Time to brush up the old playbook

I asked my husband tonight, “Which is considered a better defense in basketball? Man-on-man or zone?” I, of course, got a convoluted response (for those of you who know Nathan) that went around in circles with no definitive answer, but overall, what I took from his feedback was, “They can both be considered ‘better’ if done correctly.” Well, I’ll be darned. That whole correlation of sports defense to child rearing may actually be on to something.

So, I’ve been tossing and turning a bit more at night lately and I’m pretty sure that my constant is always the same: TWO. Holy crap, we’re gonna have TWO! For those of you who are bad at math, two is twice as many as one. You’re subtracting no work, no time, no money, no energy. Rather, you are doing quite the opposite with two. You are doubling your workload, splitting your time, dividing your money, and doubling your exhaustion. Get the point? Yes, this has me slightly concerned. And knowing that I’m halfway there, and only have a precious few 20 weeks remaining in man-on-man defense mode with my kid, I’m wondering how it will all work out.

So many moments as of late in life have me bustin’ out in a cold sweat. Example: Tonight, Nate and I took Coen and my lovely sister Julie to the Mall of America for a night of shopping, rides, and dinner. Again, do the math: that’s three on one. We chased, we hunted down, we entertained, we rode spinning rides, we cleaned up spilled milk, spilled apple juice and spilled gatorade. We shopped in approximately two stores and spent approximately $10. We walked to the car at 8:30 p.m. and the only one left in a dead sprint was the toddler. Explain that one to me. There were THREE of us! I got in the car, leaned back in the chair, pointed to my stomach and said, “When this one comes, I’m never leaving the house again.” Matter of fact. But, good gravy, I hope it’s not true.

Other times, I just wonder HOW it all works. As in, how do you share your time and love? I remember when we announced we were pregnant on Facebook and an old high school friend, who had just had her second, wrote me a message that said these comforting words: “Take it from someone who knows, how truly big a heart can grow. Gosh, we loved Lou so much and then when Mac came along, our hearts got even bigger.” This message runs through my mind every time I catch myself staring at my child in his high chair, just cutting up his hot dog and talking to himself. How can I love him so much and then just be expected to love someone ELSE that much? Seems so unfair. Seems so impossible. But, seems like everyone manages to do it somehow.

I’m guessing it’s just a natural transformation, like when you go from single-to-couple or couple-to-dog or dog-to-first-born. Not comparing my child to a dog, but it worries me a bit to think of the back shelf our poor puppy took when Coen was born. I have scrapbook pages filled with dog park pictures, she had an extensive collection of collars and bones and I don’t think we ever planned much of a vacation without making sure it was “pet-friendly” first. Along came baby and poof! Chloe spends weekends at the neighbors’ houses while we leave town (humans only), she owns literally one collar (and my cousin bought it for her), and the last spread I scrapbooked that was designated to only dog was about 200 pages ago. It’s sad, but oh so true. Now, before you go calling the ASPCA on us, know that we still love her madly and walk her regularly and buy her treats and groom her monthly, but I’m just saying, her rank may have dropped a bit when the little disruptive human arrived. So, my worry is just that – will baby one back shelf to baby two like our adorable puppy back shelfed to baby one? Coen is such a character that I can’t imagine that being even remotely possible, but it’s a pregnant woman’s fear and it’s being expressed to the world now. Super. That NEVER bites me in the ass. (Does this blog detect sarcasm?)

I have a lot of friends who recently evolved into four-person families, and they are very good at scaring the bejeesus out of me. One friend regularly reminds me that having two isn’t just doubling your work. It’s more than doubling your work. It’s like going from one to five instantaneously. (I would like to point out that this friends’ children are small brunette devil spawn, but that’s beside the point). Or IS that the point? Is it in how you handle the situation? Is it how you discipline, care, behave and react? Does it have anything to do with the impression you make? Kids are impressionable – no doubt about it (the other day, Coen squatted in the grass and said, “Coen poop in grass like Chloe”), but it all comes back to nature vs. nurture and how much personality really does take over. I just hope to God this child is calm like her brother and our lives remain somewhat peaceful and serene. Well, that’s a lot to hope for. Maybe I just hope no one calls my children “devil spawn” in their blog someday. That would satisfy me, I suppose.

When I finish panicking about altering our current playbook, I think about the good things. I swear on my grandfather’s grave, I could not have gotten through this much of life without the help and love and assistance and patience and lessons and pure moments of joy that I credit to my fabulous siblings. Those relationships are unbreakable and that bond is so strong. To imagine growing up without them, I know I would not be the person I am today. I want that for my son. I want that for my daughter. I want them to feel that sense of protection (like when my first date arrived at the house and my then-16-year-old brother came out of his room wearing boxers and a furrowed brow and asked where he was taking me) and that ability to care so much it hurts (like the urge I’d get to hire a hit man every time I’d get a crying phone call from my sister about some jackass that broke her heart). I want that for my kids.

Watching Coen play by himself and use his little imagination never fails to make me smile, but his joys will be so much more substantial when he has someone to share it with. This I know from experience. I can’t wait to create that for my child.

