Thursday is the new Saturday. No, really, it is.

A brand-new graffitiesque mural has gone up in my neighborhood; it's on the side of a building near the intersection of Kedzie and Montrose, to be exact. It is great. The word "diversity" is written (scrawled?) in about ten different languages. You know, the languages that represent Albany Park. A multitude of beautiful, happy, diverse faces are looking in different directions, quite artful, and are layered willy-nilly to show the many different colors and ethnicities of our lovely 'hood. Fabulous. One problem.

I AM NOT INCLUDED.

No one even remotely white-ish is featured. Sure, sure, I hear you telling me about centuries of oppression and the White Man and underrepresented cultures. Fine. However. I'm Irish and Armenian and a smidge of Italian and have oppressed NO ONE so perhaps you could STICK ME DOWN IN THE CORNER SOMEWHERE. I do not take up much room. (Unless I bring my shoes and hoodies.)

I may have to resort to graffiti on graffiti. Extremely post-modern. Are you listening, Hampshire College? (Yeah, I took film. And strangely, pre-law. And one bizarre semester about our FEELINGS regarding science.)

Other media that concerns me:

Have you seen the new commercial for Hi-Def Vision Ultra sunglasses? Take a minute to really chew on that one. These sunglasses. Make. Things. Hi Definition. They're practically making objects 3-D. Almost like real life! Actual quote: "Other sunglasses just make things darker." (Darn sunglasses!) And now, according to a special offer, you can get TWO for TEN DOLLARS (if you call now.) So basically, I'll get a five dollar pair of sunglasses that make objects look like real life? Where do I sign?!

Also.

The new ad for Aciphex: a pill for acid reflux that takes care of 'burning, bad taste & belching.' And please say the name aloud. Everything about this commercial is gross. An entire ad featuring closeups of people's mouths while they writhe in pain, dislike the taste of their own tongues and attempt to cover up burps. Poorly. "...So nasty!" And all from a product whose first syllable is 'ass.'

And finally: those Cash 4 Gold people are starting to make me really suspicious. Why do they want my gold so badly? *I* want my gold! Why doesn't it matter what condition my gold is in? Do they know something I don't? Does my gold have new healing powers? Is all the gold disappearing? They're sending me a BOX in which to ship all my gold? Why not a company car? I think I'll hang on to my gold until I get some more answers.

***

Confidential to PJS: Thank you for not letting that scenario with the middle-of-the-night-car-honker-layin'-on-the-horn-for-what-seemed-like-hours go all 'Gran Turino.' As we both know, I've never seen 'Gran Turino,' but I'm fairly certain from the previews that it involves an angry Clint Eastwood and a wielded shotgun and the phrase "Get the hell off my property" or somesuch. I know how you get during these moments. Kinda like The Hulk, if The Hulk had an infant daughter sleeping in a room facing the street.

So, thanks.

Housewivery, unfortunate pants & inconsequential rage.

Things that bother me this week (settle in, we could be here a spell):

Pants.

I tried to buy my first post-preggo pants this past weekend. It was an epic fail on all fronts, mostly the posterior. Silly me, I'd thought it was high time to ditch the elastic-waisted maternity jeans. It is clearly not time. It may never BE time. (Sure, some of you keep telling me that it'll HAPPEN, you just HAD the baby! This is false. She is two and a half months old. Do not give me these kind of excuses- it just paves the way for stretchy pants and oversized 'Hang in there, Kitten!' sweatshirts until she's of school age.)

Anyway. I tried on seven pairs of jeans. Two were the next size up from what I usually wear, two were the size up from that, and two were even the size up from that. One was this shapeless pair of what I derisively labeled 'Mom jeans.'

The first two came up to my knees (PLEASE tell me that the width of my knees has changed- that would be perfection) the next two fit over my hips but wouldn't button (I wanted to take the extra material from the wide legs and add it to the laughably tiny waistband), the two after that buttoned just fine but left a cavernous amount of room in the behind and were somehow too short. Even the 'Mom jeans' left me cold. (Not from lack of fabric, mind you. There was plenty of that.) Apparently, to wear 'Mom jeans' one must be shaped roughly like an onion. Bulbous, pointy, sassy writing on the butt. You know, an onion.

I ended up buying two pairs of yoga pants from Old Navy- because nothing says 'my body is not yet a real size' like stretchy pants. (Hang in there!)

And, ok, I am angered at Tupperware.

