You Oughta Know

They didn't tell me certain things about having a baby. Or maybe they did, but I was under a blissful cloud of delusion and was convinced that my baby would be perfect. I tend to be more of a talker than a listener, and I have a gift for tuning out the things I don't want to hear. I may have been warned, but I sure didn't hear it.

They didn't tell me just how high I would be coming out of my c-section. Normally, that would be awesome - who wouldn't want to be floating on a cloud of legal drugs - but as I was hovering in a dreamy parallel plane in which I couldn't feel my toes, a world in which I was pretty certain I had just birthed a beautiful baby girl but wasn't quite sure, a nurse emerged from the fog and demanded that I begin breastfeeding.

Wait, what?

I was high as a kite. I unfortunately informed my dad as I came out of surgery that I had been high before, but never this high. In an instant, the years of self-righteous, indignant denial of any wrong doing whatsoever washed down the drain. But no matter, I had no time to worry about medically induced confessions. I had to figure out how to tell the nurse that I was unequivocally impaired and there was no way in hell that I should be holding my baby, let alone attempting to breastfeed the poor thing. Welcome to the world, baby - Sorry mommy is on (some really good) drugs and already totally incapable of being the parent you need me to be. I always knew that I would have some mommy fails, I just didn't realize that it would happen pretty much the second she was removed from my womb.

Those lactation consultants are incredibly militant, however, and my just say no approach was ignored as the nurse thrust the baby terrorist at me and tapped her foot impatiently as I fumbled for what I hoped was my boob - I still couldn't feel my body, so it was a shot in the dark - and luckily for me, the baby terrorist was quite adept at the whole eating thing.

They didn't tell me that there would be a time a few days into this whole new life with a baby thing where I would lock myself in the car and cry like never before. My in-laws were in town visiting, meeting the baby terrorist for the first time. As her terrorist title might imply, she wasn't the easiest of babies. One particularly difficult evening, the tiny human was dissolved in a fit of animal sounding, ear piercing, insanity inducing screaming. No amount of rocking, shushing, or screaming along with her could console her. I was seriously sleep deprived, in pain, questioning all of my life choices that had led up to this very moment, and suddenly I just couldn't take one more second of it. I handed the baby off to my husband and because we had a house full of guests, I escaped to my car and cried. I contemplated putting on some good Pink Floyd, fully dissolving into my misery and driving off to some tropical paradise never to be heard from again.

That's when I heard a knock on my car window. Through tear filled eyeballs I looked up to see my husband, looking haggard, tired and concerned, and my baby terrorist, looking thoroughly satisfied that she had broken us as she sucked peacefully on a pacifier. Sighing, I abandoned all thoughts of a deserted beach and endless margaritas and rejoined my new life. They just don't prepare you for that.

They didn't warn me that going back to work would be the hardest decision I would ever make. It wasn't really much of a choice as it was either go to work or catapult our family into bankruptcy and financial ruin. Right before maternity leave ended, I was showing my husband all of the cute baby girl clothes I had bought the terrorist.

"Isn't this so cute? And look at these shoes, they are so cute. And this sweater, isn't it cute?! Cute cute cute!" I went on and on ad nauseam.

My husband leveled me with a stern gaze and said, "You know what else is cute? Having a roof over our baby's head."

Okay, okay. Point taken. I was going to have to work whether I wanted to or not. I locked myself in my office the first day back and cried, and, folks, I work from home. It wasn't like I had far to go to leave the baby but it felt like my world had ended. And again, that recurring thought of the tropical beach and bottomless margaritas returned to tempt me. It wasn't working that was difficult. It was surrendering my child to someone else for more than a couple of hours at a time that proved to be my undoing. They didn't tell me how much that would hurt.

They didn't tell me how much rage I would feel the first time someone said anything against my baby terrorist. Look beotch, I am the only one who gets to throw around phrases like "baby terrorist". The first time I heard anything other than she's the most perfect baby in the entire world, I saw nothing but red. I blacked out. I don't remember anything that I said but there is a record of it somewhere in text message format. It was that moment that I realized this mama bear I will lift a car off of my child don't mess with mom thing is no joke. Me, the girl who tries to avoid confrontation at all cost - turns out I have a little streak of fierce deep down. They didn't prepare me.