So in closing, I’m ok with a change in defense. A little hesitant about learning some new plays, but really excited to introduce some new players! If they can learn to play the game, and we can learn to play the game, the game will only get better. At least that’s what my husband says. And I’m starting to believe him. So, let’s avoid injuries, keep the fouls to a minimum, continue to practice hard, and GAME ON, people – cuz life’s clock ain’t stopping for nobody!

Coen entertains himself. Now, tell me THIS KID doesn’t need a sibling?!

Let’s get reacquainted…

Well, well, well…time marches on. Time marches on at a harder and faster pace than I ever knew time could march. For those of you who may not know, thus have obviously avoided my friend requests on Facebook or hide my statuses about puke and mood swings, Nate and I are expecting Baby Brunner #2. Believe it, folks. I’m 20 weeks pregnant with our second little person. 20 weeks have come and gone, and I have neglected to write one blog post about it. We are truly over-the-moon excited about our new adventure, which is scheduled to arrive February 5, 2012. I don’t know that I want to rehash the last 20 weeks or not, but I’ll summarize for those of you who I don’t frequent on the telephone with my tales of terror:

Weeks 1-4: Didn’t know a thing was happening inside my body. Drank wine.

Weeks 5-7: Took a positive test with my parents in the house, alone in the bathroom. Didn’t tell a soul until they left. Pounced on Nate as he walked up the staircase and blurted out the news. His face was priceless. Coen learned to point to my belly and say “baby.” Of course, he also pointed to his own belly and said “baby,” but that’s neither here nor there.

Week 8: I hemorrhaged and thought we had lost our baby. On a VERY serious note, I would like to let all mothers who have lost a baby know that I’m so sincerely sorry and I respect and appreciate your strength to get through such a painful and unexplainable loss. Mine was a hemorrhage, and for that I am grateful. But the fear is something I can never put into words. My heart goes out to you strong, courageous and beautiful mothers.

Weeks 9-17:  Oh dear me oh my. I may never forget this time in my life, nor do I long to repeat it. During these 8 weeks, Nate was a single dad while I spent large chunks of my day in bed hovered over a red mop bucket. My son brought me toy tractors and talking Elmo dolls as comforting devices when I was hanging over the toilet, forcing a tear-filled smile to reassure him “mommy’s just fine.” I threw up out the door of my vehicle onto newly-cemented construction sites. I threw up under the daughter of the company presidents’ Volkswagon. I threw up on my new purple maternity dress (this one still bums me out). I threw up in a Target bag all the way from the 394 tunnel to the driveway of our house. I threw up in the doctor’s office sink. I threw up in a JC Penney garbage can with my arms full of pillows (only this one included slight flatulence and a very entertained sales clerk). At week 10, I dug out maternity pants because I am growing twelve billion times faster this time than I did with Coen. Overall, I would say this needs to qualify as a pretty dreadful couple of months. However, on August 6, my beautiful baby sister got married and it was one of the happiest days of my life. And God gave me a 24-hour vomit-hiatus, so I partied til 3 a.m. and kept down my cake and everything was absolutely perfect! Sunday, I threw up again, but my 24 hours had expired, so I couldn’t complain.

Me with the most beautiful bride

Week 18:Level II Ultrasound. The moment so many women wait for. I was no exception. I had absolutely no idea if I wanted a boy or a girl this time around, so I don’t know where my anxiety was stemming from. I went to bed wanting a girl, I woke up wanting a boy, and the cycle continued until I was lying in the straddle-bed with cold goop on my stomach and Nate’s hand firmly holding mine. The moment of truth. I knew Nate wanted a girl. He was shy about making it verbal, but it was relatively obvious throughout the whole pregnancy. As the ultrasound tech was skimming the baby that morning, I swore I saw a

little boy-part, but kept it to myself. “Yup, we’re having another boy,” I convinced myself in my head. My mind raced to thoughts of Coen and a brother, playing baseball and wrestling and doing other little boy things that little boys do together. I was content with that life in my head. But, then I turned to look at Nate, and I saw something in his face. Something that made my head turn to the skies (sometimes I’m not even sold on what or who is up there, but I’m assuming it’s a higher power that calms me down in moments of panic) and said a mini-prayer: “Please give my husband a baby girl. He deserves this and so much more.” Seconds later, the tech made it known: IT’S A GIRL. Before I could reflect on my obvious inabilities to read ultrasound penises, I was caught in a moment with Nathan. He squeezed my hand a little tighter and we both had eyes full of tears. We had gotten our wish. It was a Top-10 Life Moment. Hands down.

Coen practicing his big brother skillz

Weeks 19-20: Feeling much better. Second trimester has truly kicked in. I’ve started ordering purple decorations for the nursery and buying clothes in all shades of pink (no, seriously, there’s like a million shades of pink!). We have names picked out, but are still taking suggestions. I’m staying up later than my 2-year-old again. The smell of baby poop no longer sends me to the dreaded land of porcelain. Life is good again. It was good before, but now it’s really good. Still working on some things…I can’t say this is his fault, but according to all my books, “intimacy is supposed to resurface” this trimester. Now, although I still fit into my “cute” undies, unfortunately that alone does not blind my husband from the horrific visuals and sound accompaniment from Weeks 9-17 noted above. I was far from pretty, and I’m working on getting that back. But, other than that, we’re well on our way to normalcy again. Well, normalcy as we now know it.

