Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

Today is rainy and, as my youngest sister used to be fond of saying, dank.

It's hard to get moving on days like today. I've found it's made harder when one is woken up- not by one's newborn- but by one's humongo tabby at 5am. To be fair, the cat had important business to deal with at 5am. Atop the armoire. Whining over our heads. And then shrieking as he rode the pivoting standing mirror to the floor. And by "rode" I mean "fell onto."

He may or may not have taken frames and a vase with him.

(Nora, in bed between us, slept through this! She was, however, woken up when an email on my Bberry vibrated my bedside table.)

6am: The kitchen trashcan (and thusly the kitchen) smelled like coffee and onions, not exactly one of those invigorating 'get up and go' scents.

Although, to be fair, that's probably what I smell like, too.

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

I wish someone would take me out. (See what I did there?)

I vaguely remember telling PJ at 4am that I was happy the glass of water next to the bed was lime seltzer. 'Cause that's really fancy.

This joint [lifestyle] is really jumpin'  [tucked in at 8pm].

Nora, bedecked in a squirrel (sqwo) tee and yoga pants, is looking at me like "TGIT.' The mini nanny (nani?) workaday life is really taking it's toll on her. If it's possible for an almost-5 month old to adapt the facial expression of a sullen 14 year old whenever she's in the car...well, then I spend over an hour a day in the Passat with my teenage self. (Pleasant and thankful.)

I feel like Nora starts out the day with a jar of goodwill towards us all- and, without fail, I spend my day squandering it. Transit! Interrupted naps! Incorrect bath friend choices! (Always the starfish. Do not pull that orca junk.)

And it's a big jar with which to begin.  Epcot big.  (I originally felt the need to elaborate with "Spaceship Earth," but I have a feeling you were on it with 'Epcot.')

Back to Thursday.

Nora just sneezed and Lil asked if that was Nora or her. Presumably she'd  know if she had sneezed, but the plastic big band set she's rockin' IS awfully distracting.

Awfully.

And when I sang You Are My Sunshine upon request, Lily asked who it was for.

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

"Please don't look at her for my song."

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

9am: Seven year old J asked for colder water. I suggested ice. She rebutted that adding cubes takes too long to cool water. I begged to differ and proceeded to take her water bottle, added ice, shook it up all fancy-like (lots of extraneous elbow action) and gave her the COLDEST WATER SHE'D EVER HAD. (Her words.)


I felt awesome, until I realized that I had inadvertently shown a first-grader how to chill a martini.


And in Aneurysm Watch 2010 News: I've broken two more things from other people's fridges this week. One was a container of Greek yogurt (the only honey one, of course- there were loads of blueberry yogurts just waiting to be annihilated, but NO) and a hand-crafted root beer.


Two more signs that these situations did not occur anywhere near my fridge: those are awesome things to have in one's fridge.


And since I have a habit of not wasting food (except perhaps a fudgesicle in the freezer that I do believe we moved with as well as a tupperware of cabbage that may well have fermented) I had to finish these two items off.


The families for which I nanny would have no problem with me tossing these items- in fact, they'd probably be concerned otherwise- but it's not in my nature. Sadly.


The yogurt was fabulous. Sure, there were a couple of plastic shards that I narrowly avoided (nice try, shards) but the honey on the bottom [top] was truly delicious. Sadly.


The root beer was an exercise in stealth, for if anyone under the age of ten had seen me downing it, they. Would. Have. Wanted. Some. And I try not to push root beer for brekkie. As soon as it hit the floor and started fizzing, I rushed it to the sink and saved as much as I could- as covertly as I could- as quickly as I could. Sadly.


I think I got the one with extra carbonation. (And bourbon vanilla extract!)


There's only so much you can expect on days like today. So, you put on your Hampshire College hoodie (motto: Try To Come To Class, Okay?), make a blanket tunnel for wombats and curl up until the sun comes back out.


Maybe even let the children join you.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...

I much prefer The Pogues.

