And Coen said, “Yeah”

“When you are sorrowful, look into your heart
and you shall see that you are weeping
for that which has been your delight.”
~ Kahlil Gibran

I’m not sure how else to say this to my son, so I’m writing it here tonight in hopes that he can read it some time in the future. On this day, one of our nanny’s best friends, Justin, passed away at the young age of 24. “Curly,” as he was known to Coen, came to visit frequently, and though Nate and I didn’t know him as well, we know he brought complete and utter joy to our kid. Curly had an amazing spirit. I always enjoyed the days I would come home after work to see his car parked out front, knowing full well that Danielle AND both kids were in the greatest of hands. He always laughed at my lame attempt at “long day” jokes when I poured in the front door, knowing full well his best friend probably just experienced a far longer-feeling day with my two little munchkins. But, he laughed a warm laugh and squinted his eyes and made me feel freaking hilarious. That, and following his ventures with my kids on Facebook, were all I really knew of Curly. But, that is what makes tonight so difficult.

 

How do you explain to a 3-year-old the concept of death? I suppose you don’t. Or you try to keep him alive through stories and photos, and hope that helps him “remember” what he can about such a cool guy. Curly and Coen had a special relationship. On April 26, Curly “checked in” on Facebook with this update:

Birthday lunch with Danielle, Betsey and her munchkins, and my favorite 2 year old Coen and his new sister Mabel — at Applebees Neighborhood Grill & Bar

When I read this particular status tonight, I bawled my eyes out. They went everywhere together. Curly was Coen’s favorite ride partner at Nickelodeon Universe. I’m sure that Coen loved his positive energy and youthful soul as much as everyone else on this earth did. He felt comfortable with him. His face would light up when Danielle would tell him in the morning that Curly was coming to play that day. He was his buddy. And no 3-year-old should lose a buddy. No 24-year-old should lose a life. Nothing about this is fair. And tonight, this makes me so sad inside.

I hurt for Danielle. I hurt for her family. I hurt for his family. I just hurt, I guess.

As I tucked Coen in to bed tonight, I laid down next to him and put my arm around him and whispered in his ear that we need to say a prayer for Curly tonight. And he replied with, “Yeah.” I said Curly is an angel now and he went to heaven. And he said, “Yeah.” I asked if he understood what I was saying, and Coen said, “Yeah.” I cried silently in his bed, so fully aware that he will not remember this guy he spent so much fun time with over the last 3 years. I worry about the first time he asks about him, even if it’s just once. I don’t know what the right thing is to say in a situation like this. I just know that it doesn’t seem fair and it makes my heart ache.

My sister called tonight and I told her the news. She assured me that Curly will be looking down on our little man now, keeping him safe and making sure he walks the right path through his life. I hope to God she’s right. Because, man, if there is one amazing dude I wouldn’t mind Coen emulating, Curly ain’t a bad choice.

Rest in Peace, Curly. Nate and I thank you from the bottoms of our hearts for being such a sweet soul to our little family. You were a light in my child’s life, and as a mother, there really is nothing more special than that.

The Dandelion Debacle

The other day, Coen and I were playing outside before heading to the store. We were chasing each other around the yard when he looked down, paused and forcefully plucked a dandelion from the ground. He sprinted towards me yelling, “Mommy, Mommy!” As he got closer, he handed me the yellow weed and said, “I got you a yellow flower. Smell it.” I did, and it smelled like dirt and RoundUp. But, my reaction said it smelled like rainbows and unicorns. “Oh, Coen! This is the prettiest flower mommy has ever gotten. I love it so much, I promise to keep it forever and ever and ever.” What I really meant was, “That was one of the sweetest gestures my child has ever shown me and I want that moment to be engrained in my mind forever and ever and ever.”  But, that’s not what came out. And, that’s not what he heard. And that is all that matters.

I took my dandelion with me in to the car after pulling Coen up to his car seat and buckling him in. On the way to the store, I lodged the dandelion in the air conditioner vent below the radio and told him that’s where I plan on keeping it so I can look at it and think of him all the time. He smiled proudly and went back to loudly pointing out building colors outside his window. He didn’t mention it again for the rest of the night.

My pretty yellow flower

Two days later, I got in my car to drive to work and noticed my “pretty flower” looked like a yellow raisin. Definitely worthy of a garbage can. So that’s where it went – in to the garbage can. The next morning was trash day and off it went, to the city dump. An hour later, I packed the kids in the car to run some errands. I turned around to see Coen’s face drop in disappointment and, with a furrowed brow and wrinkled nose, he screamed, “Mommy, the flower! It’s GONE!” It was as if someone had decapitated Elmo right in front of his face. Something that meant so much to mommy three days earlier was now missing and that was not OK in the eyes of a two-year-old. He heard me say “I promise” and “forever and ever and ever” and those words really mean something to an innocent toddler. I threw that promise in the trash, sent it to the city dump, and didn’t think twice about it because, in my eyes, a dandelion is a dandelion and the neighborhood is far too full of them anyway.

When you become a parent, every sentence needs to be much more carefully crafted than they were sans child. Words need to be chosen with a (much) stronger filter for fear of repetition. What used to come out as “Christina Aguilera dresses like a homeless crack-whore” now needs to be expressed more delicately. “Christina Aguilera sure has an interesting taste in skin-tight, low-cut sequin bikini tops.” Then, to kill two birds with one stone, you can tack on your own “I hope” intro to subtly let your kids know your take on the situation. “I sure hope my daughter never buys clothes like that.” (I say it two inches from Mabel’s face in hopes that, even though she’s only three months old, she might pick up on my lecture.)

Every parent experiences that moment when you realize your kid is much more perceptible than you give them credit for. In my case, it could’ve been when I asked my pregnant nanny if she wanted to use my extra box of breast pads and Coen looked up from his morning toast and said, “You want a prest bads, Danielle?” It could’ve been when Aunt Julie (my role model sister) pretended to throw horse poop at Coen and he randomly shouted, “Mommy, there’s horse poop on your face!” in the grocery store. Or, it could’ve been when I scolded Coen for saying the word “stupid” and two minutes later, I told Nate something he said was “stupid” and…well, you can tell how this story of Mommy the Hypocrite is going to end.

