The Daily Fuss

Abundance

When I told my neighbor about the 800 pounds of sand I put in Lei's new sandbox he said, "Wow. You don't really do anything halfway. Do you?"

That pretty much sums it up.

Friends and family members had similar reactions to my commitment to plant twelve tomato plants this spring. "You'll have a bumper crop," said one. "I guess I don't have to shop for vegetables this summer," declared another. "I give you 'til July 'til you're sick of it," said my mother.

Umm hmm. Go big or go home, I say. No one will ever accuse me of being lazy.

I bought these plastic connector thingies from Improvements and had 2x8s cut at the Ho Depot. I wanted something that could easily be removed if I decided gardening's not my thing. They seemed rather temporary ... until I filled them with several square yards of dirt, of course.

 
They aren't my favorite-looking beds, but they're working quite well, and are slowly being covered by tasty foliage. The garden is in full swing at the moment.

 
Maybe I'm just overly impressed with myself because this is my first gardening experience, but I check my flowers, shoots, sprouts and burgeoning fruits several times each day to monitor progress.

I have twelve tomato plants total - most of which are heirloom: 2 Big Mama, 2 Italian Ice, 2 Honeybunch, 1 Black Krim, 1 Big Rainbow, 1 Supersteak, 1 Brandywine, 1 Red Lightning and 1 Tye-dye. I nearly lost them during the alternating rain/scorching heat we had early on, but they are thriving now. I divided them into three beds. The bush tomatoes are split between two beds with Fairy Tale Eggplant and several varieties of peppers: Pinot Noir, Great Stuff, Bananarama, Golden Giant, Red Delicious, Costa Rican Sweet and The Godfather.

  
 
The climbers are mixed in the root and leaf beds where I have Kaleidoscope Carrots and Sweet Kohlrabi (that I accidentally planted in the same row - ugh), Bull’s Blood Beets, Bright Lights Swiss Chard, as well as Red, Green and Yellow Flying Saucer lettuces, and summer-Long Leaf lettuces.

  
I also have Spacesaver and Lemon Cucumbers surrounding the beds on two sides and Summer Squash on a third. I planted Mara Des Bois Strawberries in two planters temporarily and I still need to figure out what the heck to do with those for the next two years.

 
I have beans and peas in hanging baskets - although it's soon to be just beans since the peas can't take the heat. I will launch those again this fall.

 
I have several Basils, marigolds and Sweet Alyssum tucked beneath the tomatoes and peppers and have started a round of fall herbs including, Fennel, Chocolate Mint, Thyme and Boxwood Basil.

 

  
I'm having a lovely time so far - most likely because I haven't had to pick much of anything yet. If all goes according to plan, I will have more food than I know what to do with. I might even need to get into canning to avoiding wasting any of my yield.

Another project you say? Yes. That's exactly what I need.

Whelmed

Sometimes it's all about keeping your head above water.

Such was the last two months of my life. I had a major piece of writing due for an industry publication (for my work job) and it's finally done. Completo-finito.

I had mastitis twice in as many weeks and have been super busy with clients.

Ryan's been traveling for a new role he's taken on at work and so it became a struggle for me to so much as brush my teeth on days I didn't have meetings toward the end of my writing ordeal.

The good news is, I've gone from being entirely overwhelmed to just plain old whelmed. Of course, I know "whelmed" isn't a real word, but, I really think it should be. Mostly because "whelmed" is exactly how I feel.

"Whelmed" s the space I'm in when I feel as though I've just opened my eyes for the first time in weeks and allowed myself to see the disaster my house has become. It's not a huge mess disaster, but a disorganization type of disaster. The kind of mess I didn't know I had until I tried to remember the last time I bathed the girls or the dog ... and I can't come up with anything concrete.

I don't know where anything is. Kids' clothes, shoes, sunblock, sunglasses, barbies, teethers, ponytail holders, diapers, mish mashes, chapsticks, loose change and sand fill every every stroller, bag and pocket we own. The cars are trashed and the minivan has a dent from a recent and tragic parking ramp incident in the city.

And, I'm so exhausted, I barely have a care to speedily square away the wreckage. I guess I'd rather spend my spare moments writing about it than cleaning it up.

 Whelmed. There you have it.

 

Mary Poppins Folds My Underpants

Our new nanny started last week. Let's call her "Mary" as her references describe her as no less brilliant than the original umbrella-toting phenomenon, Mary Poppins.

So far, I do not disagree.

Let's also frame up this discussion with a few truisms.

First, I almost completely lack the ability to rely on others for assistance. In fact, I suck at asking for help or even admitting that I need it in the first place.

I also work. I am an attorney. I have a real job that requires my undivided attention from nine to five and beyond. I travel occasionally for this job. I pay the bills, manage our finances, clean our home, employ requisite help, procure necessities for the homestead and do my best not to starve or misplace Luella, our beloved (if not neglected these days) Yorkie. Don't feel too sorry for her. She still gets her dinner at the foot of our bed and sleeps snugly in my right armpit. Every night.

