Life as we know it...

Off to school

2012-02-07T21:00:00.000-06:00

The day Jamie has been talking, reading, and dreaming about for years finally arrived: his very first day of school.

But, Sheila, school starts in September! You shout with incredulence and disbelief. Not when you have been on the waiting list for the CPS Preschool for all program. Then, school can certainly begin on a random Tuesday in February.

En route to school, Jamie's extreme reluctance to attend solo swim lessons was fresh in my mind; I was prepared to for him to put up a fight. Instead, my newly independent child leaped out of the stroller and bid me adieu outside the school entrance.

Although Jamie assured me he could make his own way, I escorted him into the auditorium. There, we waited for his new teacher, Ms. Leslie, to appear and usher him into the classroom under her knowledgeable and patient wing.

When she did, he didn't even throw me an over the shoulder goodbye glance. Color me equal parts proud and sad. A bittersweet moment if ever there was one.

Two and a half hours later, a jumping, joyous Jamie greeted me by his cubbie, bursting with stories of what he had learned, who he had met, and to admonish me for giving him a banana with a "brown part on it." A new friend even asked him to come over for a playdate.

This morning he informed me that he was going to grow up SO fast. His premonition is already coming true.

What time is it? Medieval Times!

2012-02-03T19:27:00.002-06:00

I love castles. Have even visited a few in my time. And I love history. It was always one of my favorite subjects in school and I have been known to enjoy a wide array of historical novels and films.

Why, then, have I viewed Medieval Times with such disdain, distaste, and dismay? Could it be the fake castle? The Disneyland-like experience I imagined waiting for me behind its flimsy doors? The faux lords, ladies and serfs lying in wait to sell me a princess hat, jousting stick, or light up sword?

As with much in life as a parent, I threw all of these opinions to the wind and embraced the experience and all the joy it would bring to my knight-loving birthday boy.

Unfortunately, upon arrival, only Patrick was excited about reliving his boyhood memories in Spain. He went on to describe an immense hall, filled with mounds of steaming food. As he paused, with a far off look in his eyes, I took the opportunity to mention that this hall was likely part of a castle that actually existed during Medieval Times, adding to his rosy-colored recollection.

Facing my fate with a forced grin on my face, we woke the weary boys and heaved a sleeping Aoife through - not an enchanted forest - but the tarmacked car park to the mid-80s castle that loomed large in front of us. As an added bonus, a still sleepy Jamie complained the entire walk and expressed several times - and in several emphatic ways - that he did not want to go into the castle and did not care. Brilliant.

Five seconds after stepping through the magical threshold into ye days of olde, however, my wee prince exclaimed, "I've never been in a real castle before. I'm so excited."

Crowns were bestowed on our heads, photos taken with the princess, we attended a knighting and drank from cups shaped like helmets. The show itself was awe-filled for a flag-waving, knight-struck Jamie who kept asking, "Is the movie over? No? This is a long movie."

We feasted with our fingers, gazed in wonder at the dancing horse, and cheered on our red and yellow knight to, well, not quite victory, but he got close. (Is he REALLY dead, a concerned Jamie inquired.)

Eventually, our knights tale came to a close, The black and white knight rejoiced his victory and we exited with full bellies and dreams of castles and kingdoms dancing in our heads.

Earlier in the show, Patrick mused that the swords would get some extra action when we returned home. Upon our exit, a thoughtful Jamie confirmed his suspicion with this comment: "If my brother, when we get home, would like to sword fight, I would agree to that."

1,460 days of Jamie

2012-01-28T09:37:00.000-06:00

Four years ago (see video here), I held Jamie in my arms for the first time, gazed into inquisitive newborn eyes and pondered what the future held for my much-hoped-for son. Four years ago, I rocked my wee babe to sleep night after sleepless night, my heart lifting with joy each time I thought "you're mine and I'm yours". Four years ago, our life was turned upside down, inside out, and pooped on by our darling, charming, cunning, chivalrous son. Hey, what's life without a packet of wet wipes at the ready?

As a new mother, I often wondered how much of our parenting would shape our son, and how much of his personality was already hard-wired in his wee potential-packed body. Four years on, I'm not much the wiser, but do see both nature and nurture at work in Jamie.

He loves books (gotta be in his genes with me as his mama), imaginary play (he has been a cat every day for the past four plus months, speaks to me in meows and often asks me to refer to him as kitty, not Jamie), the IDEA of team sports (will run like crazy in the soccer game, but steers clear of the ball for fear it might actually hit his foot), and being the boss, leader, foreman, teacher, whoever tells everyone else what to do (ahem, I point the finger firmly at Patrick's genes here).

Jamie is an avid fan of weapons, play fighting, knights, and the like - much to my disdain and displeasure. And when walking into his room, mind you don't trample an excavator, stumble over a bulldozer, or trip on the hundreds of construction and other trucks that fill the carpet.

When it comes to food, Jamie is a wonder. The boy will eat nearly anything. Is selective on the sweets he eats. (Quote:"Mommy, because you're such a good mommy and have been so nice to me today, I'm want you to eat my whole birthday cake,:" Translation: "It's crap; you can have it.") And actually asks for more of many of the foods I still won't eat, including eggs, bell peppers and pickles. Yes, yes, I know most grown ups and many many children do eat these foods, but I was veering back to the nature or nurture question - and his taste buds were definitively formed by nature.

Jamie is good (barring the nearly daily time out for making his brother cry for the 100th time). He is helpful and kind (picking up the fallen stack of aluminium roasting trays at the dollar store for the woman in front of us.) He is loving (Often helping Nico when they are not killing each other; To Aoife daily: How are you little girl? Telling me he loves me out of the blue.) He is inquisitive. Lord, is he inquisitive. I'm pretty sure every other sentence that comes out of his mouth is a question. He is curious, but cautious; always letting others test the waters first and always asking his sidekick Nico to accompany him on adventures.

In conversation, he engages you in a manner which belies his age - and experience. He's always curious how your day was. When Nico was displaying potential signs of tossing his cookies, Jamie insistently - and rightly - advised me to pick him up and take him to the bathroom. At his 4-yr checkup, the doc inquired what he would like to be when he grows up, to which he responded: A daddy who goes to school. Speaking of school, he's not in yet, but will tell anyone who is interested that he's on the waiting list.

Going back to the question of nature vs. nurture, he is famously stubborn (wow, where'd he get that from?), a scaredy cat (again, shocking), exacting - verging on anal - about certain things (not me, but I know a redhead that is...), and- when acting truly as himself - always wants to make others feel good. (I hope both this blond and the redhead can take some credit here. ;)

Jamie's favorite foods:

Dill pickles
Orange peppers
Hot dogs
Fish (in stick form only, please)
Potatoes, in any form
Watermelon
Strawberries
Raspberries
Oreos, Double Stuf. (strange, since we never have these in the house...;)

Jamie's favorite song: Hallelujah (Seriously, and before he heard it in Shrek. Really clueless on this one.)

Jamie's favorite things:

Blankie, especially it's tag, which he loves to hold and calls "taggie" (same blanker/taggie since birth
Bunny (gift from Ewa last year)
Milk (this, I know he got from me!)

And his 4-yr stats: (I know no one but me cares, but this is my blog!)

Weight: 39-1/2 lbs (75%)
Height: 42" (75-90%)
Blood pressure (88/60)
BMI: 15.75 (50%)

Thank you for enriching our lives in little and large ways everyday and filling our home with happiness, silliness and joy. My sweet boy.

And the cycle continues...

2012-01-23T20:37:00.000-06:00

Why do I have piles of expired coupons tacked to my bulletin board? Stacks of already read magazines? Unused movie gift cards from four years ago? Oh God, am I turning into a hoarder? Could be, if it runs in the blood. Case in point: last weekend I asked my mom for a rubber band to tie my hair back, and she pulled out a filled-to-the-brim bag full of bands that she saves from every newspaper. For what purpose? Even she does not know.

A. relaxing in the bath last Thurs.

Much to Jamie and Nico's delight, toys are included in the items my parents do not part with. (Upon reading the previous sentence, I can just imagine my dad pleading his own innocence on the issue and pointing an accusatory glance in his wife's direction. At a minimum, he is still an enabler. ;)

There are toys in nearly every room of their home: Cars, clappers and children's books in the TV room (including 'How the Grinch Stole Christmas' inscribed by a child's hand in red pen: 'Mike S. 5th Grade); dolls, dolls, dolls in my old room; and even a basketball in the formal living room. A basketball signed by Michael Jordan, no less. Said collectible was quickly confiscated from the drooling two year old enthusiastically whipping it around the room and screaming "bouncy!!"

Three peas in a pod!

After all the toys upstairs were examined, played with, and forgotten about, I ushered my wild things downstairs for the peace and quiet only a children's show can bring. Once there, however, the boys discovered the piano and a whole new treasure trove of toys - including a green 1970s Tonka truck that Jamie decided to adopt, despite P's best attempt at 'losing' it.

And so the evil cycle continues, from parent to child. How long will it be before I part with that little green truck, which Patrick is sure contains some sort of banned and harmful material? 2050? Maybe by then, much like the Jordan basketball, it will be a much-desired collectible . :)

My girl: Aoife @ 1 month

2012-01-17T23:00:00.003-06:00

I've been a mother for nearly four years. But having a daughter has my brain working overtime on what the future holds for me and she. Always a bit of a tomboy, I feel comfortable having boys. I can play games with them, run around like crazy with them, turn a blind eye to roughhousing that I hope does not end in tears, not worry about a few crumbs or a little ketchup on their faces, and leave uncomfortable puberty conversations to Patrick.

But I have been a daughter. And I know exactly what is in store for me. And I am scared, Very scared. Especially if she is anything like me.

This weekend we had the pleasure of visiting my childhood home, where my parents have called their love nest for the past 40 some years. There, Jamie sleeps in my old bed, surrounded by pink walls, dolls, dolls, dolls, and memories from swimming past. Gazing around my old room, it struck me for the first time that I can now pass my girly things along to my own girl. And it thrilled me just a little.

She can snuggle with Madison the mermaid (named after Madison from the movie Splash, of course), race around the room with my "Get Physical" girl, and line her shelves with Precious Moments.

But will she also throw epic tantrums like me? (Pre-church, supermarket aisles, and bowling alleys were my specialty.) Will she be such a picky eater that a separate meal will need to be made for her most nights? Will she have an stubborn streak that sends me screaming into the street?

I first gave her the pacifier at only 3 days old. With Jamie, I waited nearly 3 weeks. The more children I have, the more pragmatic I become!

"Wait until you have a daughter." I've heard it before; but never really listened to the words until now. And now I'm all ears. Who will my daughter be? Like me? Or the anti-She? Or something else altogether?

At one month old, she is everything I never dared to hope for and more. She is calm, tolerant, a champion eater, cries only when necessary, is beginning to sleep for up to 4 hours at a time, and is an amusingly vocal girl - full of sighs, whimpers, gulps, and snorts.

"She has a great disposition" the doc commented during Aoife's 4-week check up today. That's my girl.

Aoife's 4-week stats:

Weight: A VERY healthy 10 lbs, 3 oz (75-90 %)
Length: Stretching out to 23 inches (> 95%)
Head circumference: 15 inches (90%)
Hair color: Dark blond and becoming a bit monkish (so light on top and dark and longer in back that she looks like a monk)
Eye color: Getting more blue
Loves: Nursing, snuggling, soft blankets, hanging off of daddy's shoulder, relaxing in Jamie's room, Nicolas' and Jamie's love - when it does not come in the form of an elbow to the head or finger in the eye.

Old man winter rears his snowy head

2012-01-14T22:57:00.000-06:00

When people would congratulate me on my forthcoming baby and ask about b 3's due date, I would cringe and spit out "December 9th," as if it was a curse. A maternity leave curse, forcing me and my new sweet babe to endure 16 weeks of snow, frost, ice, and below freezing temps.

The unsuspecting well-wisher often thought I was catastophizing. Expecting the worse; for why would you take a newborn outside, even in the balmiest of temps? But I knew better. For I, dear reader, have bundled up and trudged through two previous winter wonderland maternity leaves.

No beach. No picnics in the park. No long, warm walks in the neighborhood. Bleak prospects for sun. And guaranteed increased time to get suited up and out the door.

Much to my unexpected pleasure, it seems as though my displeasure at being cooped up with a newborn reached Mother Nature. The first four weeks of Aoife's life have been filled with sun-soaked fall like weather. Perfect for neighborhood strolls, and frequent treks to area thrift stores in search of a steal of a deal

(Cases in point: Jamie's and Nico's snow pants, J's boots, and Nico's 'jack'et - all picked up by this thrifty mama for under $15!)

On Thursday, Old Man Winter finally roused himself from his long nap and blew in 5 inches of snow. Bringing my and Aoife's sunny strolls to a standstill, and filling Jamie with great joy and bravery.

With the threat of rain sure to wash the white stuff away on Monday, this morning we booted up and took advantage of Warren Park's snow covered sledding hill. Jamie has tackled this slope before, first as a onlooker, and then as a reluctant participant.

Nico, too, took part in snowpocolypse 2010, but again today exhibited the same level of interest he showed as an 11-month old - mute astonishment peppered with a few wails of "why are you putting me through this wet, cold experience?"

Aoife - cozied up in her carseat cocoon - slumbered through both her oldest brother's sheer glee and other slightly less older brother's shock and dismay.

When it was my turn to join Jamie on the hill, he was quick to reassure me and offer to help me if I was scared at all. My brave and chivalrous boy. The spell of the snow was broken and Nicolas finally spoke again when french fries were placed in front of him and Wolfie's. And Aoife...she'll be the first 1-yr-old to sled...perhaps even snowboard...down the hill next season. :)

Stuff my family says

2012-01-12T23:05:00.002-06:00

"I don't want daddy to ride his bike. I'm worried he'll get hit by a car." Jamie showing his worrywart side. Must be his grandma Mary's influence... ;)

"The museum is closing? Let's get out of here before they lock us in!" Further evidence of his worrywart nature.

"You have to be married to have children. If you're not, they'll take them away." Honestly, where does Jamie get his information from???

"Goodnight chocolate face. Goodnight green eggs and ham face." Exchange between me and Jamie before bed tonight. Makes more sense when you are in the know that 'green eggs and ham' is my code word for chocolate chip cookies. :)

"Special? Special? Show? Show?" Nico asking - with increasing volume - for special treats and a kids show at all times of the day with a gleam of hope in his eye and a maniacal laugh after.

"Ah" Aoife's first sound. And it begins with an A! Now, on the the "oh..."

And, the clincher: "I've got another you on my hands." P after forgetting to bring his wallet to Jewel - for the second time - and Jamie reminding him that "he does this all the time."

Nico @ 2 y.o.

2012-01-07T23:35:00.000-06:00

Nico, Nicolas, my cutie cutie, my sweet boy. You little devil. :)

Two years ago you graced our lives with your loud cries for attention. And then cries to be put down and left alone, thank you very much. Your 'could care less' attitude to your big bro inadvertently beating you up. And current love of wrestling, whatever the injury. Your initial vehement disdain for the pacifier; which, now, you lovingly look for before settling down to sleep.

Your contrarian nature. Your kindness. Your gentleness. Your love for your family. Your love for Buzz Lightyear, Curious George, and Thomas the Train. Your disdain for any food you don't feel like eating at that exact moment. Your need to have/hold/eat whatever Jamie is having.

Your sweet laughter. Your ear to ear grin. Your fat sad tears when denied what you believe should be yours...and now. Your love of a good joke. Your insistent shouts of "mama! dada! ewa! whoever can hear me now get me the "F" out of my bed and now!". Your enthusiastic alerts: Mama! Moan (phone)! Mama! Baby! Mama! Beep beep! (oven). Mama! Door! Mama? Mommeeeeeee!!!!!

Your favorite foods:

Chippies! (could be potato chips or French fries...just bring on the fried potatoes with salt.)
Coo-coo (cookies, preferably Oreos or chocolate chip)
Hot dogs
Edamame (Didn't see that one coming, did ya?)
Apples
Raspberries
Rice crackers

Your favorite songs:

Nico, Nico, bo-beko, banana-fana fo fe-ko, me, mi, mo me-ko, Nico.
Take me out to the ball game
Twinkle Twinkle little star
The "for he's a jolly good fellow" part Irish people (does anyone else do this?) sing after happy birthday
Any of the magical music daddy plays on the iPod.

Your favorite drink: Milk. Hands down. No other contenders.

Your special things:

Blankie
Paci (soon to be a memory, as soon as mommy gets brave enough)
George stuffed animal

We are so very blessed to have you in our lives. My Nico Pico Tico. Cheers to two wonderful years!

Is everybody here yet? (Aoife @ 2.5 weeks)

2012-01-04T22:10:00.001-06:00

Is everybody here yet? This was a concept that a friend of a friend shared with me. She had a child, then another 18 months later, followed by another another 18 months later, and a fourth 18 months after that. That's a lot of children in a relatively short period of time. When asked when her family would be complete, she replied, "I'm just not sure everyone's here yet."

In my own experience, I was not able to plan my family out in 18 month increments. But the idea of waiting for all the family members to "arrive" appealed to me. It gave me solace to think that like invited guests, my children would come,just in their own time. Some would arrive after many reminders while others would just show up unannounced. Regardless of how or when they arrived, I would be waiting patiently for them.

