Nursing vs Nursing

Are you already confused by the title?  Well, then buckle up because this may be a bumpy ride.  I'll apologize in advance for any grammatical errors (my computer should help me out in the spelling arena) or exceptionally long run on sentences like those ones that just go on and on and you're waiting for the punchline but there isn't one and you forget what the subject was even before you've made it to the final punctuation mark - oh, see? - that's what I'm talking about.   I've been up now for 19 hours - and it is only 9:00 am.  Yes, I work a night shift and if you've read my posts before you may know that I am a nurse in a Pediatric ICU.  It's a busy unit and last night was definitely the crazy kind of "is it a full moon?" busy.  Put out one flash fire only to turn around and see fresh smoke at another bedside.  (That's all figurative by the way; no real fires in our hospital - at least last night).

Remember Stretch Armstrong when you were a kid?  Or the crazy Stretch Octopus?  That's what I end up feeling like when I'm in charge of a unit full of nurses taking care of a host of sick kids.  Tentacles pulled to the max in all different directions, trying to help as many people as possible.  Generally, barring any extreme cases, I leave feeling exhausted, but like I helped make a difference.  You can bet though, that I will still grumble and complain the next time I have to get ready for another shift.

Did you ever think how great it would be to live the life of a stay-at-home parent?  Yeah, I briefly thought that... and then I had a child and changed my mind.  That shit is hard!  No thank you!  When my husband went back to work I felt totally competent to handle my one lovely, easy baby.  By his third day at work I was begging for ten minutes alone so I could just shower and change my breastmilk-soiled shirt.  And when my two boys got older and started fighting, I gloated to my husband, "Oh, sorry I can't help you.  I have to go to work now!" as I sashayed out the door.  I could enjoy a quiet ride in the car, by myself, without listening to the Wiggles CD on repeat.  I got to go to a place where other people spoke "grown up" and had new stories that had to do with subjects other than Elmo.  Most people didn't even talk in that annoyingly high falsetto voice you use with toddlers - although I might have accidentally said "I'm going on my break-y now, alright sweetums?" if I was really sleep-deprived.  And when temper tantrums reigned at my house, I used to pray that I could be assigned a patient that was in a medically-induced coma.  You know what that means?  They are chemically paralyzed (no hitting mommy the nurse in the face), sedated (sleeping soundly) and ventilated (a breathing tube goes past their vocal cords making whining and screaming impossible).  Oh, glorious day!  I'd take a busy patient assignment like that over a full-blown tantrum any day.

I am lucky enough to have a job that pays me well for meaningful work, and I'm thankful that I only have to be there a few nights a week so I can enjoy my own crazy household of boys on my days off. (Run-on sentence right there in case you missed that, but I'm too tired to figure out how to fix it).  It is ironic though, that I leave my own kids to deal with another child's diarrhea, screaming and crying, bleeding, and projectile vomiting.  Bring on the sedatives!

Ultimate Blog Party 2013

You know that mom who has been blogging since before she was married, and you've followed all of her life's accomplishments including the purchase of her dream house, and the miracle births of her beautiful, perfect children?  I am not that mom.  I mean, I have two fabulous boys who fill my life with... well, sports equipment, suspect smells, boogers, and more dirt than you've ever imagined... plus the most wonderful, amazing mama's boy hugs ever.  I am a mother of boys, a "MOB" if you will.  And these stories are the crazy antics that actually occur in my household and are collectively known as MOB mentalities.

I used to be that shy, insecure, quiet person who enjoyed observing life from a shadowy corner - sounds like a creepy stalker when it's spelled out like that.  I'm not, I swear.  Well, I only stalk people who write amazing blogs and have funny posts on Twitter (you know, socially acceptable stalking, so don't be so quick to judge).  When I had my kids the sarcastic side of me was forced to open up and take over.  You can't possibly take yourself seriously when you have breastmilk leaking through your bra pad or your baby's poop smeared on your arm because you didn't realize he'd had a blow-out that has coated everything from his one remaining sock all the way up to his dirty neck rolls.  In order to cope I took to Facebook to vent my frustrations at all the testosterone-fueled craziness that surrounded me.  I had friends encourage me to start a blog, and now, well, here we are. Hopefully they're not regretting that advice right about now.

