My Mommy Is a Pervert Nurse

Sometimes I can be very philosophical. Lately, such philosophizing revolves around the thought processes of my children.

In general, I think that the reality of a child's perception is probably quite confusing. A child's ideas oftentimes do not match up with the actual content of those ideas. Their reasoning simply does not have enough experience behind it to be considered logical or rational. It really must be a frustrating time of life - to be a young child. In particular, the age range from 18 months to 4 must be especially trying. Before then, there aren't enough neuronal pathways to cause too much conflict, so a young toddler is generally a happy oblivious sponge.

Let me illustrate this concept with a story that Robert told me the other day.

I recently went back to work as a registered nurse. Right now, I'm away from the kids three days a week. On those days, Robert is a stay-at-home dad (who still tries to perform work duties from his laptop and cellphone, causing endless amounts of frustration and stress - there, I said it!!!). He drops off Max at Casa Esperanza (the really cool Spanish-immersion Montessori preschool that he attends) at about 8:20 am. Maeve goes along for the ride with a small hope of going to a park instead of back home to watch daddy click click click on the laptop. Okay, I'll stop being passive aggressive now.

The drive to school takes about 15 minutes, which is the perfect amount of time to have very interesting conversations that shed some light as to what exactly is going on in my children's brains.




Max always likes to know where everyone is and what they are doing. He's a control freak, so these types of questions give him comfort. On this particular morning, he was fixated on me, even though Robert had already told Max 126 times that I was at work. Lucky for us, Max also finds comfort in repetition, so we get to all be obsessive compulsive as a family unit - such a great way to start the day with a good dose of anxiety and a bit of paranoia!

Max asks, "Where's mommy?"

I would have responded snidely, "What did I tell you the last 126 times?"

But Robert is a nicer and a less antagonistic person than I am, so he says, "She's at work." He probably threw in a "buddy" too. Yeah, he's that nice.

Max pauses for a moment, then asks another question, "What does mommy do at work?"

Robert says, "She is a nurse!"




Then he really pauses, he's thinking hard. You can tell by his face that he is thinking about something potentially very disturbing.




Then another neuronal pathway forms based on Max's reasoning which comes from his very limited experiences in the world. This is where things can get funny for us adults who actually enjoy listening to blabbering children.

He says, looking at Maeve, "Baby's a nurse too!" he says this very emphatically. He knows this to be a fact.




Maeve becomes quite excited about the word "nurse". She thinks someone has just offered her a drink and readily agrees. "Yeah! Yeah!" she shouts.

Robert chuckles and tries to explain. "No, buddy. Baby nurses. It's different. She's not a nurse like mommy. Mommy helps people in the hospital when they are sick."

At this point, Robert feels that he has given both children enough information so that they understand the difference between their perception of nursing and the actual reality of the duplicity of the word. This assumption can foster some very hysterical mental images in the minds of our young children.

For instance, this is probably in Max's mind right now:



He thinks I am a nurse who goes to work NURSING sick people so they get better. Not nursing in the context of giving medications, explaining things in a nurturing way, or helping people get to the bathroom. Instead, Max envisions me as a nurse who breastfeeds her patients. He must think there is a couch at my work because that is usually where I nurse Maeve at home. The sick people line up for my milky elixir to take away all of their pains and infections.

Max thinks being a nurse implies the act of nursing, which he defines as a person suckling milk out of his mommy's boob.

I wonder how bizarre this might seem to him. Does he know that it seems very perverted? And if he does, does the fact that I'm helping sick people outweigh the perversion of it all?

See, the philosophizing of a 3 year old can be quite unsettling. I'm sure there will come a time when Max wants to clarify the many meanings of "nurse". But for now, I'm just going to let him think that I breastfeed for all!!!!!

P.S. Please don't tell my patients about Max's definition of being a nurse. Most of them would be confused and might choose to run away from me as their caregiver. A select few might actually be interested in hearing more, in which case I'll be running away from them.

Any philosophy going on in your house these days?

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Four Inconvenient Mothering Moments

There are many, many more. But I had to cut myself off somewhere.

