Hmm. Awfully muggy for "Fall."

Rearranging the dining room.

It is officially Fall. I know this because a) I own a calendar [app], and b) people keep wishing each other a Happy Solstice on Facebook. (What did I DO before Facebook? I'll tell you- I wrote in a paper journal and called P.J. eighty times a day to tell him hilarious anecdotes. I think we can all agree that Facebook has kickstarted my blogging and saved my marriage.)

Also a marriage-saver: Last night P.J. found a mouse that had- ahem- ceased to be in the corner of the garage. Actually, it had ceased to be in any locale. He discovered and disposed of it in the time it took me to ask "What's so snicky?" This is a great skill in a husband. He also reassured me that there were no holes in the garage or the shed, that it most likely snuck in while the garage door was open one night. This bothered me greatly so he amended it, remembering that he had also spied a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's person- so he must have died of old age.

Food for thought- does a mouse have a person? Or is it a 'mouse?' There was a tiny beard and walking stick on the mouse's mouse.

Nope. Can't use it in that sense.

And have you noticed that a story involving a rat= panic/anger/hatred and a field mouse= confusion/sadness/whimsical storytelling? That's because mice are itty bitty squeakers and rats can suck it. (My mother: Keely! Me: Sorry!)

Back to the Solstice.

I have been feeling so crazypants lately and it's nice to have something new to blame it on. I've been cleaning and rearranging to a ridiculous extent; my office, my desk, the living room furniture, P.J.'s dresser (gave that one up midway through- I can admit defeat when need be.)

P.J. does not care for this. He does not like "change," overmuch. But then again, he wasn't too keen on moving in together four and a half years ago, nor was he ready to have a baby/buy a home/get a car before we had a chance to really thiiiiink it over. For what that's worth.

Besides, I can't help all of this moving things about. At the risk of sounding compulsive, the idea plants itself in my mind and I know the only way to get peace is to physically shift and poke and spin things around. And it works. Because the things- rooms, desk drawers, half of dressers- look fabulous after I tweak 'em. They always do.

And clearly, I can use a change. At the risk of my mother saying I'm being down on myself- I'm falling apart. For no discernible reason. 10pm Bedtime Month is still going [relatively] strong. (I mean, sometimes you hafta stay up late to scope Lamebook while eating PB out of the jar.) So I'm rested. Plus I'm happy with my new work/home ratio. And Nora's the easiest kiddo ever.

But twice last week I fell out of my shoes. All the way to the pavement out. Another time I tripped and, instead of catching myself on anything nearby, I compensated for balance by flinging the baby monitor down the stairs. (I'm fine. The monitor is not. Somewhere in mid-fling the audio wire snapped. Perhaps when it met the ground.)

And the other day while riding public transit, the elastic holding my hair up just sorta...pinged apart. I actually heard a 'ping.' Didn't know what it was. But it kinda felt like someone was poking the top of my scalp- which is not altogether unheard of on the CTA. And the other riders got to stare at me while my hair slowly fell to the sides of my face. Which I'm actually kind of sorry to have missed. (That's like- performance art!)

Maybe this is why the other Moms at the playlot won't talk to me. Falling down, throwing things and personal grooming failures are rather off-putting.

But, you know what?

It's probably just the Solstice.

I'll be the one stuck in the squad car.

During the time I've been a nanny- almost a decade- I've seen just about everything that goes in, on, or around a child- and most places in, on or around which a child can play.


I've carted kids to lessons, playdates and child "friendly" locales in the dead of winter and the sloshiest of springs, knowing full well there's only so many blanket tents and PBS reruns one can tolerate.


In some of these locales I've spent the entire time in fear; for the child's safety, for the strep virus he's licked off a toy, and for my brain cells. (Seriously. An hour and a half of structured play for an 18 month old? Time...ticks...by...) And sometimes, when you have to wake the kiddo to make a class for which you've already pre-paid, it can equal an overtired, pricey, dirty, boring mess.


And that's no fun.


The antidote to that is Fantasy Kingdom, an indoor playplace conveniently located in the bustling North/Clybourn area of Chicago.

This space is so great for kiddos ranging from six months to six years (although some of my older charges have dug it, too). And truly, I've been hanging out here for years. My most active dude has sprinted off his excess energy before naptime. My shyest boy has made friends. My independent-minded gal has done her own thing- thankyouverymuch- storming a castle, dressed like a firefighter.


They have a police station, firehouse, cottage, and grocery store, not to mention a humongous castle with interior stairs (yep, been up there- didn't even get stuck) plus a gallery of costumes.


And there are toys- lots of them. Superbly clean toys. Like- I've seen people wipe and spray things down. (And there's sanitizer and wipes and tissues and and and....) The music is always good, too. That's huge for me. Music in play areas is SO important. And so often lame.


The vehicles for ridin' are pretty rad as well- though, sadly, I cannot fit in those. But that frees them up for the kids I've brought. Which I suppose is the whole point.


One of the BEST parts is the sectioned-off play area for Little Littles. Yes! You no longer have to choose between letting big kids have fun and a non-smooshed infant! The toys in there are pretty spiffy, too, and the Bigs and Littles can see each other over the separating wall. If they want to. But they'll be pretty busy.


