My son got a new scar that he’s likely to have for the rest of his life:

We were at the park when he fell. I was with a friend, I was laughing and sipping coffee. I glanced up at him. Because I knew on some motherly level something was about to happen. And seconds later he fell. My heart sank, and my legs wobbled under me. I picked him up and turned him over expecting to see a gush of blood and sand being spewed out his mouth, and I saw none. For a split second I was relieved…until the blood dripped off  his forehead. In a valiant effort to stop the bleeding, I removed my clothing and tied it around his head. There I was, in the middle of the park, topless. Thankfully I had a reliable cardigan stashed in my stroller to keep me from being indecent.

We raced to the doctor’s and they strapped him down like he was a wild monkey. I cried. He cried. The doctor stitched. The nurse held my hand, and later gave me orange juice because she was afraid I was about to faint. I suppose when you see a hole in your baby’s head, you tend to get a little woozy.

15 minutes later he had all but forgotten the torturous experience, maybe it was the healing powers of an Elmo cupcake, or the short term memory loss of being a toddler.  I however, was still out of breath, sweaty, and panicky.

Berlyn drew a picture of me hugging a heart.

I like my side pony and lack of neck.

We finally got a new car. It’s big and mommish. And I love it.

And when it rains it’s poetic.

Berlyn turned 5 yesterday against my will.

We made it our goal to make her feel special all day, and we started by decorating her room while she slept.

Then there were donuts with sprinkles, a pedicure date with me, presents to unwrap, new books to read, and an ice cream sundae.

To say she was excited would be understating it.

A wish was made and another year was completed.

Happy birthday indeed.

What’s new with you?

You’ve become a wrecking ball in the morning, clumsily swinging your bad mood ball into me and your daddy and anything else that gets in your way. You used to be chirpy and giddy in the mornings; a present day Snow White, kissing blue birds and waving at the sunshine, but now you stomp into our bedroom and smack the mattress right by my head to wake me up. It’s about as pleasant as having an inflamed eyelid zit.

You say, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY!” until I say, “Yes Berlyn?” and I have to remind myself to take a slow steady breath when I deal with you, because if not I’ll turn into an evil beast with a low booming voice that makes your eyes widen with fear and trembling.

You’re abrasive with your brother; always crushing his baby spirit by saying things like, “NO! You’re doing it wrong, Hudson! The song goes: ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ not ‘Weenkle Weenkle’!”

Oh, and then there’s the times when you cry, and that’s the worst, Because it’s your fake cry, and your fake cry makes me want to real cry, and other times your fake cry makes me laugh. I should apologize, but it’s true. It’s one of those things that you’ll understand when you have children of your own.

And lastly, let’s not forget this conversation that you like to have with me every week or so, “Mommy, I love you times 100, but I love Daddy times 1000.”

*Gulp*

But because I know you’ll read this someday and think, Um Mom, didn’t you have anything nice to say about me?!

I will have this to say: as I think back on your five years of life, I am reminded of the verse in Proverbs, “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”

As much as I think I’m teaching you about life, your ABC’s and that a one cannot sustain proper health on jelly beans and Ritz crackers alone, you are teaching me about life.

You have taught me what it means to love wildly and without conditions, being born first you have taught me what it means to be a mother and a woman, you have taught me how to truly be giving and selfless, even when I’m tired and headachy, and I think I’m all out nurturing, I still have some left for you.

I always have some left for you, because you are my dear one. And I’ve loved you from the moment I first nuzzled your newborn head against my flustered and sweaty cheek.  And since then, you have captivated me with your wit, your laughter, your funny faces and your creativity. You are adorable with your words, and always have something silly to share with me. I am amazed at how you can do so much on your own. Just now, you read two books to me all by yourself before I tucked you into bed. Your babiness has all but slipped away, and I now have a beautiful little girl as my daughter.

You have defined my role in this world, and you keep me humble and sane.

So thank you Berlyn for teaching me how to be a mommy.

I love you times 1000.

Want to see all Berlyn’s birthday posts?

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Because apparently the rumpled hair, my pillow-creased-angry-about-being-alive-face, and my bra-less chest isn’t getting the point across.