I rarely cook anymore. I leave that to my wonderful husband, without whom I would be much thinner. God bless him.

Still, let it be known that I would do everything if I could. Farm and prepare our food. Develop family photos in a dark room. Fabricate paper from pulp. Build our furniture. Make our soap. I'd consume and morph into Martha Stewart, were it possible. And, for the rest of it ... if it isn't my idea, I probably won't like it or listen to it - not at first anyway.

I'm getting better.

Having Leighton was a serious game-changer – a real kick in the ass, if you will. It took me the better part of two years to learn how to fit work and hobbies back into the rotation, right behind caring for my girl and maintaining a relationship with my husband. All of this just in time to give birth to Mairin – a curveball in her own right.

Mairin threw me a bit. She eats, sleeps, smiles and grows, as a smart and healthy baby should. And then she sleeps and eats and grows some more. She's a perfect little chub-budda, pulling off "ah-goos" and grasping her toys at a mere seven, eight, nine weeks.

Sure Leighton is a wee bit jealous, but she loves her sister. She loves her so much, we can't leave the two alone – even to pee – for fear that we will return to find Mairin on the floor, flailing and being dragged by a teeny limb or two. All in good fun, of course.

My maternity leave ended April 12^th when Mairin was only nine weeks old. I work from home and value the precious moments I can spend throughout the day with my girls. Not to mention the fact that breastfeeding is considerably easier when every meal isn't handled by a pump because I have access to my little diner throughout the day.

Still, I find myself to be incredibly disciplined and able to handle working from the house. I believe my company gets more for their money with me at home … no commute on an office day and happy to be getting down to business. It's quite perfect.

This is where Mary, Ms. Poppins, comes in. I am learning that Mary is an extension of me. She carries out my tasks and cares for my babies with love and respect – all the while considering my needs in the process. She has mentioned that she's there to make my life easier so that Ryan and I can enjoy our girls at the end of the day, instead of tripping over toys, groceries and doggie poo.

She will come to know where the messy cabinets and junk drawers are. She will learn that I toss tinkle diapers off the bed throughout the night because the girls sleep in our family bed. She will judge me a little when I don't scold enough and raise an eyebrow when we have cake for breakfast. She will fold my underpants.

This intimate knowledge of us is imperative. Raising kids is tough stuff and despite the number of procreators on the planet, the system is neither designed for nor is it kind to working parents.

Why must school end at three-ish? Who picks up the kids? Who takes them to practice when they're older? Who makes sure some creep doesn't scoop them into their windowless van? Who helps them with their absurdio amount of homework? And who the hell does the shopping and the laundry?

I need to utilize Mary in every way possible - from entertaining and teaching my girls to handling laundry and running errands for me. I will get there. I swear.

With all of the bitching I'm doing at the moment, I have to wonder: What do the single parents do? I seriously contemplate that several times each day. I observe a moment of silence for those parents – mostly single moms – because this parenting thing is a real mother effer.

I get it. I feel the full weight of that which I carry – the yoke of parenting – the awesome responsibility that comes with preparing little humans to be intelligent, compassionate citizens. And, I know that I need some help throughout the day or we can't raise our girls in the way that suits us best.

So I take deep breath and pledge myself to letting go: I will ask for help when I need it. I will accept help where it is offered. I will remain calm and loving in the face of meltdowns, tantrums, spilled milk and other forms of adversity. And, for the love of all that is good and holy, I will let Mary Poppins fold my underpants.

Turning Two Part I: Party Prep

Leighton turned two last week. I would tell you that it was a slightly amped up version of a regular day, but nothing about this birthday (or the weeks leading up to it) was regular. Amped up ... definitely. Regular ... not so much.

I do everything big. I set lofty goals and get after them. Quitting is not an option. Ryan and I spent the previous several weeks killing ourselves to wrap up some lingering renovation to-do's so that the forty-seven people that RSVPd "yes" to the birthday party we threw on Sunday could see the joint without wondering in earnest why we'd buy such a house in the first place.

Leighton's spring break started friday of the previous week. Apparently, Montessori toddlers need a week long spring break. So, my in-laws thankfully came to help us get ready for the party. They arrived just in time for me to hand the girls over so I could run to the doctor. Joy.

Leighton was already sick and Mairin was looking worse for the wear with each passing moment. It was only fitting that I be stricken with a sinus infection while trying to paint trim, plan the menu, rearrange furniture and clean with T-minus three days to go. I've had a cold since October so when my stuffy nose reached a new level of painful congestion, I knew I needed pharmaceutical assistance.

I felt guilty trying to hurry Leighton off to bed every night so we could continue painting and hanging pictures and doing all of the housey things that needed doing - like I wasn't present in the moment for weeks. And, Ryan was in Canada on business for two days the week of this party. I felt like an even worse parent for not being able to get a toddler and infant to bed simultaneously with my husband out of town. I cried three times and yelled at Leighton for throwing a temper tantrum.