Aoife, for her part, has fit into the family as if she knew she always had a place in it. So far, she is a laid back baby. Crying only when necessary. Last night, during a fit of sadness, I inquired "what's wrong Aoife?" To which a chair-sharing Jamie jumped in, "Are you hungry? Are you tired? Do you need a new diaper? Do you want to be holded?" Seems like he has this taking care of baby thing down pat.

Should have imported in landscape, and yes her hand is actually purple (!!)

She is a social lass, too, staring at her brothers and father with quizzical crossed eyes. My father would say it was only gas, but I do believe she has also given me two true smiles over the past few days.

With her genetic makeup, it was inevitable for Aoife to be slightly overindulgent. The girl just does not know when to say when. And I am not very good at refusing to serve her. The result? Jamie telling me he does not want to hold the baby any longer because he's afraid she's going to spit up.

To date, she has been a champion sleeper. Snoozing for hours at a time during the day and even at times after the sun goes down. For some reason, she is happy to sleep on her own during the daylight hours, but when the moon is up, craves my company. Again, I am not very good at turning the babe away. :)

In these early days, she has also shown great patience for a newborn. Or could it be that I am less inclined to pick her up as quickly as I did Jamie or Nico? No matter, the end result is the same. When she wants some attention, she will snort and sniff, followed by the inevitable indignant cry at being ignored at all.

Nico is always the first to respond to her needs. At her first sniffle, he alerts me: "mama! baby! mama? mama!" and consoles Aoife (who he insists on calling Edie) with snot and drool filled kisses. I shower Nico with accolades about his protectiveness over and love of his little sis. And can only hope it continues for the rest of their lives.

Aoife's 2-week stats:

8 lbs, 14.5 oz (back up to her fighting weight after dropping to 8 lbs. 2-1/2 oz at 4 days)
Length: 21-1/2 inches
Head circumference: 14-1/4 inches
Hair color: Dark blond or auburn, depending on who you ask
Eye color: Very dark blue/grey
Full of: Sugar, spice and everything nice :)

Home improvement

2012-01-02T21:30:00.002-06:00

Upon entering my home for the first time, guests have been known to comment on the building's "great bones" or "spaciousness" or perhaps even it's "vintage charm."

My builder. Yes, he does come complete with builder's crack. ;)

But, to date, no one has been blown away by the 20-year-old antique refrigerator. Or green with jealousy upon setting their eyes upon the blue and gray sponge painted back stairwell. Or clutched their chest and gasped in awe at the small brown bathroom, complete with hole in ceiling, nor it's sister bathroom that comes complete with Jacuzzi tub, but sadly no sink.

Me and my girl in our beautiful brown bathroom

You see, we had a plan. A five year plan. If you are among the three people who have been reading this blog for the past five years, you know that like most five year plans, ours has turned into a 15-year plan. Amazingly, it took two educated and employed individuals the entire five years of our plan to admit to the following realities: 1) Children are wonderful, but very expensive. 2) The housing market is in the crapper. 3) Money does not grow on trees. 4) We are simple people with simple needs. (I'm still trying to fully accept this one.)

"Vintage" fridge in background of our Feb. 2011 fam pic

Thoughts of our dream home have since been erased from our memories and replaced by practical improvements that both we and our bank account can live with.

Behold! The $10 yard sale light fixture. Cheap and cheerful.

When our refrigerator finally went on the fritz at the end of the summer, I conducted an exhaustive search for the perfect replacement. Thanks to AJ Madison's great selection, no taxes and free delivery, our food is now chilled by an appliance built in the 21st century.

The stairwells in our building serve as the entrance into the apartments. They are what people base their first impressions on. So the blue had to go.

The back stairs are still a work in progress, but I've been assured they will be a thing of beauty when complete.

And you've heard about the new blinds. I had Patrick install new window coverings in not just the front room, but every room in our house. The result? Just one mis-measuring mishap (I blame P, he blames me...) A 12-hour education in making non-level windows look level for P. And a finished look from every vantage point.

Next on the agenda? Patrick claims the bathrooms are due for a refresh this spring. I'm hopeful, but not putting all of my soap in that basket. ;)

Happy "Ho Ho Ho" to you

2012-01-01T14:02:00.001-06:00

Christmas kicked off this year with grandma's traditional reading of "Sponge Bob Squarepants" It's just not Christmas without a Crabby Patty.

Thanks to the ever so well-stocked and well-priced Trader Joe's, I was able to bring the boys giant Gingerbreadmen. Jamie proudly decorated his all on his own.

Nico, on the other hand, demanded that I stop putting the delicious candies on the cookie man and place them directly in his mouth.

We then all gathered around the tree for train time. Ewa and the boys successfully set up the set for all of us to enjoy. I participated by being the lady behind the lens.

Santa + a crying child is a must to make any holiday bright. Two-thirds of my children were more than happy to supply the frightened tears when gently forced to take a seat on the jolly man's lap. First Nico...

Then Aoife. Although her tears could be attributed to the fact that her pink shirt clashed with the big man's red suit.

Jamie at least complied with a ear to ear grin and resulting amazement when Santa gave him the stuffed animal kitty he had just asked for hours before. "How did he know mama?" I guess his elves are always listening.

Then it was time to pile on the couch again, this time with big papa for some quality time with him and the amazing apps of his iPhone.

Meanwhile, his loving wife is left in the dark ages with a phone that doesn't even have a keyboard. Or access to the Internet, let alone make appetizers. ;) Why would I ever charge it or take it out of the house with me? It doesn't DO anything except make phone calls. Who needs that in a phone?

What could P do to make She's Christmas bright? You can almost see the wheels spinning in his head...

Aoife?...And how do you spell that?

2011-12-24T14:57:00.002-06:00

The first sentence I'm going to teach Aoife is "It's spelled different than it sounds." The poor girl will surely use this handy string of 6 words more than any other when first meeting everyone from teachers to doctors to an array of perplexed people who will all certainly give her the same baffled look.

The kind pediatrician who visited our crazily named girl in the delivery room was the first to give me said baffled look. "What's her name" he innocently inquired. "Aoife." I responded, followed by a short but very pregnant pause on his part. Followed up with the clarifying, "Can you spell that for me?" And yet another look of puzzlement when I began "A-O-I..." Oi vey.

My sister in law Trina was the first to inform me that Aoife's name has every vowel in it except for "u". To which Patrick responded "I forgot 'u' was even a vowel."

Gifts from Nico

While Aoife is not so well known of a name here in the good 'ol US of A, in Ireland it was in fact the 10th most popular girl's name in Ireland in 2010. Perhaps she'll one day live in Ireland with all of her other vowelishly named brethren. Until then, she will be unique, special, a stand out, and the earliest speller on the block.

Aoife's kangaroo express

2011-12-20T22:45:00.001-06:00

Day four and I still cannot believe the small but strong person who has taken over my shoulder/chest area as her sleeping spot of choice is here...and a girl. While I cannot yet place the child in pink, I am slowly but surely training myself to say foreign tounge-twisters like "she" "girl" and "daughter".

How are big brothers Jamie and Nico adapting to their little sister? Nico is all kisses, love and concern. Always asking me to pick the babe up when she cries and kindly offering her toy wrenches, bouncy balls, and juice. Jamie is a little slower to show true love, but is coming around. Interestingly, there seems to be a direct correlation between the amount of chocolate and sweets I give him and how much he professes his love of Aoife.

Take a look for yourself. And don't miss the surprise ending!

Welcome to the family Aoife Marie!

2011-12-16T18:27:00.001-06:00

Aoife: "Beautiful, radiant, joyful." Known as the greatest woman warrior in the world.

Aoife Marie Nolan. Born 12.16.11 @ 5:36 a.m. 8 lbs, 11 oz. 20-1/2 in.

A daughter, I have a daughter. Over the course of the past four and a half years - 123 weeks of which I have been pregnant - there has always been a chance that Patrick and I could have a baby girl. But I refused to believe it until today, when my little girl looked at me for the first time.

The road to meeting our little radiant warrior did have a few twists and turns. Payback, perhaps, for all the bumps in the road I made her endure during our bike rides over the past 9+ months? I already admire her unpredictability - and am certain I will come to fear it at some point in the future.

Lady in waiting: In triage, watching Conan. Patrick takes the opportunity to purchase the tap tap photo app for his iPhone..all the photos in this post are the results!

First, there was the issue of her due date. Dec. 9 came...and went. As did the following 6 days. At my 41 week appointment yesterday, the doc even asked me if I ever had an ultrasound to confirm my actual due date. "No, we're just threw a dart at a calendar and are keeping our fingers crossed" the surly side of me wanted to respond. But instead I kept my gob smacked as she went on to inform me that I was measuring small.

The ultrasound then confirmed that the babe was snug as a bug and weighed in at no more than 7 lbs, 9 oz. My tricky girl. She even had me fooled.

The waiting game continues in labor and delivery...

During our bike ride home, I took in the lakeside view of windswept abandoned beaches and silhouette of barren trees against the gray blue wintry sky and pedaled my weary body and babe towards home and the reward of swapping my barely there bike seat for a comfy chair.

Later that evening I lounged on the couch and watched P perfect the hanging of a roller shade. J and Nico pretended to be chefs on a train. And I felt my first twinge of a contraction. Doubted it. Felt another one. Doubted a few more. And finally decided to get clean and shiny for my new babe...just in case.

She, P and A-o-fe...as her name is sure to be pronounced...poor girl.

This time around, I was also Group B Strep positive, which meant that ideally I needed to arrive at the hospital 4 hours before delivery so I could have the pleasure of a penicillin drip trickling into my arm. This new twist piled the pressure on as I second and third guessed my labor pains.

At 8:30 pm, with my contractions between 8-5 mins apart, Dr. Cox gave me the go ahead come to the hospital. Once Omar arrived to take charge of the boys, I had the pleasure of visiting the Christmas tree with Nico before putting his wee head to bed. Jamie, who just hours before blinked back tears at the notion that I would not be around in the morning, kept his eyes firmed glued on the TV and barely noticed our departure.

En route to Northwestern, along the same route the babe and I had biked along earlier in the day, Patrick asked what my dream profession would be. Still focused on the questionability of my barely-there contraction pains, I flipped the question on him. And learned that P craves the admiration of a crowd: Professional soccer player, race car driver, and golf pro were this top three. The good news? His dream professions have a HUGE emphasis on the "dream." factor. :)

Another, more tangible dream, of Patrick's? To take a small detour on our way to the hospital to purchase him a Big Mac meal. Ever the accommodating wife, I at first balked and then complied with this simple request. But drew the line at carrying the McMeal into the OB triage area with me while he parked the car. I sensibly opted to wheel in the suitcase instead.

In triage, the nurse confirmed that I had made some progress since my doc appt earlier in the day, but not much. And the option of going home was raised. Which made tears raise up in my eyes. Going home = admitting defeat. Admitting that I did not know my body well enough to know when to come into the hospital. And on my third child, no less! No mam, I was not going home.

P finally got his little girl!

Once my mind was set, the clock began ticking:

11:00 pm: penicillin drip in. Pam, who was also one of our nurses for Jamie's birth, gazes in amazement at what I consider scary veiny arms, and she refers to as "a gift."
1:30 am: Dr. Cox arrives with her usual air of kindness and confidence and nudges things along by breaking my water. I am still only 3.5 cm...and thankful for the extra time to catch some zzzs.
2:30 am: Still at 3.5 cm and in very little pain, I request my epidural, knowing the worst is yet to come.
4:30 am: Dr. Cox smiles confidently as she delivers the same darn news: 3.5 cm, cervix still not thinning. She orders me up some "vitamin P" (Pitocin) to really get things going.
5:00 am: I buzz for the nurse and advise her that go time is near.
5:15 am: I say a sentence I've never uttered before: "I feel a head." There is much activity in the room.
5:25 am: Dr. Cox instructs me to hold my own legs, after listening to me tell Patrick to go sit down if he feels faint. Patrick perseveres...
5:36 am: Dr. Cox announces that it's a girl. Aoife is born! The room explodes into happiness and excitement. I cry tears of joy and relief (that delivery is done!).

When they placed my new daughter on my chest (and as she snuggles on my should now as I document the story of her first birthday), I was and am truly in awe. I feel so blessed. Aoife, Jamie and Nico are truly an embarrassment of riches that I could not have even imagined five short years ago.

Welcome to the world Aoife Marie. Please, PLEASE, be kind to me. :)

Girly boy no more!

2011-12-13T15:08:00.000-06:00

These days, I like my boys with long hair.

Even Patrick recently started feeling a little jealous of Jamie and Nico's flowing locks and joined them in a "mane" event. He's even upped the ante by growing in his manly goatee, which has many a female relative begging him to "get that thing off your face!"

Alas, all good things must come to an end. And this weekend that meant J and Nico had a date with a stylist at Snippets. As with most things I do in my personal life, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. With no babe in sight, I had extra time on my hands and the boys were beginning to look a bit like Cousin It.

Not one to repeat history if I can help it, I declined Patrick's offer to coif Nico's hair for the first time, as he did for Jamie. And was very happy with the results of my sage decision. No tears (me or him) and I received one handsome, shortish-haired, "pop!" licking boy out of the deal.

Nico even got to enjoy two of his favorite things during Sonya's quick and painless cut: sitting in a Buzz Lightyear car and watching Toy Story 3. He has been touching his hair, smiling, and saying "pop?!" ever since.

With his new 'do, my little baby is a little more grown up. And ready to play his newest role: Big bro.

Overtime

2011-12-12T23:53:00.000-06:00

Some time around midnight Friday night, the overtime buzzer when off, and is still ringing in my ears. All weekend long I harbored the hope that the baby was preparing for its victory dance. But here we are - still a team.

What is it with my children? Why are they such procrastinators? J: 9 days late. Nico: 2 days late. B3: Currently about 4 days late. I know I'm am alluring and charming woman, but c'mon. Even I get sick of me after a while. ;)

The real issue is that I don't feel like the babe is going to come anytime soon. (I write this in the slim hope my words will awaken the competitive, contrarian fire that I know burns within this child...)

And then there's the harsh reality reminder: The offered/threatened induction. On Fri, Dr Wise didn't even mention it, knowing my viewpoint. Today, however, after a weekend of no action,...I was offered an induction on Thurs night, which I kindly turned down.

Call me crazy (OK, crazy) but I'd like my body to be the thing that kicks this labor into gear. I'd like some part of the delivery to be sans IV. Then watch me talk out of the other side of my mouth when it comes to the actual delivery and the epidural...

There is a general assumption among the masses that I'm clawing at the walls to get this kid out. That I shouldn't wait another minute to 'get back to normal.' I'm smart enough to know, though, that there is no normal anymore. And this child will greet the world when it is well and ready.

In our overtime, I'm happy to give it - and me - the additional opportunity to enjoy our current comforts. We'll soon enough be snuggled in together, getting to know one another, and mulling over why we every delayed meeting in the first place.

Blinded by the light

2011-12-09T22:55:00.001-06:00

Santa, this Christmas, I would like my neighbors to stop peering into my bare windows. (Especially that pesky woman upstairs who claims to be related to us.) Please block the harsh streetlight with dark wood and fabric. And cloak my living room in warmth and coziness. I promise to leave you a Guinness on Christmas Eve. Sheila

Ask and ye wish shall be granted! With just a little help from my wild-maned in-home handyman and a roomful of delivery boxes from Blinds.com. In just two swear-filled hours and another calmer, more confident hour tonight, P, me and the boys decked our windows in new wooden blinds that make me feel all warm inside.

Jamie certainly has been the hardest worker. At one point he regaled me with tales of how all of his labor bathed him in sweat. Nico has been enthusiastic about the incoming plethora of boxes and tools to wreak havoc with, but also in need to more holding than this assisting construction mama can attend to.

One burning question remains: Why oh why did we leave Mary's temporary window dressings up for not 5 months, but 5 years? Now that I have secured what I consider a stellar deal, see how easily the blinds are going up, and how they mak our house feel even more like a home...I can only blame procrastination and laziness. Patrick's, of course. ;)

Four days and counting

2011-12-05T23:19:00.000-06:00

Enjoyed a relaxing and delicious "last supper"/walk down memory lane with Patrick: Check.
Rode my bike into work today against all sane arguments to the contrary: Check.
Spent quality time at Target and with a laundry basket on my head with my current baby Nico, while the big boys bonded over Diego and doorknob repairs: Check.
Fed my need to "nest" by washing, organizing, and generally driving myself to distraction. Check.
Lingered in a grumpy/surly mood over the past few weeks which has some speculating that this babe could be a girl with a firey attitude: Check.
Scratched every exposed inch of skin - and repeat repeatedly- even though I have no visible signs of dryness...must be the baby "itching" to get out! Check.
Decided on baby names: Notsomuch.
Ready for the big day...I'm sure I will be when it comes!

Next week

2011-11-30T23:01:00.000-06:00

"Next week." These words have begun to stop me dead in my tracks. Bring beads of cold sweat to my brow. Force me to finally face reality. I am due to have a baby...next week. You'd think nearly 9 months of knowing about the coming babe would prepare a girl. Just not this girl.

My final stubborn connection to my firm state of denial comes with two wheels. And is my ticket to independence. As Patrick tailed me to work the other day, he slowed just before Olive beach to helpfully inform me that the bike path exit for the hospital is at Chicago Ave. I smiled and pedaled on, not so secretly hoping to one day tell a story that begins with, "I was riding my bike on the day you were born..."

