New Year. New Blog.

Dear Laney, Hagen & Readers,

You might have noticed that when you tried to log on to "Letters to Laney," you were automatically re-directed here. I spent a lot of time thinking about how to handle the blog now that we have two children. Having only a dedicated Laney blog seemed unfair to Hagen. Writing and maintaining two blogs seemed unthinkable. So, I arrived at this compromise: a new version of the blog dedicated to both children. I chose and registered the name "Y'all Hush," when I was only a few months pregnant, because it seemed like the phrase I was most likely to holler repeatedly over the next decade.

I did import the old Laney blog here, so all of the old posts are still there - but in the blog as in life, we'll just be incorporating the new kid as we move forward.

Love,

Brooke

Back When We Were Idiots

Dear Hagen,

Ever since we brought you home, you've been an absolute dream. You sleep for long stretches, and you hardly ever fuss. It's starting to seem like Laney got my personality, and you got your dad's. No matter what the crisis, your dad always says, "It's not the end of the world." Laney, like me, thinks more along the lines of WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE and WHO'S IN CHARGE and THAT'S IT - I'M WRITING A STRONGLY-WORDED LETTER. But anything short of actual Armageddon gets the same "eh" response from you and your dad.

You're happy to nap when your sister naps, or just hang out like a sack of potatoes.

We can't help but compare this to the first time we brought a newborn home. And it's more about us being different than it is about you being different. I'd like to think we're no longer idiots. When we brought your sister home, we never slept. We were so afraid Laney was going to be uncomfortable or cold or hungry that we stayed up and monitored her. Stupid. I had a Mom/Martyr complex, and I didn't allow your dad to help me. Boneheaded. I didn't take pain medication because I hate the idea of someone taking care of me. Idiotic.

This time around, I put your dad in charge of just about everything, and it's really paying off. He's even using the chalkboard doors on our pantry to track my medications, your feedings, etc. - all in military time. At least I think that's what he's doing. It's equally possible he's launching a submarine in the Straits of Hormuz.

We're so glad to have you home, and so glad for all the lessons your sister taught us on how to take care of a baby.

Love,

Mom

Beautiful Boy

Dear Laney,

On Tuesday morning, your dad and I checked into the hospital for your brother's birth. Peg Peg got to scrub in, too. I made fun of how she looked with that puffy blue hat on her head, and she said, "If I said something catty like that to you, you'd put it on the blog." Guilty. Half the fun of having a blog is tattling on your loved ones.

We had a doctor we loved and my favorite nurses. Childbirth is an arduous experience no matter what, but this was about as pleasant as could possibly be. Your brother, who we have named Hagen Everett Burbach, was born at 8:08am. He came into the world with a minimum of fuss, and has barely fussed since. This bodes well for us, since you already have enough opinions for several other children.

We were in our room by 10am - the very last room at the end of the maternity wing. I mention this, because the walk down that long hallway gave you plenty of time to holler, "I COMING, MOMMY!!" Then, like a gunslinger in a western, you'd bang open the door to our room and demand, "WHERE'S MY BABY?!?" followed by stomping out your cigarette and adjusting your chaps. OK, those last few things aren't true, but that was the spirit of your entrance.

You seem to love Hagen so far, especially petting his face. And you definitely think he belongs to you.

Recovery for me has been a little touch-and-go. They warn you when you have surgery that you might have a little problem with gas. When you hear that, you might think it means that you're going to toot a little more than normal, but you're WRONG. What it means is that pockets of air will be loose in your body and might install themselves somewhere weird like your shoulder, and you'll wind up screaming in pain and demanding that the staff DO SOMETHING because you're in the worst agony of your life. This is when you learn that Community Medical Center does not offer elective shoulder amputations, no matter how much you beg.

It has been a pretty overwhelming 3 days, and your dad and I are so glad to be home. We missed you while we were at the hospital, but we were so glad to have the time to get to know your brother. We're already crazy about him, and we know you will be, too.

Here are some of our favorite moments from the past few days:

Love,

Mom

The Last Ride Of The Three Musketeers

Dear Laney,

Tonight, we're staying at the Holiday Inn (with indoor pool!) in town, because your dad and I have to report to the hospital at 5:30am tomorrow.

