Eight weeks! Also, Christmas Eve! Also, naptime.

Being home is fun.

Take, for instance, the bonding, the "face time" that you get when sitting next to your big sister, also updating her blog. On warring laptops. It's this kind of togetherness that warms the cockles of my heart. So does her blog. [ www.grant-wishes.com ] Also, what's a cockle? Is it like a ventricle? Do those need warming? Discuss.

So. New England. The holidays. The holiday TRAVEL. The holiday travel over-packing. Why does Nora need her own full size suitcase? She barely has hands, does she really need multiple mittens? Let alone four different blankets? (Nap, bedtime, travel and play? Okay, fine. Yes.) I was worried about taking her through the airport and the crazy amount of time it would take to prove that she was under the age of two (an actual airline concern) and that she wasn't concealing anything under her pointy elf hat.

However, from the moment we stepped outta the car for curbside check-in to the moment we got to the gate: 25 minutes. And for all of the hilarious moments I was PLANNING to blog about concerning a traveling infant? They never occurred. Smooth sailing. (Damn you, Midway efficiency!) When we got to the airport, I expected a madcap scramble to check the bags. Nope. There were five people in line ahead of me and they oohed over Nora's Santa hat (as planned- never underestimate the benevolence that holiday-esque newborns evoke.) P.J. had to park the car, leaving me with Nora in a sling, a carry-on bag, and a piece of luggage in each hand. Something hilarious HAS to happen here, right? A skycap took my bags and wished Nora a happy and safe flight. Hmm.

Tickets in hand, we got into the Family & Medical security line (this hurt my soul, personally. I have been an Expert Traveler for as long as the term has existed.) I planned on hanging out, screaming child stuck to me, for at least three hours. Five minutes later, I removed my boots and carried a sleeping baby through security. (I DID have to remove her from her sling and they DID have to squeeze the tip of her hat- I removed the baby sized derringer moments before.)

Carried her to the gate, preparing for a crushing crowd of irate travelers. I was guided to a comfy seat and was soon regaled by VICTORIAN CAROLERS. They called Nora "darling" and "so Christmassy." They were correct.

The flight was delayed, due to the lateness of our flight crew. Okay, NOW it was gonna get ugly, right? An hour later, Nora was still sleeping and the arriving flight crew was APPLAUDED. We boarded in the family section (Group A and half, baby!) and settled into the easiest, quietest flight in the history of Southwest Airlines.

That'll teach me to travel during the holidays.

And now, a slice of Christmas Eve afternoon in the Flynn household of Pittsfield, Massachusetts:

Emily and P.J. walk back into the house from running errands in my mother's car. Emily informs my mother that Peej filled the tank on the way home.

"He didn't have to do that," my mother exclaims, full of Christmas spirit towards her second son-in-law.

"The light was on," Emily says.

"Oh. I guess maybe he did."

Laughter abounds in the living room, and a few chuckles are heard in the kitchen as well.

"Don't put that in the blog," my mother scolds me.

Rachel dances into the room, singing 'Police Navidad.' P.J. hands me a Ritter Sport candy bar, under the guise of getting me a treat at Target. He's just biding his time until he can gracefully steal it back. Emily is eating something unidentifiable and commenting harshly on reality television. I think my Mom just asked if something was Rachel's "personal seltzer." It may have been seltzer. There's a very good chance that "Chasing Liberty" will be played for the second time in 24 hours. Nope. It's "White House Christmas." Much more holiday-appropriate. Kate is still blogging her "daily updates." She's up to December 21st. My daughter is sleeping in my mother's arms- my mother asked if kissing Nora would wake her. Yes. She kisses her anyhow. (The baby has recently been bathed. This is powerfully magnetic.) Tom has walked through twice in his runner's tights. He doesn't like when we call them tights. Em just said something unrepeatable about a Christmas tree on TV. Quinn and Cole are still sleeping upstairs, after an hour long battle with their beds, each other, and Auntie Rachel (the turning point- "Auntie Rachel, I like your nose.")

"Don't put the thing about gas in there. I mean it."