The point of this story is that every parent does it, but the truly great ones feel guilty when it happens. Raising children is one of the world’s most accurate self-reflectors. We can all do our best to avoid cursing unnecessarily at crappy rush-hour drivers, tapping our dog on the butt when she barks during nap time, and complaining obsessively about your job on those truly horrible work days. A kid picks up on everything, including your behavior, your attitude, your temperament, and your phrases. Take the good ones as mini success stories, like when they drop an unsolicited “I love you” or add “please” to the end of “I want a cookie.” So, choose wisely. And always remember that accepting something as a lie is not an option at their age. If you say it, you mean it. A promise is a promise. Take it from me and my yellow weed…er, flower.

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Here’s a Little Song I Wrote…

To be happy, she cannot live among the unhappy. She must go out of her way to find happiness, and there, in that place, is where she shall reside, with a smile on her face and pure joy in her heart.

This is genuinely how I live my life. I try as hard as I am able (because, no, it does not always come naturally)  to find my inner happy – every waking hour of every situation with every single person. The world is plum full of negativity. There’s no getting around it. Even watching the 10:00 News can bring a person down faster than you can say Anderson Cooper. Bad things happen in our lives and there’s not a whole lot we can do about most of it. But, here’s my challenge to YOU. Take life’s precious moments one day at a time. Analyze your perspective on the situation. And decide, right then and there, that you’re going to focus on it in the best way you know how.

In the past few weeks, I have felt myself slipping into darker holes than in the holes I normally prefer to hang. I have discovered that the exhaustion of not sleeping, along with a work inbox that fills up every night between the NON-work hours of 5 pm and 8 am, and life’s additional stresses in general, does not a happy Nicki make. Sometimes, when the people you rely on to make you the happiest are not fulfilling that role in the movie of your life, it can start to knock you down. I rely on a number of people to do this for me, and it’s a helluva job but they all do it so well! I sincerely hope I fill that role in their life movie as well as they do mine.

Those people are more than entitled to have bad days. Some of my go-to people are going through some hard or challenging times themselves, and how selfish would I be if I couldn’t give them what they might need in their troubled time versus banking on them to please my sorry ass? I have a pregnant (and nauseous) sister. I have an overtired (and overworked) husband. I have best friends who are having surgery, treating infertility, coping with loss, dealing with depression and balancing financial trouble. It’s not always easy to spin a situation on its head so it’s right-side up and makes sense in the universe, but we can certainly give it our best shot and not live life upside-down and inside out with the ground crumbling metaphorically below us. I will always be the first one to offer a hug or a comfortable still-plump-from-pregnancy shoulder to cry on, but I will also be the first one to say the words, “It could be worse…” And nine times out of ten, that is a fact.

Tonight, I vowed to myself that I was going to avoid being exposed to external negativity for one whole week. This does not pertain to sadness or feelings of similarity because I’ll be darned if I’m gonna hang up on someone who calls me crying and just wants an ear to listen. But, there will be no reading of Facebook status updates that carry the tone of: “What a horrible day it’s going to be” (and the day is “horrible” because the laundry is piled up and the floor needs to be mopped). There will be no responding to texts or emails complaining pettily about work or spouses or kids. There will be no road rage on my commutes through rush hour. There will be no watching of feuding shows (read: Peoples Court) where they focus on something ridiculously trivial and think all will be forgiven with the victory of a $40 alimony check. There will be no more eye-rolling. There will be no more back-talking or talk-behind-backing. This week will be documented with a fresh set of eyes. And by the end of it, I’m sure hoping my soul will feel rested, fully-charged and ready to take on any situation with an attitude of understanding and a patient heart.

My happy little people!

So, how did I start off my week of soul-cleansing?  I made 45 minutes worth of effort to get my daughter to laugh while she laid on my legs and ignored my annoying baby-babel and dimwitted facial juxtapositions. I scooped up my son when he fell off his stool and held him in a long embrace simply because he wanted his mommy. I narrated Mabel’s three-month video update with silly memorable markers like “she is losing her hair in the back” or “we still can’t determine if her eyes are brown or blue.” I wrote a blog (duh). I commented on beautiful photos of my cousin’s newborn baby. I played on Pinterest (ladies, if you’re NOT on Pinterest yet, do your girly side a favor and sign up already). I watched Blues Clues “Shape Searchers” with Coen for the umpteenth time and vivaciously acted like it was my first. I lounged around the house in an oversized hoodie and my favorite pair of stretch pants. I looked up Sonoma lodging options with Nate and listened as he told me all about the lay of the land so, come September when we go on our trip, I will be all the wiser geographically. I brushed my teeth for far longer than two minutes and enjoyed every second of it.

I advise you to join me on my quest for rekindled happiness. If life gets in the way, relocate yourself and start fresh with a new frame of mind and smilier people. Make a list of reasons you’re thankful. Say a prayer for someone who’s hurting. I challenge you to bring a monster-sized LED flashlight into that dark hole in which you’ve been dwelling and see what comes of it. Let me know how your soul feels in a week.

And if all else fails, there’s always Bobby McFerrin’s little ditty:

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Good Cop, Bad Cop

I remember being 15 and walking through the mall with my girlfriends, rolling my eyes at those poor pathetic moms who were  scooping screaming children off the tiles of County Seat, arms full of bags and eyes full of tears. They would haul off and lose it on their kid with a yank and a spank and a scolding that could silence a howler monkey? Ahhh, the 80s…a simpler time.

It’s kind of nice to see that – no matter the generation, no matter the decade – children will be children and mothers will be mothers. Sure, today you see less spanking and more “1…..2…….2 1/2…..2 3/4…..I’m warning you…” But, the basic idea is still there. No matter the discipline of choice, it’s always there. And it always sucks.

Coen has started to act up a bit over this last month of his relatively tantrum-free life. Nate and I thought we were ready, thought we had discussed and prepared for every intricate possibility, thought we had memorized every series of events that SuperNanny ever aired on ABC. We thought. We were sorely mistaken. On top of (poorly) preparing for the toll it would take on our children, we were completely unaware of the (frightening) impact it would take on our marriage.