They didn't tell me how scared I would feel the first time my baby was really, really sick. My first clue was when the terrorist wanted to snuggle. Clearly, something was wrong. Usually she pulls my hair and bites me, all while talking smack in the loudest inside voice I have ever heard. This particular morning, she crawled onto my chest and let me hold her for hours. It was the sweetest and most terrifying day of my life. Her fever was high and I inundated the doctor with five thousand phone calls, each time being told that she is fine, she just has a virus, she'll get over it. This is when you realize that nobody knows your child better than you do. The five thousand and first phone call was to inform the doctor that the baby terrorist does not call a truce for a silly virus. She has an agenda. Something was wrong. The level of panic I had to suppress and the calm composure I had to maintain is something I will never forget.

I wasn't prepared for the tremendous feeling of relief and overwhelming thankfulness I felt when she began to get better. When she woke up one morning, yanked my hair and yelled at me I looked up to the sky and thanked God my terrorist was back.

They didn't tell me how full my heart could feel even at the strangest of moments. How at my most stressed out, what have I done, my life will never be the same again, I wish I could go to the movies alone, heck I wish I could pee alone, what did it feel like to sleep in past 6 a.m., will my boobs ever be mine again moments I catch myself looking at my husband and my baby and feeling like my heart is so full of love it could literally pop. How willingly I give up pieces of my life just to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to receive one of her open mouth awkward heavy breathing too much eye contact kisses.

They didn't tell me any of this. And even if they had, I probably wouldn't have listened anyway. It's much more interesting to just be surprised everyday on this crazy ride.

A Pink Lemonade Celebration

Let's have a little party, we said.

We'll keep it simple, we promised.

It's just her first birthday, we reasoned. She won't even remember it.

Five bazillion dollars and several new gray hairs later, the baby terrorist had her first rager, complete with a homemade lemonade stand.

I'm not sure what happened, but I found myself drunk with first birthday fever. It's not everyday that we get to celebrate the fact that we kept a little tiny terrorist alive for an entire year. An entire year! If that doesn't constitute spending a ridiculous amount of money on the cutest cupcake toppers you ever did see, then you obviously haven't spent many a sleepless night staring helplessly at a screaming baby, scratching your head and maybe even crying yourself because you just don't know what the heck that child needs. How about that time I endured the greatest pooptastrophe of all time? That alone validated my need to throw money at a ridiculous number of pink garland. Oh, and remember that time I sucked the very snot out of my baby's nose? Well, I don't mind if I do have six thousand Instagram photos printed of the little terrorist, paste them onto fancy construction paper and obsessively hang them around the house. I still have PTSD from the terrorist's epic meltdown at the post office, so buying enough pink and yellow candy to keep us buzzed for a year only seemed logical.

I decided to throw the baby a pink lemonade themed first birthday party. Since I have a handy husband who likes to escape to the backyard for hours at a time, I tasked him with building a lemonade stand. He exceeded all expectations with this cute little number!

I bought the ridiculously cute tutu and onesie ensemble from Gentry's Closet. As you can see, the birthday girl is pretty stoked about her awesome lemonade stand.

I went a little wild with the Instagram pictures, but they made for such easy and cute decor that I couldn't help myself. I printed them using the app Printicular. You can have them delivered to your home or printed at Walgreens. I totally got carried away and decided that I needed to buy fancy schmancy scissors, glue the pictures onto pink and yellow construction paper, and give them cute borders. I luckily had very quiet evenings after the baby went to bed because my husband was traveling for work. I spent many a night watching (and judging) the Real Housewives, drinking wine, and cutting out pictures. Really, if we're being honest, that's how I spend most of my nights anyway!

I made pink lemonade cupcakes and found these super cute cupcake toppers from Scrappin' Ashley on Etsy. I am no baker, so I agonized over these damn cupcakes! They might not have been the prettiest things ever, but the frosting was amazing.

I even made the baby terrorist a giant cupcake for her cake smash. I used the world's largest cupcake mold to make it, and it took two whole boxes of cake mix. For spending the last year engaging in terrorist tactics never seen before, she was quite the little lady when it came to that cupcake. She daintily put a finger in the frosting, and took little bird bites. She was also very thoughtful when it came to sharing her cupcake, and was more than happy to indulge her parents and her pooch.

