It's Getting a Little Warm in Here

A few days ago, Max was acting particularly dreadful. He pushed Maeve after she confiscated a car out of his meticulously placed car line. I tried to use my positive discipline techniques. I said, "Hands are for hugging, buddy!" He murmured back to me, "Well it's my car..." I ignored him.




A few minutes later, Maeve tried to sneak away another car. Max took my words a bit too literally.




"That's my car!" he yelled as he hugged the life out of Maeve. The only sound she made came from the air being squeezed out of her lungs.

That's when I lost it.




I yelled at him, "Never hug anyone again!!" Then I put him in timeout. And I was very loud and monster-like.

Fast forward to the next morning. I reached over to snuggle with Max and noticed his body was quite warm. There was not doubt he had a fever. I immediately thought back to my mothering failure from the day before. I should have been more compassionate, I thought. His throat was probably sore. His head was probably throbbing. And I told him never to hug anyone again. I lay in bed for a few minutes, clutching Max's warm body, feeling very tormented as a mother.




Being the nurse that I am, I believe in getting the most accurate temperature reading. So until our kids can hold a thermometer in their mouths, it goes in their rectums. For this reason, our children have a good deal of trepidation when they see the thermometer come out of the bathroom cabinet.




In fact, they run away from me holding their bottoms and shrieking, "Nooooo!"

I finally got Max on the changing table and have calmed him down when I realized that I don't have any Vaseline. I scurried back to the bathroom to look for some. I looked in all of the drawers and cabinets. We were out. I wasn't sure what to do.

Then I saw it. Nestled back in one of the cabinets, dusty from lack of use. A small bottle of Astroglide. And not just any Astroglide, WARMING Astroglide.

I was faced with a dilemma. I needed to take Max's temperature. But if I did, I would have to use my personal lubricant with warming sensation for added pleasure.

So I decided to compromise. I just used a little.




Max was very upset, not necessarily because of the warming Astroglide, but because of the thermometer in his butt.

Maeve generously offered him a toy car.

I gave him a hug.

And bought some Vaseline the next day.

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Reality Bites

I work part-time as a nurse. I pretty much save lives every day, so it's a pretty gratifying job. I also consider myself a full-time mommy, which is also a gratifying job. Especially if you like delayed gratification. As in "30 years from now I finally see that I was a good mommy" kind of delayed gratification.

When I'm at work, I usually get home at about 6 pm. I'm usually hungry and tired. I'm excited to see Robert and the kids. While I'm driving home, I envision a certain scene awaiting me. It includes clean floors, clean children, clean clothes in my drawers, and food on the table waiting for me to eat it. It looks kind of like this:




I'm pretty sure that this is an example of an unrealistic expectation. Even as I'm thinking it, I know that it's an unlikely picture. But when I get home, things are far worse than I could have ever imagined. I say to Robert, "What did you even do all day?" Things really look like this:




On the days I don't work, I stay at home and Robert goes to work. Secretly, I think about how great of a mother and housewife I'm going to be. Okay, so maybe I say it out loud too. "Robert, when I'm at home, I create a fun and educational environment for the kids and also clean up the house! Can't you do that too??"




He normally doesn't respond. He's learned to block me out, because I really can be a nagging bitch sometimes.

So, the next morning, I wake up full of ambition and motivation. Well, after I've had my coffee anyway. Before I've had my coffee, things look like this:




Max starts asking for juice. Maeve says, "Come. Pway." They have already somehow made a mess of the living room in the fifteen minutes that I've been lying on the couch hoping that someone would magically appear with a Starbucks latte.
So I get up. I get them dressed. I get myself dressed. They look cute and refreshed. Ready to go. I look frumpy and tired. I load them into the van and drive to Starbucks. Yes, I really do. I have major goals for the day, and the first one is to get myself a Starbucks latte. We drive home. The kids are screaming for coffee too. And coke, chicken, balloons, and daddy. I turn on music so I can pretend I don't hear them.
When we get home, I make them bacon and eggs. The fact that I will touch raw bacon for my children means that I really, really love them. I create a lot of dishes. The kids drop little morsels of bacon and eggs throughout the living room. I hope the cat eats it.




