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?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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?


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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?!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Quack Quack

Sometimes as parents we have these brilliant ideas that we quickly realize are based entirely on fantasy. Like, going out to lunch with a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old -- neither of whom have proven that they can sit still for longer than 3.15 minutes. Dining out is not something we do on a regular basis, but we were all out together after a dentist appointment, and Chubby's Tacos was right across the street. And I was in a pleasant, "let's do something as a family" kind of mood.

"Do you want to go to Chubby's?" I asked Robert.

He paused and looked at me like I had three heads. "You mean go inside?" he asked.

I thought for a moment. "Yes, inside."

"Um, okay," he said reluctantly.

We walked inside, and I imagined that everyone was looking at us, admiring our fortitude and easy breezy demeanor. The kids were jabbering quietly. We didn't have to wait long in line. I picked out a nice table in the corner. We sat down, the Chubby's lady brought us our food, and everything was right in the world.




Yet, I was suspicious. I felt uneasy, like I was staring at a pot of soup that was simmering nicely but knew would start to boil and run over and make a huge mess of the stove top. I wanted to believe that my kids would behave, eat a decent amount, and keep their bottoms in their chairs. I have this theory in life that if you believe that something is going to happen, you attract that energy, and increase the chances of it coming true. So I was trying really hard to push any thoughts of messiness, loudness, and pickiness from my mind. But it's really hard to do that when you are a mother of young children. And it doesn't help when you are an anxious, foreboding freak like me.

Sure enough, within 3.15 minutes, things began to deteriorate. Maeve had eaten her three bites of chicken, and was refusing anymore. She had also carelessly set her rubber duck (toy from dentist office) on the table, which provided an opportunity for Max to confiscate it. I'm not sure when she will learn to keep her toys clutched to her body at all times. It would certainly make life easier for all of us. Max had also moved from a sitting position to a standing position. This change in stance is always a warning of imminent escalation and discord.




I told Max to drop the duck, as he was intent on making it fly dangerously close to his wayward fork. Maeve sensed that her duck's safety was in jeopardy, and demanded it back, "I wanna my duck!" she said over and over again. I noticed that Robert was managing to eat while occasionally ordering Max to sit down. I had only eaten a couple bites of my taco, but it was not sitting well. How can a person digest her lunch when facing a fight or flight situation? Obviously husbands do not have the same issues with digestion.

Do you ever watch your own life unfolding like it's a horror movie and you are to scared to actually participate? That's what happened next. By this point, half of our lunch was on the floor. Maeve was now standing up in her high chair, shrieking for her duck. And Max was on the run. He had apparently decided to drop the duck -- in the trash can. Despite being paralyzed by embarrassment and fear, I managed to yell, "Stop him!" As if some magical unicorn might materialize to rescue the duck from its dirty demise. Luckily Robert is a more practical person, and got his ass up to chase after Max.




I think at this moment, everyone in the restaurant placed their forks down, opened their mouths in awe, and held their loved ones tightly. Before Robert or any unicorn could intercede, Max dropped the duck in the trash can, and moved his path of destruction to an innocent bystander's table, stealing his salt shaker and sprinting in circles around the restaurant. I asked Robert to get the duck, and again, he looked at me like I had three heads. I looked in the trash can, and pretended to see it. "It's right there! I just can't reach it," I said. Robert falls for that one every time. Maeve forgot momentarily about the plight of her duck, and asked, "Where go Max?"
Instead of fighting or flighting, I chose pretending like we didn't know him. It works in a very temporary way.




Robert did eventually find the duck, and he took it to the bathroom for washing. The poor thing was covered in refried beans and pico de gallo. He also managed to convince Max to help him clean the duck, while I smiled wearily at the gawking diners and quickly threw away our largely uneaten lunch. (Except for Robert -- he had a clean plate). I'm still unsure about what exactly happened to the salt shaker.

