Whine and Jeez.

Magical cookies.

I totally jinxed myself.

Why oh why would I put it out there to the cosmos that I was relaxed- especially after my drama-free flight? And how about the fact that yesterday afternoon I actually mentioned that I had NOTHING to blog about for Monday morning?

That'll show me.

United Airlines Strike Number 1: The flight was delayed. For mechanical reasons. In fact, it hadn't even left Chicago by the time I got to the airport, less than an hour before takeoff. (Kid at the counter: Uh, we updated the flight status twenty minutes ago. Me: I usually give myself a little more transit time than that. Do you think I live in the airport parking lot?) Also- To Whom It May Concern, rounding an hour and forty minutes delay down to "an hour" is NOT whimsical nor is it refreshing.

Nora Jane Point 1: "Mama- dat!" This was exclaimed happily toward every single piece of artwork, display window and ceiling installation...which, truth be told, I would have entirely missed due to grumpiness.

United Airline Strike Number 2: The kid at gate counter (what, is it Take Your Surly Tween To Work Day?) was eye-poppingly rude. Because of the late hour in which we'd be landing, I wanted to check on the availability of two seats together and the Economy Plus seating- which, hilariously enough, was the same free option on the fight out east. He snapped that they don't just GIVE those seats out, there's a reason people PAY for them. (Blink, blink.) Really? Is my money no good here? Am I a little match girl begging for crusts of bread? HAVE I OFFENDED YOU BY ASKING YOU TO DO YOUR JOB? He also demanded to see my boarding pass before he'd let me put a gate tag on Nora's stroller. Yes, because during all of this fun, I'm going to pointlessly hand over the easiest method of transporting my kid onto a flight which I have no intention of taking. Would you also like her sippy cup and spare diaper?

Nora Jane Point 2: She rustled up some good will amongst the cranky passengers, hopefully buying us some time on the flight for peace, love and understanding. She also attempted to share what appeared to be the best shortbread cookies in the history of the world, ever.

United Airlines Strike 3: The gate kid refused to acknowledge priority boarding between groups 1 and 2- which the flight heading east most certainly did. I realize that this is not a humongous deal except for the pain in the buttitude for those boarding directly after me having to wait and watch me heft two carry-ons, my child, and fold a stroller for AN OBVIOUSLY GOVERNMENT-REGULATED GATE CHECK. And this is before we even get on the darned plane. And- and- I could've just sucked it up and acknowledged the fact that we were all running late, let's get on the plane and shut up, if not for the fact that he was giving me The Eye during the boarding process (and I am not normally paranoid), daring me to say or do something. In terms of Example Making, he wanted me to be the Piggy to his Jack. (Anyone?)

Nora Jane Point 3: She let me hoist her under one arm with nary a peep during the boarding shenanigans.

United Airlines Strike 4: (Seriously, if I had had any other options at this point, I would've lit someone on fire. Maybe this is unwise to post in conjunction with an airport story?) United seated me in a two seat row next to an extraordinarily obese woman. (No joke- she needed two seatbelt extenders. I didn't know that EXISTED!) And, most magically of all, she was holding a nine month old baby. Two kids on the whole flight and they're wedged together. (Also, I do believe that United's rules prohibit that kind of thing in one row, but I wasn't about to whip out the rule book at this point.) I had to sit sideways with Nora's legs dangling over my armrest into the aisle. This is no exaggeration- the woman took up her seat and over half of mine. NOT COOL. I asked an attendant if there were any other seats so that the kids didn't keep each other up during the flight- she said she'd check.

Nora Jane Point 4: Babies! We love babies!

United Airlines Strike 5: There were multiple single seats open next to people who really really wanted extra space for their Kindles and nap pillows. The flight attendant asked if anyone would be willing to move or have a baby next to them. NO ONE WOULD. So we took off. And did I mention that the massive woman reeked of stale smoke and her kid was already starting to do that hehhhh whine of extremely overtired babies? (I know it well. I was doing it, too.)

Humanity Point 1: Some generous soul reluctantly agreed to be moved to Economy Plus- IN HIS OWN ROW- and this allowed Nora and I to take the back row of seats before the toilet. Win. The rest of the flight progressed as follows: snacks, books, twenty second increments of Dora the Explorer on iPhone, five minute increments of app deleting, snacks, books, stickers, snack of stickers, Chex mix massage for laptop, hiding of blueberries (later to be found directly on the butt of jeans), the hour long version of Itsy Bitsy Spider, tweaked laughter, no sleeping.

I'm not entirely sure how I managed to birth a better traveler than myself, but I'm eternally grateful. Another fun fact: Did you know that certain economy jets do not come equipped with a changing table in the bathroom? None. Nor do some flights offer any dairy products aside from powdered creamer? The combination of apple juice and nary a spot for diaper swapping inspired some awfully creative changing action. It didn't phase her.

Nor did the fact that during this quick change, I got a nose bleed.

