Mrs. Innes Thinks I'm Special- (my pencil says so.)

The blog is up mighty early today, I realize. 

There are few people in this world for whom I would early-blog. (Actually, it's a pretty vast category, but as it's a rather benign request I'd be more inclined to say no. And depending on the hour in which you asked me, it might not be as pleasant as all that. But why are we arguing so early?) My point is, my darling pal Lori- ahem, Mrs. Innes- asked if she could use my blog as a creative writing example for her AP Language and Comp class.

Just let that sink in for a second. 

Of course I agreed- happily- and then instantly wondered if I should go back and edit three years of incredibly loose grammar and imaginary words. Laziness won out. 

So, APLn'C class- welcome. Stay in school. Learn really important things, like how one should never begin a sentence with 'and.' And then how it's sometimes okay to write in your own style, anyhow. Go easy on the commas and other such punctuation. (I realize that this is reading like a letter to myself, circa last week.) 

A great rule of thumb for making up a person's nickname is as follows: Adjective Hyphen Noun, Part of Name (this is what lends gravity), Adjective Hyphen Noun. All is true. For instance: Radface McAwesomepants. Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs. (Actual names used in this blog, the latter being my baby.) In cases such as the second, the first adjective can be replaced with a title signifying royalty. I am not the one making up these rules. And "creative words" such as j'accusity and blahdiblah are a success only if they need no further explanation.

I also talk a lot about Mayor McCheese. Occasionally The Hamburglar. But NEVER Birdie the Early Bird, that minx. 

That's it. Those are all of my secrets and the sum of my writing knowledge. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Feel free to go browse some of my more "cohesive" posts or ones with "through-lines." Perhaps ones that don't "ramble." (Good luck.) 

Or...how about tales of your teacher when SHE was in high school? Yeah? 

Okay, I can't really go nuts on the storytelling for a few reasons: 

a) She's really, really strong. Quite possibly a lot stronger than she looks. Which is strong.

b) She was always popular. Which is insanely annoying. Even worse? Here was her secret: She was nice to everybody. She was fabulous to people so they liked her a ton. Jerk.

c) She has way worse stories on me, from fashion to dating to questionable hobbies. And besides- I was the "funny friend." You know the one. Not hilarious enough to be the ridiculously cool kid who happened to be funny- usually reserved for the varsity soccer captain whom, every now and then, said something witty and unbelievably well-timed- but the other one. The girl who sat behind the awesome girl in AP History and blurted out [what she thought were] appropriate quips regarding the Civil War? Yeah. 

But I will leave you with this fabulous image, forever to be sealed into your retinas...I give you Middle School, 1992.

That's right, shells. I won 6th grade.

And just how did she manage to make her oversized sweater looks less awkward than mine? She has POWERS.

Anyway, yes. Creative writing. 

It is my hope of hopes that I have not yet stunted your capacity for words nor your predilection toward actual, legitimate linguistics. 

Happy Thursday.

A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

Crazy kids.

First off, a big ol' smoochy Thank You to everyone who bloggily voted. As clichéd as it sounds, I was stoked to be a top five nominee...and surrounded by stellar loved ones/fans/readers with top notch internet service. Results next Sunday night! Meetcha by the Twitter feed.

I've got anniversaries on the brain as of late. This past Friday was the 37th wedding anniversary for my folks Deb and Dave- or, more commonly, Mim and Pop. (I actually coined both of those nicknames back in high school, way before they were grandparents. Who would've thought my quirky nomenclature would be immortalized by four short people? Their grandkids, btw, not their daughters.)

Mama Moderne actually just posted my latest piece, which details the love story of those very same parents. Or at least the cleaned-up, made for mid-afternoon TV love story.

Thirty seven years seems positively ambitious at times. Especially when I'm just approaching three years of wedded bliss with my patient husband whom, just last night, gave me the world-weariest look o' looks. (And we've only just begun!)

Last week also marked a different anniversary of sorts for me; it was a year ago that I decided to buy the rights to my blog. Now, I don't know if the shorter web addy has anything to do with it, but I've steadily added 2k new hits to my blog each month since then. That's also around the time when I began taking occasional advertisers and doing reviews. I don't want to brag, but my bi-monthly income would let me live a pretty sweet life in Malawi. For about a week.

Yesterday some lovely friends were over for brunch, and the topic turned- as it so often does among the late-twenties/early thirties set- of piercings we used to possess. They included the typical earrings and lip rings- and someone's husband had a truly questionable piercing inspired by a long ago girlfriend who would never become his wife- and it was then that I remembered my own odd piercing. And how it was the ten year anniversary of such.