Since the day we were married, I told Nate that when we had kids I NEVER wanted to have a good cop/bad cop relationship. I never wanted my kids to perceive one of us as the weak target and the other as Hell’s gatekeeper. Yet a parenting relationship can’t have two weak targets or it falls apart and you end up with a bully, a serial killer, or something characteristically similar to Charlie Sheen. But, if you have two evil gatekeepers running the show, your kid turns into that creepy pale dude from the movie The Benchwarmers. It’s a tougher balancing act than I ever fathomed it would be. For both of you to meticulously toe that middle line while managing to stay on the same page of that moldy book of discipline is nearly impossible. I commend all you parents who can do it, and who do it well. Team Brunner is learning more every single day and admittedly, we have a lot of work ahead of us.

This past weekend our family went back to Wisconsin to celebrate Nate’s birthday. Seeing both sets of parents always gets Coen riled up, leading to multiple forms of mischievous behavior. He shows off and, like any two-year-old, finds joy in testing the solidity of those lightly-sketched boundaries we have started to draw for him. By Sunday afternoon, packing up the car while balancing a hungry baby, overtired toddler and gas-ridden dog, I collided full-speed into my wit’s end. Coen hit me and I give him a time-out without thinking twice. Two minutes later, he apologized and I tossed him in the vehicle. With tears in my eyes, I waved goodbye to my mom and waited for Nate to ask the question that is always destined to open Pandora’s Bitchy-Wife Box: “What’s the matter?”

I sat in silence for a long while, reflecting on how to most profoundly and poignantly make my point. I contemplated my wording and had my answer well-rehearsed in my head. It was going to come out calm and deliberate with a rocket-scientist-like demeanor. And, embarrassingly enough, this is what came out:

“I feel like an asshole. I am sick of being an asshole alone. I just want us to be assholes together.”

Never in my 11 years of knowing Nathan have I ever said any string of sentences even remotely close to this one. Nor could I have imagined a situation where it might actually fit the conversation in a non-nonsensical manner. But that day, in my head, it made perfect logical sense.

After seeing the (understandable) confusion in his face, I elaborated a bit. I am tired of being the bad cop. The ice queen. The one Coen tests because he knows it will reap some sort of attention. I am sick of seeing judgment in peoples’ eyes when I choose to react to a behavior the way I see fit in that very moment for that very act. I am through listening to the shoulda woulda couldas from people who “know better” but offer nothing to prove that self-proclaimed status.  What I need is a strong partner, an absolute, undeniable 100% back-up. When I put Coen in time out 15 minutes earlier, I needed Nate to follow me to the office chair and get down to his level WITH me and be on my side. I wouldn’t have even cared if he had repeated what I said verbatim. We are a team and, just like parliamentary procedure, I needed him to second my notion, even if that notion may have been made out of pure and illogical emotion due to lack of sleep or the new lousy diet I’m trying out this week.

I continued to explain that there is no worse feeling than feeling like a bad mom. When my kid misbehaves, I have no more than 2.5 seconds to establish and believe in a reaction. Some people scoff if you do nothing. Some people scoff if you do too much. Some people just scoff because, like me at 15, they can’t believe a parent would let their child get so out of hand that they would behave like that in the first place.

I talked about my fear of becoming the bad cop – the parent my kids won’t talk to when life gets rough. And this feeling, like no other feeling, makes you feel like you are losing control.

We finished our drive back home and got everyone tucked into bed. I know this will be a continuous conversation that will most likely go both ways for years to come, but for the day, it was over. Nods and hugs were exchanged and points were agreed upon with smiles on our faces.

The following day, I was sitting at work and Nate sent me an email. He said these simple words that I will carry with me in my heart:

“Remember I am always on your side, Nicki.  Just be confident in what you are doing because, dammit, you are doing it the right way and doing it well. Got that? I’m serious. GOT THAT?”

Well, Nate, I got that. Day by day, scowl by scowl, time-out by time-out, judgment by judgment…I got that. And, that good kid will only continue to get better – day by day, scowl by scowl, time-out by time-out, judgment by judgment. Tonight, after three separate warnings for throwing rice across the kitchen during a dinner party and two minutes in his time-out chair, Coen came out of his room and gave me a big leg-hug accompanied by an “I’m sorry, mama.” My brother looked at me from across the table, shrugged, and advised me to “take the wins.”

After living this all now, I kind of wish I could go back to 1989 and  backhand that little snot at the mall who didn’t know her training bra from her swimsuit top. Motherhood takes more than controlling emotions, finding solutions, and reestablishing the peace. For me, it also involves developing a strong, solid partnership and finding a way to meet in the middle, no matter how backwards one side may appear to the untrained eye. If you can solemnly swear to look like assholes together, the rest of your life will be chock full of wins. It’s not rocket science. It’s parenting.

Neurons Schmeurons

Fish oil? Vitamin D? Ginkgo biloba? Omega 3s? Aloe vera? So many fancy names, so little help. I’m on a hunt for the magic medicine that will recover all the brain cells that have vanished over the last three years. Ever since my son went from the inside to the outside, something has happened to one of my very favorite bodily assets: my brain. Yes, in the past I may not have used it as much as I would have liked to, but at least back then I had the option! Today, that is no longer my call. What lies inside my head is a bit more blurry, a bit more wishy-washy, and a LOT more scattered. I swear, having children and balancing work, life, and relationships has destroyed my ability to function as I once did (well, that combined with countless college nights spent at Grandma’s Sports Garden drinking from $2 pitchers of grape kamikazes…with a giant handmade straw). Don’t believe me? The proof is in the pudding (I don’t even know if that saying applies here, but I’ve always wanted to use it):

The other night, Nate and I were up late chatting and he was reading news stories aloud to me from his iPhone. Often, these conversations are about some movie director who directed some other movie that was unlike this other movie, or March Madness brackets and what it takes to win them, or which political candidate sounds and looks more like a dirty car salesman because he doesn’t believe in XYZ and he said XYZ about XYZ and…z…zzzzz…zzzzzzzz. (I love you, Nate) But, this night, he was reading celebrity gossip. My ears perked right up. Our conversation went like this:

Nate: “Tori Spelling is having another kid. They’ll be born the same year as each other.”
Me: “That’s called Irish Twins. Gross.”
Nate: “We could have that, ya know.”
Me: “What are you talking about? That would require us to (trail off)…not possible.”
Nate: “SERIOUSLY, Nicki? Were you THAT tired?!”

