Nora's well-rested, if that counts.

This past week and weekend proved, without a doubt, that I am in very real danger of early onset dementia. The crosswords and brain teasers no longer stave them off. It's official- I'm demented.

Sure, we've been skipping all over the country, city, and state. And absolutely, sleep has been the first thing to be sacrificed. But seriously, I'm forgetting my middle name[s] at this point.

It began when I confused this coming week of work with next week's. To my various employers. Loudly. I usually work Monday for one family and Wednesday and Friday for my other one. If something comes up, the other two days are always gimmes. Except- one fam has been on vacation for the past three weeks and the second took a day at the end of this past week to make up for the time I'd been away. No big deal, I kept track of that. But this week, I'm working four back to back days. And next week the same. But with reversed families. And I knew this- really, I did. Wrote it down on my computer, the calendar, the BlackBerry and my hand. 

And promptly forgot it. Until one family needed a reminder for this week's schedule and I gave her next week's schedule- ha hah- much to the chagrin of the other family. And so I sent out no less than five emails and eventually got it right. (Please leave me with your children, I know CPR.) 

Additionally, I was wholly convinced that this past weekend was next weekend, and no amount of lookin' at the correct date could tell me otherwise. So much so, that I rsvp'd to two different events before I realized my folly. And forgot. And had to be reminded by P.J. Twice. (See? Dementia!) The junky part is- I'll be outta town next weekend. Happily, it's for a wedding I'm stoked to attend. Sadly, I'll be missing the going away party of a lovely pal and the fly-by into Chicago of two gorgeous friends. 

I am only popular in the summer. In March, no one returns my calls.

My favorite mess-up, though? Saturday morning around 8ish I was lounging with Nora, Peej and a cup of coffee. Had an hour 'til my dentist appointment. Enjoyed the free time. Then it hit me- I don't HAVE free time. What was going on? Checked all four methods of appointmentude. My cleaning was NOT at 9am, it was at 8am. (I even saw an email from the dentist the day before that politely reminded me of the time. And I REPLIED to it!) 

And I gotta say, there's nothing like the combo of being late (I abhor being late. It gives me hives) and the knowledge that you are speeding to the dentist. 

But it's also a little sad that, once there, I enjoyed the "down time." I watched the news and read the back of a package of floss. It was nice.

The rest of the weekend progressed swimmingly well, due in no small part to the addition of my sister Chelly (that's right, this month I'm on a world tour of seeing every family member.) 

I think she's had a good time, what with us dragging her to Market Days and not letting her linger, to us heading to bed at positively daylight hours. Plus, she's had to watch all of my shows. And my kid. 

And this week she gets to be a nanny-in-training- or a tanni. At downright criminally early hours. (Welcome.) 

But what about P.J., you ask? Isn't he in the picture any more? What antics has he been up to? Well, I'll tell you:

-The other night, after we (P.J, Nora, Annie, Chelly and myself) locked ourselves out of the side screen door, my gallant husband scaled the first (and a half, technically) floor to the back picture window. Hung out on the ledge. Shoved the side window open. Almost fell. Got a boost. Yelled the requisite 'I GOT THIS' back to the swooning gals. Scraped the heck out of his hands, knees and arms. I'm pretty sure he fell on one of the cats on his way off the kitchen table. Opened the screen door. (Me, I would've punched a hole in the screen door and unlocked it, but I also have a healthier sense of fear and desire to not make P.J. a single parent. But, you know, diff'rent strokes.) 

-Last night I found my husband mangling a defenseless tube of Crest. Now again, I would have deemed the tube empty and forgotten all about it, but not him. He squeezed the last bit- and perhaps some plastic- out onto his toothbrush and a goodly bit of his arms. ("That's the end of that," he stated in the most menacing and authoritative voice I'd ever heard outta anyone.) When I suggested that perhaps he was going to a lot of trouble, he asked if I'd seen his thing of Razor Defense face wash. Apparently, the cap didn't twist off to allow him to salvage the last eighth of an ounce so HE CHOPPED THE TUBE IN HALF. He's part thrifty housewife and a bigger part The Hulk. The fully green version. 

