to eat" kinda way. And then they remind you that THEY'RE here to make YOU some food. And they do. And then you offer to clean and perhaps make some tea. And then they take your baby and send you to your room for a nap.

And my big sis Kate is coming on Wednesday! She's not Company. She makes Bacos sandwiches (or did once, in 1989) and knows all the one-liners from Disney Sunday movies.

I am so excited.

Okay, off to steal my kid back from the grandparents, bathe an unwilling child and start the long process of heading out to the doctor's office.

Where she will undoubtedly freak out about the nudie weigh-in. (Did I mention that she ABHORS being naked?)

Must be one of those "skip a generation" genes.

Well, THAT was crazy!

(And look- it's Thursday! Sure, Thursday night, but still the right blogging day!) Ain't nothin' gonna break-a my stride!)

So, um, I had a baby! And here's how it went down: After my morning last Thursday of cleaning everything- twice- and overpacking for a three night stay at the most luxurious of hospitals EVER (and P.J.'s "working from home," which, God bless him, he really did try to do), we headed downtown. On the way, we said things like, "wouldn't it be hilarious if we had a girl?" Which, admittedly, had an exceptionally equal chance of taking place. Whatever. We knew we were having A BOY.

Got to the hospital, where they put us in the waiting room with other patients' parents and grands- the type of people prone to exclaiming, "She's been in there forever, I hope everything's all right." This did not calm us. Turns out, there were two emergencies right around the time of my c-section, and there was, quite literally, no room at the inn. About an hour later we were whisked into a recovery room and triple-teamed by nurses, an intern and the best anesthesiologist in the history of modern medicine. I was poked, prodded, hooked up and injected while I dutifully filled out forms and answered questions about my mental health. (Was I contemplating suicide? No, but I sure as heck was thinking about playing possum.)As P.J. put on his scrubs and I placed my beanie duck Samuel by my pillow (he has yet to miss a major surgery), I told P.J. that I was reconsidering. Slightly. I mean, how well did we really even know each other? Too late. The team arrived to wheel me out and P.J. and I told each other to be brave, like a toaster. (You either understand that joke or you don't- I will not explain it to you.)

And of course, the moment where I may have needed P.J. most in my life...was the moment which he was unable to be present. Now, I've been stressing about the spinal or epidural for the entirety of the pregnancy. Seriously. More than actual labor, more than the first year of the child's life, I focused all my fears on this one fleeting moment for no discernible reason other than my dislike of needles. And/or pain. Whatever. And P.J. (and other husbands- I don't think they singled out my husband as a wussbag) was considered a liability in the operating room. Apparently the fathers can't handle the sight of the mammoth needle and do embarrassing things like faint or try to drag their wives from the room. Whereas the wives sit there, sigh, and allow a giant needle to be shoved into their spinal columns like good little soldiers.

And aside from the "bee sting" of the lidocaine, I FELT NOTHING! It was awesome. And then, moments later, I felt nothing. Everything from my ribs down went completely numb and heavy (they said some women panic because they can't feel themselves breathing- I haven't been able to feel myself breathe since August. Score!) and a gigantic surgical tent was placed between my head and the unmentionable action south of my non-breathing ribcage. By this point it had been about fifteen or twenty minutes and I'm pretty sure P.J. thought I had kicked it. But no! They brought him in to sit at the left side of my head and my strapped-down arms (we redefined "natural") and we waited for the fun to begin.

I actually made the entire surgical team laugh when I told them that I'd only agreed to go out for one drink with my husband...and I had no idea how the rest of this happened. Someone suggested it must've been a rather large drink to result in a baby five years later. Perhaps a mai tai in a fish bowl?

Less than TEN MINUTES LATER, they announced that they were close and I'd be feeling some "pressure" and a little "tugging." (I did, but remember- for nine months I'd been feeling a LOT more than a "some pressure.") With a faint 'pop,' I suddenly felt a ton more room in the vicinity of my lungs and heard "We've got some feet." That's right, they had to ease the baby out backwards, sloooooowly. P.J. almost leaned up over the curtain to see but was then told, "Wait until we take care of her vital organs." (Wait, what? Mine? This IS like the game 'Operation!' Do you see a charley horse?) Finally, FINALLY, they let P.J. look up over the curtain and tell me what we had.