Well, case in point. I guess we could have Irish Twins and evidently I don’t sleep enough to remember sex with my own husband. I’m awesome like that.  Crap.

This conversation kind of epitomizes every aspect of my life. Do I remember dentist appointments for myself? No. Do I send out work emails containing incorrect URLs on a regular basis? Unfortunately, yes. Do I neglect to screw the orange juice cap on all the way, thus causing my husband to splatter all over the kitchen when he’s simply following proper OJ etiquette and shaking before pouring? Yup. Do I have conversations on my cell phone that entail the phrase, “Where the hell is my cell phone!?” You know it. Have I searched my purse frantically for sunglasses that are sitting covertly on my head? Guilty. Have I left the house for work in the morning without my a) computer b) cell phone c) jacket d) keys e) purse f) lunch g) bra? Oh dear. I’m ashamed to say A through G are all positives. (The missing bra? Now that was an awkward day)

The commonality in all of this brainless activity, however, is ME. These are things that are about ME. My appointments. My job. My bra (or lack thereof). My kid was born and my brain split in half, designating one side entirely to the well-being of my children and the other side to…well, that other side is still reserved for math, science and other crap that never truly burrowed its way in. So there’s my excuse. More proof in the pudding (Yay! Twice in one blog!):

I can pack a weekend bag for my kids in less than two minutes. No joke. Diapers, formula, bottles, sippy cups, snacks (not included in these two minutes is the time it takes to fill those ridiculous little snack baggies – pretzels are less pourable than one might think), outfits for two days, Buzz Lightyear, bassinet, burp rags, booger sucker, portable DVD player, lotion, crayons, notebook, toothbrush and accompanying non-flouride paste, pajamas, a coat, and finally, an extra pair of shoes in case they find puddles made of mud. There. Whew. I just typed that in about 13 seconds. Practice makes perfect, and I’ve got it down.

Do I always remember to buckle their safety belts, whether it’s in a wagon, a stroller, or a car? Yes. Can I recognize if a movie is Toy Story 1, 2 or 3 simply by the first nanosecond of the opening credits? You betcha. Do I have a mental grocery list of which peanut butter we are out of or which macaroni brand is this week’s favorite? Sure do. Have I ever neglected to have bottles washed and ready for the nanny in the morning or has our camera battery ever died at a cute and crucial memorable moment? Never.  Never ever ever. Can I recite the words to Goodnight Moon without even opening the front cover? Absolutely (kind of proud of this one). Has a night gone by that I haven’t kissed my kids goodnight, told them I love them and got teary-eyed as I walked out of the room? Negative. This is a sure thing. Happens every night at 9:30 p.m. Never fails. Ever.

The list goes on and on, but I think you can see where my mind has gone. It’s gone to a place where decisions are made based on tantrums and laughter. Where pleasures are found in the worlds’ smallest wonders. Where mental snapshots are captured and stored deep inside for those days in the future when my little littles ain’t little no more.  It’s a wonderful place to be and I hope you can all be open to experiencing a little brain transformation someday too. It does wonders for your soul.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to the couch to continue my marathon of The Big Bang Theory (where they say nothing I understand but my gosh, do I laugh!). Story of my life.

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Breathe Easy, Mom

Our sick little chick

We are home. What a night. What a yucky, scary, crazy night.

Mabel’s had what we assumed was a cold for a couple days now. Runny nose, hacky cough, warm forehead. This afternoon as I was holding her, it turned into more of a wheeze and her chest looked like its insides were working exceptionally hard to do what we take for granted every minute of every day. I told Nate it didn’t seem right, so we packed up Coen, Buzz Lightyear, and a sick baby girl and headed to Urgent Care.

I honestly expected them to say it was merely a cold and to take her home and sit in a steamy bathroom with her until we were both giant sweatballs. Instead, they told us she had low oxygen levels and a rapid heart rate and they didn’t feel comfortable treating her and to head to the ER. The ER?!? Those letters scare the bejeesus out of me.

So off we went, Buzz Lightyear and all, to the Riverside hospital. The doctors there were very kind to all of us. They could sense Coen’s impatience and supplied him with a bucket of trains and graham crackers. And they were so gentle with our baby. I gained more appreciation for them by the minute. We gave her two nebulizer treatments and waited patiently for them to come check her vitals to give us either the green light to go home or the red light to stay in the hospital overnight. Thankfully, our little wheezer was wheezing less and that was all the convincing they needed to send us on our merry way…with a personalized nebulizer (that will be amusing to watch us try to figure out at 3 in the morning).

I stared at my daughter the whole ride home. I held her small fingers and stroked her thin hair and brushed my fingers across her cute-to-me face eczema. Holding her heavy chest close to mine all night opened my heart to so many emotions. Tonight I learned something about myself that I think I knew already. Buried under the fear and the nerves and the worry lay a love so strong that it nearly paralyzed me. I caught myself thinking, a number of times while sitting on the hospital bed holding an oxygen mask to my baby’s mouth, “Make it me.” Make it ME. Make ME sick. Take away MY ability to breathe easy. Give ME the oxygen. Keep ME up at night. Make HER healthy. Give HER the ease of inhalation. Let HER sleep peacefully through the night tonight.

When you become a parent, something switches in your mind and your heart. No matter how selfish you may have been in your past, the truth is you would die for that child. You would give your everything to take away their pain. I knew Mabel was going to be OK tonight. But, this was an interesting eye-opener to remind me that these emotions still run deep in my core. Once you’re a parent, your soul changes and opens itself to so much more that takes place outside of yourself. It’s a miraculous cocktail or sentiments – exhausting and demanding. And tonight, I am going to bed breathing easier because my emotions are normal and justified. In fact, they are what make me a pretty damn good parent!

