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

If Left To Your Own Fashion Devices...

Dear Laney,

Since we weren't going to be leaving the house yesterday, I let you choose your own ensemble. Here's a little fashion math for you:

Dad's ankle socks + Dinosaur party hat + "Big girl pannies" = what you threw a fit to wear. No shirt. No tanks. 'Ont want to. Don' need shirt. NOOOO.

You're really into "The Land Before Time" this week, or - as you call it - "Di-saur movie." You like us all to wear dinosaur hats while you watch it.

When Dad came home, he brought in the mail and handed you another letter from your cousin Katie. You opened it yourself and then put it in your armpit and wouldn't let us see it. The way you were acting, Katie had just sent you a list of nuclear codes and the only thing keeping us from wiping out North Korea was the content of that candy-scented note. Because I am nosy, this made me nuts.

Laney: 'et's watch Di-saur movie

Mom: Ok. Can I see your letter from Katie?

Laney: No.

I begged, I pleaded, I bribed you with unlimited access to the TV, but no dice.

I have no idea where you've since hidden this note, so I guess the free world is safe for a few more days.

Love,

Mom

We've Got It Pretty Good

Dear Laney,

Sometimes, in the middle of all my complaining (which I would describe as "kvetching" if we lived somewhere I could buy a decent bagel) about the trials and tribulations of living in the boonies with a furry mountain man and a miniature tyrant, I forget to acknowledge just how blessed we are.

Just so it doesn't go without saying, your dad and I love each other very much, we adore you, we're already crazy about your brother and life is pretty great. I was reminded of this after I wrote that post about being exhausted and at wit's end, and then I got an e-mail from Clay Mercer that read something to the effect of, "If you're driving down the road in a $300K car, you can take a rock through the windshield now and then." It was a twisted metaphor and delightful reality check all at the same time.

Life is good. Amen.

Love,

Mom

Mystery = Solved.

Dear Laney,

This has nothing to do with you, BUT:

I'm a huge fan of Zac Brown of the Zac Brown Band. There is something about him I find so appealing, and this morning - while enjoying a bowl of Cheerios and one of his videos - I found myself pondering, "What is it about that guy that's so darn dreamy?"

And then I figured it out:

He basically looks like the third Burbach brother and/or 60% of the male population of Montana.

I can now reassure your dad that I won't be leaving him for a country music star, since I would basically be making a lateral move.

Ladies: If this if your type of dude, might I suggest you pack your belongings and move to Missoula County? You can't swing a dead cat in our Home Depot without hitting one of these jokers.

Love,

Mom

"Par" For The Course

Dear Laney,

You are a lesson in contrasts. You're a two year old who sleeps in her own queen-sized bed. You regularly defy serious injury by hanging on to monkey bars or speeding behind the dogs in a little bike carrier. You will steal toys from children much bigger than you. You will chase a goat and jump on a horse. For you, the best part of skiing is going downhill, when you tell everyone within earshot that you're "whooshing and zooming!" But our shameful secret is that you like to do all of these super-scary grown-up things with a pacifier in your mouth. Or, as you call it, your "par."

You know what it reminds me of when I see you doing something that would frighten a sixth grader while sucking on that stupid plastic thing? John Kruk, a former major league ballplayer who played first base for the Phillies and took his team all the way to the World Series, but said he couldn't do it without the enormous wad of chewing gum in his mouth. (This is the first and last sports comparison that will be made on this blog, so I hope you all enjoyed it.)

Over the past two years, we have bought and lost dozens of "pars," and are down to our last one. Yesterday, you left it at school, which your dad and I didn't realize until it was time for bed - right when you want your par the most. Our house became Cold Turkey City.

And I mean to tell you, things turned ug-leeee.

In the early 1980s, country music legend Waylon Jennings* was hooked on drugs and refused to check himself into a treatment facility. So his wife Jessi locked him in a cabin in the middle of the Arizona desert and let him sweat it out. I imagine that Waylon without cocaine looked a lot like you without your par last night. (That was the 600th country music comparison made on this blog, with probably thousands more to follow, so I hope you all enjoyed it).

We all made it through the night, and your dad and I woke up hoping that was the end of the Age of the Par. But the first words out of your mouth this morning were, "I need my par. I go Tracy's house and get it.

C'on, DAD! DAD!!! Esss GO! In da truck!!!

So while I'm hoping we've seen the last of your par, I'm keeping my expectations to a minimum.

Love,

Mom

* Your Granny Jack has an unparalleled love for Waylon. When he would get arrested on drug possession charges, she would buy another one of his albums to show her support. She loved him even though he was - gasp - a smoker. When I was about your age, she bought us matching Waylon Jennings T-shirts. Here I am in mine at Christmastime:

1979 was a very classy year.

