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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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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