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. 

Thanks for the love!

Following Asher's birth, my family and I found ourselves picking up and continuing our routines in the setting of a children's hospital. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for us, we had been conditioned to the beeping monitors, rotating nurses, unfamiliar babies' cries and the noticeable shroud of concern that draped on the faces of the parents around us; we recognized it because we had it too. We weathered on.

This particular hospital held a special place in my heart for multiple reasons. The first being that this was the very same hospital that I stayed in following my diagnosis of Juvenile Diabetes at the age of 13. I was taken care of for a week by a staff of amazing nurses and somehow found excitement in walking the halls that were filled with artwork, bright colors, neon lights, and things meant to make me feel at home. This experience left such an impression that I vowed to work there one day. This hospital was also the same hospital that Benjamin and I took Leo to get his hernia surgery at 4 months old. We found ourselves there again after a respiratory infection got so bad that he started to turn blue. A few months after that, I was able to make good on my vow and I started working at the hospital. A week after being hired, I found out that I was pregnant with my second baby boy. The baby boy that would then be admitted to their NICU for his first month of life.

After a visit at the NICU, my mom had mentioned a neat piece of artwork that was hung in the cafeteria. It had little cutouts of people that were all jumbled together. It only seemed fitting that this hospital would have something that inspired my mom for the idea for Asher's artwork above his crib. I should mention that when I was pregnant with Leo I painted a picture for his room of various superheroes that his dad liked. Fast forward to now, and I still have yet to find any desire to invest any energy into painting at the moment. Even finger painting is off the list. Anyways, we had yet to finish converting Leo's old room into a room for Asher, so my mom decided to help with the creative ideas. 

We found ourselves sending out piles upon piles of wooden hearts and letters, asking friends and family to contribute their love and creativity. Every new heart helped to grow the excitement of the project (for those of you reading that still have their hearts or maybe you never got one and would like to contribute---you are more than welcome to! Just message me for my address to mail it back! We will figure out a way to incorporate them). After receiving much of them back, my dad bent a wine barrel ring into a heart and I arranged them to fit together. It came together beautifully. I decided that a mobile made of a painted twig and paper cranes would bring everything together---and it did. 

It calms the Mama Bear inside me that worries for the day that my son will be alienated or hurt due to how people perceive him; he will be able to come home and see how much people love and adore him with all their hearts (literally). I am so grateful for the love and time that people put into these. It reminds me that even in a world with so many scary things going on, love is still ever-present and all around us. 

He was acting like he didn't notice I was there until he flashed me this smile!

All from my Instagram! 

The Fragrance of Motherhood

The other day I took a shower. That's it. That's really all I need to say. Stay-at-home parents can appreciate just how much luck and fortune is crammed into that one sentence. I'm not a person with particularly bad hygiene (although I will admit that my personal hygiene standards have definitely taken a sharp decline since having children) but there are some days where I find myself trying to recall exactly how  long it's been since washing my nether regions.

As I sit here typing, there is a cloud of pungent baby-vomit odor drifting from both shoulders---quite honestly it's kind of a nice break from smelling my armpits. So I've got that going for me. There are some parents (and pre-parents) out there that have their noses wrinkled in disgust at my obvious failure as a mother and all I've got to say is this: more power to ya (and to 90% of pre-parents: just you wait). If you're the type of parent who has the house cleaned, laundry and dishes done, dinner cooked, kids still have all their limbs AND you managed to squeeze in a shower---let me administer a slow clap for you now. Unfortunately with much of my housework involving picking the same items up and putting them away over and over again due to my almost-two year old doing what two year olds do---I'm not one of these parents. My sanity is often on the brink of exploding into a cloud of forgotten Cheerios and shredded tissues---so my priorities tend to get a little jumbled. I find myself okay with a lot of things that pre-parent Brenna would have gag-vomited at. There's nothing like getting pissed on and justifying not changing your shirt immediately because "urine is sterile" that makes you realize that maybe your standards are not what they used to be.