Okay, I lied- the real best part is the free coffee.


Or maybe it's the fact that my admission is free with a kiddo. Unless it's a drop-off locale or unless I get a really sweet craft project of my own, nothing is more irksome than having to pay to be there with the kids.


There's also a separate area for lunch or snacks or coffee or whatever you purchase. (They have lots of goodies for sale.) With a fridge. And a microwave. And- more wipes. The neato part about this area is that you're still mere feet away from the main play area. Meaning everyone doesn't have to take off their costumes just because I want a juicebox.


They have all sorts of membership and admission packages- including day rates- and additional sibs under the age of one are free. And the multi-pass cards do not expire. (I really enjoy non-stressy memberships. A lot.)


Birthday parties are a big deal here, and they have all sorts of packages and ways to make the day super easy. I've been to multiple events at Fantasy Kingdom. Three words: Well. Oiled. Machine.


Still feeling the need to educate and artsify your child? They have projects and storytelling and activities with local artists. And you can attend when you like, let your kid sleep in when you don't, and no one looks at you like you've squandered the equivalent of college tuition for a twice-weekly dance class.


And now that my darlin' Bitsy is extremely active- and, let's be honest, the 8 month hibernation known as Chicago Winter is imminent- I'm going to need a regular place to run around. (With her, I mean. I'm gonna bring Nora.)


Just imagine- parking in the attached garage, waltzing in to have coffee with a pal, enjoying a clean, bright, friendly environment, letting your little one dream and dance and run wild...and then scooping her up for naptime that you didn't have to reschedule...


...Bring on the bad weather.

Fall is for Nostalgia.

There's something so freeing about chilly- and overcast- Fall weekends. They totally give you permission to do what you whine about wanting to do all week...nothing at all.

So we snuggled in. Ate junk food. Watched the '80s version of Pippi Longstocking- for Nora. In case you're curious, it completely stands the test of time. (Life is a breeeeeze...) We also watched a classic episode of Sesame Street- from the 4th season, once they'd ironed out most of the kinks of Snuffy not being invisible, Oscar not being orange, and Big Bird not having a shrunken head. That said- who is this man with the 'fro they're still trying to pass off as Gordon? And Luis was a stud! P.J. and I gleefully clapped along when our favorite animated shorts aired...while Nora, quite neglected, wandered into the laundry room to poke at unmatched socks.

Also. Ernie told Bert that he hated something in that episode. P.J. and I nearly jumped out of our skins, which poses the question- When did saying 'hate' become so darned taboo in children's TV? Obviously sometime between the late '70s and now. I honestly can't remember, which means it was probably on the earlier end of things. Discuss.

We had a date night- another of the 'no cash/no leaving the house' variety. We made our favorite cold weather drink of Hot Todgers- think Hot Toddy, but with ginger beer. We invented them. Watched Before Sunrise- which also remained a good flick. At least the first half did. After that, Mr. Snorey VonI'mStillAwakePants was "thinking about the movie" behind heavy eyelids.

But it still counts as a date.

We only left the house once this weekend and had a stellar brunch at our pals' Heather and John's place. The event had three major things going for it: It was in Albany Park(!!!), the shindig was kid-friendly, and they are exceptional cooks. I filled a plate to share with Nora- and she ate most of it. (Sure, I'll give you my pulled pork and goat cheese cornbread- but the Bloody Mary is Momma's.)

But this past weekend wasn't without its unnecessary display of hormonal tears, either.

*****ALERT- I WILL BE TALKING ABOUT BOOBS*****

I've slowly been weaning Nora onto bottles and sippy cups. And I'm totally fine with it. Absolutely. Except when I'm not.

The middle of the day feedings? Sure, give her a cup of formula. (Once I got over my initial feelings of neglect and abuse, I realized that not only was she not sad about the formula- but that she really, really liked it. A lot.)

But last night was the last evening nursing, leaving only the a.m. feedings for just a little while longer. So keep this in mind- this was the second to last feeding to be dropped. Nevertheless, as soon as she was done and started to doze off on P.J.'s shoulder...I lost it.

She was wearing footie pajamas that, mere weeks ago, flopped behind her like a cape when she crawled. Now they were snug. (And yeah, sure, they're still 6-9 month jammies, but STILL.)

It doesn't seem like that long ago that she was doing her little kitten snore in the bassinet next to the bed, waking at 2am for a feeding and having absolutely zero stuffed pals that traveled with her from locale to locale. What happened to that bundle that Peej would sleepily hand me? (Perhaps too bundled- between the hat, sleepsack, jammies and mittens, I could only see a small pair of irate, dark eyes staring up at me with a mix of hunger and baby rage.) And then I'd feed her and watch the tight little fists pressed against her cheeks relax. I'd see her eyes dart around in curiosity. I'd witness her valiant struggle to scoot around and do something to those bright lights and colorful shapes...and then fall back to sleep like a miniature drunken elf. I'd watch the rest of our late night programming, hand the wayward sprite back to her father, and then snuggle in until I got to hold her again.