There’s your recap, friends and strangers. Now that we are caught up, I hope to get to writing here again. Life is a balancing act these days and blogging has taken its spot on the back burner. But hopefully this will change. Too many good life moments that make great stories to not share with those who either relate or just enjoy laughing at me (notice, I did say “at me” – not “with me” – I’m not naive).

February will be here before we know it, but I’m pretty positive that pregnant life, mixed with two-year-old tantrums, will provide me enough material to write a novel or two. So, brace yourselves…we’ve officially been reacquainted.

(Please Don’t) Throw Mama from the Train

Mother: A unique specimen of female origin who births, protects, nourishes, guides, and worries for her young until her death (and probably thereafter).

This is not Webster’s definition of the word, I understand that. But, on this fine and beautiful holiday – a holiday that holds a special place in my heart – this is what a mother is. A protector. A worrier. A leader. A woman deserving of her own day…a warm and fuzzy day called MOTHERS Day. So, let me start out by wishing all the moms I know out there a VERY merry and relaxing, clean and inviting, breakfast-in-bed kind of Mother’s Day. You all know who you are, so do me a favor and pat yourselves on the back and know that I love your children (yes, ALL of them) and think you’re doing a phenomenal job in raising them. Lift a glass full of vino (the real kind – not grape juice, cheaters!) and be proud on this day. You’re surviving. You’re incredible. You’re someone’s superhero.

Speaking of superheroes, I’m going to touch on a subject that I’ve been avoiding in my writing for quite some time because I THINK I may have gotten past it. Maybe. My son is a toddler. He goes through phases. Spurts of likes and dislikes. One day he can’t eat his carrots fast enough and the next he finds more joy sticking them up his nostrils. One minute he is laughing hysterically at my rendition of Itsy Bitsy Spider, and seconds later it’s like a scene from Arachnophobia. I’m not asking you to explain toddlers to me. I know how they operate. That doesn’t make it less frustrating. But, every day Coen has the same superhero – his daddy. Nate is my best friend and as close a replicate of my own father as I could’ve married, so it’s no wonder I love him so much. He is sensitive and charming, funny and intelligent, and really freaking youthful. Which is EXACTLY why Coen is madly, truly, deeply in love with the guy! It makes perfect sense. And I can’t say I blame him.

Where my sadness sets in a bit (and this isn’t meant to be a pity-party…especially on Mother’s Day) is with this “phase” he’s been going through. First of all, phases don’t last 14 months, so I’m thinking people just call it that to make me feel better. Secondly, I am 99.9% sure I’ve never done anything to make him resent or fear me. But, for some reason, he has preferred his daddy for quite some time now. He’s the go-to for bedtime routines, book reading, bath time, and wagon rides. Sure, Nate pops wheelies with the wagon and makes a mean cup of milk, but I use sweet-ass voices when I read and my bath time bubbles totally make better Santa beards. It’s not a competition, this I know. I’m just proving the point that I do things equally as well, and for some reason, the boy prefers the man. And this might be how it’s gonna be. Maybe for a little while. Maybe for a long while.

Every time I convince myself that I’m over it or I don’t care and refuse to let it bother me, it simply eats away at me until I wind up crying in the bathroom because I sat too close to him on the couch and he screams and cowers into his father’s arms like I’m a 900-pound yeti who eats small dimpled children. Yeah, that’ll yank violently on some heartstrings. And of course, since one cannot share said emotions with a two-year-old, your marriage gets tested because you feel like something must not be written fairly in your parenting handbook to make him have such an obvious and dominant preference.

Mostly, the reason I cry is that I want him to WANT me. I want to be the one who kisses his owies and rocks him to sleep. I guess I just want to know that he needs me on some level. Not just to cut his spaghetti and fold his little sweatpants, but to do those things I defined above – protect him and guide him and beat up any poorly-raised punks that cause him harm.  It’s obvious his daddy would do all those things too, but we’re a team and we’re both here for him til death do us part. So, I try not to let it get me down, and every once in awhile I have moments – super-amazing Mother’s Day moments – that wash away any festering fears of neglect or favoritism.

Tonight Nate took us out for dinner to Tino’s Italian Cafe. We dined on spaghetti and meatballs and buttered noodles – a fine Mother’s Day feast. Now, I’m not sure what started this, but halfway through dinner Coen reached out and grabbed my shirt and pulled me towards him until I was nearly on top of the poor kid. It’s possible he was intimidated by the large and hairy goodfella behind the counter, or maybe he just needed a cloth napkin in the form of an expensive plaid Gap button-down, but my shirt was now greased up from little paws and I felt so very needed. I would pull away to try and take a few bites of my meal, and he would put his hand on my back and pull me back towards him. There was no way I was getting more than 3 inches away from this kid’s buttery head for the remainder of our dinner. And truth be told, I LOVED every MINUTE. He was slimy and he was mine.