And tonight we put out our first presents from Santa Claus, ever. Does this mean that I'm officially an adult? Or just Santa?

Nora has been so good and we can't wait to spoil her with presents.

Hint- One's a large stuffed otter.

As three-year old Jack tells me- "Sleep in heavenly peas. Like the kind in your macaroni."

(Merry Christmas!)

Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl? Yeah, she digs that one, too.

How on Earth has it been seven weeks since Nora arrived and filled my dryer with hundreds of miniature pastel socks? (They're printed with Mary-Janes on the toes- she has about fifteen different colors, quite a feat. HAH.)

Other big changes: our upstairs is now outfitted with a cool mist humidifier (no one ever gave a damn about MY nose in the winter!), various play areas in brightly contrasting hues are present on each floor (okay, only half are Nora-specific), and P.J. now consistently drives in the righthand lane.

This was especially amusing given our drive to Cincy this past weekend- Nora's first roadtrip! Now. I love her Dad more than anything. (Except maybe Nora. And Scott Bakula. These are givens.) But, in the oh-so-recent past, stopping at rest areas was a VERY SERIOUS DECISION. ("Do you HAVE to pee?" "Yes." "Can you hold it for thirty more exits?" "No.") And I was allowed one- ONE- pee break in Indiana, perhaps two if gas was really cheap at the Flying J before the Ohio state line. I accepted this. We had to 'make good time.' I'm not sure why- we weren't being timed or anything, and most of the people we were arriving to see would undoubtedly be asleep anyhow- but it was clearly a strong point with P.J. so I let it go. He's proven uber-effective in other areas (coupons, hairball prevention, turning off lights even before you've fully left the room) so maybe he was on to something.

TURNS OUT, maybe he just didn't love me enough. For. Nora slept most of the way down to Ohio and we prided ourselves on being stellar parents. But she woke up. And we had half an hour left to go. P.J. pulled over in a rest area (we only ever stop at places with a decent Wendy's) and suggested I get in the back with her.

"She's lonely."

I must have looked stunned, because he then suggested that perhaps I should drive and he'd sit in back with her. The only way P.J.'s not in the driver seat is if he's tied up in the trunk. So I sat in the back. P.J. was still stressed, but I think that 'making good time' was the farthest thing from his mind. On the way home she hardly slept AT ALL, alternating between making the saddest faces out the window and screaming like her toes had been chopped off. WE STOPPED FOUR TIMES.

I will let that sink in.

Nora loves loud music and drifts off happily when we sing and dance with her- the latter wasn't an option, but we sure tried the first. We frantically searched our iTunes library for anything that seemed to make Principesa PurpleFace happy. She quieted down when Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do' came on (yup) so we sang our hearts out- in exceptional two part harmony, no less- and she dozed off for twenty minutes. Sadly, this is not a Nora-specific occurrence.

The weekend itself was great. Two of Nora's cousins were being baptized and we dug hanging out with seven of Peej's sibs and six of the kiddos. Nora had a look of permanently wide-eyed bafflement. (And she didn't touch the ground for 48 hours. No one loves the bebe.) I did, however, qualify for a Worst Mom award when I almost offed my daughter in a Catholic church.

Yep.

During the baptism, Nora was sleeping soundly in her carseat. I placed her sideways on a pew and sat next to her, watching P.J. wrangle his adorable godson Boden two pews up from us. Ten minutes later, OUT OF NOWHERE, Nora's carseat fell to the side. I immediately shot a hand out and steadied it (and, truthfully, the seat in front of us would have caught her before she even made a 45 degree dip- it's a huge carseat.) She didn't even wake up. HOWEVER, it was a silent moment in the ceremony and the tilting seat made such a God-awful clatter that it made everyone turn, mouths agape, to stare at the bad mother. I joked that I was gonna keep her in her carseat until she was 12.

No one laughed.

(Confidential to my Mom- Yes, I know. I usually don't. No. Of course I do! She was fine. Yes. MOM. I HAD HER. I promise. I agree. Okay.)

