For Alan.

Alan. I find myself wishing for something I know is impossible. Something I never thought could be an impossible thing. I keep finding this thought circling the track of my mind: I wish you were here. 

I wish you were here when I drive home and pass Glendale Avenue and 7th Street. Facetiming you became a ritual after working out. I want to share my day with you and ask you what you're doing. I want to hear about the new idea for a business or the funny thing Critter did at work. I wish you were here.

I wish you were here when I've had a bad day. More than once I've reached for my phone to call you and get your advice, only to stare at it in isolated agony. I once told you that I was so exhausted and stressed from being a single mom. Your response was, "You're strong enough to handle this." 

"But I don't want to have to be anymore." 

"I know," you said. 

I find myself wishing to hear your words and wisdom full of absolutes. Your mind had a way to make every single detail work towards your plans and dreams. You found ways to turn my doubts into drives and quell my always-present fears. I wish you were here.

I wish you were here when I think of Asher's birthdays. A few months before you left I thought it would be neat to take a photo of you holding Asher until he got too big to hold anymore. Alan and Asher Alan chumming it up until Asher grew into a man who could carry his godfather. Your thoughtfulness always showed in the random gift you'd bring that somehow turned into something we didn't know we needed. Getting to watch you mingle with my family in your goofy way with your magnetic energy always made me smile. I wish you were here. 

I wish you were here when I think of your laugh. The one that would make your eyes water and the only sound that could escape your mouth was a gasping-for-air squeak. That hunched-over-in-spasms kind of laugh.  I wish you were here.

I wish you were here when I see the Wall Street Journal. You loved that damn newspaper. You wanted to know what was happening everywhere and how it was all connected. As you cultivated knowledge I knew you felt better-connected to the world and the plight of your fellow man---celebrating in their successes and learning from their missteps. You rolled your eyes every time I showed disinterest in the next article you wanted me to listen to. You still read it to me anyways. You shared what you enjoyed and found a way to make it exciting for me. I wish you were here. 

I wish you were here when my mind forgets you're gone and I wonder what you're up to. I seem to always picture you sitting on your patio drinking coffee and turning the pages of a book or newspaper. The sun is always setting with the light on your face... And then my mind resets and I realize that you aren't here to do that anymore. 

Oh, how I wish you were here.

welcome to dating world hell, my friends

Being a single mom and dating in this day and age has probably been one of the most time-consuming, exhausting, repetitive and emotionally taxing tasks I've ever participated in. So for those of you rolling your eyes saying I should focus my efforts elsewhere instead of dating (mom)--I'm one step ahead of you. I'm done with looking. 

Let me tell you a few experiences of mine that I will boil down to generalities to save the face of some of the shameless men out there....we will begin with what I consider my initiation into the dating field.

So there was this handsome beast of a man that swept me off my feet in the digital dating scene in a matter of a week. That's a lifetime in online dating, people. A lifetime. After a coffee date with this handsome half Brazilian half Italian 6'2" wonder, I felt we had officially screened each other. Tall dark and handsome like my coffee. And I knew right out the gate that this man was not looking for what I was...but I'm also up for a challenge to redirect someone's moral compass so there I was--saving his day. 

At his suggestion, we opted for a Friday night of takeout followed by---as he put it---Netflix and chill. Netflix?! Love it. Chilling?! Right up my alley. Combine the two with food?! This man had my heart already... Little did I know what "Netflix and chill" actually meant until it was a little too late. 

After getting our dinner from Chipotle we moseyed our way back home and found some Netflix to watch while we ate. Not five minutes after dinner was over he casually mentions, "It's hot, can I take my pants off?" As a really tall bullshit flag (about 6'2") flipped in my mind, I told him no--that it'd be in his best interest to keep those bad boys on. 

We continued our evening with a movie and some beer, and I found the need to pee. Exciting right?

As I exited the bathroom, I find a entirely naked man sitting on the couch making uninterrupted eye contact with me. I dropped a flurry of F bombs and asking him who the hell he thought I was while also declaring that the night had now officially ended. A half-assed apology was offered and I found myself shell-shocked that anyone would actually fall for that plan. Seriously. What woman was like, "yeah--I'm okay with this!" The answer should be NONE, ladies. 

After my initiation I decided that being off the market for 6 years had made me very naive. The next term that all the kids know and love is "ghosting". This happened to me next. 