WHY does Tupperware never dry? It never does. You can leave it in the dishrack or the washer for days and STILL there will be a few stubborn droplets firmly attached to the lip or ridge or whatever the heck that place is called that makes the lid go sqoosh. You can't even reach it by dishtowel- oh no- I think the only thing that could reach it would be a Q-tip, and I AM NOT ABOUT TO Q-TIP MY TUPPERWARE, thankyouverymuch. I barely manage to clean the dryer's lint trap (do NOT get me started on the lint trap.) But why does it retain water so well? (Or, rather, so badly?) Is Tupperware actually part water? Does it biodegrade? I'm a terrible housewife- I do not have these answers.

P.J. would tell me that this is because I am NOT a housewife, despite my best efforts to not work outside of the home. Do you know how many salami sandwiches I make for him each week? Regardless of whether or not he even LIKES salami? Or how many socks I match up in evenly folded pairs? (No balling-up of socks here, lady!) I do not vacuum- but I DO start the Roomba with my foot. I rearrange furniture under the pretense of Feng Shui- (I'm Irish, what do I know from Asian arts?) and light appropriately scented candles to mask that...whatever it is...that wafts from the downstairs bathroom's pipes. I watch copious amounts of 'The Ghost Whisperer' which, admittedly, has little to do with housewivery but is something I'd commit even further to, were I allowed to remain in the actual house. AND, most importantly, I rear his child (which makes it sound like I lead her backwards throughout our home. I do not. That is how I sprained my ankle in eighth grade. Solo. Not with Nora.)

And peeing. Why must I use the bathroom throughout the day, especially during working hours?

It's made especially tough when trying to use the facilities if a newborn baby, say, is slung across your chest, fast asleep. Put her down, you say? Certainly! The two options available on Wednesdays and Fridays are a) on the floor of the pocket bathroom or b) in the living room with the two year old who deals with any sound Nora makes by trying to shove a rattle directly up her nostril. ("She LIKES this, Kiki!!")

Thusly, sling-peeing. It should be an Olympic event. The precision, the tension, the crowd-pleasing humor. (The back story, the interview, the killer soundtrack- I love the Olympics.) One false move and it's all over. The Russian judge scores harshly. (I could make a European In the Bathroom joke here, but I won't.)

Another reason to leave the baby strapped against me today? The two-year old gal chose to test the deepness of Nora's sleep (result- not very) by screaming "Are you sleeping, Baby Nora?!) into an electronic voice-changing bullhorn. Set to Darth Vader. Inches from Nora's head. After being informed that little-littles need quiet tones AND that yelling near the baby earns a time-out, I was told that Nora LIKES voices. (I fear that before long the babe will be hearing voices.)

Mom. Of. The. Year.

To cement my Mom-ness? (Momity? Mom-ocity? Momitude? Ok, momitude.) I actually just uttered the phrase, "We don't lick napkins." ("Why, Kiki?") I actually don't know. It just sounded like the thing to say. So go ahead, everyone. Have a happy Thursday.

Lick the napkin.

A new year, a new pack o' Pampers.

Week ten, back to work!

Armed with a diaper bag the size (and shape) of Guam, Nora and I set out to see what needs doin' in the world of two to seven year olds. Apparently, a lot lot. Eggs need scrambling! Hair needs to be braided- evenly- and/or clipped back with appropriate bows (but not too matchy-matchy.) The stegosaurus' tail needs to be found...on a puzzle piece the width of pencil eraser. Stories need to be performed with the correct accents and correlating hand motions. Tents need to be blanketed, boats need to be shored up with cushions, lunch needs to be CRUST-FREE, and naptime needs to become a one-strike-you're-out-offense-yes-laying-there-with-your-eyes-closed-counts endeavor.

Not to mention the poops. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I think everyone within a five mile radius of me has pooped their diaper or potty seat off in the past four days. AT THE SAME TIME.

I do, however, think Nora's getting the hang of this nanny business. She's strict but fair. And veeeeery cute. (Believe it or not, this helps. To get one kiddo to brush her teeth I simply turned Nora around in her sling so her chubby cheeks were facing outwards. The 'aw' that it elicited was perfect for reaching molars.)

The hours for a couple of the days are superbly early- I'm getting ready at 5:45am and WAKING my daughter (something the books say you should nevernevernever do) at 6:20. The first morning when I put her in her carseat, fully jammied and sleepsacked, she actually laughed at me like I was insane.

Maybe I am. So far this week she's taken the business end of a hard juggling ball directly in the face and made that startled newborn OMHMYGODOHMYGOD wince at least three times. She may also be part possum, as her favorite new sleep position is facing my sternum while in the sling, hands gripping the sides of her head.

