Ch...Ch...Ch...Changes

It has come to my attention that Pearce is quite possibly the cutest he has ever been. It has also come to my attention that this cuteness is accompanied by a generous dose of mischief. That dose of mischief comes with a side of "I can do it myself" and that comes with an over sized helping of mommy insanity.

 Let me just tell you, life at the Brann household has been real interesting.

Sorry about my lack of posts these past few months. Frankly, I like to post about things that amuse me or I find humorous in life. And lately? Well ... not much amuses me.

Anyhow, Pearce "The Wild Man" Brann has been quite the handful lately and I am convinced I need to post these stories for the rest of the world to read so that Jimmy and I will have a strong case when one of us ends up in the looney bin. Ya know...I need our side to be heard.

First of all, I am a bit concerned that Pearce is actually smarter than us. I am not joking here. Maybe he doesn't know arithmetic and mathematics yet, but he certainly has the ability to try and out-smart us. The other night at dinner I got onto him for standing up in his chair... it went something like this:

Me: Pearce we do not stand up in our chair at the dinner table.

Pearce: Hey, don't say that to me...

Jimmy: Pearce, we DO NOT talk to mommy like that.

Pearce: (head sweetly tilted) I wasn't talking to mommy. I was talking to youuuu.

Jimmy: Well, you don't talk to daddy like that either.

Pearce: (deep sigh)  But daddy, I was talking to my baby brother.

Jimmy: Pearce, we don't talk to anyone like that. We use kind words.

Pearce: Okayyyyyy...

Uh -huh. Or another favorite of mine, Pearce's confession after a day at Miss Sheron's:

Jimmy: Did you have a good day today at Miss Sheron's?

Pearce: Yeah daddy, I didn't hit.

Jimmy: Well I am glad to hear that. No hitting is a minimum requirement at school.

Pearce: Uh huh.(in a proud voice) I pushed Jackson.

Jimmy: You pushed someone? Why did you push Jackson?

Pearce: Because Jesus tells us not to hit.

Jimmy: Pearce, Jesus doesn't tell us not to hit. He tells us to be kind to others and that means no hitting or pushing or using unkind words.

Pearce: So we don't push?

Jimmy: No, we don't.

Pearce: (deep sigh) Okayyyyyyyy.

Also, Pearce has a pretty generous vocabulary right now. He uses words like actually and possibly on a daily basis and has no shame interjecting them into his negotiations. Like last week I was getting him some yogurt and when I asked him if he wanted strawberry or mixed berry, he replied, "Actually, I would like some applesauce."

And yesterday he picked up my keys when I dropped them so I said 'thank you'. His reply? "Good manners, mama."  Glad I have his approval.

He is also perceptive and has a tendency to piece things together better than we would like. We moved him into a 'big boy bed' about three months ago and during bathtime the next night, he started asking questions about his crib.

Pearce: Why do I have a big boy bed?

Me: Well. you are growing so big and strong that your crib was getting too small for you.

Pearce: But where's my crib?

Me: Well, we are going to put it together for the baby.

Pearce: For baby brother to sleep in? We can put it in your tummy. It would fit, mama.

Thanks, kiddo. Thanks alot.

I can only imagine what the little sweetheart must be dealing with internally. There have been lots of changes here at the Brann household.

In the past few months we have moved Pearce to a big boy bed and survived a visit from the "Paci Fairy".  I do love how proud he is in this picture. We colored a picture for the Paci Fairy and taped the baggie of pacis to our front porch for her to pick up. In their place she left two dump trucks and some new Biblical action figures. And for the record, Goliath and Joshua's limbs keep falling off. Literally. They just fall off. I owe Mardel a phone call on this one.

 As if that wasn't enough,  I quit my job to be home full time and started driving a minivan. I call it the silver bullet. It's pretty awesome.

 Also, we celebrated potty training only to learn that a refusal to go on the potty was soon to follow. We've been having loads of fun here. Really.

These changes have clearly gotten to the sweet boy as Jimmy and I have found ourselves in the thick of the longest, loudest, most erratic tantrums we have ever seen from Pearce. His need to be in control is almost amusing but after we survive each episode, Jimmy and I are anything but amused.

For example, a few days ago it was naptime and Pearce didn't want to put on a Pull Up before his nap. Now, I am all for challenging our children to stretch themselves, however I am also 36 weeks pregnant and I simply don't have the energy to change bed sheets more than I have to. A Pull Up at naptime is necessary. Trust me.

Anyhow, the battle turned into a screaming, thrashing, 'do it my way' tantrum that lasted about half an hour. All the advice and reading I have done recommends simply ignoring the behavior and acting somewhat disinterested. So this is what I did:

I turned off all the lights downstairs and shut the bedroom doors. I informed Pearce that it was naptime and that I would be upstairs in his room reading a story. If he missed it, too bad. I also made sure he knew he would be downstairs all alone if he didn't come up and obey.

Now, about this time I was feeling pretty proud of myself for doing what all the experts advise ... a tantrum? I could handle this.

That is, until I heard a knock at the front door. When I came downstairs to get the front door, I saw two things:

1. Our new neighbor at the front door...looking a bit concerned. Let me interject here that we don't know them at all. It's worth mentioning that they also have a great pool no one uses. I was hoping to make friends with them really quickly.

and

2. Pearce's bare hiney... with no pants or Pull Up on, running back and forth between the front door screaming, "No mama! I don't want to!".

I was so proud.

Pearce finally gave in to his need for rest and this is how I found him when I went to get him from downstairs...

I mean, what's a mom to do?

The Name Game...

So as this pregnancy progresses and Baby Bean continues to grow, I am getting more and more "large and in charge." My belly doesn't just grow. I get back fat. And knee chubb. And swollen ankles. It's awesome.

People often ask me how far along I am and while I have three more months to go, I am so tempted to smile sweetly and say, "Actually, I am a week overdue! With Twins. Don't I look fabulous?" If it wasn't for fear of getting caught in that lie, I might actually do it.

The second most asked question is, " What are you having?" ... followed by, "Do you have a name?"

NOW. I can answer most of those questions. I am six months pregnant. We are having a boy. No, I don't feel wonderful right now. Yes, the little squirmer moves all the time, etc. etc.

What I cannot yet address is the name of this child.  Because frankly, we have no idea. Let's just say there have been some serious roadblocks in that department.

Let me give you a little history behind our name saga...

Have I ever mentioned that my husband secretly wants to be a Spartan? Well he does.  He loves the movie 300 and is convinced that all little boys should grow up to be warriors similar to those we see in 300. In all fairness to him, he is not too far off from knighthood himself. He has such a gentle spirit, coupled with a brave heart and I love that about him.