Hi Ho, Hi Ho…It’s Back to Work I Go

Well, this is it. The last day of my maternity leave is upon us. I thought I’d be more of a mess than I am, but it could just be that I’m overtired and crying takes a level of energy that my body refuses to exert. Or maybe I’m just in denial until I wake up tomorrow morning and our nanny is at our doorstep and I’m in my new (adorable) shirt from White House Black Market that I bought specifically to cover my belly paunch to ease me back in to my first day back. It’s like back-to-school shopping, only you’re not trying to impress the boys in your class – you’re trying to sustain a level of sanity without too many tears in front of your boss.

This has been the world’s greatest maternity leave ever known to man. Seriously, ask God when you die. He’ll back me up. Everyone warned me that dealing with two kids would be so much harder than my maternity leave with just the one. Yes, it was. It took more balancing, more planning, fewer freakouts, more money, less me-time, and double the love! I refused to be confined to the walls of this house, so nearly every day, Coen watched Super Why on PBS at 9 a.m. while I fed Maby her bottle. After that, we were off! Every night was fun for me planning what the next day’s adventure would be. Some days were “snow days” and we did just stay home, but I have pictures of snowmen and forts and art projects to prove we did anything but lounge around. We had a rainy Monday this week, and watched two movies (Toy Story 1…and 2…go figure). But this was a rarity. I can’t sit still, thus my children will not sit still.

We would get in the car and drive to the Children’s Museum, the Bell Museum of Natural History, Choo Choo Bob’s, the ice cream shop (any and all of them), the mall (also any and all of them), Tot Time, Pump It Up, Kiddywampus, the Railroad Museum or Chuck E Cheese.

I’d watch Coen drain his energy, all the while we would talk and enjoy mommy/toddler conversation and I would smile. Usually after grabbing lunch (the best was Rainforest Cafe under the mechanical apes), I’d pop them both in the car and I’d have two sleeping kids by the time we reached the highway. Worked like a charm almost every day. I’d lug them inside and lay them down for naps and then I sucked every second out of my mommy-only time. During these hours, I would clean the house, make the night’s dinner, catch up on phone calls (fewer people would answer at 1 p.m. on a Tuesday than you’d think), scrapbook, or just watch The Doctors and Dr. Phil. Oh, how I loathe you, Dr. Phil. The man has the job of a monkey if a monkey had common sense. These hours were nice and relaxing, but it was always nice when Mabel would wake up and be my little lethargic angel until her brother woke up and we were back to finding ways to entertain ourselves.

Coen is only 2 1/2, but we would have conversations like adults sometimes. OK, maybe it was more me not having adult interaction, so I would use my kid, who was strapped into his car seat in the back and couldn’t escape even if he wanted to, as a sounding board. This past Sunday I took Coen to a new church. I’m trying to find a church community that is open-minded, non-denominational, welcoming and comfortable, yet still teaches the lessons I would like for my children to learn and the morals I would like them to have. Mainly, I just don’t want them on their death bed someday in 100 years thinking they’re going to spend the rest of eternity in the company of dirt. At this church, we sat in the back row and I listened while Coen entertained himself very well with snacks and books. A lady snuck in next to us and introduced herself. Very nice lady, but she basically told me Coen needed to go to the nursery. I looked around and noticed, no, there were no children at this church. Plus, the average age was about 87 and there was a medley of bells playing the introductory song. BELLS, for gosh sakes! I smiled a nervous smile and walked Coen to the nursery. They had a speaker in there so I could’ve heard the sermon IF the lady in charge of the nursery would’ve stopped talking for four seconds. And Coen kept asking to leave because the “nursery” had three small baby toys and a rug. That. Was. It. I felt bad for him, and to be polite, I just entertained him with Buzz Lightyear until the service was over and we could graciously excuse ourselves. Anyway, long story short, on the drive home, I told Coen that mommy didn’t like that church, but I’m going to keep looking until we find one we like and then daddy’s going to come with us. I told him how proud I was of him for being a good boy and treated him to McDonalds. This is the perfect example of how most of our days go during leave. We play,  I talk, he listens and replies, Mabel sleeps.

Some may laugh thinking no kid that age is going to understand any of that. Yeah, probably not, but our relationship grew so much stronger over this time of leave. I gained a bond with my daughter that money couldn’t buy and as far as Coen goes, we hug tighter before bedtime now and he calls me back into his room to say “I love you” if I forget. I was able to let loose and be the fun parent and just enjoy my kids. Time-outs were still given and frustrations were still had, but overall we just enjoyed one another. This is what I’m going to miss the most…the sheer enjoyment that we bring each other being together every day.

Yesterday, for one of my final days at home, our nanny came to watch Mabel and I took Coen on a bike ride. We rode to the lake and sat on a park bench to eat lunch. It was silent for a bit and I was looking out on the water when Coen said (unprompted and completely out of the blue), “Mommy, I don’t like dat church eeever.” I looked at him confused a bit. He kept going. “Mommy dunnunt like dat church. Don’t worry, mommy. We hafta find a diff’int church. And daddy will come wif.” Well, I’ll be darned! He does listen! Even to what seems like adult conversation and is simply me getting some aggravations off my chest. Ahh, my little sounding board. My little peanut gallery. My little friend. Oh, how I’m going to miss my little friend.

Well, now I did it. I guess my body does have the energy to cry.

Good news is, I can go back to work and know they are both in good hands with Danielle. I know she will continue to have these conversations with them and give them both wonderful experiences and go to fun places like we did every day. I will still have my Wednesdays that I work from home. And I know everything will go back to normal faster than I am imagining in my head. For now, I’m going to think about the positives as much as I can. My friend suggested focusing on the return of adult interaction, or dressing up in my cute clothes and not worrying about spit-up, or even something as simple as drinking a cup of coffee while it’s still hot…there are pluses. And I will focus on those pluses. But, that certainly doesn’t mean I may not sneak off to the bathroom three times a day to call home. Who knows…maybe Coen can give me advice on that days’ client crises. He is good at that. Wish me luck!

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Three generations of love

On a side note, today is my DAD’S BIRTHDAY. Happy 57th, dad!

You are the man who taught me to grab life by the horns and roll with the punches. To cherish little moments and respect family values. To pay my credit card on time and keep my car clean. To turn little events into big events and to not be afraid to cry at sad movies. To appreciate life every day that it’s given to us. I learned all of this from you, dad. And we all love you very much!

