I Heart Mom

I woke up to a text from Auntie Linda.

“The Today Show told me we have until April 12th to upload one photo for the 2026 Gerber Baby Photo Search for a chance to win $50,000.”

Roughly ~3 minutes later~ a photo of Natalie Kate Gerber touting her Jessica Simpson robe & slipper set was submitted. 

Will they be biased and crown a real-life Gerber baby??? 

I hope so. 

A lot of time has passed since I last blabbed on this blog.

For one, I’m married!

For two, I have a baby!

For three, I have been co-parenting with my loving, thoughtful, caring, doting…mother.

Baseball season is in full-swing, which means Spring Training in Florida, and an 8-month long season to follow.

One day I’ll move back in with my third roommate, my husband.

But for now, Midnight Mom Chat has the AUX.

Kate was born in early January, and precisely one month later, Joey was gone. Spending the newborn days in a hotel with a dad who is at the field for 10 hours a day ***every***single***day makes for one tired mom, so that’s where my co-parent, Tracy Nicole, comes into play. 

I’ve been shacking it up with ma ‘n pa in Nashville for the last two months. They told me with their own four ears that they love the alarm of a crying baby and a breastfeeding daughter who is tired of staining every shirt she wears, so why wear shirts at all?!

It’s the California in me.

What’s it like becoming a wife, mom, and moving back in with your parents all in just about 14 months time?

SO easy, let me tell you. 

Despite a breakdown, or four, I’ve been doing really well!

But actually. 

My mom has saved me.

I love being a mom. 100%. BUT, I have a tendency to slap a smile on my face, push on, and bottle up my emotions until they erupt like a volcano and bury alive anyone in its wake.

Healthy, right?

Luckily, mother knows best.

I used to sleep next to my dog Copper’s kennel each night when he was a puppy because 1. my dad said so and 2. he said puppies need someone to sleep next to so they don’t get sad. 

A week into sleeping on the ground beside whimpering Copper, my mother found me crying in my bathroom. 

“I can’t do it anymore! I am tired. I am sad. It’s too hard to take care of Cooper. And I have to do it for the rest of my life?! I can’t. I can’t do it. We have to take him back.”

My mom consoled my 8-year-old self. Sure enough, Copper grew. He grew independent of me. I no longer had to sleep on the ground for weeks on end (honestly it was probably one night, let’s be real).

Thanks to little baby Kate, I remember the feeling well. Just me and Copper. Just me and Kate. In the middle of the night. With two twin beds smushed together. Back in the saddle. Gosh, I love looking at her face in the middle of the night. I love her big blinks when she’s falling in and out of consciousness. 

My mom used to stare at us when we slept. 

Creepy, huh?

I get why she sat on the floor, on the outside-hearing-in, listening to my older brother, John, play the guitar in his room. I get why she ran to my bedside, holding one butt cheek, as I writhed in pain from my sprained MCL and couldn’t get out of bed to use the bathroom, so she just kneeled down beside me and hoisted that sucker up til I summoned the strength to put pressure on my (barely) sprained knee.

Fun fact: I was a drama queen.

Who never had sprained or broken or torn any muscle or bone in her life. Still holds true. The worst was a stubbed toe after setting up a fake Olympic course in our house. I wanted to lose weight cuz I wanted a six-pack so I would clock a lap then immediately weigh myself to see if I made any progress. One hurdle over the couch and quick pivot against the jagged kitchen island corner…down went Frazier. Minutes later, I found myself rummaging through the dusty garage bins, locating my mom’s old bunion surgery boot, highjacking Luke’s or John’s (you never knew which one) crutches, clanking them down to the lowest height setting, and making my Mariah Carey entrance to the 5th grade school dance in style.

Yep— I still went. EVEN with a broken toe. The chance to dance with John-Paul Malham wasn’t going to be missed. 

Hi, JP! Who knew you’d be a recurring character in my blog? I did. 

Childhood was so fun.

Why? 

One common denominator.

One 32 year-long roommate of mine.

One spunky La La. 

My mom. 

She paved the way.

She showed me that you can be a liiiiiiiiiiiittle bit late to your 5th grade softball game if you and your best friend, Kate, were REALLY thirsty, and Coach Barlow wouldn’t know that “traffic was bad” unless she happened to be driving behind us, giving the evilest of eye as we turned into the “really short drive-thru line” for our chocolate milkshakes that we NEEDED. 

She taught me that we can bend a rule ***only if we’re starving and ***REALLY have to hook that illegal U-Turn, but she taught me more important things, too. 

She taught me that being a woman was beautiful. My tomboy self wanted to pee standing up like my brothers. I wanted to wear baggy shorts and have cornrows. I wanted to play in the NBA. I wanted to be the mom who had all boys. Because girls played with dolls and talked about their feelings at recess. Instead of lay out for a Hail Mary bomb from Jack Harrington and rip their knee cap open on a bleacher because Jack led me too far downfield, but my other knee was down before I let go of the ball. I, too, caught it, Dez. 