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At that moment, he wanted me near him (like, tauntingly-”I’m-not-touching-you,-I’m-not-touching-you” near him, but near him nonetheless). Those moments during that meal erased all recent thoughts I’ve had at bath time, bedtime, story time or wagon time. This kid needs me. He loves me. He does know that I’m here for him. And, no, I couldn’t have taken down the mobster behind the counter should he have gone all “Godfather” on us, but Coen doesn’t know that. In his eyes, his parents are invincible and that is a standard to not be taken lightly. We are his protectors. His leaders. His role models. We are his owie-kissers and his wagon-pullers. We are his parents. And today, on this grand holiday, I was his SUPERMOTHER! I ate it up right along with my spaghetti and will never forget the fun we had.

And in case anyone was wondering, the actual Webster’s definition of the verb “Mothering” is:

Bring up with care and affection; look after kindly and protectively, sometimes excessively so.

Looks like Webster knows what he’s talking about. That guy should write a book.

Happy Mother’s Day, ladies! Live it up and enjoy the ride.

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This post is fondly dedicated to MY beautiful mother, Dar Machler. Most kind-hearted soul this world has ever seen. Mom, Mother’s Day was made for saints like you. All my love.

30 and Living It

Why is that when you’re five, you wish you were ten? When you’re 13, you want to be 18? When you’re 21, well, you’re obliviously in a state of drunken happy for a good long time, but then you wish you were 25? But when you’re 30, you just wish you were five again?

I am in my 362nd day of being 29, and I must be totally honest and say that I’m nervous and scared, but mostly I’m sad. I’m sure the day after my 30th birthday I will wake up and it will be like nothing’s changed (kind of like the last four birthdays), but the build-up to this “momentous” milestone feels like I’m waiting for the black plague to strike or I’m preparing for a grueling Chemistry exam.

Being sad about turning 30 does not make me a proud woman. In fact, I so wish I could smile and believably utter the age-old cliche: “Age is nothin’ but a number.” But I’m emotional about the passing of another decade – a really effing good decade! A decade when I defined myself (and then undefined myself), only to define myself again.

My dad at age 30 (with me and his mustache)

There have been countless lectures of reassurance on the topic of my turning 30. My dad told me his 30s were his best decade (but then proceeded to point out a photo of himself at 30, holding a four-year-old me, donning a mustache that could easily land him an audition-less role in any top-notch porn film). My 23-year old  co-worker told me that “30 is the new 20″ (then asked me if I’ve seen Sex and the City and unknowingly started comparing me to Samantha). My husband told me 30 is “just another birthday” (and went on to curse the man who decided to landmark decade birthdays because, without him, he wouldn’t be having to deal with a crying wife right now). But, the one thing I heard that made me feel a little better was from a surprisingly-sensitive, often-sarcastic male friend:

“Getting older is an involuntary activity. It’s not like you chose to open your eyes every morning. It just happened. So birthdays aren’t necessarily even worth celebrating. It’s like celebrating breathing. Instead, concentrate on celebrating anniversaries, or the birthdays of your children. THOSE are REAL accomplishments. Those you’ve earned.”

So, yeah. I’ve simply opened my eyes every morning and have consequently gotten older. This concept made me rethink the outlook I had on the future, even if it was only for a few seconds…

My early 20s were spent gussying up for bars and eating ramen and granola bars to save enough money to pay for the rusted-out car I had to have to drive to the part-time job that made me work holidays and sell credit to rude customers who tipped me just enough to buy another round of ramen noodles and a pitcher of kamikazes at Grandma’s Sports Garden. My late 20s were devoted to establishing myself as an employee in the “real world” while trying to figure out taxes and health benefits which helped me return to my doctor, only in time to find out I was pregnant with the guy I had married after determining that he was the one for me – the real me – the me that took 27 years to actually pinpoint.

After this brief reflection, I decided that maybe 30 won’t be so bad after all. I have practice raising children now, and though the sleep deprivation with number two won’t be any easier, I’m sure there will be less panic when he won’t roll over at four months or walk at twelve. I have a bank account that steadily streams cash into accounts for mortgage and credit card payments, retirement funds, and college savings. I have a house that keeps me warm because we can pay for heat and a job that makes me feel like my college degree has (sort of) paid for itself.  I can sip wine while comfortably chatting with my husband over an episode of American Idol and go to bed at 9 in sweatpants without caring who I do and do not impress. I can be me – this person I’ve worked so long and hard on finding, creating, editing, gussying up, ridiculing, scolding, loving and appreciating. 30 years, and I think I found her.

My best friend sent me a blog of her favorite writer today that was written the day the author turned 30. She listed all the things she had learned in her 30 years. Things like, “I’ve learned that photography helps me express myself” and “I’ve learned that I really like the taste of sushi.” Well, that’s fine and dandy, and I like me some sushi too, but I’VE LEARNED that I’ve got a LOT MORE to LEARN! And that is all-encompassing. So, THERE. I just beat your blog in one sentence, fancy author lady! (Oh, and I’ve learned that I teeter the line of competitive and just down-right mean. Unintentionally, of course.)

Instead of focusing on that pit in my stomach that reminds me my life could be 1/3 done assuming I make it to 90, I think I’ll focus on the important things. Things even more important than sushi. Things like: my KIDS. my HUSBAND. my JOB. my DREAMS. my GOALS. my HEALTH. my FAMILY. my FRIENDS. my HAPPINESS.