On the way home, we were traumatized. No one said anything. I knew we were all thinking the same thing though. "Why in the hell did we just do that???" The answer is quite obvious, and has been for quite sometime. We are a bunch of quacks.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Willy Nilly

I have never had a dog, but I do have the next best thing -- a newly potty-trained three-year-old boy. His primary interest, other than balloons, play-doh, and stomp rockets, is exercising his right to pee wherever he chooses. At first, I wasn't the biggest fan of peeing in places other than bathrooms, probably because, as a woman, I really had not had much practice with this custom. I mean, in times of desperation, I'm not above squatting, but it certainly is not something that gives me excitement or pride. However, as a man, my husband Robert explained to me that peeing without the confines of a toilet is actually not uncomfortable at all. Quite the opposite, it's liberating, convenient, and even a little bit fun.

So I've been making an effort to open my mind to the possibilities for peeing. Max and I often have question and answer sessions about the boundaries and rules for out-of-the-bathroom pee adventures. They go like this:

"Can I pee on that tree?" asks Max.

"Are we in a private place?" I ask him. We look around and see no signs of our nosy neighbors or friendly mailman.

"Yes," says Max.

"Okay, then. You can pee on that tree."

Max requests my help to strip down. He cannot pee unless his shorts and underwear are completely off. And his socks and shoes. Then he does his business with a mischievously gleeful grin on his face.




He also rationalizes his outdoor eliminating by telling us that he's watering the tree. Maeve stands close by and watches with fascination. She points at him, says, "yay!" and claps when he's finished. Then I have to help him get dressed again. But at least I don't have to change his diaper anymore, right?

Sometimes things don't go exactly as planned.

"Can I pee on that leaf?" Max asks.

We both ensure privacy. "Yes," I say. "Go ahead."




It is not clear if his misfire is intentional or accidental, but either way, now I have to redress all three of us since we got peed on. The poor cat is left to groom himself. The leaf didn't even get wet.

I try not to get angry in these situations. I'm proud of Max for achieving this developmental milestone and don't want him to feel embarrassed about a completely natural body function.

Sometimes, however, things get a little more off course.

The other day, while I was doing the dishes, I noticed this scene unfolding out of the corner of my eye:




Max had skipped the question and answer session, and unanimously decided that it would be a good idea to pee in the floor vent. At that moment, I did not care about preserving his integrity. I screamed at him, "What are you doing????" He seemed miffed that the hole in a toilet was appropriate for peeing, but a hole in our living room was not.

Luckily, he hasn't brought up any desire to poop anywhere other than in the potty.



Max is a bit disturbed by the sound of his poop hitting the water. He gasps in surprise. And he flushes the toilet eagerly, as if he's afraid the plopping noises will continue.

Thankfully, Max does not poop with the same reckless abandon as he pees. If he did, I might seriously consider trading him in for a nice housebroken dog. For now, though, I'll keep the three-year-old and maybe buy a pair of rubber boots in case of rain.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Don't Feed the Bears (Juice Included)

One of the things I know about myself and wish I could change is my tendency to have plans for every single day of the week. It's gotten to the point that when I don't have something scheduled, I feel dark and gloomy and my kids behave like caged animals. I end up sitting on the couch, contracted into a fetal ball, while my kids torture each other. Doesn't that sound like fun??




The good thing is that I have a best friend (aka monster bestie) who feels the same way that I do! So, we get together several times a week, and sometimes have family dates on the weekend. This past Saturday, we decided to go to the Durham Life and Science Museum. Actually, monster bestie decided, and I concurred. That's how it works with us. She's the one who picks the place because I have a hard time making those types of decisions. She even will remind me of things like teacher workdays, and our kids don't even go to the same school anymore! Yes, she is that amazing. No, you can't have her.

The bad part about making plans on the weekend is that you don't consider how tired you might be from your busy week. Everyone was a bit on edge as we were rushing to get ready. And of course we were running late, because we are always running late. I barked at Robert and the kids like I was a drill sergeant, not because I'm naturally a bitch, but because I wanted to make sure we had everything we needed. And maybe I'm just the tiniest bit of a natural bitch, too. "Don't forget their juices!" "You forgot to put the stroller in???" "Max, put your shoes on!" "Maeve, come here NOW so I can do your hair!"

By the time we got in the car, everyone was stressed out and irritable. Except for Robert. He was quiet and would not look at me. That's how he handles chaos, by retreating into some world inside his head that includes no loud, obnoxious wife or whiny children. Meanwhile, both kids were crying, and I was yelling at them to have a fun time.