Three minutes later, though. I was snapped from my hazy birth story dream when a woman cut me off and forced me to quickly come to a cat-like nimble stop where both my bike and I were left a little shaken, but standing firmly on the ground. "Maybe it's time to pack it in," a worried Patrick advised. No, sir.

Did he see my baby-protecting stop? My agility in the face of adversity? My kind wish to the evil woman to have a nice day? This mama and child duo are destined to ride the path until the very end, my friend.

Today the wintry sun and mild temps even inspired me to lace up my running shoes for a quick jog along the lake. A mile in, however, I wised up and decided to slow down to a quick walk and take in the lovely wind-swept views. No need to rush this babe into the world just yet...maybe next week isn't such a scary proposition after all.

Thanksgiving 2011 (best title yet, eh?)

2011-11-29T23:03:00.000-06:00

As a self-aware woman, I am strongly in tune with my faults and flaws. You've gotta recognize them to decide to ignore them, right?

Once such blemish in my DNA is the ability to parent with creativity. To really think outside of the box, I rely upon the good advice and experience of others. Working in the world of knowledge management, I have learned to refer to this as positive "knowledge sharing" - not the much more harsh and judgemental concept of idea stealing by an unimaginative mother. Yes, yes...knowledge sharing.

This Thanksgiving, I put my sharing hat on and tried on two new knowledge nuggets that I was sure would wow my wee men. 1) Have Patrick tell the boys the story of the day they were born and how thankful we are to have them in our lives. The beginning of a quaint and sentimental family tradition, no? No... Jamie kept trying to hurry the story along but Patrick did wow me with a detail I had forgotten (timing my contractions with a stop watch...2008 was so old school! Now he would just ask Siri to do it for him. )

New Thanksgiving tradition one a dud with my dudes, I moved to to idea B) Tell the true story of Thanksgiving to give the day more meaning. The jury is still out on this one, but I'm pretty sure Jamie was expecting at least one fight scene and not so much love and harmony over hominy. ;)

Nico at least got into my tried and true Thanksgiving parade viewing tradition. I don't fault him for demanding to watch the Curious George in a spacesuit balloon fly over Michigan Ave. again....and again....and again. But let's just say one of us was less curious about seeing it again after the 10th time. One look at Nicolas' gleeful grin and unrelenting happiness at seeing his George larger than life, though, had me hitting rewind yet again.

After whipping ourselves and the house into ship shape, we welcomed our first Thanksgiving Day guests: my parents. Mar pitched in in the kitchen while my dad and Patrick weighted the couch and chair just so to make sure the furniture didn't accidentally slide across the room. ;) Tired of cleaning, I recruited P away from his couch duty to prepare the appetizers for our about to arrive family.

The rest of the day is a happy blur. Jamie, Molly, Ian (and Nico when he was allowed) mountain climbed with dog leashes in the stairwell while we adults chatted and noshed on delicious delights upstairs at Rita and Omar's new second-floor home. Patrick and Sean helpfully tried to fix a window...and accidentally broke it. 7 years good luck?

My mom formed an Irish trifecta with P's mom and aunt. Her brogue was back in full force.

Rita and Omar cooked a meal for a king, including accents like duck fat and potatoes three ways.

Uncle Jim, Brian and my dad made sure the furniture upstairs stayed in place.

And three of my lovely nieces - Colleen, Molly and Alicia - bonded on the couch.

Christain showed off his culinary skills with a spot-on apple tart and decadent chocolate mousse. Bella tried valiantly to hide from the camera and Patrick's dating advice, but failed. Alexander made a witty appearance before dashing off for deals at Best Buy.

Trina wore her best and cutest accessory: Edie. And I managed to do as little work as possible, while eating as much as possible, and thoroughly enjoyed myself doing so. Faults and all!

Who do you think you are?

2011-11-21T23:27:00.000-06:00

"The only Jamie I know is a loser."
(complete silence for a full count of 20 seconds)
"Noooooooo!"
"Interesting. How do you spell that, again?"

Potential list of names jotted down during last week's date night. Names obscured to protect the innocent. ;)

These are just a sampling of reactions I've received from loved ones - LOVED ones, mind you - after sharing potential baby names. It's the coworkers and near-strangers who are kind enough to nod, smile and keep their evil thoughts to themselves.

So this time around, I'm not in a sharing mood. Partly because our family members are known to be openly cruel and mocking - in the nicest way possible, of course - but also because I simply don't know. And it's not the first time.

"Just make a decision, woman!" is the frustrated reaction I elicit from Patrick when I whine and waiver...and ultimately change the subject.

So, how about those Bears? Can they rally with Cutler out for the rest of the season? ;)

Meet me in the hotel room

2011-11-19T11:17:00.001-06:00

Thirteen years ago today, P and me met during one fateful encounter. The first seedling of our love was planted in a beer-soaked bar. Took root in a garden apartment. Sprouted in Rome. Budded in Chicago and throughout the U.S., Ireland, England, Spain, and Italy. Flourished in the three-flat we call home. And led to three little seedlings who are carrying on our love, history, and, of course, own brand of insanity. ;)

In honor of our bakers' dozen anniversary - and in light of the few remaining weeks we have before B3 and me are inseparable - we ventured downtown for 24 hours alone. To go where we pleased. When we pleased. Without wipes in my bag. And no responsibilities to wake up to in the morning. It was delightful. (Thank you, Heather, for the inspiration!!)

After checking in on B3 during my 37 week appointment, I strolled the city streets to check in to our hotel. The act of staying in a hotel room a mere 7 miles from home made the whole experience that much more luxurious.

Patrick met me there, relaxed and ready for adventure. I, on the other hand, was, sad and teary-eyed, overwhelmed by the enormity of ensuring that we made the most of our short time alone. Not the best start of our babymoon, but me still being me, a little over thinking was to be expected.

My handsome husband quickly saved me from the room and myself and handed me happiness in the form of the city. We strolled down Michigan Ave. without agenda or destination. We shed our thick native skins and took in the sights and sounds of Chicago like tourists.

In a quiet corner at Pops for Champagne, we sipped overpriced drinks and noshed on $5/oz honey-laced goat cheese paired with the salumi de jour. In a nostalgic turn, we continued our evening at Cafe Iberico - the scene of our first date. Amid an upbeat, yet confusing, audio and video display of dance videos, we dined on an array of delicious tapas. At least this time my shirt didn't pop open.

An inspired conversation led us to Whole Foods, where we picked up a chocolate raspberry cake and quart of milk (for big mama here) and a 6-pack of beer and packet of chips (for big papa). Back at the hotel, we got cozy, devoured our desserts, enjoyed a movie, and happily drifted off to sleep.

The next morning included a good lie-in until almost 9 a.m. (!!) followed by Yolk for both healthy (me) and slightly-less-so (P) breakfast options. With both of our phones on the verge of battery failure, I was forced to the archaic ways of yesteryear and purchased a paper to get the nearby movie times. But, of course, the Trib no longer lists downtown movie theaters or times. Curse you progress!

Our lack of technology and information played perfectly into my high-minded plans, however. The Art Institute it was. And for as long as I wanted to linger. Patrick insisted we start with his passion - the impressionists. There, among the first of the Monet's, a friendly guard inquired about my baby bump, and promptly insisted - several times - that is was clearly a boy. Much to Patrick's chagrin.

Gazing at the waterlillies from thisclose and then f a r a w a y managed to bring back a spring in his step. And a nice pair of ladies commented on his likeness to Van Gogh's famous self-portrait. The similarity is striking, no?

We then wound through the early European portraits, visited the gallery of armor in honor of Jamie, and took in the American masters. I smiled during our entire tour of the new contemporary wing. From Miro to Picasso to some strange man who's string of lightbulbs and mound of candy-you-can-take counted as art what's not to smile at? Watching Patrick's disdainful reactions to those pieces of art that could be - hmmm...debatable - as art, was perhaps the most enjoyable, however.

After 4 hours on my feet, my load-bearing belly and swollen cankles were due for a rest. And found it in style at Smith and Wollensky's for a late lunch. With nearly no time left to spare, we dashed back up Michigan Ave., only to get distracted by an Aldo store and its alluring window display. My shoe-loving man tried on many and picked up two stylish pairs, while I managed to leave well-heeled in a new pair of boots.

Our date day ended at - of all places - the Apple Store. I left Patrick in line to purchase his first iPhone (he has not put it down since...and has started called me Siri...).

Back at the homestead, Jamie greeted me with such happiness that I almost felt guilty for leaving him in the first place. Almost....

36-1/2 weeks: The more the merrier

2011-11-16T23:08:00.000-06:00

I look like a pregnant woman. Wobble like a pregnant woman. And receive hourly internal pokes to the lower abdomen and prods to the ribcage that don't let me forget that I am a pregnant woman,

Still, when anyone is kind enough to offer me a seat, help with my groceries, or assist with lifting an object, I immediately respond with a look of perplexity and an assertive "no, thanks". Then, it hits me: this kind person is trying to be nice to the pregnant lady...who is me.

I've either lost my mind or am fully in denial. Either way, it works for me. ;) Mirrors, these kind people, and heaving my load-bearing hips out of bed are the only things that bring me back to reality.

It was difficult, however, to deny my baby's impending birth when I caught glimpses of his/her-self during my 36-week ultrasound on Friday. The head-down babe was contentedly sucking on a finger or two when Dr. Wise and I said hello.

After our face-to-fuzzy face meeting, B3 snugly tucked into her/his own belly-sized carrier as we biked home along the blustery grey/blue lakefront.

The boys also like to remind me that I do not walk alone. Nico, after climbing my belly like a jungle gym, will point at what P fondly calls my "basketball-sized bump" and question "baby?" Then punctuate to question with a belly kiss.

Jamie, for his part, has come out with some great one-liners: "When you get that baby out of your belly, I bet you won't get sick anymore." and "Mom, your belly is so big!" and "Does the baby want some chocolate?" (as I am stuffing my face with the good stuff.) and "Mommy, how big is the hole where the baby will come out of?" (Me: Just the right size.)

And Patrick, dear Patrick. My oldest baby. I think he fears for his life - or, more precisely, the loss of it. My solace: There's got to be some truth to the saying "The more the merrier"...right?

Do what I say, not as I do...

2011-11-16T00:06:00.000-06:00

Scene: Sunday evening dinner at our new tenant's apartment. They shop at Whole Foods, cook for us, and clean up. And still pay the rent. It is truly a dream. Now, if only I could get those darn dogs to stop barking at the back door...

J, who is recovering from a bout with a nasty stomach bug, looks at our over piled plates with begging eyes. I wisely tell the poor boy that water is all his body can take for the moment. And happily scarf down another bite of my butter-laden meal.

Jamie the tummy bug slayer (yes, yes, I know I am against guns and weapons in general, but you try explaining that to a 3 year old boy who just wants to play!)

Three hours later, I regret every last bite. And wish I had followed my own sage advice, knowing that - of course - I would be the bug's next victim.

Monday morning, Jamie bounds into our room, beaming and shouting, "I'm back to normal! Yeah!" Meanwhile, Patrick and I cower under the bed covers, green and groaning.

Really, this is all Nico's fault...he was the first to catch the bug and kindly pass it along to the rest of us over the next 36 hours. Such a good sharer, my sweet boy. ;)

Hell's bells, it's the Dells!

2011-11-10T00:04:00.001-06:00

Places I thought I would never be caught dead in (perhaps only after being embarrassed to death...)

Wisconsin Dells water park
Wisconsin Dells water park
Wisconsin Dells water park

Why is no one in the water @ the water park???

It's not that I am above such entertainment. Simply that I was immersed in water from a young age for competitive, not enjoyment purposes, really dislike a crowd - especially a wet one, and prefer cozying up to a warm fire over a cold playground that constantly spits water in your face.

Jamie and Peter being shuttled to fun!

Ah, what changes being a parent forces you to make! The good news for me is that we were luxuriously eased into our WI Dells water park experience thanks to our friends Julie and Alexander. Last weekend, they invited us to tag along and stay in a spacious three-bedroom suite and enjoy all the fun and frivolity that four adults and four young children can possibly pack into 42 hours.

Four-boy pile up.

Patrick generously volunteered to check out the golf course for us, so we had that covered early on. ;) He returned with memories of beautiful scenery, a great first few holes, and then...his inevitable blow up hole and resulting score of 111. Good man. He took one for the team.

Chillin' in J and Peter's own room.

Having the run of our hotel room, on-demand kids shows and movies, and the three on-resort water parks were the highlight for the boys. Peter and Max were a bit more adventurous than my sensitive souls who fussed each time water got in their eyes/on their heads/anywhere where they did not want water.

One cinnamon roll or two, boys?

The wave pool was a crowd-pleaser for all. The older boys bobbed in the waves on inflatable rafts while the younger ones put a tentative toe or two in. Nico eventually even played inflatable ring around the mommy. Patrick and Julie even braved the big green slide, which nearly sent Patrick into a tizzy when he was thrown backwards down the dark watery tube. Would I have gone down it too if I was not pregnant? Not on your life.

One comment that made the whole trip: "Mommy, I love our vacations."

Yo, Adrienne!

2011-11-01T22:03:00.000-05:00

Ben Franklin Parkway. The Philadelphia Art Museum. Schuylkill River Trail. Back down Race or Chestnut to my comfy digs at the Sofitel. This was my early-ish morning running route during three lovely October days in Philadelphia.

See me and B3 tackle the famous "Rocky Steps!"

Happy Howl-o-ween!

2011-10-31T23:57:00.000-05:00

There's no sense in an all-hallow's eve without a howl or two. And what better way to induce a howl than a kind boy attempting to haul his younger bro up onto the bed - and pulling with all of his might on the wee 21-month-old's left arm? Howl Nico did. But my strong boy braved it out and quickly swapped his tears for the opportunity to snuggle with his more-than-willing mama.

Who is that Nordic mountain man??

A warm bath and a good night's sleep, however, did not alleviate the pain in Nico's limp left wing. After a thorough inspection (cried at my touch, would not move his arm or put weight on it, but no swelling or bruising in sight), a round of questioning (Me: How's your arm? Nico: J.J., J.J., J.J. - the boy clearly knew who caused his pain!), and a frantic web diagnosis, I erred on the side of caution and whisked the much-too-happy-to-really-be-hurt boy off to the ER at Children's Memorial.

(Photographer's note: Of course I meant for only his hand to be in focus.)

Once there, the triage nurse took one look at him and said "Nursemaid's elbow." I responded with "Chimneysweep's knee!" ;)

Nico Doodle went to town, a-riding on a pony...

The doc confirmed the nurse's snap diagnosis and began to "replicate the injury" to pop Nico's elbow back into place. Tears trickled out of both of our eyes. But after 20 seconds of pain, my boy as as good as new. And to put on his shoes and get the heck out of dodge.

I love playing dress up

Nico put his now fully-functioning arm to good use tonight, gleefully grabbing treats from our bowl and after downing yet another sweet, selecting just one more and asking "o-pahn?" In between sugar highs, he would begin to feel the beat of P's spooktacular iPod playlist and stand up to give the throngs of masked and make-uped children his own rendition of 'Thriller'.

Meanwhile, back at the Batcave, Jamie the Knight was entrenched in battle with Kuba the Ninja and/or Peter the Fearless Fireman When the boys tired of wielding weapons, Jamie told me "There's no more time for talking, mom! Let's go!" And we were off, slicing through a sidewalk jammed with every type of nightmare, fairy, clown, and Chipoltle burrito imaginable.

After walking what feels like miles (4 blocks) and up millions of steps (about 10 houses that the boys considered not too scary), and enduring one meltdown (an ego-bruised Jamie whose tears magically disappeared along with a cookie), we headed back to the homestead, where one ghoulish vision awaited us (Patrick, annoyed that he still had a few of our 1500 pieces of candy left to give out and Rita, cleverly costumed as a sommelier).

Our neighbor delights and frights!

All tricked out for the day, this pregnant pirate treated herself to her favorite Laurie's pizza. And happily watched her boys wear out the last of their sugar buzz before tucking their still-excited bodies into bed for a dreams filled with gumdrops and lollipops....and maybe a monster or two.

Don't tell me what to do

2011-10-19T23:10:00.001-05:00

Has anyone ever told you what to do - or how to do something? And even though you agree with the recommended approach, you want to be the one to decide. To determine the flow of events. In essence: You wanted control and recognition! (You vain and egotistical person, you!)

Well, this sums up my sons in a nutshell. Where do they get these crazy determination and stubbornness characteristics from??? No more Curious George for them.

P, the man of the house for a few days while I am in Philly for work, shared with me the following story:

Nice daddy takes boys out for a special dinner to McDonald's. Orders Nico a delicious meal of McNuggets and fries. Happily watches Nico devour fries. And encourages him to take a bite of a nugget too - first gently, then urgently, then to the point of tears. Nice daddy tires of the stares of strangers and tears of his son and lets the stubborn boy do what he pleases. Tears dried, a happy and once again in control Nico happily takes a bite...of a nugget.

Perhaps he's paying just a little too close attention to his elder brother's swimming snits.