A harsh reality is, yes, I’m a decade older than I was a decade ago (did I do that math right?). And unfortunately, you can’t turn back time (it’s true – ask Cher). But, what I CAN do is wake up on my birthday – involuntarily of course – and scoop up my baby boy and promise him a sister some day and kiss my better half and make flavored coffee in my nice new coffee maker and take it to work in a car that has four hubcaps only to look forward to a weekend with friends and family and heaps and piles of love on top of love.

And if all that blubbery blub gibberish wears off before my big day hits, I’ll simply remember the last part of the conversation I had with my dad. After I was finished laughing at his X-rated mustache, he looked at me and said, “Whenever you get frustrated with your little guy, know that I would give my right arm for this picture to have been taken yesterday.”

That’s just it. Time marches on, and we march right along with it. I’ll never have my first child again. I’ll never have another first kiss. And I certainly will never get my 20s back. So, suck it up. Embrace a NEW day. A new DECADE! I’ll be damned if I’m not going to remember every minute of it because I’m too busy living in the past.

So I say, “Bring on 30.” (Just do it with grace, please.)

Change and the changes that changed me

Me and my little change-causer

I’ve been a mother for 18 months. That’s twice the amount of time it took me to grow him. And, now he’s here and he’s crazy and he’s 31 pounds of pure emotion, and truth be told, I couldn’t love anything more.

But, the other night, I was lying in bed thinking about the way things were before baby and it struck me – damn near everything in my life has changed in these past 18 months. I think it’s just the way I look at life now. My first thought immediately goes to Coen and how whatever I’ve done or am about to do will affect him.

While before I would ride the party bus til 4 a.m. and order pizza afterward in a drunken stupor, I now wish to be asleep by 11 and am lucky to down a half a glass of wine without getting a nasty hangover. If my phone rings in the middle of the night, maternal Nicki instantly assumes someone’s hurt and answers the phone in a huffy panicked voice, skipping the hello altogether and jumping right to the “What’s happened and how can I help!?” Old Nicki would answer the phone with a sleepy “Hellllo?” assuming it was just another drunk dial from her friendly happy hour leftovers. When I’m sick, I no longer loathe in self-pity, but rather lock myself in my room and hope to God I can barricade the germs to this one piece of house. When the annoying jack russell down the street won’t shut his pie hole during nap time, I am tempted to muzzle him myself and leave a note for the owners listing acceptable neighborhood barking hours.When it’s below zero, I start the car an extra 30 minutes early so the carseat warms up. When I cook dinner, I always consider what goes with hot dogs. Need a final example? OK…

When you have a pile of brand new boots and scarves and jewelry and movies and flannel pajamas, and the greatest gift you can say you got on Christmas morning was the 3-pack of  front-row tickets to Sesame Street’s Elmo Live…

Life has changed. There’s no denying it.

Funny thing is, I kind of like the new me. I like caring for and protecting something so much that I would die for it. Kind of gives you a sense of back-handed pride or glory. Granted, it may have made me a bit more dramatic and distressed at times, but I try to keep it in check. And, it has caused me to look at life with a sense of purpose. I’m almost 30 and I’ve decided that I want to live forever. Because I now truly have something to live FOR. It’s a remarkable feeling. I dare you all to feel it. Just once. It will make you want to eat healthier, smile bigger, laugh louder, be more polite, contribute more time, and oh so much more! Pretty powerful stuff.

A few nights before Christmas, my husband had to call the paramedics because my blood sugar had dropped so low and so fast that he couldn’t take care of me himself. As I came to at 1:30 a.m. and rolled over with an IV in my arm and 3 medics in my bedroom, my first thought was of Coen. Thoughts were blurry, and I could barely answer the questions “What year is it?” and “What’s your dog’s name?”, but I just wanted to know if my baby was sleeping through the chaos soundly. He was, and I survived (embarrassed and shaken up a bit), but even in a moment of panic when nothing else around me made sense, my heart and head were concerned about 2 things: the man standing frightened in the corner and the child across the hall who might need his mother. A third item of concern was how my bra-less pajamas may have given the medics a bit of a “nip show”, but that was much lower on my concern list. Much, much lower.

I want to be around to see this kid be raised right. To become a man. To drive a car. To find a wife. To go to college. To have some kids of his own. And I will.

There must be some sort of chromosome or something else scientific-sounding that changes the way you act once you have children. Slows you down a bit. Makes you re-prioritize and make wiser decisions. I like being wiser and moving slower. I love being a mom. I love having a purpose. If I’ve realized all this in 18 months, just think how much I’ll know in 18 years!

Looking forward to the road ahead…

Coen’s One Year Tribute

We made it to Coen’s 1-year birthday! It was fast and full and oh-so-wonderful. Here is a short montage tribute to the greatest little guy this world’s ever seen (spoken like a true mother):

What doesn’t kill us…

You know that fear you feel when you wake from a nightmare and you’re convinced the killer is still in your closet? Or that pain you get in your chest when your best friend’s boyfriend cheats on her…again? Or that pit-of-your-stomach-instantaneous-gut-rot that overwhelms you when the car in front of you runs a red light and gets blind sided by a semi going 60? OK. So, maybe those are dramatic comparisons, but in the moment, I swear I felt them all today.

