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.