My son Leo has decided that instead of blowing his nose into a tissue, he'd rather use the palm of his hand. Hell, the other day I was holding him and he leaned back to sneeze---right in my face. No panic ensued, no vitamin c was taken; this is just the new normal. So now I have a walking booger-handed, sneezing-in-your-face, occasional pinkeye-contraction risk that roams my house. Such is life.

Lately I've found that if I really want to "dress up" for the day, a shower and some concealer are now equivalent to going to a full service salon and having the works done. This standard is met rarely.

Benjamin on the other hand, takes two showers (sometimes three) a day. It's very hard for me to not become irrationally angry when he pops out of the bathroom all fresh and clean right after I have discovered a stale Cheez-it in my bra. I have to remind myself that his cleanliness is warranted due to his manual labor job outdoors and his higher chance of being seen and smelled by people other than family. This should be the part where I proceed to thank every family member that has welcomed the homeless lady known as Brenna into their household. Thank you for feeding her and ignoring the slight stench of urine and vomit that inevitably she no longer notices anymore.

Obviously there may be some over exaggerations (There's not---in order to save face at the next luncheon with my now horrified friends, I'm going to say there is) but more often than not I do find myself questioning my own standards of self-sanitation. From having a fart waft up to your face from an un-diapered baby butt to eating your kids leftover lunch that fell on the questionably dirty floor, the possibilities of pushing the sanitation boundaries are endless! I do look forward to the days where showers and concealer become the new normal in my life again. I predict this happening in the next 5 to 10 years. 

In the meantime, consider this an ongoing apology for when homeless Brenna makes her way to your dinner table. Remember, the last meal she probably ate was a stale Cheez-it and leftover juice in a sippy cup.

Hold hands out of fear of mom's stench, I'm sure.

Basic Math & Shapes Conundrum

Watching children's television shows comes with the territory of having children. Go figure. Never-ending are the incessant jingles and cheery voices coaxing your child to learn basic knowledge. Sometimes I find myself channel surfing for anything that has adults speaking---just to feel like I haven't been in a nuthouse all day. More often than not I will catch myself immersed in Leo's kid-friendly programming while he has wandered off in disinterest. I've found that there is nothing else that provides me with much-needed positive affirmation than a kids' show; especially on days where I've second guessed every parenting decision I've made. 

One day while feeding Asher, I found myself completely engulfed in an episode of a show called Umizoomi. This particular show teaches children basic math and shapes. Now if you've had the fortune of not watching children's TV for the past decade, you wouldn't know that many of the different shows will ask the viewer a question, wait for them to respond, and then praise them as the correct answer is displayed. That's right. Tests are now fun. 

So anyways, during this particular episode, the little blue dude was trying to build a cannon out of shapes. He asked what the first shape was and shows three shapes to choose from. In order to build this cannon, it's up to me to call out the correct answer. Okay---I can do this. So after he inquires about the name of the first shape, I confidently answer, "Half circle!" He then proceeds to praise my answer as the shape moves to the correct position and says, "Good job! That is a semi circle!" 

Much to my dismay, I was wrong. Even the cheering praise couldn't break my chagrin. I attributed my error to not giving enough of my undivided attention to Mr Blue Dude and really hunkered down for the next question. 

"Great kids, now let's finish the cannon! What is this shape?" I had my thinking cap on and boy did I know the answer! It was a parallelogram of course. Duh. "That's right kids! A trapezoid!" Damn it! My brain melted as I sat in utter disbelief. There was no way that I had lost that many brain cells since acquiring my prestigious title of College Drop Out.

I watched the blue dude create his cannon and destroy a roadblock allowing the happy bunch of characters to continue on their way to the next problem. I reveled in the moment that I would get my dignity back. This next question was going to free me from my idiocy and allow me to be able to stand up tall the next time Umizoomi came on in our household. My brow furrowed with concentration as the little dude came across some weird obstacle that he had to climb. It involved some type of magnetic-shape zip line gun. Whatever. Anyways, in order to zip his sassy know-it-all ass up this wall, I would have to call out the next shape. Easy peasy. The next shape was of course a moon shape---and that's definitely the official name of said aforementioned shape. Moon shape. "That's right kids! It's a crescent!" 