Now remember, for months and months I'd been having dreams wherein a little boy featured prominently. People told me I was carrying a boy, based on old wives' tales. I felt like I was carrying a boy, whatever the heck that means. I would've gladly welcomed a girl, but it was a laughable thought- it just wasn't going to happen!

"It's...a GIRL!" P.J. looked down at me and exclaimed this with a laugh. I laughed too, not quite getting the joke. WHO was a girl? Then, suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. She was a girl. The baby. I had a baby! Who was a girl! P.J. welled up. I welled up. We laughed some more. We said the word "girl" a few more times. I saw a vague, pink figure getting wrapped up on the scale across the room.

And then...she was in P.J.'s arms. I looked at her, still not quite connecting the fact that THIS was The Bitsy, the one who really, really needed those pickles and onions, the one who'd been kicking and punching my ribs nonstop. I kissed her ridiculously soft cheeks and kissed her wide mouth that was an exact miniature replica of P.J.'s, and looked into her serious, terribly surprised blue eyes. Her hair, tucked under a pink Northwestern Memorial Hospital cap (for she was a GIRL), was brown with dark gold roots and as soft as duck down.

During this time, the surgical team (the doctor and anesthesiologist were both so amazing I almost named her after them, regardless of gender)sewed me up and had us out of there in an hour. Amazingly, the baby never had to leave our sides (like they could even pry her away) and I got to carry her out of there in my arms on our way back to the recovery room.

"Does she have a name?" The nurse asked us as she filled out the bassinet tag.

"Nora Jane."

And there you have it. An hour in recovery where people poked, prodded, injected and UNhooked me from machinery, did the same to Nora, asked us similar questions as before (I answered for Nora, being her mother and all) and began to share the good news on Facebook and via emails. (Unfortunately, the draft email we had saved with everyone's addresses and the heading "It's a..." sent without text in the body, thoroughly confusing and pissing off about fifty people. Thusly, P.J. had to quickly re-send, re-text and make some calls to head off the close friends and relatives at the pass.) P.J. got to put Nora in her first tee-shirt with mitten sleeves (it's a very "Dad" job, you see) and I took a break from staring into her face for about five minutes. Made some calls. Had some more things poked and prodded. Then I took her back and haven't looked away since.

That night, in our super plush room at Prentice (a corner room with floor to ceiling windows and an incredible skyline view- as the doctors who checked on us said, "How'd you get THIS room?") we played the Beatles lullabye album...and stared at her some more. Total and utter bliss. Sure, the DuraMorph was incredible (and sadly short-lived) but the euphoric high from having her was even cooler. (The next night P.J. informed me that I'd had four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. I DID NOT CARE.) Nor did I want anyone to take her to the nursery. Solid sleep is for the weak! I want my kid! Who is a GIRL!)

We left three days later (and with only one really rough night where the pain meds were but a sad, sad joke) feeling like the entire delivery was waaaay too easy. I could do this again! P.J. points at me every time I say this, but seriously. I had no idea SHE'D be the end result of nine months of utter discomfort, sickness and more than a little pain. (I mean, I had an idea, but I didn't even know her! Not the way I do now. Being her mother and all.)

My mother and father came first to royally spoil us (my Dad kinda finished the rest of the house projects and my Mom has yet to slow down her catering and cleaning) and our pals have been a nonstop source of awesome. P.J., sadly, had to go back to work, but we inundate him with pictures specifically designed to tug at his heartstrings and send emails about Nora's progress with training wheels and college applications.

And today's her one week birthday! It blows my mind. Sure, the drugs are pretty decent, but the passage of time has ZOOMED! (By the by, happy 31st birthday to my big sister and Nora's rad Auntie Kate! She gave me a birthday buddy with her first son and my first nephew- I gave her a birthday-week buddy with my first daughter and her first niece!)

Things are skipping along nicely here at home.

Nora and I sleep. A lot.

And we both eat. A LOT lot.

It is, quite simply, the sweetest gig I've ever scored.

Hey there, Scorpio baby!

