Aaand...by posting time it's partly sunny.

Not to be all whiny about the weather...but seriously. What is up with this weather?

Having lived in Chicago for 8.5 years (yeah, it was originally supposed to be for under a year), this should not surprise me. Chicago does not have a Spring. We have seven months of Winter, followed by a week of rain, then it is SUMMER. But each and every year I find myself surprised- nay, angered- by the lack of springtimeliness.

Last week was a tease. A 70 degree (and sunny!?) day followed by a mid-60s (and SUNNY) day, followed by...grey sludgery.

Here is a vid from those happier moments. Nora had a superb time catching and playing with her shadow. Yes, those are the big sister jammies from the other day. And double yes, we're listening to an "End of Summer" mix tape of P.J.'s from high school. (We've recently gotten into playing our old teenaged/party/breakup mixes. This is an awesome thing to do. Also warranting of its own post.)

But, video:

Today is another jammie day, due to the fact that sludgery plus [Nora's] runny nose equals lolling about and [Keely's] whining re: weather. No sunshine, no shadows. What we do have is one snortle-y girl wearing an ever-changing assortment of bibs for which to dab her faucet-like nose. (Is that gross? I mean, I know that it is, but should I not have mentioned it?) I am keeping it REAL. Tissues are 'spensive and bibs have a never-ending dance into and out of the wash.

It's like a velcroed handkerchief. If I am gross, then so is the pocket handkerchief.

Onwards.

We saw some terrific friends this weekend, ate way too much decadent food, (hosted no less than three other pregnant women!), and watched five kids run amok. And walk amok. And climb amok. My daughter wore a miniature apron (because she was the hostess, obvie), and I completely failed to capture it on film. I mean, really. I took eight videos of her dancing with her shadow and a flipbook's worth of swingset pictures...but a day when my child held and ate entire potatoes and welcomed folks in a frilly apron? Nada.

Also, some of you may be aware of my ever-abiding distaste for the potato. (I dig them in things, but a plain potato undisguised? Blech.) We recently discovered that Nora loves them. Adores them. Eats them whole, like an apple, then points for more.

I'm questioning maternity.

And wondering if this next kiddo could possibly be a little more like his/her dark-haired taco fiend of a mother.

Or healthy. I'd be pleased with "healthy."

Which I'm sure a strict diet of liverwurst and Italian ice will guarantee.

It's Diptictastic.

Folks, it's happened.

The fine folks who brought us the Diptic app have combined two of my greatest loves: documenting my child and not using Photoshop or GIMP.

What's Diptic, you ask? It's a photo manipulation program that lets the user resize, colorize, collage, and border images together. You know, the kind of thing that takes me a good weekend in Photoshop and GIMP. (And the kicker is- I know how to use those programs! Kind of.) Turns out, flicking an image bigger or smaller on one's iPhone or iPad is more my speed. I had a feeling.

My first attempt was nothing to write home about. Unless you're writing home about the cutest toddler, EVER. I pasted and resized two pix of Nora's that I really dug- and was stalling on cropping, editing, etc., for printing out. It took me three minutes on my phone.

Here's what I got: super cute big pic, super cute small pic. Dust bunnies and uneven paint cropped out. Zoom in on that toothy grin. Border it in grey. Brighten it up a tad (and pretend the "natural" light wasn't a rather yellow foyer jobbie.)

Pretty cute, also pretty mug-shotesque.

Next I put a skinny pic of a field (taken by my youngest sister Em- photographer extraordinaire) with a recent photo from our neighborhood playlot park. It was the first really spring-like day in Chicago and we both had a raging case of Spring fever. I like the image of the sunny field against a picture of my daughter, moments before she happily slumped to the ground to rest in a pile of wood chips. Brought out the green in both pix and adjusted the lighting a tad. Gave it the slightest of Spring green borders and ta-da. 

I'm sure people could easily find ways to take more advantage of this software- it's kind of like I borrowed a rocket ship to go to Taco Bell.

There's also a cheap upgrade to more- and customizable- photo layouts, but I dig the six offered ones.  And I cannot stress enough how ridiculously easy this stuff is. I take pictures of Nora all day long on my phone- and now it's cinchy to create a new pic and upload it to Flickr, Facebook or Posterous. 

Word on the street is that one can use it for non-kiddo photos, too.

Like I even know what those are anymore. 

Nora gets on her wee little soapbox.

The wha-?

Okay, we all have an announcement to make over here- there's gonna be another little[r] Schoeny. We're having a baby! In early October, as a matter of fact. (And considering that I'm the only member of this family without a birthday in the month of October, I'm either really special or just a specific type of carrier. Because- without getting too detailed- this was not the planned month. Guess we weren't in charge of this one.)

But I gotta say, on this luckiest of days- I'm acknowledging that I certainly have luck. And also that "luck" can look a goodly bit like food poisoning.

I'm already ten plus weeks in- and had intended to keep it hush for at least another week- but as people are already approaching me on the street with congrats(!) and questions, it was time to 'fess up.

Here's what you've missed.

I've been really, really sick. So I wouldn't exactly say you've "missed" much.

The "morning" sickness began at around four and a half weeks. (My- that's early, I can hear some of you saying. Yup!) I was actually pretty jubilant about it at first. The nurses who took my blood at the first appointment asked if I was having any symptoms. Tons- I told them. But it's great! Because that means it's working! They exchanged a look and wished me well.