They are so fast and unrelenting with their destruction that I can't keep up! As soon as I pick up their play doh, they are throwing cars out of their car bin. Then they want snacks. Goldfish are soon flying around the living room, threatening to permanently blind someone with a tail fin. I manage to fold a load of laundry, but as I start another load, I leave the precious piles unattended. And when I poke my head around the corner, this is what I see:




After lunch, I lie down with them for nap. I've been busting my butt all day -- I think I deserve to rest a bit. We get up a couple of hours later, go downstairs, eat more snacks, drag out more toys. I never get back to the laundry so it's still scattered all over the floor. I begin to get anxious. Robert should be home in an hour and it does not look like the perfect mother and housewife lives here. So I start vacuuming. Max thinks that vacuuming is a fun game so he pours out some cereal for me to suck up. Maeve finishes her applesauce. By squeezing it all over the floor. It's amazing how many things you find when you are cleaning. Like cat vomit. And a piece of toast from perhaps 3 months ago.




I'm exhausted and it doesn't look like I've done anything all day long. And I haven't thought about dinner. Do they even need dinner if they've been eating all day long? Just as I collapse on the couch to retreat into my dark, twisty place, I hear the door open. I brace myself for a comment such as, "The only thing I smell cooking for dinner is a poop in Maeve's diaper."

But he surprises me.



At least one of us is grounded in reality.

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At Least I'm Koot

I have come to the realization that 90% of my clothes date back to the premommyhood era, a time where food was never fried and the only reason for not going to the gym was because I was too sore from the day before.




I drew this little diagram to show what mealtimes look like before (freshly prepared healthy food, sitting down, napkins) and after (whatever is edible in the fridge, loitering around TV, sleeves or my t-shirt) kids.

Every morning, I face the same dilemma (except when I work and then I can wear scrubs, thank God): what should I wear? Things used to be so easy. Now, sometimes I cry.




I used to wear really cute clothes that showed off my toned, tanned legs. Now I hide the shapeless, pale appendages in black yoga pants. And then I eat some chocolate to make myself feel better.




Once in a while, I set my mind to getting back my girlish figure. I post a hot, skinny profile picture of myself on Facebook. I write a workout schedule in my calendar. I throw away all junk food from the pantry (except for chocolate).

Then, for a few days I exercise religiously. Sometimes it lasts for a few weeks even. I feel rejuvenated. I'm a nicer wife. A more patient mother. My legs feel sore. I study them for signs of blossoming muscle definition.

Then, one morning, I get an idea. I've been working out every day and surviving on air, grapes, and goldfish crackers. Surely I'll be able to fit into my old clothes! I dig around in my closet. I try on one pair of jeans. I can't get them over my hips. I kick them off impatiently. They must have shrunk in the dryer, I convince myself. I try on another pair of jeans. I get those all the way on, but after I button them, I can't breathe because all of my fat is pushing against my lungs. I kick those off too. I try on yet another pair. They are easier to button. I smile. Congratulate myself. I imagine all the compliments that I'm going to get from my family and friends. Then, I turn around to model in front of the mirror. I think I actually let out a frantic "eeeeee" sound. My legs look like link sausages in the jeans. Not shapely and toned. Tubular.




So, I make the most obvious decision. I sit down and eat chocolate.

Just when I think things really, really suck, my kids distract me and I forget about my skinny jeans and my sausage-like legs. I get pulled into a happy little world of play doh snakes and water balloons and walks around the neighborhood. Kids are good like that. They don't give you a lot of spare time to feel sorry for yourself.

And when I get a spare moment to start fretting about my wardrobe, I give up and put on my yoga pants.

Maeve watches me. I imagine that she might be grossed out. Disappointed in me. Or maybe she's just hoping I'll give her some chocolate.

But I'm wrong. She smiles at me and says, "Awwwww, mommy! You so koot!"



And I give her some chocolate anyway.
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Fair Fun

We went to the NC State Fair last week. It lived up to all of my expectations, because I really had none.

Our first stop was the free petting zoo. They charged a dollar for a sandwich bag of carrot slivers. We bought two. There were goats, porcupines, llamas, a camel, pigs, and a very somber musk ox. I think the owners of the petting zoo must have withheld their breakfast in order to boost carrot sales, because the animals were literally climbing on top of each other to eat the carrots. Luckily, Maeve seemed to have a healthy fear of holding out her hand for too long, because my gut says that the animals might have been hungry enough to eat her as well. Especially this one Pygmy goat, who definitely had his eye on her.