As excited as I am about meeting your brother in the morning, I still wanted to take a minute to tell you how much we've enjoyed you every minute since you were born, and how we hope that the new addition to our family will only increase the love and fun in our home.

Tomorrow, we become a family of four.

Holy moly.

Love,

Mom

Oh What Fun

Dear Laney,

Yesterday was Christmas. We took about a zillion pictures and your dad shot a bunch of footage, and I have no time to go through it all because I have a lot on my plate, like, say, I'm having a baby in 12 hours.

Here's the short version: Peg Peg and Tex flew in from Florida and we picked them up from the airport and brought them home for a big turkey dinner with your dad and Grandma Sue. Then we all got to open presents.

The Laney Guide To Opening Gifts:

STEP ONE: Pick up a gift from the pile and suggest, "'Ets open it and see what it is!"

STEP TWO: Open it, even if it doesn't belong to you, and announce, "I wub it!"

Grandpops and Grammy CC sent you a handheld computer doohickey, which will only make you more technically proficient than you already are. I'm sure it's just a matter of time 'til you hack that Leapster Explorer and use it to write html code to create your own animal-saving apps.

Philip sent us a beautiful Pendleton blanket and sent your dad some antique buffalo gloves, which might take the prize as Most Bizarre Gift under the tree. On the other hand, we can never say we had to return them because we got two of the same thing.

Peg Peg and Tex got you a barn with animals (all of which, as you might guess, need "saving") and a set of horses for the stable.

You and Peg Peg both got funny hats. As our official family hat model, Dad took yours for a spin.

Grandma Sue put together an entire wardrobe of play clothes and dress-up items for you.

Still, at the end of the day, you prefer to be naked. In a snow tube.

We all went to bed last night feeling exhausted-but-blessed, because as cool as all this stuff was, it was just the preamble to the greatest gift of all: your brother.

Love,

Mom

Poor Little Carnivore

Dear Laney,

For Christmas, your honorary Uncle Brian sent you an Amazon.com gift bag. If anyone asks you about this present, you say, "Is my fav'rite one I ever seen."

If anyone asks you about the enormous stuffed dinosaur that happened to come with it, you say, "Uh...he sleeping."

Poor T-Rex... to come all this way from the Cretaceous just to be stuck in perpetual time-out.

Love,

Mom

Sounds Of The Season

12/13 UPS Shipping Center

Laney admires the Christmas tree, with its pretty, shiny ball ornaments. Studies an ornament from the tree, thoughtfully.

Mom (Interior monologue): How nice that she's being so gentle with that ornament.

Laney: (rips ornament from the tree, and spikes it to the ground, where it explodes in a million pieces, sending ornament shrapnel into the neighboring county). BOUNCE!

Mom: Laney, NO!

World's Sweetest UPS Employee: It's okay. I figured that was going to happen sooner or later.

Mom: Well, I'm so glad we could be the ones to get it done for you.

12/19 Southgate Mall, Santa Land

Santa (offering up huge basket of candy canes): Would a piece of candy make you feel better?

Laney: Don't like dat candy! Is too spicy.

12/21 United States Post Office, Frenchtown Montana

Laney sticks her whole head into the under-the-counter bin marked "Waste."

Laney: (yells) Coyooootes! (removes her head from trash bin and announces) Is ok, Mommy. 'Eres no coyotes in dere.

Postal Clerk: Did she say "Coyotes?"

Mom: I believe she did, yes.

Postal Clerk: Has she ever seen a coyote?

Mom: No, but "Diego" was trying to save this iguana, and as it turns out, iguanas are scared of coyotes, so from time to time we have to be sure there are no coyo.. Look, just give me some stamps.

Watching TV With Your Brother

Dear Laney,

I know I've put some pretty weird things on this blog over the past few years, but I'm convinced this one takes the cake. In fact, I don't even think I want to write an introduction to it... just behold:

Love,

Mom

Home Stretch

Dear Baby Boy, Whose Name We Still Haven't Decided On, Even Though You're Going To Be Here In Six Days Or Less,

You make me tired.