My mom celebrated me. Just cuz I was a girl who liked frying eggs on the 120° sidewalk with her brothers, playing the drums, and only invited boys to her 5th grade birthday party (except for Kate, I had to invite ONE girl), I learned how special being a woman was over time. 

My mom told me I could do things my way. Be a girl who leads (like her mom would), be the first to volunteer to read aloud in class (like her mom would), write blogs (like her mom would), and realize what a gift being a woman is.

That you, YOU!, can advocate for those without moms, who need a loving mom, who have daughters who need a fresh set of highlights, a new outfit from Justice, and an eyebrow wax to realize that being a woman is the most beautiful thing they can be.

This is my *seamless transition into advertising my brother’s blog, which he started back up a few weeks ago. This morning’s issue addressed a similar sentiment. The beauty of a woman needs to be protected, and God bless Luke for protecting the unprotected.

Read it here: https://lukekornet.medium.com/concerning-the-atlanta-hawks-0f07c62ea65e

Five girl grandbabies later, the Kornet and Gerber names might not be living on (yet), but the power of a woman has given me life. Literally. The strength of a child-bearing hipped woman. The love of a mother.

Can inspire like no other.

Can lead like no other.

Can protect like no other.

***except perhaps from a wolf 

***She told me one, late night walking our neighborhood in Kentucky, as wolves howled in the distance, “I will protect you if one charges at us. I will karate kick that wolf so hard it will cower in fear.”

Jazzercise can cause delusion. But Mom Power can fight wolves. 

I’m a woman.

I’m a mom.

We were born for this. 

*To note, the wolves were nowhere in sight. They also might have been coyotes. They were coyotes. 

But I felt protected.

Because my mom has a mean high kick.

And a heart hungrier than the wolves. 

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Jerseys

It all started underneath the twinkling lights of the Four Seasons cabana.

And by that I mean the 3am blinding lights of the Ft. Lauderdale airport.

Perhaps I’ve jumped along too far in my narrative and will have to backtrack quite a bit until we end up there, but I had to set the mood.

Game 4 of the Eastern Conference Finals finally ended with a W, and my sister-in-law and I needed a place to sleep before we made the trek back to Boston.

We had been bee-bopping back and forth from Boston to Miami to Little Rock to Albuquerque like it was nothin’, which turned out to be something after we checked our bank accounts. 

I had just wrapped a movie in New Mexico and was anxiously awaiting Game 7 of the Philly series to see where my fate lay. After a few minutes into the game, that shellacking told me to redirect my return flight to LA to Boston to cheer on the C’s against the Heat.

After an ugly 0-2 start, I quickly realized I was 100% to blame and needed to fly in reinforcements. My sis-in-law, Kori, would do. Of course, she had to be selfish and graduate from med school during Game 3, so I unselfishly decided to fly from Boston to Little Rock to support her in her selfish endeavors, so that I could gain brownie points and make her fly to Miami with me shortly thereafter. On a serious note, congrats, Kori, I could never. #Dr.K

To game 5 we go!

The C’s travel in style. Cue the Four Seasons cabana. After a fantastic victory with my good luck charm and big brother John in tow, we knew what our purpose was— travel to every single game with the team so that they stood a chance at victory. No, it wasn’t Derrick White or Rob Williams who sealed the deal. It was the dynamic duo of Kori and Nicole Kornet sporting #40 jerseys that brought home the dubs. This was a price we were willing to pay.

However, not too high a price.

The team checked out Saturday morning. AKA the free room we had was gone. We girls’ flights were not until Sunday morning.

Hellooooooooooo, Four Seasons cabana. We tanned, we sushi’d, we conquered. Until midnight hit. The squatters felt guilt. And by guilt, I mean Kori felt guilty because I have yet to feel such a feeling. 

S/o to the front desk receptionist who graciously allowed these stanky Kornet gals to lift & shower at the fourth floor Equinox before their sleepover underneath the Four Seasons cabana.

We lasted about an hour until Kori’s guilt-ridden conscience got the best of her.

To the Ft. Lauderdale airport we go!

It was around 1am at this point. The padded cabana bed felt like a flutter in the wind. We had the cold, bright, hard, airport floor to house the once 5-star hotel guests. Kori buried her head face-down into the nasty carpet. I lasted about an hour. For those of you who do not know, I don’t do well in the cold. I had to get out of there. 

To an outdoor bus bench I went!

Kori woke up around 3am. Saw where I once had lain about two hours earlier. A new patron was sprawled across my former armrest-less seat bed.

“That doesn’t look like Nicole,” Kori thought to herself.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t want to alarm you, but was there a tall, blonde girl lying here earlier?”

The very alarmed girl sprang up. “No,” she responded.

“How long have you been here?” Kori asked.

“Since about 3am.”