And I already miss it. I never minded waking up with her. Sure, maybe the DuraMorph was extra Dura, but the euphoria of finally having her here trumped any petty ol' need for sleep.

Our bedtime routine was my favorite part of the day. We'd get her all cozied up (less bundling was completely okay, as we quickly learned) and I'd feed her as P.J. would alternate between reading her favorite books and singing her favorite songs with an [intentional] voice that somehow mixed Tom Waits and Neil Diamond. (This is 1000% true.) And, smiling sleepily, she'd be placed in her crib amongst a small army of hand-selected animals.

And P.J. and I would high-five. (This is also totally true.)

So, as P.J. carried her off to her room last night, these were the thoughts careening into my brain. And I cried. A lot. (As my friends can attest, I do not possess the ability to cry a little.) And neither P.J. nor I can be sure why it is that I think The End of Nursing= The End of My Bedtime Routine with Nora. I mean, I still live here.

And I can totally give her a bottle at night. And be an extra pair of  hands for jammies and books and snuggles. But I'm rapidly losing the one ability that no one else in her universe can even begin to emulate.

Which kinda made me a superhero for a little while.

With a superpower that she'll never even remember.

But we'll always have the opening strains of The Office. She'll hear it and laugh and become inexplicably hungry and that will be our little joke.

And it'll be okay.

Odd Hygiene and Noisy Celebrations.

I've been noticing a marked difference in my Nanny With Nora versus Nora At Home routines. There are just certain things that I can do In House that wouldn't fly whilst on the clock.

For instance, I attempted to shower while Nora played on the bathroom floor with squeezie toys and bath books- in my own bathroom. (General rule of thumb: Keep your clothes on/don't bathe in the workplace. This is just something I've always tried to live by.) Believe it or not, this whole "shower" thing actually jived. Kinda.

It took about two minutes in- and for Nora to be happily playing- before I realized that this shower was lacking shampoo or conditioner. (I usually shower upstairs, but in that postage sized loo Nora would have had to play directly on my unshowered head.) Faced with the prospect of either disturbing Nora's solo playtime of awesome OR forgoing a shower altogether, I opted for an unusual third choice: I used Nora's bath stuff. Granted, it smelled great, but I'm pretty sure it lacks any actual soap or soaplike product. But compared to the alternative...I was fairly washed that day. [I can totally see the dollar sign/coupon/exclamation points over P.J.'s head: You used her organic baby stuff? Why not just use the good bottle of pinot noir?!]

Maybe next time.

After said shower, once the Little Little realized that she no longer cared for this locale of play- and would like a snack, sankyousomuch- I crawled into bed with her (me in a towel, she in her half-soaked jammies- did I mention she tried to climb into the bath?) and let her have a bottle while I chilled and contemplated pants.

I later realized that this may have been an odd start to the day, compared to- oh- days when I shower solo and dress myself and feed my child at a table. But it's certainly not my oddest shower/nekkie/Nora tale.

Also, at work- the kiddos I watch generally are allowed a half an hour of TV every so often. Good, quality, pre-screened programming. Generally. I monitor this and check with parents and older sibs (the youngest ones will swear up and down they haven't watched a show since their first birthdays.)

At home- Nora will "watch" a DVD or OnDemand show while rolling around in piles of [clean-ish] laundry. Sure, she's young, and I know I'm rapidly approaching the days where TV will be a magical box of eyeball glue...but for now I generally just have stuff on in the background. A lot. She's seen almost every season of Psych. And anyone who's read the blog through the early maternity leave knows her Pavlovian response to The Office opening theme. And during our block-buildin' extravaganza the other afternoon, I purposefully turned on Jeopardy. (Hey- the periodic table of elements ain't gonna teach itself. At least not 'til 9th grade. And maybe not even then.) Yes, she has hours of the day with plenty of music and sometimes no sound at all...but I think I never realized how cool with TV I was until I was in charge of Nora's brain.

Poor Nora. At least she has Work Mommy to lay down the law about media and venue and clothing.

And may I personally wish Albany Park (and the rest of the world, to a lesser extent) a Happy Mexican Independence Day? I'm quite certain that my block will be celebrating the 200th anniversary with a 200 Firework (or worse) Salute around 3am. 'Cause my neighborhood reeeaaallly digs a good celebration, Mexican or otherwise. I saw multiple cars driving around with huge red, white and green flags atop their roofs. And not just little antenna flags either- huge honkin' flag poles sticking out of the top of cars. And that was YESTERDAY.

Though, to be fair, the Fourth of July isn't exactly known for tasteful and reserved displays of patriotism.

And, as Peej pointed out this a.m., every St. Patrick's Day people paint their faces and bodies with all sorts of "Irish" symbolism. I'm pretty sure that hasn't been a genuine tradition since the people of Ireland were called The Celts.

So happiest of days to all- whatever your nationality, personal grooming habits or mode of transpo. Clearly this block has room enough for us all.

If my neighbors can handle my soap-less Wednesdays and 70s rock blaring out the front stoop...

...I can dig a car horn symphony before sunrise.