Non-heathen baby? Check.

Nora Jane was baptized yesterday and she was kinda okay with it.

Kinda.

Actually she was superb during the processional (yep, she got to proCESS) and great through the readings and the homily.

And then she woke up.

To be fair, she couldn't have been the comfiest of gals. She wore the Schoeny family lace christening gown, complete with Puritanical eyelet bonnet (as my sister Rachel exclaimed- "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!") and there were more than a few itchy, constricting layers. And turns out, she does NOT care to have water splashed on her head, nor oily crosses traced on her forehead. She expressed this displeasure by screeching and sobbing for the rest of mass. My mother said it was the Holy Spirit entering her. My mother is kind.

The service was nice and it was a delight to see everyone who came to watch. (I realize that 'delight' is rather a rather dusty term, but that's what it was. Delightful.) I had a good time watching my sister Kate (and Nora's godmother) pretend to be cool with a Catholic ceremony- my family's Protestant- and as she put it, "fake her way." God didn't strike anyone down, so I think everyone was easy like Sunday morning with it. (See what I did there?)

I did, however, express joy at seeing someone in the congregation by making the 'rock on' sign at them. You know, the ol' devil horns? (Again, nothing happened- we must be cool.)

Another moment etched into my memory will be the image of P.J.'s ol' roomie Nick (and former groomsman- it's pretty much the same cast of characters, like a Christopher Guest movie) taking photos on the altar after the ceremony. With the priest. Directing the priest. Repeatedly. ("Father, I need you to step down and go beside Keely. No, can you scoot over more?")

Again, no Heavenly displeasure was shown.

When we got home (you know, to the after party?) I changed Nora into her party gown- a silk kimono, of course. Why, what did YOU wear to celebrate your baptism? It was a hand-me-down, but still uber fancy. Basically we went from Kelly McGillis in 'Witness' straight to "Memoirs of a Geisha."

And Nora got some sweet loot from the party! (Had I but known what a cash cow the "christening" could be...) Among them were items of bling that I'm "keeping safe" for her, enough puffy bibles and children's stories to open our own Vatican library...and a mammoth-sized giraffe. Yes. Not exactly life-sized, but closer to an actual giraffe than any standard stuffed animal size. We've decided to keep it in the front window. That way, any crazies on our street (and oh, WILL THEY EVER be emerging from hibernation shortly) will think that a) someone is doing a spiffy neighborhood watch or b) the Loch Ness monster is alive and well and in the Midwest.

That was the second Loch Ness post I've ever made on this blog. This is at once funny and sad. We can do better.

And now, if I may, a little commentary on the Olympics' closing ceremony?

What the heck happened?

It was all well and good until Shatner decided to be all, well, Shatner about his speech- and I'm sorry, light comedy does NOT play well in ice arena. They might be laughing...but you'd never know it! (And they weren't laughing.)

And Michael Buble. Which, at first, we didn't realize WAS Michael Buble. Except for the voice. As Rachel said (she was highly quotable this weekend) "That's either a very talented Mountie, or Michael Buble is wearing a stupid outfit." The latter! Suddenly it was a stereotypical 1940's Canadian radio hour. You know, the kind that Canada made famous.

And then...then...a kind of poor man's Macy's parade/Chutes n' Ladders/acid trip where what may have been actual Mounties "performed." (Rachel- "If they start dancing, they're not real Mounties."/"No, they must be real Mounties- if they were performers they'd be dancing better.") And the giant moose and beaver! They had sweet faces, sure, but I did not get it. I think Canada just spent the entirety of their tourism revenue on this IceCapade rave.

We also decided that whatever the heck going on with the gigantic butterfly/Little Mermaid/pod people redheads suspended 400 feet above the ice were SCARY (and the one with the crazy close-ups was clearing dating a cameraman) and we all feared for the kid dressed as a giant hockey puck.

And whatever was supposed to happen with the end of Michael J. Fox's routine DID NOT happen. C'mon, A/V Club! Fail. Alex P. Keaton is being charming and Canadian! You let us ALL down.

And pretty much, that's what happened with the Olympics. I think. Although I don't believe that watching a half hour of the closing ceremony makes me an athletic expert. Or even an athletic supporter. (Ha- see what I did there?)