We all survived, but I think that watching the wily animals devour those carrots made Robert think about lunch, even though it was only 10:00 in the morning. It is very trying on my patience to deliberate about Fair food choices with Robert. He is never satisfied with the outcome. We let the kids pick out their food first, before we became overly immersed in Robert's incomprehensible decision tree. And what do you think we bought? But of course -- chicken nuggets! Unfortunately, Maeve has slipped backwards in her pickiness and will only eat chicken nuggets, French fries, yogurt, Munchkins from Dunkin Donuts, pizza, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sometimes stir fried broccoli. Her dietary choices keep me awake with parental remorse every night. It's quite sad, I actually rationalized to myself that at least the chicken nuggets from the Fair were a new type (as opposed to McDonald's or Wendy's), and at least we were supporting a small, local business instead of a corporate chain. The kids both ate them, and were completely unfazed by their lack of adventurism.

Robert's first food choice was not the difficult part. He wanted a Philly steak and cheese. The real debate was where to get this delicacy from. I lost track of counting how many stands sold steak and cheese sandwiches, but it was a lot. I felt like we were wandering around aimlessly, hoping to see a sign that would say, "Robert, here is the perfect Philly steak and cheese for you!"

Every time we passed by a place, I would say, "This smells good. How about here?"

Robert would look at me like I had three heads. "Do you see those green peppers? They don't look good. Green peppers should never be that color green."

"Okay," I said. "I guess that makes sense." We walked by a few more stands and rides and this really talented woman on stilts. I bought a piece of roasted corn. It was hot, buttery, salty heaven. Max and I ate it together. It is, hands down, my favorite Fair food. Max was starting to get restless. Eating is a chore for him, not an act of pleasure. He was ready to be spun, flipped, and swung by rusty, creaky Fair rides.

"I think it's just around this corner," Robert said, implying that he knew exactly what stand he wanted to go to AND he knew exactly where it was located. It would be quite impressive if it was true, which it wasn't. Finally, Robert broke down and ordered his sandwich. I was *this* close to intervening. Even though I wanted him to hurry the hell up and pick a place, I also really did want him to be happy with his sandwich, especially after the effort we had all put into looking for it. But I didn't intervene, I let him order his steak and cheese, and hoped that he would like it.

It started off fine. He took a few bites, and I didn't hear any negative comments. Phew, I thought, now we can stop obsessing about food and let the kids go on some rides. And then, silly old me, I thought it would be nice for me to ask him, "Robert, you like your steak and cheese?"

He looked up from his sandwich, and I saw the lines of regret on his face. "It's not right," he said. "We didn't go to the right place."

"Well, are you going to finish it?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said in a defeated way. "I'll eat it. I'm just mad at myself. It's definitely not the sandwich."

Now is when I started to lose my patience. "How do you even know such a sandwich exists?" I asked him.

"Because!" he exclaimed. "I've had it before, three years ago. I know it's just right down there somewhere," he said as he vaguely pointed his finger down a line of rides, food stands, and game booths.

"Shut up and eat the damn sandwich," I said in probably a very bitchy, dismissive kind of way. But this topic of conversation had to end. It was going nowhere, and our kids were getting squirmy. And yes, I'll go ahead and admit that it's my fault that our kids say "shut up." And other such things.

After our fun and relaxing meal trying to hold two kids and not get elbowed by half of North Carolina, I suggested that we take the kids on some rides.

I spotted one in particular and said, "Look, Max! That's a fast one! You want to go?" Max readily agreed.

"Why don't you take him on it, and I'll find something to do with Maeve," said Robert.

"Do you even know me?" I asked. "I'm not going on that ride. I would barf corn kernels."

I hate rides. I haven't always been this lame. I used to go on all sorts of rides -- roller coasters, the Gravitron, even the Ring of Fire. If it went upside down, I was on it. I'm surprised that I was not ejected and thrown to my death on some of those rides. Just thinking about it makes my heart race. Once I became a mother, my days of fearless living were over. Literally everything became a potential tragedy. I'm surprised we even get out of the house sometimes. I've also developed horrible vertigo in my old age. Even swinging makes my head swim and my stomach turn. I do realize that I've become one of those mothers that I used to scorn -- one who does not go on rides with her kid. But I also have come to realize that that is what husbands are for.