Well, this is it.

The end of Date Night Month.

(And, uh, the BEGINNING OF THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A PARENT AND NON-SLEEPER.)

October has treated me pretty well. This week alone we rounded out the dates with a viewing of "Where the Wild Things Are" (I cried, surprise, surprise), a yum dinner at Kiki's Bistro (no relation) for Peej's birthday (we had steak pomme frites- bringing us up to...four steaks this week. Nice life) a walk in the forest preserve (where a buck crossed our paths, momentously non-concerned- later, we saw his wife and baby resting by a tree- he's a family man, too!) and discovered Susie's Diner (24/7 greasy fabulousness and fifty-plus milkshakes on the menu! Date SUMMER, coming right up!)

I love P.J.'s birthday- I love most birthdays, really- because the idea of celebrating for an entire day is so, so appealing. I made him breakfast kinda early (he's a bit of a "rusher" in the mornings...) and watched him open his prezzies. We had opened a few the night before (spoiledrottenbaby) because the stack of presents was mammoth and he was "only thinking of me" getting to see him open all of them. That. Is. Love. And nothing says "love" like an 18 volt Black & Decker drill. (The cats got him socks and boxers- unoriginal, but hey- they have no thumbkins.) Spent the rest of the day emailing him 28 reasons why he's so great (Peej started that tradition on my 25th...my youngest sis said that it would be pretty difficult by middle age. My thought: if I can't think of ONE new thing I like about my husband each year, it's gonna be a loooong marriage) and then we had a little French bistro action. This was followed, of course, by a chocolate Sweet Mandy B's cake.

For P.J., of course.

This week was also spent running errands on a gigantic to-do list, checking things off like God Himself was going to point down at an item and proclaim: You didn't pay your library fines? No more books for you. EVER.

Finally was able to use a gift card to a swank maternity store- ended up buying a sweatshirt. Whatever. I love it. I did, however, have a moment of delirious laughter when I saw the "Nine months" option hanging in the dressing room. Ever seen one of these? It's like a toddler's water bubble for the pool, 'cept it goes in front- you know, to guesstimate how big a size you'll need at "nine months."

Except.

It was the size of a volleyball, cut in half. Now, a volleyball isn't exactly tiny...but it's certainly not even coming close to the span of my midsection. I'm pretty sure it's even smaller than the circumference of my kid's head. It may actually be boob-sized. Regardless. This is not helpful and it a) will only perpetuate this idea that WOMEN GAIN SEVEN POUNDS IN PREGNANCY and b) make you come back for a new hoodie. Except you'll be crying. For you'll feel obese.

Thanks, "Nine months" option!

Also did that all-too-critical eyebrows step prior to one's delivery. (Now, I don't necessarily have any illusions that I'll look like Heidi Klum in the hospital, but I'd rather not look like Gary Busey, either.) There's this place down the street that looked shady and cheap- but it had been recommended- so I gave it a try. You would have thought a military operation was going down. Turns out, they didn't "wax" so much as "thread" the living daylights out of any hair within the vicinity of my eyeballs. This was a two woman job. And I was clearly in the way as the third. Like a really uncomfortable game of Cats Cradle, they pulled, twanged and sawed at my eyebrows until I was pretty sure raw nerves were exposed. At one point I began to giggle (even though, truly, nothing was funny AT ALL) and also tried to wipe away an errant tear.

"You no help." (Story of my life, sister.)

And just when I thought my head would explode from a sensation akin to holding in a sneeze for an hour, underwater, while being stabbed...there was a big ol' mirror in front of my face.

"You like?"

DID I LIKE?! My head was now glorious! My brows conveyed a look of stylish, confident wit. And the price? FIVE DOLLARS. (I'm going back next month.)

And now, with no further ado...I'm off to the hospital to meet my kiddo! I am unbelievably excited to see the baby who has kept me on a strict diet of pickles, onions, tacos, Italian ice and lemonade for the past nine months, as well as see JUST HOW BIG the feet are that have dragging across my ribcage for the past two. Hopefully we'll be able to loosen the ball that is my child's body within the next month- after all, any kid that chooses to spend a trimester with his face against a lung and ankles over the forehead (with hands making "fish face" gills) is destined to be slightly cylindrical in shape. I'm already in love.