This evening, I was watching Coen by myself. He was getting sleepy, so I made a bottle and sat with him on the couch. Our dog decides now would be the perfect time to scratch, whine, and bark at the door to go outside. I hesitate, but decide she (obviously) can’t hold it. I sat Coen up with his bottle and made the six foot sprint to the front door to let her out, and that’s when it happened. I can still see it when I close my eyes, only now it’s in slow motion, like a scene from a thriller movie that is meant to send shivers down your spine. Stupid slow motion makes everything worse. He reached out for his mommy and when I wasn’t there, he tumbled forward, landing on his forehead, neck bending backwards on the wood floor. Nothing even had time to process. In fact, I am pretty sure I slammed the poor dog’s ribcage in the glass door as I bolted to his rescue.

I picked up my sobbing baby from the floor and held him so tightly to my chest, there was probably a suffocation hazard going on. As he screamed in my ear, about a jillion thoughts ran through my head. What if he’s paralyzed? What if he’s got brain damage or a speech impediment or dyslexia? What if he grows up like that guy in Memento? Oh, the horrors! I realize this was all a little unlikely and I was being slightly overdramatic, but a mother’s mind is entitled to run rampant when there is damage done to their children! So, I did what every mother would do…and panicked. I started to run around the house with him attempting to whisper a soothing “It’s OK…It’s OK…” (which probably came out more in the tone of “Oh my GOOD GOD, I’m going to jail for unintentionally paralyzing my baby and he’ll have to drink from a straw and speak using a voice machine and will probably be cross-eyed for eternity!”).  I ran my fingers up his spine and tested his grip and moved his neck from side to side. In hindsight, this is pretty ridiculous since I basically failed anatomy and I’m not even close to having a doctorate in medicine, so what the heck was I feeling for anyway? You’re lucky I know where the spine is! But, it was nature’s instinct surging through me and, though irrational and stupid, I was obeying.

I determined his legs were working, his toes were curling, his fingers were bending, and his back was arching. I breathed a sigh of relief as I laid him down for his nap and called Nate to tell him about today’s Failed Motherhood Challenge. Once again (you’ll notice this theme throughout my blogging), he was a calm voice of reason and logically said, “Kids are flexible for a reason.” Is that true? If kids are flexible for a reason, mothers should be more resilient to pain and heartache for a reason. Seems unfair.

I talked to my neighbor who has a 9-year-old girl, and she remembers the first time her daughter face planted out of her carseat like it was yesterday. Apparently, it’s scar tissue that doesn’t fade (kind of like those marks on your new stomach!) and it sticks with you forever. Her daughter is fine (and actually just ran over to show me her report card full of ‘A’s), so we’ll just chalk it up to “an experience that had to happen eventually.” My kid will be fine too. He has thick skin like his mama and plenty of back-up brain cells from his papa, so we’ll be alright. Lesson learned (the hard way, but learned nonetheless).

I have almost completely forgiven myself, though my rationale isn’t 100% returned (I wanted to keep him up all night in case he had a concussion in his sleep…again, I’m no doctor).  And, I was forced to admit to my father-in-law via Skype that “his mother” was the answer to his question, “What happened to his head?” So, there’s proof. Big, red, blotchy proof. That will fade, which is more than I can say for that damn slow motion replay running through my head every 5 minutes.

I am well aware that my future holds potential for much more dastardly catastrophes. Mental preparations must be made for the possibilities of falling off a bike, tripping down the stairs, touching a hot stove, sports injuries, fist fights, break-ups…the list goes on. And, you can rest assured that with each and every obstacle he encounters, I will feel like my nightmares are merging with reality or like someone just stomped on my heart.

Nietzsche said “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” My baby may be the one getting dropped on his head, but for some reason, I came out stronger. Maybe new moms remember that first time so clearly because it opens the gateway to a lifetime of mentally-exhausting, time-consuming, heart-wrenching, pain-staking strength training. The membership may be a bit pricier than Gold’s, but the payoff? I hear it’s remarkable!

My little guy is "strength training." Those shoes look good on him, Jules.

The Battle of Guiltysburg

Crying will get you far in life, especially as a woman.

There. I opened my first blog with a general sexist stereotype. But… it’s true. No debating it.

• Caught going 55 in a 30? “But officer (sniff), I just broke up with my boyfriend.” No ticket.
• In trouble for missing a deadline at the office? “Oh, bossman (tear), I’m just so overwhelmed with my workload right now.” A raise.
• Just having a rough time of the month and there’s no one else to take it out on but your husband? “Honey, I just (sniff, gulp, tear) need you to understand me better!” A hug, a dozen roses, and most likely a full bed to yourself for a night.

Really, it’s amazing where tears and drama can get you in this world. And, I shamelessly utilize this method whenever convenient or beneficial. I’ve never had a hard time with it. I’ve never thought of myself as pathetic or needy. As it is with most things in life, if used sparingly, it proves to be quite advantageous. Nearly 30 years of playing the waterworks card and I’ve only recently discovered the pain and guilt it could potentially cause others. Add it to the list of lessons motherhood has taught me. A lesson in plain and simple GUILT. And, boy, does it hurt.

