Sisters Take Baths.

...Whether they like it or not.

(We like it enough for both of 'em.)

Nora Checks Out Junie B!

Photo: Emerald City Theatre Company

This past weekend we were lucky enough to score tickets for the press opening of Emerald City Theatre's 'Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells,' adapted by Allison Gregory and directed by Jacqueline Stone.

For the uninitiated, Barbara Park's Junie B. Jones is one of those books right now...the kind where kids freak out and love her and know every single misadventure of the spunky first grader.

(For the super uninitiated, Emerald City is one of those theatre companies- really stellar at producing smart, fun, theatre for kids and families.)

Even though, at two, Nora is slightly younger than the show's target demographic, I had a feeling she'd dig it. And she totally did, starting with the pre-show craft. For each Christmas card created by a kid and dropped off in the lobby box, a book will be donated to underprivileged kids. (Nora loved the drawing- we loved the sentiment.)

Giving!

Then, she was stoked to receive her own kids' playbill, complete with a section for character autographs (I'm not kidding, this thing is a phenomenon). My program had a Parent's Guide to further conversations on being generous even when it's tough- like when you pull your mortal enemy's name in the holiday Secret Santa. (Been there.)

Junie B., vivaciously played by Amber Robinson, wants two things: to one-up the blabbermouth May (the hilariously smug Samantha Perry), and to have the holiday shop's squeeze-a-burp toy for herself. (Been there, too!) Antics ensue, lessons are learned, and every square inch of the theater is utilized by the energetic (and spot-on) actors. There's some serious physicality and exceptional prop-work going on here, too.

And lest you think that a kid-captivating show like this would be a snoozefest for adults, rest assured. There were plenty of moments where P.J. and I laughed out loud- perhaps even guffawed- namely a scene concerning Sheldon (Ricky Harris) and his lunch money. And any show that can make you momentarily forget you're holding a two year-old and a six week-old is pretty fabulous children's theatre, indeed.

Serious theatergoer.

Nora was enthralled. P.J. and I were entertained. Suzy...well, she happily snored. (You can't win 'em all.)

***

Junie B. Jones in Jingle Bells, Batman Smells! runs Nov. 17th- Jan. 8th at the Apollo Theatre, located at 2540 N. Lincoln Ave.
Run time is approx. one hour
www.emeraldcitytheatre.com

She's In Real Danger Of Getting Noshed, Here.

Is it so wrong to want to eat another person's face? ...Yes?

Okay, but how about if they have positively Winston Churchillesque cheeks on a newborn's sweet-smelling li'l head? Isn't that an edible juxtaposition? ...Still no?

There is something about this kid's Thousand Yard Stare that makes me feel faintly apologetic for the things I know she knows about me. She's a Very Old Soul. (Maybe a grandmother of mine. Maybe a great. Maybe someone else's- who also knows something about me.)

Making Susannah smile and coo (the precursor to the baby belly-laugh which I know is coming any day now and will undoubtedly break me into a trillion eyeball-poppingly ecstatic pieces) is baby crack to me. Now, I've never really been into any sort of crack...but I imagine it's the kind of thing that, once experienced, you want more of. Immediately. Forever. But especially right now.

I realize it sounds like I am endorsing drugs. But I am not. I am endorsing babies. Specifically mine. (Suzy for mayor!)

Her frown, which usually precedes a full crying jag, gets downright Vaudevillian. Like those neon clown paintings on velvet that you see hanging in friends' parents' basement rec rooms. Except sadder.

Those moments are fleeting. They usually only last until she makes eye contact and realizes that- yet again- she KNOWS you and that things are completely and utterly copacetic.

This is followed by a shy smile and a look so utterly innocent and eager that it makes me want to take a needle directly in the face rather than have her experience a moment of pain in her entire [lengthy] lifetime.