When I was 20 years old- and it can't even be called a rebellious piercing, since that's embarrassingly late for such- I had my tragus pierced. (As my Dad said when I called to announce it- That'd better be visible.) And it is. Unless I'm wearing my hair down. (It's on the ear.) Back then, getting the inner flap of one's ear pierced was all the rage. Among hippie hipsters in Amherst, MA. I have no idea what inspired it, but one morning I woke up and informed my friend Vicky that we were going to drive into town and get me some piercin'.

And then I chickened out. But by that time, a guy was coming at me with a hook-shaped needle. Thankfully, he was so bogglingly attractive that I stared at his pretty face until my nerves settled and the blood subsided. (It freaking hurt. And it turned out that he was gay. Thanks for nothing, Hot Piercing Boy.)

At first I really dug it. And then I got a little sick of it. But every time I almost removed it for good, I remembered the searing pain. So in it stayed. Then years went by and the longer I kept it, the longer I felt I should keep it. Other things came and went, like the belly button ring (as a joke with a boyfriend who indeed became a husband) that I feared would not stand the test of motherhood. (I do not miss it. My halter-wearing, bejeweled-navel ship has since set sail. Toot toot.)

So happy anniversary Mom and Dad, Lollygag Blog, and left ear. May you always be as blissfully happy as you were that very day.

Except for the tragus thing.

I am not kidding about the pain.

I call dibs on this weather.

Okay, the whole "dibs" thing really needs to end. Like a week ago. For those not in the greater Chicagoland area or not aware of the debilitating bonkertude that a day and change of snow can inflict, I am not speaking of those delicious chocolate covered ice cream wonders. Those are permitted.

I am speaking, of course, about every single one of my neighbors and their household furniture. Holding parking spots. Ones that they'd shoveled. TWO WEEKS AGO. Sure, I totally get it. Some people couldn't even see their cars after the Great Snow. And I agree, if you spent the three hours necessary to undo the damage that a blizzard plus a snowplow digging a single file lane down the street by way of coating your vehicle with more snow, then sure. By all rights if you run to the store, it should be waiting for you when you come back. The next day when you return home work? Okay, fine. I'll give you that. Maybe you had a hard day and your arms are still screaming at you from the previous day's workout. But to expect that "your" spot stay available through the weekend? Dude. People need to go to brunch. Sometimes that involves parking. You may have to move the stroller/folding chair amalgamation that is currently marking your domain like so much pee.

And now? Two weeks later? It's 60 degrees. There are rivers of melting snow washing away your grandpa's walker. (Doesn't he NEED that walker?) Put your questionable belongings back into your foyer and let's all pretend that we don't know how many laundry baskets you own.

No one pities your inability to find parking on a damp street.

Onward. My darling daughter Nora went out yesterday without a hat. For the first time since she began walking. (This is true- she took her initial steps mere days after she turned one. The next day? Whomp. Frostbitten baldish head.) The mild temps shocked the both of us on our jaunt to Cermak Produce, so I whipped off her whimsical animal-eared cap and encouraged her to let some breezes tousle that tuft of hair. Maybe take some deep, cleansing breaths- but not towards the alley. Or Montrose.

She reacted the way any stoic Chicagoan would after a particularly bitter stretch of winter- she began to laugh. And squeal. (Sure, the baby noises o' happy are reserved for a special group of smallish person- not necessarily Chicago At Large- but she embodied what I was feeling as well.) After a few moments of joy, she stared mistrustfully at the clear sky and sunshine, wondering Just What Was Their Game. She then jolted and peered over her shoulder each and every time a gentle wind would tickle her ears.

Perhaps the abrupt (and temporary) change of seasons has made her more than a little crazy. Perhaps her parents' decision to live in the Midwest has given her a lifetime of nervous twitches.

But just wait 'til Real Spring and...dare I jinx it? SUMMER. The ability to run around barefoot- in specific locales- and watch [fewer] outdoor films and eat unhealthy stick foods at street festivals and splash in the positively frigid lake waters... Oh, I cannot wait. And dearest N.J., you're gonna forget winter. You will. It'll be like the last ten months didn't grate on your nerves like so much rock salt on the floors.

It'll be fabulous. Maybe we can even built a sweet fort from all the Dibs debris.

I call the ironing board.