As the mother of a 9-month old boy, I have already heard a good chunk of guilt-ridden wails. I’ve seen countless scrunched-up faces of displeasure. I’ve experienced numerous sleepless nights of nursery-filled crocodile tears. And, each of these happenings causes one of two things:

1. My mothering skills are strengthened in a way that will allow me to withstand anything and love uncontrollably, all while thickening my shell of protection against naivete and bullshit. OR
2. My heart bursts into a blistering, blathering cesspool of self-condemnation and the rest of my body follows suit shortly thereafter.

99.99% of the time, I experience the latter. And, I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Being maternal can be a curse. It can cause you to turn into an irrational, overprotective crazy person. You just want the best for you child, but somewhere along the way you become Piper Laurie in “Carrie.” Guilt and over-protection will do that to a person. One minute, you’re simply wishing for your daughter to be careful at her prom. The next, she’s locked in a closet screaming anti-religious mantras hiding her dirty pillows from the world (if you haven’t seen “Carrie,” DO IT!).

Tonight, I listened to Coen cry for 45 minutes. We know he isn’t hurt or sick, but he is playing us to come pick him up and hold him. We know this from many, MANY nights of trial and error. He cries to get what he wants. He’s a smart kid. And, who am I to judge? I am guilty of the same crime. The thing I’m learning is that you need to pick your battles. That is important in the game of parenting. They will win some, you will win some. (They will probably win more, but overall, you need to be selective.) So, tonight, I sat up in bed and cried to Nate (so the lucky guy got to deal with 2 bawling babies simultaneously). I cried out of GUILT. I cried because the mother in me wanted to go pick him up and hold him close to my chest until he settled down. I cried. And I cried. And I cried.

Finally, he went back to sleep, and I was able to think clearly again. I remembered that we let him cry so he can learn to self-soothe. I recalled all the books and articles that firmly state this is hard, but necessary. I heard the voice of our pediatrician saying that it’s normal to feel pain, but you are feeling much worse than baby and he will still smile at you in the morning. OK. As long as he doesn’t create an escape rope made of crib sheets and run away overnight, I think I’m going to be fine. And, in the long run, so will he. But, in the moment, those tears are like a knife to the heart.

I will try to remember this feeling next time I get pulled over by the Twin Cities fuzz. And maybe, just maybe, I will suck up my 15-mph surplus without a choked-up girly guilt-trip. However, if the price of the ticket is more like a samurai sword  to the heart, screw it. I’m cryin’.

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Now, as a sidenote, check out the little stinker we’re raising! The first 5 seconds remind me of his mother…

Cate and Coen sittin’ in a tree!

Caitlin Willow

Two Fridays ago, one of my besties continued my friend trend and popped out a baby girl. I have never in my life paced so hard as I did that night between the hours of 4 and 8 p.m. awaiting the call to find out health of mother and name of baby. FINALLY! A weary but proud Anna announced her 7 pound bombshell (and my future daughter-in-law) Caitlin Willow. As a sense of relief and excitement soared through my body, I was instantly transported back in time 7 months. I was the weary mom on the phone delivering the news with a noticeable high in my voice every time I said his name. I was the mom looking forward to maternity leave. I was the one complaining about exhaustion and converting my living room into four walls of worship (sponsored by Kodak and my shutter-happy husband).

It was very strange to hear someone else going through those same emotions, especially someone so close to me. The following day we were invited to the hospital to meet the new addition, so Nate and I got Coen dressed in his finest and headed off to play matchmaker. This was my first newborn experience since my own and I dove in head-first! Such a small human being – little wrinkly hands and the finest hair I’d ever touched. This is why they call it a “miracle” people! She truly was. And buried among the fatigue and fear in her parents was complete awe and anticipation for their new, bright, beautiful future together.

We came home that night and I had some thoughts. No, I didn’t have those cliche “new-mom-that-just-held-a-newborn” thoughts. In fact, the thought of doing it all again so close to numero uno made me a tiny bit nauseous and (no joke) gave me one solid week’s worth of nightmares. No. The thought I had came from holding my own little guy in the rocking chair, simply watching him fall asleep. I realized something: I know more about this particular person than ANYONE ELSE on the planet (Nate excluded). And that’s really sayin’ something.

I know exactly how long he will make sucking faces with his mouth after the bottle gets pulled from his lips. I know that he sleeps with his tongue sticking out (like his mama). I know what makes him shake with excitement. I know which PBS cartoons capture his attention and which ones he would love to see pulled off the air. I know just how much facial hair a guy can have before Coen will cry at the sight of them. I know the face he makes when he’s pooping. I know just the right rendition of Ave Maria to play for him when he’s fussing. I know his tickle spots. I know his sensitive spots. I know his bald spots. I know this kid like the, no, better than the back of my hand.

Then, I thought about Anna. I thought about the idea that Caitlin was probably still a bit of a stranger in her house. I tried to recall those first two weeks with Coen – trying to figure out sleep schedules, organizing an assembly line to prep bottles as fast as humanly possible, cleaning for company, googling poop to determine if “that was normal” – you are running on pure adrenaline. By the time you get your head above water, a month has gone by and you’ve subconsciously learned more about your child than you ever knew about yourself.