Venturing into what I felt was a more logical decision for a potential dude, I started talking with a 33 year old single father of one. He was dreamy to a level of WOW. We both hit it off and it seemed every aspect of our lives somehow connected. We had a ton in common and he was really quite pleasant to talk to. We talked via text for over two weeks absolutely nonstop and damn--I really liked this man! Until he seemingly developed a horrible case of ADD and we went from constantly talking to practically nothing in a matter of 48 hours. I found him online on Facebook but his fingers were somehow too damaged to respond to a "are you okay?" text. He ghosted me. Which burned like hell but hey--I'm resilient and decided he just wasn't good enough. Which I repeatedly reminded myself over the next few days of discomfort. 

Then came a dude that I had a really good first date and things progressed to a level that I was seriously considering him for the long term grind. But as luck would have it--this guy simply wasn't for me and I found myself at a loss for words over the whirlwind of emotions a short month of dating left me in. Did I mention the emotional exhaustion? No? 

I again found myself back at the digital grind of finding someone whose pictures didn't have nipples, neck tattoos, or pictures at the gym. It's a tough world out there ladies! 

After talking to a hoard of lawyers, business owners, pilots, ex military, MMA fighters and firemen, I found myself with one date under my belt (great guy just no interest), more texting conversations than I could keep up with, being stood up once (you're a douche, Jason....or Jerry?), and more offers of "Netflix and chill" than I ever thought possible. Ghosting on both ends happened as well... Sorry dudes. 

After committing to the grind and being genuine as hell I walk away from this headache of a time knowing two things for sure: time with my girlfriends is a helluva lot more enjoyable and men online are looking for the next best thing, always. 

I think I'll stick to keeping to myself for a while as well as filling my free time with things other than responding to 8 million horny pen pals. Ain't nobody got time for that. 

Taking Control

This year has had trials and tribulations more than I would have preferred quite honestly. I mean, I guess I can appreciate the last few years being the "bandaid" of my life. Fist bump to the higher power. But I would have liked things to be spread out a little bit more. Just a little. In all the flurry of life throwing wrenches at my face (picture the movie Dodgeball and you've essentially got it), I let myself go. GASP. Being in a wheelchair for a hot minute and scared about walking or any physical activity can put a genuine damper on your calorie intake-to-burn ratio. And eating crap doesn't help either. Go fricken figure, man. 
After having Asher I had aggressively invited hoards of pounds to jump on my body like I was a life boat. Keeping my little friends safe of course! But they became not so little after a while. In high school I was averaging around 150 lbs. Like every high school female---I thought I was fat. What I wouldn't DO to hit that number again (I'm doing it, by the way). So I saw the scale drop from 215 before having Asher to 190. I saw it drop to about 183 while breastfeeding and loved it---then it shot back up to 190 once I stopped. 
I am definitely not a person that fat shames anyone. Do I think taking care of yourself is the better option? Of course. But I would have been fine with 190 had I not felt like utter shit. My joints hurt, I was lethargic, I hated anything that I wore and how I looked. I was a hot mess. A hot, large, uncomfortable mess my friends. Something happened in my brain and a switch literally flipped. I saw people getting fit and healthy all around me (notice how I didn't mention thin) and I wanted that. I needed that. I decided to do it.
In the adventure of trying to figure out my stupid medical issues I let my doctors throw whatever meds my way and became a lab rat. After the fifth nerve pain medication, I was prescribed narcotics and pain patches to help me. I am 26. This is not how my life should be. So I kicked that shit to the wind and decided to take control naturally.  
So now that I was feeling better, eating better became the next step. I strictly focused on calorie intake and ate whatever the hell I wanted. Pizza? That was a nice one-meal day. Chocolate? Enjoy the rest of the day eating cucumbers. I ate horribly but I simply stayed under my calorie count---and the weight decreased. Then I introduced actually eating better for my body and immune system. I cut my calories again. And again. It sounds drastic, but being a person whose physical activity was limited by pain, I had no other option. After 8 months, I hit my first goal of 25 pounds lost. A month later, another 10. I was KILLING it folks. And I still am.
You want to know the difference from my life a year ago to today? EVERYTHING. I am outside with my boys almost 5 days a week now. I take them to the park and play harder than I have in a long time. My legs are covered in bruises from acting like a 26 year old child on the jungle gym. And I even started hiking again. I missed the hell out of being outside and active. I never want to go back. Ever.
What advice can I offer those struggling with their weight/health/happiness? CHANGE. Absolutely nothing will happen if you do absolutely nothing. Make little changes and turn them into big ones. Stay focused. Don't let doubt or worry defeat you. If you need to change... do it. It will be the best thing you've ever done. 