The Power of Pizza and Beer

“Hey, buddy, I’ll buy you pizza and beer if you help me move my furniture from Crappy Apartment A to Crappy Apartment B this Saturday. Rain or shine. Sound rad?” “Oh, totally. I’ll be there. Probably hungover, but that aint nothin’ pizza and beer can’t fix.”

This was the role of pizza and beer in my life five years ago. A form of bribery, good blessing, congratulation, relaxation, or ventilation. Didn’t matter the toppings or if the Rolling Rock was warm and frothy. Pizza and beer meant something. And that something was simple, whatever it was. I promise you, it was not complicated or well thought out. There were no intricacies to the details surrounding said pizza and beer. It just happened. And it was glorious.

Tonight, we had our friends Alysha and Nathan over for – you guessed it – pizza and beer. We planned on eating at 5:30, and at 5:40, Alysha called me and said they were still getting packed up to come over and finished with a “you know what that’s like.” I laughed and completely agreed. I do know what that’s like. I absolutely do.

Ten minutes later, in came our friends with their two small boys! I barely made it to the door to greet them and Hudson and Coen were already barreling towards the table to make their personal pan pizzas. After tripping over tiny people in an even tinier house, I made my way to the door and gave Alysha a hug. The hug was necessary because of the rarity of evenings such as this. This particular evening took much more planning than a simple 12-second college-apartment-hopper phone call. This involved Facebook messages, text messages, calendar comparisons, meal option discussions, and yes, a phone call or two. Life has gone to where the wild things are, and making plans for a family night out these days takes a cesspool of blood, sweat and tears and an armful of elbow grease. It’s exhausting. But, absolutely worth it. Case in point: Tonight.

Ham and Cheese...but mostly just HAM! Hudson and Coen enjoy their pizza.

The boys were making their pizzas and we delivered the promised beers to the adults. No warm and frothy Rolling Rock this time. No sir. If we are having company over nowadays, we are serving Red Stripe and Blue Moon and whatever other middle-class beers are sold without a twist-off cap. How exciting, right!? Well, we think so. As we began our game of conversational catch-up, I found us breaking off every other sentence to interject a, “watch where you’re going” or “pick that up please” or “don’t throw that jack-in-the-box at your sister!” We got to talk about our families and our careers and our weekends. But, we always came back to the topics of our children. We shared updates on their health, their preschool options, their size, their quirks, their interests, their hobbies and their skills. We shared stories about their attitudes, their barriers, and their unique personalities. We compared toddler outbursts, sleeping patterns, and birth weights. I know everyone says you should never compare your children with those of another person, but through theses particular conversations on this particular night with these particular people, I found a reassuring comfort in our words.

“Hudson acts like he’s 15 already. He’s only two!” Alysha’s words and the story that accommodated them made me feel less angry about Coen’s disrespectful behavior the day before when he glared at me from across the living room because I told him we needed to put the iPhone away and eat dinner. His slow and steady “Noooooo” response prompted me to ask him if he too was 15 years old. His veritable reply of “No, mommy. I’m almost three!” was just what I needed to hear to remind me that YES, he is only two and this was an outburst based on pure emotional reaction. Cause and effect is not his strongpoint just yet.

“Preston is still getting up three or four times a night.” Ahhhh, thank GOD! Someone else has a crappy sleeper. Thank you, you lovely couple, for sharing your sleeping whoas and not only speaking of the things at which your child excels. If one more person tells me their baby slept through the night at two weeks old, I’m gonna bust some heads. Mabel wakes up every two to three hours and Coen didn’t sleep through the night regularly until about 17 months. I remember feeling slightly embarrassed telling people that, like I was doing something wrong or my kid was broken or abnormal or deviant. Nope. Kids are all different, and the only parents who actually vocalize their superhero sleeper stories are those with superhero sleepers. Duh. Just because I was not one of them most certainly does not mean I was alone.

And I was so kind as to reciprocate the favor. When Coen let out a rebellious Tarzan-like yell because I wouldn’t let him lug our expensive Nikon camera around the house, Alysha laughed not-so-silently and told me what a relief it was to witness that. Apparently Hudson freaks out in the same manner as our overdramatic Ansel Adams, and only over things that mean nothing and are forgotten about mere seconds post-freak-out. Often times, I feel quite sheepish when Coen has one of these melodramatic meltdowns in public, or when Mabel screams from appetizer to dessert but stops the instant the check is placed on our table. What can I do to stop my child from behaving this way? Why do I never see other kids their age do this when we’re out and about? Am I a bad mother? Oh. My. God. No. According to my super-formal survey of two, I am not alone and it’s completely normal. So there. Let there be tantrums. Anyone who has ever raised a child over the age of two will simply keep on walkin’. (But watch out for those creepy cat ladies. They’re eyes will glare through you like a red-hot poker on a cold winter’s day.)

The night and the pizza went too fast, but I enjoyed every beer and every minute. Sure, life with children makes it harder to go to happy hours, attend parties, be on time for lunch dates, visit old friends, meet new ones, take road trip, be spontaneous, and use dusty old gift certificates to lavish, expensive venues in which you would probably still be uncomfortable when wearing your finest Old Navy ball gown…buuuuut, so so so so worth it. Posh-snob pizza’s got nothing on Papa Murphy’s takeout in a cramped but cozy mad house with old friends and comfortable, pertinent conversations. Yes, planning the outing may now involve the concoction of an elaborate algorithm, but it still happens. And if you’re lucky, you will walk away feeling reassured in yourself and your choices. And it’s all still just as glorious as it was back in the day, but involves less lifting and more laughter. I’d say that’s a pretty good trade-off.

