Forget the SwaddleMe- swaddle ME.

I am tired.

I haven't been this tired since- well, never, I guess. Which is a horribly constructed sentence. As was that one.

Here's a bit of a confession: I never, not even once, pulled an all-nighter in college. Nope. Never needed to. Most of my classes were tailored towards subjects and habits in which I already excelled; crazy amounts of reading each night, papers about my feelings (like a blog!), projects and presentations wherein I basically got to make 'em laugh, show some shiny objects, and make it home in time for my afternoon nap. Not that I glided, but...I certainly wasn't pushing myself towards the Accelerated Sciences. Which we did have. I've heard.

Sure, I stayed up waaay too late working on shows, a fabulous TV series or two, the occasional layout meeting for one of the school's papers (the awesome one)- but those were fun. And I could sleep in until dinner the next day.

But this- this is new. This kinda eyelids-propped-up-by-toothpicks, accidentally-drooling-on-someone-ELSE's-shirt type of sleepy? Unheard of. It's so outside the realm of my imagination that, for the past few days, I've been absolutely certain I'm coming down with something horrific.

Sure, having a new kid is exhausting. Work also makes one tired. Owning a home? Absolutely. But- as our baby has slept through the night since one month of age (sorry), the kiddos at work have been Super Helpers, AND nothing has fallen apart on the house recently...I was sure that something else was up.

So I Googled my symptoms.

As it turns out, a combination of fatigue, slight queasiness, tiredness (apparently different than fatigue- I was surprised) and body aches could be indicators of the following:
-Pregnancy (I am not. I promise this. Although, cosmically, I do have it coming for joking about it.)
-Juvenile Diabetes (Or Diabeetus, as Wilford Brimley says. This is most likely not the case, however.)
-Apricot seed poisoning (Hmm.)
-Cherry seed poisoning (!!)
-Clubbed toes (I think I would have put "clubbing of my toes" as a symptom, thankyouverymuch)
-Sudden death (This is a disease? Apparently, a warning sign for this is- I am so serious- "truck accident.")

P.J. suggested that perhaps I was just really tired. I responded with a Fatality from Mortal Kombat. (Okay, not really. I keep forgetting to hold down 'B'.)  I then proceeded to microwave ABSOLUTELY NOTHING- for two minutes- and look around the kitchen for where I put a nonexistent bowl for the next ten. I followed that up by demanding that P.J. make some brownies and, when he awesomely did, I forgot that he wanted to have some of the batter bowl, too. Yep, I ate the whole thing. Didn't even realize that I had any until he asked me where it went. At this point, so overcome with guilt, exhaustion and, let's be honest, confusion, I began to cry like my arm was broken AND had just found out that there was no Tooth Fairy. 


I've never seen a guy's jaw drop so fast.


Since then, the past couple of days have been pretty cool. Sure, I'm still totally wiped, but now I have a husband who treats me extraordinarily delicately, kinda like a mental patient. This is not [entirely] necessary, but it has yielded some great dinners- one of which is something we've dubbed "engagement pasta" (nice try, buddy, I'm not falling for that one again)- and some special Jewel trips for yums which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. But make the soul feel good.

Also, when our daughter decided to wake up and say hello waaay earlier than was kind, P.J. went and hung out with her for a bit. This is a) really sweet and b) probably the safer option, as I was swatting at the baby monitor like a wayward alarm clock.

"What is that," I asked, looking for all the world like a stunned, trapped opossum.
"Nora," P.J. said, already holding our diapered and swaddled baby.

Have I mentioned how great he is? He's great.

So today I will make him dinner, pack him a sandwich for tomorrow, do some of his laundry, bathe the child (okay, that last one isn't really for HIM, per se, but she is kinda stinky) and try my darndest to not harm the homestead in any way. It's the little things that make a marriage work.

OH! And before I forget- hahahahaha- it's recently come to my attention that some fans o' the blog (people I'm not even RELATED to!) weren't aware that there's both a Monday and a Thursday posting. It's true. All this- twice a week! My goodness. That's a lot of minutiae and ramblings from a gal who- let's be honest- should really be doing about eighty other things.

Like the dishes.

Or writing something for which she could get paid.

Or- wait a sec- why is the fridge open?

No babies were harmed during this posting. I'm pretty sure.

If this jinxes it then I am sorry, but...it seems to be Spring. Real Spring. Like, average of 50 degrees (sometimes 85! Sometimes...40), at times darned rainy, but always with that smell of fresh(ish) air. And perhaps that scent coming from the neighbor's yard. But whatever. I'll take it.

