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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