***

And I gotta do one final blogesque plug: this is the last post before The Bloggies voting closes. Go! Go now! I promise not to say anything too meaningful in the last couple of sentences.

Truly. You're only missing this one bit.

And this. Okay, I think we both know that I can just do this all day. Be the bigger person, please.

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

The Art of the Lull.

Music is a constant in our house. We have cleaning mixes, Sunday morning albums, and classic vinyl on rotation. Nora can usually tell the who, what, and where of a situation by what's currently playing: Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros? Time to dance with Dad before supper. '40s on 4, Sirius XM? Mom's doing a project in the kitchen. Sweet Baby James up in her bedroom? Time to line up the Beanie Babies and Trolls- it's playtime.

We've been compiling and collecting lullabies and our favorite kids' albums since the day we found out we were expecting. Some all-time favorites include In Harmony, any of the classic Sesame Street albums, Free To Be You And Me, and a still gender-nonspecific iTunes playlist entitled "Kid."

Nora loves them all. She digs a good melody, harmony, key change and rhythm. Here's what she doesn't like- pandering lyrics, saccharine sentiments, and downright boring composition. (Oh, did I say Nora? I meant me. But based on her refusal to stay in the room when something of that ilk is played...I can guess that she feels much the same.) So many kids' albums are that way. And most little ones I know can tell the difference between good and bad music, especially if they've heard a ton of it in their fifteen months.

I was beyond excited when I was approached to take a listen to Jane Roman Pitt's new album, Midnight Lullaby. She's a singer/songwriter with strong folk/country/classical roots, and her latest is a compilation of non-traditional lullabies from some pretty big names. It's already gotten some great reviews- at HuffPost, among others- so I figured that I'd give it to one of the toughest critics I know. She's 30 inches tall, has crazy hair, and a penchant for thumbs and frogs. Here's what Nora thought of the album.

We played Midnight Lullaby in the playroom, about an hour before I wanted to settle Nora down for a nap. It was a tall order, I realized, as she was darned busy laying waste to every puzzle and pretend piece of food in a three-room radius.

It started with Josh Ritter's Baby That's Not All- a song that warranted a bit of a hip wiggle (the universal sign for I Acknowledge The Music You Have Selected.) She also began to rock and pat her Valentine's Day cards. So, maybe she was feeling soothed. Or needing to soothe. Either way, those cards were getting the treatment.

Wilco's My Darling- a great tune- actually made me well up a little bit. It was so lovely. Nora paused the coddling of the cards to come give me a pat on the shoulder. Empathy! Or maybe embarrassment. Either way, the puzzle-flinging had ceased.

Tom Waits is an extremely welcome guest in our speakers, so when his Midnight Lullaby played, I decided to spread out a blanket on the floor and just enjoy. And yes, we've proven that this album succeeds at lulling the Exhausted Mother set...but Nora joined me, too. (I think the last time that she'd willingly snuggled in my arms was during her raging fever. Before that? Five months of age.)

Maybe it was the quiet time with Nora, or perhaps it was the sweetness of the song, but Bob Dylan's Forever Young got me sniffling again. And Nora even joined in with her nondescript 'ah' singsongy voice which I love. By this point I was ready for a nap, eighteen more children, and a pony for Nora if she'd just keep singing and cuddling.

There are so many highlights on this simple and gentle album: Donovan's La Moora is a soothing Scottish melody, Jane's own original tracks on the album add beautiful instrumentation and harmony, and the classic Beatles' Goodnight/Golden Slumbers is a must-have for parents, anyhow.

Here's the full track listing:
1. Baby That's Not All- Josh Ritter
2. My Darling- Wilco
3. Dreaming Sweet Dreams- Hugh Prestwood
4. Lullaby- Dixie Chicks
5. Midnight Lullaby- Tom Waits
6. Welcome Home To Love- Jane Roman Pitt
7. The Sweetest Gift- Sade
8. La Moora- Donovan
9. Whisper Warm- Jane Roman Pitt
10. Forever Young- Bob Dylan
11. Goodnight/Golden Slumbers- Lennon/McCartney

I have a feeling this one's gonna stay in our rotation. Want it to be in yours? I have an album for giveaway that I'm really stoked to share. Leave a comment below and tell me who needs lulling in your life. I'll choose a winner next Tuesday, so tell your friends, caregivers and discerning toddlers!

By the way, it worked. Sleep came- quite easily- a mere ten minutes after the album ended.

Oh yeah, and Nora napped, too.

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