I actually lost a few pounds, which, at any other time in my feminine career would have been awesome- but is generally frowned upon when one is attempting to sustain an actual life. Two, really. I suppose I need food for me, too. (But if I remember anything at all about the second trimester besides crying about missing beds and wedged couches in hallways...it's that I'm a pretty good weight-gainer when I wanna be. And I hear my Mexican neighborhood makes a pretty decent taco.)

I had been subsiding on grapefruits, cantaloupes, Triscuits, and lemonade. And that is all. (No scurvy here!) Thanks to two stellar shipments of citrus from my aunt's Arizona lemon and grapefruit trees, my diet needed never change.

Whatever. I'm so utterly stoked about this kid.

And not to worry. This week I've seemed to have turned a culinary corner. It began with a late night confession to Peej that cheese popcorn might be a good idea. Like Smartfood, he wondered? No- less real. More orange. He offered to melt some cheese on top of popcorn, a suggestion that sent me careening to the loo.

Shortly thereafter, a bag of orange popcorn appeared. And it was good.

This paved the way for the truly bizarre suggestion that maybe I wanted liverwurst and mustard. (No you don't, said P.J. You will throw up.) He offered to run out to Jewel and get me some. I demurred, because I didn't want to be a bother. Also, I feared throwing up.

The next morning, during our regularly scheduled grocery run, I begged P.J. to pick up some liverwurst. He did, and eyed me warily as I ATE THREE SANDWICHES. And you know what? It was terrific.

Since then, I've had no less than one liverwurst sandwich a day. Sometimes more. Most recently, I ate it directly from the package with a knife. I feel [like I should have more] shame. Liverwurst, you're my liverbest.

Also, did you know that liverwurst has forty percent of your daily iron?

We've gleefully been re-reading our favorite pregnancy books. Not the stupid ones that tell you how to play with your kid or how many ways your child might die, but superbly cool illustrated play by plays of what the baby looks like each week. And what they're rather busy with at the moment. (Week 10- fingernails and spinal nerves. Keep going, kiddo!!)

My nanny kiddos are stoked beyond belief at the addition of a new ready-made pal. Lily has begun a campaign to name the baby either a) Nora or b) Lillian. This is regardless of whether or not it's a girl.

And I'm pretty sure Nora will be thrilled, once she realizes why Mommy's belly is getting mammoth and the deal with all of these floppy-headed floor naps. Any time she sees a baby- actual or in a picture- she joyfully screams at the top of her lungs: BABY! That, and her penchant for body-slamming her dolls to the floor (with LOVE), clearly shows some stellar Big Sister potential.

Trust me, I should know.

Ranty McRanterson

Okay.

Listen. (And, incidentally, have you ever noticed how people only say "listen" when they're sick and tired of doing so, themselves?)

I'm tired of listening.

The studies and articles about delusional parents and the improbability of parental happiness need to dwindle out, please. It's getting really old.

This study from Time.com, in a nutshell, set out to prove that the more miserable parents were with their daily stress/boredom/noise levels, the happier they pretended to be. Even this one from Slate.com used the idea of chemical dependency in parents' brains to solidify the idea of happiness...but it still kinda missed the point for me.

All of these articles seem desperate to break down this idea that people could happy in their life choices. And really, that's all that parenting is. Not a status symbol, not a necessary milestone, but a job. One that- hopefully- you chose. Because this job, this one I took with a miniature yet noisy boss- would be hellish to someone without the desire to have it.

Because parenting is incredibly hard work. It's a 24/7 gig that requires non-stop stores of patience and energy. But the payoff is incredible. Seeing a kid say, do, or realize something brand new is an exceptional reward- and not just because it reflects on my skills as a Mom, either. The experience of creating a family member and then co-existing with her is something that can't be explained away by momentary levels of adrenaline nor can it be summed up by reactions to simulated stress.

And sure, there are lazy- and lousy- parents out there...but look around you. Aren't at least three of your co-workers playing Farmville right now? Work's what you make of it. (And yes, there are days when I'm a Farmville type of parent. That's why they send those Burger King coupons to you right in the mail.)

I've also been a nanny for close to ten years. And I love that job. I really dig watching these kids grow into fabulous, articulate people with exceptional collaging skills. Now that's a job surrounded by kids all day- am I deluding myself into thinking I'm content with my work there, too? If so, WHO IS ALLOWED TO BELIEVE THEMSELVES HAPPY?

There are so many things in life that people believe to be the height of adventure and excitement- deep sea diving, cliff jumping, eating terrifying foods- none of these are appealing to me in the least. But you won't see me decrying them as a valid way to live one's life, because here's the kicker: WHO CARES? And can you imagine if I wrote a series of articles on how single, childless people are deluding themselves in their supposed happiness and how their frittered away free time is actually a chemical response against boredom? I would be stoned to death. (More importantly- I'd be wrong.)

I could not possibly explain to the general public what I love about having a child, enough so to make you immediately want to adopt or give birth. P.J. and I have realized that the things we love about our little beastie are moments that sound unimpressive in the re-telling. Even between other parents the magic of your kid's hilarity isn't quite captured the same way. And that's just fine, because it's not my job to tell you how much you want kids. Just like it's no one else's job to convince me that I don't.

Am I ever bored? Elated? Tired? Hungry? Sure, but so are singletons, Asians, carpenters, and the obese. Everyone is happy and everyone is sad. And then it'll change in ten minutes and then it'll be the same for a month.

Listen. There's a really simple solution to this one. Don't want a kid? Don't have one. Want a brood of five? Mazel tov.

And take those kids/no kids water skiing, truffle hunting, and to the library. Go to work, drink eight glasses of water a day, and- at 103 years of age- drift away peacefully in your sleep.

Be happy.