The Epinephrine Effect

9:30 pm
Went to bed

11:30 pm
Dog needs to go out to pee

12:30 am
Mabel wakes up and takes her bottle

1:30 am
Coen wakes up screaming from his bed

3:30 am
Mabel wakes up for her second feeding

4:30 am
Coen wakes up screaming from his bed, take two

5:30 am
Mabel and the dog wake up simultaneously to eat and poop (both for both)

6:42 am
Nate wakes up and takes everyone into the living room so I can sleep for one uninterrupted hour

Needless to say, 6:42 until 7:42 was the greatest hour of my night. Hands freaking Down. When I rolled out of bed, I observed myself in the mirror and gasped in horror. Crooked glasses and hair shooting out of my head in every direction, and I won’t even begin to tell you what my eyes looked like. Before I could even stumble into the living room to greet my family, I hopped in the shower in hopes that it would all wash away. Well, my hair looked better, but I still felt like I was running on empty. At these moments, don’t you all wonder, “How on God’s Green Earth am I going to make it through today without falling apart?” Nate came into the bathroom to say he had to leave for work and asked if I was tired, and I started crying. There it was. God’s Green Earth was blowing up in my face. I sighed and said, “Yes. I’m tired” with a not-so-subtle hint of “maybe YOU should get up with them next time” buried in there somewhere. Very much in Nate’s defense, he does get up with the kids a lot. I’m definitely not complaining about that. But, God sadistically created women with a special wiring that causes us to react at NASCAR-pace when our children make the most insignificant peep. When this happens in the middle of the night, I’m the first one up and out the door to fix the problem. This blows up in my face on days like today when I worry about lone survival with two kids and no help.

Adrenaline: A surge in the secretion of epinephrine into the blood system. This was God’s fix-it creation after He realized women might not be so happy about the wiring issue mention above. Adrenaline comes in all shapes and sizes and is caused by all sorts of occurrences, but I am so glad it exists! It is the strength that gets you through days like today (and vacations and injuries and teenage years and arguments and accidents and birthday parties…you name it). It’s a parent’s best friend and we should all keep it in our back pockets.

I used the gift of adrenaline about 85 times today alone. Mabel got her two-month checkup today. I lug both kids into the doctors office and undress my baby for measurements. I have anxiety about her getting shots, so I focus my energies on Coen who is patiently eating Lucky Charms in the big chair. Crash! I turn away for 3.5 seconds and when I turn back, Coen looks sad and guilty, and the floor is covered in cereal. I feel a rush run through me as I crunch the sugary land mines with my feet on my way to the sink to gather paper towels. I want this cleaned up by the time the nurse comes back in. Failure. She helped me clean up and Coen got a sticker. Now how does THAT work? That’s what I call “shameful adrenaline.” (Also, I think it has something to do with my Type A personality that tends to shudder at the thought of a mess, but I’m leaving that element out of the equation for now.)

Then it happened – the shots. Oh, how I HATE newborn shots. ANY shots, really…unless they are my own. The nurse stuck three gigantic needles into Mabel’s beefy thighs and one started bleeding. I was leaned down by her head and her face was bright red from screaming and she wouldn’t exhale and I absolutely despised the nurse for putting her through this. Then, I remembered she was just doing her job and, as she put Clifford band-aids on her fat little legs, I forced myself to look the nurse in the eye, smile, and say “thank you” in an actual tone of appreciation (yay me!). It took 10 minutes for me to calm her down while Coen was emptying cotton balls out of the jars and trying on all the size medium latex gloves from the box. I felt bad, but all I wanted was for my baby to stop crying and maybe, just maybe, the doctors should put those gloves and cotton balls on a higher shelf! Not my fault. Eventually, she stopped crying and I felt better. Still a little sad inside though. I call this “painful adrenaline.” It wasn’t my pain, but sometimes, when it’s the pain of someone you love MORE than yourself, it hurts even more.

On our walk down to the car, we stopped at the little cafe cuz mama needed a Diet Coke. I ordered a pop and a milk for the little man and the owner of the cafe told me not to worry about payment and that he would bring it out to our table for us. I said thank you about seven times and I meant every one. He delivered some dum-dum suckers along with Coen’s milk and I saw him shoot a wink in our direction as he walked away. Happiness. As if that weren’t enough, I started buckling Mabel into her carseat and the cute old man with a Santa Claus beard who is in charge of valet parking for Fairview doctors approached me and asked if he could go get my car for me. I looked at him and asked if he were serious. He said, “Yes, we provide valet parking for busy mothers.” I questioned whether he made up that rule right then and there. He nodded a little but proceeded to assist me. He even carried my daughter to the door and patted Coen on the head. Took my keys, and off he went. My Honda pulled up to the door and I was overwhelmed with appreciation. This is what I call “grateful adrenaline.”

Coen admiring his bowling skills

The night before, I had promised Coen that I would take him bowling today. Little did I know how off my sleep schedule would be, but I’m a mother of my word, so off we went to Park Tavern…only the world’s greatest bar and grill, bowling alley attached. Truth: I have probably never seen my kid so excited about ANYthing in his entire little life. I walked up to the desk and told the guy we wanted to play three games and rent shoes. He could barely hear me because my little Lebowski was staring at the lanes shouting as loudly as he could. “We did it, mommy! We did it! We are at the bowling! I’m gonna get a skrike. A SKRIKE, mommy! We DID IT!!” I just handed the guy a 20 and hoped I had heard him correctly. Best money I’ve ever spent. We walked to our lane and up popped our bumpers. Coen was one proud toddler, walking the ball to the lane, and giving it a good push with two hands, watching in anticipation as it (ooooooooh, sooooo slowly) made its way to the pins, usually knocking over a good chunk of them. We did happy dances and clapped and I caught myself cheering so loudly that the elderly gentleman at the lane three down from us had actually moved lanes by our second game. Well, color me jolly, I didn’t give a damn. If he wanted to crankily practice for his nursing home bar league alone on a Monday afternoon, so be it. I want to give my child a memory he will blather about for the next year! Mission accomplished. We walked out of there on cloud nine, or on what I call “joyful adrenaline.”

We loaded into the car and I sat back in my seat. As quickly as the adrenaline had entered my body, I could now feel it exuding out of me like air from a leaking tire. By the time I pulled up to the gas station to fill up, the little bowler was passed out in his car seat. I felt a moment of peace rush through me. Success. I had survived the day on pure adrenaline. And now, I could breathe easy.

As I carried a sleeping Coen into the house to lay him down for a nap, Mabel started screaming from her car seat. Will she wake up her brother? Is she wet or hungry? Do her legs hurt from those stupid shots? That moment of peace in which I had been reveling was short-lived and I was immediately kicked back into full-parent mode.