So Robert agreed to take Max on the ride, and I watched on the sidelines with Maeve. The ride was spider-like and its arms whipped around in unpredictably fast motions. It is exactly the kind of ride that I hate the most. Its pure purpose is to uncover any weak-stomached riders. Max's head barely reached the safety bar. As the ride started, the centrifugal force pinned Max to Robert's body on the far side of the seat. He laughed like a maniac, while kids twice his age were screaming for their mommies. Oddly enough, I felt a little proud.




After that, we stood in line for the Ferris wheel. It's a tradition! We had to go on the Ferris wheel. Even lame moms go on Ferris wheels, right? They are slow and don't go upside down. I thought I would handle it just fine even though my anxiety levels were steadily rising as we got closer in line. I noticed that as they were loading and unloading riders, a few carts were left dangling in the air. Robert said that was the best part. Where you have the longest view. I cannot fathom why anyone would define this activity as the best of anything. Soon it was our turn to step on the ride. I sat closest to Maeve, and Robert sat next to Max. Right before the ride attendant locked our cart door, I asked him, "This is safe, right?" He merely nodded, as if my question was trivial. He nodded at another man who pushed a giant lever, causing the Ferris wheel to creak to life and take us upward. Our fate was sealed.

I gripped the wheel in the center of the cart. I bent my head down so I could not see the ground disappearing.

"What's wrong, mommy?" asked Max.

Maeve had her hand on my leg. It comforted me.

"Allison, it's not that bad. Just look up," Robert said.

I tried. I picked up my head very slowly, and it all hit me at once -- the height, the swinging carts, the rusty metal frame of the Ferris Wheel, the big holes on either side of the cart that Max or Maeve could easily fall through. I screamed then and lowered my head down again. I felt sick, disoriented, dizzy. Maeve was moving around beside me. I tried to get ahold of her but that would have required looking up, and that could not happen anymore.

Robert said, "We need to switch places so I can have Maeve."

I just about lost it then. "NO ONE is changing positions on the Ferris wheel. We are not getting up and moving around," I ordered. I kept repeating these phrases over and over.

Finally Robert said, "You're making the kids scared."

I rolled my eyes, but he couldn't see that because my head was facing down. "This isn't some performance, Robert. I'm terrified! So many really bad things could happen at any minute," I said just as Maeve decided to stick her head out the opening of the cart. I guess she just wanted the best possible view even if it might contribute to her mother's heart failure. Robert held her legs secure, but it still made me feel incredibly vulnerable and fragile.

I don't know if I can truly express how happy I was when that ride came to an end. I told the ride attendant, "That was terrifying." I'm sure that wasn't the answer that he expected from riding the Ferris wheel.



After we all safely disembarked the Ferris wheel, it was time to leave the Fair. The kids were getting loony as nap time was approaching, and I was having a hard time walking in an upright position.

Thinking about our trip to the fair, I feel an urge to choose the biggest hit for our family. The choice is effortless, much more so than steak and cheeses. Here it is:



Yes, that would be a porta potty. Max was more impressed with this portable toilet than anything else in the entire Fair. It had a door that you could shut and a huge hole full of deodorized poop and pee. Fascinating stuff for a three-year-old. Max said, "Wow!!! It's a big hole!!"

I was more concerned that Robert didn't let him touch anything. Yuck. I didn't even dare peek inside that thing.

I am considering renting one for next year's Fair. I'd charge three tickets for admission. I'd paint the inside with glow in the dark paint. Maybe I'd even make the water in the hole glow in the dark so kids would think that their pee and poop glows too. I could probably hook up a sound system and play nice children's songs, like Raffi, in the background. I could name it something clever. How about "Drop Zone"? I'm seriously thinking I might be onto something here. I'll keep you posted.

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I Want All the Owls

Today was a dark day. I felt like this:




The atmosphere in which we wake up tends to set the mood for the rest of the day. It was Max's second day of school since Fall break, and my first day back on the school routine since I worked yesterday and was blissfully unaware of the chaos at home. I felt like I was dragging my unconscious children's bodies through quicksand, that's how slow they were moving. Except they weren't unconscious. They were loud. Max's new favorite question is, "Whatarya doin?" He probably says it 214 times a day, even when I'm not really doing anything at all.