I quickly jammed my index finger on the power button of my remote control. I decided that the next time a children's show asked me to help solve their problem, I'll let them do it their damn selves! 

This guy called me mama today! Probably learned it from the little blue dude.

Chocolate Delight

Let me just say one thing: I hate poop. What kind of poop? Oh, any kind of poop my friend! From runny poop to hard poop, poop pellets and poop piles---it all goes down in my book of Nuh-Uhs. If I wasn't responsible for the cleanliness of my child he would be tuggin' around a ten pound diaper of crap until his dad got home. But I guess I'm responsible (I guess) and often find myself battling the diarrhea dinosaur and pellet panda on a pretty regular basis. 

The fear that fuels my distaste for poo poo is also something that rides pretty high on my list of No-Way-Josés. Pinkeye. I have a highly irrational fear in regards to pinkeye. Not necessarily the infection itself---but the way you contract said infection. As an adult who is responsible for a tiny person who poops themselves, I find myself dealing with my fears more often than I'd prefer. So being a mom has obviously produced some challenges for me. Which brings me to Exhibit A:  the day that will go down in history as the day that Leo made my nightmares become reality. 

It was a typical Wednesday like any other. I had just brought Leo indoors from our outside adventure for the morning (It should be noted that me bringing Leo inside isn't as peachy as it sounds. Picture me dragging Leo by one hand with Asher tucked under my opposite arm like a football. Of course Leo is screaming his face off and playing the "Limp Body McGee" game. Somebody who chose not to listen to his mama apparently didn't want to go inside. I won). 

After settling my child down with a snack, he abandoned his Pterodactyl screeches for some play time in his toy corner. I sat on the couch to continue feeding Asher who didn't seem bothered by the commotion. It was pretty impressive really---this little guy was practically in the middle of a tug of war/yelling match and he seemed genuinely unperturbed. I envy the kid sometimes. Anyways, I had Asher to the point of almost finishing his bottle and he was just nodding off into La La Land. Leo decided to bring some toys over and nestle himself in between my feet on the carpet. Okay. No big deal. He has a whole house to play in and apparently my legs are prime real estate. I can handle the lack of personal bubble space! That probably popped the day I had a foot in my ribs, so I guess you could say I'm conditioned to constant bubble invasion by now. 

Back to the story, I found myself admiring how cute Asher looked in his milk coma. He looked like a drunk little old man and I couldn't get enough of it! I snapped a few pictures with my phone and proceeded to tinker with the photo composition for my uber-important Instagram update. While I'm occupying my time, Leo was determined on relocating multiple pillows, blankies and toys from one place to another. In this playtime process he probably touched 10 to 15 items everything we own. This is an important detail that normally wouldn't matter under any other circumstance...but today was no ordinary Wednesday. 

At one point I notice Leo is standing and facing me while doing a suspicious amount of a whole lot of nothing. I glance up to see that he has an expression that I can only describe as a grimace on his cherubic face. He proceeds to point to his mouth. 

Now let me explain the type of mother I am---if my kid manages to put something off the floor into his mouth and eat it; I'm good. So long it's not a nail or glass or a cockroach, have at it. I half expected him to set a piece of plastic or a rock on my open palm as he often does when he makes this face, but no. Not today. He sets something beige in my hand and continues on his way. My initial thought was dirt. Which, again, I wouldn't have thought twice about---but this was different. I touched the unknown substance with my thumb and watched it smear across my hand. My smile quickly fell as my brain's "OH HELL NO" light started flashing. I took a nice, big whiff of the foreign substance on my palm. Poop. My little Leo, the apple of my eye, the child who will one day become a trilingual, body-building astronaut with 5 Olympic gold medals, had attempted to eat his own bootycake off the carpet. 