Now I'm off to shove all the glittery plastic flatware back into the dining room, wash n' dry a small mountain of infant party outfits, eat a second cheddar chive scone (my current raison de bread) that was leftover from the party...and nap with my holiest of holy daughters.

Happy four month birthday, Nora Janie! We love you to the moon and back...even without the slick duds and rockin' ragers.

That's what parents do.

Oh boy OH BOY!

After the psychotic terror of last week's escapade, I think I was due for some good luck. And what's luckier than someone else cleaning your house?

NOTHING!

I've always [since 1988] been excellent about keeping a room/ bed/ secret-detective-office, etc/ decently clean. I still do. But there's just something about that one area of the bathroom/kitchen/couch that always needs cleaning. And you always clean it. But every now and then (say, every five months or so) that you have an stark realization: if you must scrub that one terrible locale once more this week you will go frothingly mad.

And so you call in the experts. And they make your house look like the cover of Real Simple, Martha Stewart Living, even the Target circular. And things feel manageable again. For the next five months.

And Mom- I totally get it now. The pre-clean before the cleaning ladies arrive? I get it. When I was twelve I totally had a field day with this one- why should I have to clean if we're paying someone else to do it once a month? Maybe I should get paid!

No. I shoulda shut the heck up and moved my porcelain dolls. The idea of the person I hired not being able to clean every inch of dusty, spitty-uppied space is horrifying. I WILL MOVE THE SINK IF SHE NEEDS ME TO.

And my house is currently being cleaned. Which is why I am deliriously happy and incapable of the type of ire usually associated with Thursday posts. Okay, usually Monday is the bitter day. But I really really can't do it now.

Especially since Nora has recently started doing these gleeful belly-laughs accompanied by face-splitting grins. Really levels the playing field, mood-wise.

SO.

What do you wanna talk about?

How about the other night when I was putting Nora down for a nap? As I came back out into the hallway I smelled the unmistakable scent of men's aftershave. And not P.J.'s. (He occasionally wears Obsession, which I am not at all ashamed to admit- I am obsessed with. The irony is not lost on me.)

My FIRST thought- of course- is that we were haunted. (Why is that always my first thought? One of these days I'm actually gonna be haunted and then I'll be all like- this is NOTHING like what I was fearing. What a weirdo I've been!)

My SECOND thought- of course- was that P.J. would return home and think I had been cheating on him. (What is up with my linear thinking these days? Okay, fine. Years.) And I would certainly hope that P.J. would immediately know I could NEVER be with a man who smelled like dime-store eucalyptus. And, you know, that I loved him best.

I did what I usually do when things tweak me out: my mind plays possum with the idea and refuses to resurface until the following night.

I mentioned it. Casually.

"Oh," he said without blinking. "New AirWicks in the hall. Eucalyptus."

Ok, ONE) it never even crossed your MIND that it might be someone's signature scent/we're haunted? TWO) Why are you going and all changin' up the AirWicks? We're a strict lavender/apple cinnamon household! THREE) Thanks for refilling the AirWicks.

Also.

Children's programming- more dangerous than we had previously thought? Discuss.

I'll start. Now, some of you may know that I have a very real and very visceral reaction to the KidzBop(!) compilations. The commercial for the newest one, I believe it's number 17 (Good God), is currently airing. The track listing is INCREDIBLE. "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon? Really? How about "Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti? I adore this song. But there is definitely a line in there about 'druggies on the corner' and how they're 'calling [his] name.' And something a little unclear about 'ghetto games.' And how about Paparazzi? There is seriously some adult content going on around here. Singing them in high-pitched tones does not make them Disney. (Although, admit it- who among you played around with audio speed to make your favorite songs sound all Chipmunky as a kid? No?)

Also.