A perfect example...
When we were dating, he came to OKC to stay one weekend at my parent's and while I was sleeping in Emily's room, he still wouldn't sleep in my bed because he wanted to be sensitive to my dad's feelings about any man in his daughter's bed...with or without her. I assured him that he was being ridiculous and that him sleeping on the couch would make people more uncomfortable. The next morning I went into my bedroom to find pillows at the foot of the bed. The evidence was clear. Sweet Jim had slept with his head at the foot of my bed because he felt that was less personal.

Simply put, I adore this chivalrous, knightly characteristic  my husband embodies. Having said that, he can sometimes go too far. Take the example of Baby Bean's name. When we found out another boy was in our future, Jimmy immediately wanted something bold. Something with meaning. Something that would make you think, "wow, that kid is gonna be somebody."

Clearing my throat.

Jimmy wanted to name our boy Leonidas. Promise.

For those of you normal folks, like myself, let me tell you a bit about who Leonidas is. Leonidas is the historical warrior king depicted in the movie 300 and Jimmy was convinced "Leo" would be totally appropriate for a kid. Jimmy's Leo campaign went on for a few months, he even solicited the support of some of his friends on this one. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself actually putting that on a birth certificate and then I immediately began to picture a hairy infant with a deep voice. No. Can. Do.

Needless to say, Leo didn't make the cut.

So we moved onto something more practical, but still solid in its meaning. The next name we considered means "Warrior" or "Ruler of the Army", and is less offensive to the ears. The next name Jimmy pitched was Walter. Now, I love classic names. I love solid names. But this name left me a little worried about self-fulfilling prophecy. Again, I immediately fast-forwarded to the future and pictured Pearce in the schoolyard, defending his little brother from incurring additional swirlies and wedgies. Walter was too risky.

The only problem? Pearce loves it... And thinks his brother's name is already Walter. I blame Jimmy for that one. He can be the one to explain.

I am happy to report that we have all but officially declared the little Bean's middle name and if it weren't for the similarity between Pearce's name and this one, we would be sold on it's probability as Bean's first name.

You see, I once went to school with twins named Orlene and Orlena (pronounced Or-leen and Or-leen-ah).  I felt so badly for them because not only did they look alike, but they sounded alike and had to share so many letters of the alphabet in their names. Weren't they entitled to a little individuality? I always tried to be sensitive to them...until the day that Orlena knocked me off the monkey bars at recess. I didn't feel too badly for their name saga after that. Bygones.

Baby Bean's middle name has been unofficially declared as.... (drum roll please).... Price. And we love it. We chose Price for two reasons: 1.) We believe that we were all bought at a price, and 2.) Jimmy and I met at the Price College of Business. Cheesy, I know but we love the meaning behind it. Do you catch my dilemma here?

Price is a fabulous name and totally fits with the genre we have going here. Having said that, I keep thinking back to dear Orlene and Orlena and worry that the kiddos will be scarred for life.  Pearce and Price are just too similar.

I have a valid concern that once Bean is here, we may still be stumped in the name department. In that case, we'll just have to name him something catchy. Like Wheat... Or Oat.... Or Raisin. They go well with the last name Brann, right?

Some People...

Oh my, oh my, oh my. How some people need a wake up call. You will be happy to know that I have made it my personal goal in life to provide the said wake up call whenever I can. Last week I struck gold in the land of "I need a wake up call." In fact, I actually found myself shaking my head in dismay as I replayed the week's events.

This past week I was faced with two frustrating and even mildly upsetting circumstances involving strangers. I am pleased to tell you that I resisted my immediate 'kick you in the shin' urges and kept my cool.

Sort of.

My first incident involved a woman who was quite possibly insane or just plain dumb. Either way I was not amused. I was at Panera bread waiting to meet with an agent over coffee when I noticed this very happy, friendly, individual frolicking around. As I entered the building, she greeted me at the door and even had the courtesy to hold the door open before she insulted me. I was at least thankful for that.

As I entered the building she smiled sweetly and struck up a conversation. It went something like this:

Crazy Lady: Ma'am what are you currently doing to lose weight?

Me: I'm sorry?

Crazy Lady: What are you currently doing to lose weight?

Me: Uh, nothing. I'm 20 weeks pregnant. (imagine a mild fightback of tears, followed by an overwhelming desire to kick her)

Crazy Lady: Well, congratulations! Gurrrlll, you have an excuse then.

And with that, she sauntered off. I imagine she was in the hunt for someone in a wheelchair to start a discussion on how many marathons they've run.

What. The. Heck.

After a tearful phone call to my hubby and some reassurance from him, I swallowed my pride and downed some tea and pastries. That will show her.

As if mankind hadn't abused this pregnant lady enough, another wonderful citizen threw me a curve ball on Saturday afternoon...

My mom and I went to Dillards at Quail Springs Mall...did you know they have expectant mother parking? Well they do. And it is right in front....thank you Jesus.

Anyhow, just as I was about to pull into the spot, another car whips in front of me and parks there.

In my spot...

My expectant mother spot...

The spot with the giant stork and the words "Expectant Mother Parking."

Oh no she didn't.

I waited patiently in my current 'ready to turn into this spot' position as the first gal got out of the car. She couldn't have been older than 17 and was clearly not pregnant. I also noticed that the driver was in her mid 50's or so. My instincts told me she wasn't expecting either.

And what I did next, I did for pregnant women everywhere.

I rolled down my window.

Me: Excuse me? Yes, you...are you by chance pregnant?

Girl: (awkwardly) Ummm, no.

Me: (pointing to the driver of the car) Well, is she?

Girl: (even more awkwardly) No....

Me: Excellent. Well, as you can see this is an "Expectant Mother" parking spot. Seeing as neither of you are pregnant and seeing as I am pregnant, I would actually appreciate the parking spot myself. Thanks.

Girl: (blank stare and some mumbling to the driver) Okay....

And they moved their car.

Four spots down.

Four spots down!!!

They couldn't just do the right thing from the beginning and park a few spots down to begin with? Seriously?

My mother was humiliated and was convinced that a good keying of our car was in our future. I, however, was so proud of myself.

And yes, it was that important to me.

Confessions of a Blog-aholic

I am a bit of a blog-aholic. I creep. I click. I search. And I love. I love to read about the lives of others. I find joy in the shared joys of others and I often experience hurt and sadness as I read about others’ trials. Say what you want, but I think blogs are fantastic.


One of the things I truly enjoy about my blog is that I have found it sort of pulls down the walls I have built up. In the past it has been easy for me to keep my private life from the masses. Don’t get me wrong, if you were to ask me, I would be an open book. But I have never felt 100% confident in sharing some of the tough stuff with everyone. I prefer to be the fun gal, the one who cracks witty jokes and can lighten your mood. Pictures don’t go up on Facebook unless they are cute. My status updates are never sad. And I certainly don’t sign my emails, “Having a rough day…love ya! Brooke.”