No party is complete without a candy bar. Did you know that you can buy just pink and yellow jelly beans on Amazon? I can't even explain how excited that made me.When did I become such a nerd? I enlisted the help of my fabulous sister, owner of Dolly's Sweet Dreams Cotton Candy, to sweeten up the candy bar. I can come up with cute ideas, but I am the worst when it comes to cuteness execution. That's where my sister came in. Each guest got to take home a bag of candy as a party favor. Can you tell I am new at this motherhood thing? Who in their right mind sends children home with a bag of sugar? It's no wonder  I have a baby terrorist. Instant karma.

Here are a few more fun photos from her party.

I now understand why the second birthday party is way more understated than the first. This was exhausting and expensive, but it was so worth the celebration. It's not everyday that you get to graduate from baby terrorist to toddler terrorist with so much pink and yellow.

A Year of Terror Tactics & Mommy Fails - A Survivor's Tale

Tomorrow, the baby terrorist turns one. This is a monumental milestone for the Bug and me. We have had to navigate our way across some tricky terrain, a trail laden with dangerous explosive devices, booby traps at every turn (and I'm not just talking about breastfeeding), baby terror tactics and epic mommy fails. Tomorrow, I might pat myself on the back because I hate to brag (wink) but I kept that kid alive for an entire year. She thrived in spite of me. There were tears, there were meltdowns and there were battles waged with weapons of mass destruction but we both have lived to tell the tale. But, my friends, this is just a battle won - The war wages on.

This morning, we eyed each other with a sort of mutual respect.

And then she kissed me. A good kiss, right on the old smacker, letting me know that she begrudgingly admires my tenacity. It was a sweet moment, albeit awkward - There was a lot of weird eye contact, she lingered way too long and there was a lot of slobber, but you know what? I love you too, Bug.

This time last year I was over baked by three days and so ready to pop but as usual, the baby terrorist was on her own schedule. Then, as I was on the phone to my mother dramatically complaining about how I was probably doomed to be pregnant for all eternity, my water broke.

Only, I didn't believe that my water broke.

It wasn't dramatic, and if you know me, you know that I have a flair for that kind of thing, so I just didn't believe it could actually be happening to me. You know, because I wasn't 9 months pregnant and carrying around a gigantic belly that contorted constantly thanks to the in utero terrorism of a certain baby. So, rather than believe that I could possibly be in labor, I instead decided to watch a little Real Housewives, put on some makeup, wander aimlessly around the house and wait for a sign from God. Again, because you know, he hadn't already given me a huge sign.

A couple of hours later, I started thinking that maybe I should call my husband. It went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, I think my water may have broken. But I'm totally not sure. I mean, it's probably nothing. In fact, forget I called."

Him: "Oh my God! Are you serious? Should I come home? I'm coming home."

Me: "No, don't worry about it. It's probably nothing. It's nothing. No, come to think of it, I'm sure it's nothing."

Him: "Ummm...."

Me: "Okay, bye."

About 30 minutes later, I thought, well self, it's probably nothing but maybe you should go to the hospital just in case. You know, because you don't want to be one of those women who birth a baby while thinking it's just a routine trip to the toilet. But self, you're so crazy, you know it's nothing, they are going to send you home.

So I waddled out of the house, got in the car without my hospital bag, certain I was overreacting, and drove myself to the hospital. I have never been in such a state of denial in all my life and let me tell you, it felt good! I called my husband on the way, and had a conversation that went a little something like this:

Me: "So...I am on the way to the hospital but it's nothing. It's totally nothing. Don't even worry."

Him: "OH MY GOD! Are you driving? I'm on my way."

Me: "No, no, that's the last thing I want. They are going to send me home. Don't even worry about it. And please, please don't tell anyone. I don't want everyone to be saying Oh that Brooke, such a drama queen."

Him: "Ummmm....."

Me: "Okay, bye!"

So into the hospital I strolled, with the swagger of an over due water breaking in some serious denial pregnant lady and announced to the front desk clerk with some bravado that I think my water might have broken, but it's probably nothing, I'm sure it's nothing.

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and hustled me to the third floor Triage unit, where I giggled as I told them it was nothing, nothing, totally nothing.