Have you watched the Noggin channel lately? The kiddos for whom I nanny dig a bunch of the shows, but I must ask- why the show disclaimers? I guess 'disclaimers' might be the wrong word, but there is definitely a thing before each show that says what each one provides, i.e. "Go, Diego, Go" teaches kids Spanish, problem-solving skills and educates them about the rainforest. Have they always done this? To whom are they preaching? You've clearly already DVR-ed that thing and have pressed play. It was gonna be watched. Maybe it's meant to be a "You're a great nanny and parent, go ahead, let them watch 25 minutes of TV. It's fine." Which is all well and good...except then I start to wonder why they're trying to allay my guilt. And then I get all defensive. Who are they to tell me what to do with my guilt? Maybe the kids shouldn't be watching a show right now, don't tell ME it's fine, this is the second show they've watched today and they're crabby to begin with! Great, fine, kids, turn off the TV, we're gonna papier-mache. THANK YOU, DIEGO PROGRAMMERS.

And then I weep and then the kids turn on a show for me.

Maybe Nora and I should unplug for the rest of the day. Maybe go all Laura Ingalls Wilder and read aloud by candlelight. Sure, it's the middle of the day and bright as anything...maybe just a blanket tent.

Can't touch the furniture, after all. I'm afraid to mess anything up.

Best. Fear. Ever.

Not for the faint of heart.

Remember that hilarious post about the rats in the wall? And how they'd soon "take care of themselves?"

Optimistic homeowners are completely blitzed on stupidity.

Lemme paint another picture:

Friday night= fabulous! Had a good friend over for some tacos and baby-snuggling. Mario Kart Wii was involved, as was The Soup, a lovely Zinfandel and a minimum of scratching in the walls and floors.

Saturday= just as grand. Breakfast, home renovations, more baby-snuggling, some quality television and again, an absence of scratching.

HOWEVER. I jetted out to Target for some [at the time] super-important supplies. Was gone less than an hour. Stopped at Walgreens on my way home and called to check in with Peej and the Little. P.J., thinking I was in the garage, walked into the kitchen to peek out the back window. Turned around.

SAW A RAT BUTT SCURRYING UNDER THE OVEN.

Was quiet on the phone.

I asked what was the matter.

Still quiet. Then...

"Keel? I think I saw something."

Silence.

"A...thing?"

"A butt go under the oven."

"A rat butt?"

Silence.

After a cartoonish frozen moment in the middle of the Walgreens photo department, I alternated between insurmountable horror at the idea of facing my biggest ever fear AND the throat-gripping panic at the notion of my baby being IN THAT HOUSE. And, you know, Peej.

I dropped my purchases and ran. Upon entering the house I saw P.J. holding the baby waaaay up high and brandishing multiple household weapons with the other. He was also on the phone with the exterminator and pacing the kitchen with his eyes never leaving the oven.

"Should I-"

"I'm on it," he said with that edge in his voice. You know that edge. The one that justifies the use of all-caps in his name? That one. ("Get in the house" and "These are two-for-one in the circular" are also indicative phrases.)

I took the baby and acted like one myself for a good half hour. P.J. wanted to head out immediately to Home Depot and get enough traps to fell a bear- but I didn't want him to go yet. And since it was so close to Nora's bedtime (and since she'd been sick) I didn't want her to spend the next hour or so in the car- I was ready to CAMP OUT in the car, but we must think of the child.

And then we got the mail.

And Nora's social security card came finally, and P.J. wanted to add her info to our tax return...and then we realized we'd get an extra 1k back just for having a kid!

But back to the rat.

P.J. was about to head out to the store when I ventured back into the kitchen for- something. My mind was promptly erased.

Because.

The rat, the one who hated the light, wouldn't be around people, who certainly wouldn't make an appearance twice in one night...was standing in front of the dishwasher.

I am not ashamed to admit that I shrieked like the woman in the Tom & Jerry cartoons. Except louder and with more counter-jumping.

THING WAS HUGE.

P.J. found me in record time.

"I knew exactly what it was when you screamed," he told me. (I can't imagine what other kind of catastrophic house event would have happened in the same hourlong span- but then again, maybe I shouldn't venture there with this house.) He stuffed a beach towel underneath the oven- this should either deter the thing or keep it cozy.

So THEN P.J. left for Home Depot, leaving me with Nora. I got her pajama-ed and fed (with a broom, steak knife and hammer within arms' reach- not TOO close, mind you, I am always aware of my child's safety.)

He made it back in record time. He also stopped for a pizza. We hadn't eaten in ages and CERTAINLY were not about to cook. It was half pineapple, half pepperoni and black olives. Exceptional. But who had time to enjoy it? We had a sting operation to prepare.

