How I Ruined My Boys

Don't read this.  I'm serious.

This is less about sharing blessings, and more about preparing the reader for the next encounter they have with my boys.  Be prepared.  And please, give me an opportunity to explain before you call DHS. 

I ruined them.  I can explain. 

See, I have worked with several (hundred?) children over the course of many years who have been abused in a variety of ways.  My adorable children have the benefit of my ability to rule out many types of abuse (i.e. physical, emotional, and trauma so far...thank you God.)  But the mental health field has broken my brain.  I'm always treating my kids.  Sometimes it seriously backfires.

Exhibit A.
Last night I decided that I needed to establish some boundaries for my 4-year-old boy (and subsequent 2 -year- old boy) with respect to their private region.  I can't remember where I learned this, but I believe it was from a police detective who works with Liberty House.  Anyway, his method for assisting his children in warding off sexual abuse was to establish the boundary that "nobody touches your private area except you and your mommy".  Except, he doesn't use the word *private*, but rather uses the correct biological term to further establish that there is nothing embarrassing or shameful when talking about that body part.  I loved this boundary and idea, and tucked it in my memory to use with my own kids when they grew up to an age they could understand. 

I could not bring myself to use the correct word that we spoke about, so I've used the term "private area".  However, to fully appreciate how horrifying this conversation was, please understand that we used the actual word.  AND SO DID JUSTIN. 

So.  The opportunity arises where both boys are changing into their jammies, and, not wanting to make a big deal of it, I suddenly stated (shocking myself as the words exited my mouth) "boys, nobody touches your private area except for you, mommy or daddy.  Nobody."  Justin immediately starts yelling "I can touch my private area!" and running all around.  Naked.
Chase appears horrified, as if he'd love to crawl under the bed. 
I can't stop talking.  I can hear myself talking, I see the facial expression on Chris' face, but I can't make my face stop moving.  Why can't I stop talking? 
"Nobody touches you there.  Got it?"
Chase laughs and says "got it."
Justin starts running around the room, trying to touch Chase and Chris in the private area and yelling "I'm touching you private area!!!"
Chris looks at me like I've completely lost my mind. 
"NO Justin! We don't touch other people's private area, and we don't touch each other's private area!"
Justin yells "I'm touching you private area.  I'm touching everybody's private area!"
They then run around the house dancing and giggling.
I'm not sure that really worked out. 

And I'm pretty confidant that I'm going to be getting a phone call from preschool on Monday. 
My bad. 

The Pink Eye Plague

Q: What could possibly bring a mother of three kids under the age of 4 to actually practice self care?
A: The repeated shock filled gasp of co-workers and patients in the ER who can't bare to make eye contact any longer because of the nauseating appearance of said mother. 

It is very difficult to successfully treat suicidal people as well as those suffering from visual hallucinations/psychosis when your appearance is so shocking and disturbing that the conversation quickly turns to "(gasp!) What happened to your eye?!?" 

It took me 6 hours at work today with an eye that felt like sandpaper before I actually thought to myself "maybe I should just go home."  Six hours.  Six hours of people diverting their eyes, running quickly over to the hand sanitizer and looking at me as if I were a leper. 

It is truly perplexing to me how remarkably different children respond to a mother in contrast to the rest of humanity.  I literally could be spewing blood all over the kitchen with a missing limb, and Justin would barely notice as he requested juice or questioned me on the sandwich I am making him for lunch.  Chase is fully capable of quizzing me on "Do you know what 'nuts' mean?  Do you, mom?  It means 'you're freakin me out" without pausing a single moment to wonder if my eye ball is fluorescent red for some reason. 

It's even more perplexing to me how quickly a mother accepts this role and starts to engage in the same behavior.  Adelai has a runny nose?  Sound the alarms. She's had a runny nose for 12.5 hours, no temp, 3 wet diapers and slightly more fussy than normal.

I can barely even give information to doctors about me because, honestly, I literally cannot remember what has happened with me.  When talking to doctors, I sound defiant/non-compliant/difficult because I can barely answer the most basic of questions.

MD: How long has it been like this? 
Me: Uhhh, I'm not sure.
MD: When was the last time it bothered you? 
Me; Sorry, I'm not sure.  But I can tell you the color of my daughter's poop three weeks ago.  That's not helpful though, is it.
MD: Not at all.  Well did it bother you this morning? 
Me: Maybe.  I guess so. 