I am new to blogging, and that's why I am so thankful to stumble across sites like 5 Minutes for Mom who have just compiled a full list of kindred spirits for me to connect with.  I hope you read on and enjoy a laugh at my expense!

Another Birthday Extravaganza

It is almost time to start planning another kid's birthday celebration.  Ugh, again?  We just did this last year.  Or, earlier this year if you count the other boy.  I hate trying to come up with a day of festivities for increasingly cynical pre-teen boys.  And really, do you think I want to be around a dozen hyper, sarcastic, writhing boys?  (You thought I was going to add "smelly" in there didn't you?  Well, if you've read my blog before you know that is implied and goes without saying).

Last year we hosted a fun day where we invited not only Zack's friends, but the parents as well, to join us in a suite at the A's game.  Baseball, alcoholic drinks, pizza, and adults to talk to - that's my kind of kid party.  Never mind the annoyed glances that came our way from the people who had the misfortune of purchasing tickets for the seats directly in front of our bay of windows.  Sorry people, you are now the unlucky recipients of ridiculous heckling, singing, screaming, and bits of flying food particles.  Deal.  You're at a ballpark, not the museum.

I love the current trend to host parties at warehouses that cater to your kids, provide activities to tire them out, serve them horrible, unhealthy food, and then clean up after you when you leave!  Did I mention that they clean up everything?  I'm really paying for that service more than anything.  Of course, I would love for my kid to feel like they've had a unique, exciting party that no one else has experienced before, but I'm not that creative or motivated.  We've done the theme parties and believe me, the kids don't really get it or appreciate any of the planning.  I'm all, "Hey, did you notice the Lego candies on all the cupcakes? And the homemade pop-up invitation that looks like a building block? No?"  The kids can't wait to run away from the freaky, overbearing lady.

As my boys grow older I become a little nostalgic for their sweet, innocent parties that are behind us.  Having said that, there are some things that I wave an enthusiastic good-riddance to.  I don't miss the piñatas, the elastic party hats that no kid wants to wear, the party games, the ridiculously large bouncy house taking up my entire yard, or making goody bags filled with plastic crap that I know the parents will throw away as soon as they get home.  Thank goodness for easy gift cards that we can pass out to guests on their way out.  Didn't get enough sugar in the last few hours?  Here, take this See's card and go crazy, or keep haranguing your mom to take you for some frozen yogurt.  I'd like to say that I don't miss the snarky, screaming version of "Happy Birthday" but they still yell it at the top of their lungs.

Because Zack occasionally reads his wacky mom's blog I won't say what we might be planning for next month, but suffice it to say we won't have an obscene Bob the Builder bounce house.  Hey kids, just crawl under my legs here and we'll have lots of sweaty fun.

What's for Dinner?

Seriously.  Every night.  Can we just take a pass one or two nights a week?  My boys probably wouldn't even notice.  Sometimes they ask me for lunch only hours after they've finished eating lunch.  When I remind them of this they say, "Really? What did I eat?"  It must not have been memorable.

That's the thing: we've taught our children that everything needs to be presented with great fanfare.  Is the meal served with special neon colors, pinwheels, toys, activity books, movie passes, dancing clowns, or fireworks?  No?  Then forget it.  When my husband cooks something new that we think they might possibly like, the plate is often met with snubs and turned up noses.  Or, (more annoyingly) if they've enjoyed a meal in the past and we make it again, knowing it will be well-received, they swear they've never tasted such a concoction before and would never in their life willingly let this mix of ingredients pass their lips.  Logan routinely tells us, "I hate chicken!"  How can anyone hate chicken?  It's one of our main dinner ingredients.  And he will eat "chicken" nuggets from any fast food restaurant, thus proving that he does in fact like chicken, or that their "chicken" is not made from actual poultry.  

I'm not that excited about cooking.  Honestly, my husband plans and cooks more meals than I do.  I think he secretly wants to be on a cooking show.  He's the guy who has every ingredient meticulously chopped, measured, and featured in individual miniature glass bowls.  Our rule is one person cooks, the other cleans up.  I'm usually thinking, "Why am I stuck washing fifteen ramekins?  We had hot dogs."

