I have spent the last several days introducing you to my children.
And honestly, that part was easy.
I could probably write an entire book about each of them.
I know their strengths. Their weaknesses. Their favorite things. Their quirks. The things that make them laugh. The things that make them cry. The things they do that drive me absolutely insane.
I know who they are underneath the version of themselves that most of the world gets to see.
But then I got to the part where I was supposed to introduce myself.
And I realized something.
I have absolutely no idea how to do that.
I could give you the facts.
I’ve been a mom since I was 17. I’m a realtor. I’m an HHA for one of my children. I’m a former healthcare worker, former banker, full-time mom, professional chauffeur, short-order cook, referee, therapist, advocate, homework helper, sports spectator, coffee enthusiast and apparently the person responsible for explaining the human anatomy to my children approximately seventeen thousand times a day.
I love music.
I love pizza, although my diabetes and pizza are currently in a very complicated relationship.
I drink entirely too much coffee.
I swear.
I’m stubborn.
I’m loud.
I’m probably a little chaotic myself.
And apparently, according to my children, I’m also dangerous.
But none of those things really answer the question:
Who am I?
So I decided to ask the people who have had a front-row seat to my entire existence.
My kids.
Apparently, this is what they think of me.
Lucious:
“You’re beautiful. You’re good. You have some very long hair. You make me surprise chicken nuggets and that makes me go crazy fast. You’re literally cooler than the black hole. You’re cooler than the garbage! The garbage isn’t even close to being as cool as you are! And you’re almost fatter than Arkey.”
Thanks, kid.
I think.
Kalliope:
“Mommy is happy. Sometimes you be angry because we can be mad. Sometimes you need to take a deep breath. I’d tell them you’re ugly. I’d also say I love my mom.”
At which point Lucious immediately jumped in:
“Did she say you’re ugly?! Bruh, you’re beautiful! Don’t listen to her, Kalli is lying!”
Kalliope’s response?
“No! I AM beautiful, not Mommy. You’re my best mommy!”
So apparently my three-year-old thinks I’m ugly, but I’m still her best mommy.
I’ll take it.
Landon:
“Uhhh… I’m not good at this stuff. Butttt I think you’re very caring and kind when the mood is right. You can be tough and stubborn, but honestly all parents should have a little bit of that in them. But otherwise all I can see is the effort you put into trying to keep us all happy, making stuff work even if your money is tight. If I had to describe you in three words, I would use caring, tough and helpful.”
Hudson:
“Weird. Chaotic. Person that forces me to do chores. Loves me too much.”
Then, apparently realizing he had been entirely too nice:
“You don’t have any good qualities. JUST JOKING. Your best quality is making food.”
He then proceeded to explain that I drive him absolutely crazy by kissing him, while apparently he drives me crazy by invading my personal space, which means we have somehow created a never-ending cycle of making each other uncomfortable.
His final three words?
“Cruel, mean, and loving.”
Fair enough.
Schylar:
“You’re nice and people are going to love you. You always show up for people. You make me talk and that drives me absolutely crazy. Umm… you may actually know everything about yourself, I really don’t know. You’re kind, caring, and dangerous.”
Kind. Caring. And dangerous.
Apparently that’s my official character assessment.
And honestly?
I think they’re onto something.
So… Hi. I’m Mom.
I’m the Chaos Crew Coordinator.
I lay out the rules.
I make them do chores.
I referee arguments.
I make meals from scratch because feeding four boys—three of whom are now old enough to eat like grown men—is significantly cheaper when I buy ingredients instead of convenience meals.
I answer approximately 9,000 questions a day.
I listen to stories about video games, sports, school, friendships, feelings, and apparently penises.
I make sure they know they’re safe, even when making them feel safe means sometimes letting them look at me like I’m the biggest asshole they’ve ever met.
I take care of everyone else’s needs while trying to remember that I have needs too.
I’m a Type 1 diabetic, which is basically a full-time job I never applied for.
I’m Louie’s HHA.
I’m a realtor and spend a good portion of my weekends at open houses.
I’m a mom.
And somewhere underneath all of that, I’m still trying to figure out who Bry is.
But I wasn’t always this version of myself.
I’ve been taking care of people for as long as I can remember.
As the oldest daughter, I was the second-in-command in my family. At fourteen, I started volunteering at a nursing home. After Schylar was born, I worked in an Alzheimer’s facility, then spent several years doing home health care.
Eventually I moved into banking and stayed there for five years.