Nate came home early from work and (sensing my exhaustion) told me to take a nap. So, I happily slugged into the bedroom, closed the door, emptied my pockets of any remaining adrenaline, and crashed hard. I guarantee it will be there waiting for me when I wake up and I’ll stick it back in my pocket in preparation for whatever upcoming rush will rear its head next. As parents, we need it to survive – good days and bad. Sleep or no sleep, sometimes we all need a little shot of Epinephrine.

A Decade Resolution

In three days, I turn 31. That means I have been 30 for almost a full year. And, do you know what my resolution for my 30s was? (Well, in all honesty, it was to purchase one expensive bottle of preventative wrinkle cream a year in hopes it will help my face work its way into 40 youthfully), but for the sake of starting this post on a topical note, I will state my second resolution: Blog. Blog the lives of my children (yes, I have two now…more on that later). I want to remember their little idiosyncrasies, their tantrums, their quotes and their quirks. I want to have something other than a standard baby book that prompts only the generic cliched factoids like birth weight and height. I want to have a written recollection of when Coen told me he hiccuped and a booger came out (and he honestly thought the two were connected somehow). I want to remember exactly what I was doing when Mabel gave me her first full-face grin. I want to recall my ridiculous rollercoaster of emotions due to lack of sleep, failure to potty train, back-talking toddlerhood, an inconsolable infant who isn’t hungry, cold, hot, tired, sick, gassy, or wet …you name it. I want to be able to look back on a log of memories, good and bad, and be proud of the proof that I survived it all.

So, thus I begin. Not all posts will be long. Some may be as simple as “Holy shit, I can’t keep my eyes open because Mabel was up every 25 minutes last night so I’m going to bed at 7 p.m. Judge me if you dare.” But, at least I will know that, on that day of that month, my little girl was a poor sleeper. And in 30 years, I may find that amusing (not now though…seriously, I’m so tired!). New resolution: 3 blogs a week. Raise your hand if you think this is possible!? Hmm, doubting thomases by the dozens, I will prove you wrong.

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Moment of catch-up
Since my last blog post, life has changed quite a bit. I shall summarize in bullet-point format for those with an attention span similar to yours truly:

• We had a baby girl. Kind of a big deal, right? January 12, 2012, Mabel Claire Brunner arrived one month early and came out via c-section an absolute picture of beauty. Full head of black hair, healthy (and getting healthier by the day) lungs, and cheeks that go on for miles. We are very fortunate and blessed to have her in our lives and we recognize this every single day.
• Coen moved to a big boy bed. Halloween weekend, 2011, we put together an adorable white toddler bed with a carved-out counting sheep headboard (this literally took an entire weekend…thanks IKEA). He pretty much loved it right away. Just recently, we have been able to tuck him in, kiss him goodnight, and leave the room. The first 4 months were spent reading books, then laying next to him until he was breathing his sleepy breaths. Funny how I kind of miss the “laying next to him” part of the equation now that it’s actually over.
• The painting of a new-to-us nursery. This transformation happened the same weekend as the toddler bed. Little to his knowledge, Coen’s green and blue bedroom was being half taken over by purple and white. His brown camouflage piggy bank now shares dresser space with a pig in a silver tiara and a tutu. One side of the armoire is now filled with robot slippers and Spiderman socks while the other holds tights with built-in Mary Janes and silver sparkly headbands. There is a crib and a bed in a very small space, but we love the layout and think it will work out just fine. It has to. We are, like, $40,000 underwater.
• Coen’s character obsessions have been, from oldest to newest: Elmo, Blues Clues, Thomas the Train, Snoopy, Cars, and most recently Toy Story. I can literally recite every word spoken by every character in every Toy Story movie Pixar has ever made. Not saying I’m proud of this, but “To Infinity and Beyond” actually holds some clever contextual meaning in a variety of adult conversations. I would know. I’ve subconsciously dropped it more times than I care to admit.
• I’m currently on maternity leave. I return to work full-time in 2 weeks. This makes me very sad. Almost sadder than I was with Coen. Not sure why, but I like to think it’s because I’m hella-better at balancing this mother thing the second time around. Adult interaction will be nice, but I wish I could do it in moderation…
• Wish granted! Nate and I have discussed it (along with my ever-so-flexible-and-wonderful managerial folk at work), and come this fall I will be going part-time at my job. 24 hour work-weeks and three full days home with my kiddos. I will be one happy mama and a very grateful wife when September comes.
• I have learned to hold my babies close and tell everyone I love them when they leave my sight. This life offers up a lot of freaking tragedy and I don’t like it. I have friends who have fertility issues, have experienced miscarriages, lost family members to evil diseases, gotten divorces…you name it. Most recently and heart-wrenchingly, I have a very close friend who lost her triplets at 22 weeks. Never in my life did I think I would hold a dead baby in my arms, and I did. Three of them, in fact. They were beautiful and perfect and I cried the whole ride home waiting until the moment I could hold my babies tightly in my arms and tell them I love them. I don’t understand why bad things happen, but I appreciate everything in my life more when they do. Strange how that works.

OK, it’s late and Nathan is snoring next to me so I’m calling it a blog post. Mabel will most likely be up 7 minutes after I fall asleep so I should probably make the most of those 7 minutes. Tomorrow is a new bright and shiny day, and will also bring my countdown to 31 to T-minus two days! Time flies when you’re having fun…

…(and by “fun” I mean chasing a toddler around Target because they missed nap time and are whiny and rude while you’re trying to balance a bottle in your newborn’s mouth with your chin and are pushing a cart filled with frozen goods that need to get home in the next two hours or they’ll melt and you’ll probably have to pay for them anyway because you DID after all remove them from the freezer section, but with what money will you pay for these watered-down groceries since your paycheck is smaller than average due to maternity leave and you already spent that extra surplus on those two knit dresses you just had to have because they covered your tummy paunch that wasn’t there 3 months ago but now it’s all you think about because it stares you in the face every night when you’re putting on that cute nighty but then decide to change into sweatpants and a hoodie cuz there’s no way your husband is going to want anything to do with THAT kind of stomach, thus preventing the creation of more children…so sleep soundly, my dear…) See? FUN!

This hot mess is to be continued. Seriously. I’m so tired.