This kid is getting way too good at aging.

Tomorrow, Nora Jane turns eighteen months.

(Yes, I still say 18 months- and will continue to- for a little bit longer. But I do temper this response, depending on the audience. If I say anything other than 'a year' or 'almost a year and a half' to my friends without kids, it's invariably met with an eye roll. However, if I omit the exact month when replying to a parent, the question will be asked again, more specifically. Because without the child's exact age, comparisons with their offspring's eating, sleeping, walking and talking habits cannot be compared. This is just a fact of life, people. At least 'til she's two. Then she's TWO.)

Back to N.J.

I can't believe her age. This is something I say way too often, being as I'm with her Every. Single. Day. and know darned well how old she is. But I can't believe it. She was a wee, floppy little infant one second- and a kid the next. Kidesque, anyhow. A kidlet.

In my mind she's this big:

Okay, technically, she's not that much bigger nowadays...but personality-wise, it's the difference between getting nudged by a Tonka and flattened by a Mack. And those differences KILL me and take me out of the moment and make me jump decades into the future and cause me to cry.

(This is why I should never be left to my own devices. Ever. Always equip me with a crossword or book of minute mysteries or something before you leave.)

For instance, Nora doesn't care for meat. At all. In the past, she's been known to fling food with the crossest of looks- as if to say, You are contaminating my plate/tray/line of sight. These days, if I catch her the moment before the mass evacuation occurs, I can usually suggest that she at least try a bite. And you know what? Ninety percent of the time she will. Yes, we'll get an eye roll and an exaggerated swallow (and then a sleight of hand maneuver rendering the offending morsel invisible) but it's a start. Other times P.J. and I will be caught up in dinner conversation and then happen to look over at our kid, glancing around, eating her food, occasionally nodding. It's like she's 20. (A really messy 20, but hey- some of the instances I witnessed firsthand in college...) And sometimes- just sometimes- she seems so adult and content that I almost wish she'd require spoon-feeding and a burp because she's got a mortgage and kids and lives halfway around the world...

I never said it was rational.

The other day, while playing in her room with P.J., she pointed to a toy bag attached to the ceiling.

"I want a puppy."

P.J. goggled at her. "What did you say?!"

Nora, patiently, repeated herself. "I want a puppy."

"A puppy?"

"I see a puppy."

P.J. reached up to the top and handed her a small, stuffed puppy. Nora patted it, thanked her Dad, and said, quite patiently:

"A puppy." (Like, you morons.)

Some of her words are clear as anything. Others (my favorites) are longer and more mangled; strawbeddie, bluebeddie, blackbeddie (we love the beddies), yibbydee (ladybug), (wasplash) water table, and, my personal favorite- NoNoMommyGibadeeNoNo (an indeterminate berating of her toys and books whenever I tell her no).

I really shouldn't be surprised that my child makes up her own words, right?

Nora still dances with her Dad every night after he gets home from work. She likes our mix CDs best and, I kid you not, she does the robot. (I realize I need to get video proof of this.) And it is incredible. She waits for the right song- and it MUST be the right song- to jump into the middle of the living room floor as if clearing it for a dance-off. She holds her body completely rigid. Her little head goes side to side. She brings some shoulder action into it. Then the arms. Then the ankles. The feet come next. That transitions not seamlessly at all into something akin to Kriss Kross' Jump! Jump! P.J. manages to dance with her, but me? I'm on the floor attempting to not pee myself.

Snuggles are a rare currency these days. My attempts to pin her down and cover her with kisses are often met with a shove to the neck and a pained "Mommy."

But every so often, maybe when she's really tired or feeling a little overwhelmed, she'll curl up in my lap with the ever-stinky Doc Bullfrog. Thumb in her mouth, eyes droopy, she'll pat me on the cheek and just chill.

And it'll all I can do to not ruin the moment by chomping on those still ever-so-slightly chubby cheeks and squeezing that protruding little belly. So I content myself with smoothing her [Dad's] crazy hair from her forehead and smelling that sweet scent of her baby skin. Also, peanut butter. Maybe a little goldfish cracker.

Most parents think their kid is the absolute bee's knees. They believe this to be one hundred percent true- but I'm not sure how it's possible. After all, my child eats peas as a reward and tells Scrooge McDuck that he is sad and does the robot.

This is my favorite age, ever.

So let's stick here awhile, shall we?

Please buy me a toy.

I'll admit it.

I got really excited when I was asked to review Ebeanstalk.com's Toys For 2 Year Olds. Sure, Nora's barely a year and a half, but you have to think BIG when it comes to the stuff you'll be Playing. With. All. Day. Every. Day.

In the past, we've been the lucky recipients of Ebeanstalk's stellar Grow And Learn series, which gave us gifts all throughout the first year of her life. Right after she was born, Nora received the sweetest barnyard animal rattle shapes. (The lion even clocked some air miles with us.) The series ended with soft nesting cubes, all featuring the alphabet and adorable pictures- and an accompanying book. (C for Cat and S for Strawberry had to be taken out of rotation for a bit. They were getting tired.)

So yes. The site.