On the plus side, I've never held her more!

On a more negative side, I've never held her more. The left side of my body where the sling places the most pressure may just give out one of these days, rendering my arm eternally noodle-like and reducing my authority to ineffective flopping about.

Thankfully, Tuesday was my day off.

That is, until the upstairs furnace broke Monday night, turning our bedrooms into an Artic tundra. (Thanks, negative-degree Chicago!) At least we had the first floor bedrooms, which were on their own, oddly-zoned boiler system! The boiler, of course, being stuck on SAHARAN temperatures! Nora slept in a diaper, sadly not for the last time, given her parents' obvious ineptitude at adulthood.

So, Tuesday was the day that our heating and cooling guy came and quoted us 600 bucks (to fix a part) or 2.2k (to replace the since-discontinued furnace.) Oh yeah, and they'd have to rip the wall apart to get it out- apparently the wall was built AROUND the furnace. Of course it was! We chose the 600 buck option, telling ourselves we'd upgrade to an A/C and furnace unit soonish. (Of course we would!) Then the guy left, saying he'd try to replace it soon, maybe by that night, maybe by Thursday.

WELL. Knowing I couldn't face another night on the surface of the sun downstairs, I started to move my main floor office around to accommodate the bed in P.J.'s office. Two hours later, I had just finished hooking up all the computer plugs, lighting and anything else needing an outlet...when the heating guy came back with the repaired part. Rendering the afternoon spent swapping things about needless, ha hah!

But at least my office looks fabulous.

And, sadly, Nora is now in the thick of her first real cold. It is tragic. For those of you who have never experienced the magnitude of an infant's first real sickness- it's a treat. I highly recommend sitting on a bathroom floor in the middle of the night, shower-steaming a baby into a miniature wonton and alternating between suctioning each impossibly long boogie with a bulb aspirator and cleaning up the diaper blowout as a direct result of the ensuing freakout. (Apparently, they do NOT care for this action!)

And somehow, hours later, she still smiles happily at me. Making me feel like even more of a jerk for bundling her into the dark, frigid, Chicago mornings.

There was more I had planned on noting about the previous week...but my darling baby gal, the angelic infant in the aquarium bouncer on the floor beside me, has just chosen to have another poo-splosion in the carefully selected outfit for today's workload. Sometimes I think she plans these. Maybe she's taking orders from a higher baby authority. Like an evil cartoon villain, clad in a diaper and clutching a cigar. I'm slightly tempted to poke a finger into her chubby cheeks and demand WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR, a la Jack Bauer.

But then she'd just smile that famous Schoeny smile.

You know, the one that got me here in the first place?

Y2k10! That seems more like a 'captcha' than a 'year.'

In honor of the impending new year- and in consideration of the wee babe in an aquarium bouncer by my knee- I shall jam out a brief review of the year that was '09:

January- We failed to buy a house. This was sad. I began taking Pilates lessons to combat the "extra ten pounds"- ha HA. (I would KILL for an extra ten pounds right now. Well, not exactly. Rather, I'd kill to only have ten pounds to lose. If I had to lose the baby weight on top of an extra ten pounds, I might actually kill someone BECAUSE of it. Maybe we should forget the ten pounds altogether.)

February- I became pregnant! Although, since I didn't find out until it was almost MARCH, maybe we should place this sentence in next month's blurb. (This could explain why it was really, really difficult to lose the aforementioned never-to-be-mentioned again ten pounds.) Traveled to Boston for my nephew Cole's first birthday and came back to a week where the temp surged to 70 degrees, only to be immediately followed by -30. Thanks, Chi.

March- Realized I was pregnant. Had fun with that for awhile. Immediately changed plans from "Napa trip" to "San Francisco trip." (Less vineyard-pressure.) Threw the annual St. Patrick's Day Party O' Corned Beeves. Also may have let slip the fact that I was pregnant to fifteen of my closest friends. Here's a fun way to see if you've got a "social drinking" problem: if you fail to pour yourself a drink at your own party and people ask you every ten minutes WHY you're not drinking, you may have a social drinking problem.

April- Spent a goodly bit of this month gripping the couch, housing Italian ice, lemonade, tacos and onions, marathoning Law & Order and Harper's Island. But the beginning of the month? Oh my- I hugged Scott Bakula. Hi-fived Donald Bellisario. Won an international novella competition. Rode a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and almost yuked over the side of the Alcatraz ferry. Best month of '09 (so far.)