Noteworthy: Picking a fight with a two year-old is entirely ineffective.

I held it together throughout the rest of the week with help from all four grandparents. By Sunday, I could hardly move. I barely had the presence of mind to snap a few pictures. When my mom walked in the door, she got right to work and I became useless. I think I was so relieved when she asked me if she could help put the food out, I just let her take over.

Thirty-five pounds of barbecue, forty-seven guests, sixty cupcakes, a billion presents and one missed nap later, we had hosted a rockin' toddler birthday bash.

It's the kind of fun you almost never want to have again.

Identity Crisis Part III: How Did I Get Here?

So I had a delusional moment the other day, ascending our stairs (to pee for what seemed like the billionth time that day because we still haven't installed the toilet in the half-renovated, half-bath on the main floor) in what felt like someone else's house.

Why so much peeing, you ask? Well ... because I stepped away from The Daily Fuss for two months to get my ducks in a row, I haven't been able to drop daily reminders to all of you that our hot new single "Little Sis" is due to drop on Monday the 31st. Unfortunately, it seems that since Leighton was born during the NCAA Championships that Little Sis would like to wait for the Superbowl to make her debut. Bummer.

So, I'm coming up the stairs thinking to myself, "How did I get here again?" It was an odd space in between a failure to remember who dropped me off at this person's home, and the manner in which the Plinko chip bounced down the board of life to make me the happily married, suburban mother of two with a mortgage and a minivan (oh hell yes - we will address this properly tomorrow) and a little doggie and tenants in my beloved condo and laundry in the dryer and we're out of milk and taxes are due soon and I need to fill out my paperwork for maternity leave and we need more salt for the driveway and is Parenthood on tonight and ... you see where I'm going with this.

It didn't take long to go from the girl-about-town singleton to the current iteration of me. We married in May 2007, bought the condo, had a baby, bought a house in the suburbs and are having another baby this week. What can I say? "Holy Shit" pretty much sums it up.

There have been a few recent moments of pause along the way ... here, here and here to be specific. And, if I hadn't bothered to write about them, I may not have recalled ceratin aspects of my metamorphasis.

The good news is that both Ryan and I are the type of people who think just long and carefully enough about the decisions we make (major ones included) without making ourselves ill over deliberation. We pick our pony and never look back. We trust that we made a good choice and work through whatever that brings. However, that type of decision-making has lead to rapid change in a short period of time no matter the super-sound logic involved.

Don't worry, I'm not going Revolutionary Road on you in ANY way. I'm a happy girl, I just don't recognize myself sometimes. Reconciling who I fancy myself to be and who I really am is a daily download - like a JenMom software patch. It takes effort, but it's not exhausting. I fully expect that the overwhelming gratification, part and parcel to leading a happy life, includes perpetual bouts of alternating hard work and hard play. That's what makes it interesing in my overly energetic opinion.

Stay tuned this week and the next and the next and the next ... for more of the hard work phase once Little Sis joins our squad. And thanks for sticking with me while I took some time to get my act together. Much appreciated.

Ryan is flushing his freshly installed, half-bath toiled as I type these very words. I could not love him more. My hero!

Howdy Neighbor

I've been on the neighborhood ladies email list for two weeks and, in that time, a few emails have buzzed around. One even had an attachment, it just took time for me to dig around in my personal email and open it.

I finally had a few spare moments today to sift through the latest sales and Southwest getaways, reply to Evites or delete copious offers for vitamin supplements. For me, it's the electronic equivalent to the Sunday paper inserts. You know ... funmail.

I eagerly opened the flyer attachment from the most recent neighborhood ladies email only to find that Las Toberfest (I have no clue where the name came from) was this past Saturday. Sadly for me, everyone attends this soirre and, according to one of the two neighbors I actually know, I should "never miss Las Toberfest."

Ooops. How was I supposed to know that my neighborhood chickadees would celebrate something that sounds remotely like "Octoberfest" in August?

As the newbie, I was naturally looking forward to meeting the rest of the gals on my block. Being the proverbial new girl is not generally a big deal. However, I am somewhat self-conscious in this particular instance because we bought the house months ago, tore it up, put most of it back together and just recently moved in. Speculation about the new Freemans has been swirling down the street for some time now.

In the context of a suburban neighborhood community curiosity, I am the most highly scrutinized type of new girl. I'm the new girl who decided that this year we'll focus on renovating the interior of the house and next year we'll tackle the exterior and landscaping - the part of the house that everyone sees. Everything we've done for the past several months begs the question ... What the heck are they up to in there?

I'm the new girl who's had a dumpster parked in her driveway for several weeks at a stretch since April. I'm the new girl who had a carpenter set up on her front lawn making a noisy, dusty mess.

I'm the new girl who (even after a month since moving in) still has a hundred pounds of corrugated cardboard bound up on her curb for the recycling truck every monday.