This past week alone I took Nora outside in no less than five baby-totin' contraptions: the Maya sling, the hip carrier (as in, on my hip- I have lost all hopes of being "hip." Which may not even be a word anymore), the Snap n' go stroller with the carseat, the Maclaren strolly...and straight up carrying her. Wild, I know.

She loves every single one of these ways of being held. Really. In the sling: "I love grabbing your hair and chewing on your collarbone!" The carrier: "I'm going to happily kick you in the belly and back simultaneously!" The Snap n' go: "Look at you looking at me in the garage!" The Maclaren: "These big girl straps are fabulous- as long as we stay in the dining room!" And carrying: "Do not let my wild noodle/starfish amalgamation dance convince you that I am not THRILLED to be in your arms!"

Until...we go outside.

Then it's the same pose, regardless of contraption: face against mine (if applicable), hands acting as blinders against the awful onslaught that is Fresh(ish) Air. If she's in her stroller, she takes a blanket, animal, extra fabric from the suncover- whatever- and holds it to her face.

And this prompts some well-meaning person to "suggest" that Nora probably can't breathe.

To which I reply that I'll promise to keep an eye on her!

And on the topic of advice...in my short time as a mother and my lengthy time as one being unable to receive constructive criticism, I've realized that there are two types of acceptable advice. They are as follows:

Timely: "Oh my goodness, your child is floating away!" This is especially helpful if you didn't know that your child was floating away.

and...

Jovial relating: "I remember that my son used to love floating away! Sometimes I tie him to the dock, though. Have you ever thought of that? Isn't having children fun?" This is okay because it a) makes you feel like you're not an awful parent and b) makes you feel like you're in a secret club. Secret clubs are fun.

The type that is not okay is Talking At Someone And Refusing To Stop Until You Agree To Rear Your Child Identically To Theirs. For example, "My kid hated the water. I wouldn't put yours in the water. Have you thought of having her tested for water allergies?" These people have Experience and they need to be stopped. This type of advice-giver Means Well and belongs to the club of That's Not How We Did It In My Day.

Which is quite possibly true.

But a long time ago people used iodine as suntan oil and sold women as property. These were not the same two time periods, but I think I've made my point.

I think it's safe to assume that if the mother-like person is nearish to the small, babylike person and- (and this is a big 'and')- the child is not aflame, submerged or has something poking in or out of them, we can all rest assured that the semi-competent adult is On It.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that my stomach-sleepin', binky-mashin' infant hasn't wrapped her blanket around her head.

But not before I eat three more of the Easter cheoreg biscuits- the recipe for which has been passed down from my Armenian nana...and tastes more like my Irish nana's soda bread. I am not the world's best baker- I admit this. However, they are tasty, they are sweet, they are portable.

Victory.

And maybe perhaps I'll snag some more of Nora's Easter candy. She loves the coconut Hershey's kisses and Reese's mini cups. She does.

But not as much as her parents love playing Easter Bunny. Just as good as playing Santa, in my opinion. Cannot wait to try out "Tooth Fairy."

But, I really can. I'm enjoying the heck out of my five month-old daughter's daily routine and am not gonna rush this aging process AT ALL. Although, it'll be nice when she can hold the beer bottle on her own.

My arms get tired by the end of the day.

Too nice of a day...

...to play each other for a fool.

But I did, anyhow.

I spent a goodly bit of the morning trying to convince my immediate family that I was expecting our second kid before the end of the year. Oh, the hilarity of mass emails. Here's how it went down:

-Kate, the savviest and quickest on the email draw of all of 'em, thought it was hilarious.
-Kate's second email reminded me of the time I put ice cubes in shoes and forgot the "baggie" part. (Look- this kind of awesome wit takes a few years to hone.)
-Tom was stoked at the beginning of the email...and then a little disappointed by the "April Fool's" line. I regret this.
-My mother, with a point for snappy comeback, pretended she was unable to read to the end- but would later- and was SO EXCITED for us. (I responded with a 'p.p.s.' saying that, with futuristic technology, I already knew that they'd be twins. Mazel tov!)
-Emily, apparently unable to read to the end of the email because she was on the commuter line (It's not a trial subscription of the NY Times, E, you can read beyond the headline), was genuinely excited. She even convinced our nephew Cole to call me up and scream 'Congratulations!' That part was fabulous, even if Em is no longer speaking to me.
-Rachel, my father, and- most notably- P.J., have yet to check their email. (That last one is the most troubling. Maybe he did read the email and is now drinking away the morning. He's a busy guy. Maybe he didn't read to the end, either? He could have been on a commuter line.)

