On Pen Pals and Tacos

Hey y'all -

I swear, I've been experiencing a ten-day version of what my great-grandmother would have called, "a sinking spell." Illness, fatigue, work stuff, the day-to-day mess that can drag you down, especially when you're in the middle of that three-month period of every year when the sun doesn't shine on your house. You start to question your abilities as a parent, and wonder if anyone around you is having any fun.

Then, last Saturday, I told Laney that I would take her shopping with me for groceries. She was an absolute peach at Costco, and as we were loading the car with our purchases, she said:

Laney: Mom, I'd like to go to a restaurant.
Mom: Ha, ok. What kind of restaurant?
Laney: A restaurant that sells tacos.

Every week, my grandmother - Granny Jack - sends Laney a card with a sheet of stickers and two one-dollar bills, one for Laney and one for Hagen. Our mailbox is a mile and a half from our house, so when I check the mail and see a letter from Jack, I hand it back to Laney and keep driving. By the time we've gotten home and everyone's climbed out of the car, I've already forgotten about Jack's card. Such is the short-term memory loss that comes with motherhood.

So last Saturday, I pulled into Taco Bell, figuring I would get Laney a taco and be on our way. As we parked, I looked into my wallet.

Mom: Uh-oh, Laney. I'm so sorry, but I don't have any cash with me (and I sure wasn't going to charge an 89 cent taco). We can't go to the taco restaurant today, but maybe we can go another time when I have money.
Laney: Oh, I have dollars.

She reached into the side compartment of her car seat and pulled out a wad of one-dollar bills, weeks of Granny Jack pen pal money.

Mom: Okay, then... and you're sure you want to spend your money on tacos?
Laney: Yes, but I want to eat inside the restaurant.
Mom: Well, if you're buying...

We went inside Taco Bell, where Laney bought us both lunch. As we were sitting at our table, she took a sip of her lemonade and said,

Laney: I wonder what's going on at Target?
Mom: I don't know, Pegge, let's go see.

...So we went to Target, where Laney spent the last five dollars of her secret stash on paint. It was a great afternoon on the town with my favorite girl, and it reminded me that even just a few years from now, I won't remember the stupid work project, but I will remember Laney looking at the man behind the Taco Bell counter and saying, "He's a good man." "How can you tell Laney?" "Because he fixed my lunch."

If I am even remotely responsible for how cool you're turning out to be, I'm accomplishing great things, indeed.

Love,
Mom

I Roll And I Tumble

Dear Laney,

You started gymnastics classes last week. Your teacher came and collected all of the 3 year-old "Fireflies," and swept you off into a world of slides and somersaults and trampolines. You were way on the other side of the gym from the parent holding pen upstairs, but from what I could see, you really enjoyed yourself.

The highlight for me, though, was watching Hagen watch you.

He pressed his head in between the bars and kept an eye on you as your class moved from one activity station to another.

Then, he decided to make his way around the viewing area, introducing himself to all the parent and sibling gymnastics fans by first hanging on to their pant leg, then smiling and lifting his shirt to show off his belly. "Put it away," I had to say, "Everybody's seen it." 

What this taught me: Dudes needing to take off their shirts at sporting events to show their support for their favorite athletes is a primal force that can't be stopped. Doesn't matter if they're rooting on The Pack, or the Fireflies. 

Must be nice to have your own (semi-nude) cheering section. 

Love,

Mom

It Ain't For Sissies

Dear X,

When we talked on the phone earlier this week, you mentioned that you and your spouse are thinking of having a child. You mentioned that you'd been reading books to prepare for the parenting experience. I laughed at you. That wasn't very nice of me.

This past week has been - without a doubt - the hardest yet in my short time as a parent, so I wasn't as supportive as I perhaps could've/should've been.

First, Hagen has been sick all week. When the rash bloomed this morning all over his torso, we finally determined that he has roseola. So - a cold, an ear infection, and a crazy rash-bearing virus, all in the same ten days.