So today, October 29th, 2009, the day that the Billboard Pop Charts insist that Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is the best song EVER and "Paranormal Activity" is the biggest box office smash ("Where the Wild Things Are" is third!), I get to officially...

...wonder if the term "lollygag" is already a sweet, laughable, never-again-kinda phrase.

(Happy birthday, Bitsy!)

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

Two weeks. Gosh, that sounds definite.

I've been watching a lot of television lately. I have little to no energy left to renovate or get the house baby-ready at the end of a workday (my new mindset: the baby can sleep on me. Here, throw me that towel.) Between episodes of Ghost Whisperer wherein I cry like my arm is being broken off at the shoulder (I don't know where this new obsession is coming from- I never used to watch 'ion: positively entertaining' tv) and various Laws & various Orders, I've been enjoying the heck out of batty commercials for folks who have been "trapped" into debt. Sure, debt is superbly easy to accrue (I've, ah, heard) but the best part is the statement in bold across the screen that reiterates what the "paid spokesperson, not an actual lawyer" proclaims: "Over 2k in debt? IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT." Really? Not even the InStyler hair straightener or the Slanket? (I can't resist the new skull n' bones pattern.) I mean, I definitely believe that infomercials hold a certain sway over all of us, but no one's holding an UltraSmooth to your head to fork over your AmEx. I feel better, however, knowing that I am not to blame. If there's anything I hate more than debt, it's personal responsibility. (And frizzy hair, cold appendages and stubble.)

On a similar note, what would really happen if I followed the advice of some of those ads that implore you to "Tell 'em ___ sent ya!" If I walked into a pharmacy and proclaimed that Wilford Brimley should've called ahead for me, do you think that would fly?

"Oh, how is he?"

"...Fine."

And while we're on the topic of blatant consumerism, what the heck is Target's problem? I went in seeking nursing bras (sorry) and asked a lady in the section clearly labeled 'Maternity." You would have thought I asked her to jump my car with the look she gave me.

"Uh, that's not my department. Maybe try LINGERIE?"

(My bad. Many things come to mind with the word 'lingerie.' Snap-top bras and supportive elastic bands are not two of them. Those definitely seem "maternal" to me.") Searched for about ten minutes in the lingerie section and almost ventured over to Patio Furniture to ask for help when I finally found them. They were clearly marked and displayed in the three inch by seven inch gap BEHIND a support beam and hidden by two perpendicular racks of knee socks. OF COURSE. I actually did have to ask for help in getting them out (I no longer span 3x7 inches in any part of my upper torso. Sorry.)

And why oh WHY do maternity pants have sewn-up pockets? The inside fabric is still there, why all the secrecy? I really don't think anything with the word "maternity" in it should be just for show. For I have nothing I wish to show any longer.

One last gripe. For today. I think. If one more person tells me how 'lucky' I am that I don't have to 'go through actual labor,' in terms of my impending c-section, I may rip out their tongue and shove it down their throat, gushing about their luck in not having to actually swallow any longer. That's me, Lucky Charms Flynn. When's the last time major abdominal surgery was considered a prize? There will be a person there whose sole job it will be to hold my major internal organs outside of my abdominal cavity for about an hour. I mean, I would never say the same to a gal who was about to undergo a natural childbirth, proclaiming her luck in avoiding needles and all forms of nasty painkillers! LUCK would be used to describe someone who was tapped gently on the shoulder and woken from a lovely sleep only to be cheerfully told that she seemed to have had a baby in her sleep. Would you like an ice cream sandwich?

I DO, however, feel lucky that I live in a time where the term DuraMorph is a real one. Think about how lovely those words are and how sweet they sound all mashed together like that. Morphine for the Duration. My new Emo band.

And finally, this last little bit of awesome was sent to me by my sister, who had had it forwarded to her from a pal. But it is I who will put it out there for public consumption and discussion: click here, please.

Check out the 'About Us' section. Go down to bio of ol' 'Chuck.' I'll wait.