I need that Garfield shirt where his eyes are half open, his coffee cup is steaming, and the phrase, If people were meant to pop out of bed, we’d all sleep in toasters written on it.

It’s not that big of a deal while I’m home doing my morning shuffle throughout my halls, but it becomes a problem when I open the door, and blast my retinas with full blown sunshine and morning propaganda. It’s all that cheery chirping from the birds, and dew on the roses that really gets to me. Stupid morning dew on a flower. Flowers are dumb. But since my dog requires a walk in the morning, and because I know how much it sucks to hold in your twosies, I oblige her. I usually take with me a camel pack of coffee and Hudson tags along riding his bike.

I like to let the brisk air and the bright sunshine slowly (slowly being the operative word) wake me up and turn me into an actual human being and not the sleep zombie I wander around as before I brush my teeth and demand things from my husband in an unrecognizable diction:

ughh annnt paakass.

What?

paannkasss!

Huh?

PAAANKAASS!

But in my mind the conversation is more like:

Hey, wouldn’t it be nice if we had pancakes this morning?

What?

Pancakes.

Huh?

Pancakes.

So imagine if you will, a troll that has been living under a bridge and hasn’t see the light of day for the last 20 years, and then add some more boils and dread locks and a moth eaten Dr. Huxtable sweater with an old mustard stain, and you have me, circa 7:24 in the morning, walking the neighborhood with a pug, a bag of shit, and a toddler rolling around on a bike. I basically scream, “PLEASE COME TALK TO ME!!”

No?

Then why do all the people insist on talking to me?

It’s always fellow dog walkers, and we’re both holding steamy bags of poo, and we lift them up to each other as if to say, you got poop in there? Me too! High five-poo edition. But then they inch closer (because their dog has an uncontrollable craving to smell my dog’s anus, but all my dog wants to do is scout the ground for bits of goldfish crackers and dead grasshoppers), and usually the owner likes to fill in the butt sniffing silence with some banter.

My dog likes your dog.

(Grunts)

What’s your dog’s name?

Zoey.

What kind of dog is Zoey?

Pug.

Oh, yeah, she looks like the dog from Men in Black. Haha, that dog was the best. Pugs are cool. Wait, wasn’t that dog an alien? I’ve heard that pugs snore a lot, isn’t that loud? If my dog snored all the time, I’d probably make her sleep outside.

***

Annnd that’s usually my cue to shrug my shoulders and walk away. It’s a little rude, I know, but so is talking to a troll that hasn’t seen the light of day in 20 years.

We don’t want just any car, we want a specific car. Color, price, seat configuration, and the ability to park itself, because parking is really hard these days, there’s all that turning left and then turning right, and who has the time for that? I have to check Facebook and put on lip gloss.

So we found a car we like, OH and did I mention it’s pre-owned? That’s the fancy hyphenated word they use these days to mean used. That’s right USED. It’s like sloppy seconds. But I’m okay with that, because someone’s sloppy seconds is another person’s treasure. Plus the depreciation of a new car is staggering, and I’d prefer to be unstaggered, thankyouverymuch. So we found the car we wanted online and here’s the conversation I had with Pat over iChat about it:

Pat: Are you okay with knowing that the car lived in Vegas for 8 months?

Me: What?!

Pat: So drugs and strippers

Me: We’ll just have to ask Marcus-the-car-dealer about that. But we might just be waisting his time because his email signature says that he’s the Maybach Relations Manager.

Pat: Well shoot.

Me: We should test drive a Maybach while we’re at it.

Pat: Sure and I can say to Marcus, “So what’s the main difference between this and the used car we were looking at again, I mean, apart from $300k?”

Me: I think it comes with it’s own butler.

Pat: It comes with a hip hop record contract

Pat: So back to the Vegas car, you’re not at all worried about cocaine residue on the dashboard?

Me: Well kind of, and what if there’s stripper juice embedded in the seats? That stains you know?

Pat: I don’t know, but I trust your experience in the area.