Earlier this week Nora was in the running for a Worst Daughter award- well, to be fair, only for about five minutes. I had my six-week checkup and took her to the doctor's office- I don't trust nannies- and she slept really well for most of the visit. However, since they had me waiting in the exam room for almost thirty minutes, she eventually stirred. And then eventually wailed. And as I was clad in a "sheet," which is code for "large paper towel," I was powerless to do much except rock her stroller one-handed and murmur useless phrases. It didn't work. So. I got down from the table and attempted to soothe my kiddo whilst gripping a largish piece of paper around myself. Can you guess when the doctor arrived? Sure, this is a guy who, mere months ago, held my stomach and spleen in his hands. But still. You've gotta have standards. I currently do not, but I wish to.

And I think Nora has finally acquired a nickname with sticking power, given to her by one of my nanny fam kiddos. Three year old Jack was looking at Nora with adoration, gently playing with her feet, and said, "She's so pretty...she looks just like Gordon."

You know, Gordon? Tall, bald, black man from Sesame Street? Shiny head? Yes. As it was said with such admiration I couldn't help but feel proud. (Gordon's kinda awesome.) And besides, Jack pointed to his fluffy-haired baby bro a moment later and referred to him as "Big Bird."

At least she's not Slimey.

Nighttime isn't for sleeping! It's for rockin' the party.

I fear I've become...bland. Don't get me wrong, I totally and fully dig my current life, but I worry that my "adventures" have become a little PG to those of my pals sans kiddos. I will strive to be racier.

Let's try it out.

This past weekend...we bought our Christmas tree. (Sigh. Oh well.) We quite possibly spent waaay too long debating the merits of Balsam vs. Frasier Fir. Couldn't tell you what they are NOW, but at the time it was as crucial as the paint choice for the kitchen walls. (Victorian pearl- turned out to be the wrong decision, but not so with the Frasier Fir. Fragrant as a wooded...woodland.) The guy tied it to our car and we drove it home. This beats out last year's trek by 2000%, as LAST year we got to walk our tree from Ashland to Oakley. Eight blocks. In the frozey, biting wind and snow. (Kinda like today!) I even got the heavier end of the tree- not sure how that worked out, but I certainly wasn't silent about it. For eight blocks.

This year's journey was nicer. Plus, Nora got to witness her Dad turning trees around and guesstimating "fullness" and "freshness." I'm sure he made up half of the things he noted, but it's my job as a wife to nod solemnly and appreciate. (Heck, *I* don't want to hafta lug the tree around and inspect low branches.) And by "witness," I mean that Nora slept the whole time. Oh well. Fresh, piney air counts for something, even if she's bundled, swaddled and layered within an inch of her life. She seriously looked like a miniature, turquoise Stay-Puft Man.

Later on we went downtown to the Christkindlmarket for some mulled wine in a boot. (See? Drinking! That's...PG-13.) The boot is green this year, for those of you who collect them in pairs and line them on your countertop like some sort of home for wayward elven footwear. Anyone? Annie- lookin' at you. (And...at myself.) P.J. got to enjoy firsthand the feelings of imminent danger when taking Nora out of doors. Walking in the Loop we realized (yet again) that ANYTHING could happen. Weather, building materials, errant elbows...and boy, did P.J.'s 'tude towards the outing show it. Bundled (once again) up to to her forehead and strapped to P.J.'s chest in an "active back" Baby Bjorn (like he's gonna go spelunking), P.J. kept his arms around Nora in a boxing-out position with his eyeballs perhaps TOO alert.

"Having a good time?" Annie and I asked Peej.

"Yes."

So I had a second boot o' wine. And it was glorious. I also bought Nora a miniature blown-glass giraffe the size of her pinky nail (thank God- she was hurting in that department) and later saved the day when a blown-glass fishie went careening through the air, sent there by some member of a huge touristy family. Tourists. Yeah, I found the fish, (contemplated keeping it- briefly- decided it wasn't the right colors) and returned it to the table. 'Tis the season.