-And finally, the other morning when I was pretending to do my Wii Fit yoga, the console character asked me if I'd "seen P.J. lately." I told him/her yes. "How would you say that P.J.'s physique is these days? It's been over a month since I've seen him." He looks awesome, I told her. [Back off.] It then went on to inform me that I should be a better workout buddy to my husband and stated that "dogs become more motivated when their humans pay attention to them. Hmmm..." It actually hmm'd at me! And compared my husband to a pet! I was equal parts amused, insulted and shocked. 

But I showed it. 

I turned off the Wii. 

You're welcome, baby. 

Don't trust that smile.

Nora and I just returned from her nine month checkup and I'm happy to report that she is indeed growing. And moving. And hitting milestones- in fact, she's knocking 'em over like a sprinter catching his track shoes on a series of hurdles. Which, you know, isn't usually a positive metaphor, but one that kept popping into my head. Kick, thwack, karate chop. Milestones.

She's still in the 10-25th percentile for height and head size (yay, consistent brains!) and solidly in the 5-10th for weight. But someone has to be, right? Or there wouldn't be a "percentile" based on "100." And, as my doctor asked incredulously, "she's a mover, isn't she?" And she has close to five teeth. And says Mama, Da, Bean, Dis, Dat, Hidere (hi there), Yeah, Yay...and she meows. The doctor also said that she'd begin standing and cruising soon (you know, like her Dad does) and would tentatively begin to let go of surfaces. Which she's been doing for a month.

My daughter= surpassing my personal record of walking at 17 months and actually doing non-bloblike things before then. (Go forth, my child...)

And then the doc said he'd see us in three months. For her one year checkup. And I- inexplicably but kinda predictably- began to well up. A YEAR?? Look, Buster, I carried her for close to four years and I know for a fact that her three day checkup was last week...so I don't know what this "one year" business is. I demand a recount.

Of course, before I get too schmaltzy and sentimental, I need to remind myself that just two days ago I was crying for a completely different reason.

It involved our return flight from Boston, a.k.a. the inevitable cosmic backlash from the hubris of the previous flight. Of course, I didn't see this coming at all. She napped exceptionally well that day. Ate dinner in the airport food court. Smiled and waved at random people. Crawled around and got all tuckered out. Then we got on the plane.

Here's how it went down:
-Random businessman told me how cute she was. I preened and admitted that she was the easiest baby, ever.
-His colleague stated that he'd never seen a baby this young with brown eyes already. I kept it in.
-Getting to our window seat, we played happily. (Nora and myself. Not the businessmen.) For ten minutes.
-She started to get fussy so I tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes right after takeoff and I- stupidly- took out a book to read.
-Waking in a panicked and psychotic rage, she ripped the blanket from my shoulder, exposing my entire chestal areas for the first time on this particular flight.
-I tried- stupidly- to calm her down. She noted her displeasure at my attempts.
-I tried to walk her to the bathroom and bounce her a little.
-We got stuck behind the beverage cart. The. Whole. Way. Back.
-I used the bathroom. (Impressed? I know.) Nora was not. In fact, this is when she filed her formal complaint and checked out for the evening.
-Screeeeeeaaaaaamed the whole walk back. Got stuck behind attendants picking up the trash.
-Finished my drink. (Gingerale, sadly. I had a stomachache. Can you imagine why?)
-Nora helped this along by upending it on my book...and the woman in the middle seat. (She was kind. Also, she spoke no English. I don't know if this made it any better.)
-Tried to clean. With a magazine and what was left of my book. Apologized.
-Nora chewed on the soaked magazine and raged like a velociraptor when I pried the gummy pieces from her mouth.
-Took the Cheerios I had been carefully feeding her one at a time...and showered our entire row (and two rows back) with them. With big arms.
-She rubbed her eyes, so I- stupidly- assumed that she was tired. Tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes. I closed my eyes.
-Opened them when she exposed me yet again in a freaked out angerfest, the likes of which have rarely been seen in such a contained space.
-I tried to distract with books, toys, a seemingly endless supply of snacks, and soggy reading materials on which to chomp. (I gave up- eat the paper, Nora. Go ahead.)
-She spent the rest of the three hour flight (and this was only 40 minutes in, mind you) shoving against me, shrieking with a purple face and wild eyes, and making the non-English-speaking couple next to me clutch hands and rethink their future.
-Watched as the woman sitting in front of me pushed the attendant button, only to shrug helplessly and gesture at me when the attendant showed up. Really? Really?
-Decided my apologetic and embarrassed (and super stressed) attitude had run its course, thanks to the passive aggressive behavior in row 10.
-Wished her ill.
-Wished myself ill.
-Debated putting Nora out on the wing.
-Tried to nurse once more. It worked. Briefly. Remained unconcerned when I was- yet again- exposed.
-Left my boob like that for a few minutes. Because really, in terms of being viewed as an attractive being on this flight...well, I think that's safely in the past.
-Landed. Eventually. Somehow. Waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for a completely random and as still unknown reason.
-Apologized and thanked my way off the plane. Heard the slightest bit of subtle applause.
-Handed a completely smiling and stoked baby to her father.
-Watched, bemused, as she conked out for a solid twelve hours.