Singledom

As some of you know (and many of you don’t), Benjamin and I recently decided that our relationship together had come to an end. There’s a whole slew of cliches that ran through my mind to open this post with... but the raw deal of my life right now is this: I am happy. Does happy mean that my life isn’t full of stress, anxiety, fears, or exhaustion? No. All of that. Almost every single day. But as I walk through this life on the new road I’m on---I can say one thing with true and honest intent in every breath of the phrase… I. Am. Happier. And because of this I am a better mother and person overall.

Benjamin and I decided that it would be best for the integrity of our family unit and sanity of our minds that we relinquish the title of “couple” and put our focus back on being better parents. In the chaos of our lives and the stress that began to eat away at our hearts we found ourselves at odds with one another. We found ourselves bringing out the worst in the other. We found ourselves destroying each other. What’s worse---we were going through this whole process under the watchful eyes of our little Leo. It shames me to say that more than once Benjamin and I got into it in front of our children. I NEVER thought I would be the type. I NEVER thought that I would allow petty discussions that could have been handled elsewhere play out in front of our kids. I was a bad mother. We were bad parents. We made the right decision in our minds and that’s all that matters.

Did we come to this decision lightheartedly? Of course not. Benjamin and I almost called it quits more than a handful of times. We went through 8 months of couples counseling and various other “exercises” to get us through the ditch we found our relationship in. They were all band aids on a wound that needed stitches.

I am not treading this unexplored territory with naivete. I know there are hardships to come. I know that Benjamin and I will find ourselves at odds with each other at some point. I know that communications will falter, dates will be mixed up and times will get pushed up or back at the chagrin of the other. I know that there is a huge potential for hard and hurt feelings and I am trying to prepare myself for these hurdles. I am not stupid. We are not bad people for not having the “picture perfect” family. We are not lazy and we did not “give in” easily. We made the best decision for the mental well-being of our children and ourselves. Quite honestly, that is where my new-found happiness finds it’s fire. Benjamin and I consciously made the hard decision to ensure we could raise our boys with the most love we possibly can. We can show our boys through our patchwork of a family that their parents can love and respect one another from afar. We can show them exactly what love is and should be in our situation.

Whatever opinions are formed or spoken about regarding our situation, they are just that: opinions. I respect every single person that I meet and know until there is a blatant reason for me not to. I ask the same. Do I find myself with the title "Single Mom"? Yes. "Single Parent"? No. We may not fit the mold… but Benjamin, Leo, Asher and I are a family. We always will be.

Poop, Sobbing, & Surgery

I should have named this The Poop Blog. The following story involves poop, crying, and surgery. In that order. A while back I was enjoying a day of eating nothing but air in preparation for a spinal nerve block operation (It sounds much more serious than it was---it's basically a shot in my back near my spine. To make things simple, I will keep calling it my surgery). I found myself utterly famished by 9 and deathly hungry by 9:15. I was forced to push on in hopes that I wouldn't vomit come my magical surgery that was supposed to fix everything (it didn't).
After managing to get both kids down for a nap (At the same time?! WHAT?!), I collapsed on the couch only to hear Leo babbling about caca. Uh oh. I peeled myself off the couch and made a beeline to his bedroom door, which upon opening I was greeted by a cloud of musty poo smell. Not unusual---that is, until I made eye contact with my bare-butted son with a grin on his face. Heaven forbid I feel any disdain at my son's absolute glee that he solved his own problem. Oh, is that poop in your diaper? Just take it off! Problem solved (in toddler-world, that is). I scooped up my kid, holding him as far away from my body as humanly possible and whisked him off to the shower. 
After closing the shower door I made my way back to scene of the crime and began cleaning. I'm practically a pro at caca cleanup people! I returned to the bathroom to find Leo still covered in poop and not a drop of water on him. I grumbled to myself (as did my stomach), and bent over with a handful of soap to clean the brown debris off his bum---and BAM! My back went out. I yelled out in utter agony as Leo peered at me curiously trying to see what his mama was so darn pissed about. I'm hungry as a hippo, my son is covered in poop, I have soap in my hand to clean said poop, and my back was out. There was no other option other than to scrub the crap off Leo's body while showering him with my tears. That's right. It was a bonafide Hallmark moment. Every itty-bitty movement or shift in weight sent my back into spasms and tears gushing down my face. I was an absolute wreck ready to collapse on the floor---but I was also a mom whose kid happened to be covered in poop. Guess which instance took priority. 
Happily avoiding any pinkeye or caca tasting, I can say that I would gladly like to never experience pulling my back out and having to do anything that requires any type of effort or movement on my part. I joked later on that the whole situation could have been on a family sitcom... just maybe with a little less cursing. 