Jamie loves the water. Will spend an hour in the bathtub playing, pretending and teaching himself to float. During our vacation, he happily bobbed in the 3-ft section of the pool all on his own. No floaties, just his proudly smiling facing glimmering above the surface of the water. He even ventured into the ocean on a boogie board and played among the jellyfish, once a sage 10-year old girl told us they were the non-stinging variety.

All of these indicators point to a pleasant swim lesson experience. And it was, at first. Week 1, he strolled over to the poolside and waved gaily at me as I strode off the deck and to the other side of the looking glass. For and hour he kicked, jumped, floated and seemed happy doing so.

During weeks 2, 3, and 4, however, a stubborn swimmer emerged. Reluctant to go on the deck. Afraid to splash with his peers. Crying, stomping, and generally telling us that he did not choose to get in. Not that he does not like swimming. Not that he was afraid of the water. Simply that he does not want to. Oi vey.

Needless to say, we resorted to encouragement, then coercing, then peer pressure, then bribery, and finally threats - all in full view of the other children, parents and instructors. Jamie, of course, being pretty much the only child not happily learning how to swim.

He always eventually concedes and sticks a toe or two - maybe even his whole body - in. But still somehow manages to regain control of the situation by deciding which parts of the lesson he wants to do - and which he does not.

Enjoy the freedom of choice while you think you have it, my boys! You will soon learn that your mama's stubbornness is legendary, and not worth fighting against for too long. ;)

Remember the five year plan?

2011-10-16T21:34:00.003-05:00

Many moons ago, two naive homeowners looked at their new home and dreamed of the vision of beauty it would be in five short years. For, surely, five years is plenty o time to save up the cash needed to turn a 100+ year old three-flat into a single family home. To scrimp and save the few bob required to turn their bluestone into the graystone it was meant to be. To patiently wait to see see their vision come to life.

Has the dream become a reality? Yes...kind of...but perhaps not in the way I might have hoped...or could have even imagined in my most imaginative imagination.

My expanding family made the cash flow dwindle to something more akin to a trickle. The actual cost of renovating an entire home came in direct conflict with the number I had in my head. And who was going to fund the furnishing of this super-sized dream home? Not I.

Around the same time that P and me saw our dreams being dashed to smithereens, P's sis decided it was time to downsize and had just the place in mind: Ours. Our second floor apartment now has her unorthodox, yet beautiful and comfortable design thumbprint all over it.

So now I bear witness to new floors being laid, new cabinets being installed, new lights being affixed, and new colors and wallpaper going up on the walls of my home...yet I will not live there. The upswing? We get great tenants who will visit our place as often as we will theirs - making this house truly feel like a home.

Friends

2011-10-13T23:35:00.001-05:00

Need friends? Just fire up the 'ol PC and log on to the World Wide Web!

The original dream team: Peter and Jamie

Back in the day when we had only 1 child - and the world revolved around his wee blonde head - Julie responded to one of my posts seeking a family to share a nanny with. Several years and children later, Julie and Alexander are still swinging by our place with Peter and now Max in tow for a few hours of general home destruction.

Dream team v2.0: Nico and Max

Each time we get together, there's always some new European relocation strategy (never ours) to discuss, and some type of insane family development (always ours) to inspire shock and/or awe. We couldn't make this stuff up if we wanted to. And there's always a guaranteed twist at the end.

In between gasps of disbelief, the children wander in with varying demands for their hunger to be sated, their TV eyes to be glued to the screen, or their sweet tooth (teeth?) to be plunged deeper into decay.

The stories shared, sweets sucked, unhealthy - yet delicious - pizza and uber-healthy - yet inventive - Mediterranean salads consumed, and ear-to-sticky-ear grins on the kids' joyful faces make all the post-destruction clean up worthwhile.

Best Wishes

2011-10-09T22:25:00.001-05:00

As a youngster, birthdays were always marked by the same unique symbol: The silver phrase "Best Wishes" arching over a horse shoe,carefully featured in the center of a homemade cake baked in the traditional Pyrex-pan rectangle.

The b-day boy with his adoring wife Liz.

I'm not certain of the "Best Wishes" decoration's origination date, but I'm guessing it was somewhere around 1961, when my eldest (and wisest?) brother Mike graced my parents' life with his sharp wit and voracious appetite for cookies - and changed their world forever.

Liz with BF Rhona.

Today, family and friends feted Mike one-week past his milestone 50th b-day. Don't worry, I've already reassured him that he doesn't look a day over 49.

P poses, Glenn and Nico have no clue a camera is pointed at them.

Unfortunately, the previously dual-themed party became singular in focus when Mike was recently diagnosed with a stress fracture, ending his Chicago Marathon dreams. Glenn, pictured above, was the first in the family to man up to the marathon - but has since retired since my trio of brothers (Brian, then Sean...and one day soon Mike) stepped up to the challenge.

Noreen, Colleen and Mary enjoy the par-tay

"Athletic" would not be the first word you would traditionally chose to describe a Sheridan man. Mike is prone to a weakness for good eats, treats, and the comfort of the couch. Brian is Army born and bred and perhaps the exception to this rule (even his diet mainstays are pop and chips). And, Sean enjoyed a wrestling stint in high school - in between smuggling beer out with the garbage. But in intervening years chose to focus more exclusively on pinning down his next brew.

Jamie, where he could be found for hours - entranced by the never-ending kids movies and supply of chips.

As the years have worn on, however, my bros' goals began to converge. Mike = to lose weight and lead a healthier lifestyle. Brian = to beat his previous marathon time. Sean = to spend some of his new found free time running and see what this marathon thing was all about.

Brian and Alicia - completely natural smiles. ;)

At the close of the marathon today, at least one person finished happy: Sean, who's time of 3:25 qualified him for the Boston Marathon. Brian should have been more than pleased with his 6-min faster than last year time, but instead was disappointed he did not break his goal time of 3:40.

Mike's wish: "I wish I had run in the marathon and beat Sean!!"

And the b-day boy? While he may have been frustrated that he could not race today, he optimistically looked towards his next chance to face his marathon mission, and enjoyed the company of his loved ones who surrounded him with "Best Wishes".

Back to reality

2011-10-05T22:40:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, reality hit me like a a chilly slap of Chicago wind in the face. Goodbye sea breezes. Farewell schedule-free days. Adieu to wearing a swimsuit for 8 hours a day. Hello to a zillion emails waiting in my inbox. Hola meetings every minute of the day. Wassup thinking, speaking, and acting like the working professional I left behind so many sunny days ago.

My two days away from vaca have given me the perspective I need to proclaim, that, yes, I am ready for retirement. But, alas, my bank account if not. (Sigh.) Instead, I will revel in the memories of beach days past. Of my adoring husband who is always willing to flash his winning grin (...or grimace...)

And of my two charming boys, who manage to turn even a family photo on the beach into a opportunity to take each other down.

Sea-money

2011-10-01T19:53:00.000-05:00

A glimpse at what could have been had I married an oil mogul instead of being swept off my clumsy feet by a dashing Irishman:

Property taxes: $400,000/year
Golf club membership fee: $300,000
Marina annual fee: $30,000
Home on Palm Beach: $74 million
Name of my yacht: Sea-money

And my reality:

90-minute boat tour of this lap of luxury: $56, including one husband who nearly passed out from heat stroke (note the goatee!)...

Jamie who found a friend on the boat to spy jellyfish with...

A fit-fraught Nico who was calmed by the power of pretzels...

And one Sheila who got to do something on vacation that she wanted to do. :)

Searching for the perfect family vacation

2011-09-30T21:44:00.001-05:00

Is there anyone out there who has mastered vacationing with children? I'm not referring to the travelling in planes, trains, and automobiles part. More to the point: How do both you and your children have a vacation that you all equally enjoy? Where the kids get to be kids and the adults get to be adults?

Wild animals at Lion County Safari.

I should mention that money is a factor...and I actually want to enjoy the same activities as my children...and enjoy them as a participant, not the lady who constantly says no and has to pretend she is maintaining her cool in the midst of sun and sugar-induced meltdowns and tantrums. Her own and the childrens'. A tall order? Indeed.

Feeding a friendly - and rough tongued - giraffe.

This week away is our first as a family. Just a family. Yes, we holiday, and often. Mostly long weekends spent with P's family in Wisc. or my parents in Morton. And since Jamie arrived on the scene...and then Nico...we have travelled near and far for some much-needed R&R. But, somehow, we always opt to vacate with others who can share in the fun with us.

Jamie following in my lifeguard flip flops?

Mauston, Morton, Boston, Denver, Boca, Seattle, Dublin, San Jose, St. Louis, Arizona...wherever we may roam, we always manage to find someone else to do it with to make it feel more like home.

Water park at Lion County Safari. INCLUDED in the $16 (after coupon) cost of admission. Loved this place.

This trip was no different. From the start, we tried our best to lure others to partake in the sun and sand with us. With a million date changes and our friends' and families' general lack of availability, however, we are now on day five of our vacation...in a lovely, spacious beach home...all alone.

Ride @ Lion County Safari - which Jamie and Nico rode at least 3 times. Did I mention how fun and what a deal this place is?

"How do you like it, Mom?" Jamie often asks me. Shortly followed by "How does the baby like it?" We could stay here forever, son. And here are a few lessons I've learned along the way about "how to enjoy your vacation like a grown up and still have fun with your kids"

On the boardwalk nature walk at Gumbo Limbo - just 5 mins from the house.

TV is not evil: I'm a working mom. I try to squeeze in a zillion memorable moments with my kids into the hours before and after work. Because of this, TV is reserved for the very end of the day, and only when Jamie has been a very good boy. For some reason, I don't change this rule on vacation. Likely, this is because I don't have to! We always ensure he has other kids - or like-minded grownups - to keep him occupied.

Forced brotherly love atop the tower at Gumbo Limbo. I kept one eye on the intercoastal and ocean views and the other on a suspicious Jamie.

For the books, this rule is now officially struck out from Sheila's guide to parenting. I am a convert! Bring on Nemo, Dumbo and Charlotte! They bring smiles to the boys' faces and even allow for a little bit of that elusive "family time" I alluded to in the begging of this looooooong post.

Post beach run rest. The only angle from which I do not look like a whale.

Tantrums are to be expected: We're all on vacation here, people. And we all get tired of looking at each other 24/7. This week, I've strived to be the better person each time I've gotten kicked in the face, watched J beat up on Nico, or felt a little less than happy myself (I simply blame that on the baby). Now, I just turn on the TV and watch everyone's mood turn for the better. :)

Sun setting on our 5th day of vaca.

Naps are a necessity: While I would often rather be napping beachside with a vodka lemonade close at hand, I'll also happily take slumbering on the couch after hours in the sun. An added plus about being on vacation: We're all tuckered out. So, when the boys rest up...so can me and P.

Going out to eat is overrated: Unless, of course, you have the option to leave the children at home. If this is not the case (as it is not for us), stock up the fridge, put on some comfy clothes, and just chill-ax. TV, once again, is a major contributor to happiness in this situation. (Seeing a trend here?)

Personal time is a must: I need to vacate on my vacation. Vacate from the norm. Vacate from my responsibilities. Vacate from just being me. So, I pick up a rag mag that I would never normally waste my time reading. I go for a run on the beach. I watch movies in the afternoon. I blog way more than I have during this entire pregnancy. I find little nuggets of my former self, shine them up, and put them on display.

Eat, drink, and be merry: Patrick claims that he will be proud to be up a few pounds at the end of this vacation. It will be living proof that he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Lucky for me, I can - for a short time - blame any increased poundage on the innocent babe. And at the same time enjoy all the ice cream, chocolate milk, and Oreos my heart desires.

As for the be merry, part...I choose to dance when no one expects it. Unless you are my husband or children you will never see this side of me. (I should say again for those of you who had the privilege of hanging out with me when I drank copious amounts of alcohol.) But, for them, I show my joy through moves all of them wish I chose not to even share with my close-knit family of...5!

The retired life

2011-09-28T22:19:00.000-05:00

Living the retired life in Boca really suits Patrick. He has already snuggled up to a chaise lounge and blanket in the sun room, where he can be found either reading the first book (The Nearest Exit) I have ever seen him bring to read IN FRONT OF the TV, or taking a much needed rejuvenating snooze.

There are times when he even adopts the charming attitude of a grumpy old man. And Nico is more than happy to join right in. This happy pic was snapped at Butterfly World in Coconut Grove.

Jamie caught some z's while we strolled around the impressive butterfly gardens. The piped in classical music added a soothing element to the experience. I soon realized, however, that the allure of Butterfly World is short-lived - much like its winged inhabitants. The lackluster outer gardens did not live up to our $64 entry fee. (I knew I should have lied about J's age so his admission was free!)

The under-grotto mister, ever-pooping birds in the aviary, and suspension bridge did manage to wow the boys - and their mama - for a few precious moments, however.

After bidding the winged wonders a fond farewell, we ate in traditional Florida style - in a strip mall. ;) Mama's noodles hit the spot, though. Edemame for Nico, Ramen for Jamie, Tum Yum soup for me and Red Curry for P. We rounded out the meal at Cold Stone Creamery, where at least one of us left in tears. It was to be expected after so much sugar and stimulation.

Patrick, for one, managed to turn his frown upside down when we trekked across the A1A for an evening Ocean experience.

My adventurous explorers, Fernando and Jack (P and J's chosen vacation names) bravely forged through the waves to get a closer look at a floating jellyfish and a scuttling crab. Nico wanted to join in, but opted instead to roll himself in sand from head to toe - a safe distance away from the questionable sea creatures.

I took Nico's lead and admired the beauty of the beasts from afar.

But I managed to lure one red-bearded beast my way. This self-portrait inspired a kind couple to offer to snap a family shot of us enjoying our seaside holiday.

I can now happily bring day 3 of our vacation to a close.My not-so-grumpy not-so-old man sleeping soundly next to me. And my boys dreaming of adventures to come.

That "beach"

2011-09-27T22:23:00.001-05:00

"Beach" or "(insert word for a female dog here)" - whatever Nico was on about, he was excited. And he wanted all of his fellow Fort Lauderdale-bound plane mates to feel it, too. Jamie would have joined in, but he had already maxed out on excitement when I slipped my credit card through the Direct TV on the seatback. He was so into his kids show, we could have landed on the moon for all he knew.

Nico's insistence on being taken to the beach (or cursing me for not getting him there soon enough) continued through our drive to our final destination in Highland Beach and on - much to his dismay - when grudgingly agreed to drink "lem-ade" and eat fries in Delray Beach, but not ON the beach.

Last night, I'm certain he was calling me a female dog when he opted to accompany his pops on a quest for food and beverage to last us a week - and Jamie and I went to the beach. I felt a twinge of guilt, but at the ripe old age of 20 months, he's got to start living with his own decisions sooner or later. ;)

Catching the my first glimpse of the ocean felt like the first time all over again. The sheer force and beauty of the wide open sea never ceases to inspire awe in me. The pounding of the waves on the shore, the sparkling, skipping sound of the receding tide, the underlying feeling of how small and wonderful life is.

I'm sure Jamie was feeling this same tumbling of emotions as he declined to enter the water on the off change of jellyfish, and instead attempted to dig a hole in the sand to China.

Today, Nico finally met the beach head on, literally. When he wasn't practicing head stands in the sand, he gingerly dipped a toe or two into the surf and ran away from the scary pregnant lady who was chasing him like a mad woman. That "beach!"

Run, run as fast as you can

2011-09-13T23:12:00.000-05:00

Back at the turn of the decade...the decade of 1990, that is, I embarked on my own running career. Not satisfied with the glory and recognition of being the poster child for my high school's swim team (read: I was the team's one and only year-round swimmer) I dipped my normally bare toes into a pair of runners and started training with the track team.

Me and Jamie hit the beach this weekend with Nico to say farewell to the last days of summer.

During my weeks long track career, the 800m was my race of choice. Then, in the height of my prime, I was struck dead in my tracks with shin splints. Retirement was a must. And I took it seriously. For two full decades.

Fully rested from my short sabbatical, and inspired by Patrick's budding running ambitions, I got back on track last year. It all started painfully slowly. I dreaded every step. Loathed every wheezy breath.

Then the spring rolled around. I was newly pregnant, but would not be deterred from new lakefront running routine. I learned that every run is painful at the start, you just have to pound your way through the pain until you are numb enough to forget what your body is actually doing...and remember to take in the view.

My bouncing babe

For the past six months, my new wee babe has bounced right along with me. Such a compliant soul. S/he and I are happier and healthier for the exercise and fresh air. And the 15-year-old in me is happy that I finally got over those pesky shin splints.

Got a spare 2 hours? Run a 1/2 marathon!

2011-09-12T23:08:00.000-05:00

Patrick would forgive me for saying that running is not his forte. Pre-2008, "beer run" was the farthest P would go - and that always had the incentive of a cold brew at the finish. It was good to see, then, that the organizers of the Chicago Half Marathon tapped into the inspirational power of beer at the finish of the grueling 13.1 miles - first north, then back south - on beautiful, yet shade-less, Lake Shore Drive.

The running men and their supporters: Patrick, Nico, Mike, Sean, and Jamie

This fleet footed trek was Patrick's second time attempting the 1/2 marathon. The first ended before the race even began with an unfortunate "broken wing" thanks to a tennis elbow injury. Nope, he never lived that one down in the intervening 9 years.