But of course, a life devoid of conflict results in some pretty boring people. (And if there's anything my kids ain't- it's boring.) I want her to have Character. And Self-Sufficiency. (But also Her Mother's Number Forever On Speed Dial...or whatever they call it in the future.)

There's something about a kid like this- both of 'em, in fact- that causes me to stop and realize that every single moment of my life (even the ones that were questionable at the time) have all led up to being with this guy in this town with these sets of circumstances...and have resulted in a smallish human being (lightly scented by apricot oil, at that) kitten-snoring against my collarbone and dreaming of something that makes her teensy heart twitterpate against my rib cage.

And then I realize that I'm doing everything right.

Boycotton 2: The Drawstring Strikes Back

It's fully been a week now of this whole Put On A Pair Of Pants Like You Mean It (And For God's Sake Maybe Comb That Hair), a.k.a. my attempt to not be Mayor McGrubbington.

For a solid week (actually, since last Wednesday- "counting" has never been one of my strongest suits) I've chosen a decent-ish outfit, sans sweatpants or hoodies, and attempted to style my hair and face. And here's what the past week has shown me.

I'm clearly bats**t crazy.

My hypothesis was that getting borderline purty all week would have an effect on my energy levels, my work ethic, and my ever-dwindling sense of self. Which, you know, it may have...if I weren't eyeball-poppingly tired from [being blessed with] a newly newborn from ILikeTheNightlifeVille.

Which explains my previous penchant for sweatpants. It's a vicious cycle.

But I did it. I completed the week. Every morning[ish] I would don my nicest pair of non-maternity pants that are not yet my pre-pregnancy size (it's a smaller pool from which to choose than you might think) and find a terrific shirt upon which to have someone yuke. Sometimes there were earrings. Generally wedding rings. (Occasionally I get dermatitis under one of the bands and- oh, we don't have time for that story right now.) My hair would be done in some mash-up of styles I think are cute right now and hairdos I know were cool back in '92.

I would have a fabulous- and yes, sure, drowsy- day with my two teensaroo daughters and then momentarily high-five my husband before we face-planted in a pile of Frog & Toad stories and tiny socks. In other words, no one really saw this glamorous transformation.

It got all Eleanor Rigby up in here.

My writing work output remained roughly the same, but I think that was less because of Professional Attire and more because of Blinding Terror Of Failure. (Also, I'm pretty sure I have a chapter that consists entirely of the phrase "The thing is..." over and over again. Word count ain't everything, folks.)

P.J. was kind, of course, and made every effort to compliment that day's Look, but he's also been known to insist that I don't need makeup. So, obviously he cannot be trusted.

As for makeup, that may have been the hardest thing about each day. Not so much the "putting it on" in the a.m. But if I have a sec to brush my teeth and change for bed between Suzy's clean plates at the all-night buffet, I want to make the most of it. Having to remove makeup has actually made me yell COME ON into my own reflection. Especially since I have apparentlyfound the most stubbornly water-resistant mascara ever to be created. (I am not a deep sea diver. I might need to think about downgrading the degree of elemental resistance.) But not taking off the makeup is a no-go as well; neither wrinkles nor raccoon eyes are exactly things that add to my overall hope of appearing well-rested. (And productive!)

So I'm back to my cozies today. I admit defeat. I am not ready to rejoin the race of Folks Who Look Awesome On A Daily Basis. (Okay, at best, I was a visitor to their ranks. Maybe a pre-frosh.) I did, however, pick up a new pack of hair combs for which to attempt hair-wranglin'.

And yes, I'm aware that I might be the only person who still uses hair combs. But they [sometimes] work.

They're made by Scunci, whose tagline "Effortless Beauty" is something I can really get behind.

Especially since that's exactly the amount of work I'm willing to put into it. Effortless. No effort.

They should have me as their new spokeswoman. Their tagline's tagline could read: Hey, At Least She Showered!

(Yesterday.)

Effortless Beauty.
(Hey, At Least She Showered!)
(Yesterday.)