Hi. My name is The Maven and I'm completely addicted to exercise.
(... That's your cue to say 'Hi, Maven')
I used to hate working out as much as getting a root canal - I've had five of those, by the way, which is what happens when you inherit bad dental genetics while also being stupid enough to chase your gerbil across the road at 13 and get hit by a car.
Yes. I loathed exercise. I couldn't stand the thought of getting all sweaty and out of breath.
... That's not exactly true. There are other activities where I don't mind getting... well, never mind. Onward.
The problem with being fat, however, is that it does some nasty things to your body. The idea that my stomach is releasing extra estrogen that can grow tumours and set off my blood sugar levels all from the comfort of my couch really put me off. So, about four years ago I decided to do something about it.
I bought a treadmill.
I started walking.
I started to like it.
I lost some weight.
I liked it even more after that.
I started running.
And I loved the high of running even more than walking. That endorphin buzz was amazing.
Eventually I worked my way up to 4km every day. Sweet. What an awesome workout. I was pumped! I ran the bike path by our old house and was one of the "regulars". I ws the regular that other regulars waved to as they ran past, but whatever. It was nice to be regular at something other than bowel movements.
Wait. You probably didn't need to know that in order to get the gist of my story. Sorry.
Eventually running 4km every day was not enough. I had to have more. So I started doing strength training.
And that was quite enough, either. So I added in some yoga.
And that left me jonesing for even more, which lead me to doing 20 minutes of stair climbing.
Every day, on top of running a full time daycare and caring for my own two gremlins, I would run, lift weights, do some yoga and stair climb. I thought I was the healthiest person alive.
It turns out I was the dumbest person alive. Who knew?
I was wearing myself down in ways I didn't quite grasp. But I didn't care because I failed to grasp the concept of 'too much of a good thing' like normal people would. I had become addicted to working out. Figures, considering I have the addictive personality that eats other people's addictive personalities for circle time snack. It loves to find new things to obsess over.
Once I realized how unhealthy I was being I scaled back the exercise, which caused me start ovulating again, and voila, Spawnling!
So you, see kids: Excessive exercising can cause pregnancy. Let my story be a lesson to you.
The problem, of course, is that some exercise is good. If I could manage to do it in moderation and keep myself in check, I could end up actually healthy and not exhausted trying to pass as healthy.
So, very reluctantly, I have started a relationship with my treadmill again. We've done some couples therapy and I promised I wouldn't abuse him like I used to. I'm a changed Maven; a healthier one. I'm going to give him the space he needs and deserves as an inanimate object. I won't wear out his tread. I won't see other cardio exercise routines like DVDs and stairs. I will be loyal and monogamous.
Well, I might sometimes fondle some pilates weighted balls on the side, but a girl needs a little diversity, right? Strength training is important. I'm sure the treadmill will understand.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thinking Outside the Box
It's Friday, and I should be cleaning.
I should be cleaning, except it's Friday.
See the quandary? Who wants to clean when it's basically the weekend?
My in-laws will be arriving tomorrow to celebrate their son's birthday. Within the next twenty-four hours I have to figure out how to make a gluten-free cake. I'm thinking a health food store, a box with some mix in it, and a cake pan. There you have it: my creativity shining through. Close your eyes, for it is brilliant.
All the energy has been sapped out of me with Gutsy's most recent illness. I'm emotionally spent. He, on the other hand, is doing fantastically well today with all those evil antibiotics coursing through his veins. He's taking it easy, but is laughing with his little brother and even being somewhat argumentative with me; a true sign that his health is picking up.
My mother, The Madre, gave me a little lesson on what to do with children who have bad lungs. She said I will need to keep him home from school as soon as he starts showing signs of illness, so that he doesn't get worn out and get pneumonia.
Like, keep him home on purpose? When he's not seriously ill? Really? And not lose my mind?
She also suggested that Spawnling and I might not want to attend playgroup anymore for fear of exposing Gutsy's wussy lungs to anklebiter ailments and the like.
But... but... Hang on, let me stomp my feet a little for good measure... I like playgroup! I really do! And so does Spawnling. It's the center of our social life right now, as sad as that sounds.