...And marveled at my ability to be completely in love with this little beastie by 7am the next morning. Biology's a funny, funny thing.

I'm certain the rest of Flight 2281 would disagree.

But you can't beat that kinda free birth control.

I also call people "Baby" a lot. This bugs certain Big Kids.

Due to the fact that I am still in Massachusetts, still surrounded by genetically terrific children, and still not convinced that it isn't Thursday...

...May I present a smallish sampling of things I've learned about myself?

On Speech: Turns out, I abbreviate and nickname a LOT. When my sister asked if something needed to happen and I responded with "potenstsh," a vehement "IALLY" came from the 4 year-old in the other room. The little guys have also started referring to Nora solely as "Noodle," "Silly Sally" and "BugBug." Cole may believe, in fact, that he has multiple female cousins. (There's certainly enough people touching his stuff.)

On How My Writing Is Being Perceived: Quinn was peeking up at his Mom's laptop and saw my blog's site open. He asked "Is this Auntie Kiki's blog?" When  he was assured that it was, he pitched his voice a little higher and began to speak- "I was walking down the street and blahderlilalalila..." (That is NOT my process, Q-Dog.)

On Things I Should've Been Saying Already: Tom and I were having a beer with our Mexican fiesta the other night when 2 year-old Cole, leaning over to stare at my bottle, asked if he could Look in [Your] Beerhole. Bumper sticker...go.

On How Easily Disturbed I Am: Kate and I have been watching a ton of late night TV. Okay, 8:30pm TV. But there's a new Hamburger Helper commercial that takes place at- get this- a yard sale.  You know, dirty Fisher-Price toys, clothing from the '80s...and a plate of ground beef mixed with pasta. BEING PASSED AROUND ON A PLATE. "Best deal of the day," a mother joyfully exclaims to her two children. Really? Is the "best deal" the plate, the meal, or the heat-induced food poisoning? I asked Kate if she'd ever eat someone else's communal Hamburger Helper at a yard sale.  "Depends on how much it was."

And finally, Why Those Old-Peopley Pill Containers Are A Good Idea: For this week's trip, I put all of my vitamins and pills into one drawstring baggie (because, you know, it's SO hard to pack for a week at a sibling's house) and was feeling good about remembering to take them each night before bed. In the room I've been sharing with Nora. In the dark. Going on feel alone, I've proudly been popping pills sight unseen, a fact that became a little too obvious the other night. Tasting something a tad minty, I realized too late that a) I'd mixed painkillers- and forgotten about them- in with the vitamins, b) Target's version of Tylenol is delicious, and c) I may have scurvy but I FEEL NO PAIN.

And that's all we have time for today, folks. Because eventually, someone's gonna come for these four children. Hopefully their real parents.

And Kate and I need to be ready for that.

With cocktails. (And beerholes.)

And we've listened to Life Is A Highway 89 times. Today.

My daughter is currently snoozing upstairs. Sleepin' the sleep of the completely stoked. The slightly bewildered. The most definitely over-fed.

Let's backtrack a tad.

