This Is How I Nest.

Mama, please stop being a Nut.

Just shy of six weeks until this kiddo makes his or her Monkey debut. Sounds like a ton of time, right? Sure, if you're a sane being.

Which- in all fairness- I must not have been to get pregnant so soon after my daughter's first birthday knowing full well that the end of this pregnancy would align with multiple heat waves. But that's nothin' compared to my recent jaunts from reality.

Last night, right before said daughter's bedtime, I implored my tolerant Peej to bring some gender-neutral newborn clothes out from the storage area over the stairs. While he was there, I inquired about the bassinet. (IT NEEDS TO AIR OUT, PEOPLE.) Also, the BundleMes and winter blankets. Because- sure- it may be really warm now...but what the heck will I do when the cold snap hits and I've got abdominal stitches? (Who's laughing now? Probably...all of you.)

And then once the clothing was safely accessible down in our laundry room, I gently requested that he move the tall dresser from the new baby's room up to Nora's room. And maybe- just maybe- he could move her dresser to the nursery?

There is logic to this, I swear. The new dresser is way bigger, and Nora has a killer [hand me down and gifted] wardrobe that cannot be confined to a regular ol' dresser. Besides, her closet is rather eh in terms of space...whereas the baby's room features a tricked-out closet into which we could place an easy chair. If we were so inclined. Probably wouldn't shock anyone at this point. (Least of all my husband.)

I would have left me years ago.

The level of cleaning going on in this house would lead one to believe that a visiting dignitary will be boarding with us this Fall- and not a squinty baby who will (if I'm lucky) be able to barely make out my features.

And I've been cooking with a vendetta. Last night I made my Tomato Thief of a daughter some garden Roma tomato gazpacho with sweet peppers...so that she'll always remember how much I loved her. Same with P.J.'s daily sandwiches (with included "love" note, thankyouverymuch- okay, sometimes they're just random observations, but I try to create them on something resembling a heart).

I'm not entirely sure where it is I think I'm going, but I've made sure that my family is well fed.

My photo albums are almost up to date. Because can you imagine the horror if I gave birth and no one at my house could easily locate the pictures from Thanksgiving '08? CAN YOU?

And just yesterday the fabulous Peej gave me a gift to actually help the nesting along- a Groupon for a closet makeover. That's right, the haphazard jobbie that I threw together whilst nesting for Nora can finally be put to rights; the plank of wood that I staple-gunned to the ceiling for a shelf, the one foot hanging bar propped up by a bookshelf and a dresser, the shoe rack nailed into the wall...it'll almost be like it never happened.

I am stupidly excited about this.

Because sometimes- to truly nest- you've gotta call in the pros.

It is STILL summer, goshdarnit!

And Now...We Sleep.

There is so much. There is always so much. Will you remind me of this in the dark days of early Chicago March when I want to chew my own face off with stir-craziness/no one returns my phone calls? (I had never previously believed those two items to be related. I now see the error of my ways.)

The last handful of days can be broken down into three very specific events:

We're not leaving, are we?

End O' The Cape (For Me, For Now).
It was hard to leave the mammoth vacation "cottage," the pre-made coffee (and brekkie) in the kitchen, the eighty extra sets of hands to tend to Nora/unwedge me from clearly too-low beach chairs, and all the nightly games- even if there were multiple cheaters. (Cheaters!)

It was extra super-duper hard to leave the beach where I played as a kid. Especially since the water was so warm and the waves were so gentle and and and...

Nora felt much the same. She thoroughly enjoyed what she termed "potato chip" waves. Meaning they were salty. Meaning she digs salt. Shocking.

I feel secure, however, in the knowledge that P.J. knows exactly what type of property (and things to fill said property) he needs to procure within the next- oh, five years to make me completely happy. I'm not pushy. I can wait.

Then, since Schoenys do not believe in dead air, that brings us to:

The Yard Sale To End All Yard Sales (Please).

This was Nora's way of helping.

