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?!

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 (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 click 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 juices like wine.

And a heart hungrier than the wolves.