On Tuesday morning, Peej dropped Nora and I off at O'Hare, the Airport Where Dreams Go To Die. I had decided to wake her up a bit earlier than normal for our 8:30am flight...only to find that she was already awake, happily waving at me over the rail of her crib. Subsequently, she was ready for her first nap, oh, around the time when we were doing curbside check-in. And after getting checked in behind an international family of 22, she was really ready to sleep. Just in time to wait in a security line so long I was certain we were about to board Space Mountain. (But no. Just the ride called Take Off Your Shoes- and The Baby's, Too.) Some kind soul alerted me to the presence of a magical portal called Priority And Family Line. Originally, I had feared that this line would be the 4pm, Bluehair Dinner Special of security lines. (Like at Midway.) Turns out, the "line" entailed a security worker opening a gated-off area and waving us through to the front. (Oh, the looks we got. Suckers.)

The rest of our time in Delayville went surprisingly well. Plantains were consumed and only a moderate (and totally washable) amount was shoved into seatmates' hairlines. Sure, we boarded the plane absolutely last (seating group 5, baby, kinda like how popular partygoers do it), and we ended up in a row of simply horrified passengers. (She's not Godzilla, folks, just a little sleepy.) And sure, Nora ended up flashing me to the 20 year-old college kid seated in the middle. He spent the rest of the trip Averting. His. Eyes. At least when Nora wasn't bodily attempting to adjust his seat and change the channel on his armrest. (I call this kinda treatment "free birth control.")

But then- oh, then!- we got to Boston! And I met Mr. Declan Seamus, who reached the lofty age of four weeks yesterday. And then I ate him, for his cuteness and intense stare made me Feel Feelings.

We have had nothing but fun with my sisters Kate and Em, my bro in-law Tom, the biggies Quinn and Cole, and the bitsy man himself. Nora has not yet lost her wide-eyed and excited stare, nor the crazy chuckle that my family has deemed The Dolphin. She has been sprinted through the sprinkler, dunked in the splash table (her own doing), belly-flopped over an armada of miniature vehicles, and been kissed up like a good luck charm. She has also eaten all of the eggplant parmesan in the county. (Also, the waffles.)

My sister Emily takes care of the dudes a few days a week, but yesterday- her day at the New England Aquarium- Kate and I wrangled four kids, all eighteen months apart. Except for the last two, rockin' a mere eight month difference.

We missed her.

Some gems from yesterday: Cole informed me that he could see through my two layered tank tops. (Those aren't the exact words he used, but this is- somehow- still a family blog.) Quinn told me that my leg felt "sharp" and that I should take care of it, perhaps with "very little scissors." Cole dubbed my phone a WhiteBerry. This moniker just may stick.

And today's favorite: Quinn took some attachments from a breast pump, wrapped them around his neck and attempted to "pump up his face." Sadly, this is not how it usually works, but I totally prefer this usage.

Declan has been staring on, alarmed, while Nora has attempted to jump right into his [occupied] bouncer seat.  Also noteworthy- this is the first time EVER that my 10th percentile daughter looks ginormous against anyone or anything. In addition, her mood is enhanced by the mammoth (and sharp) top right tooth that has finally made a painful appearance.

In short, the noise level is something to behold. And be-hear.

I recall resting my forehead on the kitchen counter right after the kids went to bed. That is the last thing I can distinctly remember- aside from Kate asking me if I was drunk. (No.) Even more seriously, last night was a new episode of Psych. It comes on at 10pm- crazy people- and there was NO WAY that was gonna jive that evening. (As Peej stated, they should watch it an hour earlier, like those in the Midwest. Who hafta get up early for the crops.) It was a smart call, as my dearest darling daughter chose to stir at 10:45pm. And 1am. And be fully awake from 3:30-5am. (Something she has not done since December.) I vaguely remember looking at the clock the first time and being completely wowed that Psych wasn't even DONE yet.

And nothing was even the matter with Nora- she simply wanted to hang out. Which, while normally awesome, was completely and wholly unacceptable. Especially since I have zero NJ backup. And to think- as we drove to the airport I actually felt sorry for P.J.

No Nora snuggles. No shared meals. No early morning diaper changes.

I've essentially given him a no-holds-barred, get outta jail free card kinda week. When he texted me late [early] last night, informing me that he was out for a drink, the venom rays I sent out into the cosmos shoulda felled him like a tree.

Or at least soured his drink slightly.

"I wish I could do this for you," he sadly- or so I thought- told me the day before I left. Meaning take Nora for a week. And sustain all of her dietary needs.

But I can now say with all honesty and none of the schmaltz previously (and bloggily) associated with this phrase...

...Just wait.