I'm the new girl who hit an all-time, hillbilly low in early July when our Jeep was stuck on our lawn for several hours one suffocatingly hot, friday evening. It was on that very day Ryan I decided that the good folks in our new neighborhood were wagering on whether or not we had full sets of teeth or were related to one another or said things like "git 'er done" or would one day shoot the racoons right off the top of them there garbage cans. Varmints!

We have a one-car garage and thusly, a one-car width driveway. We also live on a no parking street. With contractors and family members coming over to deliver things, haul things away and help us in general, it was occasionally just easier to roll right up on the lawn next to the driveway for a brief spell.

Unfortunately, our model of Jeep Grand Cherokee had a tempermental steering column/ignition pin lock and if you turn the wheel after parking you can apparently break the whole damn thing. This very scenario played out with us looking like complete hilljacks - our Jeep parked (cockeyed, as Ryan will point out) in the middle of the yard long after the help had gone home.

AAA sent a service truck out to have a look. After thirty seconds, the driver said, "The ignition's busted. I can tow it to a shop for you. Should be fixed by monday. Or .... I could call my uncle. He can probably help you tonight." Yep. His uncle.

While we waited for the only, living, willing, repair guy who could install a new ignition on site at nine pm on a friday, we made vain attempts to unlock the steering column ourselves using random suggestions drudged up from the bowels of the internet by the Google-machine.

Please try to picture one of us jumping up and down on the front bumper while the other violently jerks the stiff wheel back and forth. These sad, turf-destroying efforts came in short bursts because it was too damn hot for human beings to carry out this ridiculous exercise for any extended period of time. By the time help arrived, the wheel was in an unusual position. "You never want your steering wheel stuck completely upside down" the helpful master of the obvious told us, as he busied himself in the portable garage that was his utility van.

People who point out the obvious usually make me nuts, but this guy installed a new ignition for us faster than you could say "chop shop" so I just can't bring myself to hate him for it. It barely even weirds me out that this alleged "uncle" didn't seem much older than the AAA driver who had led us to him. Once our precious transport was back in the driveway where she belonged, I was nothing other than entirely grateful and relieved.

Let me just say that if the neighborhood folk somehow overlooked the weeks and months of renovation hoopla at our house, there was little chance they missed the car parked on our lawn during prime time on a friday night. Las Toberfest was a golden opportunity for me redeem the Freemans before the whole hood - a shot at showing them how hilariously, brilliantly normal we are, and I BLEW it. 

Damn you, ill-named and inappropriately-timed Las Toberfest. Damn you!

House

When you're single, married people are always asking you when you think you'll get married. When do you think he'll propose? Are you bummed you're not married yet? What kind of wedding do you want to if he proposes tomorrow?

The list of questions is endless, right down to china patterns and venues. It's like the married-folk have joined a little club and they're dying to see your membership application.

Once initiated into the club, you are immediately privy to the gruesome details of the dysfunctional inner-workings of these marriages over a nice wine-soaked round of Bunko or whatever those wacky wives clubs are doing to entertain themselves these days. You almost feel the urge to make shit up about your husband to fit in, but think better of it and just chip in a few cents about how he doesn't pick up his socks or wet towels. That ass!

The same holds true for the couples with kiddos. Once you have a baby, you can't wait for your friends to reproduce. Mostly because having a newborn pretty much sucks and misery truly loves company. However, you direct your discussions to sweet baby gear and dazzle them with pictures of your peanut sleeping or posed in other similarly peaceful states. You only divulge the horrors of parenthood - no sleep, diaper blow outs, the exorbitant cost of the sweet baby gear, ear infections, bad babysitters, sore boobs, and the like once your friend is about to give birth. Ha ha - SUCKAS!

I had no idea that more of these clubs existed, related to the stages of life through which we must matriculate to feel successful, but aren't nearly as glamorous as they first appear. However, I am on to the next club, not necessarily in the same order as everyone else - the houseowner club. I have been a homeowner for some time, just not a houseowner. HUGE difference. And, everyone else who was rah-rahing for me to buy the house is now referring to it as a "lifetime love-hate relationship". FAN-TAS-TIC.

City condo living and suburban house living are completely different. Let me point out a few of the most crucial deviations in my opinion:

1) In a high-rise in the city, we can live twenty feet from twenty people for ten years and not know ANY of their names. Sure, I vaguely know three-packs-a-day on the pool deck guy, weird helmet guy, pot-smoking sorority girls know as the besties, the association president el presidente, ambiguously gay dude, the woman who can never remember how old Luella is and whether she is a she or a he but asks every single time we're in the elevator, lawyer guy, the triathlete, Auntie Social and the woman who furiously tries to manually close the elevator door before you can shut your mailbox and dash there yourself. Worth mentioning - the couple whose children addressed everyone as "hi people" who once lived at the end of the hall.