I have gotten through the last ten months with a minimum of complaining. I felt like your sister shouldn't be penalized just because we were having another baby, so I've continued to ring around the rosie, wrestle and cuddle with her as much as ever. But last week, I hit a wall. I became tired of sounding like I was hyperventilating every time I crossed the room to answer the phone. I found myself lying down in the shower at 3pm one afternoon and thinking, "Dear Lord, I hope the hot water holds out, because I'm going to have to lie in here until Thor comes home from work to fish my butt out." I made it to the top of the stairs and decided to lie down and cry until your dad came to help me up and remind me why I'd ventured to the second floor in the first place. My self esteem took a real punch to the throat when I realized that most of my MATERNITY pants no longer fit. There is only one position I can sleep in, and it has given me an honest-to-goodness rash.

You don't have to go home, kid, but you can't stay here.

Yesterday, we had our final office visit with Dr. Burke, then went over to the hospital for our pre-op appointment. The sweet grandmotherly nurse started talking me through a procedure that I should be completely familiar with*, having been through it once already with your sister, and again I found myself crying - this time in public. Between wrapping up my work for the year and preparing for Christmas and taking care of your sister, I had let it completely slip my mind that a week from now, I'm going to have major surgery and then come home with a new human being. I called your grandmother, Peg Peg (reminder: she's a health care professional with over 35 years in the nursing profession, including a stint in labor and delivery). It went something like this:

Peg Peg: But everything is going to be just fine. You have nothing to worry about.
Mom: Well, they ARE going to pull out my innards and yank a baby out of 'em.
Peg Peg: Yeah, but they'll probably put everything back where they found it.

Probably.

Note that I made this phone call from the car on the way home from Christmas shopping, and made the charming discovery that I could set my cell phone to speaker and set it on top of my belly and it would perch there all the way to Mineral County.

We have no idea what we're going to name you, we don't know how we're going to handle it when you get here, and we don't know when we're going to sleep again. But because this isn't my first rodeo, I have already prepared our meals for the first two weeks after you get home, and I've been keeping track of the contents of our deep freezer as I go.

I might be worn out, I might be sleep-deprived, I might be cranky, but I will not be hungry. No, nor any of my kin.

I have no blood going to my brain these days, so I think I've forgotten where I was heading with all this, except to say that you're finally starting to be real for us, and we're just now starting to brace ourselves for what promises to be an amazing adventure.

See you soon!

Love,

Mom

* In case anyone finds it of interest, I'm having a repeat C-section because my last baby was over 11 pounds with no interest in coming out ever, and this one is also "measuring big." I weigh the same, with the same size abdomen as I had when Laney was born. Thor thinks we need to start a Vegas betting pool so people can guess our baby's birth weight. I think that makes our baby sound like a carnival attraction. But feel free to leave your guesses in the comments. I'll open with 9 pounds, 2 ounces. Prize to the winner.

Doing Stuff

Dear Laney,

A few years ago, when your dad and I were still dating, Peg Peg and Tex came for a visit to check out Montana. Your dad was so anxious about them having a good time that he kept suggesting super! fun! exciting! outdoor activities that they might want to try. Hiking? Rafting? Canoeing? Whatever you want - we'll do it! It was obvious he was working himself to death - bless his heart - until my mother finally took pity on him, put her hand on his shoulder and said, "Thor, honey, we don't do stuff."

In the summer of 2009, your grandfather Philip came to visit, and we drove him over to Lookout Pass to ride bikes on the Hiawatha Trail. After we'd parked and had started to unload, we noticed that the cars behind us had Alabama plates with Auburn stickers. Philip said, "We should avoid that group - they're going to be trouble. People from Auburn are going to have absolutely no idea what they're doing here."

All this to say that 50% of your genetic material has been handed down from people who could best be described as indoorsy. You need a glass of tea, a mayo-based casserole, an afternoon of gossip or a lesson on how to apply lipstick, we're your demographic. But as a general rule, my people aren't the type to ever walk uphill on purpose or run without first being chased.

Imagine my surprise that you seem to be taking after your dad and enjoying doing stuff. On purpose, even. This morning, you guys loaded up the dogs and the sled and headed off into the wilderness.

And here I am, making my family proud by pouring myself an iced tea and blogging about it.