By this time Nora was asleep in her bed (God knows how with her stressed, amped-up parents emitting vibes that could power a small town) and I was free to, you know, "assist."

P.J. began laying out glue traps in the perimeter of the kitchen (while I stood on a stool and wielded a hammer- helpfully)...and then we began to hear a familiar scratching sound under the kitchen sink. (Is this house made of swiss cheese? Discuss.) Our crackerjack team of kittens were suddenly on the job. However, they had to sit this one out- locked in a bathroom. After all, glue traps are not a cat's friend...and any rat that makes three appearances in two hours is most certainly damaged in some capacity. Bean has enough constitution problems.

So, after making sure that the child and the animals were protected at all costs, P.J. began the fun task of pulling items out of the cabinet one by one. (I think our original "plan" was that the rat would kinda jump out onto the glue traps by himself. This did not happen.) Once the cabinet was cleared of anything, including rat, P.J. lined even MORE glue traps near the hole around the pipe fitting. (Oh, so holes "let in" rats? Gotcha. Also- by this point the rat could've done a sweet art project with all the glue. Or maybe re-tiled the under-sink area.

Peej closed the glue-trappy cabinet. We sat back to wait.

Not five minutes later the scratching at the door began again, this time accompanied by a thud that sounded an awful lot like a gluetrap stilt. This when it got interesting.

P.J. instructed me to leave the room (I love him so much) so he could sweep the critter into a bag and carry him outside.

Except.

The cabinet has a wooden lip that prevents glue traps from being swept anywhere. P.J. was gonna hafta lift the thing up.

Except.

It was hissing. (Wouldn't you?) After various attempts at thwacking the corner of the trap to get it to do...something...P.J. realized that the rat was actually freeing itself.

"I have to kill it," P.J. told me with a level of angry panic I've never heard in ANYONE'S voice. I couldn't even reply, though I imagined an exclamation point was actually visible above my head. And apparently his extra surge of adrenaline kick-started P.J.'s Can Do attitude. He somehow distracted the rat from the front and GRABBED the tray from the back, flipping this beast into a Williams Sonoma bag. (Do you know what the term "bobo" means? Look it up. Sigh.)

Back to the rat. P.J., grasping the squirming bag o' rodent, walked it into the alley and Took Care Of The Situation.

I love him. In fact, I've never loved him more. I thought I was above blatant shows of machismo. False.

My hero then came back into the house and cleaned the kitchen, removing all traces of awfulness. Apologies were made to the cats, assuring them that we never doubted their mouser prowess. Side note- (this whole blog should be called 'side note')- Ender, the tabby, had been waking us in the middle of the night for about week, yowling and knocking things over in a very un-Enderlike manner. We, of course, yelled at him and hurled epithets like "bad" and "sleep-hater," not realizing that our long-suffering Good Cat was trying to tell us of the Chihuahua-sized beastie in the kitchen. We'll believe him from now on. Last night was the first night in weeks where he slept on our bed. We took that as a good sign.

Oh, and the stove towel? P.J. picked it up, post-Benny Hill episode, to find a HOLE THE SIZE OF LAKE ERIE. Yep, eaten through in an hour.

Crisis averted, we checked on the baby (still asleep), checked on the cats (pride wounded but blood disease-free) and settled in for some Mario Kart. Nothing soothes the nerves like Toad n' Yoshi.

I guess all's well that ends well- the lower level bathroom is really pretty AND rat-tunnel-free. Plus, if rodents talk- and we KNOW that they do- then we've just secured our place as THE home with which not to mess on Troy Street.

Actually, scratch that.

With our neighbors? We'd probably come in fourth.

I didn't even mention all the poosplosions.

Oh my stars, 10,000 hits on the ol' Bob Loblaw's Law Blog! (Or, you know, this one.) Let's see who the lucky reader is! Okie doke, someone from Wells, Maine. Hello! So happy to meetcha! And you got here via a search for...the top 10 songs about narcissism.

Welcome.

This morning upon waking I discovered that all of the feeling in my arms, hands and fingers was missing. There's a distinct possibility that this was because I slept on my side with my arms extended fully behind me, fingers and thumbs and palms stretched upwards like some sort of reverse Spiderman webbing action.