On Thursday, the whole family was in Missoula when a snowstorm rolled in. It came so fast and heavy that Thor and I didn't think we could make it home, so we stayed at Sue's house where we all slept within a few feet of each other. Hagen decided he didn't feel like sleeping; for the first half of the night, Thor and I took turns walking laps around her bathroom to keep him from crying and waking up everyone else. Then, when that didn't work anymore, we took turns driving around the neighborhood, every hour on the hour. Because it's open 24 hours, we even swung by Walmart at 4am so I could pick up some groceries while Hagen and Thor slept in the car. For 48 hours, I didn't sleep, I wore the same clothes, and (I'm guessing) smelled funny.

The next morning, I had to write a script for a pitch reel based on a scientific premise I don't remotely understand. I can name every contestant in the history of Top Chef, but that doesn't come in handy when I'm being paid to understand biomimicry. In the end, I stared at my computer and cried, because that was easier. Thor had a class that day on avalanche survival up at the ski hill. All day, I imagined he had dug himself a snow cave and was sleeping in it, because that's what I'd be doing.

Off and on all week, I've been picturing you reading those books and attempting to prepare yourself for an experience that's impossible to prepare for.  When you're pregnant, people give you infuriating advice like, "You should sleep when the baby sleeps!" By the way, the only people who should be allowed to say that are people who have already washed your dishes, swept your floor and run a load of clothes. Folks rarely share the unvarnished truth about having children: It's rewarding. It fills your life. It changes the way you view the world around you. You instantly love another person in a way you previously couldn't have wrapped your head or heart around. But it's hard. It's so so so hard. You may think your job is hard, but it isn't. You could quit your job and be digging trenches for the Peace Corps in Guadalajara by next week. You could give your dog away. You could sell your house, or hell, burn it down. But once you have a baby, you spend every waking minute of the rest of your life thinking and worrying about it. I know this is true, because when we had that snowstorm earlier this week, I had three messages on my phone from my mother calling to be sure that I was okay. I am 36 years old and 1700 miles away from her. Doesn't matter.

Return the books. Use the money to get laminated flooring and a dog. There: that'll take care of 60% of your future clean-up projects. To recreate the early parenting experience, hire an out-of-work actor to lie next to your bed and scream I'M CRYING I'M CRYING I'M CRYING in 90-minute intervals all night long. If he's not union and you don't have to pay him overtime, get him to do it during the day, too. Know that you will wash your hands twenty times a day and coat them in sanitizer, but your fingers will still smell like poop. Your love life will consist of whatever you can accomplish between, "Hola! I'm Dora!" and "Lo Hicimos! We did it!" Those are all things I wish somebody'd told me.

OF COURSE I'm overjoyed to be a mom, and I don't take it for granted. I'm insanely lucky to be married to a good man with two beautiful, (typically) healthy children. My life is blessed - I know.

But don't say I didn't warn you.

Don't worry; this blog'll be back to cute pictures of cute children doing cute things tomorrow.

-Brooke

There's No Crying In Skiing

Hey y'all - 

I went seven days last week without leaving our house. The farthest I ventured out was the wood pile. Your dad and I have been watching this (really awful, campy) show called American Horror Story on TV. The premise of the show is that ghosts get trapped in this house and can never leave. On day 7 of my internment, I said to your dad, "I'm like the people on that show! Maybe I'm a ghost and I don't know it!" Obviously, cabin fever does wonderful things for my mental health. 

So we decided to get out and go skiing as a family. I was able to cross the property line, so according to scary movie rules, I'm still alive. Bonus!

We made a serious rookie mistake by heading out on our expedition around Laney's nap time. At first, it was all fun and games. Laney was babbling about I-don't-know-what as she was dragged down the road, and Dad and I were making jokes about how we couldn't possibly startle any of the wildlife with her constant stream of, "I'm friends with Maya and Alexi is best friends with Parker but they don't play with Ashton because he's best friends with Vinuja..."