And with that, my whole world changed. I was informed that it was something, something, totally something. That conversation went a little something like this:

Nurse: "Your water broke. We are going to need to admit you."

Me: "Oh, okay. Well I didn't bring my hospital bag. Or my husband, come to think of it. So I'll need to go home and get both and then I'll be back."

Nurse (in a slow voice she obviously reserved for small children and crazy people) - "Honey, that's not how this works.You can't go home. We are going to move you into a room."

As she finished that sentence, I simply stared at her - and then suddenly the sweet high of denial wore off and I was spun into a frantic frenzy of emotions. And, wouldn't you know, there wasn't any cell service on the floor I was on so I couldn't call anyone. Nine months of baking hadn't prepared me for the fact that I was having a baby and now here I stood, all bravado gone, shaking with a new kind of fear I had never before felt and, as a result of my own doing, I was alone.

But that husband of mine, the guy I sometimes want to punch in the face, the man I fell in love with even after he stole a steamroller, the boy who hoards rocks and hides them in the strangest of places...He deserves more credit than I give him. He knows me. He knows just how this twisted mind of mine thinks, and he was one step ahead of me with a hospital bag and fist pump. We were having a baby.

But not so fast...The baby terrorist wasn't going to arrive in this world without first trying to kill me. After almost a day of labor, 2 hours of pushing and finally a C-Section, at 10:17 a.m. on August 29 we first laid eyes on our baby girl.

And just like that, everything changed.

Happy Birthday, Bugsy May. You might be a baby terrorist, but I wouldn't expect anything less from a child of mine. And I couldn't possibly love anything more.

Better Than a Punch in the Face

Look. I love my husband. From the minute I saw his sparkling green eyes, I knew we would eventually end up together. He's helpful. He's chivalrous. I mean, to the point where it almost makes you puke. He's the kind of guy who helps little old ladies across the street. The type of dashing dude who rushes to hold the door open at the grocery store for the pregnant lady struggling to corral three unruly children while balancing an armful of groceries. The handsome husband your friends adore because he keeps a low profile on girls nights, appearing just long enough to make sure that their wine glasses are never empty and the snacks never run out. He's handy. There isn't anything he can't fix, nothing he can't build, although a lot of the time it is stuck together with spit and duct tape. He's funny. Half the time he doesn't even mean to be, which is even funnier.

But sometimes I want to punch him in his helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny face. Don't flash those dimples at me, buddy. This Greene is seeing nothing but red.

The delicate eco system that is a marriage can be easily disrupted by the strangest and most mundane of things - random rock collecting, plant hoarding, the blatant disrespect for throw pillows - seriously, those aren't meant to be used as real pillows! - but you throw a baby terrorist into the mix and not only do I feel like a punch to the face is warranted, it should be expected.

Now, I've never considered myself to be what one might call a reasonable person. I am highly emotional, quick to react, slightly neurotic. I'm a Virgo, so that just goes without saying. However, I find my blood boiling over things that were never in my vocabulary prior to birthing a baby terrorist. The Diaper Genie is overflowing again? Revenge is a dish best served cold with a side of old poopy diapers. I'm up in the middle of the night for the zillionth time in a row because I have super sonic powers that allow only me to hear the baby cry? I'm sorry honey, I didn't mean to kick you on my way out of bed to comfort our child.

The poor husband works an insane schedule to bring home the bacon. I've never been all that good at math, but my non robotic brain does not quite compute how one person can work 90 hours in one week. Add a work schedule that includes travel and it's a recipe for resentment. I too am gainfully employed and the work day doesn't end when I clock out. That sweet little baby terrorist is awfully demanding and pretty stingy with the paychecks - she owes me 10 months of back pay. I've tried a mob style shakedown of her piggy bank, but no dice. So, if you add the 40 and carry the 1, subtract the free time and divide it by 2, this leaves about exactly zero hours for the husband and I to be husband and wife. We become all about business, all did the baby poop today and did you pay the mortgage and baby did you throw away my growing hoard of carefully stolen rocks?! You know, the stuff normal couples fight about.

