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.