Fun Fact

Dear Laney,

Tomorrow, ABC is airing an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition that I worked on. The episode is about bullying - how harmful it can be, how to identify it, and how to stop it. The show helped a mom whose son was a victim of bullying set up an anti-bullying organization and a website called Stand Together. I mention it on this blog because:

1) I designed the organization's logo:

2) I am NOT a graphic designer, so I made the logo using your construction paper, toddler safety scissors, and Crayola black marker. Then I ran it through our scanner and e-mailed it off.

When you get a little older, I will teach you words like "royalties" and "reimbursement" and "residuals." Until then, thanks for letting us borrow your stuff.

Love,

Mom

What? No. I'm up. I'm up...

Dear Laney,

I promise nothing blog-worthy has happened in the past three days. Or maybe it has, and I didn't notice because I'm averaging four hours of sleep a night. Your brother plays hacky sack with my innards until 12:30am, and then you've started getting up at 4:30am, demanding some combination of hot chocolate, dinosaur movies, and potty breaks. It's enough to make me want to check in to the Hilton with a bottle of Ambien a good book and not come out for a few days.

I don't know if it's the foul weather or your crazy sleep schedule, but you seem to always be in one of those moods where stuff like this comes out of your mouth: "NOOO! I don' LIKE milk!!" (2 millisecond pause) "WHERE'S MY MILK!!?!?!?" I don't know, Sybil.

It snowed for most of last week, then on Sunday it rained all night. So all this week, we've had a driveway that looks like a perfectly groomed hockey rink. I've fallen, you've fallen, we've intermittently lost power. Yesterday, I was looking out the kitchen window at the slushy, grey outside world, counting the hours 'til your bedtime (9), and months 'til summer (6), when I realized I felt exactly like Bill Murray in the movie Stripes, right after he loses his job, his car is repossessed and his girlfriend leaves him:

But here are some random happenings and announcements:

1) Your dad confessed that the paintings we put together for the grandparents that I gave him to mail have been sitting on his desk at work for over a week. He mailed them today. So, if you receive a note from us wishing you a Happy Thanksgiving, you'll know where to direct your bewildered looks. On the plus side, Thor says he's refunding 50% of your purchase price and throwing in free postage.

2)A few weeks ago, I changed obstetricians. The new guy is great, and we learned at our last appointment that he started his career as a Navy flight doctor. So now, while he's yanking out your brother in the delivery room, he and your dad can continue to swap stories about fixed wing this, and rotor wing that. Lucky me.

3) Potty training is going really well, with one minor kooky habit: When you decide you want to go, you pull your pants down wherever you are in the house, and then waddle to the bathroom with your pants stuck around your ankles like Tim Conway on the old Carol Burnett Show*. We ask if you want help, and you say, "No - I got it." We've tried explaining that you can, nay, should, wait 'til you get to the bathroom to pull down your pants, but you're having none of that rational nonsense.

4) Ella went to the vet yesterday and was diagnosed with minor arthritis. Or, as my paternal grandmother Mama Lee used to pronounce it, "Arthur Itis." It doesn't seem to be affecting Ella's intensive lie-around-and-eat-what-the-baby-drops schedule.

25 days 'til Christmas.

27 days 'til your brother is born.

18 years 'til my next decent night's sleep.

Love,

Mom

* No, I have no pop culture references more current than 1978.

...And Representing The United States:

Dear Laney,

Uncle Nate and Grandma Sue spent Thanksgiving night with us, so they were on hand when your cross-country ski lessons continued Friday morning.

You seem to enjoy it, and you grasped the basic concept right away. You even seemed to figure out that you need to put your skis in a "V" in order to make it uphill. When you did that, your dad started tossing around words like, "prodigy." I tried to tell him it's not quite the same caliber of event as those 3 year-old piano savants who sit down and bang out Mozart concertos, but there's no talking to him sometimes.

As much fun as this day was, it held a little sadness, too, because it was the last time we were all going to see Uncle Nate before he and Aunt Brynn move to Florida next month.

When we told you it was time to get off the skis, you did this:

..which is a good representation of how we all feel to be losing Uncle Nate.

See you all at the 2026 Winter Olympics.

Love,

Mom

Thanksgiving 2011

Dear Laney,

We had a fabulous Thanksgiving this year. We had Cedar and her family, Grandma Sue, and a special appearance by Uncle Nate.