Okay. There are three phrases that stand out to me. "All inclusive neutering" is one. "Special gift" is another. Also, that (unnecessary) bit about the more exciting relationship with Barbara.

Your assignment? Tell me what's going on in that scenario. Also, what to do about my now-bleeding ocular cavities.

Seriously. I will wait here until you do. And wish that Slankets came in psyche-size.

Are they trying to intimidate me?

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.

Just like a feral cat!

Firstly, let me terrify everyone who may be having a child within the next nine months...

Have you read about the woman who got pregnant WHILST pregnant?
http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/
For serious, this is a bit much. One woman, pregnant- twice- within three weeks. PUT HER HUSBAND IN ANOTHER ROOM, PLEASE! No matter how "rare" the doctors say this may be, *one* case within earshot of my pregnancy is entirely one too many. Pretty much the only perk of the first trimester is that this should NOT happen. (Granted, if you were anything like me, you spent the first three months sobbing into your Italian ice and throwing shoes at anyone who happened to walk into the living room, especially if he was the one who did this awful thing to you. This was before I was deeply in love with my bundle o' joy, let the record show.) But seriously, this is how the mother of my cats was impregnated, and Bean and Ender (though dearly beloved) are kinda nuts! I wonder if one of the babies this lady is bearing will be a tabby. I guess only if the father is a carrier.

Also, terribly, my first thought upon seeing this clip was how huge the woman looked. Which is awful. Because I've pretty much based a blog around the fact that people are so mean (i.e. careless in speech) to pregnant woman and how obese my doctor feels that I am. (However, this woman was wiiiiiide. Maybe she's carrying an ocelot.)

And now, sadly, it's my duty to announce the end of Great Expectations. Yep, we graduated. I have no idea what to write about anymore, frankly, since this class inspired a War and Peace-type of prolificacy in me and I have a few weeks of gestation yet to go. Last night was POSTPARTUM ISSUES NIGHT (the night least like Taco Night of them all, I think.)

Apparently, we have to take the baby home eventually. And some women have ISSUES. Like exhaustion, pain, worries and depression. (Aw, junk, that's how I feel NOW!) Plus, we'll have the added joy of the imminent Chicago winter. (Who DID this to me?!) And did you know that TERRIBLE THINGS can happen to the baby at ANY time? Basically, the safest thing you can do for your child is to place him or her (on their back, obvie,) in a barren crib, after ONLY feeding from one's breast (preferably the mother's), with three industrial-strength fans overhead (for circulating air), completely naked.

And these are the mothers who care too much! Sounds like a healthy dose of neglect would be comfier.

After a circumcision slideshow (which I DEFINITELY do not need to be able to perform, COME ON), and watching all of the terrible things they're required to do BY LAW to my child (Steroid eyedrops! Vitamin K needles the length and width of Guam!), a "goody bag" of postpartum necessities was passed around the room, one to a person, to ready ourselves for the next discussion. However, as I was busy texting my mother (Hi Mom!), down the street at the Apple store while we Lamazed, I was understandably confused when I was handed a gigantic sanitary pad.

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

P.J. gave me a look and I shrugged at him, as if to say, "You wanted a certificate or a medal?" I even put it in my bag. Later, when the nurse mentioned each item and the student held it up for discussion, I understood and sheepishly got it out of my bag to show the class. Sure makes a lot more sense why some guy was holding a bottle of stool softener.

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

But that's it. We are now child-havin' experts. Which is good, because according to the way people have been treating me, it could happen at ANY MINUTE. Which would NOT be good, as P.J. is out of town tonight and tomorrow for a super-secret mission on the East coast. (Plus, he desperately wants a Scorpio baby, ever since we received a super cute onesie proclaiming "Scorpio." A Virgo would not cut the mustard. Or spread it, for that matter. Who gets hard mustard?)

Plus, word on the street is that I'm getting showered with baby this weekend, so it would be nice to actually participate in THAT (as opposed to active labor)...and finally, I can't have the baby before the end of OCTOBER DATE MONTH. Yep, we're slowing home renovations (we are so nowhere close to done, but whatever) so that in the month of October we can a) make dinner, b) watch movies, c) go outside and d) sleep entire weekends away. (I think that 24-year old and 29-year old Keely would each be appalled at the other's idea of a swell date.)