Showing that sometimes this kid is a sweetheart.... and not covered in poop.

Sad vs Happy

As of late I've found myself riding the border between writing something sad or writing something funny. All readers beware: sad won. I think this played a big factor into why I've delayed writing anything for so long---it's so easy to be the funny mom with the children covered in poop and absolute chaos bursting from the seams. It's also easy to be the sad and overwhelmed mom that can't seem to find the funny in things like she used to (with chaos still bursting from the seams). The latter is harder to talk and be open about. So please understand that writing this is not what I call enjoyable or the slightest bit easy. It is necessary.
Being a parent is tough! Hard work doesn't even touch on the effort that is put into raising your children. The transition from taking care of only myself to taking care of two little people had a major adjustment period---as in, I think I finally got adjusted as of a month ago. Leo is almost two. Let that sink in. In a world where we see the highlight reel of everyone's lives with everything being picture perfect, introspection and self judgement can be a hell of a thing to deal with. I found myself in a downward spiral of not feeling good enough and not feeling like I was enough of a mom to my kids. I didn't do crafts, I didn't take my kids to the library, I didn't have the house cleaned and clothes folded. I didn't keep my temper in check and I didn't keep my patience with my children when things went awry. This spiral of self deprecation plagued me after having Asher. I found myself becoming more and more upset with myself and those around me, that I started to become more and more of what I feared: a bad mother. I lost my temper in front of my children. I didn't take them outside or engage with them in fun activities. I didn't clean. I didn't cook. I saw myself pulling away from everyone and what genuinely scared me was that I found myself not caring about it. My days started boiling down to sitting on the couch, feeding my children, and my meals consisting of toast and peanut butter (although delicious, I definitely wasn't helping myself in the health department). It wasn't until I came across an article that finally put my thinking into perspective. (Click here to read the article) 
It hit me like a brick to the face: I had convinced myself that my children would benefit from not having me around. I genuinely thought that by not being here, I would make the lives of my children and my family easier. If my poor health only impacted myself, that would have been easier to deal with. Unfortunately I saw how it affected everyone around me and it managed to make me feel worse. To make me feel like I would be nothing but a mother with shortcomings and anger. I didn't realize that I wasn't using normal logic until I read what these other mothers were going through. That they thought exactly the same as I did. That what I was thinking and how I was behaving was wrong. It's hard to accept that you are wrong; it's even harder when you feel like you've messed everything else up too. 
So off to the doctor I went. I am two months into being diagnosed with postpartum depression and taking medication to combat the imbalance of emotions in my brain. Being a person who hates taking medication (which is ironic coming from a person with T1 Diabetes and MS), I finally accepted that I needed help. More than the help my family or myself could do on our own. I am two months into my diagnosis; I am also two months into feeling better. I have finally felt that I've found my stride. I am taking care of myself and my children better. I am doing more and engaging more with them. I am on the road to being the funny mom covered in poop. The road that leads to genuine good feelings and happiness. Am I perfect every day? No. Hell no. But I'm doing better, and that's what matters.
There will be more funny to come, folks. I swear!

Grilling Chicken in My PJ's (a Mother's Day entry)

After a pretty trying day with my two destructive trolls (my sons), I found myself grilling chicken in the stark blackness of the night like a crazy woman. Besides the feeling of exhaustion and overall "hit by a truck" muscle soreness, I was fine. It took me a moment to realize how weird I probably looked standing at the grill outside in my pj's in the middle of the night. This had easily found a place in my daily routine that I had to think twice about in order for the "strange" factor to finally set in. The reason why I was so unusually dense to this observation was because of a somewhat new affliction I had acquired: children. 