We had turkey and dressing and green bean casserole and cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole and mashed potatoes and gravy and deviled eggs and boiled shrimp and a cheese tray. There was a homemade pumpkin pie and a cheesecake. And still, you found time to lick the Play Doh.

Mom: Laney, quit licking the Play-Doh

Laney: But is SO tasty.

Even though your dad was grilling both of our turkeys, I thought it was suspicious how much time the menfolk were spending outside. Then I discovered this ancient Montana secret:

You took a nap on your regular schedule, but we decided we would wake you up when lunch was ready. When someone wakes you up prematurely from your naps, you can often be - what's the word I'm looking for - unpleasant. Your dad and I didn't want you to miss out on the Thanksgiving meal, but we also didn't want to be the ones to go upstairs and poke the bear with a stick, either.

So we sent Cedar, who I think began to suspect she was being set up.

Uncle Nate was the gift that kept on giving, playing catch with you girls and making sure Rosie was Rung Around x 100.

After the big meal, Dad took you outside for your first real cross-country skiing lesson. Grandma Sue bought you these skis for Christmas last year when you were a little over one year old. At the time, I thought they were a crazy gift, but your dad thought they were awesome. "After all," he said at the time, "one day when she's being interviewed by Bob Costas before her Olympic debut, she can say, 'I only ever missed one winter, Bob.'"

This is the kind of thought process that's taking up the vital real estate in your dad's brain.

I know it seems ridiculous that people are wearing short sleeves in these photos, but with our little house filled with people and a cranked-up oven, the place was like a disco inferno all day, minus the disco. We all had to take turns going outside to cool off.

As evening approached, so did the turkey comas, so Cedar and family bid us good-night and headed home.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Love,

Mom

34 Days

GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENT:

Baby Boy Burbach (Name still TBD) is scheduled to be born on Dec 27th at 7:30am. Vegas odds are on this one being another whopper. Here in the Burbach house, we don't make no tiny babies.

I would encourage you all to be a little extra sweet between now and then, so God will be a little more inclined to take your prayers seriously. Go find an old lady and help her across the street, even if that's not where she was headed.

-Brooke

9-1-1 to Grandma Sue

Dear Laney,

A few years ago, your dad joined facebook, only to have his account hacked. All of his friends received a message that your dad had been kidnapped and taken to London, and if we each chipped in $200, the kidnappers would let him go. Like me, most of his friends figured he might enjoy a British getaway, and no one coughed up any money. Besides, flying to England from Boonieville, Montana probably takes a day and a half, and I had seen the man at breakfast.

As a general life rule, it's good to have a calm response when presented with a crisis situation which may or may not be real. Grandma Sue seems to have a firm grasp on this rule, since she didn't alert the authorities when you called her last night to inform her that you were being pursued by bears who (it was rumored) wanted to eat you.

What I especially love about this conversation is that you took the time to ask her about HER day, and to have some small talk about your Dora panties, before dropping the bomb about the bears. In the newspaper business, that's called "burying your lead."

So just a note to any/everyone that Laney might reach by hitting "redial" on our phone: We do not have bears in our house. At least not in the winter. Remain calm.

Love,

Mom

Meatpacking District

Dear Laney,

Your dad went hunting yesterday morning with Cedar's dad, and called us from the top of the mountain on his cell phone to let us know he appreciated the bagel sandwich we had packed for him, and that he had bagged a deer. You know, pretty much the way I imagine Davy Crockett and his wife did things.

I was smart enough this time around to not go inspect the contents of his truck bed, and instead to wait until he had cleaned and brought in the generic-looking segments of deer. At that point, I could pretend that he had just come from a big meat sale at Winn-Dixie.

I didn't intend to participate in this process, called - appropriately enough - "processing," but then I noticed that your dad's system was to put a chunk of meat on a piece of freezer paper, and then wrap it like a present. If there is one thing I LOVE, it's wrapping presents, a.k.a. The Best Part Of Christmas. Also, I love labeling things with a marker. I was able to overcome my squeamishness by pretending I was doing a Martha Stewart craft project.

Despite our impressive-looking final product, your dad and I will not be going into the deer processing business any time soon. To help us figure out exactly what we were wrapping up in those packets, I had to do a Google image search for "Venison Diagram," and tape it to the kitchen cabinet so we could follow along. Again, exactly like Davy Crockett and his wife used to do in the olden days.

To file under "You Just Can't Make This Stuff Up," the whole time your dad and I were in the kitchen working on the deer, you were in the living room watching an episode of Go, Diego, Go about Diego's efforts to rescue a whitetail deer.

Your dad and I felt so dirty. Sorry, Diego. You missed this one.

Love,

Mom