And THIS could be due to the fact that, moments before bed, P.J. informed me that there was a "symphony" of scratching and beating behind the walls.

Let me back up a little.

Remember the "Hey, what's that smell?" game we've been playing since July? (That game is SO fun in July.) Well, we've gotten better at it, and have [sorta] determined that the smell is definitely coming from the lower level bathroom. Our exterminator (yep, ours) told us that when he removed a boarded up section of the linen closet (of course) he could see that the bottom of the tub had rusted through and that the tub itself was sitting on a dirt floor. No foundation. Why not? He went on to tell us that while rodents could EASILY get in, there was no evidence of living anything and the smell was probably a dead rat trapped in the wall. The good news? The horsefly apocalypse would most likely finish it off.

Fabulous, terrifying news. If not for the fact that everyone involved in the renovation of this house IS A LIAR.

This is becoming an exorbitantly expensive game of Whack-A-Mole.

So, we decided to go ahead and rip out the rusty-bottomed tub and re-tile the bathroom. (Of course, the bathroom we use the least? Let's make it downright Martha Stewart Living. After all, the "Master Bathroom" washtub I use up on the third floor doesn't need to be pretty, just big enough for one person turned sideways.) Our bathroom contractors- veeery different from our plumbing, electrical and roofing contractors, mind you- started this past Monday. They are terrific! Excepting, of course, the minor detail that the new tub didn't fit. It doesn't matter WHO dropped the ball on this one (when I find out, heads will roll) because the important thing is- the new tub is 20 3/4 inches deep. I could happily drown in this new tub. And not even face-down, like in the old poor-excuse-for-a-water-vessel-careful-you-don't-trip-over-the-ledge-stepping-into-the-shower tubbie. So this is good.

However.

The exterminator was working side by side with the bathroom contractors to make sure, you know, that rats didn't jump out and start swinging from the ceiling fans. The bad news? There was a veritable Autobahn of rat roadways under the tub. The good news? Concrete rainstorm, pals. I was slightly concerned about anyone we might be keeping inside the perimeter, but was quickly assured that (again) there's no evidence of live rats and, of course, rats would be out of doors during the day. Of course.

Except that night we kinda thought we heard something.

No matter, the smell's gone, right? Mostly!

The next night there was a pitter patter of...something.

And then last night? A "symphony." Right before I fell asleep P.J. confirmed that he and the cats definitely heard SOMETHING in the walls. Perhaps by the stairs. Maybe in the under-stairwell closet.

"Don't open the under-stairwell closet tomorrow, ok?" (Ok!)

And THEN, moments before I drifted off to dreamland I remembered what a few people said about trapped rats. They'll either a) die and smell and bring back Horsefly Apocalypse 2k10 OR...b) they'll eat their way through the drywall.

OH MY GOD.

And, as we all know, rats are my number one, wretched, terrifying, poke-my-eyes-out biggest fear ever EVER ever (forEVA eva?- you're welcome, Nat) I can't imagine a creepier scenario. Because now that I am a mother, I have this stupid need to protect at all costs, making it an obvious possibility that a rat WILL break through the wall in the presence of Nora, forcing me to battle it TO THE DEATH.

Dammit.

This is why I slept in a bizarro defensive pose. Owie.

Update: The bathroom contractor just informed me that the the tub faucet I'd asked him to fix (it started at hot and went to cold at full blast) couldn't be reversed. For the faucet had been installed UPSIDE DOWN and they'd have to remove part of the wall to fix it. Did I want that?

Oh my, I want so many things. This is not one of those things.

First on the list would be a new decorative lock.

Lemme 'splain: The other night, Nora and I came home from work utterly exhausted. She hasn't been feeling so hot ('cause the kids for whom I nanny haven't been feeling so hot) and taking care of five "not feeling so hot" kids- six or seven, if they have friends over- is exhausting. It makes you dumb. Or, at the very least, me.

I never get the mail. Ever. P.J. grabs it on his way to the garage with his bike. I usually have started dinner and- whatever. I never grab it. I was feeling jaunty on Tuesday night, however, and thought it would be fun to "surprise" P.J. with a stack of mail. After changing Nora and letting her rest in the Pack n' Play downstairs, I put on boots and ran outside to get the mail- a mere ten feet away.