Me: I have no experience with stripper juice. I have dabbled in body glitter though. I just hope it doesn’t smell like axe body spray and chimpanzee hair. It’s a good deal, but I bet a lot of babies were conceived in that car.

Pat: It’s possible

Me: Are we prepared to play hardball? You know buying a car is all a game. It’s like dating. We have to play hard to get.

Pat: Oh crap, maybe you should take the lead, I was bad at dating.

Me: The main thing is you have to act uninterested and give them a few backhanded complements, like this, “Your water is refreshing, which is good because it takes away from the uninspiring logo you had glued to the bottle.” Or “I noticed your tie is crooked, but maybe that was the look you were going for because your teeth are crooked too. And matching is very important these days.”

Pat: We should make them get us champagne.

Me: And champagne for our kids too, they wouldn’t drink it, but we want them to feel fancy by holding it.

Pat: “Hey, my daughter really wants a cigarette. Who around here can get her a cigarette?!”

Me: Alright. I think we crossed a line. Too far?

Pat: Ya, we went too far.

“Why did you park all crooked? Now I can’t even open my door without hitting the wall.”

“I didn’t park crooked, I parked correctly. The word you are looking for is cor-rec-tly. If you parked this neat and straight every time it wouldn’t seem so foreign to you now.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever your mom.”

Yup. It completely vanished.

I’m talking about those vacation goggles you wear when you’re abroad with your mate and everything about them is splendid and romantic.

It’s like a suspended reality where you can say things like, “I really like your sweater,” and there’s no fear of it being misconstrued as an ironic jab sent to destroy your self confidence for the rest of the day by making you question the top half of your wardrobe. Is it just that it’s a little bunchy around my armpits? Or is the color all wrong? That’s it, I’m donating this sweater when I get home.

I blame the kids.

Most of the time they’re awesome, but the rest of the time they make me uptight and snappy. Not snappy in a good way where you move to the beats in your head, but snappy in the way where I want to punch people in the mouth all the time. But I don’t because I’m well-adjusted. Instead I make quips. Mainly to the dog. Calling her a selfish wanker and a fat turd really takes the edge off. That’s what dogs are for, right?

We went to Big Sur for Pat’s birthday.

Talk about taking the edge off. Especially following Christmas massacre of 2011  the birth of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior.

I think we should take a vacation a day after Christmas every year. It’s like a Christmas detox.

And being in the great outdoors is the perfect detox from a slew of towering plastic toys brimming out of our playroom and cascading all over every inch of my home.

Yay! Toys…

Next year I’m getting my kids a box of sticks and an old corn cob. Because you don’t need to take the batteries out of your remote control to power a corn cob.

But a nice trip away was perfection.

We even braved a flat tire on the side of Highway 1 with no cell reception, a damaged spare tire, and no one to help for miles, and we giggled about it.

Giggled.

If that happened while we were at home there would be no such laughter, we’d be placing blame and pointing fingers, and there would be tears, a fire, possibly a polar bear wearing a top hat, definitely a rifle, and the whole thing would end in blood.

But we laughed it off (after we realized we weren’t going to die, and after I chewed half of my hair off), and enjoyed our ride down the coast in a tow truck with Greg our surprisingly informative driver who told us everything we ever needed to know about elephant seals, topography and politics.

So, in conclusion, go on a trip after Christmas, and be sure to wear your vacation goggles, but try not to take them off  too soon when you get home, and hopfully some of that vacation cheer will spill over into your real life, and watch out for polar bears in top hats, and be sure to floss, and always use short consice sentences instead of run-on sentences, because run-on sentences can make you appear disorganized and uneducated, and get your kids sticks and corn cobs for Christmas next year, they’ll appreaciate your effort of not making them into entitled little brats, plus maybe there wouldn’t be so many of those stupid matchbox cars EVERYWHERE that make you say unsavory words when you step on them.

The end.