Oh yes, the carpet. Leo must have found the only solid piece of doodle in the whole batch because the rest was liquid fecal lava. Not only was it on the rug but also the couch, pillows, books, toys, down the back of both legs, and soaked into his shoes. My son somehow covered the living room in his homemade brownie batter and my nose was essentially oblivious to the catastrophe surrounding me. Utter panic ensued. 

My memory fails me, but I either tossed Asher like a hot potato onto the couch or gently laid him there. Considering he slept through this horror scene, I assume the latter occurred. I swooped Leo up and undressed him quicker than you can say Mississippi mud and dumped him in the shower. As a parent, you will never forget the day you hose your child down like a dog. 

Filled with the terrifying idea that there was a high risk of contracting pinkeye in our household, I bleached every surface imaginable. If I could have dipped Leo in bleach I 
would have. No amount of skin scrubbing or teeth brushing could calm me. Having no idea that he had played with or consumed his own butt truffles, Leo was pretty jazzed at all the flurry and action around him. He thought mama's frantic and panic-filled scrubbing was a new game and boy did he like it! I opted to put Mr Dookiepants down for a nap so I could obsessively scrub in peace. It turned out to be an easy task since pooping himself silly seemed to have pooped himself out. 

Finally reaching a point of satisfaction with disinfecting everything in existence (which was indicated by the singe of chemicals to my nose hairs), I sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. The moment quickly evaporated at the sound of Asher waking from his slumber. There is indeed no rest for the wicked!

All I know is that on that very Wednesday, I was in the midst of a Code Brown debacle that ended in no one getting pinkeye. It was a win hidden somewhere in a big ol' pile of colon cannonballs.

World Down Syndrome Day

Okay so I quite honestly had no intention of touching this thing for at least a week in order to get back to a semblance of normal. You have no idea what was going on behind the scenes while I wrote. From two poop diapers, one toddler meal, two baby meals, wrestling with Leo on our bed, comforting Ash who got his hand squashed on said bed, hearing Leo laughing and turning around to my 28 ounce water jug being sprinkled throughout the house (the whole thing), reading countless kid books in my happy-insane-librarian voice, snack time, adult feeding time, bathroom break and playing outside... It took me six hours to write less than a blip of what I wanted to say. But here I am, back at it, because of someone who is a part of my heart. My little Asher. I hadn't decided what I'd write about next and I had quite honestly assumed that it would just come to me when I sat down to bust it out---but I made it a point to write this entry on this day. You want to know why? It is the 10th anniversary of World Down Syndrome Day and Asher's first time being here to celebrate it! And what a celebration it is!

Now I will deviate (but only slightly) from my usual sarcastic banter to express how excited and touched I am that there is a day to celebrate my son. Let me first tell you how my little boy came to be...

Around Leo's first birthday, I had noticed some things that were a little peculiar. I was getting fat (gasp!). I hadn't yet kicked the pregnancy weight but the scale was definitely going in the right direction and I had no complaints. Of course after I had purchased some new non-stretch jean shorts, I noticed I had an unhealthy front pooch that was not only insistent on staying, but also inviting friends to live with it. I had put on maybe ten pounds with no change to my diet or physical activity (lets be honest--no physical activity) so I inevitably joined a gym and did a cleanse. 

After losing a few pounds in two weeks (I cringe to think about what little Asher was thinking in there), I was at home when I felt a flutter in my gut. My first thought was, "oh how sweet, that feeling reminds me of when I was pregnant." If anyone was there with me I'm sure they could have seen the color leave my face as quickly as my mouth dropped open at the thought. I immediately went to the store and got a box of pregnancy tests (lets be honest again---the cheapest ones they had) and took all three that day. Not pregnant. Phew!