The Ides of March. Wow. This is kinda serious, as far as days go. I suppose. Also, it's my cats' sixth birthday, so for me it's not so much a bad luck day as it is an awesome celebratory pet day. Happy birthday, Ender and Beanie! Tuna in smallish dishes for days! (Or for exactly one meal!)

Yesterday was Pi Day, you know, 3.14- blahdiblahblahnumbers. But as I am married to a man with the symbol for pi tattooed on his shoulder blade, this is a big deal. (We celebrate allll the holidays at Chez Schoeny.) And yes, that's right,  I still count on my fingers, but happened to find and fall in love with a math..."guy". "Nerd" is harsh..."geek" is a little too techie. Aficionado? Lover o' numbers? Drunk at Mardi Gradi, forty bucks burning a hole in the ol' pocket, way too close to a tattoo parlor?

I like that one.

The day before that (does the fun ever stop?) was the day when I decided to corn beeves and steam cabbage...and dress my infant daughter in a shamrock dress and lime green tights. (I would like to see you try to convince me that Nora is NOT one of my collectible porcelain dolls. It cannot be done.) This is how I celebrate St. Patrick's Day lately. Staying in, curing meat, watching G-rated flicks. Way before I even had a kid I had tired of the pub crawling rainy day (somehow it ALWAYS rains on St. Pat's weekend) face-painty drunken revelry/stupidity. It kinda seems like the same crowd that would be out there anyhow on a weekend- just [scantily] dressed in green.

Seriously. I bet I can tell you what happened:

a) At the dyeing of the Chicago River, someone fell in.
b) Wanting to look good/hot/Irish, someone wore inappropriate shoes/outerwear and fell/got cold.
c) Dropkick Murphys played somewhere, and someone got pumped full of pride.
d) Outside of a bar, a girl cried to her friends.
e) In a packed ladies' room, a girl cried to her friends.
f) Someone met their soulmate. Temporarily.
g) More Jameson  was consumed in Lakeview than by the entirety of Cork County. For the year.

Also, why the green beer? Real Irish beer should be...brownish. Or a dark reddish. Or a light tannish. The 'ish' does not include green.

But we digress. Back to the weekend.

Last night Pi Day was celebrated even further with warm pumpkin pie that Neil brought over (see what I did there?) and  ice-cold Chelada beer from Nate (see: pregnancy posts. I love this stuff) so that the guys could watch The Pacific miniseries and bond over talk of war. To the best of my knowledge, none of them have ever been in the service- excepting perhaps Boy Scouts of America- but apparently nothing bonds them better. You should have seen the Band of Brothers days. Or, rather, I didn't see P.J. on Band of Brothers days. (But hey, if they give me a slice of pie and a beer while I'm writing- game on.)

And now- two products that thoroughly, completely bother me.

QUIETUS. For tinnitus. I heard about this on the radio. It, you know, "quiets" that ringing, buzzing, terrible sound in your ears. The website actually has sound clips of what types of noise can be heard in the overworked inner ear. Thanks, Quietus, I couldn't really picture what "shriek buzzing" would sound like. Does it work? Maybe. And that's fabulous. However, the product comes in a dual action eardrop and TABLET? I  can't- and don't want to- imagine how if the eardrops fail, chewing on something might work to tamp out the aftereffects of "rock music." Sure, sure, chewing gum helps your ears stop popping on an airplane...but I think we [they] should go directly to the source and make the eardrop stronger. I am no student of medicine. Could someone explain this better to me?

And LATISSE. To grow eyelashes. I have definitely mentioned this before, but it still bothers me. Everyone loves long eyelashes- especially the advertising industry- but the side effect? Darkening of irises. That's right, your gorgeous baby blues? Now a muddy brown. But your lashes are...slightly longer! Not worth it, I think. And I already have brown eyes! Look, falsies are still being made for a reason, ladies.

Lashes. False lashes.

I've left you with enough to ponder for a Monday morning.

I think you should all go do the "things" you do between blog postings.

I'll wait.