For instance, if I move my body to the left, say three-fourths of an inch, Max will ask, "Whatarya doin?" If I get up and walk into the kitchen he will ask, "Whatarya doin?" If I saw my head off in the shower with an old razor blade, he will ask, "Whatarya doin?" So basically I have to commentate my every move. And I refer to myself in the third person, which is weird and probably a bit neurotic. It goes like this, "Mommy is getting dressed. Mommy's opening the microwave. Mommy's looking for your shoes. Mommy's scratching her nose. Mommy's peeing. Mommy's wiping. Mommy's putting Maeve in the car. No! No! Mommy is putting YOU in the car. Then Maeve. In case you are in the mood to scale our vehicle." I sometimes use advanced vocabulary so he doesn't understand certain things like climbing on top of the van. Plus, it makes me feel smart.

Along with Max's incessant questioning, there's Maeve's dramatic antics to slow progress towards preschool drop off. She's developed a defense mechanism to deal with Max's lack of physical or emotional boundaries. If he gets within 1 foot of her, she crumples to the ground, pulling her head all the way down to her toes like she's some sort of toddler transformer. And then she cries. A lot. With real tears and lip quivering.




We got to school ten minutes late, which I HATE. It makes me feel like a miserable, failure monster mama. And of course Max had to open and close every door on the way to his classroom. And I was mumbling under my breath, "HURRY UP!" while trying to maintain a casual smile and a "it's cool, no sweat" kind of attitude.
While Max was at school, I met my best friend at Playnation, this cool indoor play space. It was fun and I didn't feel like hiding in a dark abyss anymore.

I'm going to skip the part where I picked Max up from school and took him to McDonald's and let him have sweet tea, because that would be embarrassing. I didn't eat there though. I waited until we got home and had some yummy tortellini salad with green beans and olives. I wish I had just gotten a chicken sandwich. That pasta salad was my downfall. Well, technically it was the olives.

Let me paint you a picture. Max was very tired. When he gets tired, he becomes even more irrational than normal. I compare this mood to someone on the verge of a psychotic break. So here's how it went down.

I was trying to be considerate, knowing that Max loves olives, so I offered him one. At first he said, "No! I don't want owls!" He pronounces "olives" like "owls". Then he immediately changed his mind. "I want owls!!!" Maeve, as usual, was being an angel in the background somewhere.




This is one of the symptoms of preschooler psychosis: fickle decision making. I took a deep breath. "That's what I thought! Here you go," I said as I tried to put the olive in his mouth with my fork.

He immediately jerked his head away. "No!!! I want to do it!!!" This is another symptom of preschooler psychosis: fierce independence at all costs, even when it delays eating olives, a sacred act for the mentally stable Max.

"Okay, buddy. You do it." I know some of you might think I should have told him to ask nicely, but that's not a good approach with psychotic Max. Acting in a calm way is the best approach. Modeling level-headed behavior.

He ate the olive. I kind of lost track of things because Dora was asking a critical question about whether we should pick the pink or blue book to take to her sick old granny's house. And then that wretched fox started meddling. We were enraptured. Somehow I ate all the tortellini salad in my bowl. Including the rest of the olives. Just as I realized my grave error, Max looked away from Dora (she was absent-mindedly staring at us, and we remained tight lipped as usual) and said, "More owls, mommy!!"

I felt my body grow tense. I actually started to sweat with anxiety. Before I could respond, Max screamed, "NOOOO!" as if I had just stabbed Dora with my fork. Don't worry, I'd never really do that...

"I. WANT. MORE. OWLS!!!!!!!!" he screeched. He jumped off the couch and ran into the kitchen. Along the way, he grabbed a chair and pushed it towards the refrigerator.

"Max," I said in a slightly raised voice. "I'll get you another olive." There was a Tupperware full of pasta salad in the refrigerator. All could be well. Oh how futilely wrong I was.




Max demanded, "I want ALL the owls!!!!" He used all of his thirty-one pounds to open the refrigerator door.

"Just wait," I said diminutively. I imagined that my voice was about as powerful as a little gnat's flying around the kitchen. I was starting to get irritated. He was out of control. And I kept having this vision flash in my head:




It quickly became apparent that the calm, sensible mothering approach wasn't working, so I turned on my alter ego who loses her shit and screams and flaps her hands around wildly. "Max!" I yelled, "You can eat three olives then you are going upstairs to nap!"