We're done with travels (for now), finished enjoying the heck out of friends' and families' weddings for the year, no more baby showers in far-flung locales such as Cincinnati (although Dorrie's recent one at the Country Club was posh and superbly catered- I think I had twelve pieces of hors d' vours that may or may not have been potatoes- and I don't even like potatoes) and I'm wiiiiinding down the days of nannying. Before nannying again. With a baby. (As I was explaining to various people who say "Oh how easy for you! Taking the baby to work!", yep, it'll sure be lovely, but kinda hard. I mean, I'm not a forklift operator, but it'll still be two full-time jobs AT THE SAME TIME.)

But after eight weeks of "resting" with the baby, I'm sure I'll be ready for anything. Even finishing the two plays that were due August 1st. Or rediscovering where I left my bottom ribs. (Maybe under the last two banana-nut muffins.) Do not judge. At least I am carrying one, non-catlike baby from a one, non-alley cat father.

And at least I still have my delicately turned, non-swole ankles.

It's the little things.

Kinda like Buy One Get One Free...

...of a really bizarre infomercial product...

...for which you ended up paying a ton of shipping anyhow!

Week 33. TWO classes this week, folks. That's right. Double your awesome info. Starting with Tuesday...a.k.a. INFANT AND CHILD CPR AND FIRST AID NIGHT. Now, I've been a nanny for seven years and know (roughly) how to keep a kid alive. But a refresher course is a refresher course, especially considering a lot of this "practical" knowledge will fly straight out of my ears the first 4am I get to deal with a hacking cough during cold n' flu season. Plus, I'm pretty sure P.J. hasn't studied this stuff since the early Clinton years.

SO. We started out tilting the head and breathing into the nostrils and mouth (just like a puppy!) of our black plastic infant...who possessed a twisted air pipe. HE WAS LIKE THAT WHEN WE GOT HIM. After some minor tweaking by the instructor, I proved I could breathe (and look and listen) with the best of 'em. And then we got to follow along with the video! Oh, the video. The narrator of each scenario looked like a cross between Olivia Newton John and Jane Seymour...if either of them had ever been grinning coke addicts. Boy, was she eager to tell you the terrible things that could happen AT ANY TIME! For example, your baby, apropos of nothing, could JUST STOP BREATHING. Or your dad, at a family picnic, could fall down in the backyard. Imagine that you were playing Nintendo with a buddy, chowing on some pizza. YOU COULD CHOKE. (The worst part is that they never went back to the "acted-out" scenarios after the instructional parts - we were left to assume that all of these folks died from ineptitude.)

And, oh, the instructional parts. Multiple people, dressed in the same grey breakaway track pants and baggy red tee shirts (you need to be ready to bend and squat at any time, apparently. The business of saving lives won't wait until you change out of your three piece suit, no sir.) These folks all stood, one at a time, in front of a sheet draped over a wall (the technical quality of these portions were phenomenal) and acted out imaginary scenarios...to no one in particular. One Asian gal had absolutely no intonation or vocal affect ("Hey...you. Are you choking? Someone. Call. 9.1.1.) On the other hand, a Black lady with 'tude for miles and half of her track pants open at one side (I am not even kidding) told an imaginary passerby to call 911 with such force that I almost reached for my cell. Now THAT is who you want saving your life.

Also helpful- you should only try to remove a food blockage from someone's mouth if it's right at the tip of their tongue (in the video, an M&M was picked up with two fingers from the mannequin's lips). Now, where I'm from, that's not called "choking" so much as "eating an M&M," but I'm no medical professional.

The best part of the video? When the narrator came back onscreen, proudly proclaiming that now we had "all the tools" to save lives...just like Gary.

Um, what? Who the hell is Gary? Did we miss his vignette? Was he the dad in the backyard?

There was no time to worry about such trivialities, because before I knew it, it was WEDNESDAY. That's right, Great Expectations, week three.