And yet, I also like my child to be healthy, so this puts me in a bit of a position, doesn't it? If Spawnling catches a vicious virus from the depths of the communal car container and brings it home to offer as a sacrifice to the demons in Gutsy's lungs, that would be problematic.
On the other hand, if Spawnling and I avoid playgroup we would probably become social outcasts who spend our days at home crying, leading to full-out depression, which might make me clean less and feed everyone Kraft Dinner and tofu dogs every night, decreasing Gutsy's health and making him more prone to infection anyway.
See the issue here?
There has to be a balance somewhere; something that will help Spawnling and I still have a life while also protecting Gutsy. With that in mind, I have come up with a few reasonable options:
I really missed my calling as a world leader.
I should be cleaning, except it's Friday.
See the quandary? Who wants to clean when it's basically the weekend?
My in-laws will be arriving tomorrow to celebrate their son's birthday. Within the next twenty-four hours I have to figure out how to make a gluten-free cake. I'm thinking a health food store, a box with some mix in it, and a cake pan. There you have it: my creativity shining through. Close your eyes, for it is brilliant.
All the energy has been sapped out of me with Gutsy's most recent illness. I'm emotionally spent. He, on the other hand, is doing fantastically well today with all those evil antibiotics coursing through his veins. He's taking it easy, but is laughing with his little brother and even being somewhat argumentative with me; a true sign that his health is picking up.
My mother, The Madre, gave me a little lesson on what to do with children who have bad lungs. She said I will need to keep him home from school as soon as he starts showing signs of illness, so that he doesn't get worn out and get pneumonia.
Like, keep him home on purpose? When he's not seriously ill? Really? And not lose my mind?
She also suggested that Spawnling and I might not want to attend playgroup anymore for fear of exposing Gutsy's wussy lungs to anklebiter ailments and the like.
But... but... Hang on, let me stomp my feet a little for good measure... I like playgroup! I really do! And so does Spawnling. It's the center of our social life right now, as sad as that sounds.
And yet, I also like my child to be healthy, so this puts me in a bit of a position, doesn't it? If Spawnling catches a vicious virus from the depths of the communal car container and brings it home to offer as a sacrifice to the demons in Gutsy's lungs, that would be problematic.
On the other hand, if Spawnling and I avoid playgroup we would probably become social outcasts who spend our days at home crying, leading to full-out depression, which might make me clean less and feed everyone Kraft Dinner and tofu dogs every night, decreasing Gutsy's health and making him more prone to infection anyway.
See the issue here?
There has to be a balance somewhere; something that will help Spawnling and I still have a life while also protecting Gutsy. With that in mind, I have come up with a few reasonable options:
- Playgroup could be held in a clean room from now on, complete with air showers, white suits and masks
- We could rent the isolation room at the local children's hospital - the very same one that Gutsy stayed in - so even if he ends up getting pneumonia again he'll have some company on Thursdays, which is very thougthful, if I do say so myself
- Automatic Purell dispensers could be surgically placed into Gutsy's wrists, much like Spiderman's webbing. He could squeeze finger to palm and instantly spray the germs away. Plus, he would technically be a cyborg, and cyborgs don't get sick, do they?
- Maybe Spawnling could wear a Darth Vader-like mask when we go visit his runny-nosed little friends. After a few terrifying minutes they would probably get used to his respirator voice, right?
- Using four spools of plastic wrap, a glue gun and some twine, MacGyver could design a bubble for Gutsy to live in. He could roll around in it like a hamster and run down school bullies. Think of the possibilities...
I really missed my calling as a world leader.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Gutsy vs. Pneumonia, round 5
I wish I had something as interesting as vaccines to talk about. Unfortunately, I'm feeling rather drained and uncreative. You see, it appears one of my (strategically vaccinated) children has yet another lung infection.
My regular readership (and anyone who's read my current Facebook status) will know I'm talking about the middle gremlin, my exception to the rule, my most interesting character, Mr. Gutsy.
With claws in, hidden fangs, and a droopy tail, Gutsy came home from school yesterday completely spent. He started to whine the minute he walked through the door, moaning and sighing as he peeled off his outerwear. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my maternal instincts went into high gear. I knew beyond a doubt that trouble was afoot.