The next night I went to a re-gifting party, hosted by one Miss Kat (and copious amounts of smallish foodstuffs- they were so terrific they deserve second billing) where we each brought five items we no longer needed or wanted and swapped them for the other gals' castoffs o' awesome. It. Was. Great. We bargained, cajoled and swiped items that, were they not in the pile (and were we not imbibing) we would have raised eyebrows at them and thanked the gifter with what Kat calls "the office laugh." HAHaha.

I swear I am not a wino.

And that brings us to this week. Nora and I have fallen into a routine of wearing our pajamas and smiling at each other a lot. One of us digs being worn in a sling, napping in twenty minute increments with one eye open...in case something good happens. (I keep telling her that I'd WAKE her in that scenario, but apparently she doesn't believe me.) If I want her to really, really have a nap, sometimes I have to lie down with her. Which, come to think of it, is probably what she wants anyhow. And, to be completely honest, when I'm snuggled on a couch, bed or floor with Nora, I have a moment of thinking- What the heck was I doing that was better than this? Answer- probably nothing. At least, not since I was Nora's age and was snuggled on the floor by someone. Most likely one of my parents. If I had to guess.

(Side note- during yesterday's nap, Nora let out her first real belly laugh. It was the best and funniest sound ever. Sadly, since she had been in such a deep sleep it FREAKED THE HECK OUTTA HER. This caused a terror-filled rage cry that freaked ME the heck out. This jolt on my part caused full-body hiccups on Nora's part. This led to a gastrointestinal explosion (for Nora) that made her diaper give up. It was an intense fifteen seconds.)

Last night Peej and I had our first real date night since having the kiddo. Sure, Nora was there, but more importantly- two dollar tacos were there. And margaritas! (Fine. I drink, okay?) Nora slept through the date while we discussed an article about Facebook friendships...which led to discussions on...our Facebook friends. We also talked about the tacos and margaritas! It was just like the old days.

And that leads to...today. Nora ended up in bed with us again early this a.m., so I awoke to a wide-eyed, toothlessly grinning face inches from my own. Nora was there, too. (Oh, I kid. P.J. has plenty of teeth.) There are few better things in life than waking up next to someone who is stoked beyond belief to see you. I thought I had this kind of relationship with my husband. I was clearly wrong. No one loves me more than my daughter. It's like cocker spaniel love x a trillion and two. With smiles.

That said, I desperately needed her to nap- a real nap- this morning so that I could finish up a bunch of projects before this weekend. We're off to Cincy tomorrow for family time and a couple of baptisms, so I needed to pack for both of us as well as get all things Christmas done. And perhaps take a shower. SO. The moment she started looking droopy-eyed I rushed downstairs and started her swing. Singing to her and swaying, I attempted to match the swing's rhythm in order to do some sort of Double Dutch jumpin' in handoff to a piece of equipment. Now, anyone who knew me between the years of '80-'92 knows that I am simply wretched at Double Dutch. So it took a few tries. But it took!

Once she was asleep I stood in the living room for, oh, five full minutes staring around blankly. Then I hopped into action, pulling out enough outfits for Nora for a good month and a half (maybe I should pack her a steamer trunk? How many onesies are required for two days?) and laid out possible choices for her to "try on" later. This should be fun. Have you ever tried to wrangle the arms of a squirmy, yelling, angry kitten? No? I highly recommend.

Then- I had to decide what to pack for myself. I included a case of Kleenex for all of the tears. Turns out, at six weeks postpartum, NOTHING fits. My preggo clothes looking vaguely muu muu-ish and my pre-preg clothes make me look a little bit like a hoochie. I don't THINK I was that kinda girl before I had a kid- but let's be honest. Hips don't lie. (As of right now, all I've packed are some socks and a nursing bra. I AM a hoochie!)