Number 1: In Sickness and in Heath

Children have the capability to disrupt the peace and tranquility of an absolutely necessary parental sick day. And so do husbands for that matter. I could be lying on the couch, shivering with fever, an agonizingly sore throat, copious amounts of mucous pouring from my nose, and whispered pleas of help escaping from my dehydrated mouth. Does my family care? Nope. Robert has a big project that is due at 5 pm. He sympathizes with me, really he does. But we gotta pay the bills, right?! I think I would have to be unconscious, blue, and possibly even in the early stages of rigor mortis for Robert to stay home from work and give me time to fight off imminent death. But instead he promises to be home as soon as possible and asks if he should buy Gatorade on the way home. As if orange Gatorade is some sort of magic elixir for recovery... Well, it is kind of. For me anyway.

So did I mention that Max and Maeve are both suffering from the same illness? In my ideal world, chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers would magically appear on a tray on my lap. I'd blow off spoonfuls and give them to my children. They would be propped up on pillows lying on the couch. Their voices would be soft, soothing, and quiet. We would all have an endless amount of cool orange Gatorade in our cups. No one would need to pee or poop. No one would want to play. In fact, no one would even want to watch kids' TV at all. We would be quite content with Grey's Anatomy or Law and Order. Anything related to Disney, Nickelodeon, or Sesame Street has been scientifically proven to lengthen the time of an illness - haven't you read that too?

I am an idealist. I have high expectations. I'm frequently disappointed. My kids seem to handle this cold much better than I am. I probably have a more severe strain of the virus, that's certainly the only explanation. They feel perfectly capable of playing, jumping, yelling, wrestling, painting, stomping, making annoying noises, and violating my personal space as I attempt to rest on the couch. In general, whether I am sick or just wanting a little rest, when my kids see me lying down, I'm the equivalent of an old, lame buffalo grazing in the middle of a pack of hunting lions. They stalk me first, trying to figure out the best angle of attack. Then they make their move, and I brace my weak, sick, miserable body to be jumped on, tickled, sat on, or climbed on. They know I have no power to say no or get up. So they torture me endlessly. And they have gross runny, yellow noses because I don't have the energy to pick up my arm to wipe them. The more disgusting their noses are, the more unruly they become.
I try, in those moments, not to reminisce too much about sick days before children. I don't want to start crying. That will just make everything even worse.




Number 2: When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go!

There has to be an extremely compelling reason to use a public bathroom with both of your kids. Pretty much the only reason I'd do this to myself is if I was stricken with uncontrollable, watery diarrhea. I mean, seriously, I'd rather puke on aisle 3 than take both of my kids into a public bathroom.

Why, you might ask? Particularly if you either have no children or have perfect children tied to one of those toddler leash things. Well, first of all, they touch everything. They touch toilets, they try to turn on the sink, they are so thoughtful to pick up trash on the floor, and female waste product receptacles become a fascinating place to explore and possibly even store pacifiers, toys, my sunglasses, and my cell phone. Yes, this really happened!

Now you might be asking yourself, why don't you hurry up, do your business, and get the hell out of there? Well, we have already established that the only reason I'm in the public bathroom is because of uncontrollable, watery diarrhea. So one cannot always hurry up that process. It's over when it's over. I try my best to distract my kids. I ask Max to hand me some toilet paper. He takes the end of the roll and runs, laughing giddily. The toilet paper now stretches across the entire bathroom and is touching the dirty floor. Do I care? No, I don't. Maeve has in the meantime discovered the automatic hand dryer. But she just can't quite reach the button to turn it on. Never fear, big brother is here!!! He whacks the button as she's standing right underneath the dryer. It's loud and blows hurricane force winds on Maeve's head. She starts crying and saying, "Stop the wind!!!" Do I care? No, I don't. I'm having uncontrollable, watery diarrhea and that's about all I can handle right now.




Number 3: Sleep and Sex - Who Needs 'Em???