In which, despite crazy planning (on my part) and crazy manpower (on Kate and P.J.'s), we made a WHOPPING TEN DOLLARS. But Keely- you ask- wasn't the fee to participate in the neighborhood yard sale that exact same amount? T'was. I suppose the ten dollars went towards the three red balloons that popped in the sun (an hour into the sale- AUSPICIOUS) and bus fare to keep people out of our 'hood. That's only a guess. I even Craigslisted the sale, but somehow even the mention of all of our interior doors for sale didn't entice. (Whatever, yard sale losers- they are awesome doors.) And even the rock bottom price of ten cents for any single thing (or a bag full) didn't draw the crowds. For there were no crowds. None. We had a few folks walk by and scoff at our perfectly nice items that we really didn't want. I almost yelled at someone that I was sorry I couldn't offer him money to take my things. But I didn't. That would be bad for business. I'm just kidding- there was no business.

Guess what, Salvation Army? Happy birthday. Enjoy your espresso grinder and bag of shoes.

Bringing us to...

Tomato thief.

Lyle Lovett Plays At Ravinia For Keely.
We had missed the show for the past two years- the first being when I was pregnant with Nora and had inexplicably passed out in slumber on the kitchen floor an hour before we were supposed to leave, and last year when he played at the Morton Arboretum. And besides ticket and parking prices, we were expected to buy a day pass to the Arboretum. And drive for like eleventy billion years. Nosankyou.

But this year, flush with our yard sale pennies, we took Nora and enough food and activities to start a camp for hungry toddlers with attention disorders.

On the way we got to say an all-too-brief hello to Molly n' Lucas n' Peyton, a lovely fam for whom I used to nanny. (I started with Luke when he was two weeks old and now he's starting second grade, making me... about twenty three years old. Yes.)

And there are few things as lovely as sitting with one's fam on a cool summer night, surrounded by lilting music and too much food, snuggling with a crazy tomato-fiend of a toddler and a really cute husband pretending to pretend to sleep for the benefit of said daughter (but sneaking in an actual muffled snore here and there). And when you add in the visual of that toddler feeding herself cookies off of the nose of a Beanie Bear (and then tucking herself into bed under the low picnic table) and later dancing with one's husband (complete with toddler in backpack) to the final encore under a starry sky...well, that adds up to one pretty decent life you've got goin'.

Even if no one wants my darned Kenneth Cole messenger bag.

Just Beachy.

I am still on vacation. And it is great. Despite monsoon-like rainstorms for the first two days and near frozen bedroom conditions (due to a super eager a/c system and more than one family member with a predilection towards extreme body temps), we've had a stellar time. And so have my Mom and Dad and sister and her husband and their three kids and my sister and her boyfriend and her friend and my sister and her friend (and various day trips) and my mother-in-law and my husband's cousin and her daughter and my Dad's brother and his son and my sister's godfather and some family friends and some other family friends and lots n' lots n' lots of food.

But since I care about everyone, I won't make you all wait to hear about my most embarrassing of moments until after I've returned home to Chicago. Oh no, I will list two of them here.

Twice today I've had to be bodily helped out of my beach chair. This is because, in order to soak up as much of the elusive sun as is humanly possible, I've repeatedly positioned my chair (in the waves) towards the actual sun. For much of the day, this meant I was facing backwards, leaning into the actual, sloping sea. And wet sand- as it is wont to do- grabs ahold of flimsy beach chairs and sucks them downwards. And backwards. Couple that with very little abdominal strength (and a center of balance that is questionable at best) and you've got the makings for some pretty decent slapstick.

That visual not enough for you? How about me, curled in a fetal position, atop an inner tube and under a [baby's] beach umbrella, (with a towel rolled up to support my belly on the sand), sleeping with an open mouth and burning tops of toes? Throw in my red gingham maternity suit and I am a CAUTIONARY TALE to promiscuous teens everywhere. Or, more specifically, on the beach of Gray Gables.

And on that note- some pictures.

Seafood and faux hawks.

Safety first. Always stay close to shore.

That's right.

Sure, I'll try a Newton.

Come ON, Nora.