In the burbs, I am on the Highland Park Ladies email list, currently watering the neighbor's plants and rearranging their trash cans while on vacation and have been asked several times via snail mail to "Save the Children" by a specific individual. What the fuss? I so frequently stand at the sidewalk in front of my house to make polite conversation that I am ready to put a bench right at the foot of the driveway. And, I've fielded so many inquiries related to our renovation that I am considering holding an open house to take care of multiple requests to see things like my new soapstone countertops all in one fell swoop.

2) City = Drive some, walk everywhere else. Burbs = Walk some, drive daily. We need a second car and that absolutely blows.

3) Peapod needs some advance notice to schedule a grocery deliver to the burbs. Whereas I can schedule at the last minute in the city. Many people have tried to convince me that grocery shopping is relaxing and fun and wonderful. I CANNOT STAND grocery shopping anywhere other than the internet - Peapod to be specific. Otherwise, I need to go to Whole Foods for much of the order, then Sunset for the few other things I can't get at Whole Foods (like preggo waffles and the WW frozen Quesadillas to which I am addicted and will rarely admit to eating) and then to the specialty market for the things I need that are at Whole Foods but way more expensive than they should be and as a matter of principle, I can't buy them there. It's all bullshit when I can get everything I need from Peapod, while I track my spend and avoid getting sidetracked by impulse purchases. I spend no less than $100 on wine, cheese and tapenade every time simply walking through the doors of Whole Paycheck. Boo.

4) City = Hailing a taxi. Burbs = Calling the night before for a taxi. There are multiple reasons Ryan and I are both having a tough time with this one. But the most important factor is that we like to do things at the last minute.

5) We now live very far from Midway, which means no more Southwest. I hate O'Hare, hate getting to and from O'Hare, I despise all airlines EXCEPT Southwest. I need a game plan here because this just isn't working for me. Plus, if you take a city cab home from the airport, the credit card authorization is out of range. It's like I live on a farm or something. Last night, the driver who brought me home from O'Hare thought I was leading him somewhere to be mugged or killed. In the city, the opposite is generally true.

6) We suddenly have a roof, yard and basement to worry about. In the city, we had a 24 hour doorperson and maintenance crew. We never bothered with those things considered "common elements". SIGH. This is the main issue that no one mentioned until after we bought a free-standing house. "You'll spend so much money every year on stuff you won't even notice - new roof, new furnace blah blah blah."  The dryer broke the other day and we bought a new set of front-loaders. Super expensive pain in the ass is all I can say.

7) I can hear bugs instead of the 22 bus. I am rattled by the table-saw hum of the mating cicadas in my yard. I would pay someone fifty bucks to record the lilting sounds of Clark and Fullerton at dusk. "Next stop - Clark and Belden ... Clark and Belden. Psshhht. Vroom." Oh I do miss it something awful. That, and the bright lights of the skyline to guide me to the potty three times each pregnant night. Now, it's pitch black and I use my right leg like walking cane for the blind. My shins look like half-eaten corn cobs - bruises and bug bites. Gorgeous.

There are upsides.

1) Lei loves her yard - especially the swing set. Luella does too. In fact, she one self-assured pooch these days. It's as though she can't believe we won the lottery and have an actual yard! A YARD! I told her that I'd like to see the carcases of ten fallen voles, lined up on the patio by the end of the week. She agreed to give it a shot.

2) We can walk to the lake, Ravinia, the train and downtown HP. With this comes the ability to walk to a restaurant, have a few cocktails and not have to drive home. That is a major plus where suburbs are concerned.

3) The guest parking situation has improved immensely. In the city, you fend for yourself and probably should have taken a cab. We do have parking - a definite plus - although not a huge one in my opinion. Even traffic wasn't much of an issue for me, just for those visiting from out of town.

I'm confident more upsides will emerge by Halloween - Halloween itself likely being one of them. I just need to revisit this list regularly and stay positive, even in the face of pregnancy, renovations, out-of-commission second bathrooms and a brand new, defective, front-loading washing machine. The washing machine was a bitter pill. Tomorrow is a brand new day. 

Deconstruction

I vaguely remember, at some point in the process of buying this most recent home, turning to Ryan and stating very matter-of-factly, "The best part about this house is that we don't need to do anything to it before we move in."

Hi me. Have you met me?

I absolutely meant what I said on that particular day. The house was cute enough for now, and I had absolutely no desire to live through another renovation process at this juncture. (Check out our 2008 condo rehab. Password is chicagocondo).

At closing in April, we decided that the size and condition of the house called for a major renovation in 5-7 years. We figured that giving the house a minor face lift now would help us avoid temptation to overhaul prematurely.

Shortly thereafter, we started tearing shit up in our 1925 Georgian colonial gem.

I should have realized at the outset that I'm particularly fussy. I like things a certain way - So does Ryan. And, if we agree on anything at all, we agree on spending money. A "budget" is the total amount we've spent on getting something just the way we want it. A "budget" is a moving target.