You can just go ahead and get me the first item on the Toys For 2 Year Old Girls page- it's the Forest Fairy Treehouse by Happyland...and yeah, we have a ton of stuff from this company. They're the cutest things ever, you can chew on their faces and they stay intact, and sometimes I even let Nora play with them.

And yes, at first I was all prepared to debate whether or not the Girls page necessarily needed all of the pink and frilly stuff up top, as opposed to the Boys page that featured trucks and car mats and riding stuff. But, I scrolled down to the bottom of the fairly comprehensive list and was pleased to see that those kinda things were there on the Girls page as well. Lime green Rody horses. Dudley Dump Truck (and his pal Bumpity Bump Bernie). The Road Hog trike. Plus a really good assortment of some of my favorite childhood books- with the exception of The Berenstain Bears Learn About Strangers, which really freaks my shizz out.

So then I checked out the Toys For 2 Year Old Boys page...and it's also really awesome. And full of stuff that Nora [I] would like; stacking trains, Rub A Dub Pirate squirters, more Happyland figurines, a garden fruits n' veggies shopping bag (Hey, has someone been following my husband around?), and a few really sweet Calin dolls. And as anyone who has been to my house recently can attest, Calin a.k.a. Baby Dot is an extraordinarily good addition to anyone's home. And she can really take a beating. Okay, that sounds wrong.

Since you- most likely- know your child way better than I do, I recommend checking out both the Boys and Girls pages. Or you can take even more of the guesswork outta your decision by heading straight to the Top Selling Toys For 2 Year Olds page, which has a nice cross-section of all of the aforementioned goodies. You'll definitely find something perfect for your toddler.

Or favorite 30 year-old blogger.

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.

This goes way beyond Mommy Fashion.

Fashion.

During our commute this morning, I handed a book back to Nora and saw that it had been in publication for 25 years. I laughed and said that was crazy, since that was how old I was. Then I paused, realizing that I was indeed that age...plus five years and ten months. Which makes me painfully close to 31. 

I mentioned to Peej that I still felt like I was in my mid-twenties, and if I had to check a box or something, I usually felt pretty jarred to realize that it just wasn't the case. I started to ask him how old he felt in his mind's eye and got as far as "How old do you-"

"38," was his immediate response.

And since he's only 29, I can shoulder some of that rapid aging onto myself. For our lifestyle, our sleep habits, and my incessant need to know what he's thinking about. 

The subject of age has come up a lot lately- twice this week with my sister, in fact. She was lamenting the fact that, whenever she goes into a store, she's either in the tween section or the aged and dusty section. And she's not a big fan of "the skanky jeans" (direct quote) nor, I imagine, is she fond of the oversized cardigan and teensy floral-printed slacks display. So what to do?

Answer: nothing. 

Even stores and brands that promise not to make you look like a fifteen year old...somehow do. Or send you decades in the opposite direction. 

One of my most shocking incidents from mid-twentyhood occurred in the [at the time] new H&M down on Michigan. While I was happily pawing through eclectic and affordable Euro clothing, I was almost bumped into by a group of teenaged girls. 

"Oh my GOD," one of them squealed at her friends. "You almost wandered into the OLD PERSON SECTION."

I stared around in horror. Where?! As a twenty three year-old, I didn't want to be there either! Turns out, it was the whole floor. And I embodied it. Confusingly enough. 

Eventually, I gave up on buying "new" things. So here's what I do now: clothing from college (at one time nearing the spectrum of acceptable fashion, this I promise you) is WORN TO THE GROUND. Also paired with hoodies, grubby shoes (also at one point pretty darned cute), and tie the [unwashed] hair up into a ponytail. Maybe use your toddler's hair clip, if handy and left on the floor for dead. Voila. 

"But Keely," you ask. "Isn't that the epitome of youthful dressing? Wearing actual clothing from one's youth?"

Yes. But while you'll look like a thirteen year-old, you won't be a SEXY thirteen year-old. And that's my point.

My friend Nat and I love to mock those bright yellow bags from Forever 21. Because while, sure, the clothing there is ridiculously affordable and not entirely out of my age range, anything you buy is placed into a neon bag proclaiming you to be FOREVER 21. (Twenty-one 4eva!) This leads the random passerby to believe that indeed, you believe yourself to be twenty-one. Forever. 

I like Nora's method of dressing "her age." Ever since she was in the womb, we've had generous (and impeccably stylish) friends and family load her future closet with clothing so new that P.J. and I are ashamed to touch them with our thrift-store selves. Even more importantly, she stubbornly remains six to nine months behind her current size. That's right, my [almost] one and a half year old rocks the 12 month clothing. (Just barely, and awfully recently.) This means that her current wardrobe will last- oh, for years. (Maybe 4eva!)

THAT is how it's done. 

For the rest of us [me], let's just hope that faded and baggy layers (some of them maternity!) come back into raging style. We'll see who's laughing then. 

It'll be anyone witnessing the 31 year-old (thinking she's a 25 year-old) in positively ragged outfits, carting around a designer princess...

...Getting asked if she's the nanny.