It's Like I'm Sherlock Holmes

I work the night shift as a nurse in a busy Pediatric ICU.  The work is emotionally stressful, physically taxing, and mentally challenging - especially at 4 in the morning when you are the charge nurse and have to scramble to rearrange the puzzle pieces to accommodate busy admissions with a short staff and patients who are spiraling down.  Thankfully though, the night shift tends to have more down time than the other shifts (why do you think I've stayed there for the past 14 years?  Certainly not for the coffee).  But it's not always doom and gloom.  Case in point: last night my colleagues had me laughing so hard I was wheezing and wiping away tears of mirth.  I'm sure a parent complaint is on the way.

I come home after work, have a quick breakfast, check in with the family, and go to sleep.  Often that sleep is briefly interrupted by noises from the boys who are home and doing their thing.  We went through a good 3-month period a few years ago where they liked to blast "Rock You Like a Hurricane" at top volume... on repeat. I had some crazy dreams then.  Or, one will offend their sibling and a yelling match ensues, followed by doors slamming and general mayhem.  But I've become an old pro at sleeping through most anything, and I generally wake refreshed and ready to rejoin the family and hear what they've been up to.  When I walk down the hallway toward the living room and family room I never know what I'm going to find... but they leave me ample clues that detail the events of the last 5 to 7 hours.  And now I'm like Sherlock Holmes, piecing together the minute details of a crime scene.

Here's how it typically plays out: I creep warily down the hallway and gird myself for the disastrous view that  assaults me upon first entering the living room - site of many a crime.  Toys are usually strewn everywhere, clothes litter every seating surface, and possibly some new food has been ground into the carpet.  Last year when we were rearranging the boys' rooms we had bookshelves laying in the living room and the boys had rediscovered old toys that they hadn't played with in a while.  It was like trying to navigate a minefield just to get to the kitchen and my beloved coffee.  The scene was vividly laid out in front of me.   "Ah yes, a great battle has taken place between the Stuffies and the Transformers and if I'm not mistaken, Megatron has once again defeated his old nemesis Stripey".

Today, the battlefield is clear, but I glean much information from the detritus that leads, like breadcrumbs (sometimes it literally IS breadcrumbs), from one room to the other to spell out all of the day's activities.  A lacrosse ball which my son grabbed from the sidelines at the Cal vs Oregon game.  How do I know where it came from?  He's written on it with a Sharpie - so, ok, that one was cheating.  The puppy is whining in her crate, but yarns from my area rug lay within view - she's been destroying my nice things again and it looks to be from 25 minutes ago by the size of the drying drool outline.  The boys ate sandwiches and Cheddar Bunnies for lunch, along with Gatorade to wash it down.  This one's easy because the wrappers are right next to the lunch dishes still on the table, and the bread loaf is on the counter with the bag open to invite staleness; the peanut butter jar also open next to a dirty knife.  Breakfast obviously consisted of cereal - Honey Nut Cheerios by the color of the milk remaining in the three bowls on TOP of the dishwasher.  (See previous post about Force Fields).  The paper lays open to the entertaining comics page, next to the past three days' worth of newspapers that need to find their way out to the recycling bin.  An iPod with a dead battery has been discarded on the couch cushions, but it seems they were busy enough that there was no time for a DVD today, because no case is laying open near the television.  And unless I'm mistaken and my husband has taken up solitary daytime drinking, he fell asleep watching the news last night.  A beer bottle with a few last swigs sits on the table next to the rumpled blanket on the couch.  But today's coffee helped to revive him, based on the dried brown ring on the mug next to the computer.

They've since gone out to do guy things together and as much as I hate to perpetuate the gender stereotypes I will gladly stay here, alone in the quiet house, with an episode of the Vampire Diaries to watch while I clean up the mess.  Gotta set the stage for a new day's adventures.

Force Fields

My boys, like many young boys, were naturally drawn to all of the Star Wars movies and superhero adventures.  They learned everything there is to know about these mystical worlds where individuals can wield super powers to control nature and battle evil forces. I believe that somehow they have learned to channel this energy and weave it into our quiet, everyday home life.  How else do you explain the force fields?

As a mother I am unable to see or feel this force field.  It exists only in the realm of boys, but the effects are plain to me.  Take for example: the laundry basket.  It clearly has a force field around it and I can safely say that the dimensions of said barrier extend about 2 feet away from the actual basket itself.  Dirty clothes simply cannot penetrate the bubble and are repelled back out onto the floor surrounding the hamper.  The barrier weakens near female hormones because I am able to pick up clothing from the floor and deposit it into the basket (occasionally with some difficulty to be honest), but it can be done.

