Nora's the coolest and her parents are the laziest.

You’ll have to excuse the tardiness of the blog today (cue Van Halen: I don’t feel tardy…) due to my inability to hold facts, dates, or appointments in my brain or on my phone.

You know when a good time to remember when you’re working the next morning is not? The middle of the night. A good, cold shock of adrenaline really starts the week off correctly. Hence the stellar packing of All Things Nora and the less than ideal packing of All Thing Keely, for example, a fully charged laptop.

But the important trifecta of Doc Bullfrog, a spare diaper, and a cup of milk made into the bag…so what else does one really need? (Besides a nitro tablet for my kickstarted heart.)

Yes. So. The weekend.

We enjoyed the most boring weekend known to man. It was fabulous. The amount of sleep that I got was kinda impressive. (P.J. and Nora? Not so much. But it's really hard to tell the floppy-headed mother figure on the kitchen floor that she CANNOT nap. Physiological terrorism at its finest.)

Nora rode an incredibly miniature tricycle for the first time.  Even though there were no pedals and she wasn't even rolling, she managed to flip over the handlebars and faceplant on the pavement. (She's just like both of her parents already!) Impressively, she laughed. Even more impressively, she tucked her head and shoulders just right. (Not like her parents there at all.)

Motorin'.

Last night also marked the second occasion wherein she used a potty for its intended purpose. Quite by accident, I'm certain (the shock on our faces was eclipsed by the shock on hers), but STILL. Not since college have I been more pleased to know that a toilet was being used.

To celebrate, we built her a castle tent. Okay, fine, we had already bought the tent. (But it's so cool!) And, to give credit where credit is due- her father, he of coupon-clipping, penny-pinching fame, found it on Kids Woot. And informed me that his daughter needed it. Which, once I saw it, I admitted that she really did.

Password?

And last night brought a thunderstorm of monsoon proportions. This, of course, after a grey day that threatened storms but brought nary a drop. It stayed rather dark and in the mid 50s to 60s. Then, as soon as the sun went down, the temp skyrocketed to 76 degrees. So, of course we went out into the backyard and enjoyed the peace and quiet of our bench...with sirens, irate neighbors, and traffic. (I closed my eyes and pretended they were waves on the shoreline. Really noisy, irate waves.)

And then the rain came. But no worries, by then we were safely ensconced in bed and watching Mad About You, season 2 on Netflix. (Anyone who tells you that marriage isn't awesome is a terrible, rotten liar.) And we got to see the sideways rain and pelting branches from the safety of our [closed] windows. Neighborhood Watch goes tropical!

The past couple of days also included a French farce (on Netflix) and an hour of radio (on NPR.) Sometimes it's nice to just consume all of your monthly media in one weekend. (I haven't even included the flicks that P.J. watched a) before Nora and I awoke, b) while he was waiting for me to watch our real movie, and c) that I boycotted but he viewed anyhow while Nora napped.)

I think we can see who has the real problem.

And it's not the girl who marathons episodes of Ghost Adventures.

There's no problem there.

And Another Thing...

Spinning some Slayer.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day.

And I am not playing any tricks, nor am I currently accepting applications for tricks to be played upon me. In fact, heads will roll. Real ones. (Not pretend, April-Foolery ones.)

Last year I convinced my family that, while caring for a five month-old, I was ecstatic to announce a new pregnancy. (Ha HAH!) And, if you'll recall, my sister Em- having not the TIME to read down to the bottom of the email- believed this to be the case for a good week.

But somehow, it's just not quite so chuckly anymore. No fake announcements. No ice cubes in shoes. No spiders, dead or otherwise, anywhere in the vicinity of my face or anywhere my face may be tomorrow.

Have you ever seen a [me] pregnant woman cry? Imagine Ugly Cry times Frightened Cry times Frustration Cry times a thousand. And toss in some extra hormones and a few more pounds. Minus a little sleep and anything that could pass for a normal level of internal balance.

You've been warned.

Now, onto The News.

Have you heard the newest Britney Spears song? It. Is. Awful. And not just because I'm *cough30cough* getting a little older, and not even because she has never (ever) been my type of jam. (Mmm, jam.)

It was "penned" by the train-wreckiest gal of them all, Ke$ha.

Give it a li'l listen.

Here's my biggest problem with it: Britney's people spent a good decade trying to convince the world that she's Not A Girl (Not Yet A Woman,) Not So Innocent, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Now it's all like- Hey, I'm a seven year-old girl. Let's modulate my voice into an even younger sound! While we're at it, let's toss in some vaguely threatening sexual lyrics aimed at, to the best of my knowledge, the DJ. (And not to be super judgey, but did we really need another song about a DJ not understanding your need to get out on the floor and, you know, dance like you've been needing to do all day? I'm pretty sure the DJ gets paid hourly. He WILL spin some tunes.)