Looking at her watch, the time read 5am.

“Oh, crap. Nicole has been missing for two hours now.”

Kori scanned every hooded girl on the ground, paced the bathrooms, and zipped up and down the escalators, wincing at every “CAUTION HUMAN TRAFFICKING” sign slapped on every pole in sight. 

The brand new doctor with a fresh scar from an achilles surgery did not feel confident.

“What will I tell John when I have to tell him his sister has gone missing in Miami?”

As a last-ditch effort, Kori approached a gate agent.

Seeing the horror in my sister-in-law’s face, the nice check-in lady asked, “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

“Can you tell me if someone has checked in yet?” Kori replied.

“No, ma’am, unfortunately that is classified information.”

“Ok,” said Kori, defeated.

“Is something the matter?”

“Well, my sister is missing and has been missing since 1am.”

“Oh my. Want me to do an all-call?”

“Yes, please.”

“NICOLE KORNET, PLEASE REPORT TO THE CHECK-IN COUNTER. NICOLE KORNET, PLEASE REPORT TO THE CHECK-IN COUNTER.”

In my Florida-humidity-gas-fumed-outdoor-curb-sleeping-chamber-induced fog, I heard my name. 

“DID I MISS MY FLIGHT??”

“Where’s Kori?!”

“Where’s my phone?”

“Why am I sweating?”

As this myriad of questions rushed through my head, I located my phone and gathered my thoughts. Ten missed calls later, I ran inside and spotted Kori with the gate agent.

“You rang?”

Immediate disgust from Kori as I explained how I had napped outside all night amongst the human traffickers.

Reunited once more, the girls had a job to do. Game 5 in Boston.

Hours later we found ourselves brushing our teeth in the Boston Logan airport. We changed our smelly socks, threw on our #40 jerseys, and Ubered to the Garden.

One 20-point beat down later, my good luck charm struck again. 

We slept most of the next day away, then found ourselves in a pickle. Flights back to Miami were pricey, and the guys were only going to be there for barely more than 24 hours. 

“Do we go???”

The answer is always go.

It was do or die.

But Kori’s conscience had other plans.

It was expensive. We had just gotten to Boston. Luke’s wife and kiddos needed their aunties. We decided to plant it in Beantown.

Luckily, the most fun watch party with 300 diehard Celtics fans allowed us to channel our inner crazy for 2.5 hours of the most fun basketball in Game 6 history. Thank you, Derrick White. IYKYK.

Game 7 back in Boston. We did it. Emphasis on the WE.

We will spare you the rest of the story, because as most of you know, it wasn’t a happy ending.

I’m now in the backseat of my dad’s Jeep driving to Lexington, KY as I type. I was in Nashville last night at a Boz Scaggs concert with my mom, aunt and uncle. The rise and the fall.

It has been a whirlwind three months. I spent 2.5 of those months in Albuquerque filming another LeBron Springhill Entertainment Netflix movie. I had the best time. 90% of the fun that was had is credited to the one and only Sam Griesel. Remember the name, folks. We all know it’s easy to remember the face. 

He was my adventure buddy as we took on the bleak indoor/outdoor shopping malls, desert hikes, and plethora of coffee shops the city of ABQ has to offer. He booked the lead villain role in the film, which is another terrific story in and of itself. Sam, along with my coworker, Ashanti, and myself became the three best friends that anyone could have.

Thanks to the awesome peeps at The University of New Mexico, we shot at the practice facility M-F for a few hours of early morning individual work. You can leave the game, but the game won’t leave you. I hopped in those Ashanti-led workouts every morning and tried my best to hang with Sam. By tried my best, I mean flourished. This old hag still got it!

We lifted, we swam, we tanned, we hiked, we golfed, we sat at coffee shops (s/o Suenos), we attended murder mystery parties, we drove 6 hours and back to Phoenix to watch the Suns play the Nuggets, and oh yeah, we shot a movie.

As the last day of filming quickly approached, we had to say our goodbyes, leave our summer camp-like best buds, and go our separate ways.

Boston beckoned.

After the Eastern Conference Finals’ bitter ending, I knew I wanted to fly back to Nashville to hang with the ‘rents for awhile.

After every movie, the insanely busy schedule vanishes into thin air, and you’re left with no schedule at all. Time to play the “wait for the phone to ring” game. But there’s beauty in this time off. Time to create a schedule of your own. Wake up, eggs & toast, sprints at Centennial Park, iced coffee at Vandy, tan on the rooftop, lift at Planet Fitness, dinner by dad, and repeat. I love summer.

So, as I peck away on the keyboard in the backset, I reflect on what the last few months have shown me:

1. Kori Bullard is the best good luck charm until she’s not.
2. Let Sam plan.
3. Say yes to 6-hour road trips if Jeff Green leaves you tickets.
4. C’s in 7 needs to be clarified.
5. When in doubt, don’t leave The Four Seasons cabana.