As most of you know, Robert and I have this bright idea to let our children sleep with us all.of.the.time..... It has moments of convenience and cuteness, but for the most part it's just uncomfortable as hell. Maeve still nurses, so throughout the night she roots around for my boob like a newborn. If I close up business to that body part, she cries and screams, "Nursin!! I wan nursin!" In order to prevent Robert and Max from being woken up, I quickly whip out the boob and the screaming stops. This happens every hour all night long. Max likes to take up as much space as humanly possible for a smaller-than-average three-year-old. He also snores. And he has a habit of thrashing his arms and legs, resulting in slapped faces, kicked nuts, and elbowed bellies. We should be in a reality show. It would be called Surviving the Night in a Family Bed. The commentator would say, "Most everyone you know has rooms for their children with cribs or toddler beds. But not everyone. They look like a pretty normal family - the Murphy's do - until... you enter their bedroom. This family of four sleeps together in this one king sized bed. In this episode you will see if they can survive the night without going apeshit mad! Stay tuned!"

While all of this action is going on in my bed at 10 pm - Max snoring and injuring all of us, Maeve begging for the boob - Robert has the distinct nerve to ask me what kind of mood am I in tonight. I could answer this question in many different ways. I could say, "I'm in the mood to throw our children out of the window." I don't say that. It can be misconstrued, especially in a blog posting. I could say, "I'm in the mood to get in my car and start driving and not stop until I find a quiet place to sleep." But I don't say that either, because Robert has abandonment issues, and I really am too tired for a therapy session right now. So I say the most straightforward response that I can think of. "I'm in the mood to go the hell to sleep!" This is an honest response even though it does not address the true intention of Robert's question. But I'm choosing to ignore the fact that he propositioned me to have sex while I'm breastfeeding his daughter and being attacked by his zombie son. The mood is most definitely not even remotely sexual unless you are some sort of weird masochist. But, in his head, I suppose he is giving himself credit for trying, which I hear, is very stroking to the male ego when other sorts of tangible stroking are not an option.



Number 4: Skinny People Must Be Really Boring

I try to exercise on a regular basis. But it ends up occurring in manic spurts: every day for ten days, nothing for two weeks. It takes a long time for me to psychologically prepare for exercise. I discuss my internal struggles with Robert.

Me, "I need to run, but I'm so tired!"

Robert, "Go run. It'll make you feel better."

Me, "Are you saying I'm fat?!?!"

Robert, "No, you look great! It'll make your mind feel better."

Me, "Are you saying I'm a bitch?!?!?!"

Robert, "Well, no you just need to get out of the house. Everything's a mess. It's stressful."

Me, "Are you saying I'm a lazy, worthless slob?!?!?!?!?"

This type of dialogue can go on for days before I actually go for a run. It must be a nightmare to be married to me.

When I jogging, I listen to sappy inspirational music. And sometimes opera. I imagine that I'm in a movie. Sometimes I'm a double amputee with cheap prostheses who is training for a marathon. Other times I'm an troubled teenager who finds her special niche as a runner. Or sometimes I'm a beautiful, misunderstood housewife who, after having four obnoxious children, decides to run across the country to get away from them. The storyline helps to motivate me, and makes me emotionally attached to my goal.

I expect nearly instantaneous results and weigh myself immediately after I get home. When I've found that I've gained a pound, I blame it on my swollen muscles.

After several days of vigorous exercise, I feel happy, skinny, and carefree. I start eating yogurt for lunch every day.

Then, Robert has to go out of town for work.

My fortitude persists, and I decide that the kids should be able to happily entertain themselves while I do an Insanity workout. Unlike running, Insanity workouts in the bonus room make me feel claustrophobic and frustrated. I don't have time to think about what kind of movie I'm in because I'm too busy dying from oxygen starvation. When you throw two kids in the background, my anxiety escalates to the point of near cardiovascular collapse. Of course my children cannot contentedly put together puzzles or play a game of Go Fish. They have to scream for juice. They want to be held.

But I hold strong. I scream at them, "One more set!"

Then Robert comes home. I tell him that I've managed to exercise, do the laundry, shovel litter box shit, and take care of the kids all by myself.

I'm also so fucking exhausted that I don't work out for the next few days. And then we start from the beginning.

Me, "I need to go for a run. I haven't run in 6 days!"

Robert, "Yeah, I'd like to start running too."

Me, "We are talking about me right now!!!!!"




What are your inconvenient parenting moments?


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Eight Minutes of Peace

Showering and bathing has never been something that I've associated with relaxation. It's a job. It's a requirement so you don't stink.