Hudson was sick and as a responsible parent I declined plans to party in L.A. Don’t press me any further on the details of this alleged party in L.A., because I might just fold and tell you that our very posh sounding plans included bringing our two kids to our friends’ house to party with their two kids. We were in for a veritable mish-mash of eating too many goldfish crackers and being over served on apple juice. But after the children went to bed, I was sure there would be friendship, smoked meats, and drunken texts, possibly containing a photograph of me sitting AC-Slater-style on a kitchen chair giving the camera phone my white girl version of a gang sign and sexy eyes. I can’t be too sure, because none of this happened. Remember, Hudson was sick and I was being responsible, and yada, yada, yada…?

So instead we sat at home for a while and Pat taught Berlyn how to play video games, which mainly looked like her sitting contently on the couch while he played. Berlyn, starving for fatherly affection, and Pat looking to beat his top score. It’s basically a sentiment for a greeting card company. “There’s no other kid in the world that I’d rather sit on the couch with while I play this awesome racing game.”

Bonding at it’s best. But somehow it works, because they both equally love it.

And as Hudson slept, I wept over throwing away my 2011 Pug Wall calendar. How on earth am I supposed to know what day it is without pug dressed as a turn-of-the-20th-century-newsy reminding me??

When we tired of loafing around the house and feeling sorry for ourselves, we went to Laguna Beach for some sunset and sushi.

After the sunset it looked like the Orange County rendition of Gorillas in the Mist. I look just like Sigourney Weaver minus the perm and cargo shorts, and my children are naturally the gorillas in this scenario.

After we came home and bathed the gorillias kids, it seemed like the perfect time to watch the Smurf Movie  (is there ever not a perfect time to watch the Smurf Movie?) with our children, and because that movie is basically a mental thriller, I was tired and ready for bed. At 9:23. On New Year’s Eve.

That’s it folks.

I went to bed for New Year’s Eve.

While all you cooler people instagr.amed your party pictures, I was sleeping.

While all of you banged pots and pans at the stroke of twelve, I was wearing my anti-TMJ nightguard and drooling on my tempra-pedic pillow.

While you were all clanking your champagne glasses together and lighting sparklers, I was having dreams of David Hasselhoff wrestling a giant spider wearing a speedo.

Clarification: the spider was wearing the speedo.

So happy 2012.

Hope you had a great year.

I did, even though I slept through most of it.

And are we in consensus on how to say 2012?
Do we sound douchy and say twenty-twelve?

Or old fashioned and say two-thousand-twelve?

Decisions, decisions.

Because I suck at making decisions,

Happy MMXII everybody!

Now that he’s two I can finally cut it out with that month crap.

But I don’t know if I’m ready to let go of that babiness you get when you count each month. It’s as if you pat yourself on the back for surviving each arduous 30 day stretch. Each time you complete a new month you’re out of breath, two pounds heavier, and you discover a new piece of crap smeared somewhere on your clothing. A new month becomes synonymous with a gold medal.

But now everything is less new and Hudson is less of a baby.

He’s TWO. It’s like POOF! All of a sudden he’s a kid now.

I suppose if I wanted to, I can keep it up. You know, that whole counting the months business.

Oh, he’s so cute, how old is he?

Thanks, he’s 24 months.

So, two?

Um no, actually he’s 24 months.

***

True story, I was at a park and met a mother who told me her daughter was 33 months. What? What does that even mean? I looked at her like she was speaking creole and asked me if I wanted a bowl of snake soup.

Huh? So 12 goes into 33 um…two times with a remainder of who the hell cares.

I pretended like I got a phone call and then avoided eye contact with her for the rest of our park-time. It was the right thing to do.

I remember when I was pregnant with Hudson and I kept worrying that I wouldn’t love him nearly as much I as love Berlyn. Like we’d get a dog house and put it in the garage, and that’s where he’d sleep. I was so wrapped up with the fact that I had one child, much like I have one husband, and I didn’t think I had any more room in my heart.

Crazy thing about children, is your love capacity just gets bigger. I was thinking about it all wrong, I thought I just had one cup to fill up and because it was already brimming over with love for Berlyn, I couldn’t possibly fit more in, but instead I got a whole new cup to fill up. Cheers to that.

Or maybe you don’t like the cup analogy. Maybe you’re more of a tech person, so for you, I got another hard drive to fill up with data.