So now that I knew I wasn't pregnant, I went to the old trusty google to figure out what was going on. Diagnosis found! I was having phantom kicking! Or gas! Or I was pregnant! (the last one being totally not the case of course) So I went on my merry way with my phantom kicking and in a way I was kind of happy. I got to experience something that I didn't get much time to when I was pregnant with Leo. He was born so early that I feel slightly robbed of the experience. 

After about a week of enjoying my phantom kicking. I was walking around the house and felt something jab my bladder. No phantom kick in the world could be so hard that it feels real. I was also pretty sure that no amount of gas could ever jab my bladder... so off to the store I went! This time I bought the super-lifted, surround sound, extra bass, hydraulics, gold spinners, flashing disco lights pregnancy test. I could have had meals for a week for what those things cost me. 

After arriving home, I proceeded to pee on my pregnancy test sticks made of gold and waited. Pregnant. Not only pregnant, this thing tells me I'm +3 months pregnant. WHAT?! Not only am I on birth control (which I take as regularly as I breathe air), I hadn't been horribly sick and rockin' sore ginormous boobs like I did in the first few months with Leo. There was NO way. Until I saw this:

(notice my name in the corner? like I said...love/hate relationship)

I was 21 weeks pregnant and had no idea. I was 18 weeks away from being on that ridiculous show where women have babies unknowingly. I mock those women and  I almost became one of them! 

So now the battery of blood tests, ultrasounds, biweekly OB visits and weekly perinatal/nutritionist visits commenced. I was one busy, diabetic, high-risk pregnant lady. This oven needed a lot of fine-tuning that only a team of medical professionals could handle, and boy did they do just that! After having some minor panic episodes and high blood pressures due to the stigma of reaching my 28th week of pregnancy (just in case you forgot, Leo was born at 28 weeks), my OB recommended I take a chill pill and take time off from work. Which I did so with both feelings of guilt and anxiety. We were just recovering from the financial stress of my first pregnancy/medical bills/MS doctor visits that being a one income household wasn't the best option. My amazing family and friends (that practically are family) decided to step in and help in whatever ways they could and I will be forever grateful. 

Fast forward to Asher's first fetal heart echo. We got the unfortunate news that something was wrong with Ash's heart, but they were not 100% on exactly what. Medical jargon was thrown around like rice at a wedding so the initial shock of the news that anything could possibly be wrong genuinely shook me to my core. The initial diagnosis was not good and I remember getting to the parking lot and crying alone in my car. I hadn't even thought to bring anyone to the appointment with me because Leo's had gone so well that I figured I knew the routine and there was nothing to worry about. I had made it past the 28th week and I thought that was the only hurdle I had.

After telling family and friends, I regrettably went back to the ol' google to find out what my doctor had said. From life expectancy not exceeding 7 years to heart transplant lists, I overwhelmed my spirit and truly felt a part of me break inside. This was my baby boy and I couldn't fathom having a child to only lose him again. I was destroyed. My mom opted to pray and I opted to hold whatever hope I could in my heart so that my son would somehow feel my strength and grow stronger from it. I am not a religious person, but I do believe in some higher power. I sent my concerns to him/her/them and went on my way. I had a follow up echo done a month later, and lo and behold the problem was less drastic. There was still a problem---but this one Asher could live with and only be affected in certain aspects of his life. No heart transplant needed! 

The following month was yet another follow up echo and all I can say is, boy did we hit the jackpot. My little baby's heart looked better than before. The threat of any immanent problems had waned and I was now confident that as long as I could make it to full term, my baby and I would be fine. I would get to hold him like they do in the movies with the light shining down on my beautifully styled hair and my 20 pound baby covered in cream cheese and jelly looking directly into my eyes with his big baby blues. Such was not the case.

I went in for a routine Non-Stress Test and Asher had failed to pass yet again. These tests measure the heart rate of the baby according to his movements. He had failed five out of six in the past few weeks so my OB and Perinatal doctor decided it was time. He was coming! I called Benjamin (Asher's dad--sorry for no previous mention honey) and told him that today was the day!