As Nora was still sleeping, I gave into the glorious luxury of a shower. Sadly, once I was IN the shower I realized that I had intended to dye my hair before heading out to a big gathering of Schoenys (yep- I dye my hair sometimes. Let's just keep that between you, me and Lady Clairol, shall we?) and, as everyone knows, you need DRY hair for this. Hopped out of the shower. Cleaned the kitchen. Did some laundry. Finished the Christmas cards. Waited for hair to dry. (Yes, I realize I could've used a hair dryer, but as someone who doesn't even get to "do" her hair for a nice occasion these days, I'm certainly not gonna waste a beautifying ritual right before I wash my head once again. It made sense at the time.) So. I mixed the hair dye, began to lather it into my hair- admittedly, not as precisely as I've done in the past- and Nora began to wail. I raced downstairs, chemicals singeing my eyes, and soothed her back to sleep WITHOUT touching her nor letting the fumes anywhere in the vicinity of her swing. I'm sure the confusion alone put her back to sleep. (Please don't take my baby away from me.) In fact, the first part of this post was typed with my hair quite gooped-up, wearing a towel and sweats, finishing a cold cup of coffee and lurching towards the stairs every time Nora snorts in her sleep. My MY how things have changed around here.

And to think, when P.J. and I were newly in love, I'd fall asleep wearing makeup so he'd believe I was always stunning in the mornings. It worked! It got me ALL THIS.

It might be the post-preg hormones, but I still feel pretty lucky.

Or it could be the cold coffee.

Or, just maybe, it might be the knowledge that in a few moments, a gal who thinks I'm better than McGyver will wake up and want to hang out.

Five weeks! I'm thinking 'ice cream cake.'

Last week, we saw our heroine attempting to baste a turkey, clean a house, soothe a newborn and prepare for partygoers. Did she succeed? (You bet your sweet mushroom gravy she did.)

The key? Help. LOTS o' help. A task-oriented dude, for one. Really, really good friends bearing yum dishes. Showering also gives a nice li'l bit of pep. Also- a baby who decides to prolong her morning nap for three hours. Nora Schoeny for the win!

P.J. and I had a moment over a carved turkey whereupon we contemplated our first housewarmyesque party, the newborn plastered to me in a sling and the big ol' MAN OF THE HOUSE carving knife in P.J.'s hand. People seem to think we know what we're doing, we mused. We laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

Black Friday was another first for me, as we found ourselves torn between "We'd be crazy to go out in that madness' and 'Five dollar sales at Old Navy!' So, we drove around for a few hours and took turns hopping in and out of the car, the shopper armed with a cell-phone and detailed list, and the carbound party remaining with a snoozing Nora Jane. (Take HER into a crammed store? I may be slightly nuts but I'm not STUPID. The number of times I got shoved and sneezed upon? I sorta wished for one of those HazMat showers every time I returned.) But, oh- the deals!

We continued our Friday night tradition of watching The Soup- you know, pop culture without that pesky TV immersion or hours wasted? We dig having inside jokes about shows WE'VE NEVER WATCHED (nor ever would), and instead enjoy following the mock-commentary each week about characters and reality stars that we wouldn't recognize, were they to show up on our doorstep. (Talk about needing a HazMat shower.)

My disdain of reality television does not in any way shake my deep and abiding love for my "programs," mind you. I am currently mourning that I can no longer watch five episodes (or more!) of The Office each day. Maybe they can make it a daily occurrence? Weekly episodes don't really fill my need. But don't pity me. P.J. has queued up entire seasons of 30 Rock and Lost for me- although that last one might take a bit more persuasion. I have a 'Lord of the Flies' thing. It's akin to the scene in So I Married An Axe Murderer, where Mike Myers has an 'earwig thing.'

But way more traumatic.

Kat came over last night and introduced me to a fabulous British web series called "Green Wing." I highly recommend it. But only if your sense of humor is superior and you enjoy your zany comedy whip-smart. Only then. (Optional, however, is the added layer of bouncing a fusserpot baby every ten minutes and asking, "What did he say? Oh, that's hilarious!" It's the anti-Dolby experience.)

Before you fear for my rotting mind, let me assure you- I'm still reading (one-handed), staving off dementia with crossword puzzles and Scrabble matches, and even managing to return emails and update the blog (one-handed, once-weekly)...so I'm fine. Really. Television is not a problem.

(It's the solution!)

