Say it with clowns.

Way too big for love.

It's Valentine's Day! That wonderful time of cellophane and glitter and overindulgence and tutus and sugar-crash naps.

This year, I've included a pic of Nora's valentine for everyone to see. First things first. You may be asking yourself why the card is so garishly big. Noted. And. Secondly, that is a grapefruit next to the valentine for size comparison.

Here is what went down. I made a handful of normal-sized valentines for the usual crowd. Nothing crazy opulent; just a nice graphic, some cool textured paper, a fancily scrolled phrase or two. Cinchy. But could I do that for Peej and Nora's cards? No... I happened upon this really fabulous site that featured vintage Valentine's Day images. How could I resist? Sure, the lack of a functional printer (long story) and a positively bewildering experience with FedEx Office led me to believe that I ought to have resisted in the long run. (I could more easily land a jet with their convoluted and excessively powerful website than do a simple upload. When I unchecked a box for 'collate,' the site crashed. It's two pieces of paper! Put them in any order you like!)

And of course, I had to be fancy. I ordered the two images to be printed on transparency paper. Why? Dunno. Maybe to justify paying six bucks for a simple procedure. Perhaps to alleviate my guilt at not dealing with the printer. Or it could just be 'cause it looked more awesome that way.

So. Yes. The hugeness. Well, I sized each image to 3x5in and sent them along. Got a confirmation of such. However, when P.J. returned home from running errands with the two pictures in a folder (I had asked him not to look- IT WOULD RUIN THE SURPRISE), I found that they had blown them up to near life-size. I did not feel like returning them. (Surprise, honey! Your wife is lazy! Here's a terrifyingly big graphic!)

And without giving away any details of P.J.'s card- other than its largetude- I can totally acknowledge that perhaps the images would have been charming in a slightly smaller size. I fear that at the current measurements of Nora's plastic clown, it'll put her off of valentines/clowns/transparencies forever. (Also, guess what the toughest material is to glue anything to? You got it! Transparency paper!) I hope she enjoys her wobbly, mushy, mildly threatening declaration of love. Happy Valentine's Day, daughter.

We also celebrated the day by making a sizeable donation of housewares and clothing to the Epilepsy Foundation. (It's really not that philanthropic- they picked it up from my front stoop. Does my laziness know no bounds?!) Also, perhaps my intention of saying 'I love you' to the Epilepsy Foundation will not be as well received as I had intended- I chose to say it with mismatched steak knives and oversized shirts with hilarious verbage. How they read into it is entirely up to them.

On Saturday, P.J. and I went to Bonsoiree, a delightful- and redonkulously expensive- French/Japanese fusion joint o' small plates. (We used a gift certificate from OUR ENGAGEMENT. Yep, that would be four years ago this April.) It was eight courses of awesome. I embarrassed myself by openly weeping over some of the dishes. And yes, sure, I might have made some of the teensy pieces of food talk to one another. But for the most part, I was quite adult. (Except for when 'Long Time' by Boston came on. Did I mention they had the best B-sides classic rock mix playing? I almost moved in.) Another highlight came towards the end of the meal, when P.J. and I could not determine if the couple recently seated next to us were old friends, a hot new item, or brother and sister. It was- at once- hilarious, quaint and disturbing. This is so true.

And now I must finish preparations for tonight's fabulous gala in the dining room. I call it- We're Having Dinner In The Dining Room. It will include mammoth valentines, something I should probably decide upon and begin to defrost, and a few trinkets purchased via Amazon. (And, funnily enough, I know what every single item is! And here is why! My husband, ever the practical gent, decided the free shipping option on my Amazon Prime would be the best to use. And then, afraid that I'd figure out what he had bought me, he went into my email account and deleted the confirmation email from Amazon. Unfortunately, I had also bought his present from that same site. Killing all semblance of surprise on his part when he spied that email. And when he forgot about the 'item shipped' email that would come later, surprise died on my end too. It's like a bizarro, reverse Gift Of The Magi. For lazy people using the same online account and credit card to buy each other items under ten bucks in cost.)

Ain't true love grand? (Answer- yes. Always yes.)

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I am so lazy.

This floor is dirtying my nightgown.

"Fast, cheap, and good… pick two. If it’s fast and cheap it won’t be good. If it’s cheap and good it won’t be fast. If it’s fast and good it won’t be cheap. Fast, cheap, and good… pick two words to live by." - Tom Waits

That's one of my husband's favorite quotes. And it happens to be attributed to one of my favorite songwriters. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in terms of general housiness and productivity.