Your dad had Hagen on his back and dragged Laney on a mini sled. He was one banjo away from being this guy:

But things started to turn ugly about twenty minutes into our trip.

Laney, wailing: I don't think I can go on!
Mom: OK. Do you want to go back home?
Laney: NO! DON'T WANT TO GO HOME!
Mom: OK. Do you want to keep going?
Laney: NO!
Mom: Do you want to just stand here for a minute?
Laney: NO!
Mom: I'm at a loss. 

What Laney wanted to do was walk home while sobbing and holding my hand, which was a little hard for me, since I had to ski uphill without the use of a pole on my left side.

She fell asleep at 6pm and woke up at midnight, ready to party.

We've been at this parenting thing for three years now, and sometimes I suspect we're even dumber than we were when we started. 

Love,

Mom

...And The Flying Monkey You Rode In On

Hey y'all -

I know I haven't updated this blog in about a week, and here's why:

Last Sunday, you both developed a cold. It was awful. I told your dad without a trace of hyperbole that I would rather go into labor again than take care of two sick small children. Hagen only stopped crying when I carried him, so I resorted to wearing him around the house in a backpack. Laney's cold got a little better over the week, but on Thursday she said, "I think I should stay home from school and rest." No sooner had your dad driven out of the driveway than she asked, "Can we go sledding now?"

Hagen, on the other hand, did not experience such a miraculous recovery. His cold got worse every day, and he quit sleeping entirely - he was so congested he couldn't breathe at night. Your dad and I were working in shifts; I'd take 11pm - 3am, and Dad took 3am - 7am. Usually, Thor would put Hagen in the car at 3am and drive him around until he fell asleep. No one slept more than an hour at a time, and then your dad and I would both get up and have to work a full day. Honestly, we probably should not have been allowed to operate motor vehicles.

On Thursday night, we noticed Hagen was warmer than usual and were alarmed to discover he had an almost 103-degree temp. In a panic, I filled the tub with cool water and got in with him while your dad called the on-call doc at the hospital. As soon as Hagen got in that cold water, he sighed and fell asleep on my chest. Perfect. On one hand, I was overjoyed that Hagen was finally resting. On the other hand, since I didn't have a fever, I was freezing my ass off. The doctor advised us that we didn't need to go to the emergency room, but we did need to see our doctor first thing the next morning.

Friday morning, I took Hagen to see Dr. Hoover, who determined that he had an ear infection in both ears. As I mentioned on facebook:

Now that we have the right collection of meds, things are looking up.

_________________

While all of this has been going on with Hagen, Laney has become obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. She saw it for the first time over Christmas Break, and has wanted to role-play it ever since.

Laney: Okay, first I'm the bad witch and I put you to sleep in the poppies and so you lie down and pretend sleeping. Then, I'm the good witch and I make it to snow and you wake up and say "It must have been a spell." Then I'm Dorothy again and we all hold hands and run to the Emerald City and sing because we're going to see the Wizard.
Peg Peg: I can't possibly remember all that.

By chance, when Grandma Sue gave Laney that box of dress-up clothes last year, there was a dress in there that Laney now thinks looks just like Dorothy's dress. I think it looks like it was stolen from the Hoop Dee Doo Clogging Revue at Dollywood. But pair it with her new red bedroom slippers, and magic is made:

So, if you've been wondering what I've been up to this past week, I've either been wiping a running nose, walking laps around my house with a crying baby strapped to my back, watching the same footage for work five times in a row because I was so sleep-deprived I kept forgetting what I just saw, or I was doing this:

At first I resisted being constantly cast as the Wicked Witch of the West, but I quickly learned that there's a bonus to playing this part: When Dorothy throws a bucket of water on me and I've screeched "I'm melting! I'm melting!" an appropriate number of times, I get to lie down on the ground and close my eyes. I'm being an active parent while being allowed to rest for 2-minute intervals.

I'll get you, my pretty, and your little infection, too.

Bwah haha ha ha...

Love,

Mom

Dad's Ski School

Birthday Boy