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…
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