I should probably preface this with the fact that I had legitimate concern that I wasn't going to live through my c section. When pregnant with Leo, I could never mentally picture me full-term pregnant. I just couldn't. Chalking it up to a lazy imagination, I didn't think anything of it until after I had Leo so early. During this pregnancy I made sure to picture myself pregnant as to not jinx myself---and I was comforted that I could. I could see me being large and waddling around and it was wonderful. The only problem was that I didn't see myself holding my son in my hospital bed. I couldn't imagine it. It genuinely scared me. As a result, I had cried for much of my c section due to fears that something wasn't going to be right. I had assumed this meant that something was going to happen to me. I really did think I wasn't going to make it through the procedure. I also didn't want to feel like a Crazy Cathy so I only confided this to my parents and Benjamin. I had even written a letter to Leo on my phone while waiting for family to arrive before my surgery. The moment the nurse held my little bundle of sunshine out so I could kiss his cheek, a wave of relief overcame me. I wasn't holding him, but I had met him and that's what mattered. 

In the brief moment that I got to look at him, a red flag popped up in my mind when I saw his eyes. I knew there was a rather large possibility that my son had Down syndrome. I also wanted to wait and calm the Crazy Cathy so I said nothing. I poured over the pictures of my son in the recovery room and each one seemed more and more evident of my suspicions. The doctor that administered Asher's fetal heart echo after he was born unknowingly confirmed it for me. You see, we knew they would take Asher away to make sure the right valves shut in his heart and that there was indeed no problems to be concerned about. It was not unusual that Asher was to be admitted into the NICU momentarily. All c section babies are. At my bedside the doctor had stated that they see nothing to be worried about but that he wanted to run a chromosome blood test. He didn't delve any deeper into the subject and left me to recover. But there it was. Confirmation. Something was wrong with my son and the doctor didn't want to tell me. 

I was brought to my postpartum room and for an hour I let myself grieve for the loss of the baby I had expected. I just didn't see how this was fair. We had made it. He was only four weeks early and a healthy weight. His heart was fine. I had made it through the c section unscathed. We had crossed all our t's and dotted all our i's and here I was with a baby that many deem undesirable.

And that's why I have sat here today to tell mine and Asher's story---at least the beginning of it. My son is amazing. He is more than perfection and I thank whoever is watching that my son is here with me. I gave myself an hour to grieve for a baby that I thought I wanted---then I pulled up my big girl pants and put on my awesome mama cap and kicked that idea to the wind. My son is beautiful and gorgeous and my everything. He is sweet and innocent and strong. He is my little warrior battling the waves of unintended pity and unwanted sympathy. He is my healthy, happy boy who I was somehow lucky enough to be able to call my son. 

World Down Syndrome Day is very important to me for many reasons. The most important is the celebration of the life of my son. It is also a day that brings awareness to the heartbreaking statistic of abortion rates with a prenatal diagnosis of Down syndrome. 92%. 9 out of 10 times, a mother will opt to not welcome someone like my little Asher into their lives. Let me just tell you one thing---he was worth it. Every little bit of scares and fears and facing the unknown. He was meant to be a part of my family before I even knew he would be. He is my missing piece to the puzzle I've been doing my whole life. A child with Down syndrome is not a bad thing. It is a blessing.