May- Jaunted back to Massachusetts for a weekend of pretending I attended Harvard/Williams with Rachel/Emily (and Kate- woo, college!) Nothing like pretending to be an undergrad with two little dudes in tow and one obviously preggo twenty-something. Then, upon my return, P.J. and I purchased a house that may or may not have been haunted. Also celebrated our first anniversary! And they thought we'd never make it...(Who's been saying that?! Stop it.)

June- Turns out, it wasn't haunted. Just falling apart. But once we made the decision to replace the boiler, water heater, roof, appliances, light fixtures and five of the windows, WE WERE REALLY IN BUSINESS. Also, this was my birthday month. And the month where we saw the 20-week ultrasound of OUR CHILD kicking, flipping and opening a terribly wide mouth. We also went to Myrtle Beach with P.J.'s family, where I had the distinct pleasure of scaring a group of hoodlum teens into permanent celibacy. (What the heck was I thinking? A red-checkered tankini, while sweetly "country" on a toddler, looks positively "picnic table" on a pregnant adult.)

July- Bought a car! Signed the papers on the house! Had my parents come for a week to fix...everything...in the new house. Moved into the house with the help of Peej's dad. Realized that the new master bedroom had neither mastery nor a bed. (Or a window that would allow "air" to "circulate.") Cried.

August- Had a superbly fun baby shower in Pittsfield, MA, thrown by my Mom & sibs. Enjoyed floating in the pool like a beached whale and eating about thirty of my favorite dishes that my Mom kept placing in front of me. Back in Chi, built a bed in the sweltering heat of my "master" bedroom. Later that night went to the premiere of my one-act at 20% Theatre's 'Snapshots' Festival. (Yes, I HAVE been writing, thankyouverymuch. Practically every month at Chicago Dramatist's Instant Theatre, where I am allowed the exquisite joy of being the most pregnant woman in the room and thusly the recipient of the most "pity clapping." I care not.) Also, this was the month where a man FINALLY came and removed our wedged sectional sofa from the stairwell. With a saw! It took its rightful place in the living room, freeing up the stairwell for such important tasks as "allowing passage up the stairs."

September- Had a terrific Chicago baby shower, thrown by my Mom-in-law and attended by my Midwestern besties, my Mom and my big sis. Less awesomely, sat through four of the scariest childbirth classes known to [wo]man, due in no small part to the extremely graphic videos depicting the majesty of labor and delivery. And the entirely unnecessary bit on c-sections? NO, THANK YOU.

October- Had a c-section. Turned out to be a small price to pay to get to KEEP this glorious little gal, Nora Jane Schoeny. The wily, wedged-one was born in the same month as her Daddy (two days apart!), which will forever go down in history as the Best. Month. Of. My. Life.

November- Began considering this month for nomination as Best Month as well. Took more naps and watched more episodes of "The Office" than ever before. Kissed my child perhaps too much. Enjoyed visits from my folks, Peej's folks, my big sis, and a slew of fabulous friends bearing meals, Starbucks, books & toys. (And some were for Nora.) Attended a reading of one of my plays, produced by 20% Theatre...and gave the least intelligible "talk back" afterwards. My mind was NOT on star-crossed lovers and bantery humor, but instead on a pint-sized ball of grins and snuggles that I left at home with her Dad, LESS THAN A MILE AWAY. (So what if I cried? It's the hormones. I will rock this excuse until her wedding.) Held a real Thanksgiving. Cooked a turkey. Panicked. Succeeded in not burning the house down nor tweaking out my child. Subsequently amended my standards of "success."

December- Prided myself on successful car trips and flights with my infant, not to mention exceptional visits with both sides of the fam for Christmas gloriousness. Ate more than was wise, slept more than was expected. P.J. and I enjoyed the heck out of our first holiday season in Chicago with the gal (who are we kidding? We enjoy EVERYTHING with her now.) And to all the folks who paraded the pre-baby "enjoy it now" mantra around like a...parade, I can honestly say that I don't remember having this much fun when I was left to my own singular devices. (Except for maybe that one time. But this is a family blog.)

And to the year that brought me a successful first year of marriage, house, trips around the country, car, kiddo and a few writing acknowledgements- thanks.

Hopefully 2010 will bring glorious things as well: an end to that SMELL in the downstairs pipes? A cease-and-desist for the neighbors- the puking on the stoop one with the slight drinking problem and/or the seventeen-year old autistic dude who is simply IN LOVE with Peej? A bit o' cash for the writing ventures?

Dream big.

(Happy New Year!)

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.