*******

Confidential to PJS: My daughter and I truly appreciated your late-night reading and apologize if our open mouths and thrown back heads indicated anything but rapt enjoyment. Perhaps your voice is too soothing? (When I awoke an hour later, I saw that you, too, had fallen victim to your own powers with a similar sleeping posture.) Please do not let this dissuade you from such ventures: Vonnegut makes us chuckle in a different (and entirely welcome) manner than E! programming.

The turkey innards need to come outtards.

I decided to post a day early- why not? There's no reason I HAVE to post on Thursdays...I can still be wild, fancy-free (whatever that means), not tied down to convention...

Okay.

Or it's because we're hosting our very first Thanksgiving tomorrow and there is NO WAY ON EARTH I can get Nora ready, the house ready, the food ready (a turkey? I may end up serving deli slices) and enjoy a leisurely blogging session. So, I'm enjoying my leisure time now- typing one-handed, feeding Nora and signing a Christmas card (complete with personal message) between burps. Hers, not mine. I would feel pretty fabulous about all of this, were it not for the fact that I haven't showered in a while (the actual amount doesn't really matter) nor have I changed clothes since that moment between Nora and I when I told her, "I should really change out of this now." And didn't.

And now, two extremely inappropriate things to blog about, condensed to lessen the gross-out factor:

One. A word of advice- buy your nursing bra BEFORE you have the baby. Buy many, even if you don't know what size you'll end up being. The experience of having an incorrectly-sized bra still trumps the experience of trying on bras once you've begun to sustain a child. I have said too much.

And two. When using a breastpump for the first time, it is awfully helpful to have the suctioning function working correctly. Perhaps bring a towel. Do not allow others to witness it, either. It has the potential to turn away friends and destroy relationships. There are few things more horrifying than an incompetent pumper. Skype tutorials are fine, but keep in mind that you are one exposed body part away from internet pornography at all times.

(If this weren't such a family blog, I guarantee I could have soda coming out of your nose within minutes. Regardless of your beverage of choice.)

In other, viewer-friendly news, my daughter is losing her hair. This is something that is entirely out of my control but also something for which I feel 100% responsible. It bothers me a little too much. My daughter will always be gorgeous to me (and others- come on, she's stunning), but I do not wish to have Kojak as a kid. Maybe for an uncle. Remember in the early '90s when that colored hairspray was invented to "hide" bald patches on men and women? Thought it was an awesome idea then, even more relevant now. I'm going with that reddish-orange color.

Speaking of references only Kate will understand, my big sis came to play last week! It was fabulous for Nora Jane to meet her godmother and we had a lovely time napping and eating too much. It also gave me the opportunity to take embarrassingly long showers without fear of repercussion (or soap in the eyes) from Duchess Purpleface D'Yellipants (it's a family name.)

Kate and I went to the premiere of my workshopped play with 20% Theatre on Friday night, complete with a playwright talkback. Yes, I talked back. (I was so tired that in the midst of answering a question I blanked and admitted to the guy that I had no idea where I was going with all of this. Kate said it was handled seamlessly. They were all very kind.) The traumatic part of the evening was actually leaving Nora. She was fine, hanging out with her Dad and enjoying a previously pumped bottle (see earlier references), but I left the house feeling like I had left my hands behind or forgot to put on pants. (Kate helpfully informed me that since I was wearing a skirt, this was indeed the case.) After ten months of having her be RIGHTTHERETHISCLOSE it was extremely jarring. I cried. Then I had a great time. And was home two hours later on the dot. I even had half a beer to celebrate. (I used to wear lampshades, I swear to God I did.)

I think I've been using my time off from work to the fullest: I'm catching up on series that people have been raving about for quite awhile. Some have even ended. No matter. There has never been a better time in my life to watch things, in fifteen minute increments, throughout a 24-hour period. One of these shows is 'The Office.' I have been mainlining episodes of 'The Office.' I have gone through five full seasons in under a week. Yes. One side effect of watching a stylized show in such large quantities is that one begins to take on the patterns of speech and thought exemplified in a given series. For example, my inner monologue now sounds creepily like the explanatory asides on that show:

Keely to P.J.: These potatoes are fabulous. Just how I like them.