We gutted the entire kitchen - junked the appliances and sold the cabinets. The floor was a challenge - covered in chunky tile awkwardly affixed to cement board, glued to ceramic tile over linoleum that was stuck to the original hardwood. It was ridiculous.

We also removed the damaged hardwood on the first floor, demolished the banisters and upstairs built ins. Tore out trim and mouldings that didn't match and basically pulled out every piece of DIY nightmare the three previous owners had proudly installed. It's almost as if, over time, each of the three tried harder and harder to turn this Georgian into a beadboard-clad beach house.

In the interest of taking this house back to 1925 and achieving legitimate colonial revival style - symmetry, built ins, simple paneling and moulding, wrought iron and brass - we need to finish the construction efforts by procuring hardware and lighting true to the house. Hence, moving target on the budget front.

I'm not exactly sure why or how we assumed that "sprucing up" our new little house was going to be a simple endeavor. Maybe because we know how to do most of the work with our own hands, it seems easier than it actually is. Maybe we pushed memories of the condo reno to the deep recesses of our brains. Maybe we are insane.

Insanity aside, I have fond memories of rehabbing the condo. We were weary masters of demo. We laid hardwood and nailed trim. We painted. We installed floor and wall travertine, marble and subway tile. We grouted like champions. We ate from a coleman cooler and brushed our teeth in the tub for the sixteen weeks before our wedding. We fell asleep to the DIY network every night.

Good times. [sigh]

Good times are here again, but this time with the help of a master carpenter and an incredibly tenatious family member. I'm more balanced now that the deconstruction is over. The last few weeks have been insane. Last time we attempted such a feat, we didn't have a toddler.

We need to have the condo ready for renters by July 30 and I anticipate a meltdown or two before then. Hopefully, I'm more realistic about what I can handle as that day approaches. If not, I'm sure I will let you know all about it.

Has anyone else dared endeavor to do something similarly crazy? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.

What the Fuss? Magic Eraser

I thought about buying these every time I saw the commercial. So one day whilst Peapodding, I threw a box in my basket. $6.99 for four "magic" bullets seemed reasonable to me.

I left the box unopened under the kitchen sink until the day we closed on our house. It was then that I realized I would need to start showing the condo to prospective renters and needed to be in tip top condition.

Everything looked reasonably new, but for the lengthy, bendy hallway that stretched past the bathrooms, laundry room and to the front door. Streaks, scratches and suitcase wheel rubber all over the damn place. Good thing I have no touch up paint left and no one in a ninety-mile radius carries Pratt & Lambert anymore.

I was about to cry when I remembered the Magic Erasers stashed under the sink. I was 100% expecting a massive let-down, but had nothing to lose.

Hot damn. We have a winner! The magic erasers (I used two in the process) completely removed every single one of the hundreds of marks on my butter yellow walls and stark white closet doors.

If you have a situation, or just want to make an average day of cleaning a cinch, I suggest you try a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. You won't be disappointed. I haven't found a mark it can't handle.

Have you used these miracle sponges to erase a fierce mistake? What was it? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.

What the Fuss? Flip and Tumble

Nukkas, bottles, breast pump parts, socks and shoes, Little People, Thomas and Friends, art supplies, sports equipment, doll clothes, race tracks, blocks, beach toys ... almost every category of baby or kid stuff has teeny parts that multiply, break and disappear as time passes.

Inevitably, the toy box has six inches of wooden and plastic toy "sludge" comprised of the aforementioned articles - never to be returned to their rightful place again.

One friend of ours uses plastic baggies to sort little parts for various toys. Great idea, but for the whole wee-tot-potential-suffocation factor. Approved for grade-schoolers, but who wants to wait that long to be organized?

My mom has a new toy for Leighton every time we visit and on a recent trip, she had two boxes of musical instruments. Lei opened her treat and played vigorously - LOUDLY and vigorously. When she was done, my mom pulled out this handy little mesh bag and VOILA - instruments were organized, easy to transport and out of the way.

These magic mesh bags are Flip & Tumble Reusable Vegetable Bags, intended to make shopping for produce an eco-friendly experience. At roughly two bucks each, they're awesome. I bought three packs of five on line. From pears to puzzles, these Flip & Tumble bags are a Fussworthy Must-Have for any parent. 

This product review conforms to the Fuss Formula.

Do you have any organization tips using unconventional items? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us.

Cah. Cah. Cah.

To say that Leighton is intrigued by cars is mildly understating her level of interest.

It started with riding in our car. As an urban-dweller, this doesn't happen often. Her bug has been her main mode of transport since birth.

She loved the bassinet attachment where she could loll about an stare dreamily at her mama. And the big shot seat she's been in since seven months offers excellent views, an entertainment/activity bar and reclining options. But the car ... that's quite rare and very exciting.

Once she figured out that our car was not the only vehicle in existence, the flood gates opened. As if the automotive gods flipped a switch, Leighton has deemed it necessary to point out every other car on the road.