The first little bit

I don't know how many times in the recent years I've been told that I should start a blog---definitely an overwhelming five or six times. Three by my sister. I've found myself mulling over the idea on a pretty regular basis; mainly due to my desire to keep track of all the little things that happen combined with my inability to write more than a page without my hand cramping. Yes, I have the endurance of a child. Anyways, I found myself sitting on the couch plagued with only mild exhaustion and came to the conclusion that today was the day. I was going to start this project and for once I was going to follow through and finish it, damn it. Flash forward to me staring at the computer screen trying to set up an email, researching different blog websites, and setting up an account all while trying to figure out the focus of my first entry. Then my kids woke up from the world's shortest naps---I was frustrated before I even typed the first word! But I digress. I decided that I would tell a little about myself for those that find themselves binge googling in the wee hours of the morning and stumble across this collection of grammar errors that makes one question my schooling (three semesters of college, thank you very much). 
My name is Brenna. I've had a love-hate relationship with my name since I was little. I love it due to it's originality but as a result of it being unusual, I also answer to Breanna, Brenda, and the ever-so-creative Breena. I am currently a very adult 25 years of age and boy do I have my shit together! I am also adorably sarcastic and highly emotional. The combination produces a whirlwind of stories that can be boiled down to the bitter grits of entertaining. For the most part. Mind you, I'm also annoyingly human and find that my faults and errors tend to outweigh the good bits, as any mother's opinion of themselves tends to be. 
Speaking of being a mother, I have a hard time fully embracing this title. Both of my children were born in a haze of excitement and fear (excitement was totally lacking in my first---I'll explain later) that often feels like a blur of a memory that didn't actually happen to me. I still feel like a little kid that has no idea about anything most days, but I think second guessing yourself every step of the way is normal when taking care of a little human. At least that's what I'm told! All I know is that my life would be empty compared to where I'm at right now if they weren't here. 
Which brings me to my two little firestorms known as boys. My oldest, Leonidas (Leonidas being his "in trouble" name---Leo for short), is a little over a year and a half now. Terrible two's started at one, so I'm an avid supporter of the idea that this phase starts at one and probably never ends. When he's not asserting his independence by yelling "Doppit!" (stop it) or exploring every corner of the house resulting in it looking like we are moving out soon, he can actually be a pretty sweet kid. He's affectionate towards his brother and those around him---with an exception of the little boy in the waiting room at the doctor's office whom he administered an unprovoked, open-palmed slap to the face. Sorry kid. You would never guess Leo was born at 28 weeks by looking at him (hence that lack of excitement and overwhelming fear of his arrival). He's still in the 75th percentile for his size and that's according to the chart for children born full-term. Yes. He's a beast. A gentle beast at least. 
My second son, Asher, is almost four months now. He is such a sweet and tender soul and he puts my lack of patience to shame. From the start he was quiet and even-tempered. He never cries much and I always catch him looking at things that I seem to know what he's thinking. I was adamant that it was impossible to love another baby like I loved Leo, and in a way I was right. It's not that I love more but I love different. Both of my sons have their own space nestled in my heart that are unique in and of their own. Asher is definitely my little sweetheart and our family is so fortunate he's ours. Oh, and he happened to have been born with Down syndrome. Which to be completely open and honest---is included in the list of things I love about the little guy.
Being a mom of two boys under two (pull handful of hair out... NOW!) has it's trying moments. It's a little more difficult for me due to three things: Type 1 Diabetes, Multiple Sclerosis, and Not Enough Chocolate. The third thing is the worst. I happened to have had a terrible pancreas since the age of 13. To pinpoint it a little further---since the day after my thirteenth birthday party weekend. Yeah, what a gift! After loading up on candy, cake, and straight sugar, my mom had decided to schedule a doctors appointment the following Monday due to things that we originally excused as puberty. Just a heads up---if you drink and eat everything in the house and still manage to lose about 30 pounds in a few months---it's not puberty. When I was 24 I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis following the birth of Leo. I had some odd numbness creep up one leg in a matter of 24 hours that got the ball rolling on eventually getting an MS diagnosis. My immune system is AWESOME. And lastly, the chocolate thing. I. Love. Chocolate. That mainly sums up the problem right there. 
Besides all that, my life is pretty typical. I have ups and downs like everyone else and I am beyond fortunate to have family and friends who support me in both my struggles and successes. I'm finding as I get older they are the thing that I appreciate the most in life. Without them I wouldn't have made it through all this turbulence. 
So here it is. The beginnings of something that I hope will allow me to keep track of my insane life, give my boys something to muse over when they are older and I'm "uncool", and to connect with people. Here's to hoping I have enough time during nap times to share the little bits with you.