Where else are these force fields you may be asking?  (Or not, but keep reading anyway.)  The dishwasher is protected by an invisible shield that is oftentimes impermeable even to the powers of the grown-up boy known as my husband.  Dirty dishes cannot be placed within its confines.  They are simply relegated to the counter directly above the dishwasher, thus indicating that granite must weaken the barrier at some places and allow the dishes to merely come close to their designated place.

Another force field?  It hovers over the toilet.  Need I go on?  I think you get the general idea.

And just recently I've been wondering if there is a small but powerful force field around my boys' heads.  Their hair almost jumps away from my hands when I attempt to comb it down or coerce the strands into an organized direction.  Scissors are repelled like strong magnets of reverse polarity.  There's no hope for a haircut despite all of my attempts.

It is my mission to try to discover how to battle these force fields.  If I make any momentous discoveries I will pass on the valuable information, but don't hold your breath.

What's That Smell?

My older son, Zack, had cradle cap when he was a baby.  This, combined with the fact that he sweat profusely while sleeping, caused the strangest, most unpleasant smell.  You always think of tiny infants smelling sweet and clean like baby shampoo or fresh laundry.  I believe that more than one of his uncles handed him back to us after only a brief interaction, with the admonishment, "Uh, here, you take him instead.  He has the funk".

Come to find out, boys always have 'the funk'.  I mean, they can shower and bathe, but it will soon return.  Believe me.  As toddlers and preschoolers it takes on something like a puppy dog smell.  Once they're in school it is more reminiscent of working long and hard in the garden - dirt mixed with fertilizer and perspiration.  But you know they haven't been doing any manual labor, so that rules out an obvious source.  And as they age it becomes simply unidentifiable.  Zack's 5th grade teacher sent out numerous emails during the year pleading with parents to "do a sniff test and take appropriate measures".  I feel for the guy - cooped up with hormonal boys and girls in a stuffy classroom all day.  No wonder they hand out sample deodorants to the boys in the spring!

The worst olfactory assault came this past fall during a Chili Cook-off that we were hosting.  I guess that being a M.O.B. ("mother of boys" in case you're just joining us or you had a few drinks already) I associate mainly with other families that also have boys.  Of all the attendees, most of the kids running around were boys of elementary and middle school age.  Somehow they tended to congregate in one room playing video games.  This was a smallish room (our guest room where my in-laws were staying), and the window was unfortunately closed, allowing the heat from the TV and video components to build up quickly and mingle with their own body heat.  I'm sure you can guess what's coming, right?  One unfortunate parent opened the door to shoo them out.  I was behind her and the blast of foul air that emanated forth was so potent it defies words.  I'm surprised there wasn't a noxious green cloud that poured out - although I may have lost consciousness for a brief time and simply missed it.  We stood blinking as if in a haze (it was that cloud, I'm sure) before finally accessing our language pathways and yelling for them to go outside into the fresh air.  Hoping for a decontamination process to occur perhaps?  Or maybe just a diffusion of funk into the unsuspecting neighborhood?  Either way, my in-laws have yet to come visit with us again.  Coincidence???

How Did I Get Here?

There's a point in life when you look around and take inventory of your current surroundings and you wonder, "How did I get here?"  If you are ankle-deep in Legos, have peanut butter smeared somewhere on your body, and you're wondering what cleaner will best remove blood, grass, and dirt stains, chances are pretty good that you are a parent of boys.  Welcome to my life.  Now, I grew up with 2 younger brothers in a court full of active boys, so I am no stranger to testosterone-fueled antics.  But many a day I sit with my brow furrowed in confusion, head swiveling side-to-side like a barn owl on the hunt, and sigh trying to come up with some rational explanation for whatever new predicament surrounds me.  Where do these alien creatures come up with these ideas to try my sanity?  Oftentimes I feel like Jane Goodall: living in an environment dominated by my research subject.  Sure they are my flesh and blood, but they are so unlike me in many ways that I will never grasp what truly makes them tick.  Boys and girls are simply wired differently.  Ask any parent who has children of both sexes and they will attest to the fact with a knowing laugh.

Let me back up a little bit.  I am blessed with two wonderful sons who are happy, smart, friendly, active - well you get the picture.  Yes, I am a proud mother.  A "Mother Of Boys".  If you are also in this boat, you realize what an interesting group we are.  I had one toddler-aged boy when we found out we were pregnant again.  My pregnancy was so different from my first one that I was convinced I would be having a girl.  At our 20-week appointment the ultrasound technician clicked on an image of my new baby's open legs.  She  slowly started to type out "p.e.n.i.s", and it honestly wasn't until she was at the "s" that I realized what was going on.  I was completely shocked.  Why would she play this trick on me?  And as it sunk in I thought, "Okay, I can do this.  I already know what to do with a boy and they'll grow up playing happily together".  Thus began my misguided journey into MOB mentality - thinking I knew how to control and pacify the whirlwind that is a multiple-boy household.