My trifecta, however, is more noun-related: Baby, Household, Writing. I cannot have more than two awesome nouns at a time. I've tried it. Repeatedly. It doesn't work.

On days where I feel on top of the mopping/scrubbing/folding and manage to teach my kid her colors/take a blanket tent nap (with her, of course), I feel like a really great Mom/wife/homeowner. Too bad my laptop doesn't get opened and zero projects get attempted, let alone completed.

Then there are times when the house is immaculate- or at least mildly sanitized- and I've blogged, essayed, scripted, emailed and filed. But Nora has watched five back to back episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Including commercials. Extra commercials, in fact.

The best of the three options happens when I play on the floor with Nora for hours on end, and follow it up with some stellar writing once she naps. Dual job-wise, I feel invincible. Food and homestead-wise, I feel hungry, dirty and cluttered.

(All bets are off on days when Nora and I are at work, however. On those days, my home actually gets messier and my documents begin deleting themselves word by word. Nora and I would be cool with each other on work days, if not for the fact that I wake her at least twice to run errands and pick up kiddos. I'm pretty sure she'd rather we not talk on work days. But then again, we don't get paid to clean our house/write an opus/snuggle stuffed frogs...and her braces aren't gonna fund themselves. So we must resign ourselves to a few grumbles. Besides, the trade-off is that she gets to be with her favorite big kids in the entire Chicagoland area. Some things are worth being woken up for.)

The other day I thought I could beat the system. Nora "helped" me fold an impossibly large number of laundry loads (I am still not entirely convinced that people are NOT randomly dropping off clothing to be laundered and then spirited away while I towel-nap. Who owns all these socks?) and clean the floor. (Her contribution was removing cat hair from the Swiffer while I mopped- and then holding dirt and furballs up to me with a disdainful "yuck." Then she'd empty out the Tupperware cabinet and throw bibs around.) But the house was decently clean. So we made Valentines. Really sparkly ones with extra stickers and purple crayons. We followed that up by opening the Little People playhouses across the floor and arranging a township's worth of plastic pilots, squirrels, princesses and backpack-clad kids on appropriate seating. Then we fed them tea. She had a multi-food group lunch (and so did I!) and then settled down for a big ol' after lunch nap.

And I opened my laptop. I knew that I'd have at least the next two hours available for some quality writing time.

A fact which apparently crippled me.

I got nothing done. Less than nothing, actually. I may have even killed some brain cells with the stupidity of the few sentences I managed to eke out. They were the worst sentences ever to be typed and then immediately deleted. If I could have deleted them multiple times, I would have.

They were that bad.

And I wasn't surprised. After all, I was taunting Fate- who had VERY CLEARLY laid out the rules of productivity. Choose two.

Most days I wish I could just choose Nora twice. 

The real low men on the totem pole are the cats, though. They used to be in the triple rotation, with special treats and five page manifestos for the cat sitters. And even though I still adore them, I fall back on this idea that- at heart- they're wild animals who prefer to fend for themselves. (If only they had thumbs!)

At least they're not the plants, which haven't been watered in months. 

Prioritizing is hard.

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Sick. But not the way the cool kids say it.

Go lay down, Keely.

Who didn't see this one coming?

I got le sick.

Nora so generously gave me her cold- and it mutated into a special blend of adult yuck, fatigue x a trillion, and the whinies. I know that, in the past, I've made fun of certain gentlemenfolk and their inability to a) be sick, and b) empathize with those so afflicted. (And it still stands. 'Cause it's really, really funny and so often true.) Nevertheless! I've outdone myself with the denial, full body ache, and impressive pitch of voice.

I pretty much only get sick once every two years. Here's my immune system theory: The kids for whom I nanny each have their own school and outside activities. Nora and I get around town a fair bit. P.J. takes the train each day and has a work atmosphere that consists of eighty twenty-somethings who leave for the bar when we're heading to bed [7:30pm]. That means that, between the three of us, we're exposed to the personal germs of nine thousand people each day. (Yes, I did take Algebra three times. Why?) I figure my immune system is like a kindergarten class rolling around with a bunch of muddy puppies. In a positive way.

Except that the day after Snowmageddon- and Nora's raging fever- I started to feel a little sluggish. "Maybe you're tired," P.J. suggested. "MAYBE EVERYONE JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE ME ALONE," I gently replied.