Love,

Mom

Toddlers And Husbands: Similar Rules Apply

Dear Laney,

I remember writing a post on the day you turned 18 months old that included the following advice for my fellow baby mamas:

Silence is your enemy. If your toddler is in another room and making no noise, it's because she's busy inspecting Dad's drill, licking your deodorant, or stirring the toilet with your good spatula.

I was reminded of this today when your dad disappeared down into the basement without a sound. I was busy playing balloon football with you, and making a chicken casserole, and I completely forgot the man existed. As with babies, silence can often be problematic with your dad, because he's been known to get a wild hair and embark on a crazy project. After dinner tonight, he said, "Laney, why don't you come downstairs and I'll show you this thing I built."

As it turns out, he had mounted a piece of plywood to the ceiling, bolted rock-climbing holds to it, and basically made you a climbing wall.



I didn't watch at first. My policy is that there should be at least one parent who can tell Child Protective Services that they weren't involved in the activity in question. When you first went down there, you didn't have on any pants, and you attacked the wall with such gusto that you started scraping your knees. Your dad brought you back upstairs just long enough to get some pajama pants on before allowing you to continue your career as an alpinist; the whole time we were wrestling the pants on you, you were screaming, "I GOT TO GO TO CLIMB! I GOT TO GO TO CLIMB!"

If you ever wonder why I'm tired all the time, it's because everyone I live with requires constant supervision.

Love,
Mom

Laney Loves Santa: Part Three

Dear Laney,

I had no intention of having your picture taken with Santa this year. You obviously hate the man. But then I started getting requests from friends, family and even your dang pediatrician for a new Laney n' Santa photo. What can I say? These must be the same rubberneckers who slow down to check out the accidents on the interstate. Lucky for them, this year's installment is the photo equivalent of a five-car pile-up:



And for those keeping score:




The photo elf asked if I wanted to keep trying. "Nope," I said, "See you next year!"

Love,
Mom

Let's Call In A Professional

Dear Laney,

I had an appointment earlier this week to get my hair cut, and as long as we were there, I asked the stylist if she would mind trimming your bangs. Since you were born, your dad and I have been taking turns cutting your hair - that way, we could take turns blaming each other for the erratic outcomes; this is the kind of logic that keeps our marriage running like a well-oiled machine. Trying to cut a two year-old's hair is like trying to shear a dingo. That is to say, it's difficult and you're likely to get mauled.

Morgan the stylist has a two year-old of her own, so she knew what she was getting herself into. As she started, she pointed to her nose and asked you to "look here" so she could be sure she was getting everything straight. You seemed to think that she was instructing you to put YOUR finger on YOUR nose and keep it there throughout the procedure.





I have visions of you in your thirties, getting your hair cut and still thinking that holding your finger to your nose should be part of the process.

This hair cut was just the latest example of your willingness to do ANYTHING for candy. Morgan keeps a stash of suckers. Like I said, she's a pro.



I could have a perfectly-behaved child at all times, if only I wasn't concerned about your teeth rotting out of your head.

Love,
Mom

In Celebration of Bad Parenting

Dear Laney,

You have a new favorite cartoon every week or so these days, which has taught me a valuable lesson: Woe be unto she who makes fun of Dora, because something far worse could come along next week. At present, you are gaga over "The Wonder Pets," and I hate them with the blazing intensity of a Crisco-filled skillet. "The Wonder Pets" is the result you'd get if you were ever tempted to throw some stock photos of farm animals in a blender with a half-dozen frustrated musical theatre majors. Honest to God, those little singing critters give me a facial tic.



In the past month, you've also become an insomniac, and you wake up every morning - like clockwork - at 4am. We've tried putting you back in bed, we've tried putting you in bed with us, we've tried taking turns going to bed with you, we've tried letting you fuss and ignoring you. Nothing has worked. You're up and ready to rock n' roll. About a week ago, in a fit of desperation, I remembered that you are totally capable of running Netflix Instant all by yourself on the Wii. And Netflix has multiple seasons of - here it comes - "The Wonder Pets." So at 4:30am one morning last week, I plopped you on the couch with a pillow and a blanket, gave you some milk, handed you the remote and wished you luck. Then I went back to bed.



This is bad parenting all around, but let me be very clear on this point: I. Do. Not. Care.