There are things that I do now that younger me wouldn't have considered becoming a common occurrence. I never would have thought that waking up at 7am would be considered sleeping in (sleeping in late, actually) or that pooping in the bathroom with two other people staring at you would be "the usual." Even getting peed on isn't a surprise (high five to having boys). I think of all the ways that my life has changed in order to accommodate my two little minions and it puts having kids in perspective. My life is night and day compared to when I didn't have them. 

Being on the other side of the parenting curtain has made me reflect on some of the memories in my childhood where I was a thankless little turd, so I thought I'd acknowledge some of those moments today. 

Lunch money and book orders were a pretty common thread in little-me's life. Being an overweight, four-eyed, buck-toothed fifth grader with a crippling shyness meant that both food and books were kind of my thing. I remember being given cash for my lunch when it was needed, and checks for all the books that were purchased to inevitably become my only friends. My mom was dropping me off at school and handed me a check. Knowing how hopelessly forgetful her child was (conveniently I was also very forgetful when it came to chores), my mother cautioned me to put the check in a place I wouldn't forget. After rolling my eyes and tucking it away, I exited the car with the grace of a blind, three-legged gazelle and went on my way. Not five feet from the vehicle I spun around and chased after my mom's car screaming for her to stop; I forgot where I put the check. From that day forward, my mom became the type of mother who would put everything in envelopes and then into a designated spot in my backpack. I would still lose things of course, but at least I held onto it for more than five seconds (by the way---I found the check a few months later...in my book). 

In high school I had an unfortunate habit of pressing the snooze button on my alarm. I would wait until the last possible second to roll out of bed and get myself ready. Reasonable Adult Brenna would have known that getting up late meant that getting ready would involve peeing, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, and eating something---all at the same time. High school Brenna was kind of a idiot. I'd roll out of bed and proceed to take a lengthy shower, apply my make up, do my hair, pick out my clothes, and give my mother a generous seven minutes to get me to school on time. Google maps says the route takes 6 minutes---not accounting for traffic, two stop signs, one light, one U turn, and me huffing it to my first class from the drop off area. And boy did I get angry if I didn't make it before the first bell (can I remind you that I was an idiot AND a jerk?). Here's my poor mother who would try to get my lazy butt out of bed, chide me while I got ready knowing I would be rushing out the door yelling for her to get in the car because we were going to be late (Thank the baby Jesus I didn't have girls). As a result, my mom became the type of mother who could hold her own on a racetrack. 

Two months after the birth of my son Leo, I found myself wheelchair bound. Something that had started as a numbness in my toes had caught like wildfire up my whole leg in a matter of days. That wasn't the worst of it. I  found that by walking a few steps, I would trigger a type of seizure in my spine that brought on a crippling pain from my waist down. What I remember most about those episodes was that the pain was so intense I'd often scramble for a pillow or any object that could help muffle my whaling. I remember hearing my mom cry as she sat by me for every episode, unable to help me. I was in such fear of triggering these episodes that I refused to walk. Benjamin helped me around the house and picked up all the slack of what I couldn't do. My mom was there for both Ben and I at the moments when we found that we could barely be there for ourselves. This couldn't have come at a worse time due to Leo still being in the NICU and my need, as his mother, to visit him every day. Benjamin could only do so much and I often found myself relying on my mom to take care of me. Whether it was to see Leo, my doctors appointments, my MRIs, or any of the other various tests I needed; she was there. She became my care taker, my chauffeur and my shoulder to cry on. She was the one that held my hand as my doctor diagnosed me with MS. As a result of all this, my mom became the type of mother whose heart is big enough to take on the whole world. 

Even now, I know that I will never fill my mother's shoes. She wades through poop catastrophes (ew, pinkeye) and cockroach invasions like it's nothing. She is more adventurous and wild than I will ever be and her happiness is infectious (much like pinkeye). The fact that she is my mother means that she has been a part of my life for my whole life; but I often forget that it also means that I haven't been with her through all of her's. The person I have always seen is the mother of two little girls who has molded her life around us. I wonder what my mother was like before motherhood.... I imagine her to be the type of woman who welcomes grilling chicken in the middle of the night if it meant she could spend her day with her babies. Simply because that's the type of woman she is.

I love you mama.