I didn't exactly have Nora's temps- but a virus fighting a twenty pound body needs a lot more heat than a virus fighting a...slightly larger body. And here's a little secret that I just this weekend learned about myself. Here are things I can handle:

-People whom I have birthed yuking on me.
-People of that same category peeing on me- as long as it's accidental and there is a minimum of snickering involved from all parties to whom I am married.
-C-sections, spinals, blood draws, sleepless nights, and toes broken on the corner of the radiator.

And things that I cannot handle?
-A minor cold.

I rarely demand acknowledgement for the multitude of things I accomplish in a day; for the house, the kiddo, the writing, the questionably clean clothing...but give me a case of the chills and it's Self Pity City.

I actually lamented to myself that I had managed to brush my teeth and no one even CARED.

This is probably not true. My husband, who has yet to leave me, most certainly does care. He must have missed the toothbrushing memo, though, because he was too busy offering to make me tea. After I spent the hours of 2-4am hacking directly into his ear and muttering that I WAS FINE. ("Well, if you're up...")

He then spent the day shoving Vitamin C beverages, hot drinks, and complex carbohydrates into my mouth- most likely to quiet the hive-like buzz of my whining.

But all is well today. Nora's back to her tornado method of play (the Nornado- how am I just now coming up with this?) and I'm feeling [almost] well enough to fold the mountain of laundry that I consistently piled into the washing machine. I'm not entirely sure why I expected it to Willy Wonka itself into the dryer, but in my fevered haze I just kept on trucking and adding more water and soap.

Also, the detergent cap and dispenser has somehow gone missing.

I'll bet wherever it is, it's super squeaky clean.

Maybe even folded!

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Beyond Thundersnow.

The beginning of the end (for the patio furniture.)

The Snowpocalypse is very real, people. So is the seemingly improbable "Thunder Show." (Two men enter, one man leaves. That man is very likely my husband, shoveling out the neighbors' walks and making snow angels.)

We got pummeled. And there's nothing quite like seeing Mother Nature make your one-way street a hilly snow tundra (complete with a light show to rival Pink Floyd's) to make you thankful for heated ceramic tile in the basement. (The only intact part of the house two years ago, oddly enough.)

And what will we best remember from the 20-inch Snowmaggedon of '11? Is it the buried cars and stranded buses on the defunct Lake Shore Drive? How about the fact that Chicago Public Schools closed their doors for the first time since 1999? Nope, what we're really gonna think of is our 15-month old's raging fever of 103.1.

I've been a nanny for almost ten years. And a mother for almost one and a half years. And an accident-prone, ER-friendly miracle of science for three decades. However. Nothing- not even that time that I locked infant Nora inside our home- has ever made me feel more helpless. (And hey! It's almost that event's one year anniversary!)

Staring at nothing.

Anyway, the fever. There was the head-lolling. Refusal of food and baths (my kid would choose a waffle and splash time over me on some days. Especially together.) The moaning of 'Dada' and 'thaaaaaat'. It was equal parts The Exorcist and Firestarter.

So we dosed her. And tortured her with cool washcloths and mango Pedialyte. We watched four hours of Pingu. WE ONLY OWN TWO HOURS WORTH.

Last night we put her to bed at 7:30...and we headed in at 9:30. (That's p.m., people. Back in the old days of crazy snowstorm pre-baby revelry, that would have read A.M.) And when I awoke to check her temp and change her sheets at midnight (we did force a grove's worth of juice and the 'lyte on her innards, after all), I was way groggier than that normal hour would usually warrant. (It was, however, better than two night's ago when we stayed up for an embarrassingly late viewing of Three Men And A Baby on cable. A few side notes on that one: a) the movie has aged remarkably well, b) it's quite different now that I have a baby, even if only with one Man, and c) that cardboard cutout/ghost boy thing gets me every time!)

Back to Nora. This morning she's totally fine. She went over to the cabinet and asked for a bowl of oatmeal- she housed the entire thing in under three minutes. She's been bossing around her toys with the aplomb of a seasoned dictator. I've never been so glad to have someone shove a plastic bowl of fruit into my eyeballs and a My Little Pony up my nose. (Never!)

It's good that she's on the mend, however. She needs to brace herself for the -11 wind chill of this week.

Get used to it now, Sugar. You're gonna be attending one of those ne'er-closing, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Snowdays schools in a few short years.

(Okay, now I need to be dosed.)

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