I can hear her thoughts, "Holy Cow! There are other people in other cars going places and doing stuff. Mom! Dad! Mom! Dad! There goes another car. THERE'S A BABY IN THERE! Hi baby. HI BABY!!!"

With these exclamations swirling about in her head, what actually comes out of her mouth is ... "Cah!"  She points to a car (to be clear, it's anything with wheels at this juncture) and says "Cah."

"Cah. Cah. Cah." Where a vehicle is present, Leighton will let you know. "Cah."

"Cah. Cah."

This has been going on for roughly two weeks, and yesterday, I decided to do something about it. I went to the toy store and bought Tonka Chuck and Friends four-inch vehicles - a car, taxi, garbage truck and fire truck. The first three are  found easily in the city and grandpa is a fireman so that truck is of particular import.

At the register, the checker rang up a few spare baby dolls, play keys and a play cell phone. When she got to the trucks she looked up at Leighton and said, "These must be for your brother." I looked around for a random boy separated from his mother or any possible explanation for what the hell she meant.

Then, I realized ... girls aren't supposed to play with trucks. Duh. Silly me.

Sexism, intended or not, is pervasive and it doesn't diminish as we mature. This afternoon, I stopped by City Hall to pick up some permits for the work we are going to do on our new house and then met with the subs handling the projects we don't have time to do.

Three of these people asked me whether my husband is experienced with installing hardwood flooring and performing simple plumbing and electrical work. I'm so tired of explaining, "Yes, he's good at it, but not as good as me."

I find these assumptions ridiculous. I promise to be extra careful about what I say, how I say it and what types of toys I buy for Leighton from now on. Have you had a similar experience? Please post a comment and share your fuss with us!

Identity Crisis Part I: Suburban Living

I've started this post more times than I can count. The words just haven't come. I'm not one to dance around an issue, so I'll be straight out with it.

We bought a house.

We bought a house on the north shore.

THE SUBURBS.

We close on thursday.

Remember when I swore to NEVER move to the suburbs? What the hell happened to that conviction? Has becoming a parent finally changed me that much? 

Remember last august, when I was so proud of myself for showering and blow drying every day since Lei was born? That same woman is (as we speak) wearing a bra that has underwire poking out and stitching that's popped apart so that the elastic leaves a mark for two hours after I take it off. That's almost as fucked up as the fact that I will wipe anything on whatever pants I am wearing at that particular moment - banana, snot, drool, mish mash - anything but poop. Actually, that's not fucked up, THAT'S discretion.

No mistake ... I'm completely into this decision. I'm excited to have more space. I just never wanted to deal with maintaining a lawn, or basement or roof or anything deemed a "common element" in condo life.

I just don't feel like myself. Maybe after we close, I'll be back to my sassy ways. Hell, I already ordered an outdoor umbrella and stand. Still, until thursday ... expect a few, incredibly worthy What the Fuss? posts.

Is anyone out there feeling me on this suburb thing? The last time I inquired, dear readers, I got much urban support. Now, I guess I just need a shout out from the suburban contingent.

Control Room

This week we decided that we might be interested in a house in a super-cute, train-ride-away, lots-of-kids, villagey-type of suburb. I have expressed my angst associated with that.  Let's add to it the fact that I spent my free time on monday cobbling together our tax-related documents for the accountant, printed menus and bought decorations for Leighton's first birthday party, caught a cold because I'm getting ZERO sleep because a certain, wee tot likes to come into our bed at 2am and drive her little toes like screwdrivers into my ribcage for the next four hours. It's either that or endless crying.

I still need to procure cake and balloons, am desperately trying to pull Q1 out of a hat at work, need to lose another 25 pounds and I completely miss my blog. Oh yeah ... I also desperately need to clean my MESSY nest. Well, everything but the living room. It's spotless right now.

When my life and sanity begin spiraling into oblivion, I reach for that little piece of control I can count on - my living room. I always manage to put that room back together in two minutes flat no matter the circumstance. Toys in the toy chest. Remotes in the box. Eight throw pillows strategically arranged on the sectional. Leighton's chair, complete with quilt and Bitty Baby angled perfectly into a converstaional pattern. Wine bottles, magazines and books in the rack. Swiffer every surface. Zip zip with the vacuum. Done and done.

I feel a sense of order and accomplishment. It doesn't even matter that we must hurdle four bins of clean (unfolded) laundry to get to our bed. It's so ridiculous that we've begun getting dressed from these bins. I beats folding, but the pangs of hopeless inadequacy trump the triumph of that exercise in efficiency.

My friend Natalie always makes her bed in the morning because if she can just get her bed made, the rest of the day is doable. I feel that way about my living room. If I can get a handle on this first piece of impending disaster, the rest of the day is just a small struggle away from being great.

How do you regain control when you feel overwhelmed? Please leave a comment and share your fuss with us.

Fired Up

I pride myself on "tellin' it like it is" and pulling no punches. Do I need to shave before we leave? Yes. Can we head home early? No. And, if those pants make you look fat, there's no way in hell I'm letting you leave the house in them.