It all started when I was a kid myself. My mom knew that I had the propensity to dilly dally in the shower for hours. I was quite imaginative and undoubtedly had some crazy nautical adventure planned out for me and my bath toys. So she turned my leisurely shower experience into a race by setting a timer for eight minutes. I'm not sure where she got the eight minutes from - maybe a military book - but that's what it always was. She said that eight minutes was plenty of time to get clean and anything longer would just be wasting water. Most of the time, the timer was kind of a fun game. And I really didn't want to waste water either. But sometimes, it got on my nerves, especially when the timer would go off when I still had shampoo in my hair. Talk about total panic for an eight-year-old!



The triangle on the floor is my dress, just in case that isn't clear.

The more I think about it, I really can't blame my mom for this "fast is better" bathing mentality. I can blame my grandfather. I remember him telling me that he could do the 3 S's in three minutes (shit, shower, and shave). As a child, I grappled with this concept. I tried to figure out how many seconds exactly he allotted to each task. As a parent, I know one thing for sure. He definitely was not trying to wrangle his four kids while performing his bathroom duties. Now THAT would really be impressive.

I would like to say that I've learned to let go of my childhood "traumas" now that I'm all grown up, but I haven't. I've just projected them onto my husband and kids.

Shortly after Robert and I got married (more specifically, 32 days afterward), I decided that it was time to start a family. And for those of you who know me well (or even only a little), when I get something in my head, I'm pretty set on it. I found this really nifty website that tells you your most fertile day of the month based on information you enter about your menstrual cycle. I jotted the date on my calendar, and didn't really think about it until that day came around the corner. And then I turned into the psycho, baby-crazed, "We have to have sex RIGHT now -- I'm ovulating" kind of wife. And Robert, being the generally agreeable kind of guy that he is, reluctantly agreed. And, as fate would have it, I felt that the shower was the best workplace for baby-making, hence confirming my "get 'er done" attitude when it comes to bathing. Might as well get clean AND get pregnant at the same time!!!



Guess what happened next?? Yes, I got the pregnancy of my dreams!! Except, it wasn't. It was a miserable pregnancy from beginning until end. It started out with me in nursing school, trying not to hurl all day from morning sickness to evolving into a mammoth water buffalo-type creature. I gained 70 pounds during my pregnancy with Max. My feet were so swollen I had to buy a size 10.5 double wide orthopedic shoe just to haul my large ass around all day. So what do I do?? Attempt the impossible. I turned to my old friend the bathtub to hope for a miracle.



This picture makes me look graceful, but it wasn't. I filled up the tub as high as I could, still allowing for displacement room when I lowered my enormous body into the water. I tried to float in the water without touching my belly to the bottom. I propped my head up on the side of the tub, and tried to imagine that I was weightless. Robert looked on, both amazed and probably a bit horrified.

I had quite the elaborate birth plan written out. I'm a huge advocate for natural births despite the fact that I endured four days of excruciating back labor only to have a c-section at the end of it. I really don't regret any of it except for one part: "I would like my baby to be born in the peacefulness of luke warm water." What was I thinking??? After living with myself for 28 years, hadn't I learned that bathtubs are not a peaceful place for me? My midwives diligently filled up the tub for me, I turned on our hypnobirthing meditation chants, and ordered Robert to don his swim trunks. As soon as we got settled into what I thought was my ideal birthing place, I realized that I had made a grave mistake.



Okay, fast forward a few years and two kids later. There is just one thing I really want to say: "Mom, can you pretty please set that eight minute timer for me??" I would do anything for eight minutes of blissful solitary bathing joy. Even if I start out a bath by myself, it never ends up that way. I hear little fists banging on the door, see their cute naked heinys, and welcome them in begrudgingly. Conveniently, Robert is nowhere to be found and is out of hearing range. Max instantly puts every single bath toy in the tub, and dumps in half a bottle of bubbles. Maeve sees naked boobies and thinks it's the perfect place to nurse. I try to have fun, but in the end all I feel is cold, wet, and exposed.



But at least I don't stink. I smell deliciously of wild strawberry Dora the Explorer shampoo.

Here are a few real pictures of happiness and sadness at bath time:













Now who wants a shower?!

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