And now, for the real news.

Or something I like to call All Of These Thoughts Occurred During Twenty Minutes In The Car With The Radio On:

-There is a band called Rock Sugar. The track I heard was a mashup of "Don't Stop Believing" and "Enter Sandman," called "Don't Stop The Sandman." It's like they knew I'd be listening and wanted me to cry tears of gratitude. Unfortunately, the closet they're coming to Chicago is Elgin, IL. We'll probably miss the tour, this go-round. But now I am aware.

-Different station said they'd be playing "all Vans, all the time." Off the top of my head I listed Van Morrison, Van Halen (Van Hagar, potentially?), maybe Ludwig van Beethoven? Throw in a showing of Van Helsing and I will not leave the car.

-New station: new question. When did Cher become Cher? If you listen carefully- or actually not that carefully- there's a big difference between "I've Got You, Babe" and "Believe." Okay, there's a lot of differences. But specifically, vocal quality and mouth shape. When did Cher's mouth shape become a parody of a drag queen's impersonation of a Cher song? Think about it. And discuss.

-And finally, there's a Telemundo ad for a new show called Donde' Esta Elisa(?) that I am absolutely going to watch. They got me- and I hated them for this- by plastering 'missing' posters all over my neighborhood (95% Hispanic, so it very well could have been legit) with a picture of a smiling mid-twenties girl named ELISA. The ad yesterday clarified it (slightly) by admitting it was a show, it's airing on Telemundo, and Elisa is missing. There is absolutely no room on my TV docket- let alone for a show that is 1000% in another language- but I think it'll be a cross between Lost (which I hate) and Twin Peaks (which I love.)

So I will watch.

By the way, I know what killed Laura Palmer.

It was ADD whilst driving.

Friends: 0. (Sigh.)

At the risk of sounding like a fourteen year-old girl, I am going to start implementing some changes to my Facebook page.

Notably, my "friends." Notice the quotes. I do not put the quotes around my real friends. (I use my arms!) The former are people whom, if I happened to bump into, would most likely not recognize. My "friends" are people who could care less about my writing, my daughter, my husband, my "dream house" (more quotes!) or status updates regarding anything in the previous list. I shall delete with wild abandon, starting with:


People Who Are Stupid: Yes, on paper this sounds harsh (but on a webpage it's positively blinding). People who cannot spell, consistently fail to use punctuation (four sentences with nary a comma nor a period, por ejemplo) or who think THAT ALL CAPS IS ACCEPTABLE FOR STATUSES LONGER THAN A WORD. Quality of status is nice, too, but I thinking I'm aiming too high. Maybe we can put a kibosh on statuses that are the entire day's happenings, complete with color commentary and a tremendously abusive amount of 'lol,' j/k, 'hahahahahahahahahas,' and such.


This group is but a distant, stupid memory to me. Also:


The Malcontents: Yes, we all have gripes. I'm having one right now! But c'mon, peeps, if every single day is such a trial, perhaps you have bigger problems than "Monday again? DAMMIT!" The amount of people for whom each day's status is a complaint that it's "that" day...is simply staggering. And those are the folks who post all Sunday about how the weekend is almost over! So, Saturday at 11am is a good status-time, then? (Unless you're hungover. DAMMIT!)


And let's not forget...


The Flag-Wavers: I am consistently alarmed and amazed by the amount of so-called patriotic citizens on Facebook who could not give a fig about 80% of this nation's residents. Supporting our troops is great. I love America, our armed forces, the freedoms we enjoy and the ability to complain about it. But sometimes I want to ask the Flag Wavers whom, exactly, they think our troops are fighting to protect? If I go by status updates, I'd have to guess upper class, Republican, straight white dudes. Apparently everyone else is on their own. (Interesting to note: this group and the ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME gang do a lot of cross- mingling.)


Wow. That was, quite possibly, the most political I've ever gotten on here.


Let's take it back down a notch to-


The Rest Of The Bunch: The Haterz, The Drunks, The Pollyannas, The Loss-Of-Identity-My-Baby's-Pic-Has-Replaced-Mine-Procreators...oh, I could go on.


And yes, I'm highly aware of the fact that I break a ton of rules as well. I post about Nora like it's a part-time job (as someone snarkily asked me last week- "So, you have a kid?" DELETED!) My housing problems are the biggest deal in the world. I litter your homepage with blog posts. I'm [usually] irritatingly optimistic. My husband is hot.


These things annoy a ton of people. I understand.


However- and this is the crux o' the whole thing- if we are friends? Real friends? How-are-you-I'll-wait-for-a-response friends? These updates shouldn't be akin to nails on a chalkboard.