C-SECTION NIGHT!! (Yep, I thought we briefly covered that last week as well, but apparently not enough to be able to perform the surgery ourselves. I can think of no other practical reason to make me watch that nightmare-inducing procedure twice.) As P.J. later told me, they were clearly going for the 'this isn't so bad, right?' hard sell, but no matter how sunshiney and rosy they tried to make it seem, there was still a woman strapped onto a bed, arms out in the t-position, being rotated like a pig on a spit (for circulation, obviously), unable to move anything below her chin and telling the camera how nauseous she was. (Out of my way, kids, I'm first in line for THIS ride!) Also, the bit about mother/child bonding was sweet...insomuch as the nurse had to hold the newborn to his mother's cheek as she was incapable of doing anything other than wiggling her chin at him for an hour and a half.

Helpful tips: If you're feeling "anxious," (Good God, why on earth would that be?) ask your doctor to "explain each step of the procedure for you." Uh, if I'm having a panic attack about being strapped down and clothespinned open, perhaps telling me which layer you're dicing through won't have the calming effect you're expecting.

And the You Really Didn't Save Us From Witnessing the Graphic Awfulness Award goes to...the animated video showing how they clothespin you open and dice you up. In slightly more medical terms. That said, que sera, sera, right? If I get to experience a day like that, I can take solace in the fact that from shaving one's belly (Uh...?) to actual emergence of a child takes FIVE MINUTES. Perhaps we should slow down a little? That's freaky fast. Impressive, but maybe a bit too Get 'Er Done.

And, of course, I'd have P.J. there by my wiggling chin to, you know, poke me in the arm to let me feel his presence (an actual tip.)

With the A/V club portion over, we got to tour the facility (and pick up the slack. Okay, not really. We were actually probably in the way.) Turns out, these rooms are the reward for sitting through horrendous videos. It's like a day spa! Sure, a really crappy day spa wherein you leave a LOT less limber than when you entered, but still. Pretty. Floor to ceiling windows with views of downtown (do they have views of me? Ewww), wood paneling on the walls, a flat screen TV and Bose sound dock in each delivery room, plus none of that Oh My God I'm In An Operating Room lighting. I'd prefer to be backlit at all times, of course, but these options seem like a close second.

On our way out we passed a slightly shell-shocked woman in a wheelchair heading to Recovery, her dazed husband walking behind the nurse, clutching a duffel bag like his very life depended on it. Upon seeing all of us pregnant ladies, the nurse bent over and said softly, "Just think, yesterday that was YOU!"

I have no idea what sort of traumatic event THAT poor fool just went through, but God bless, right?

As I write this, my currently breech-positioned child seems to be kicking somewhere between my ribs and right side...certainly on the correct road towards a heads-down, can-do attitude, but most definitely in an area that CANNOT STRETCH ANY FURTHER. I am one lace-trimmed apron away from the knock 'em out ether, chloroform, whathaveyou method of labor from the 40s and 50s.

As long as I don't have to watch the video.

It's like a bee sting. From a truck-sized bee.

Week 32! Already four and a half pounds (the baby- I weight a biiiiiit more), blood pressure great for both mom n' kid, extremely active baby with a superb heart rate and...OH YES, the kid is standing straight up, a.k.a. breech, a.k.a., I'm gonna need that part of my lung and ribcage back. We had evidence of this acrobatic acumen with our latest ultrasound- our child, on its belly, ankles up to the forehead, hands pushing on its face. Impressive, uncomfortable and kickier than a donkey. Nice trifecta. The baby is currently in a position called 'frank breech' ("Frankly, your kid is breech.") This is no big deal medically, excepting the fact that if the Bitsy doesn't turn on its own (15% chance) my team of doctors will try to TURN THE BABY at 37 weeks (40% chance and um, ow) and if nothing happens, c-section at 39 weeks. The week of P.J.'s birthday and perhaps on the day of his lucky 27. I smell conspiracy. (And bacon. Who's cooking bacon at 1pm? Halfsies!)