My running man had not only the memories of missed races past weighing on this freckled shoulders, but also one recently repaired heart. He calmed my fears by assuring me that his health was more important to than his time at the finish line.

Prior to the race, he put his ticker to the test, running his own 13-miler downtown and back. He returned, tired triumphant, and with a chest full of sweat-drowned gnats. (In person, it was as lovely as I have just described it.)

Thrilled to see his home, his family, and his bed, he immediately put himself on a strict 2-week taper. No running at all, that is.

The evening before the big race, we all carbed up with P's fellow runners Mike and Sean. Carbs included both pasta and beer: A must in any serious runners' pre-race repertoire.

The runners rose bright and early on 9/11. A day of tribute and, for them, anticipated triumph. My brother Sean was the first to cross the finish line, followed by Mike and then Patrick. When I told Jamie that Sean had "won" the race he responded "I want to kill the whole world." I guess I have a little to teach him about good sportsmanship...and need to start monitoring his conversations with his older cousins...

His first official 1/2 marathon under his headband, a sweat-drenched, beer clutching P was proud and a little amazed with the fact that he had actually finished the race. His time, however, was not good enough: 4 minutes off his goal.

Although he swears he is retired from distance running, I'm betting those pesky 4 minutes - and my brothers' unrelenting peer pressure - will see him back on LSD once again next year. And I'll be waiting with a cold beer at the finish line.

Edie: A baptism of holy water and whiskey

2011-09-08T22:35:00.002-05:00

After my last-minute trip on Friday to the island of triage - festively garbed in the locals' traditional green gown, taxied from one exciting and new destination to the next, fed a strengthening diet of saline solution and barium, and given the best gurney they had to offer - we reshuffled our weekend plans to include my newest niece Edie's baptism.

Patrick in church? And he lived to tell the tale.

Ever the optimist, I opted to walk to the ceremony. 15 mins of huffing, puffing and trying to gain control of my surely strained looking face later, we arrived. At the entrance, Jamie was already asking me when church would be over and the party would begin, and I was wishing for a fistful of meds.

I am the belly, the belly is me.

All in due course, wee Edie was bathed with holy water, Nicolas continually punctuated the ceremony with bellowing calls for "Gwam-pa!", and I only had to remind Jamie 15 times that God and the priest did not appreciate him talking non-stop at normal speaking levels.

Me and 5-1/2 month old Edie, the lady of the day.

I then let all three of my boys loose on the party scene at The Wooden Spoon. We ate. P drank. I hung out with Mary.

My triplets for the day...I did actually ask that they dress alike!

2 o'clock swiftly turned into 8 o'clock. For P, one whiskey with Sean and my dad quickly turned into three. For the boys, balls, falls and guns were replaced with the couch and Tangled. And I had a hankering for my bed.

The nose knows...

Somehow, I was able to disengage P from the evil grip of my brother and father and shove him out the door. Just so they could head to the golf course at 5:30 am the next morn for some more male bonding. I slept blissfully on, visions of pill bottles dancing in my head...

Abominal pain

2011-09-03T23:23:00.000-05:00

Scene: The first night of Sept. Ravinia Festival.

The boys wait for the Metra to carry us away to the land of Lunyrd Skynard

The candle-lit crowd bobs its head in unison to Lynyrd Skynard. Nico shakes the stroller like a hurricane, done up for the evening in a neon glow in the dark hat. Jamie rocks out to air guitar from atop Patrick's shoulders. And I contort by body in strange and unusual ways that most may assume is a really bad version of the Elaine dance. The rhythm that is keeping me moving, however, is an ever-worsening runners cramp like pain on my right side.

We file out of Ravinia well in advance of Freebird, in the hopes of getting a front of the line, in front of the door position for the sure to be packed with drunken Skyn-heads. The train is 20 mins late, just enough time for Jamie to draw a long face at the "sad song" that is Freebird, and the rest of the fans to rock before joining us on the platform.

Where'd you get those baby blues?

The train stops. The doors speed past us. Our hopes dip and dash until...alas, another set of door open a foot from us. I push my pregnant self through the selfish crowd and we score seats. Nico rushes between the festival-goers legs, filled with the mischief of dashing between me and P on the moving train. P points out a couple to me, who might as well me coupling right in front of us.

During the short walk from the train platform to the car, my abdomen takes on its own personality. Fiery and insistent. It wants me to stop. lie down. And immediately. Once home, I fall asleep watching "Weird Science". At 3:30 in the morning I wake with the need to see how bad the strange ache still is. I struggle up to sitting position, stand, and nearly black out. Not good. Oh God. Not good.

But there is no other alarming signs. No feeling of contraction, baby still doing somersaults, no (ahem) discharge. The world is goof the little one, but my abdomen is still ratcheting up the pain. Internally, I refuse to call an ambulance as Patrick fires up the computer and looks up the possibilities.

I wake up the doc on call. Tell her my story. She listens. Says not to worry too much, but come into the hospital anyway just to be sure. A bleary-eyed Omar arrives to be with the still-sleeping boys and P whisks me to the hospital. I feel every bump along the way.

We arrive and wait in labor and delivery triage with ladies who are actually having babies. Who are actually in labor. Searching my memory, though, my current pain feels worse than the contractions I last experienced in this same room with J and Nico.

The nurses and doc examine me. Take my blood. Say I am slightly dehydrated and hook me up to an IV. They poke and prod, I wince. Every attempt to sit up or move from lying on my back results in waves of abdominal pain. My head is throbbing. Yet, whenever someone asks how I am, I respond "OK."

My white blood cell count is high, so I am taken off to ultrasound on suspicion of appendicitis. One tech and one radiologist fail to find my appendix beneath the babe and its collateral. Just sitting up makes my head spin, my abdomen cry out in pain, and tears leak out of my eyes. I have now been experiencing this strange pain longer than either of my labors with the boys.

The doc says a CT scan is the next step. Tiny risk to the baby, but would be much higher if they let me go and my appendix ruptured. I drink two large bottles of berry-flavored barium. Watch Maid to Order on TV while P attempts to get some shuteye in the chair next to my exam-table bed.

The iodine they add into my IV for the scan makes my body warm and brings a metallic taste to the back of my throat. P and me then sit and wait for 1/2 hour for "transfer" back to my room - a room P could have wheeled me to in 3 mins. Bonus: I get to listen to a woman nearby chat with a nurse about her need for a port while the nurse trys - in vain - to find a vein.

My results: My aappendix is fine. I feel a fool. Does this mean I have been fine all along? That the pain that is ratcheting through my typically-touch and pain tolerant body is normal? Apparently, yes. Dr. McMahon from my practice shows concern, sympathy, and understanding when she tells me to head home and call if anything gets worse. My very cool nurse, Ashley, has suspected round-ligament pain all along and is the only one to tell me that she has seen this before and is almost certain that's what it is.

They all reassure me and tell me not to feel foolish. My pain and symptoms, including the high white blood cell count, pointed to something they needed to explore, so I was right to come in. I still can't help feeling like a fraud.

Awaiting my discharge, I devour the chicken sandwich and chocolate chip cookie that Patrick brought in for me two hours before. The lemonade is like heaven. Nurse Ashley jokingly advises me to take my meds - Norco - with wine.

12 hours after arriving, I hobble down the hospital hallway towards freedom. Feeling better for the medical reassurance and meds. But the pain still persists.

At home I am greeted by and beaming and happy Jamie. Later, when I tell him I'm sorry we can't go to Wisconsin, he responds with, "That's OK, mommy. Maybe we can go another time when you feel better." This is in stark contrast to his chin-on-the-chest pout and subsequent sad alone time on the couch when Patrick told him the same a few mins before. I'm glad P broke the news for me!

Nico sits with me while I watch "Before Sunrise" and is replaced by P a few hours later when I feel asleep to the soothing sounds of "Goodfellas".

Today, I am on the mend. Able to walk with minimal pain, pick up Nico, and play for hours with the boys. Seems nurse Ashley's diagnosis of 1-3 days of pain while the round ligaments form was dead on the money. Please, please do not let this increased amount of pain at this stage of this pregnancy be a glimpse into my future with this wonderful child!

Tomorrow, I may just go for a run. And when Patrick scoffs at the idea, I can point to my discharge papers which clearly state, "You may return to a normal level of activity." :)

She's got a ticket to ride

2011-08-29T22:42:00.001-05:00

For the past year, my bicycle and I have been nearly inseparable. I love it and it loves me. It gives me the freedom to navigate my own route to work. It provides me with sunny lakefront views. It turns this mild-mannered lady into a tough biking broad. It propels me to exercise while going to work. It's a match made in this working mother's time-strapped heaven.

Watching kites soar overhead at the Botanical Gardens

Today, my bike and I reached a milestone: we got pulled over by the cops. The bike cops, but Chicago cops, no less. Allegedly, I biked through a red light near Navy Pier. When the officer blocked the path to stop me in my tracks and told me of my offense, did I defer to his badge and good sense and agree? Oh no.

Instead, I pointed out that another male biker did the same as me and - in fact - did it first. And he got off Scott free. And as he actively ignored me and stopped another offender, I held out my ID card with great attitude until he turned his attention my way to inform me that "he did it first" is not a defense. I calmly informed him that I was not trying to defend my actions, but simply point out the unfairness of being the one he chose to stop when others were also so clearly in the wrong - and passed him before me.

On Lake Baldwin @ U. Jim's in Michigan

I gazed around as he wrote up my "comment card" (no ticket, thank goodness). Surprisingly, I identified his two cohorts as the kind cops who I flagged down a few weeks ago when I had a flat. They remembered me, too, and we had a nice catch up. Then the "I'd rather be doing anything than dealing with this mouthy chick right now" officer told me of the increased crash rate in the area and advised against going against a red in the future just to save a few seconds off my ride.

I nodded in sage agreement, bid my old friends farewell, and sped home. Breaking through only two red lights instead of my typical three. ;)

Nico: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

2011-08-28T00:07:00.001-05:00

How you bop your head and wiggle your shoulders when you hear music - be it hold music, a TV commercial, or "Hey now, your're a rock star" on your play guitar.

How you are always looking for a reason to smile and engage others in your happiness.

How you adore your father and your brother.

Your fearlessness, balanced with a healthy sense of self preservation, when necessary.

How you raise the alarm whenever anything is amiss - from your too-big shorts suddenly surrounding your ankles, to your lost water bottle, to Jamie and Peter dumping a glass of "pirate juice" onto my bedroom rug.

How you get a gleam in your eye and then high-tail it down the hallway and suddenly reappear, gleefully sucking your paci and clutching your blankie.

How you take after your mama's sweet tooth - down to a love for the "stuf" in the middle of Double Stuf Oreos.

How you clutch your milk cup in a warm embrace, as if another milk-addicted child will suddenly snatch it away from you.

How you quickly assess a situation, and either decide to join in, or go off and make your own fun.

How you giggle with joy and are always looking for a reason to be goofy.

How you squeal, flap your arms, furrow your blond brow, and run towards me when you see me after we've been apart.

Good night, my cutie, cutie.

Gone fishin'

2011-08-13T23:04:00.001-05:00

For many years, my father began his day by punching a time card at the U.S. Post Office. While his years of dedication to the USPO - combined with my mother's loving care and own career - saw us all through college, the job my father truly loves began soon after retirement. Golf course starter.

In addition to the perk of free rounds of golf, Pine Lakes also occasionally allows him to bring his brood of grandchildren to the course to fish in its...well. lake surrounded by pines, of course.

En route to our fish-a-palooza, Nico screamed in protest of the injustice of being woken up and plonked in the car to who knows where. Until, that is, his tears magically dried up as he look around he and hopefully questioned "golf course?" I've lost him already. :)

Before I had even finished my chicken selects, Johnny had already pulled the fish fish out of the calm lake waters. Brian and my dad helped bait the hooks, while I let go of the cares of the day and took in the setting sun and shape-shifting shadows.

Bored by hooking too many fish, I suppose, my nephew Patrick began hunting golf balls. Jamie, Katie, and I joined him in fishing out the errant golfers' balls from the sloggy mush that lines the banks of the lake.

While the boys poked through the slog, Katie and I admired the reflections on the water and the blazing light of the setting sun. Ah, to have a girl on my side. :)

Walking back to the north bank, Jamie slipped his hand in mine and said, "I love our adventures, mama." Elsewhere, Patrick and Nico had found the lakeside putting green and were off in a joyful world of their own.

In quick succession, everyone but one lone fisher found their fish. Colleen, the most diligent and patient of us all, stuck it out to the bitter end, but no amount of fish whispering could lure them to her hook. Who wants to pull the poor slimy fish off the hook anyway?

With the sun setting brilliantly in the east, and the mosquitoes beginning to swarm, we packed up our gear and bid a fond adieu to Pine Lakes, knowing my dad would soon gleefully greet it for us.

I'm doing it my way

2011-08-13T00:28:00.001-05:00

When I happily informed Jamie that I am going to have a baby, his face lit up with joy and he exclaimed, "Oh great! Another brother!" Yes, it seems that boys are the future of this family. And Nico's "J.J" is intent on keeping it that way.

Nicolas, for his part, will enthusiastically poke and prod my protruding tummy and laugh with glee at our "game" as I shoo him away and beg him to stop digging for China via my now-ginormous belly button.

I often mention the baby to him, but for all he knows it's just my old cabbage patch doll that he roughly, but lovingly, drags around that I'm referring to.

And me? I'm Sheila, I just happen to be pregnant. That is how I am viewing this - my "European" pregnancy. Oh selfish me. This time around, when caffeine and vino are on offer, I do not turn them down with a demure look at a pat on my belly. No...instead I thoughtfully consider when I last time doused the wee babe in either offending liquid and calculate if enough time has passed for me to safely do so again.

Where the first-time preggo She languished on the couch in the evenings, finger firmly flipping between Lifetime and HGTV, the third-time-around me can be found running after the other two while they wrestle from the kitchen to the front room and then decide to follow it up with a good pillow fight.

That's when I usher the boys outside to continue their antics, but only after we've all enjoyed a break with a relaxing walk to the beach (when they are not giddily whacking each other) or to the park (when they are not fighting over not-so-shared food).

Way back in early April, when I saw that test strip serve up a plus sign quicker than you can say "what the...?" I took a long. cleansing shower and determined that this time around, I would be me. And my dear babe would be happy to be along for the ride. Literally, the 23-week in utero lad or lass can often be seen brazenly bulging as I ride my bike to work - leaving a few mystified "pros" in my dust. Or bouncing up and down as I jog along the lakefront to take in some fresh air and the lovely view.

For his/her part, the baby has been ever-so compliant. Save 8 early weeks worth of evenings punctuated by nauseousness (without the relief that nausea typically precedes), throbbing headaches, lack of appetite, and general exhaustion, this kid has been kind to me. Where my during my pregnancies with Jamie and Nico, you could regularly find me "bowing to the porcelain god", this time, my offerings have been very few and very far between. And before I could not bear the sight of red meat, Oreos did not have the same appeal, and french fries simply were not for me. Now, no sign of these food aversions.

What does it all add up to? A girl, says Patrick. Wishful thinking, says I. Jamie correctly predicted a brother long before Nico made his debut, and has done so again. He may not be an oracle, but neither is his father. I say, I'm growing a compliant babe this time around, by taking firm hold of the bike handles and doing it my way. And all I could ever ask for his a healthy, happy, sweet - and yes - compliant child, whatever it's sex may be!

Home again, home again...Jiggity jig

2011-08-09T23:35:00.001-05:00

Morton: "Pumpkin Capital of the World." This past weekend, long-time Morton residents Mary and Pat hosted their tree-trunked leg daughter (me, see photo above...yikes!) and Army Colonel son Brian, along with our slew of children.

Pictured above: Perpetual motion Mary, Pat (Paddy), my oldest and wisest niece Colleen, kind-hearted nephew Patrick, svelte bro Brian, ever-effervesant nephew Johnny, lovely and engageing niece Katie, always smiling (even if she doesn't feel like it!) niece Alicia, a sad Jamie who just learned that not only were we leaving grandma and grandpa's, but also that his cousins are moving to Florida for the school year, me, and ridiculous Nicolas who currently has me down for the count after sharing his summer cold with me. Achoo and thank you.

Summer-y (...get it? ;)

2011-08-01T23:10:00.001-05:00

August already. Swiftly to be followed by autumn. Where oh where has my summer gone?

It began with the gift of photography. Way back in May, P gave me the mother's day gift of a little "She" time to hone my "mom-tog" skills. Seven weeks, $400, 42 hours of class and lab, one possibly semi-serious cat-call of "Are you doing the 'Naked Bike Ride?'", at least 10 swear words about my own lateness and/or non-compliance of my bike lock - adding further to my lateness, and one 55mm 1.8d Nikkor lens later....I'm still learning. What did you expect? Miracles?

Nico also serves as a handy time reminder. My cutie, cutie is more precocious by the day, more introspective by the experience, and has a stubborn/crazy streak that can take you by surprise. Perferring sounds and motions to most words, he can often be found bopping along to whatever beat is within his vicinity, and alternatively screaming as his brother makes him yet another bum trade. All this exertion has turned him into a svelte string bean; an image he cultivates with his model-like disdain of food, in general, unless it satisfies his genetically wired need for chocolate.