I'm amazed she's even talking to me today.

Upon getting home, I became a pile of Useless and was promptly tucked in at 10pm CST- if it was even that late. I inexplicably woke later on to check on Nora and make sure tags were displayed somewhere. I checked the clock, thrilled that I had gotten such a good night's sleep so far and that Nora hadn't yet stirred.

It was 11:41pm.

          I made the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

Can I write a Trip Advisor review?

Nice.

I am really, really relaxed.

This does not make for a compelling read, I realize.

But let's see if I can create some dramatic tension, twists n' turns, and cliffhangers for bloggy's sake.

On Tuesday morning we got Nora out of bed at 5:45am to head to O'Hare. I had booked the earliest flight possible, thinking that it would be easy that way. (Sure, 'cause nothing says 'easy' like an exhausted toddler.) And an accident on 90/94 made me panic about dragging NJ through the baggage check and security. (TENSION!) But...P.J. got us there in [safe] record time, we were first in line to check our bag, and security took all of three minutes. "She's such a good traveler," an agent told me. (Not really, I wanted to reply. Her carry-on bag? Not to mention her ziplock baggie? Chaos. She also wholly disregards the three ounce rule.)

Winning the Mom Of The Year award, I let my kid scarf a sausage McMuffin and a hash brown in front of an airport TV.

We boarded a positively dwarven plane- you know a plane has a low roof if the 5'4" gal complains- and sat in the front row. Awesome! Except...you know that wall at the front of the plane? Plenty o' leg room, but not so much in the storage department. I was told that I needed to stow both of our carry-ons in the overheard compartment. (So, uh, the seven hours of kiddo entertainment? Yeah, I'd have access to none of that.) I shoved as much as I could in my pockets (a surprising amount) and put N on my lap. Oh- and I had booked a single seat as opposed to the double seats across the aisle...but when our gate changed, so did our commuter plane. Reversing the seats. So now I was in a window seat with no access to the overheard sanity-savers, anxiously awaiting the unfortunate soul on the aisle who was to have my child directly up their nostril for the flight. (TENSION!)

But...they never showed. The flight attendant tapped my shoulder and smiled at Nora. "She can have that seat, if she wants."

I buckled Nora into a seat after we took off and watched her sit and read. (I hadn't planned for that.) It was awesome. She had a juice. Played with some dolls. Charmed her fellow flyers. And sure, had a high-stakes standoff on the changing table of the loo, but that was fleeting and ended well.

We landed early. Our stroller was the first item off of the plane. We rolled to meet my mother at the gate and got the suitcase- the first one on the conveyor belt. Nora napped on the drive home while I had one of my favorite sandwiches in history- liverwurst and mustard on dark rye. (Seriously. My Mom makes this amazing sandwich for me when I'm sick/visiting/home for lunch from kindergarten. I was the coolest five year-old ever.)

Oh, Mim.

I got to take a nap that day. And eat stuffed pork chops. Watch an MST3k with my Dad. And let my Mom feed/bathe/change/play with Nora. (TENSION...was completely nonexistent.)

Even being the solo Nora-getter in the wee hours of the morning hasn't been so crazy. Maybe she's catching up from a nutso past few weeks, but she's napping and sleeping like a champ- this has allowed us to have some terrific excursions around town. These include a life-changing free chair massage and a stellar reading from a talented lady. Today we're having lunch with an honorary Mom of mine (she's earned the title by taking me to the ER as many times as my own mother) and later going for a swim.

Maybe I'll even get a nap.

To those who say you can never go home again- they are sadly misinformed. Not only can you go home, but it'll be a seamless trip, your Dad has new music for you to hear, AND THERE'S SEAFOOD FOR SUPPER.

Plus all of the Clifford episodes one could hope for. If you like that kind of thing.

They've got everything here.

Let us pray.

Hi!

Nora's a really good little kid. I feel like I haven't been blogging about her as much as I used to- back in the days of first food, first sounds, first episode of The Office- because she's always just around. Being cool. Sure, she's in the stories a ton, but hasn't gotten a ton of solo press lately. So here's what's up with the biggie little in the house:

-Anytime I've helped one of my kiddos out on the potty, she toddles in and points to them and then herself. She then pats her bum and says "Dipe." THIS IS AWESOME. As anyone who's ever tried to train a kid to use a toilet well knows- Obstacle One is getting them to realize where they should pee. And not pee, so much.

-This kid needs a ton of alone time. Not that I blame her. I feel like I'm forever hoisting her into the car for work, appointments, and errands. So when she gets to choose, she's happiest in a tiny nook of her own making, turning the pages of board books. This can go on for a while. You know what else can go on during this time? Showers, meal preparation, towel naps...