For weeks at a time, I've been running on no more than five hours of sleep a night, while trying to GROW A HUMAN BEING. If a guinea pig in a cape helps me get a few more hours of sleep in a week, then bless his stupid little poorly-animated heart.

Love,
Mom

The Best Kind Of Premonition

Dear Laney,

About five years ago, when your dad and I were still dating, I drove down to San Diego to watch him give a demonstration at a Judo tournament. He was demonstrating something called - I think - "Kata." Unlike your dad, I don't speak Japanese, but I'm guessing it translates to something like, "Repeatedly introducing your opponent's butt to the mat." There was a ring of elementary school-aged kids watching the demonstration, and every time your dad threw that tall gangly black dude to the mat, they would "Oooh" and "Aaah" - probably because they thought they had scored ringside seats to Hobbit v. Harlem Globetrotter, and against the rules of physics, the short hairy one was actually winning.

There was one little girl who couldn't have been more than five or six years old who was competing that day. I wish I had thought to take a picture of her. Your dad and I couldn't help watching her matches and laughing, because girlfriend was a mess. Her outfit was barely staying on; her wild hair could not be contained by her pink scrunchie. But one at a time, she won her bouts and was clearing the place out faster than Patrick Swayze in "Roadhouse."* A delicate flower, she was not.

Your dad and I looked at each other and said, "I bet we're going to have a little girl exactly like that one day." Life lesson: If you're dating a guy and he's willing to make jokes about your hypothetical children, he does not have a fear of commitment.

So five years pass, and last weekend rolls around, and your dad and I find ourselves with a wild girl, pink outfit in disarray, hair shooting everywhere, content to ride the hell out of dogsled, "super fast."

It's such a nice feeling when your dreams come true.

Love,

Mom

* I know - completely inappropriate comparison for a baby blog.

Progress

Not pictured: the medium-gauge wire connecting the trunk of this tree to a stud in the wall behind it. Your dad's not taking any chances this year.

The Bermuda Triangle of Snuggles

Dear Laney,

Lately, your dad has taken over bedtime duty. Let me tell you how it's supposed to go:

1) 8:20p Into pajamas

2) 8:30p Bedtime story

3) 8:45p Lights off

4) 8:46p Goodnight kiss

5) 8:46:30p Dad comes downstairs and watches a TV program with Mom that doesn't involve saving a obscure animal by singing in Spanish.

But let me tell you how it actually goes:

1) 8:20p NO! DON'T LIKE 'JAMAS!

2) 8:25p "I need go potty." Dad brings you downstairs. You produce two molecules of tee tee. "I did it! Look ev'body! Need piece o' candy."

3) 8:27p Back upstairs

4) 8:30p Don't like dat story. How 'bout dis one?

5) 8:45p NO! You don't do lights. I do lights ALL BY MYSELF.

6) 8:46p Dad starts snoring.

7) 8:47p You cuddle up to Dad, and the Burbach sweat-off begins.

8) 10:00p Mom gets tired of waiting on Dad to come back down. Goes to bed without him.

9) 2:00am Dad wakes up disoriented. Wonders why his head is wedged between a stuffed cat and a musical glow worm. And why is it so HOT? Stumbles downstairs.

You know what's going to be awesome? When we toss a newborn into this mix.

Love,

Mom

Trim The Toddler

Dear Laney,

Anyone who's been reading this blog since last year's holiday season knows that putting up and decorating a Christmas tree is not our strong suit.

Last Sunday, full of optimism and Honey Nut Cheerios, you and your dad set out to find and cut down the perfect tree.

Your dad came home with the top 6 feet of a tree that looked a little like this:

He dragged it to the back porch, where Gus peed on it, then he brought it in the house, where we had a creative meeting (Mom: Just where the hell do you expect me to put the ornaments?) and decided that Tree #1 simply wouldn't do. Moments like this are why I never begrudge your dad the big case of beer at Costco. So, your dad dragged it right back out, and you guys went on the hunt for Tree #2.

Tree #2 looks great, but it's been sitting in our living room for five days, undecorated. It's been a busy week. Gus likes to come in the house and drink all the water from the tree stand. I'm thinking we might set a new record with this one, and kill it before it's even decorated.

We have made time to decorate you, though, which you seem to think is just as much fun.

Love,

Mom