In June, the boys and I headed downtown for the final wind-blown day of the Taste of Chicago. Our $16 string of tickets bought us a pulled pork sandwich, french fries, slice of sausage pizza - my first from Lou Malnati's, and the worst $8 ice cream that I've ever had the displeasure to purchase. Thieves! At least I had the delicious memory of pizza to console me. The homeless man even got a lone ticket from me, to add to his kitty for the beer tent. I like to help where I can.

De rigueur while downtown is a stop at Millennium Park. I complied with a stroll above Monroe on the Nichols Bridge. The boys lead the way, running towards the sky and stopping from time to time to appreciate the bridge;s slight spring-like movement.

With visits to "The Bean" and the Family Fun Festival tent under our belts, we wheeled over to the Crown Fountain. Nico walked right in and never looked back, while Jamie sweet talked me into chaperoning him on his adventure. Their smiles faded only briefly when certain slips befell them.

Look closely, is that Patrick's face on the fountain behind Jamie?

2011-07-25T23:36:00.000-05:00

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I Googled "30 and happy". At the top of the search results was not the latest fad in self-help...or maybe it was, but dressed up in the robes of the Dali Lama - The Art of Happiness: A Handbook for Living. It was not the book I was expecting, but proved to be the perfect tome to set the tone for my 30s.

Pondering life on a Denver morning

Preaching compassion for others, love for your enemies, and awareness that "suffering is life." the book discusses both religious beliefs and scientific findings - and ultimately leaves your happiness in your own responsible hands. Not much different than my own Catholic upbringing, really. :)

Hanging poolside with Ang and Nico

Now - a bit closer to 40 than 30 (ugh) - I have had many an opportunity test drive these seemingly simple, but hard to implement and consistently execute practices.

Mauston this weekend,
baring the bumpl

I have had children, and therefore have a new found compassion and respect for both my parents and the trials and tribulations they endured raising five children.

On a smaller scale, I also no longer look with disdain at parents who cannot control their screaming child in the middle of the airport, or allow their twins to roam through the supermarket with chocolate remnants around their lips. Instead, I now give them a knowing glance, and look down at my own perfect children.

Downtown Denver

As for enemies, I began collecting them in early childhood. There was one girl in my neighborhood who just never really liked me - once going as far as to tell me "take your rusty old wagon and go home!" In grade and high school, these same types of girls - always girls - continued to annoy and taunt me. And, even in my 20s, I would often lament with co-workers about well-known office villains.

With age, however, has come wisdom as well as confidence. Or, perhaps simply the lack of time to dedicate to identify and complain about people who did not have my best interests in mind. I am sure I make enemies daily while riding my bike into work, but no longer care who they are or what they think. Is that loving my enemies? No. But I'm no longer giving negative people power over me...and that's progress.

I scream for ice cream

And, suffering. Yes, indeed, suffering is life. Without suffering through a bitterly cold Chicago winter, I could not truly appreciate the warmth of the summer sun on my shoulders. Without falling, my babes would never learn to walk, then run, then do whatever they set their wee hearts to. Without feeling a bit sad from time to time, I would never know how to identify what truly makes me happy and ensure that I surround myself with those people, activities, and things (I am a material girl in a material world, after all.;)

This birthday, I am thankful for my parents, husband, children, family, friends - and enemies - who have contributed to everything I have been and have helped me become the person I am today.

My girls and our posse

And I look forward to the person I will grow into tomorrow. And the new little person who is growing right along with me. :)

Aluminum Man

2011-07-23T21:07:00.000-05:00

Move over Iron Men, there's a new athlete in town. He's armed with bulging biceps, six-pack abs, a blinding-white shield, state-of-the-art cooling system, and a devilish smile, all topped with a golden faux-hawk. THE ALUMINIUM MAN! Not quote Iron, but still a man with mettle... ;)

After a 1/4 mi swim + 16-mi bike + 3-mi run = Patrick Nolan is now officially a triathlete. And has sworn he will never - ever - swim again.

Our hero had been in training for the Castle Rock Tri for three long months. Biking to the pool. Slogging through his required - and dreaded - laps, and biking downtown to the office. After work, a run with the family, trying desperately to keep up with his pregnant wife, who often surprised him with her own athleticism. ;)
My bro Brian, a fellow triathlete, gave P a few tips and loaned him a wetsuit for the swim. Did I say wetsuit? I meant Godsend. :)

My friend Ang's hubbie Bob joined in on the training last weekend in Denver with a 19-mile ride. Patrick credits this altitude training with preparing him for today's unexpectedly hilly WI road race.

P dashed out of the lake with a smile and spring in his step,and hopped on his bike, never suspecting the awaiting group of orange-clad inmates who, in true chain-gang style, cat-called and whistled him on. ;)

Fueled by the encouragement of his new friends, he rolled up the final hill of the ride with a wink and a wave, but Patrick's good nature quickly dissipated with the run. Oh the sun. You cruel, cruel beast you. And who planned the course to end with a run 25-steps up an incline? Sick bastards, the lot of them.

But my Aluminium man would not be crushed and discarded like so many Miller Lite cans before him. He listened to his tricky ticker and took it easy when necessary, but still pushed on and ended the race with the triumphant time of 1:35.16.

Nico was in fits of ecstasy after being away from his main man for almost two hours. And Jamie immediately grabbed a bottle of H2O and rushed it to his awaiting hero, who was already dousing his head under a steady stream of the wet stuff.

And me? Three years ago, I was sitting in a hospital, unsure of our future. Today, I stood on the sidelines with our family and friends and cheered Patrick on to his own personal victory. How unusual and wonderful life can be.

Why so long away, you say?

2011-07-20T21:30:00.000-05:00

Many moons ago, my friend Heather badgered me with kind encouragement into taking tennis lessons with her. If you know anything about me, you can guess how far these lessons went towards me actually hitting the ball anywhere near the net. But, it was exactly the type of activity and encouragement I needed at that very sedentary time in my life.

My friends seem to know what motivates me: while visiting my college friends Ang, Ker, and Sanna in Denver last week they, too, badgered me slightly to do what was best for me: Get back to blogging! Upon returning home, Heather joined the chorus by posting a timely prodding comment that she had already given me enough slack with the blog break.

Lo and behold, ladies, I may be stubborn, but I do know how to listen! This blog title also dovetails with my 2-1/2 year gap between trips to Denver. Ever since Kerri first migrated West post-graduation, I've visited the mile-high city on a frequent basis. In our roaring 20s, these trips were a must for reliving college stories and creating our new versions of craziness.

As we settled down a bit, I took Patrick out to the Wild West to drink microbrews and take in the mountain views. Oh, and, of course, listen as we girls repeated the same old college stories and laughed like we hadn't already relived the tales together 100 times before.

As an old married lady and mama of 2.5, I set my sights upon Denver as my summer vaca destination, and the girls made the magic happen.

The 2-hour delayed flight out to Denver (read: me trying to wrangle two wrestling running boys), followed by Denver airport closing 5 mins before scheduled landing, followed by me experiencing a bit of tummy trouble upon landing (with Nico asleep on my lap and the man next to me wishing he was anywhere but where he was) followed by me pushing a double stroller with Nico in one side and two car seats stacked up next to him on the other and pulling the suitcase with my other hand, followed by the taxi driver not lifting a lazy finger and having the nerve to rush me as I alone got the luggage, car seats, and boys into the taxi

...thankfully did not set the tone for the entire trip. :)A little shuteye does wonders for the psyche. On Thursday morning, I awoke renewed and refreshed in downtown Denver. Patrick and I strolled with the boys among the very light masses of morning commuters on pedestrian friendly 16th St.

I loved seeing Denver in the light of day. Everything looked cleaner, wider, and more architecturally impressive than I remember from previous nighttime, cocktail-fueled visits to downtown.

I was especially intrigued with the tactile art that lines 16th St. - from a 2D group of buffalo, to whimsically painted pianos, to a fountain made for walking through.

(See photos sprinkled throughout the post to get the visual!)

Girls, have I dedicated enough time to the blog this evening to satisfy you four readers??? Come back soon for Denver: Part 2!

Cheers to eight years

2011-07-19T21:04:00.000-05:00

My marriage is like a fine (or perhaps a cheap and cheerful) wine: It gets better with age and gives you a wonderfully tipsy, happy sensation. Just this weekend, Patrick told me that we are a great couple; lucky to have one another.

Lucky in love. (Who couldn't love a handsome gentleman like Mr. Acorn nipples below???)

During our wedding day eight years ago - as I was alternating between sheer and utter happiness and the disastrous depths of reasonless despair - I could not have imagined the trials and triumphs we would see each other through. The fun and frivolity we would experience. The joy of having two boys who look a whole lot like their big papa and act a bit like their crazy mama. And now baby will soon make three. That I definitely did not foresee!

Cheers, Patrick, to eight years of love, laughter, and making me be the best Sheila I can be.

I adore you.

(Photos courtesy of our amazing trip to Denver last week. Girls, more to come...with more of you and your photogenic children in them...I promise!!)

Nico has cojones

2011-06-17T20:32:00.000-05:00

On day 1 of my perfect l.ittle Nico's life, the pediatrician strode into our cozy hospital room, swiftly conducted her routine newborn check up, and breezed out...but not before dropping a tiny bomb on me: She was having difficultly feeling one of his (excuse me Nico of the future) testicles. Not to worry, she assured me, it's a relatively common issue that has a tendency to work its way out - literally.

But, over the course of the next year, each check up resulted in the same diagnosis: it's there, just up a little farther than it should be. With time, it should find its own way. But, by his 12-month appointment, the stubborn teste was still being testy.

So, off to the specialist we went. Nico, at 13 mo-old was thrilled with the waiting room's array of toys and other nice and smiling children. He loved the long hallways down which he could escape from me, as I tugged his back by the straps of his overalls.

Dr. Cheng? Him, and his residents' inquisitive eyes, Nico was not so impressed with. No doubt this had much do to with some poking and prodding in his nether-region. I would be non-too-pleased either.

Dr. Cheng and his followers then trailed out of the room to discuss and debate Nico's fate. After 15 minutes Earl and his entourage returned with their professional opinion: my baby needed medical assistance - a orchiopexy and hernia repair, to be exact.

Nico left the appointment none the wiser. I already felt the bad mommy burden on my shoulders, and it increased each time I thought about the surgery. Although I know it was and is the best decision for him, I couldn't bear the thought of my wee lad in an operating room, anesthetized and being operated on. He was too small. He would potentially be in pain post-surgery. He would surely hate me. I assured myself that it was for his health, kept calm and carried on.

Until the day for surgery, that is. On the morning of June 16, P's mom Rio came over to care for a still-sleeping Jamie and Patrick and I ushered an empty-stomached Nicolas out the door and into the good hands of Children's Memorial Hospital.

While P parked the car, Nico enjoyed the children's art installations in the hospital lobby. Each time he - clad in black and grey leopard jammies and sandals - turned a spinning wheel, my stomach turned with it. And in perfect imitation of Greek drama masks, his smile widened as my frown deepened.

Nico's leg was then tagged with a blue id tag. And P and me received pink arm bands; to which one patient's mother quipped, "Does this get us unlimited drinks and all-day access to the water park?"

After a short stint in the waiting room - complete with a TV constantly running kids shows - a visually impaired "concierge" with a perfect sense of direction guided us to Nico's pre-op room. I almost broke down at the sight of the crib-sized gurney, but quickly reminded myself of our luck. We would be in and out - hopefully - of the hospital that day. Nico was lucky indeed.

Our nurse was a wonder. She was all-business, but also full of compassion and information. She walked us through what to expect pre-, during-. and post-surgery. She listened to our questions and concerns. She flew through the protocol. She shared personal stories. She paused when reality hit him and Patrick lost all the blood in his face. Once it was confirmed that only one patient was in the room, she went back to business.

Then, the parade of docs and residents came marching in. When Dr. Cheng arrived, he greeted us and went into the details of Nico's issue and the related surgery. The only problem was...he had the wrong kid in mind.

Now, when you order a meal and the waiter repeats it back to you incorrectly, you are slightly annoyed that they were not paying attention the first time, but pleased they asked so they could get it right. But when the doc who is going to operate on your 17-month old in less than 30 mins looks you in the eye and spits out the wrong diagnosis and operation...it's a teeny tiny bit alarming.

Upon seeing confusion and dismay on our faces, his resident quickly elbowed Dr. Cheng and drew his attention to Nico's name and operation, printed on what I can only assume was their surgical "to-do list" for the day. Dr. Cheng apologized and flew out of the room to gather some additional information before operation on my son. (Breathe, Sheila, breathe!) He soon returned full of correct information and confidence. Armed with a purple marker, he drew a smiley face on Nico's left leg ("Left leg, correct?" he asked before putting pen to skin....breathe....). He was soon replaced on the room by another surgical resident and the anesthesiology team led by Dr. Przybylo, to whom Nico offered his pacifier.

"Two minutes from this room until he's asleep" Dr. Przybylo informed us. Those words did not hit home until I was carrying a gown-clad, pacifier-sucking, blankie-holding Nico down the white linoleum tiled hallway towards the operating room.

Before I was ready, the doors to the OR swung open and the bright lights and shiny glint of the instruments made me catch my breath and clutch onto Nicolas a little tighter. Surely sensing my impending panic, the docs, quickly motioned us over to the operating table, where I sat a confused-looking Nicolas, who immediately leaned off the table to go back into the safety of my arms. The anesthesiologyteam swooped into action, first letting me sniff the banana-flavored laughing gas before placing the mask over Nico's tear-stained - still pacifier sucking - face. I was at a loss for words, but am sure I told him it would be OK and kissed his fingers until he began to drift off and the docs told me they would take over from there.

A TERRIBLE TWO MINUTES.

Dr. Chen himself brought me back to Patrick, only once requiring my assistance to remind him where our room was...I know he has many more important things to keep top of mind.) I walked into that room, and into P's arms cried all the tears I had been holding back for Nico's sake. As I sobbed, our kind nurse came back to make sure I was OK and walked us to the bright, comfortable waiting room.

With time to spare, we headed down the the cafeteria for big-as-your-head pancakes (me) and a breakfast sandwich (P). My lashes were constantly wet and I'm sure I looked a wreck, but I was just another worried face in this crowd.

Fortified by breakfast and a mint hot chocolate, I went it "busy" mode, checking email, IMing, and generally keeping my mind off of what I could not control. P, on the other hand, put on a brave face, but silently fretted, worry lines crisscrossing his brow.

90 mins after I left my baby in OR, a gentle woman called our son's name and told us what we had been nearly holding our breaths to hear: Nicolas is doing great and is ready to see you.

10 mins later, Dr. Cheng was outlining the procedure for us - including an unexpected hernia repair - and we were brought into recovery where I was told Nico was. But where? Not groggy in the crib/gurney as I had expected. Instead, he was in the arms of a male nurse, bright eyed and still sucking on his pacifier and clutching onto his blankie.

I was - and am - so impressed and grateful and the skill. precision, and attention to care - both Nico's and ours - of everyone we came in contact with that day.

Nico walked bravely into the hospital, and left with well-earned cajones. ;)

Little drummer boy

2011-06-13T22:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Rob the Drummer of Afterglow,

Thank you for recognizing my talent from a far. For crossing the stage to come down to my 39-inch level and give me a lesson in rock and roll. For seeing in me the passion I knew was always there, bubbling beneath the surface. The desire to express myself in a way that only music can provide. You saw you in me and for that, I thank you.

The kind gift of your drumsticks at Andersonville's Midmommarfest fest left me dumbstruck. No...gobsmacked. When you bounded back on the stage with a salute and a smile, I knew I would not disappoint you. You said I had better rhythm than some drummers you've known for 20 years. I must say...it has been said that I have an old soul. And my mother does a mean Elaine dance, you know.
Nicolas, too, tried to get in on our gig by whipping a drumstick in the air and at anyone within arms' reach, but I quickly -and tearfully - reclaimed my new drumsticks, determined to rock out with you and your cover of Lady Gaga. Nico then managed to steal your attention away from me for a moment with his knee-bending, head-bopping dance to the song. The little devil.

I kept a close eye on you and learned the techniques that will surely have women falling at my feet when I am old enough to even consider such things. The head-banging skull shake; the tongue-out with sweat flying; the rat-a-tat-tapping of the stick before every song with an earnest "1, 2, 3, 4!" (I knew my counting skills would come in handy sooner rather than later.)

Indeed, the older ladies were already impressed, stopping my proud mama to comment on my dexterity and determination with the drumsticks -- in the air, on the trash can, on the rain barrel, and pointing right back at you, Rob: My rhythm master. Thank you for for opening my eyes to my new fate as a uber-successful drummer.

My mom has many ways to say thank you to you, as well, but she says I can't repeat them in public. ;)

Yours in rock,
Jammin' Jamie

Mayfest...in June

2011-06-09T23:04:00.000-05:00

There's no better way to kick off summer in the big city than with brats, beer, and polka! P, me and the boys put on our best lederhosen for Lincoln Square's annual Mayfest...held in June. How did this gross error slip by the rigorous German event planners? Perhaps it was one-too-many pre-fest "brau's"

Ever the eco-family, we biked over, hauling the two boys in their new trailer. Spacious, it is not, but it gets us all where we need to go, provides big papa with a workout, and allows me to referee the sometimes bawling and brawling boys.