Generally, most meals are dumbed-down for kids.  Less spice, fewer ingredients, uniform color, the more bland, the better.  The exception goes for that one family with the foodie kids who know what grass-fed Niman Ranch beef is, who ask for French Laundry as a birthday lunch, and have tried foie gras at fancy restaurants (you know who you are).  If we even add a simple shake of seasoning, or heaven forbid, parsley over the top, my boys won't eat it.  I try to hide veggies in the final product but they can sense the presence of natural vitamins just like Superman's x-ray vision can see through steel.  I tried using squash in mac'n cheese once but it was rather disgusting and I don't blame them for distrusting any casserole dishes I made in the future.

If I only had myself to worry about, it wouldn't be a problem!  I loved college days when I could simply have a healthy baked potato as my meal.  Topped with nonfat sour cream, broccoli, salsa, what have you.  Maybe a sprinkle of cheese, and some bacon bits.  Did I mention bacon?  That's a meal right there!  Or a bowl of cereal when I was really in a pinch.  Some rice and teriyaki chicken.  Or, bacon... easy peasy.  Now I need to make sure it's well-balanced, tasty, and follows that new government-recommended plate diagram.  Sure.  Let me just peek into my dwindling pantry supplies, and reach past my questionable refrigerator leftovers to whip up something real quick between guitar lessons, scouts, and baseball activities.

Thank goodness there's always one easy standby.  Brinner.  Breakfast for dinner.  I make it sound like a treat and they love it even more.  And the best part?  You can always have bacon with it.

Homework Hell-p

I have a confession to make:  I enjoy solving algebraic equations.  And multiplying and dividing fractions.  (Glad to get that off my chest).  It's all like a puzzle to me and I love doing that kind of brain stimulating homework.  The thing is, it's not my homework.  My almost 12-year-old son is a huge procrastinator.  A big, stinkin', distracted, overstimulated mess of a boy.  He cannot just sit down and power through his assignments in a reasonable amount of time to then enjoy the rest of the evening with his family.  What should take maybe two hours takes him six or seven hours when you count dinner time, a few chores, and hundreds of visits to the bathroom.  No, he doesn't have any sort of disorder that makes focus near impossible (nor does he have a bladder the size of a pistachio) - he is just an adolescent boy with other things to occupy his mind and cause him to forget what he's doing.

When he started middle school we assumed he had the homework thing all figured out.  He didn't ask for any help and we didn't check assignments, but he's responsible and strives to do well, so the threat of failure was his own motivator.  But what is "failure"?  He started to worry after a string of math assignments came back with 3/5 points.  This meant that his grade was a measly 60% (for you math-challenged folks) which translates to a solid D-.  We all started worrying a bit.  And so began the homework checks before he went to bed and his revisions early in the morning before sprinting out the door.  I didn't really care for that method because it didn't allow for immediate recognition of what was wrong, so he and I started doing math together.

Of course, he had to remind me how to do each new process.  Dividing fractions?  You have to flip the numerator and denominator and then cross-simplify before multiplying.  Duh!  Right, I knew that... But he enjoyed being the tutor, which really translates to pointing out what an idiot I was for not knowing this stuff already.  Flashback to my own adolescence: I remember handing over my math book and worksheets to my dad so he could help me.  When he wanted to read the chapter first, I thought he was a total imbecile.  What?  You went to Berkeley!  You should know how to do high school math!  Jeez.  Yeah, what goes around, blah blah blah.

Most of the teachers make concessions for homework that seems to take too long.  If kids are spending too much time on it but seem to have mastered the concept, or the child needs more specific instruction, parents can sign off on the homework.  I don't think Zack's teachers really want a note detailing how long he lounged on each couch, what music he finally decided on, and his chosen method to stealthily shoot Nerf darts across the hall into his brother's room.  He's like the dog in "Up" - everything is distrac --- SQUIRREL! --- ting.  And it doesn't matter how many times I urge him to focus and keep working.  I'm even getting tired of hearing my speech, especially when he has his head on the table at 10 pm because he's so tired.

If only Minecraft made you complete an algebra problem before you could close the doors against zombies, things might be different.