Gutsy got sick on the weekend with a benign little virus brought home by Geekster and spread to all of us to some minor extent. However, the middle Grem developed a fever for about three days. No worries, though. Mama Maven doesn't panic about stuff like fevers anymore. Those new-mom-freaking-out-about-every-little-thing days are long behind me. I'm a seasoned gremlin tamer now. I don't generally bat a beautiful eye until there's either a lot of blood on the floor or a really gross rash. As predicted, the fever went away by Monday afternoon and the boy went back into education mode on Tuesday morning.
By last night the fever returned with a vengeance. Damnit.
Today, he started with the cough. Damnit, damnit, damnit!
You know, the cough. The awful, terrible, dangerous cough that turns my blood cold. The one that signals pneumonia, which infests his lungs like hippies at a tie-dye convention.
Gutsy has had the cough five times now, if I counted correctly. And every time I wonder if this is going to be the one that lands him on a respirator. I know that sounds over-dramatic, and it is, because inside I'm a drama whore. But looking beyond my shortcomings, pneumonia isn't exactly life-friendly, most likely due to it affecting that ever important breathing requirement of living persons.
Couple that with Gutsy's asthma - he can thank me and my side of the family for that little gift - and we have a situation that sends even this relatively calm mother into a state of panic. When I hear the cough my legs want to give in, and I want to start crying right there. I tend to hold back the tears and only break down later into a blubbering sack of uselessness, and instead immediately put on my brave mother face and march us off to the clinic or hospital.
The routine is practiced when we get there: This is Gutsy. He's six. He has asthma. He is prone to pneumonia. He started a cold about five days ago. He started getting better, then developed a fever and is now tired, short of breath and complains of pain when he coughs. Gutsy, can you please show the doctor where it hurts? I feel like an actress doing a well-rehearsed monologue, except that I leave with a prescription or an x-ray form instead of some roses (I'd rather the roses. Why don't I ever get damn roses? Although two years ago I got a laptop for Valentine's Day, which somewhat trumps little red flowers, I think)
When pneumonia hospitalized five-year-old Gutsy last spring I just about lost my mind. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate, I paced the house, I ran Spawnling and Intrepid here and there for babysitting so I could visit Gutsy and Geekster in the isolation room, and basically lived on coffee and other caffeine-containing beverages.
In hindsight, that was a pretty sweet weight loss regimen. Nice.
Wait. Did I just say that out loud?
No. No I didn't. I typed it. That's slightly less evil, right?
Anyway, the thing is, that was the first time I truly believed I might lose him. And I realize there are more life-threatening things out there, like anaphylactic allergies (onion pizza, anyone?) and cancer, and meningitis, and a host of other nasty stuff. But when he's in your arms and can't catch his breath and his fever is 105 and he's trying to cry out for you to help him, that's a moment you'll never forget. And when your husband calls you at 5AM and says 'they have to keep him and he's on two different i.v. antibiotics and he can't even lift his head off the pillow, he's so weak', you want to drop everything and run to him. But your baby is asleep beside you and you have another who has to get off to school in three hours, and you don't know what the next phone call will bring, and a little, dark part of you wonders if holding him on the couch last night will be the last time you'll ever hold him. Just a little part, a little irrational one, but that's a fear that lives for a long, long time.
When I heard the cough today my heart stopped dead. It's a good thing it started again or I don't think there'd be a blog post today which would totally ruin my once-a-day posting rule, on account of death.
I ran him to the clinic. I dropped everything. I left Spawnling with Geekster and we went. The entire time he said 'I want daddy to take me, I want daddy, I want daddy...' and he cried and cried about it, of course, because Mommy is chopped liver even when he's sick, apparently. Not this time, Gutsy. No way, no how. Like me or not, I am the one taking you to the doctor's. Like me or not, I'm going to be the one who's with you this time, because last time my life stopped when you were gone and I missed you more than anything, and I need to be there for you in a way you might never understand. And you need me there, too, even if you don't feel that way right now.
Once he got over his separation issues, he realized how much I rock. The clinic is above a grocery store, so I bought him a treat and some Crayola craft stuff to keep him busy while we waited over two hours to be seen. We played eye spy, we laughed, we took silly cell phone pictures, we cuddled. I totally worked it and I think he almost liked me as much as his dad by the time we got home.
Wow! I'm almost as awesome as Daddy and all it took was saving his life and buying his love? Why haven't I gone this route before now?