It was a good job.
But something was missing.
After Hudson was born, I realized I was spending more on daycare than I was actually making at the end of the week. So I stayed home with the kids while their dad worked.
And then my Grandmom got cancer.
My Grandmom deserves her own introduction.
Because if you really want to understand me, you have to understand her.
She was my first best friend.
She was the kind of person who showed up.
It didn’t matter who had hurt her. It didn’t matter whether you were the garbage man or the CEO of a company. She treated people with the same love, dignity and care.
She was one of those people who made you feel like you mattered simply because you were standing in front of her.
And she was the person who taught me, without ever sitting me down and teaching me, what it means to care for someone.
When she got sick, I became her caretaker and her medical power of attorney.
And somewhere during that time, I learned something that would follow me into the rest of my life:
Taking care of someone doesn’t mean making decisions for them.
Sometimes it means fighting like hell to make sure they get to make their own decisions.
I loved my Grandmom more than I can explain.
But I didn’t want to keep her here because I wasn’t ready to lose her.
She was in pain.
And I wanted her wishes to matter.
So I fought for them.
I advocated for her.
I made sure people listened to what she wanted, even when what she wanted was incredibly difficult for the rest of us to accept.
And I am still proud of that.
She passed away six years ago.
I still go to call her.
Sometimes my brain forgets for just a second that I can’t.
And then reality catches up.
I actually have her handwriting tattooed on my arm, so in a way, she really is still with me every single day.
I was pregnant with Lucious when she passed.
And sometimes I wonder if life was preparing me for what came next.
Because after she was gone, I became the advocate for a little boy who needed someone willing to look past what everyone else saw and ask:
“But what if there’s more going on here?”
And there was.
Then came more loss.
Then Kalliope.
And somewhere along the way, I realized that maybe the lessons weren’t finished just because my Grandmom was gone.
Maybe I was still learning from her.
I still am.
Kalliope changed me in a different way.
For most of my life, I was incredibly good at taking care of everyone else.
I would bend over backward.
Move things around.
Make myself uncomfortable.
Say yes when I wanted to say no.
Do whatever I needed to do to keep everyone else happy.
And then I had a daughter.
And suddenly I started asking myself a different question:
“Would I be okay with Kalliope doing this?”
Would I be okay with her accepting this treatment?
Would I want her to abandon herself to make someone else happy?
Would I want her to ignore her own boundaries because she was afraid of disappointing someone?
If the answer was no, I had to start changing the way I lived too.
Because she’s watching me.
They’re all watching me.
And I don’t want my children to learn that loving people means losing yourself.
I want them to know that you can be kind and have boundaries.
You can help people and still help yourself.
You can be strong without becoming hard.
You can admit when you’re wrong.
You can ask for help.
You can change your mind.
You can grow.
And that’s really what we’re doing here.
Growing.
Together.
I don’t have motherhood figured out.
I don’t have life figured out.
Half the time I don’t even know what we’re having for dinner until approximately five minutes before everyone starts asking me what’s for dinner.
But I do know this:
I am still learning.
My children are still learning.
We’re adapting together.
We’re making mistakes together.
We’re apologizing.
We’re laughing.
We’re occasionally yelling.
We’re drinking sports drinks and entirely too much coffee.
We’re helping people whenever we can.
We’re learning that being there for everyone doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to take care of ourselves, too.
And we’re doing our best.
It’s messy.
It’s loud.
It’s exhausting.
It’s sometimes completely inappropriate.
It’s full of footballs and soccer balls, therapy appointments, medical equipment, dirty socks, water bottles shoved behind beds, princess dresses, video games, sports practices, sensory breaks, coffee, crockpots, laughter, tears, and approximately 14,000 conversations happening simultaneously.
But underneath all of it is love.
A ridiculous amount of love.
So maybe I’m still not very good at telling you exactly who Bry is.
Maybe that’s okay.
One day these kids will grow up.
They’ll move out.
They’ll build their own lives.
And when that happens, I’ll have plenty of time to figure out who I am outside of being their mom.
But right now?
I’m theirs.
And I’m pretty damn happy with that.
So, hi.
I’m Bry.
Mom.
Chaos Crew Coordinator.
Kind.
Caring.
Tough.
Helpful.
Weird.
Chaotic.
Apparently dangerous.
And according to Lucious, cooler than the garbage.
Honestly?
I’ll take it.
Welcome to our chaos. ❤️