Keely (aside): I hate potatoes. Always have. I might throw them on the floor. Or develop an allergic reaction. Did I tell you I have an allergic reaction to iodine? Funny story...

Between that and the use of Skype as my main form of communication (keeping one's head directly in the sights of the webcam while holding a squirmy baby makes for stilted conversation at best- and don't even get me started on trying to feed her in the midst of one of these convos. See- earlier references about interweb exposure) has reduced my language skills to mush.

But who needs eloquence? I'm pretty blessed with a terrific husband, wonderful family and friends, a house that we adore, careers that stimulate us, a baby that fills my heart with joy...OHMYGOD NORA HAS FALLEN ASLEEP. Showershowershowertime oh boy clean socks!!!

(Happy Thanksgiving.)

Two minutes panic.

Ohhhkay.

So. I've been in possession of this child for exactly three weeks now. (Happy three weeks, Nora!) And. I've since realized that I will spend the next eighty or so years with my heart in my throat.

As it turns out, this little person, this amazingly loud and soft and alert little beastie, this darling cherub in whom I've placed all of my love and hopes and dreams...it turns out that eventually WE MUST LEAVE THE HOUSE and people, crazy people, people who wish to touch her face and ask questions and drive cars nearby, WELL, it turns out that they are somehow allowed to do so!

How do people do it? How do people LEAVE their children with others, even for a day, even for an HOUR? Granted, I'm a nanny. This is how I make my cash money. And it has recently come to my attention that people are frickin' INSANE to leave me with their children! And I LOVE their children! But how does anyone know anything about anyone? What if- WHAT IF- their children are hurt or sad or tired? This never bothered me before. Because children are resilient, happy creatures. But what if mine isn't? I'm not saying I want to turn into Mother Bates here (I do NOT want more people staying here, thankyouverymuch), but if at ALL possible I'd like to avoid any heartache, stress or emotional issues in my daughter's future.

I do NOT think this is too much to ask.

(But at LEAST stop touching the baby's face. It is cold n' flu season, for Pete's sake.)

On the topic of emotional distress, I've decided to start showering suuuper early in the a.m., well before the gal decides it's time for Second Breakfast. Sometimes this works out. Sometimes it decidedly does not. The hope is that I'll be able to hop in for a quick shower, get dressed for the day, start a load of laundry and down a [small] cup of coffee before my infant daughter stirs gently in her bassinet to greet the day with a miniature beam.

However.

I cannot trick this little being. She knows what I want, sometimes before I even want it. She has spent nine-plus months learning what makes me tick. She is the ultimate inside job!

She is ruthless.

So. Sometimes we compromise and she enjoys a little spin in the aquarium bouncer by the bathroom cabinet while her mother says things like "Look at the rushing water- isn't that FASCINATING?," while accidentally scalding herself in the pursuit of the fastest shower on record.

Or.

Sometimes we "compromise" by having Nora decide that Alone Time is over and I "compromise" by feeding her on the hallway floor, my bathrobe on the wrong arms and soap in my eyes.

And before the chorus of experienced moms chastise me- "Sometimes you have to Let Her Cry," I tell you this. I have let her cry. A good portion of our day is tears. But my daughter has a turbo button, a mode of play if you will, that turns the slightly French 'waa...le waa' into a tribal keening of supersonic timbre, complete with a vibrating purple face and ending with a truly terrifying Silent Scream.

I respect this kind of power. Hence, Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs and her trusty sidekick Sweatpants McDairyfarm.

(I wouldn't trade it for all of the clean tank tops in the world.)

***

Confidential to PJS: All this recycling totin', kitchen cleanin', DVD burnin', fridge stockin', nutmeg custard makin', late night Nora tendin' action...? Thanks.

I feel like I should want to remember how to desire non-baby things. Oh well.