When I purchased this wonder of a trailer, I was drawn in by it's instant conversion to a double-stroller. What the instruction manual doesn't tell you, however, is how to get 1,000 fest-goers to turn their frowns upside down as you steer this megabus, bumping into knees and causing sweaty and scantily clad revelers to miss a sip of brew.

Daggers in our backs, we secured a spot near the polka band and stayed there for the duration. We danced, we noshed on German fare and libations, we enjoyed the warmth of the day and the happy buzz of the crowd, a kind, young gentleman handed Jamie his arcade prize, Nico obsessed over a basketball, and we left $50 tickets poorer. At least our transportation home was free!

Keep your enemies close...

2011-06-02T22:12:00.000-05:00

I've been duped. For nearly three years I have been living with the enemy. I had no clue. How could I? I was told by many sources that my enemy was the best. That it's many attractive features would not only turn my head, but also change the way I saw things. Indeed, that life would be better with the enemy close at hand. At my side during life's most touching and endearing moments.

Over the years my enemy and I grew very close. We were constant companions. I was drawn in by the way it shed new light on many aspects of my life. I enjoyed how it made my memories somehow seem more fantastic and vibrant than they perhaps actually were. It allowed me to believe that it - and only it- could truly capture life as I knew it.

Why, then, did I often have the desire to throw my companion through the nearest window? Smash in it's uncaring eye? Curse it for the many ways in which it darkened my memories and disfigured the faces of my loved ones.

Once betrayed, my emotions took over. Of course it was me. It had to be. My enemy was perfect in every way. Everyone had told me so. I simply wasn't treating my enemy properly. If only I took the time to understand how to correctly push it's buttons, my enemy would surely become my faithful friend once more.

So, my enemy and I have entered a 7-week therapy of sorts. And it may indeed end our relationship, but I know it's what's best for the both of us. Selfish soul that I am, in the end, I really only want what's best for me. If that means I get a younger, newer model, at least one of us will be happy, right? And what mama wants, mama gets. :)

Our future's so bright...

2011-05-31T22:24:00.000-05:00

My two sons and one shady mama, decked out and ready to face the sun that is burning brightly for the masses.

Nico loves "hats" (sunglasses - you wear them on your head...get it? He's an association aficionado) and is more than willing to whip them off your head and man-handle them onto his own baby blues. And then run away with an evil laugh.

Jamie - while an appreciator of accessories - sees them more as a mere moment of distraction. He then quickly moves on to much more pressing topics, such as turning hangers into guns and -seconds later - cuddling with his stuffed dog (Walter the farting dog, of course) and inquiring if the pup wanted some food and if he had a good rest.

This is when I put on my shades and see the future through rose-tinted glasses: Nico's ingenuity plays a key role in his future entrepreneurial empire where is mother is Chief Marketing Officer. And Jamie's passions lead him to an Olympic biathlon gold medal and a successful veterinary practice - on the side. Study up, boys, these dreams won't fulfill themselves!

Long time, no see...

2011-05-30T22:08:00.000-05:00

The full-force of spring has finally arrived. The rejuvenating rays of sun and chirpy birdsong have inspired me to pull my eyes away from the The Voice and whatever the Cooking Channel decides to feed me and again direct them to "Life as I know it." ;)

Alas, life as I know it today is a tiring one, full of a long - but superquick, thanks to my very own speed racer and two sleepers - drive back from WI and an afternoon of sun-drenched gardening with my boys.

But, before I put my weary fingers and head to rest, I share with you a snapshot of our weekend. Nico and me at the beach in Mauston. He: stubbornly inquisitive. Me: Wishing I did not have sludgy sand up to my ankles. Yet, thankful my wee lad is still cautious enough to reach for his mama's hand.

"Sunday in the park, I think it was Mother's Day"

2011-05-09T22:43:00.000-05:00

Any day that begins with chocolate doughnuts is a great day.

Church Round 1. Fourth Presbyterian in downtown Chicago for little lady Claudia's baptism. Claudie even received a special shout out from the pastor for her reverent dislike of the opening hymn. Nicolas attempts to steal the show by screeching above the choir's calming tune.

Lunch at Go Roma was a high-energy event, with the children almost outnumbering the so-called grown-ups. All were amazed by the 140-soft-drink spouting Coke mega-machine. Jamie and Rhys played monkey see, monkey do.

A run-about in the park burned off some steam that had built up from trying to behave at church followed by not behaving at lunch. ;) By mid-day, I had pencil, pee and pasta splattered on my beige pants. All-in-all, a success.

We bid our good friends Heather, Dom, Rhys and Claudia farewell and hit the road to the next religious event of the day: Colin's First Communion.

While the boys caught some ZZZZ's in the car, I caught the end of mass, and 8-year-old Colin beaming and proud in his blue suit and tie.

The after-party was picture-perfect for Mother's Day. I got to spend it with my own mother (!!), there were salty snacks and sweets galore, the cousins set up a "gun store" in the backyard playhouse (which Jamie is still excited about) and no major injuries resulted.

Nicolas learned how to anticipate a tricky step and wag a dog's tail, and the men had beer and basketball. Oh, and they got out of throwing their own mother's day celebration for their wives. (Not everyone can be as thoughtful as Patrick and plan pampering a day in advance. :)

A day with my mama's boys

2011-05-07T20:54:00.000-05:00

8 am: Jewelery show, modeled by two handsome boys, in the comfort of my own bed. Highlight: Jamie yelling down the hall "I love you mommy!"

10 am: Nico and I nap while P and J hit the driving range.

11 am: Nico dribbles down the hall and shows me how to be a 16-month-old baller (and bawler).

Noon: I am showered with orchids and chocolate doughnuts with sprinkles.

1 pm: The lady asks for a burger and fries, and greedily receives them at Fork in Lincoln Square. The boys flirt with a young lady on the other side of the booth while I dutifully clean my plate.

3 pm: Sascha Baron Cohen and his group of "Jolly Boys" (movie) remind me why I am glad to be a happily married old woman. ;)

5 pm: A secret mission takes place in the kitchen. The special agents won't utter a word, but often enter the room with chocolate-smeared lips.

7 pm: Appropriately, Jamie watches Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with me for his first time. We both wonder when our own chocolatier will complete his masterpiece.

7:45 pm: Nico goes into full-body convulsions of happiness when Patrick presents us with his two-tiered chocolate raspberry cake, complemented by Jamie's rendition of "Happy Mother's Day to you!"

8:15 pm: Let them eat cake! Delicious, decadent, ooey, gooey cake.

9:30 pm: My personal chef is putting the finishing touches on dinner, while I kick back and relax.

If this is just a Mother's Day preview, I can't wait for the real deal. ;)

Reshuffling the deck

2011-05-03T21:00:00.000-05:00

Scene: September 2006. Two wide-eyed new home owners clutched hands, gazed lovingly past the peeling battleship blue paint of their newly purchased three-flat and imagined the near future. 1) Gleaming greystone restored to its former glory. 2) Three-flat becomes gut-rehabbed single family home. 3) Garden of Eden welcomes all those who stop in their tracks in awe before our humble, yet stately and refined, home.

Oh, Sheila and Patrick of 2006. Enjoy your dreams while they last. Keep that image of a state-of-the-art , yet kitchy and unique kitchen close to your heart. Cling to the vision of a wraparound porch embracing your home's sandblasted facade. And dream on about a master bathroom and closet big enough to do a happy dance in.

Two weeks ago, we bid officially bid our naivete farewell and "reshuffled the deck" of furniture in our home. The CD collection moved to the basement to make way for vast piles of 33 cent children's VHS tapes. Photos and mirrors found new walls to call home.

Tired of being squeezed into medium-sized arm chairs while Patrick lords over the couch in the evening, I made my man lug my sink-into-me-and-never-get-up love seats from the bay window over to their rightful place in front of the fireplace and under my derriere.

Nicolas found the changes "ah-boo?" especially, the swapout of his former pack-n-play digs for a new spacious bed, courtesy of his big brother. And where did that leave his "Jayjay?" In a big boy bed, of course.

When I brought up the concept of a bed that is not a crib, Jamie initially asked to "maybe wait until tomorrow" but quickly warmed up to the idea. After only falling out of bed twice onto his faithful stuffed dog Lola, he has settled well into his new bed "just like mommy and daddy's". ;)

All these changes, and even the fish tank, gifted to me by Patrick on our 1st dating anniversary, has a new place of honor in the entryway. We couldn't leave our very first babies behind!

Yes men

2011-04-28T21:42:00.000-05:00

My dad is not a big accessorizer. You know the items he chooses to keep near him have some special meaning. As a child, one I often marveled at was his bobble-head baseball player that claims a corner of his dresser.

And what's not to like about a bobble-head? Their goofy grins, their huge head on a waif-like body, their willingness to agree with everything you say. (This last feature is severely lacking in my own home these days...)

Last Tuesday, my budding baseball players received their first and very own bobble-heads at Wrigley Field.

Aside from a Beanie baby 12 years ago (at was going to be worth MILLIONS!), I believe that this is one of the only "gifts" the Cubs have given me for attending a game.

This is because I am not a prompt game goer, and often arrive long after all the trinkets have made their way into other greedy hands. Last Tuesday, however, was a horrible, blustery April day. Guaranteeing that I would leave the game with not 1, but 4 bobble-heads nodding at every captivating word I utter.

The boys, clad in snow pants and winter jackets, lasted in their assigned seats just under and hour. Nicolas was happily stuffed into the baby Bjorn for about 15 mins, before realizing that he is neither a baby nor of Swedish descent. He then roamed and screamed at alternate moments.

Jamie was "bored" and after his last bite of hot dog, lost his last ounce of passion for the game. It seemed to me that everyone needed a change of scene. Including a stubborn me who was not yet ready to give up and hitch the next El home.

Way up high in the upper-levels we got a bird's eye view of the game, where Nico's finger could follow the flying ball from his reclaimed perch in the Bjorn. Jamie got french fries, Patrick got another beer, and I got another half an hour at the game - followed by a big-as-your-head slide of Baci pizza. 1,500 calories of sheer Heaven.

And the bobble-heads? Our first had a baseball bat casualty within the first 5 minutes of bobbling out of his box. But, he still sits proudly on Jamie's shelf, invisible bat in hand. The other three are still in their boxes, just waiting for Antiques Roadshow to come to town. ;)

Candy from a bunny's bum

2011-04-24T21:12:00.000-05:00

Events that only come once a year can pile on the pressure. Take Easter, for example. For a limited engagement of only 24 hours, you are permitted to believe that not only does a giant bunny hide candy-filled eggs around the world, but that he lays them himself, like a chicken. And, all of a sudden, it's OK to eat chocolate - from a bunny's bum no less - for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The insanity was too much for one boy to take.

Yes, that is his mother's son, in full pout mode, Not only did he refuse to pose nicely for the group pic (I'm thrilled he's even in it!) but he DID NOT want to participate in the egg hunt itself. Oh my. What a child I've made for myself.

Nico, on the other hand, was happy as Larry. Roaming around the egg grounds like he had laid said eggs himself. He shook them, he broke them open, he devoured everything with a satisfying lick of the lips and accompanying shimmey, shimmey happy dance.

Pouts don't last long within the confines of my bro Brian's backyard. Sure enough, Jamie was soon knocking wiffle balls over the fence, whizzing the ball on the ping pong table, and - sigh - playing guns with the big boys.

I, too, partook in the Eastering. Nico insisted on going on the trampoline and took me with him.

And the still childlike She in me ate her way through chocolate chip pancakes (technically made with the boys in mind) handfuls of Reeses peanut butter cups, chocolate chip cookies and Noreen's famous Oreo Balls. No wonder my stomach is turning somersaults as I type.

Luckily, I believe that candy consumed on Easter Sunday contains no calories or fat. My niece Colleen summed it up well: "You must believe to receive!"

The flying brick

2011-04-15T21:59:00.000-05:00

"You could, but I need someone to watch my stuff and my kids." This was Patrick's response when I showed interest in taking my absent bro Mike's number in the Shamrock Shuffle. At least P lived up to his family's nickname for him: The flying brick.

Used to such blunt remarks, I ducked. Instead of letting his response hit me where it hurts, I happily packed the kids up for an El ride downtown to see daddy run with 40,000 other people - many of whom also had some kind and wonderful person watching their stuff and their kids...I'm sure.

My growing boy Nico liked the idea of the "choo choo"..until it came screaming past him at high speed, whipping his hair back and drowning out his own screams. A well-placed pacifier and a bear hug from mama - lasting the entire train ride - did the trick.

For the first time, Jamie paid attention to the train descending from high above the buildings to deep down in the ground. He may have even said "That's just the way God made it." Back above ground downtown, we found ourselves ringside for the race. We three marveled at the man running in a full green bodysuit - face included - while I tired to pick Patrick's red face and head out from the crowd.

We finally found our flying brick sipping a cold brew with my brothers Brian and Sean and bro-in-law Glenn next to Buckingham Fountain. Patrick was pleased with his ~ 41 min. time for the 8k, placing him in the top 5,000.

I would have killed that time if I had run. I think he knew it all along. ;)

Post-race, we all lounged in the unexpected summer-like sun and gentle lake breezes. Being the bad non-sunscreen-toting wife I am, Patrick is still tending to his flaky pink skin. Just deserts.

April showers bring May flowers

2011-04-09T22:05:00.000-05:00

April showers bring May flowers. Ever since the bare branches stared sprouting green, Jamie and I have been practicing this little rhyme - along with "put it where the sun don't shine" (for Patrick's benefit and my amusement.)

With our bellies full of burgers and fries from Hamburger Mary's and our bodies and brains fresh from a much-needed afternoon nap, we headed outside. To commune with nature. The shake off the shiver of winter. To tackle out tiny, but challenging garden.

P and Jamie cleared the leaves and uncovered a few new shoots of green seed grass that amazingly escaped the evil grasp of 1,000 bird beaks. Nico sat on said grass, perhaps in confusion that something other than snow and mud could possibly cover the ground.

I then took our show on the road to the park. The park is always my promise and final destination, I just don't tell the boys that they have to endure a 30-min jog in the stroller before we get there.

15-mins in, Jamie asked me "Are you doing this for us, mom?" In a way, yes, as doing something for myself - with my sweet boys - makes me one happy mama.

And when mama's happy, everyone's happy!

Nico a go go @ 15 mo old

2011-04-07T22:37:00.000-05:00

My dear Nico has become a wonder with heels that could be wheels. He spins around our pad like he owns the place. His favorite current post-wake up activity is running back to his room for a few more forbidden sucks on his paci. Only 15-months old and so like his father.

Speaking of, the dear boy continues to adore his old man. Tonight, he only heard his papa on the phone - but that was enough to quiet his tears of injustice after being subjected to a Trader Joe's cart for 1/2 hour and not allowed to escape down the aisles and "reorganize" them for the staff. Once home, he eagerly ran/walked to the darkened front room exclaiming "dada? dada?" He was a bear after his father refused to magically appear from Memphis. By contrast. P tells me all was "simple" while I was away. Oi vey.

The questions don't stop with dada? Nico phrases his thoughts in the form of a question 100% of the time. He's sure to be a Jeopardy phenom in a few years! And he asks for all sorts of things. They all just so happen to sound like "apple." But he is so sweet in asking. I cannot but help to take the time to understand the particular type of apple he is in search of - be it golf ball, basketball or Jamie.

How I love me little boo so. :)

Blame it on Canada

2011-04-04T21:36:00.000-05:00

Canada can now proudly count me among its American tourists. Officially, I am in Toronto, ON, on business, but in my chest lies the heart of a traveler. My time in Toronto is very short, but I am determined to see a few sights along the way. I arrived last night and began my trip by wrongfully accusing the taxi diver of cheating me (apparently they have a policy of universally overcharging all those seeking to enter the city via the airport.) I then asked to be pointed in the direction of the Lake Ontario and walked the 10 mins to the quay with my colleague - and fellow adventure seeker - Stephanie. I wined and diner while overlooking the lake, and the snowstorm wrapping its boats with an unwelcome blanket.

At the supermarket, in search of sweets, I found a sweetheart to warm Patrick's side of the bed. After 12 hours talking and meeting and feeling conference center claustrophobia setting in, I convinced Steph and Lori Anne to venture out of the building and a little farther into the city with me. After a trip from a local in the know, we arrived at the corner for Bay and Bloor to take in the views as Panorama. From the 51st floor, the city spread out beneath us - tonight donning a new wrap of fog. Mission getting out of the hotel/convention center complete, I now type in my lonely king-sized bed with city views, with only memories of heading home tomorrow to my boys to warm me. :)

Happy 30th Grandma!

2011-04-01T22:15:00.000-05:00

On April 2, 19??, Mary (no middle name) Dempsey graced the world with her presence. A memory-filled childhood on the Irish family farm and a life-changing jaunt across the Atlantic paved the way for the addition of my 4 siblings and me to her life's accomplishments. Sometime thereafter, we were kind enough to bless her with a dozen grandchildren. What more could a woman want?

Perhaps a song to celebrate her overflowing love, boundless kindness, boundless bluntness ;), generous spirit, Roman viaduct-like support, grace, and ability to find humor in every moment life throws at her.