By this point Max had gotten the Tupperware out of the fridge and was sitting on the floor with it between his legs. When I gave him the news that his olive eating minutes were limited, he bucked like a caged bull, throwing his body back on the floor, stretching out his arms and legs into stiff, tense, immovable limbs.




Getting him into bed using reason was not going to work now that the third and most serious symptom of preschooler psychosis had emerged: reckless movements of his body to thwart my goal of getting him in the bed.

He was red in the face, crying hysterically. He had dropped two olives and now the world was coming to an end. I had to physically drag Max up the stairs. He was so loud that now Maeve was whimpering in the background. "Hold you, mama," she said. As I tried not to dislocate his arm in the process of getting him to bed, he sobbed, "I...Want... ALL...The...Olives." It turned from a demand to a woeful chant.




I hate using physical force to move my child from point A to point B. I'd rather he walk like a normal human being. But we have already established that preschoolers are about as far as you can get from the word normal. And much of the time I don't even think they are human beings.

The olive talk even continued in the bed. I lay beside him, letting him pick my fingers to comfort himself. He sucked on his pacifier, eyes rolling back in his head. I was nursing Maeve in an attempt to keep her quiet. Her eyes were wide open though -- a nap was obviously not in her immediate future. Occasionally he would startle himself awake and mumble through the pacifier, "I.......wah.....aww.....da....owls."




I snuck out of the bed quickly and quietly. Maeve looked at me conspiratorially, no doubt thinking, "At last some peace and quiet!" We sat on the couch and read books for a while, then I turned on Rango, her favorite movie. I was just beginning to feel my insides unwind from the tight ball that the olive predicament had caused. I was trying to force myself to think nice, happy thoughts about Max. He really is a sweet, caring little boy. Being intense isn't the worst attribute in the world. I mean, it will probably help him to achieve great successes as an adult. And really, begging for olives is better than begging for cookies or french fries or real owls, right?

Just then, I heard a door slam upstairs. Maeve and I looked each other, fear in our eyes. It was like Nightmare on Elm Street. I thought I was awake and everything would be okay. But Freddy (aka Max) surprised me yet again. "I WANT OWLS!" Max screamed from upstairs. I clutched Maeve, thinking about a safe place to hide.



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Max the Man

Max has developed a keen interest in private parts. So much so, in fact, that I consider them to be public parts. You see, I don't discourage questioning of this nature because I don't want my kids to be ashamed or embarrassed of their private... errrrr... public parts. That being said, I am quite ready and enthusiastic for the hot topic to be something like "what's the difference between a hammer and a screwdriver?" instead of "what's that hole right there?" You see what I mean.

Usually before bed, Robert will take a shower with one kid while I take a shower (in a different bathroom, don't get too excited...) with the other kid. Mostly, Maeve showers with me and we are all laughs and bubbles and splashing. Innocence still prevails.

But sometimes, Max showers with me. Then the conversation gets serious fast. Just the other night, he pointed at my lady parts and asserted, "That's mommy's penis!" He knows I don't have a penis. He's just baiting me into this conversation.

"No, mommy doesn't have a penis silly! Boys have penises. Mommy's a girl. Girls have vaginas!"




I hoped his interest would switch gears. What more is there to say? I coaxed him to pick up his washcloth and start washing.

But he continued to stare. And he seemed disturbed. I could see the wheels in his head turning at lightening speed, trying to make sense of something.

I tried to ignore him. I focused on washing my hair quickly, shaving my legs.

Five minutes passed. He still had this unpleasant expression on his face. I couldn't take it anymore. "What is it, Max???" I demanded.

He wrinkled his nose and said, "It needs a haircut, mommy."

Such a man!
*****************************
More proof of Max's approach to manhood occurred the next day.

Sometimes Robert lets Max watch him peeing in the toilet. Robert knows all sorts of tricks that I could never imagine. If it was up to me, Max would pee sitting down and then dab the end of his penis with a small piece of toilet paper. Dribbling is disgusting in my opinion. But Robert said no, Max would face years of taunting from his peers if I had my way.

So the other day, Robert was peeing and Max ran into the bathroom, screaming with urgency, "I need to go potty too!!!"

"Okay, buddy. After daddy," Robert said.