Well however you slice it, I got more. Like that guy on TLC that has 4 wives, except with him, instead of feeling all warm and fuzzy, you feel creepy and dirty.

Anyways…

Hudson is my squishy snuggler. He’s sweet and precious and always gives me a warm hug, except if I ask for it, then he says nope. And that’s cool. I appreciate his straightforwardness and honesty.

All he wanted was a cukcape for his birthday, and when it was finally time to eat it, this was how he decided to take it down it.

Awesome.

Happy birthday Hudson Jack. I love your sweet spirit, your gentle heart, and your patience. You are so loving. You’re funny, and helpful. I love to have a conversation with you, you listen attentively and say, “okay mommy.” You love to read books, play with your sister, and throw cars down the hallway. You have a love/hate relationship with the dog, and honestly we all do. You hate having your diaper changed, and wearing clothes, I can relate, because I think pants are the worst, unless they’re stretchy. You like to sit and paint, and I can already see your potential for the arts. I love your dazzling blue eyes and your adorable giggles. You are a joy and a dream come true. I love you more every day.

Happy birthday my sweet Hudson.

This is the time when us Brumfields look back and congratulate ourselves on a pretty good year. Pretty good because no one contracted a life threatening disease, everyone’s limbs are still attached, and most of us still have our stunning good looks. If I had to give 2011 a letter grade, I’d give it a B+ with the comments: diligent, strong work ethic, but needs to be encouraged to listen and pay attention in class. But that last part is only because I’m kinda spacy.

We started out the year celebrating Berlyn’s 4th birthday on February 1st, with a all-princess-all-the-time day at Disneyland, and I was picking fake princess hair off my sweater for weeks.

Then a very shocking and somewhat appalling thing happened in our home that shook the fabric of our family to the very core: Pat moved his company, Normalcy, Inc. out of the spare bedroom and into an office in Old Town Irvine. Four years of having him home, helping me reach tall things, open jars of peanut butter, and “watch” our napping children while I ran out to the gym or to get my nails done were all over in a flash. At first I felt lonely and a bit betrayed, but after a week, I started to settle in to the adjustment, and, shhhh, just between you and me, I kind of like it.

In March we celebrated our 6th wedding anniversary with loads of fattening food and intentional conversation.

Then some other stuff happened, and then it was summer. Berlyn completed her first year of preschool and I feel like I should mention Hudson, because I’m like 4 paragraphs in and I haven’t mentioned him yet. He’s pretty awesome, and while I don’t have anything important to add per se, it would behoove you to know that most of the time Hudson just chills out like a boss.

Berlyn took up swimming in the summer and was basically a modern Esther Williams in the water, only with more protective eyewear and less waterproof make-up.

I had a few blogging wins this year. I was in a GM commercial that is on their website, and because I really needed to get into character they let to drive a fancy Cadillac CTS-V coupe around for a week. I was featured in an Orange County magazine called Parenting OC, and I went to BlogHer’11 in San Diego. Which is this huge blogging conference where I made new friends, danced like a rock star, and didn’t apply any of the new stuff I learned in the conference into my blog. I did, however, score 4 giant tote bags full of free stuff which may or may not have included a loaf a bread…jealous??

I also went on a New England cruise with my wacky family, but I left my husband and children at home. I was gone a little over a week soaking up my Canadian heritage in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and when I say soaking up, I mean living off a diet of pale ale and maple syrup. We also stayed in Maine, Boston, and New York City.

Plus in the summer I worked in a Newport Beach salon as an assistant for a few months. Whaaa?! Working mother? Crazy, I know, but It was one day a week, so basically it was perfect.

We went to Disneyland 464 times, which is weird because a year is only 365 days, but believe me, the math all adds up to we were there a lot.

And when we weren’t at Disneyland we were at the beach, and we went CAMPING for the first time as a family! We got bit by bugs, roasted marshmallows, and sang Kumbayah ’round the campfire.