First off, happy two week birthday to my little gal, Miss Nora Jane! (Two weeks? You mean, after all of this crazy pregnancy business and madcap preparation...two weeks can go by like THAT? I turned to Peej at the 4am feeding and sorrowfully told him that she's getting too big. He pointed at her and said "She is SO teense," with a 'Don't start that already' look on his face. This from the guy who wants twelve more.)

Also, Happy Belly-Button-Falling-Off-Day! To Nora, specifically. Unless it applies to others I know. In that case...Happy BBFOD to us all! (And, from across the room, I can see that she's trying to crawl up Nat-Nat's shoulder. Between that, rolling over three times and insane neck control, I'm fairly certain I've given birth to a three-month old.)

And- addendum. My kiddo's birth weight was 6lbs, 15oz. The doctors had suggested (strongly) that he or she was going to be a whopper of a kid with a ginormous head. They miscalculated, due to her extremely balled-up breech position (and the physical inability to get to other parts of my innards- Nora, not the doctors. I'm sure they could have if they had really wanted to.) So, they guesstimated based on how big she'd be IF she could have expanded to all four quadrants of my midsection- and not the upper 1/4 that she inhabited for three months.

THAT SAID, 6lbs and 15oz is NOT tiny based on the space she occupied. Imagine if I tried to balance a weight like that on your pinky finger. After a while, it would start to HURT. And on THAT note, why do people round down? After announcing her birth stats, more people than I care to count exclaimed- "Six pounds? Small!" Yep, six pounds IS small. However. She was one ounce shy of seven pounds. Which is painfully average. (That's my daughter- painfully average!)

And we get to weigh her again today at the doctor's office! I may supplement a protein drink or two to get some sweet poundage.

The craziest part of this whole thing is- I was not nutso about being pregnant. At. All. But now that she's here? I have no desire to put her down, ever, or to do non-Nora-centric activities. I leave the room for a few moments and have that bizarre WHAT AM I FORGETTING feeling, followed immediately by OH MY GOD, WHERE'S THE BABY? (Side note- she is with grandparents and friends whenever this happens. I am not a negligent mother. Yet. That I am aware of.) And I realize that this is wholly biological. (I'm learning a lot about biology these days: the kiddo looks like the father so he won't be tempted to eat her, and the mother cannot put the kiddo down and thusly abandon it. You win this time, Science.) Even with these facts, I cannot even begin to muster the ability to care. For I DO want to hold her nonstop. When I feed her in the middle of the night and see her ridiculously wide-awake eyes, I smile. (P.J. does not have the same biological reactions for the 4am feedings. He pats her on the head, hands her to me and mumbles something like "Daddy loves you." Or "dabble my shoes." At least he's not tempted to eat her. Yet.)

And this bliss-fest is only compounded by the glorious help we've had for the past two weeks. My parents being here was nothin' but fun. My mother's extended visit was the nicest one-on-one time we've shared since before the twin sibs showed up in March of '87 and ruined everything. (Ohmigod, Rachel and Emily, I AM KIDDING. But...we used to have tea parties and pretend to shop with fancy catalogs and watch Anne of Green Gables. Back me up on this, Kate. But...I joke. You guys Completed our Family. That's what we were told, anyhow.)

Regardless, the mom visit was fabulous. And this week Peej's folks are up! Totally great. (I'm sorta unsure as to how I'll "shower" and "get dressed" and "get things done" when people aren't here to hold the bebe in the mornings.) It's funny though, no matter how awesome people's parents are, unless they're your own it feels like Company. Not in a bad way...just in a "can I make you something to eat" kinda way. And then they remind you that THEY'RE here to make YOU some food. And they do. And then you offer to clean and perhaps make some tea. And then they take your baby and send you to your room for a nap.

And my big sis Kate is coming on Wednesday! She's not Company. She makes Bacos sandwiches (or did once, in 1989) and knows all the one-liners from Disney Sunday movies.

I am so excited.

Okay, off to steal my kid back from the grandparents, bathe an unwilling child and start the long process of heading out to the doctor's office.

Where she will undoubtedly freak out about the nudie weigh-in. (Did I mention that she ABHORS being naked?)

Must be one of those "skip a generation" genes.