No, it is often easier to keep the yucky stuff within close circles. But some things just need to be shared and I cherish the ability to share with others via my blog.


As this pregnancy progresses and the evidence of a baby growing inside me becomes more visible (officially wearing maternity pants! Woohoo!), I find myself conflicted. I am so happy to welcome this little life into our home but I am also worn down, frustrated with my pregnancy experience, and a little concerned about what will happen once the baby is actually here.


When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about having babies. My baby dolls all slept with me, I changed their diapers often, and I was often the nurturing friend to others. As I entered adolescence I took on countless babysitting jobs and even worked as a nanny one summer in high school. Having babies? It was in my blood. And even as we waited for Pearce’s arrival, I was a stellar caregiver. A friend of mine even dubbed me as the “Baby Whisperer” because of my ability to calm her cranky girl down. I was set up for maternal magnificence.


But all that confidence changed when I met sweet Pearce.

I remember when  Jimmy handed him to me after he was born. I was so surprised at how calm I was. Where were the crazy tears? Why wasn’t I smiling from ear to ear? And why was I so content letting others hold him? I looked at his wild hair and puffy lips and waited for the life-changing electric current I assumed every other woman felt when a mother is face to face with her child for the first time. But it didn’t come.

And as the weeks went by, I found that motherhood was so tough. I wasn’t sleeping. I hadn’t showered. I was just lucky to brush my teeth. I was living on coffee and I spent most of my days sitting in a glider nursing. In many ways, I think it was one of the loneliest times in my life. I remember being greeted by happy smiles as people brought meals to our house and loved on our boy. When asked how I was doing, I would smile sweetly and reply, “I’m good … Just tired. Isn’t he precious?” Because I sort of thought if I said it enough, it would be true.


But I wasn’t fine. I was losing my mind.


Don’t get me wrong. I loved that boy more than anything I had ever seen. I did think he was precious. I loved his hair and his lips and his puffy cheeks. I loved how he stretched each time we changed his diaper. I loved that he was our boy…that I could see bits of his daddy in him each time I looked at him. I loved that child with all my heart. I just didn’t like him very much. He needed me all the time and half the time I didn’t know what he needed. So I just kept giving and trying and reading about newborns and nursing and rocking. Why was this so tough?

I couldn’t figure out why nursing was so hard for me and why I had to get out of bed every 2-3 hours to feed this little camel just so he could eat again in two hours. I mean, I never thought I would be jealous of someone’s milk supply or expertness at breastfeeding, but I was so jealous of everyone who already knew what they were doing. I remember sitting at a friend’s house while she pumped and saw that she got eight ounces on each side. Eight! I wanted to slap her.


I remember sitting topless in Pearce’s pediatrician’s office at his one week check up as she squeezed and yanked and poked at me, just trying to help Pearce get a good latch during nursing. I looked up at Jimmy with frustrated tears in my eyes as Jimmy gave me a sympathetic look and a reassuring squeeze of the hand. My body was no longer my own. I was officially being milked like Bessie the Cow. Brookie the Cow. Perfect.


For the first 4-6 weeks of Pearce’s life I cried each time the sun went down because I knew what was coming. For the rest of the world, the sunset meant blessed rest was right around the corner. For me, it meant the loneliness of dark and countless hours in the glider watching Paris Hilton is My New BFF (don’t judge me). Oh, those nights were so tough.


But like my friends told me I would, I quickly grew to like our son and love him more deeply than I thought possible. Simply put, I adored him. I loved the feel of his fuzzy hair on my face. I loved how he looked around at the world with wonder and I will never forget the first time he smiled at me. The mother-child connection was finally there and it was so strong.

And in many ways, this pregnancy has mirrored my emotions those first few weeks of Pearce’s life. I feel as though I am in over my head. While I love this child already, I am not too sure I like the fact that my body is not my own. I throw up everyday and spend the rest of my time gagging. And oh yeah, I have been known to wet my pants while vomiting. It’s my new thing. It’s awesome.


And to add insult to injury? I woke up on Monday with a fever blister…my first ever. My dermatologist asked me if I had been run down or stressed. I fought back tears as I nodded slowly and silently begged him not to ask me anymore pressing questions as I might just open the waterworks and cry all over his exam room floor.


But as I exited his office, an elderly lady opened the waterworks for him.


I had noticed she and her husband kept staring at me while we were in the waiting room. I think they may have been a little unsure about my fever blister and could have simply mistaken it for some sort of skin cancer. I don’t know why there were so fascinated. Anyhow, as I left the doctor’s office my nurse ran after me and said, “Here! Take this sample of viral cream to start using right now. That way you don’t have to rush to get your prescription filled.”


The little old lady, (who was clearly deaf or close to it), turned to her husband and practically yelled, “Ohhhh. She has a virus!”


Yes lady, I do. It’s actually quite painful. Isn’t that wonderful? And while I have your attention, do you happen to have a spare Depends diaper in your handbag? You see, I have been wetting my pants lately too and would appreciate your support on that front as well. Thanks.


Sigh.


There are some days right now that I am barely hanging on by a thread. But then I remember Pearce and our first rough weeks together, and I am hopeful. This will pass, right? Please Lord, let it pass.

Oh Boy, Oh Boy

I am officially out numbered for the foreseeable future.

I mean, I totally understand that I have been the out-numbered gender for 2 1/2 years now, however for quite some time Pearce was really only half a person because frankly, he couldn't talk much and still thought I was the coolest milk provider there ever was. Snuggling was his favorite past time and my ability to make him laugh brought out a sort of "bowl full of jelly" notion in the kiddo. About a year ago, all of that changed. He's a boy now, and boys would much rather run through the house channeling their inner Superman. Tools are the best playmate right now and the only snuggling he wants to do involves wrestling with his daddy.


He is wild and bossy. And I love every minute of it.


Having said that, there was a small part of me that wondered if my Transformers and Trains play dates would soon be softened by the aroma of freshly brewed pretend tea and crumpets. Floppy hats and bunny rabbits would be sitting next to our Hot Wheels. Instead, last week's doc appointment revealed two things: 1.) I am gonna have to figure out a way to rock the whole soccer mom stereotype and 2.) My hubby and I are about to embark on the adventure of one - on- one defense in the realm of raising little boys.


We are pretty excited. Other than the Great Name Debate, we are happy as larks. (More on that in a later post .)


First, let me tell you about our blessed appointment time.


We knew our appointment last week came with the probability that we would see Baby Brann's gender so we sent out invitations to the appointment. Unfortunately, our UPS man was busy. Our dry-cleaner felt we were getting too personal and my favorite checkout lady at Target had to work. Luckily Emily and Jon weren't offended by our invite so they popped in for the great gender reveal, which turned out to be a good thing because someone had to keep my mom from asking too many questions.