-We've had bedtime rituals since day one, and no one knows them better than Miss Bossy Britches. Right before bed, I hug her and hand her to P.J. for The Final Countdown. We always say "Goodnight Nora/Goodnight Mommy/Goodnight Stairwell", etc., etc. (I am NOT kidding. It can take an hour.) The other night, right after the hand-off, she leaned back over to me with an 'mmm' for a kiss. On her own volition. (Without me badgering her- "Kiss Mommy goodnight, gimme a kiss. Kiss kiss, Nora." She never had. But I wouldn't kiss me either with that kind of pressure.) The point is, she did it. And I almost peed, I was so excited. (That would've put the kibosh on further kissing, no?)

So why all the NJ love? Cinchy.

I am trying to convince the cosmos of how much I adore my child. That way, they can return the favor just in time for our upcoming flight tomorrow morning; in the form of a docile child, speedy flight, and the safe arrival of every single thing and person aboard- with nary a threat of someone riding the wing.

Here are the items that I have packed in our carry-on as a) a mother, b) a nanny, c) a savvy passenger, and d) a person whose first rodeo this AIN'T:

-Enough diapers/medicine/wipes/ointment/sanitizer/tissues/bibs/placemats to catch/clean/treat the bodily functions of eight children twice her size.
-Seven books (my hope is that by the time she gets to the last book, she'll have forgotten all about the first one.)
-One baby doll named Dot.
-One frog named Doc (her syllables are shockingly similar- but those in the know can tell the vast difference between a cry for Doc and Dot.)
-Snacks in a Snak-trap, snacks in a baggie, snacks in their sealed packages, bananas.
-Milk that I've been assured will not be thrown away at the security checkpoint- but which, come on, will.
-Two episodes of something or other concerning baby animals.
-Stickers/paper/crayons/packaging of the stickers (it's all about buying time, people.)
-A toy cell phone with which she'll happily play and then demand...
-...My cell phone.

And if all goes according to plan, we will be on the plane for a little less than two hours.

Pray for us, St. Christopher. Pray for us, United Airlines. Pray for us, Patron, patron saint of miniature liquor bottles.

I probably need a few more stickers.

Sleep Is For The Awesome.

P.J. likes me. I know this.

But sometimes I have to remind myself that just because you like someone doesn't mean you have to like sleeping next to someone. (Don't get me wrong- his sleeping options haven't changed. This is not a democracy, it's a marriage. But he can have his feelings.)

Lemme 'splain.

I'm a bit of a...hmm...an ambitious sleeper. My goal is to cover as much ground as possible. I am Lewis and/or Clark and your pillow is the Pacific Coast.

P.J. is a Zen Buddhist monk. (Perhaps by necessity at this point.) He requires very little, sleep-wise: a pillowesque thing, a corner of a blanket (if he is especially lucky), four solid hours. He sleeps with one eye open, a hand on the Louisville Slugger propped by the nightstand, ready for anything. He scoops up Nora in the morning at her first babble. He brings the cats downstairs for feeding if they yowl at her door.

As for me, I've slept through thunderstorms, car alarms, and a good portion of my toddler's early morning antics. (I tell people that she's slept through the night since seven weeks. I actually have no idea if this is true. Bottom line- Mama slept. We all slept!) I can't help it. My Mom recently informed me that I took two naps a day until I was three and even napped in the afternoons after I started school. I am either a really stellar sleeper or severely vitamins D and B12 deficient.

But back to P.J.

His dream of dreams is to sleep sans wife, baby, two cats, sippy cup, bib, five board books, eighteen blankets (did I mention I am never warm,whilst he is one of those Amish wood-burning furnaces?) and perhaps- just perhaps- somewhere he could stretch out his legs. It's good to have dreams.

This will never happen, however.

Unfortunately, my happy sleep is occasionally interrupted by terrifying nightmares and wacko sleepwalking stints. His job is to talk me down, hold my hand, and prevent me from eating toothpaste caps. (I know the household tasks seem inordinately skewed towards Peej at this point, but rest assured. I hold my own. You'd gag if I told you from where I removed poop this week alone.)

We spent a good part of Christmas week at his folks' house in Cincinnati, sleeping on the third floor in separate beds- in his childhood bedroom, in fact. His mother asked if we wanted to push the beds together. "Nope!" he happily exclaimed. And so for three days we slept all Ozzie n' Harriet style, waving goodnight to each other. With the occasional high five.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, I pushed the beds together. Crestfallen isn't a word I bandy about, overmuch. But he was. I calmly explained to him that I did not get married and fix up a house and have someone's baby only to sleep solo in a twin bed on the eve of a major holiday. He couldn't argue with that. (Or didn't.)

He falls asleep on couches, later apologizing for coming up to bed so late. But I know what's up. I even asked him point blank last night- You don't even want to sleep next to me anymore, do you?

His response? "No! I love sleeping in the same bed...room as you."

But I think things will stay as they are for now. I could be bought, however, with two special, magical little words.

"Vintage Vespa."

He has his lifestyle holdout, I have mine.

(Three more-) "With A Sidecar."

Your move, Philly Joe.