I did not lock the door.

I did not grab my cell phone.

It was ten feet away.

When I came back to the side door twenty seconds later, it was locked. And I did not have a key- in fact, NO ONE has a key to this lock- it is, sadly, decorative. (And one of the only things not stripped from this house the previous year. "Keep it," people urged us. "It's so PRETTY!") The contractors must have thought it was wonderful, too, as they turned it before leaving for the day. And- haha- when you twist the knob from the inside, it doesn't even APPEAR to be locked. Isn't that amazing?

This took a bit to figure out. My first thought, alarmingly for my dementia, was that we were haunted. That's right, the only way that this could have happened was if a malevolent spirit had decided to separate me from my baby. And then I remembered the baby. Inside. Alone. And starting to cry.

Five minutes earlier I had been g-chatting with P.J.- meaning that he was still at work. He had promised to be home by 5:45...but what if he was tied up at work? What if the trains were wonky? Also, five minutes earlier was 5:10pm. I would have to be outside for AT LEAST half an hour.

That's when I remembered I was wearing yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And it was getting dark. And coooold. And now Nora was definitely starting to scream.

So, I panicked. And stood in the doorway for a good few minutes, stupidly trying to knob (still locked!?) and wondering what the heck to do. We have no hidden key. (Didn't wanna take the chance that someone in this neighborhood would figure it out.) No neighbors had a spare key. (Choosing between the autistic 17-year old on one side and the aging drunk who speaks NO English on the other? That's a toughie.) I also didn't want to leave Nora alone and screaming in order to warm myself up somewhere. (Bad mother penance?)

After twenty minutes of watching my extremities turn from red to white, from numb back to extreme pain (it was about twenty degrees, mind you) and hearing Nora wail in frustration and sadness (a new level of hell,) I ran to La Brasa Roja up at the corner. It smelled delicious, but there was no time for chicken or lamb! I asked in Spanish if I could use the phone. The guy seemed awfully confused. Did I want a carryout menu? Finally he pointed me in the direction of the manager, who was apparently authorized on All Things Phone. He let me use his cell. (I guess the restaurant is terribly strict on phone usage.)

I called P.J.

Three times.

Left a voicemail.

Tried to sound brave.

Failed.

Ran back to Nora to hear her scream for the next half an hour.

At this point I actually felt a little dizzy and EXTREMELY sorry for myself. Plus, since I hadn't checked the time at the restaurant, I didn't really know what time it was, how long I had been outside or how long it would be until P.J. came home. If he came home. If he was even coming home. If the trains were working.

By now Nora was wailing that completely horrible mix of genuine tears and panicked heaving gasps. My skin was on fire with stabbing pain. I even cried for about two minutes until I realized that my tears were actually freezing in my eyes.

Finally, FINALLY P.J. arrived and threw his bike onto the lawn.

"How is she?"

He hurriedly unlocked the front door (for which we DO have all the keys) and ran to pick up Nora, who craned her neck unbelievably far to the left SO AS NOT TO LOOK AT ME.

I went upstairs and showered for thirty minutes on full blast hot. I looked like a lobster. A sad lobster. Finished cooking dinner. (Did I mention I had started making spicy coconut shrimp? It truly had the makings of a great evening. Then I had to go and abandon my daughter and ruin my immune system.)

But in the end it all jived. Nora forgave me- I AM her sole source of food, after all. Funny how that works. Dinner was quite good. P.J. enjoyed an episode of Lost and I began a few chapters of my book (that's right.) Passed out slightly thereafter from the bone-wearying sojourn of GETTING THE MAIL. (Never again, pal. The gravy train ends here.)

I am confident, now that it's Thursday (the happiest day of the week), that my luck will change. Maybe I'll get to take a rat-free soak in a gloriously deep tub tonight! And John Krasinski and Demetri Martin will allow Nora and I to have a good ol' mother/daughter crush fest.

And they all lived happily ever after.

So long as they ignored the scratching sounds inches from their faces.

***

Confidential to "Mom" and "Dad:" Congrats on 36 years! You make it look easy! (Actually, that's not true. But sometimes "hilarious" and "crazy" is better than "easy.")