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.