So when the opportunity for a date night shows it's fickle face, you obviously have to put your right hook back in your pocket, comb your hair for the first time in a few weeks, brush the cobwebs off your makeup bag, put on your best pureed fruit free outfit, drink a few thousand cups of coffee because good god, 7:00 is awfully late to begin your night, and head out on the town with your helpful, chivalrous, handsome, handy, funny partner. And after a few glasses of wine, you remember that you kind of like old what's his face! (Though if we're being honest, after a few glasses of wine I pretty much kind of like everybody.)

We spent our night acting like younger, more carefree versions of ourselves punctuated by the sudden need to compulsively spy on our mini terrorist on the baby monitor. Staring at her sleep through the monitor app on my phone made us the weirdest couple at the bar, but I'll tell you this much - it sure does beat a punch in the face.

Little Miss Holy Terror

A while back, we had our little baby terrorist baptized. We figured it couldn't hurt. She got to wear a pretty white dress, we got to hang out with our closest family and friends, and if God smiled down on us and helped the little terror sleep through the night and wreak a tad less havoc, then it was all worth it.


I spent a good portion of my youth quietly suffering through Mass, bored but well behaved because of the divine promise not of heaven but rather donuts afterward. Throughout my teen years, I rebelled and insisted on making my mother rue the day she decided to enroll me in Catholic school. Though fun, I was eventually plagued by the Catholic guilt that inevitably follows no matter how enjoyable giving the middle fingered salute to the religion (and the Catholic school uniform) that I love to hate and, as I got older, begrudgingly hated to love.


And so, for the cosmic and profound reasons stated above, I began the process of attempting to have little Miss Holy Terror baptized.


Those Catholics don't make it easy. First of all, my husband and I weren't married in the Catholic Church. I really wanted to get married by the ocean and I wanted the ceremony to be really short because let's face it, as seriously as one should take marriage, I wanted to zoom through the vows and get straight to the booze. I do, I do, smooch smooch, lawfully wed, let's drink to that. Unfortunately, in my haste to toast to marital bliss, I inadvertently made it difficult to baptize the baby that was but a twinkle in our buzzed eyes.


The Church wanted us to get remarried by the priest. Not only that, they made us attend Mass three times and then attend a class before they would even agree to take our monetary donation that would ensure our daughter's salvation. We went to the mandated Mass, took notes because I was worried that there might be a pop quiz, and eventually were cleared to baptize the mini.


The day of the baptism was beautiful but intimidating because I was convinced that the priest was trying to trick me. First off, he indicated that the parents should sit in the front row. Completely forgetting that I am indeed a parent, I ushered my mom and dad into the front row. The priest raised an eyebrow at me as he questioned whether or not I was the mother of the baby. Oh right. Sometimes I forget that I was not just a gestational carrier, that I am not just keeping the baby terrorist alive until her real mother returns. Sheepishly, I traded places with my mom and took my rightful spot next to my husband as the actual parental units.


He then proceeded to ask what we were asking of the church today. I knew there was going to be a pop quiz! I was not prepared. I started to sweat profusely. My heart raced. I am such a fraud, I am hardly Catholic, I didn't know there was going to be a test, I didn't study...I opened and closed my mouth soundlessly, at a loss for words (which is a rare occurrence for this babbling Brooke) and gave an alarmed look at my husband. He looked at me, worried that perhaps I was having a stroke, and answered the priest.


"We are here to baptize our daughter," he said calmly.


Oh, right. That's what we're here for. Well that was a trick question! Anyone could have been fooled by that. I gathered my composure, sat up straight, and assumed what I thought was the air of a no nonsense mother there to guarantee her child a coveted spot in heaven.


"And what name have you chosen for your child?" the priest asked.


SHIT! I didn't know I was supposed to pick out a NAME! I racked my brain quickly for a nice sounding Catholic name. I should have paid closer attention in my high school religion classes. All that Vacation Bible School wasted. Ruth? Esther? Esther! That's a good one! I opened my mouth to shout my well thought out choice when I heard my sister say slowly -


"Reeeeeaaaaagannn..." with a sidelong glance in my direction.


Wow. The answer was that easy, huh. I just had to tell the priest her real name. Again, what a trick question! That priest was shifty, I am telling you. I quickly regrouped, hoping that God was too busy to read my thoughts, and left the question answering to my husband and sister for the remainder of the ceremony.


So though it wasn't without a hitch, the baby terrorist was upgraded to a Holy Terror and this mama was reminded that I am in serious need of some salvation.