From the lack of crazy tabloid exposure, I'm gonna assume that Ms. Spears has it together with her kids (no more soda in baby bottles, etc.,) and is by all accounts A Woman. Would it kill her to sound like a grownup, musically?

Granted, my standards are pretty high. My favorite female singer of all time is Etta James (and a close second is my sister, Rachel.) I was a little kid during the height of arena rock, but I learned pretty quickly that Lita Ford was no one's little girl. And the only reason Joan Jett wanted a certain song to play was because she was gonna seduce the heck out of seventeen year-old boy leaning against a jukebox. And Pat Benatar? She could've transitioned from "We Belong" to an "Aida" aria without blinking. (In fact, you EXPECTED her to.)

Okay, no more soapbox. I'll stop waving my cane at the youngsters.

Nora wants to go hear some Tori Amos, anyhow.

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

Does Mickey D's deliver?

Poor abandoned kid, living in a milk crate.

First things first: happiest of birthdays to one of my oldest pals (in years of closeness, that is, not oldest-living-friend.) We love you, Auntie Jen! Test the waters o' 31 for me, I'll be there in a couple of months.

Now. For the serious news.

P.J. has left me.

For four days.

And it's...weird. Quite weird. At first, I panicked. You mean I hafta do all of this alone? Feed and bathe and entertain Nora, not to mention single-handedly bulldoze the trails of trolls and miniature bears?

What about dinner?

Who was gonna set the alarm?

What if THE TRASH CAN GOT FULL?

This fear kept me paralyzed for a good...fifteen minutes into Wednesday morning. Then it hit me. What the heck do I do on Wednesdays with P.J., anyhow? Basically, my daily routine wouldn't change until dinner- which, coincidentally, is my dealie anyway- and bath would be a solo affair. Well, kinda. And sure, meal cleanup would be on me, as would the bulldozing and toddler-wrangling...

...But as P.J. pointed out, I use less dishes than him. I'd probably get a little too used to how clean the house remained. And I certainly wouldn't have any gigantic clothing to wash (why are men's clothing so ridiculously heavy in the washer and dryer? Give me a baby's onesie any day).

This did not stop me from starting a load of laundry at 7am- not my "normal" time. (I usually only do laundry under duress. Like when all the hampers are busting at the sides. Or when Nora is wearing a sundress in March.) I was so impressed at my impressiveness that I did another load. And all of the hand-washing (which had been hanging out for way too long *coughOctobercough*). I scoured the kitchen immediately after Nora had had her breakfast- instead of whining about it right before lunch. I even made breakfast for myself- and ATE it!

It felt like I was going for a medal, like someone was gonna step in and congratulate me on that day for all of the things I do on a normal morning. And, frankly, that I often do for other families during the weekdays. (But- her husband is traveling, the amazed spectators shouted. And she even refilled the cats' water bowls before they died of thirst!)

I have friends whose husbands travel for work- a lot. And friends with husbands overseas (which brings its own share of awfulness). I've seen how hard that can be. And this isn't that. This isn't hard. It's just...weird.

It's like the absence of my husband makes all of the things I do- without a second glance or thought- seem like Playing House. Each action seems deliberate and with an air of seriousness.

I flossed my teeth this morning. Because the house was clean and the laundry put away and it seemed like something grownup and "in charge" to do.

My sister put it to me best when she said that these are the things you do when you realize there's NO backup coming. No cavalry. And I think she's right. Tasks I would've saved for after Nora fell asleep when it would be "easier" are just sorta being done. (Purposefully, as if for an audience, but DONE nonetheless.)

I do not, however, enjoy falling asleep without P.J. Sure, it happens all the time, but that's usually because he's face down in some couch laundry, working late at his laptop, or Netflixing a war epic that I'd really hate. But he generally comes up to bed sooner or later. After taking out the trash and setting the alarm and [inexplicably] shutting off the hall night light. (Hey! Some of us need that light for multiple bathroom trips. No names, but maybe that same person just saw a particularly creepy episode of Ghost Adventures.)

And it's the oddest thing. But when he's not sleeping next to me, my body somehow knows. When he IS there, I sleep through the night and miss the early peeps from our daughter's baby monitor. When he isn't? I wake up every fifteen minutes and smack his pillow. (Perhaps it's best that he's not there.) Most irritatingly of all, each of these wake-ups ensures another potty break. So that's fun.

If he must travel (and since he's already left it looks like he just might) I'll be a big girl and set the alarm by myself. And maybe- just maybe- take out the trash. Yeah, sure, there might be a light left on upstairs...but that's just smart. And I'll do my darndest to not consume any beverages after 6pm...and I'll try to sleep soundly through the night.

But the first weird noise gets a Louisville Slugger to the face first, questions second.


And if they seem innocuous enough, they can take out the recycling.