That's an absurdly narrow sampling of my inability to lie under oath. Please note that I am always under oath.

One relationship has revealed a chink in the armor over the past several months. My cleaning lady sucks. 

Miss Sweep 'N' Sass has sucked for the entire year that I have employed her. She bangs the furniture with the vacuum cleaner. She introduces chemical cleaners to our home environment, even though I have forbade their use. She refuses to put anything back where she found it after dusting a surface. She pushes all of the buttons on the TV and sound system so nothing works after she leaves. AND, she complains all the time about how dusty our home is, yet insists upon using a feather duster to redistribute pesky particles, rather than remove them with something as simpe as a Swiffer-majigger. ARGH. It has gotten to the point that the mere sight of her infuriates me.

Yet, regrettably, I have not fired her. I vow to break up with her every single, hopeful, wonderful day. But, I never get around to doing it. I KNOW. Obviously, I have never ever bragged to her about my work on The Daily Fuss. Maybe I should have.

I have no idea why I can't bring myself to end this unhealthy relationship. I have spent four hundred times the energy complaining about her, cleaning before and after her visits and retouching the woodwork than it would take to let her know that this arrangement simply isn't working. What the hell is my problem?

This week, I had a plan. I was going to clean our home from top to bottom and then call to let Sweep 'N' Sass know that I no longer needed her. I wanted to clean first so that if I couldn't pull it off, I would just bail on my plan and have her clean THIS ONE LAST TIME. I almost fully executed my plan on Tuesday, but didn't quite get to the floor. I figured that I would let her do that and then end it once and for all.

Wednesday is her cleaning day. I left for a hair appointment at 12:30 and told Lei's nanny, Kate, that the cleaning instructions were on the white board.

Sidebar:I realize that this post may not inspire sympathy with the whole cleaning lady, nanny and hair appointment thing. And, I'm not asking for any. But, the truth is, I need help with the house work, I work full time so Lei needs childcare and it's been so long since my last hair cut that I am wookie-like. It's bad.

Anyhoo.I returned at 3pm and the cleaning had just gotten underway. WTF? She's two hours late. I walked in to find a tardy Sweep 'N' Sass complaining to Kate that I left nothing for her to do. Seriously? I let her spend thirty-five minutes on the floors. She then took her check and left.

I realize that the protracted nature of this situation is my doing. I have no excuse. What's worse is that I can't even find any aspect of my personal life to use as a therapeutic projection point. Damn it anyway. I am going to fire her first thing tomorrow morning. I SWEAR.

Any comments, suggestions, hypotheses or suppositions are welcome. What's my damage? Maybe this post is just what I need.

Urbane

I moved to Chicago eleven years ago for law school. I fell in love instantly. I never want to leave. Ever. I'm staying put come hell or high water - and where I live, I would likely look down upon Noah and his drifting ark were it to flood.

I enjoy lively urban living. Bustle suits me. I'm a busy body and enjoy the comfort of knowing that even if I doze off for a spell, my city is alive and well and will soon resuscitate me.

I have a corner unit with an amazing view and a 24-hour door person. It's my birdhouse in the sky. Hence the flood comment. I maintain control and feel at ease from my vantage point. Plus, the sound of the 22 bus lulls me to sleep and the moonlit city lights illuminate my path to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

What's not to love? Luella is paper trained. We see the Navy Pier fireworks from our living room every Wednesday and Saturday. We keep our favorite take out on speed dial and can order 100 different kinds of food to our doorstep within thirty minutes. The world's best farmers market is up the street. We can walk to the zoo in four minutes - the lake in five. We can whoop it up and take a cab home thus eliminating any opportunity to drink and drive. Oh. And, we don't need to be home to accept packages or let the cable guy in. 

Why would anyone ever trade this bliss for suburban living?

I realize that with children come a new set of circumstances and considerations: safety, childcare, schooling, space and the plain old expense of living. With one more child, we will need a bigger home, a new car, more child care ... blah blah blah. The cost of city living can be steep, but to me, it's worth it.

I want Leighton to experience Chicago and come to love it as I have. I want her to visit the zoo several times each week and make use of the museums and parks. I want her to dine al fresco with us during the summer and play in the Lincoln Park snow in the winter. I want to take her to take the el to see the White Sox and walk to see the Cubs.I want her to love people and know as many different kinds of people as she possibly can. Yes - even Cubs fans.

I don't know what to do. We're looking at bigger homes in the city, suburbs and even Milwaukee and the whole ordeal makes me cranky and tearful. Urban twenty-somethings always say they're "never moving to the burbs" and then, one by one, they flee.

Why? Is it cost, space or safety? Do they like having to drive everywhere instead of walk? I'm having trouble recognizing the lure of suburban living. Maybe it's just me.

Did you struggle with the "city or suburbs" question? What did you do? What is so darn great about the suburbs? Please share your fuss with us.