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.