G'bye innocence, nice knowin' ya

2011-03-31T21:35:00.000-05:00

This evening, I treated the boys to a running tour of the lakefront, stop off at the park, and 45 minutes strapped into the stroller (at least poor Nico got a lollipop for his lack of patience) at our neighborhood, going-out-of-business, 70% off, everything must go! Borders. I triumphantly hauled my $67 worth - and $147 in savings! - of booty back home. Nico - either sicko or tiring of his boring routine - refused dinner and walked about the house like the king of the castle.

Communication is truly king with the wee lad these days - instead of woefully shedding tears at a lost or stuck toy, he now beckons me over, motions towards the object of his desire, and conveys with hand and eye gestures his confoundment at his predicament. Clever chap.

By 9 pm we had one small lad in bed - and another evading sleep like the frog in Frogger. During his pre-bed bathroom visit, Jamie shared the following nugget of information with me. Apologies to those of you sensitive to the blunt truth of 3-year-olds:

"Mommy, when I have time a out for putting my underwear on the wrong way (Read: when I yell at Ewa and won't let her help me get dressed), I smell my (you know what). And it smells AWFUL!" (Hysterical laughter from his shocked and amused mother. Look of seriousness remains on the thoughtful boy's face.) "It's really awful, mom. You should smell it." Goodbye innocence. It was nice knowin' ya. :)

Identifying oranges from eggs

2011-03-30T11:23:00.000-05:00

A colleague recently shared an article focused on managing priorities. I am aware that my blog is very low on everyone's priority list - with the exceptions of my mom and husband - so before you roll your eyes or fall asleep at your computer, here's the gist of the article: Take a look at your personal and professional "to do" list. Imagine yourself juggling all of those to dos - some are oranges, and others eggs. If you drop the orange, it will fall, and get bruised, but is still an intact, edible orange. If you drop the egg, however, it not only cracks and smashes inedible all over the floor - you now have a mess to clean up. As you are reviewing your to dos for the next week, month or year, be sure to think about what items you can drop - or delay - and only suffer a slight bruise to the ego vs. those that are life- or business-alerting eggs - that you don't want to get all over your face.

For me right now, my family's health and happiness, time to enjoy my boys as the impressive and unique individuals that they are, my high-impact professional goals, and a little time to myself everyday are my eggs.

A word of advice from the article's author, Parag Saigaonkar, regional managing director for US India consulting. "Finally, some advice - anniversaries and birthdays (especially your wife’s) are eggs. Make them oranges at your own risk! "

I just came in for a gun and a lollipop

2011-03-26T23:23:00.000-05:00

Today's post title comes courtesy of Jamie. Who, did, indeed, walk empty-handed into the cheese chalet in the WI Dells and walked out with a space ray gun (his first -I totally broke down) in one hand and a lollipop in the other.

I can only hope that the rest of the weekend is living up to the booty he was able to procure at its outset.

More details forthcoming. Right now, I have a date with my husband, the fireplace, and the original British version of "A Death at a Funeral." Deadly funny!

Me, you and the zoo

2011-03-24T20:59:00.000-05:00

Since returning home from vacation, I've noticed a power shift. Before vacation: No bugs in my house. After vacation: bugs on my computer screen, bugs in the bathtub, blithely bathing with the boys, and bugs dropping down from the ceiling into Patrick's salad.

Why do they think it is ok to cohabit with us? Perhaps they caught wind of how my mom was more than willing to risk life and limb to feed many a large four-legged beast at the World Wildlife Zoo in AZ. Or how Liz, Jamie, Nicolas and I WERE the buffet at the petting zoo?

While I smush this ant on my laptop screen, please enjoy the photos below from our zoological adventure!

It's so hot in AZ, these flamingos are flame orange.

Remember those postcards that adorably show flamingos bumping beaks in a heart-shaped "kiss?" I guess the postcard was not large enough to capture the accompanying shrieks, wing flapping, and attempts to kill one another.

The zoo offered so much more than animals: A $4 flume water ride (empty), a $4 ski lift over the park (empty), and a $2 train ride through the African exhibit. Sold!

Liz and Mary talk to the animals.

I let my little beast loose in the petting zoo.

How are the animals in the petting zoo EVER hungry? All they do is eat all day. And no, for the 10th time, the tab on my capris is not edible!

15 seconds before this photo, Liz was calmly reassuring Jamie about how nice the animals were. No need to be afraid. No need at all!

Right beneath this pic of Jamie and the friendly giraffe is a net where some unlucky soul lost his sunglasses. Thank goodness there was a gentleman who, according to his attire, once worked for - or stole from - the Maui zoo. He deftly rescued the shades and immediately placed them on his own unshaded eyes.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course!

Nico's fatherly giraffe keeps him safe during his first carousel ride on his very own animal.

Not pictured: me eating my first-ever veggie burger in light of our visit to the zoo on Ash Wednesday. Let's just say I won't be becoming a vegetarian anytime soon. ;)

Thank you Liz for suggesting World Wildlife Zoo, joining us during the visit, enduring our adventures and getting us in for half price!

If you are the last person to leave, please shut the lights off in Wickenburg

2011-03-19T20:39:00.000-05:00

Long before my winter-white skin was struck by the red-hot sun of Arizona, I was dreaming for taking long drives through desert landscapes to exotic mountain-lined destinations.

Sedona came up, but was soon ruled out due to its 2 hr and 15 minute drive and my lack of patience to be driving in the car with my adorable boys and ever-ready but not-yet-well-loved-by-Nico mom for that length of time.

Post-hot tub last Tuesday evening. Mike and Liz suggested historic Wickenburg. Only just over an hour's drive away, a landscape ripe with Saguaro's, and a little bit of the Old West. I was sold.

I should have known how the trip would go when it started by going around the roundabout not once, not twice, but three times. Note to self: In the future, resist the urge to ask your passenger to be your eyes. ;)

And then I looked at the gas gauge. Nearly empty, of course, in the middle on sparsely populated desert. Oi vey. After figuring out what direction we were driving in, the GPS pointed us to the nearest "petrol station."

All fueled up, we drove through Sun City, AZ on our way to Wickenburg. I was already envisioning the old town saloons and sharp shooters, as well as a delicious lunch where we two adults and two children relaxed and basked in the shade of large umbrellas.

Upon arrival in downtown Wickenburg, I was dumbfounded. It was a ghost town, for sure. But not the type anyone comes to see. To my dismay, historic Wickenburg boasted a handful of restaurants, a scattering of western shops, and four sad-looking horsed in a "private" field.

I looked longingly through the nearby underpass, hopeful that the Wickenburg of my imagination lied just beyond. In this hopeful vein, I asked the son of the owner of a local Western wear store what he recommended we see while in town. His response? "I've lived here my whole life and I can't tell you what there is to see."

Mary, at least, emerged from the shop triumphant, woven cowboy hat accented with turquoise beads atop her head.

Jamie was also living on a prayer, and often asked where all the horses uncle Mike promised were. If it was horses he wanted, it was horses he would see.

Thank goodness for my lack of respect for "private property" signs. We - two ladies and a double stroller - may have gotten a few odd looks from those driving down the private lane, but the horses didn't seem to mind. In fact, I'm not even sure they knew we were there. They, too, had apparently lived in Wickenberg their entire lives.

Lunch came courtesy of the Cowboy Cafe. Mary's salad was sizable and stellar. My grilled cheese was...grilled...and cheese. Jamie's chicken tenders were - shockingly - fresh battered chicken and TENDER.

Before departing on our journey back to the oasis that was Mike and Liz's home, I suggested Jamie use the restroom. He affably agreed and we headed off, much to Nico's displeasure. His woe to be left alone with his grandma could be heard throughout the restaurant - and restroom.

Eager to be away from other diner's evil eyes, Mary took the screaming Nico to another empty room, where a waitress through she could console the poor lad. My mother simply amused her, and awaited my return. I found the twosome ready to be rid of each other - and I was ready to be rid of the town.

In an attempt to salvage our day trip, I pulled off at Hassayampa River Preserve. The helpful volunteer took our $10 and talked up the trails we were about to embark on. A man-made lake, formerly of a now-defunct resort, laid just beyond the welcome center - and beckoned us to take a closer look. Jamie grabbed some free-to-use binoculars, Nicolas made several attempts to see the back offices of the center, and we were off.

Except, where was the lake? Oh yes, there it was. Just much swampier and weed-ridden than I had imagined it. Lined by burned-out palm and other non-Arizonan trees. No matter.

Jamie continued on his hunt for non-existent birds. I continued in my encouragement of him walking around the lake on his own. I let Nico run wild and run free among the many fallen branches and three green leaves and blades of grass.

And Mary struck a pose whenever possible with her new bejeweled cowboy hat. In a phrase, we made the most it.

Our good day was made even better when Jamie needed to go to the bathroom? Ever the opportunist, I encouraged the wee lad to wait until I found a suitable place for him to pee. That place? The discount department store Ross. Why should he be the only one getting what he wants?

This afternoon, I wore my new sunglasses from Ross and this evening was able to tell my story of Wickenburg with a smile. Who needs a great experience when you have a good story?

Suprise! Edie Louise Sheridan is born

2011-03-17T22:06:00.000-05:00

If you look up the word "Surprise!" in the dictionary, you may just find a photo of my newest niece, Edie Louise Sheridan. How is she a surprise? Let me count the ways:

1) To her immediate family, who didn't see the baby-sized hole in their family until they discovered Edie was on her way this past summer.

2) To her parents, who welcomed her to the world three weeks early on Monday evening.

3) To her siblings, Molly and Ian, who will now have their newest No. 1 fan tagging along with them to their packed schedule of acting, soccer, basketball and violin.

4) To Nico, who only got to hold the coveted "youngest" slot for a mere 14 months.

5) To everyone, when we heard her name! At least I talked Trina into making "Edie" her legal name instead of Edith. (Edie, I expect thank you to be your first words to me.)

I had the pleasure of holding a 17-hour-old 5 lb. 13 oz. Edie in my arms on Tuesday afternoon. She slept on, taking no notice of her aunt, uncle and mom.

Welcome to the world Edie! You have a wonderful immediate and extended family that will love, adore and - at times - exasperate you. Hopefully, more of the former than the latter. :)

The circle of life is shaped like a golf ball

2011-03-15T21:17:00.000-05:00

As a wee lass, my father often brought me to the driving range and on the course so we could spend some quality time together. Or, so I thought in my naive girlish ways.

Yes, my dear dad may have wanted to spend some one-on-one time with his youngest daughter, watching me whack balls quite a distance, yet aimlessly and haphazardly.

But, my older, wiser self now knows that he was also giving my mom a few hours of peace - away from the stubbornness of my youth and the contrary spirit of my tween and teen years. Thank goodness Patrick has since beaten such behavior out of me. ;)

Patrick is keeping up the family tradition, hitting the greens with his wee lads. And they are more than willing to whack a few balls - and perhaps each other - in the process.

While in Arizona, the boys were even able to get a few tips from a not-so-local golf pro: their grandpa. My mom and I had joined the golfers post-game last Thursday, and before I could even take note of their absence, my dad and Jamie were on the putting green. Mano e mano. And I enjoyed a few moments relaxing and soaking in the sun.

Ah, the circle of life.

Run, Scoopie, run!

2011-03-13T20:52:00.000-05:00

Arizona is not for couch potatoes. Wait. Let me restate that. Arizona - in its winter glory of 75-80 degree temps and nearly cloudless sunny skies - is made for nature and fitness lovers. It's the 105 degree Arizonian summers that are made for air-conditioning-loving couch potatoes. ;)

My bro Mike is a testament to this theory. It may have taken him about three years to get with the Arizona fitness program, but when he did, he did it with gusto. Last fall, Mike threw his belt in the ring with a group of chip-loving (purely a guess) co-workers in a biggest loser competition.

I'm not sure they knew who they were betting with. Mike always strives to be the best. As the first born in our family, the guy had high expectations to meet from the start. And after second born Brian came along, he quickly realized competition was simply a normal part of survival.

With more than a few years' experience climbing to the top of any ladder he sees, and a streak of stubbornness that runs through every member of our family, the cards were well stacked in his favor. The wild cards? His passion for food and his "Your opinions don't phase me" attitude.

In the end, his need to succeed and stubbornness won out...and paid out when he was crowned the biggest loser. Now, in his sleeker form, he can fully embrace the ways of the Phoenix, blazing his own trails in the sun.

On Thursday morning, I had the pleasure to run with my marathon-training bro around the South and North lakes of Estrella. I use "run" very loosely here. Mike ran. I choked.

I had already seen Mike run Patrick ragged during late-day 7-8 mile runs. I was not trying to show off. At the beginning of our run, I simply felt decent and went with it. For about 1.5 miles. Then, I started to dream of walking, but willed myself on. Alas, my bravado only lasted about 1/2 mile more when I waved Mike on with my good wishes.

100 sit ups and a half attempt at a fast walk later, Mike's engine steamed towards me, and I latched on for the last .5 mile. My consolation? I ran the first mile in just over 8 minutes. But, who cares when the powerhouse that is Mike can do that 13 miles in a row.

Watch out Sean and Brian and Glenn's marathon time. You're next on Mike's list of things to beat.

(Above, Mary, grooms the next generation for greatness!)

Head for the hills!

2011-03-11T12:39:00.000-06:00

Coming from the green (when not covered in snow and ice) flatland of the mid west, the rocky, hilly, desert landscape of Arizona comes as a bit of a shock.

Prior to winging it cross country to visit my brother Mike and sis-in-law Liz, I tried to explain the concept of Cacti to Jamie. He's seen them in books (No Pat, No...don't sit on that!) but never seen the taller than his dad, prickly phallic-shaped plants in person.

As we drove down the palm tree and cacti-lined entryway of Mike and Liz's community in the Sierra Estrella mountains, Jamie could be heard from the back seat of our mini-van shouting "Look, catctus! Another one! And another cactus, mommy!" With the 100s of cacti whizzing past us, he could go on for hours...

I saw many a cacti up close and personal in the foothills that lie just beyond Mike's backyard. On Monday, I placed a sleepy Nico down for a very late afternoon nap and set off to preview the trail. Initially, it was a two-man journey, but Jamie asked me to hold him before our feet had even left the paved sidewalk, so I sent him back to the comforts of home.

During my 45 minute hike, I left the stress of the day behind and trekked up the gravely path, around impossible rock formations, and through the clear sun-dappled desert. My heartstrings - and Patrick's planned 7-mile run with Mike - soon pulled me home, however. My brother was quick to comment on my post-hike exhilaration. And I was already planning my next date with Mother Nature.

Opportunity knocked on Tuesday afternoon. That morning, my mom and I enjoyed Bougainvillea Park with the boys. Jamie played fire chief with Wyatt, a kind, local, home-schooled boy. Nico sat in the sand (Arizona's playground flooring of choice) soaking all the action in. Mary and I got a little sun on our shoulders. And I plotted how I could get myself back on the mountain.

Back at the homestead, Patrick and my dad breezed in, their own lungs filled with the fresh sunny air of Arizona State University's green and geogeous golf course. Before my window of opporunity closed, I got the boys down for their afternoon nap and rounded up my posse - Patrick and Mary - to trek to the summit of the trail.

Always ones for instant gratification, we chose the quickest route to the top. At the start, the trail was so easy, that Patrick suggested we just make our own route directly up the mountain. I regrettably declined, citing my good sense and his foolishness. ;)

Within half an hour, the slope of our trail steepened, as did our relative distance to the ground and my heart rate. The summit in our sites, the heat of the sun beat down on our necks and sweat began to streak down the back of my legs.

At the top, we three amigos congratulated ourselves on our tenacity, agility and sure footedness. Looking down on the desert landscape, I felt on top of the world. I had my mother on one side of me, my husband on the other, and my two boys and father sleeping soundly beneath us.

Please vacate the premises for one week

2011-03-11T00:03:00.000-06:00

Vacation. To vacate. Vacate what? The home? Your routine? The shroud of work and responsibility? The cold Chicago nights and dreary doldrum days? Your sense and good reason for a few days? Congrats to those of you (and me!) who selected all of the above!

How did we arrive to our vacation destination? Let me count the ways.

Our normal Saturday morning routine was highjacked in favor of a packing frenzy. We all landed breathless in the cab, only to find that Nico had lost a shoe. This triggered a severe Sheila sadness, resulting in my catastrophizing that we would never make the flight.

30 mins later we breezed through O'Hare to not only make the flight, but also catch up with family friend "Big" Brian and arrange seats within drooling distance of one another. Nico slept soundly on me for 30 mins, and then woke up ready to personally greet his nearby neighbors in the air.

We then navigated the sleek labyrinth that is the Phoenix airport car rental complex, where our Hertz rep talked up into "upgrading to a minivan." UPGRADING to a minivan? More contradictory words were never spoken.

Nearly three hours after touching down in Phoenix town, we rolled up to my brother Mike's decked-out desert hacienda. Jamie and Nico were quickly impressed with the backyard, me with the lovely layout, and P with the new track to run on.

While Patrick pounded the pavement, the boys, Mike and I headed to a nearby park. We had been in Mike's presence for less than an hour and Jamie selected him to hold his hand as he crossed the street. He even punctuated the moment with an " I love you Mike." What spell has my brother cast over my son!?

Saturday evening, we pigged out on pork chops and caught up in the hot tub under the stars - Orion's belt or the plow, depending upon which country you were educated in.

This was not to be the last of our family debates. He said, she said, we said. Does there need to be a winner? In my family, the answer is a definative YES! At least we can agree on one thing. ;)