I've gotten some pretty helpful advice for "turning the child" and some even includes doing it "naturally." An example of "natural?" Leaning an IRONING BOARD against a couch and propping myself upside down on it- something I couldn't have done even had I NOT been entering my 8th month of pregnancy, mind you- and letting the child decide that s/he doesn't care for that position any longer. What could be more natural? How about frozen peas on the head? (The baby's, not mine.) Perhaps clothespins attached to the outside of my pinky toes? Acupuncture, acupressure, prenatal massage, jiu jitsu (not really) and my personal favorite: getting in a pool (okie doke! Where is this magical pool?) and doing a HANDSTAND. Never mind the fact that I also cannot do a handstand, pregnant or not, in water or otherwise, and my balance is already atrocious. Do I want to flip this child or terrify it into submission? Why not just go on a roller coaster? Enter a chili pepper-eating contest? Make a funny paper hat and place it in a scrapbook? Bizarre suggestions all, but more importantly- holistic. (And thanks, Kat, for sending me a website solely for the reason you commented- "They used the word "foetal.") Now, I know that a c-section wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but...I've read Macbeth. I know how this kinda thing turns out. (Gettin' a little literary up in here, no?)

But more importantly- last night was week 2 of Great Expectations. Epidural Night! (I asked people if it was anything like Taco Night- which I LOVE- and all I got for my trouble was a resounding "Ah, no.") And that's fine. Because it wasn't.

It was BETTER!

We began with a ten second clip from the movie 'Nine months" with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore, in which Grant takes Moore to the hospital to have her baby. ("My water broke!" "Well, we'll get you another one!") Hijinks ensued, Robin Williams, M.D., produced an epidural needle the size of a small pachyderm and Julianne Moore's wheelchair got pushed down the hall and into an open elevator.

"That's how NOT to go into labor," our instructing R.N. told us.

I am not even joking.

We then saw a video with proper birthing positions (upright, seated, side-lying) to alleviate different kinds of labor pains. And the headbands! Ooh boy, last week's headbands had NOTHING on the bespangled creations this week, the kind that said "Out of my way, hair (and husbands), I GOT THIS ONE." And then there was a third video- obviously staged, as the best scene came when a 'laboring mom' huffed and screamed and sweated for a good while, looked up demurely and said "I think I'd like an epidural," and then when the attending physician came by, asked "Will it hurt?" Well, no more than the water buffalo you were apparently trying to dislodge! And then P.J.'s favorite part; after the placement of the epidural, the doctor and patient smiled at each other, the doctor signed off on a chart, left the room, LOOKED UP AT THE CAMERA and, still smiling, assured us "She'll be fine." Please continue to walk us through this hard-hitting slice of reality television! Is this Sesame Street? Can we now see a llama getting its teeth cleaned?

And lest you think that the husbands were not represented as well this week- oh no- we had a guy whose mustache would put Magnum, P.I.'s to shame who continuously pushed his wife's bangs out of her face (for she did not have a headband) and muttered like Rain Man "You're doing good. You're doing real good." (She asked for the epidural reeeally early on.)

Best yet, we got to practice what we saw! Balancing on yoga balls, bent over chairs, on all fours and purring like cats (okay, so she didn't SAY to purr like cats) and getting to breathe deeply while looking in each others' eyes. Turns out, if I hafta breathe deeply and look into P.J.'s eyes during labor, it may not work out. He is really, really funny. Even if (and might I add- especially) when he is TRYING to be SERIOUS. And when he had to massage out my "back labor," he really went for the gold. He destroyed that contraction. Also a hip joint. But he was SERIOUS.

They also snuck in a video about c-sections, which was NOT COOL TO DO. If I have to get a c-section (no) I'm fairly certain all I have to do is show up. The less I know about that needle and the clamps FOR MY SKIN the better. In fact, let's pretend we didn't see what happens on the other side of the curtain, lalalalalalala. (This goes double for episiotomies, bodily fluids and functions during labor, and gowns that fail to cover one's body adequately- none of this EVER happened.) Found out video taping during labor isn't allowed- aw, shucks!- but we're allowed to take as many pictures of our child AFTER the fact as we'd like. Thanks! You're sure we don't have to sign a waiver?

I think that getting pregnant is the best thing that has EVER happened to my writing career. Lamaze class is coming in at a close second. I plan to live-blog my labor and delivery. Or maybe I'll let P.J., if he's not too busy.

I'll bring a backup headband, just in case.