There were six of us crammed into the exam room and I think Dr. S may have been a little shocked to be greeted with such gusto. As many family events turn out, it was a bit chaotic at first. After we all shuffled into the room, it took about ten minutes of stepping over one another to get everyone situated.

And then came the common disruption that comes with all girl families:


Emily: Crud. I have to go to the bathroom. Do you think I have time?


Mom: Didn't you just go? You had better hurry. Go on...


Emily: No, I can wait.


Mom: Emily, you don't want to wait! I mean, this could take about 30 minutes or so. What if the baby won't cooperate?


Me: Mom, it won't take 30 minutes to do an ultrasound. Emily, just go on and we will make sure he waits until you are back.


Emily flinging open the exam room door...bumping into someone...


Emily: Oh, hey! Are you coming in here now?


Dr. S: I am, do I need to come back?


Emily: Well, I just need to go to the bathroom. Don't do anything major while I am gone.


Dr S: Why don't I just come back in a few minutes?


Strike. Oh yes doctor, please come back at a more convenient time. We are busy filing our nails and trying on lipstick right now. Give us ten more minutes please.

 Knock on the door and entrance of Dr. S again.


Dr S: Whoa! This is quite a group!

Me: Oh, this is nothing. Just wait until delivery. The paparazzi simply doesn't have boundaries when it comes to me. Ummm, do you wear contacts?


Dr S: No I don't, why?


Me: Well, if you did I just wanted to make sure they were clean. I would hate for a speck on your contact to be mistaken for a baby boy part or something.


Dr S: Does this mean you want a girl?

Me: No! We really don't care. I would just hate to go a month or so thinking that there was a little penis growing inside me, only to find out you were wrong. Ya know, I need to be prepared for such changes.


Dr S: Well, let's take a look. (insert jelly goo on my stomach here) Ah....I already know what it is.


Me: It's a boy, isn't it?! Is there a circumcision in my future?!


Dr S: Well, I am trying to get a better look... yep there it is. Let's just say that if I wore contacts, there would be a speck in my eye.


Insert laughs, cheers, and ahhhhs from my family.


I, however, was panic - stricken. Two boys? I am officially in over my head.


But after a Diet Dr. Pepper and some time with sweet Pearce, I realized that I can totally be the mom of two boys. There is most certainly a minivan in my future, but I can do this.


And there are a few perks as well :

1. I will never hear myself saying, "No, that shirt doesn't make you look fat" to my boys.

2. I won't have to share my shoes. Or my lipstick.

3. I will never take out the trash again.

4. And lastly, I've always felt somewhat masculine...particularly during pregnancy. Now I have an excuse.

The Incompetent Need Not Apply

Of two things I am certain:
1. Unborn children have one job in the first trimester: To keep their mamas from any productivity or life - living.
2. My unborn children choose to carry this job description well into the second trimester.

Mark my words...He or She is grounded immediately upon arrival into this world.

Anyhow, sorry for the lack of posts. Don't be offended by my negelct. You aren't the only ones...in fact, there is a "Brooke has neglected us" club here in Tulsa. Jimmy and Pearce are Co-Presidents. My unbrushed teeth and unwashed hair are Membership Recruiters.

I am trying. Really, I am.

Do you ever feel like you have no idea what you are doing? Do you often wonder, what the heck was I thinking? And as a parent, how bad did that one act of idiocy just screw up my kid?

Those thoughts cross my mind. All. The. Time.

If you are reading this and you can openly admit you are somewhat of a judgemental person, please stop reading immediately. I would prefer our online relationship stay positive and I can assure you that some of my mentionings here are sure to leave even the least judgemental of those readers shaking their heads. And if you're not judgemental, feel free to read on. I have lots to say on this subject.

Like many of you, I am often amazed at how easy it is for Americans to have kiddos. No application necessary. No blood work necessary. No proof of income necessary. Just procreate to your little heart's desire.

 We have to apply and pass a test to get a license to drive. We fill out oodles of paperwork to buy a home. And we even have to have a doctor's prescription to pick up the medication needed to heal our ailments. Yet we can take on the huge responsibility of raising a little life. With no required training.

I am secretly relieved that I didn't have to pass a test to parent. Because I can assure you, this mama would have an empty house. As Jimmy and I navigate parenting, we are often amused at our toddler's ability to totally play us. The kid is an expert negotiator, and an even better lobbyist. We are so proud.

I mean, we shouldn't be too shocked at the little rascal's ability to out-wit his college educated parents. The signs were all there...even from the beginning...

When Jimmy and I were preparing for Pearce's arrival, we did all sorts of research. We found the safest car seats, the most recommended monitors, and even the most orthodontic friendly pacifiers were in our home. We were all set ... Until it came time to make decisions without the knowledge of consumer reports. To prove my point, let me share a little story about an important trip we made to Wal-Mart in order to get Pearce's last minute necessities. We needed to get a few things before our boy arrived and among those, were batteries.

Here is who the battery aisle discussion went:

B: Okay, we need a couple of different batteries. Some for the bouncer and others for the swing. The bouncer requires AA and the swing needs C batteries.


J: What's the difference again?


B: You know, the bouncer can easily move from room to room with us and the swing is the large thing in our living room. All the reviews I read made negative comments about the swing batteries running out quickly so we need lots of those.


J: No, I mean what's the difference between all these packages? Is C4 better than C6? Maybe that has to do with voltage?


B: Ooohhh,  good question. Maybe the number has something to do with the power level? Or maybe we need a certain size of C batteries?


J: Yeah, that makes sense...but here is a package of C8 batteries. Should we get those instead?


B: I don't know babe. I don't want to get some that are too powerful. Could it blow a fuse or something?

(10 minutes and a series of puzzled questions later)

B: Oh no.


J: What happened? Are you hurting?


B: No...it's just...well...babe, we are total idiots. Those numbers? The C4, C6, and C8 are just the number of batteries in the package. The C4 has four batteries, C6 has six, and so on.

J: Are you sure? I... (grabbing battery package for closer study) ... oh no. How much longer until we are parents?

We were quickly slapped with the reality that our inability to read battery packages was scary. But not as scary as the fact that we were going to be responsible for a little life in just weeks.

We were clearly in over our heads.

And I am sad to say that wasn't the last time we embarrassed ourselves in the parenting department. As I have said in previous posts, I am pretty sickly with this little expectant Bean. And for some odd reason, Pearce is fascinated by my "frow up".

Anyhow, last week little Pearce was playing in his playroom and he lugged all of his musical instruments into the kitchen. After setting up his "stage", we began to ask questions.

Me: Pearce, what are you doing sweetheart?

Pearce: Uh, I doin' a music show.

Me: Okay, what are you going to sing?

Pearce: Just a minute. I got to get my guitar. (returns with guitar in tow and starts strumming away)

And what happened next left Jimmy and I with our mouths hanging open as we realized our toddler knew way to much about the facts of life.