There is something special about that ability in this particular relationship. Maybe it’s the maternal gene rearing its ugly head YET again, but for some reason, you take pride in being the beacon of knowledge in your child’s life. After ten years, I know that Nate hates when his hair grows over his ears. He can’t sleep on a hard pillow, he sneezes when he walks outside on a sunny day, he can plow through an entire box of shortbread cookies in one sitting, he can’t buy anything without researching the living daylights out of it, and he doesn’t drink Root Beer. I know a billion other idiosyncrasies about my husband, but that doesn’t quite evoke the same feeling you get from your own child. Is it because we are their protector? Is it because we are their instructor? Or is it simply because we are their parent? I choose D. All of the above.

Upon further reflection, maybe I wasn’t happy for Anna just because I finally knew the baby’s name. I think we wish the happiest feelings upon the greatest people in our lives and there really isn’t a more spectacular emotion than a moment alone in a rocking chair with your very own tiny miracle. And, knowing you not only created that miracle, but you get to spend every day going forward learning more and more about her, is an eternal high.

It might not be tomorrow, but someday soon Anna will be the Yoda of all Cate Knowledge. What makes her tick? What makes her sick? What makes her laugh? What makes her cry? What does she look for in a boyfriend (hey, I can throw that in for personal reasons…it’s MY blog!)?

Anna and Steve – I’m so very happy for you guys! Enjoy the ride…

A house is a house, of couse, of couse.

My beautiful living room

A colorful caterpillar that sings the alphabet. A charming crab that counts to five (in English AND Spanish). A smiling giraffe that shoots plastic balls from its hollow arms. Does this sound like the freakiest cast of characters for the next Child’s Play movie or what? Wrong! These are just three of the items you will most likely trip over if you enter my front door too quickly.  One would think, by looking around the main living area, that I was the mother of 12, all under the age of 5. Empty bottles stuck in the couch cushions, half-chewed Gerber bites laying on the coffee table, Baby Einstein on the TV, drool-covered blocks, frozen teethers, blankets caked in spit-up, crusty bibs…you get the idea. I am mother. Hear me roar. And by roar, I mean explain myself.

I was never like this before – ask my husband. I was very put together with everything in its place, a well-made bed, an alphabetized movie collection, an organized junk drawer, and a stylish wardrobe. Then I got pregnant. Laziness and exhaustion set in and, though my bed still got made, my scissors and paper clips started to mingle and Dumb and Dumber ended up neighboring Shawshank Redemption. And this was only the beginning. The baby arrived and the time that was once spent choosing outfits went to matching bottles with nipples. The time that I so fondly dedicated to sorting my sock drawer went to stocking the diaper shelf. Ask me what I did today. Go ahead. Ask me. Who, me? Oh, I have no FREAKING CLUE what I did today. Story of my life. Where do the days go? Obviously not towards dishes or laundry.

Sometimes, I go home to visit my parents and I look around their house. Everything is always so beautiful. The wood floors are always washed, the plants are all alive and blooming, there’s a full roll of toilet paper near the toilet, and doggoneit, their JUNK DRAWER is organized! I’ve been meaning to ask them, since I don’t really recall, “Was it always this way?” I hope to GOD they say no, but I really don’t know. As a kid and a teenager, you’re more focused on friends, food, and boys than you are the appearance of the shower tiles. Now, as a mother myself, I start conversations with, “Ooo, what lovely shower tiles.” Yes, life as I know it has changed forever.

The fact of the matter is this: my house is still livable. It’s actually cleaner than most of my friends’ houses. But, in my harsh and critical eyes, it’s falling apart at the seams. I’ve debated dimming the lights to hide the dust or stock piling the dirty dishes in the rarely-used oven to give the kitchen the appearance of tidy and neat, but what’s the point really? A day after the clothes get put away, there’s just going to be more clothes to wash.

I remember reading in one of my books that there is no such thing as Super Mom. Life consists of three main balancing acts: Family. Work. House. The book said that no mother can perfect all three of these items, so she needs to be OK with letting one “fall by the wayside” for a little while. I read it and laughed. In my mind, I would go to work and work hard, come home to family and play hard, then end the night cleaning – um, hard? I couldn’t do it. To give 100% to everything IS impossible. I have retired my cape as a wardrobe staple and instead use it to dust the coffee table once a month or assist in a baby blowout wipe-down. I have decided that I would much rather give my all to my family and I try to give my remaining all to my job (they DO pay the bills, ya know), and I am happy with that decision.

Readjusting my expectations has been difficult and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only mother who has gone through this process, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. A house is just a house and will be there standing strong for you when you get home at night. It keeps your family safe and warm. It encapsulates all the love and memories that are built within it. And, it doesn’t give ya lip! So, come on over. Trip on our toys. Maze your way around the bouncer chair, the exersaucer and the coffee table. Have a seat on my couch (don’t sit on a bottle cap – you’ll feel THAT in the morning). And let’s make some memories in this mess of a house that I now call a home.