Just sayin'.


*****


Confidential to...anyone who hasn't deleted me by now:


Nora's five months old today/We had an ant "thing" in the house but Peej obliterated them/Went to a great dinner party with the extraordinarily tolerant bitsy babe/Met with the Lady Writers this weekend for brunch, ginger cocktails and superior writing/Had my butt handed to me in pilates- since it's still big enough to actually be handed, I should probably continue to go/I'm making this rad shrimp dish for din tonight/I managed to shower today- before noon!/Good God, are you still reading? We must be friends.


Hugs (with arms, not quotes),
Keely

Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

Today is rainy and, as my youngest sister used to be fond of saying, dank.

It's hard to get moving on days like today. I've found it's made harder when one is woken up- not by one's newborn- but by one's humongo tabby at 5am. To be fair, the cat had important business to deal with at 5am. Atop the armoire. Whining over our heads. And then shrieking as he rode the pivoting standing mirror to the floor. And by "rode" I mean "fell onto."

He may or may not have taken frames and a vase with him.

(Nora, in bed between us, slept through this! She was, however, woken up when an email on my Bberry vibrated my bedside table.)

6am: The kitchen trashcan (and thusly the kitchen) smelled like coffee and onions, not exactly one of those invigorating 'get up and go' scents.

Although, to be fair, that's probably what I smell like, too.

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

I wish someone would take me out. (See what I did there?)

I vaguely remember telling PJ at 4am that I was happy the glass of water next to the bed was lime seltzer. 'Cause that's really fancy.

This joint [lifestyle] is really jumpin'  [tucked in at 8pm].

Nora, bedecked in a squirrel (sqwo) tee and yoga pants, is looking at me like "TGIT.' The mini nanny (nani?) workaday life is really taking it's toll on her. If it's possible for an almost-5 month old to adapt the facial expression of a sullen 14 year old whenever she's in the car...well, then I spend over an hour a day in the Passat with my teenage self. (Pleasant and thankful.)

I feel like Nora starts out the day with a jar of goodwill towards us all- and, without fail, I spend my day squandering it. Transit! Interrupted naps! Incorrect bath friend choices! (Always the starfish. Do not pull that orca junk.)

And it's a big jar with which to begin.  Epcot big.  (I originally felt the need to elaborate with "Spaceship Earth," but I have a feeling you were on it with 'Epcot.')

Back to Thursday.

Nora just sneezed and Lil asked if that was Nora or her. Presumably she'd  know if she had sneezed, but the plastic big band set she's rockin' IS awfully distracting.

Awfully.

And when I sang You Are My Sunshine upon request, Lily asked who it was for.

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

"Please don't look at her for my song."

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

9am: Seven year old J asked for colder water. I suggested ice. She rebutted that adding cubes takes too long to cool water. I begged to differ and proceeded to take her water bottle, added ice, shook it up all fancy-like (lots of extraneous elbow action) and gave her the COLDEST WATER SHE'D EVER HAD. (Her words.)


I felt awesome, until I realized that I had inadvertently shown a first-grader how to chill a martini.


And in Aneurysm Watch 2010 News: I've broken two more things from other people's fridges this week. One was a container of Greek yogurt (the only honey one, of course- there were loads of blueberry yogurts just waiting to be annihilated, but NO) and a hand-crafted root beer.


Two more signs that these situations did not occur anywhere near my fridge: those are awesome things to have in one's fridge.


And since I have a habit of not wasting food (except perhaps a fudgesicle in the freezer that I do believe we moved with as well as a tupperware of cabbage that may well have fermented) I had to finish these two items off.


The families for which I nanny would have no problem with me tossing these items- in fact, they'd probably be concerned otherwise- but it's not in my nature. Sadly.


The yogurt was fabulous. Sure, there were a couple of plastic shards that I narrowly avoided (nice try, shards) but the honey on the bottom [top] was truly delicious. Sadly.


The root beer was an exercise in stealth, for if anyone under the age of ten had seen me downing it, they. Would. Have. Wanted. Some. And I try not to push root beer for brekkie. As soon as it hit the floor and started fizzing, I rushed it to the sink and saved as much as I could- as covertly as I could- as quickly as I could. Sadly.


I think I got the one with extra carbonation. (And bourbon vanilla extract!)


There's only so much you can expect on days like today. So, you put on your Hampshire College hoodie (motto: Try To Come To Class, Okay?), make a blanket tunnel for wombats and curl up until the sun comes back out.


Maybe even let the children join you.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...