The museum is about 30 minutes away, so I thought that would give us plenty of time to settle down and put on our happy faces. The worst thing ever is to show up for a family date with a grumpy family. It would be like showing up at a birthday party without a present. My rules for family dates are as follows: 1) Everyone should be dressed slightly nicer than average, but not so nice as to attract undue attention. No one wants to hang out with an unkept family or an overly pretty family. 2) Everyone should be in a good mood or at least pretending to be in a good mood. No one wants to hang out with a mopey family. 3) Everyone should be organized and have their shit together. No one wants to hang out with a family who is always asking to borrow wipes or sunscreen or snacks.

But things were not going to go according to my rules today. Robert spent a good five minutes chasing Max around the parking lot of the museum. I pretended that I wasn't with them and walked to the entrance with Maeve. They were not far behind us. Maeve saw the button to open the doors and hurried over to push it. Usually Max has the monopoly with button pushing, but today Maeve had a clear advantage. This was the moment that set the mood for the rest of the day. The doors clicked and began to open. Max reacted like someone he loved dearly had just been shot in the back. "Nooooooo!" he screamed.




To placate him, I had to let the doors close completely, guard the button with my life while we waited, and them let him push it. When we got inside, monster bestie was waiting for us at the check in desk to let us know that she had already purchased our train tickets. Side note: monster bestie has a 3-year-old, a 2-year-old, and a newborn, and still manages to be more organized and on time than I ever am.

"Where to first?" I asked her.

"I thought we could go outside first since it might start raining, and then play inside. Our train ride is at 11:30, so we have time for the farm animals and dinosaur walk," monster bestie said.

I felt a sense of comfort then. Maybe this day would take a turn for the better. Maybe our kids would skip cheerfully together through the museum, while monster bestie and I shared meaningful adult-centered stories. The hubbies would be in the background somewhere, being the best hubbies they could be. Here is a diagram of our family date:




We looked at the farm animals, diligently mooing and baaing for our children's benefit. We walked on a path with giant dinosaur figures hiding behind every corner. I even did my best to read the placards of dinosaur facts out loud to Max. He is very interested in dinosaur information. Monster bestie kept us on a schedule so I didn't even have to worry about making our train ride on time. I could count on her to tell us to pick up the pace if we needed to. In fact, I think she probably could have told us how many feet we needed to walk per minute.




We all had a nice train ride, except monster bestie who sat on the sidelines with monster baby El. Her hubby pointed out that this move was strategically smart because she got a little time to herself. We even hypothesized that she would sprint back to the check in desk to buy more tickets for us so that she could have even more alone time. This is something that I would definitely think about doing, but I seriously doubt that monster bestie thought about it at all. She would be more likely to have regret for not experiencing that train ride with her kids. Yet another mothering gene that I do not possess.

The next stop was to see the bears. I love bears. I've always wanted to roll around with one, but I'm also equally afraid of getting mauled to death, so I love them from a distance. I always have these high expectations of what the bears will be doing, and I'm always disappointed. On this day, they were napping on some rocks and scratching their molting fur. No juggling, giving birth, or doing back flips into their pool. Damn, I'm sure we just missed that stuff!

All of these activities required quite a bit of walking. Max was starting to grow weary. He was alternating with Maeve in our stroller since we don't own a double stroller (hiss hiss boooooo!). At this particular time, he was walking up a long boardwalk, overlooking a marshy pond. I had just handed him his sippy cup of juice and all seemed well until... it wasn't. This is what happens when Max gets tired. A happy, peaceful scene can turn into the Texas Chainsaw Massacre within seconds.
Max said sullenly, "I don't want this juice!" He began running toward the wooden ledge, cup poised mid-air. Things began to move in slow motion now, and I saw the events unfolding like I was a little bird in a tree. I ran after him.




I screamed at him, "Stop!!! No!!!!! Don't do it!" I felt like the entire world stopped for just a moment to see if I could catch him. Not a chance in hell. He threw that cup over the ledge, down to the water below. I think that Max likes to leave evidence of himself wherever he goes. I need to teach him how to carve his initials in a tree instead of littering the world with pacifiers, sippy cups, and pocket-sized toys.