Ultimately, what actually makes me laugh about this situation is that this is not my first problem since becoming a mother of three.  I've had mastitis, pain, seizures, more pain, ear infections, the stomach flu, etc in the last 9 months.  Nothing made me skip work.  However, you mess with my appearance and make me look like a freak?  You have my attention. 

You do not have the attention of my kids, but you have mine.  An hour and a half of rest, here I come. 
And note to self;  the next time these petri dishes of infection children give me pink eye, It's an awesome idea to throw away the mascara afterwards.

Lessons every day.  And no, I'm not posting a picture of my eye because I'm sure some of you plan on eating in the next 12 hours.  You are welcome.

Why I'm Preparing for a Mental Breakdown

I never thought sacrificial love would actually happen to me...or rather from me.  I knew I would love my kids, but I also loved a bunch of stuff and I figured it wouldn't be a big deal.  I love coffee, volleyball, chocolate, ice cream, and basically anything dunked in sugar.  Oh, and I have seriously loved a cat.  In a creepy way.  That's a different story.  One that determines whether or not we'll be friends based on if you think I'm insane or not.  Let's avoid it all together. Moving on.

But now I love three little kids so much it hurts to breath sometimes.  They determine every moment of my day, every thought of my day, every goal I have.  And I'm supposed to fly to Hawaii pretty soon without any of them. 

When these kids have a runny nose, the depth of my mommy-ness imagines pneumonia/aspiration/scarlet fever/chicken pox/meningitis. Simultaneously.  I'm the mom with the pediatrician on speed dial ready to pounce on the first triage nurse that gives me grief.  I'm practicing CPR/the Heimlich maneuver (makes sense at the time) and running a zillion scenarios through my head about all the ways I'm going to discover the bizarre deadly illness they've come down with.  It's all going to be discovered because I was prepared, diligent and relentless.  (My pediatrician loves this about me...I'm sure.)

I'm going to be in a chair in a plane flying a billion miles above the ocean to a tiny island.  Thousands of miles away from my babies.  Even if the plane gently landed in the ocean in an emergency, I'd die instantaneously.  Why you ask?  Well you haven't seen me try to swim yet, have you.  I swim in an effort not to die.  It only works about 20% of the time and it usually causes my husband to almost drown because he's laughing too hard.  This is not good for my babies. 

So as the time that we depart approaches (and I'm not divulging the date to the Internet, lest you try to come to my house and steal all our super awesome crap), I can't help but imagine gruesome details of my death/gruesome death. This is a great way to become crazy very quickly. 

So back to sacrificial love....seems remarkably unrelated.  However, my point is really just that being a wife and a mother at the same time means that everybody gets a piece of sacrificial love.  These kids get 150% of me every hour of every day.  I guess I can relent for a few days to relax with my husband.  I think the shock might kill me. 

If it does kill me, would everybody please promise the following?

• Don't tell my kids how scared I was of water.  This will prove something to Chase that he'll never forget.  He'll be the kid dressed in head to toe sunscreen with a helmet on, etc.  Not good.
• Also, please tell the boys that they will never EVER get a wife if they continue to wet the bed every single night.
• Please tell Adelai that boys are stupid until she is 22 and she should never speak to a single one until that date.  And also, if she wants to be a nun, please support this whole heartedly.
• Justin really needs to know that jail = bad, and being called "rude" is not a compliment.  (They're working on that at preschool.  He doesn't get it yet.)
• Also, the boys need to know that girls don't have boy parts.  I'm struggling with this.  Good luck.
• The boys have been told that they can't drink soda until they are 30.  Justin may not drive a motorcycle until he's 35.   
• Justin needs a car with 2 cylinders.  Preferably a car that barely moves.  Chase needs a car that is a tank so he doesn't get scared all the time.
• Have I mentioned that Adelai is not allowed to date?  She should be 30.  I know I said 22 earlier, but that was rediculous.  She should pay back all her student loans and complete nun school before she dates.  
• Don't flip Chase around.  He does NOT like that. 
• Adelai may not date any boys ever until she is a hundred years old.  Seriously. 
• Let Chase speak until he's finished.  He has much to say and the end part is usually the best. 
• Be patient with Justin.  If you wait a few minutes, he ends up being the sweetest boy ever.
• Adelai is so sweet.  She should not date.  Ever. 

Oh my gosh, how I love them. 

And most of all, if I die, make sure they know it was all Chris' idea.  I wanted to stay locked up in the house, cuddling all of them with a death grip until I died of exhaustion.  Chris is the one that is laying down the law.  I guess he might be right.  Don't tell him I said that though. 

I'm having hysterics.