He’s a male nurse, sometimes referred to as a “murse.” (Yes, that’s a real term. Google it. It can also mean “man purse.”) Now, I’m all for gender neutrality and whatnot, but I still think it’s hard to reconcile the fact that he is a nurse because he enjoys things like hunting and fishing, building things out of wood, and driving loud trucks. We’re those people that have animal heads on the wall from his trophy kills. If you saw my home, you would think I’m married to a lumberjack or similar woodsman, like maybe we just live off the land Deliverance-style (just the woodsy parts, not the sexual assault parts). But no, he cares for elderly sick people in a fancy nursing home. He wanted to go to paramedic school, but nurses are in high demand so I felt like nursing school would be more bang for our buck. More opportunities, more stability, other adult reasons, blah blah blah, plus, yeah, show me the money. So “we” decided he would be a nurse and it turned out to be a good fit for him. He does wear Carhartt scrubs, which I think caters to his masculine side, but he buys them from a place called “MurseWorld.com.”
Boy One, age 7
He’s an electronics addict because I suck as a parent. He used to do things like go outside and converse with other humans. Now he just stares blankly at glowing screens. He used to want to be a farmer when he grew up. Now he wants to be a “you-tuber.” I have to remind him to eat. Actually, I should probably get off of here and do that right now.
Boy Two, age 6
He is the type of child that makes you wonder if your life is actually some form of cruel The Truman Show-esque joke. Like maybe one day the producers will show up and say, “Thanks for being part of our show about what it’s like to parent a miserably difficult child. Here’s your check.” Anyway, he’s super smart, super strong, super blue-eyed beautiful, and super crazy. Not the best combination.
The Girl, age 1
“Mom’s baby” as everyone in the household calls her. “Mom, your baby is crying.” “Mom, your baby needs her diaper changed.” As if The Husband has no vested interest in her. Anyway, she’s a curly-haired sassy girl that is probably the worst of them all and we just don’t know it yet.
I work for lawyers, which The Husband would probably say suits me well. He would mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment. I’m antisocial and I hate most things that typical Americans enjoy: baseball, dogs, swimming, BBQ, country music, The Walking Dead…
I had my kids at home, but only because I hate doctors, not because of the “beauty of birthing a baby into a natural, serene, comfortable setting.” Birth is dirty, loud and stressful no matter where it happens. I don’t even like the word “birth.” Not only do I have a problem with the actual birthing process, but I also never really cared much for the product of it. I never babysat as a teenager and never considered myself the mothering type. Then, on June 12, 2009, the midwife handed me Boy One and said, “Here you go, be careful with this.” I was like, “What the hell!? That’s the instructions?”
For me, mothering is kind of like greasy fast food, cheap wine, or Netflix:
- It causes you to neglect things that were once important to you.
- It cuts your life expectancy in half.
- You can never get enough.
Our marriage is the result of a workplace fling gone wrong. The Husband was your typical arrogant jerk boss and sometimes stupid young girls have a thing for arrogant jerk bosses so now I’m married and have three kids. We live in Indiana at a location that makes most global positioning systems say, “Screw this, I have no idea where you’re headed.” and we’re doing our best to raise people that don’t turn out to be dangers to society.