Imagine the following to an off-key tune of music....

Pearce: Mommy's sick...she frowin' up....she stays in bed 'cause she is sick....she havin' a babyyyy....Mommy's sickkkkkkkkk....

Jimmy was amused.

I was humiliated.

And of course I immediately began to fight back tears as I imagined little Pearce twenty years from now, in a therapist's office as he tries to remember why he has a complex about sick people. Sigh.

How to Make Your Doctor Question His Profession of Choice ...

One thing you need to know about me is that I was born with a big heart ... and an even bigger mouth. Unfortunately, this is a common casualty of us Watkins gals, however I seem to have been hit the hardest with this blessing/curse. I mean, it is only natural that we be this way... our parents are exactly the same.

For example, my mom was at Sam's Club one day and the door greeter was in a wheelchair and had two patriotically painted, wooden legs. Rather than smile and walk on, she felt compelled to squeal with glee as she exclaimed, "I love your legs!! Where did you get those?! I'm serious. Those are really awesome!" Upon hearing the story from my dad, us girls were mortified and promptly told my mother that wooden legs are much like gold teeth. You can admire them, just don't talk about them.

And don't get me started on my dad's incessant need to tell unsuspecting strangers all about his many surgeries. He loves to compare surgery stories with passersby and us girls are often found sinking under the table as we listen to the banter that is sure to follow. But my dad loves people and they certainly love him. As a previous college football player, he has more stitches than a quilt so I suppose he can brag if he'd like.

I am reminded about my big mouth often. Many happenings in the Brann household are followed by a simple request from my hubby: "Brooke, please don't blog about this or post it on Facebook." Of course I am shocked by such accusations, so I sweetly reply, "I would never." My assertions of innocence are often followed by Jimmy's raised eyebrows and a simple shake of his head. He knows me so well. Anyways.

I often run into my "big mouth awareness" at my doctor's appointments. I am starting to wonder if they dread my appointment times and I wouldn't be surprised if there is a picture of me in the break room that reads ,"Do Not Get Stuck Talking to This Patient." And for the record, I am convinced that it has to be almost impossible for our doctors to remember us each visit. They see hundreds of patients each week and their smart heads are already crammed full of information about human anatomy, viruses, prescriptions, etc. They can't possibly keep everything sorted out. I mean, I have trouble keeping track of the Lord of the Rings characters. So I am certain that I have to leave some sort of impression so they will know who I am when I call with my pressing questions.

Our 6 week appointment left Jimmy blushing and me beaming ... with pride. I think I actually made our new doctor a bit uncomfortable.  Our current OB is still fairly new to us so we are still in the honeymoon phase. I think he's great. He thinks I'm great. Life is good. I think it's important to really 'know' those who are responsible for helping bring your expectant child into the world so I have been asking lots of questions. Here's how the appointment went:

Me: Doctor S, do you have kids?

Dr.: I do...I have six.

Me: Six?! My goodness, you must love your life!

Dr.: I do love my life, you're being serious, right? ... Why do you ask? (insert rubber glove snap here.)

Me: Oh I don't know. I figure if I am going to have another kid it's important to have a doctor that either knows how to get themselves pregnant or knows how to get their women pregnant. Sounds like you have mastered that skill.

Insert Jimmy's covered face and shaking head here - I really should've stopped rambling at this point but I didn't. I kept talking.

Me: ...Besides, I don't really trust people who don't like kids. And seeing as you have six, I am assuming you like them. And since you like kids, I am assuming you can be trusted. Which is good because I figure if you are going to have your head, hands, and utensils in my unmentionable areas, I need to trust you.

Imagine Jimmy's deep sigh here. I had gone too far. He knew it. And I knew it.

Dr.: This is going to be a fun nine months, isn't it?

You have no idea, Dr. S. No idea.

I am sad to say that our next appointment got even more awkward. And I haven't entirely figured out if Dr. S. finds my big mouth endearing or just plain creepy.

The appointment started out just fine. They weighed me first, which is always a traumatic experience...pregnant or not pregnant. I tried leaning a bit to trick the scale into a lower weight but it didn't work, so I simply closed my eyes.

As I sulked past the nurse's station, Dr S. hollered, " How are you today?" I gave him my overused, sarcastic reply of, "Oh you know...livin' the dream." And then I did the weirdest thing to ever be done in a doctor's office. I saluted the man.

I really cannot explain why I felt compelled to show such a level of patriotism, but I did. And it couldn't be undone.

Strike One.

And with that, I plopped down on the table. After dropping trough and covering up with the generous white sheet on the table, I begin to scan the champagne colored walls. I immediately began to wonder who decorates these offices. I suppose the meetings consist of banter around which colors exude fertility and hope...what shapes won't make an overly nauseous pregnant lady hurl, and which waiting room chairs will be wide enough for the most pregnant of pregnant patients.

 I want in on those meetings.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the grand entrance of Dr. S and his nurse. We chatted a bit and then came the loaded question of, "How are you feeling? Any problems?"

Oh, doctor. You have opened the gate.

Me: Frankly, I am miserable. I am sick all the time and that Zofran just isn't working. I suppose I should be grateful but I am secretly feeling horrible. Any thoughts?

Dr.: Well, sick is good.

Me: Yes, I know. I just worry this baby will come out the shape of a saltine cracker. I mean, I eat mostly waffles, applesauce, and graham crackers. Is that a problem?

Dr.: (Glances at my chart) Well, you're gaining weight. That's good. Of course, it could be because you are eating so many carbs.

Me: Yes, thanks for pointing that out.

Dr.: Well, you should try to get a variety of healthy foods when you can. Besides, you need lots of fiber right now. Your digestive track slows down during pregnancy so fiber and fluids are important.

Me: While I understand this need for fiber, I don't want to be "that girl" on the elevator. Besides, my food hasn't been staying put long enough to digest. Can't I just have a beer?

Strike Two.

Dr.: A beer?

Me: Oh don't worry. I am not an alcoholic. I just love the smell of beer right now. I am tempted to take a sip of Jimmy's sometimes but I wanted your permission first. Again, most of my food isn't digesting anyways.

Dr.: I'd rather you didn't. As your friend, I would say take a sip. As your doctor, I would rather you didn't.

Me: Fine. You're the doc. No beer. How do you feel about pregnant ladies who eat ice cream for dinner? (wink, wink)

Strike Three.

I mean, I am no body language expert but one would assume that his blank stare indicated he wasn't amused. He might have actually been a bit concerned.

I can't be certain but I have a sneaking suspicion that Dr. S will be unavoidably detained during this baby's delivery.

Channeling my inner frat guy...

I have to be honest here. I have a new alter-ego and I am not sure I like him too much. Moving forward, I will affectionately refer to the said alter ego as Frank. Frank the Frat Guy to be exact.


Let me preface this post with a little history on my many alter-egos. I have three, err four (sorry Frank)…but I suspect I will continue to adopt more as my life goes on.


Every year in the fall I come down with some sort of a head cold. But not just any cold, these are usually some sort of cold on steroids…the kind of cold that doesn’t just linger but brings its own sleeping bag and rubs your shoulders and watches Modern Family with you as it invades your otherwise healthy home. The dreaded cold comes complete with post nasal drip, cough attacks that never cease to hit while I am sleeping, and a raw throat.

Enter alter-ego # 1: Kathleen Turner.

Kathleen was discovered and named by my adoring husband. He began to notice that as my cold worsened, my voice got deeper than his. Naturally, he was a bit threatened so I presume he felt it was necessary to bring me back to reality. So he named me Kathleen. And for the record, we are not talking about the Kathleen Turner role in Romancing the Stone (though she was a bit masculine then). We are referring to the Kathleen Turner role from Friends, when Chandler’s cross-dressing dad appears. Yes, my sweet husband affectionately compares me to a cross-dressing man in the midst of my head cold anguish. Can’t you just feel the love? We know that every fall Kathleen has her plane ticket purchased, her bags packed, and is just bursting with excitement as she awaits the perfect time to crash the Brann household. She usually shows up at some perfect time with the plans to sabotage my pumpkin patch weekend. We love her. Let me just tell you.

But Kathleen is not the only other woman to be in our home. No, we also have a Princess … also courtesy of my hubby. Our Princess usually appears when I am lacking a sense of, shall I say, delicacy?

Enter alter ego # 2: Princess Fiona…from Shrek.

The ogre Princess Fiona, not the pretty, singing redhead. While I am certain my hubby loves this princess, I know he is sometimes taken aback by her actions. You see, Princess Fiona is not always mindful of her manners. She thinks it is quite appropriate to burp louder than her husband and is completely at home with a cold beer and cheese dip. Princess Fiona also has sisters who laugh hysterically at bathroom humor and often leave their spouses shaking their heads in dismay. Bet you didn’t know Princess Fiona had sisters, did ya? Well she does…their names are Heth and Pemily.  Anyways.  Princess Fiona often appears when I am tired, or too comfortable in a crowd, or just plain bored. Because sometimes I need to shake things up.


My third alter-ego is perhaps the most beneficial to have around. She loves to clean and often does it in a panic-stricken sort of way. Disinfecting the sink is a joyful occasion for this lady and I must say that I personally enjoy her appearances.

Enter alter ego # 3: Monica Gellar.

Monica has control issues. She isn’t very good at sitting and chatting after dinner because she is too busy imagining how to get marinara sauce off her son’s clothes. The dishes can never wait to be cleaned because that would just get in the way of folding laundry. She often clears her guest’s dinner plates off the table too soon and has been known to swipe the fork from an unsuspecting diner while they are mid-bite. Sorry ‘bout that. And she talks really, really loud. We know Monica has gone too far when Jimmy drops a subtle hint of, “Monicaaaaaaa. What are you doing?” It is at that moment I usually realize that Monica is no longer welcome and is sort making our guests uncomfortable.


The newest addition to my personality is even less appealing than Fiona…even more controlling than Monica, and a bit more masculine than Kathleen.

Enter alter ego # 4: Frank the Frat Guy.

Frank came to town when I got pregnant and I am certain that he is convinced it is his duty to keep me in the college life until this baby arrives. Frank doesn’t glow…he sweats…particularly at night. The thought of brushing his teeth upsets him emotionally and the concept of fresh veggies makes his stomach turn. He prefers the nourishment of dishes like ramen noodles and mac n cheese. He is soooo healthy. Frank doesn’t do much…he simply likes to sleep. A lot. He spends most of his weekends sitting in bed watching mind-numbing junk on TV and thinks it is totally appropriate to go out in public without showering, while donning only a baseball cap and the previous night’s pajamas. Yes, Frank is quite the charmer. He also has a very weak stomach (chalk that up to last night’s hall party) and has been known to gag at the sight of grilled cheese sandwiches. And like any frat-guy, Frank is really good at throwing up. In fact, it’s his new favorite pastime. We love Frank.


As this pregnancy progresses and my mind, body, and soul are changed thanks to the little human growing inside me, I am certain there will be newer alter egos to channel. Because let’s face it, I am not the most gracious of pregnant ladies. Much like my friend Frank, I don’t glow. I sweat. I don’t welcome the new, curvier me. I get stretch marks and a big butt. And I don’t really “nest”, I simply shop til I drop and hope I picked up a thing or two that will suit the new kiddo.


I suppose we can’t get much worse than Kathleen … or Fiona … or Monica … and certainly not Frank. But in the event that I do get larger, louder, and lazier I suppose I could name that alter ego something fitting. Like Roseanne Barr. (insert obnoxious laugh here).

Conversation Hearts...

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and I secretly love this time of year. Trips to Target and Hobby Lobby are laced with pink placemats and bubbly picture frames. Heart shaped dishes and red and pink dishtowels brighten our kitchen. Candy Conversation Hearts fill candy dishes with the sweet sentiments I often think about my boys, but could never tell them enough.

If I could, I would pack a “Miss You” candy heart in Jimmy’s lunch everyday … because I miss him terribly when we are apart. My heart is at peace when I hear the garage door open and I smile inside when I hear the sweetest words, “Hey guys, I’m home!” Jimmy is home to me and I cherish the quiet strength he brings to our family.


For that matter, Pearce needs a daily “Miss You” heart too. I miss this kiddo when he sleeps, I miss him when I take him to Miss Sheron’s, and I miss him when he is busy playing in the other room. His presence is life in our home and his laughter is the song that we want to keep on repeat.

Pearce also needs a “Sweet Pea” candy heart for every minute of everyday. Because that’s what he is: a sweetpea. He is the cutest pie in all the cutie pies of the world. His cheeks rock the “Chubby Bunny” look and his eyelashes ought to be featured on Maybelline commercials. I love to hear him sing and strum his guitar as he rambles jumbled lyrics and shakes his money maker.

And I would give Jimmy and Pearce both a “Me and You” message for each time I see the duo together. They are quite the pair. I love that Pearce shadows Jimmy’s every move…how I can often find Pearce’s shoes parked next to Jimmy’s in the closet. I love that Pearce wears his play glasses while Jimmy wears his real ones. And I adore how patient Jimmy is when he is trying to repair something as Pearce insists on helping daddy “fix sumthin” too. Jimmy often situates things just right so that Pearce can add the final touch and beam with pride at his handy-ness.

 

And lastly, I would share a “Smile” message with the rest of the world ...

 because that is exactly what I was doing when we saw this last week…

A strong heartbeat for our Baby Bean, due in September.

We are excited, and hopeful. While it is early, we wanted to share with you to ask for continued prayer over the growth and development of Baby Brann. Many of you have offered love and encouragement these past months and for that, we are so grateful.

I find it completely fitting that we announce this today, January 25th, otherwise known as our 2nd Baby Brann's due date. While Jimmy and I are saddened by our previous losses, we are so grateful for our gain.

 

"The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;

may the name of the LORD be praised.”

Job 1:21

How honest is too honest?

Here's the deal: I have always been pretty good about telling others what I think. I don't hold my tongue. I say things that are often followed by blank stares. And I have been known to lay in bed at night and panic as I replay all the potentially insensitive comments that I threw out during social gatherings. Jimmy swears I verbally vomit for shock factor.

But the truth? I simply have no filter.

For example, last week we were at dinner with our sweet small group friends and I started to get really sick. The stomach bug had been running rampant around Tulsa and I was the next victim. Rather than leave quietly and explain later, I promptly walked out of the bathroom and stated, "Here's the deal: I just had explosive diarrhea and I think we need to leave." I was comforted by a few sympathetic smiles, a couple of chuckles, and one blessed "Hey! We're among friends here!"

And here I am blogging about it. On the world wide web. Again, I have no filter.

I am sad to say that this need to express what is pressing on my mind has carried over to my parenting. Jimmy and I always try to be honest with Pearce. I mean, I have certainly been tempted to tell him that if he tinkles in the bathtub a crocodile might get him, but someday he will actually tinkle in the tub and learn that my crocodile threats are much like the ice cream carton after a long day: empty.

So we try to be honest. For example, we use the real words for private parts when talking with Pearce. (Gasp!) I just feel odd using kid-friendly words with Pearce when discussing his anatomy. I figure he needs to hear it from Jimmy and I rather than some preteen book on adolescence. I even tried once to tell Pearce how he got his bellybutton. But would you believe the poor kid glazed over when I started using words like "placenta" and "umbilical cord"? Too much too soon, Mom.

Pearce likes to drink his bathwater and I am forever trying to remind him of the day's previous poopy diapers so he too, will grossed out about the concept of drinking dingy bathwater. I use words like germs, dirt, poop, and yucky to scare him into bathwater abandonment. He has also been chewing on those crazy Zany Bands lately and I am constantly telling him not to put them in his mouth because he could choke and die. Because he could choke and I am not sure I remember all the steps to saving a choking victim. Again, he needs to know.

But there are some things poor Pearce doesn't need to know and I have been known to share too much with the kiddo. This was the reality that slapped me smack in the face today. Like most two year olds, Pearce is quite dramatic. And he loves fruit snacks. So everyday we have the same discussion.

Pearce: "Mommy, I want some fruit snacks."
Me: "No Pearce, you can't have fruit snacks for breakfast. You can have some after your nap."
Pearce: "But I want sommmmmmeeeee." (picture a tot dropping his toosh to the floor)
Me: "Well sweetie, we don't always get what we want."
Pearce: "But I want some, puhleasssseeee."
Me: "Well, Mommy would like a lift and lipo-suction but it's not happening so we have to accept it."

Silence. And it always settles the conversation.

Until today.

Today started out like another other day. Pearce wanted fruit snacks before his nap. And for the record, let me just tell you that this kiddo has never had fruit snacks at breakfast. He is sort of an Olympian. He eats things like eggs, berries, and yogurt for breakfast. And he loves toast. So the news that fruit snacks are a "pre-nap no-no" should not be shocking for the little negotiator.

Anyways, we started our usual dialogue of "What Pearce Wants" after lunch today.  The conversation went something like this:

Pearce: "Mommy, I want some fruit snacks."
Me: "No Pearce, we don't eat fruit snacks before our nap. You can have some after your nap."
Pearce: "But I want some fruit snacks before my nap."
Me: "Well sweetie, you know what I want?"
Pearce and his wide eyes: "Bipo -sucton?"

I was shocked. Stunned. Amused. Inspired.

I should have been intentional.

"Yes dear, now that I know you are listening, take notes and tell Daddy. I do want lipo suction. And a minivan. And a vacation. And a massage every day. And a live-in cook. And an unlimited clothing budget. And world peace."

"Don't forget to tell daddy!"

... If only it were that easy.

To be a kid again...

Do you ever wish you were a kid again? … The time in life when nothing else mattered except what mattered to you?

Stereotypes didn’t exist. Elation and joy were defined by running around the house in the buff. Fruit Snacks were a completely appropriate option for breakfast. Your mom and dad were hilarious. And working outdoors was fun, because that’s what grownups did.

I miss being a kid.

While I have found my adult life to be wonderfully rewarding, there are times I wish I could go back in time and just be a kid. Not younger. Not smaller. Just childish. You know, the time in life when you are expected to act like an emotional, erratic, control freak.

Like this one time I was headed to the checkout lane at Target and this crank of an old lady totally cut me off in line. She knew it. I knew it. It took all I had not to stomp my feet and throw my Yoplait yogurts to the ground as I shouted, “She just cut me in line. Mr. Checkout Guy! Did you see that? She cut me!”

Or the time that I tried to return a large frame to Hobby Lobby because the glass broke when I tried to put the backing in. The store manager asked me if I was sure I hadn’t done something to break it. I insisted that I hadn’t, so he went and got another one of the same frames to test it out. And you know what? The glass broke for him too. Again, I wanted to channel my inner two year old and stick my thumbs in my ears and shake my hiney as I sang, “Nanny nanny boo boo, I told youuuuuuu.”

But that would be totally inappropriate, wouldn’t it? I mean, what sort of an adult has a meltdown mid shopping? Not me. I would never.

Moving on…

Since being a kid again is not an option, I suppose I will enjoy one of the obvious blessings of adulthood: A kiddo of my own. I sometimes live my life vicariously through Pearce and I must say, it is a wonderful life. His orneriness is still cute. He doesn’t have to get up and do his hair in the morning…in fact, his bed head is quite glorious. His pot belly is precious, not a recipe for diabetes. His temper tantrums in public are met with the sympathetic stares of strangers as they try to analyze what I must have done to him to cause such an uproar. And frankly, I love his ability to throw caution to the wind.

One time when I really wish I was a kid again, is at Christmas. I have always loved Christmastime. I am often guilty of enjoying Christmas music in June. And again in October. And finally in December.

As I mentioned in previous posts, I am a bit of an idealist so you can imagine the wild thoughts that run through my head as the picture perfect season of Christmas rolls around. I shop early. My gifts are usually perfectly packaged weeks before Christmas. I daydream about baking homemade fudge and wrapping it in candy cane cellophane, tied up with a red ribbon. I imagine a round of Christmas carols with the family, all gathered around the old family piano. I scour my cookbooks and magazines for unique spins on Christmas dinner classics: the kinds of recipes that cause one to say, “This is how my aunt Brooke makes it. She always adds her own touch.” Dishes such as Roasted Garlic and Sausage Stuffing, and Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Grapes are recent discoveries I have come to love. And I always love my Christmas tree…one that exudes a sense of “welcome home” to all who enter.

Yes, these are the Christmas expectations I truly enjoy. But not Mr. Pearce.

No, his ideal Christmas consists of candycanes and hot chocolate. Glimpses of inflatable Santas leave him baffled as he wonders why Santa is outside. Christmas lights equal glee. And Christmas presents are synonymous with the old adage “the sky’s the limit”.

For example, Pearce could’ve had it all this Christmas. First of all, his daddy is a total sucker and wants Pearce to experience all things wonderful in the world. Second, his mother happens to have a black belt in shopping and gets an unhealthy high from finding the perfect gift for someone else. Pearce was poised for present perfection. He should have been raking in the big gifts: A real pony. A circus. A Porsche four-wheeler. But no, Pearce knew what he wanted this year and that was all that mattered to him.

Ahem, Pearce wanted a car. Okay, a Barbie car to be exact. And a Barbie to go with it.

He didn’t care that Barbies are ‘girl toys’. He wasn’t aware of the fact that I am totally putting this in his baby book. And he certainly didn’t know that pink cars are reserved for Mary Kay superstars. Nope. Pearce simply wanted a Barbie and a car she could drive in.

Christmas Eve I started to feel guilty that we did not get the one gift sweet Pearce really wanted. So like any other black belt shopper would have, I braved Toys R Us early Christmas Eve. We compromised and found the Playskool Loving Family and minivan for him. Jimmy felt this was more gender appropriate since there was at least a dad doll and they all stayed fully clothed at all times. The problem? Well, Toys R Us was a little picked over and only had one African American dad and daughter set left. After leaving Toys R Us with only the minivan in hand, I high-tailed it to Target. Would you believe I found the last mom and baby and dad and daughter set? It was meant to be...

Having said that, our neighbor felt so badly that we mean parents weren’t getting Pearce his exact beloved Barbie that he took matters into his own hands. On Christmas morning we found a mystery package for Pearce. One crackle of the plastic and I knew we had a Barbie on our hands.

She is a brunette and he named her Mommy.

You will be happy to know that the first thing Pearce did once she was out of the box was slam her down to the ground and holler “Touchdown!”

I feel so loved.

New Year…New Me?

Okay, let me preface this with the statement that I am not a goal-hater … I just get nervous this time of year. I don’t like failure anymore than the next guy and in my opinion, each new year just offers up another opportunity to set some unattainable, yet wishful goal that I will get bored with, fail at, forget, etc., etc.


At dinner the other night, Jimmy asked me if I had any sort of resolution for 2011. I paused, looked him straight in the eye and said, “Well I would like to lose the rest of my baby weight but I would love to have another child….seems counter intuitive to me.” And with that, my potential New Year’s Resolution went right down the kitchen sink, along with our 3 day old veggie stew.


I mean, I would like to say that I have held on to at least one of my previous New Year’s resolutions but I don’t think I can. Hummmm…Nope. Not one stinkin’ resolution has been carried heroically to the next year.


I get distracted. I get bored. I get hungry. I get complacent. And frankly, I get real with myself. So this year, I am going to set a New Year’s Resolution I am sure to carry forward: I resolve to be real.

And like many of you reading this, I am not sure what ‘real’ looks like for me. Because sometimes I am north and other times I am south. Every now and again, I prefer 2% over skim milk. I teeter totter between Act II popcorn and Smart Balance popcorn. I will go weeks while wearing only my pearl stud earrings, only to switch to a week long marathon of flashy diamonds.

For example, every few months I pick up the horrible bad habit of biting my nails. You can count on the fact that every now and again, my cuticles will be freshly chewed. My nails will be perfectly bitten to the quick and my hands will hold an uncanny resemblance to those of a middle school quarterback. Having said that, there are those months when my hands look fresh. My nails are perfectly manicured in a Whitney Port sort of fashion. They are pretty. Delicate, even.

And these are the quirks that make me, Me. Surely you know what I am talking about here. Can I get an “amen?!”

Like most of you moms and wives, I am desperate to keep a clean house. Having said that, my kitchen desk is littered with the following: random junk mail, expired coupons, a broken picture frame, a stray red crayon, and some pictures Pearce colored that I have yet to put in his 2 year box.


Why then, do I spend 5 minutes a day fluffing pillows that are only going to be flattened by the next butt to sit on them rather than taking 10 minutes clean off my kitchen desk?

 How do I find time every week to vacuum, yet my wooden floors haven’t been cleaned in months?

And how is it that I religiously take Pearce to Mr. Will for a haircut every month, while I use Jimmy’s grooming scissors to unevenly trim my bangs in between my six month haircuts?


Why do I feel compelled to take a 30 minute shower in order to scrub the shower tiles, only to realize that I haven’t bothered to shave my legs in over a week?
 

Because I am a mom. And that is what moms do.

I can hear Pearce crying from a mile away. I still stumble in high heels and try desperately to tuck in my “post baby muffin top” on date nights with Jimmy. My closet is still packed with my pre-pregnancy jeans…just in case. My red lipstick is often uneven and I have been known to leave the house in mismatched shoes. Most days you can find some sort of “keep your kid’s nose clean” remnants on my otherwise clean shirt sleeve. This Christmas I bought everything we needed to make Jesus a birthday cake…but I forgot to make it. The pumpkin pie worked just as well.

And I am still puzzled by my ability to go to Target for eggs and milk, only to return with $100 worth of groceries. But no eggs and no milk.

And my purse. Ooohhhh, my poor purse. I have it all in there: a James Avery charm I have been meaning to mail a friend, one of those snot suckers for babies, receipts that date back to the Civil War, four tubes of chapstick ( I am addicted), and two empty raisins boxes are just a few of the items you can find in my bag. In fact, I weighed myself at the OKC Science Museum as part of a “what would you weigh on the moon?” exhibit. I was stunned to realize I had gained 8 pounds since Thanksgiving. Then I noticed my purse across my chest and those 8 pounds miraculously disappeared.

And you know what? I am okay with all of this. Because this is Me…real, scattered, hoarding, forgetful Me.

Maybe I can’t fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans. It’s okay, because jeans come in bigger sizes.

I may stumble in my high heels, but I wear flats most of the time so why should I be an expert?

And my lipstick? Let’s just chalk that one up to the grubby two-year old hands that often touch my face.


And I may forget some of the essentials at the grocery store…but I can make one heck of a grilled cheese sandwich and somehow couple it with avocado and blueberries to cover some much needed nutrients.

Here’s to keeping it real in 2011.