Max lacks the virtue of patience, however, and pulled off his underwear, shorts, shoes, and socks. Any form of waste elimination requires nudity from the waist down. And I kind of don't mind. Dribbling + underwear on = little wet spots. Yuck.

Max let it loose before Robert had finished. So they were peeing simultaneously in the toilet. Yuck.

From the kitchen, all I heard was loud urine streams. Then Max made an observation. "Daddy, you have a big pee pee!" he announced with admiration.



Such a man!

I was left feeling self conscious about my public parts. In fact, the shower talk prompted me to tidy up down there.

Robert, however, was left feeling quite pleased. Max had not chastised Robert to get a haircut. He merely saw the size, and left well enough alone.

I've decided something rather pivotal. From now on Max is going to shower with Robert. My public parts are going private again!

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Bleeping Max

There comes a time, in every parent's life, when your child does or says something that is simultaneously inappropriate while also being completely hysterical. A bite-your-cheeks-to-stop-the-smile-from-growing-on-your-face kind of funny. I even admit to breaking out a smile when we are in the privacy of our own house. It does seem that the most humorous moments in life are also a little out of line.

Now I must make a confession. My three-and-a-half-year-old has picked up a bad habit. He curses. His most prolific word of the present is "fucking" in the form of an adjective. He uses it quite aptly during moments of profound distress or emphasis. It's not a daily occurrence, so when he does say it, we are completely off guard. Robert and I usually stop, look at each other in a dumbstruck way, and remain silent. I suppose we hope that if we ignore his curse word dabbling, it will go away. We all know where he got the word from. Sigh. His grandma. No, no, only kidding. He got it from us -- well, mainly Robert -- but a little bit from me too. We are trying very hard to watch our language in front of the kids. But we are emotional creatures who lack the patience or motivation to think of more appropriate adjectives to convey our frustrations. Well, we lacked the motivation until now. Now we most definitely have the motivation.

Dammit, it's so hard.

So the other night, Maeve and I were snuggling on the couch. One of our five cats was about to curl up on the back of the couch. Maeve was eyeing my boobs -- she wanted to nurse. I was having one of those blissfully-in-love-with-my-daughter moments. That's when Max ran in the room. I could feel his tension immediately. It was like there was a fire around his feet. Instantly, Maeve and I became rigid, not wanting to fuel the flames. "I want to snuggle too," he said in a demanding, louder-than-necessary voice.




And, YES, my boobs really are that big and perky. Don't be so jealous! And, no, that's not a real fire at his feet. It's just depicting the heated emotions.

The cat immediately hopped off the couch to look elsewhere for peace and solace. That should have been my sense of imminent doom. But silly me, I suggested a group snuggle. Maeve, however, did not want to share my boobies or any other body parts associated with my boobies. Max did not care. He was ready to snuggle. One of his requirements for snuggling is his passy. Sometimes he has a hard time asking nicely for it. This night was no different. He screeched, "I want my passy NOW, daddy!!!" Most of the time he makes his demands to Robert which I find quite amusing.




Par for the course, I tried not to react immediately by yelling at Max to stop yelling at Robert. That seems counterintuitive, right? He managed to squirm his way in between Maeve and me, displacing any thoughts of breastfeeding bonding that was in our minds. His fiery mood swept over the couch. Maeve arched her back dramatically and screamed in reference to my boobs, "Noooo! It's mine." But I really think the boobs are metaphorical for her. They represent undivided attention. They symbolize our physical and emotional connection. However, there is a consequence to pay for this bond. Sometimes we get engulfed in the arson otherwise known as Max.

Robert made his way into the living room by this point and asked, "What is the magic word, Max?"




We all paused expectantly. I think we might have even all collectively held our breath. Said a little prayer. We willed him to say "please".

And yet, Max kept up his track record for thinking outside the box. WAY outside the box. He had a completely different idea of the magic word. One that packs a bit more punch.



I know what you are thinking! You're thinking, I can't believe he said "Robert" instead of "daddy".

Or maybe you're thinking, oh my God, that Max is a handful.

Or maybe you're thinking, that Allison and Robert! They need to be careful what they say!

Well, you are right. Our new choice phrase for the variety of negative human experiences is now "oh MAN"!

And yes, we gave him the passy, we choked back tears of laughter, and Maeve even got booby time.

Happily ever after in the Murphy household.

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