Berlyn started her second year of Montessori preschool in the Fall, and this is the point where I feel like I should mention Hudson again. He’s still an awesome dude, and he wants you to know that he enjoys coming with me when we take Berlyn to school and pick her up. He especially likes picking her up, and always has a happy hug waiting for her. It’s precious really. They genuinely like being together, and I’m so glad I have two kids, because they watch each other. Yeah, it’s like that old math equation you did in school where two kids equal one babysitter. They’re always playing, and most of the time they are playing together so well that I’ll sneak off to take a shower and when I get out, I find them curled up on the couch and Berlyn is reading Hudson a story. I mean, can my heart swell any more?

For Halloween they both wanted to be some form of Lightening McQueen. Which is a character from Cars, this Disney movie that has taken all of my money and dreams of having my children form a Von Trapp-like band.

So they dressed as the Lightening McQueen pit crew.

The week of Thanksgiving we rented an RV and jaunted up the California and Oregon coast with our friends, the Moens (who had their own separate RV). We were in search of the perfect beer. We call it our Brew-cation, and it was epic. Tons of breweries, good friends, and amazing sights. Everyone in the world should go on a Brew-cation. Like right now, go. You’ll love it. Promise.

And then we had our Mattson Creative/Normalcy Christmas party in VEGAS. Which should legally be changed into all-caps and two (or more, depending on your level of excitement) exclamation points. VEGAS!! Like that. It’s like you say it like a 22 year-old frat boy who’s had one too many jager shots. We, however abstained from jagermeister, but had an amazing time and left feeling grateful for the incredible friends we have in our lives. Oh, and we also got married again.

Today, the 21st of December, we celebrate Hudson’s 2nd birthday. And I think he’s pretty excited about it. It’s a day that will combine all his favorite things, cake, ripping stuff, and being the center of attention.

And 8 crazy days after that, Pat turns 30!!

Don’t even try to throw him a surprise party because I’m taking him up to Big Sur for a few days. Plus I think he kind of likes feeling left out of the birthday fanfare. Everyone still has a mean case of the ham-burps, and they’re still a bit chubby from eating too much of Aunt Jacky’s fudge to get off the couch that Pat goes overlooked every year, but he reaps his reward during the rest of the year when people are so racked with guilt he can sucker them into almost anything. So it’s a win-win.

Well I hope your year was a win-win too.

Take care, we like you all a lot, and beware of the ham-burps this Christmas.

Peace, love and joy,

The Brumfields

But for me it totally is because I haven’t been there since I was mere fledgling, barely legal, and navigating this big crazy world of sin, alcohol, and gambling. I remember getting separated from my friends one night, and then I got directions and unsolicited fashion advice from a Marilyn Monroe drag queen named Marilyn MANrow.

I remember walking down the strip barefoot because I was dancing in heels and my feet hurt so bad, I remember fearing that I was going to catch an STD from using a toilet, and I remember all the adverstisments for sex that men tried to hand to me as I walked.

Gross.

Well…I amended my vow because this time I’m an adult, and going to Vegas as an adult is so very different than going as a 21-year old. No McDonald chicken nuggets at 3 am, no sleeping on the ground in your friend’s hotel room, no dancing on bar tops…Wait…I might have a picture of that. Hang on.

(shuffles papers)

(knocks over boxes)

(Opens a jar)

(Starts making a sandwich)

Wait…what was I doing?

Oh yes, this:

At the time I thought I was the coolest person in the universe, especially having my stomach exposed. Can I get a “Whoo-hoo!” ? Yes, that’s me, with the short hair and navel piercing. Hot stuff. But looking back over the photo again, I see some momish ladies on the left and one of them looks like a 3rd grade teacher and the other one looks like my aunt, so apparently they let anyone dance on the bar. Ugh.

Cut to 10 years later, and I’m back, and ready for some responsible fun.

And clearly I’m having fun already with my saucy flight attendant, and we haven’t even left Orange County yet.

Zing! We're here.

Our first order of business was to learn to gamble. We played roulette and craps, and I'm pretty sure it's illegal to take this picture, so shh don't tell anybody, mmmkay?

We saw Le Reve which was this dazzling acrobatic water show.

I hung out with some sexy ladies.

And Pat and I even got into the Christmas spirit. Potential Christmas card? I think so. We can always just photo shop our children in.

before

after

I'm sad to leave