A woman standing behind us feared the worst. She asked very solemnly, "Did someone jump?" Max, on the other hand, wanted Robert to shimmy down the post of the ledge and retrieve his sippy cup. And so did I, for that matter! I hated the thought of leaving our sippy cup floating around in that pond for all eternity.



Realizing that retrieving the cup was impossible, we all decided to flee the scene. As we walked back toward the main museum, I had that uneasy feeling you get when you've done something horribly wrong. I was convinced that everyone knew. I was convinced that everyone was staring at us. Monster bestie had raced ahead to find a spot to nurse monster baby El. Monster bestie's hubby nudged me then, and said, "Look! We are definitely getting thrown out."



It was a museum official! Heading to the pond with a walkie talkie in hand. "We have a report of a juice cup in the water. Animal down! I repeat, animal down!" monster bestie's hubby said in his best walkie talkie voice. He reaffirmed my worst fear -- that somehow this foreign plastic container had maimed or wounded an innocent animal. Almost simultaneously, my fight or flight instinct took over. We couldn't get caught! "Come on! Let's get out of here," I said. Max kept asking if that man was going to get his juice. I shushed him repeatedly, he was giving us away.

I wished in that moment that monster bestie was there. She'd know what to do. I wondered where she went to nurse.



Later on, she told me that she had forgotten her cover, so she nursed standing up in the bathroom stall. This doesn't exactly fit in with the story, but I really wanted to draw a picture of her nursing in a public restroom. For the record, I wholeheartedly disagree that any woman should have to nurse in a place where you deposit your waste. Nursing is not a bathroom duty. But I get that not every woman feels comfortable with her boobs on display. Thank goodness we all have this choice!

What is the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Do not let your tired, cranky child out of the stroller? Do not give your child sippy cups near the ledges of marshy ponds? Do not visit the bears, even if they do fabulous tricks?

Those all seem a bit extreme. But I think I'll go with them.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Just a Typical Saturday

I Need My Fingernails!

One week ago:

Once in a while, Robert and I decide to cut the kids' fingernails so they don't claw people to death. Neither of them like this task very much. Robert and I don't like it either. You have to simultaneously restrain the child, grasp the hand, and avoid getting head butted in the process. Oh, and try your best not to cut off any fingertips in the process. Worst feeling ever when you make your own kid bleed...

I usually make Robert trim Max's nails because I'm afraid to do it myself. No, seriously. He's strong! And each clip you make, he wails like you are performing an amputation.



We make him pick up the fingernail clippings and throw them away. He studies them in the same sort of way as he does boogers -- like they are oddly grotesque but also quite fascinating. He will admire his hands afterward, with tears still glistening in his eyes, and say, "They're clean!"

Yesterday:

The fingernails do tie in to this story, you'll see.

Max has the most excruciatingly annoying habit of asking for 17.3 million things while I'm driving. Maeve only asks for 5.2 million things, so I don't tend to complain about her as much. He asks for something to drink, something to eat, a pacifier, a toy that is completely unreachable or nonexistent, a very old french fry, and sometimes even for locations, people, and situations. "I want to go to grandma's house." "I want to go see my friends." "I want the baby to shut up."

Yesterday, he wanted a juice box. And Maeve chimed in for one too.



I am in no way advocating to cater to your child's every whim while driving. But I find that ignoring their requests and therefore hearing about it over and over again drives me insane, which really isn't safe either. So I do my best to hand them things at red lights and scream at them that I'm driving and that they are going to get us killed over a juice box. And then I usually make a comment about the relative unimportance of thirst compared to being upside down on the side of the road.

Silly me, I made the mistake of being considerate and putting the straw in his juice box before handing it to him. How could I have been so stupid? He became enraged at my folly and demanded a new juice box with an unopened straw. I gave the other juice box to Maeve.



I thought I would get some peace and silence for a few minutes while they slurped down their juice. But I was wrong. I heard Max struggling while trying to unwrap his straw. I expected him to either toss the juice box over his shoulder in frustration, or hand it back to me and ask for my help. The unpredictability of a three-year-old leaves me in constant fear of the worst reaction but also hopeful to a fault for the best reaction.

Instead, he went in a completely different direction.



Maybe next time we trim his fingernails, we should put them in a plastic baggy and keep them close by. You never know when you might need them to open a straw wrapper.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad