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.