The doctor told me that if we had waited until tomorrow he would probably have full-blown pneumonia, but that it appears to be just the start of it now. I'm just glad my mommy instincts started roaring and I got him in there before the really bad stuff happened. And, in the end, I've concluded that I don't care whether or not I'm the favourite. I'm his mom, he needs me, and I really need him, horns and claws, favouritism and all.
My regular readership (and anyone who's read my current Facebook status) will know I'm talking about the middle gremlin, my exception to the rule, my most interesting character, Mr. Gutsy.
With claws in, hidden fangs, and a droopy tail, Gutsy came home from school yesterday completely spent. He started to whine the minute he walked through the door, moaning and sighing as he peeled off his outerwear. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my maternal instincts went into high gear. I knew beyond a doubt that trouble was afoot.
Gutsy got sick on the weekend with a benign little virus brought home by Geekster and spread to all of us to some minor extent. However, the middle Grem developed a fever for about three days. No worries, though. Mama Maven doesn't panic about stuff like fevers anymore. Those new-mom-freaking-out-about-every-little-thing days are long behind me. I'm a seasoned gremlin tamer now. I don't generally bat a beautiful eye until there's either a lot of blood on the floor or a really gross rash. As predicted, the fever went away by Monday afternoon and the boy went back into education mode on Tuesday morning.
By last night the fever returned with a vengeance. Damnit.
Today, he started with the cough. Damnit, damnit, damnit!
You know, the cough. The awful, terrible, dangerous cough that turns my blood cold. The one that signals pneumonia, which infests his lungs like hippies at a tie-dye convention.
Gutsy has had the cough five times now, if I counted correctly. And every time I wonder if this is going to be the one that lands him on a respirator. I know that sounds over-dramatic, and it is, because inside I'm a drama whore. But looking beyond my shortcomings, pneumonia isn't exactly life-friendly, most likely due to it affecting that ever important breathing requirement of living persons.
Couple that with Gutsy's asthma - he can thank me and my side of the family for that little gift - and we have a situation that sends even this relatively calm mother into a state of panic. When I hear the cough my legs want to give in, and I want to start crying right there. I tend to hold back the tears and only break down later into a blubbering sack of uselessness, and instead immediately put on my brave mother face and march us off to the clinic or hospital.
The routine is practiced when we get there: This is Gutsy. He's six. He has asthma. He is prone to pneumonia. He started a cold about five days ago. He started getting better, then developed a fever and is now tired, short of breath and complains of pain when he coughs. Gutsy, can you please show the doctor where it hurts? I feel like an actress doing a well-rehearsed monologue, except that I leave with a prescription or an x-ray form instead of some roses (I'd rather the roses. Why don't I ever get damn roses? Although two years ago I got a laptop for Valentine's Day, which somewhat trumps little red flowers, I think)
When pneumonia hospitalized five-year-old Gutsy last spring I just about lost my mind. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate, I paced the house, I ran Spawnling and Intrepid here and there for babysitting so I could visit Gutsy and Geekster in the isolation room, and basically lived on coffee and other caffeine-containing beverages.
In hindsight, that was a pretty sweet weight loss regimen. Nice.
Wait. Did I just say that out loud?
No. No I didn't. I typed it. That's slightly less evil, right?
Anyway, the thing is, that was the first time I truly believed I might lose him. And I realize there are more life-threatening things out there, like anaphylactic allergies (onion pizza, anyone?) and cancer, and meningitis, and a host of other nasty stuff. But when he's in your arms and can't catch his breath and his fever is 105 and he's trying to cry out for you to help him, that's a moment you'll never forget. And when your husband calls you at 5AM and says 'they have to keep him and he's on two different i.v. antibiotics and he can't even lift his head off the pillow, he's so weak', you want to drop everything and run to him. But your baby is asleep beside you and you have another who has to get off to school in three hours, and you don't know what the next phone call will bring, and a little, dark part of you wonders if holding him on the couch last night will be the last time you'll ever hold him. Just a little part, a little irrational one, but that's a fear that lives for a long, long time.
When I heard the cough today my heart stopped dead. It's a good thing it started again or I don't think there'd be a blog post today which would totally ruin my once-a-day posting rule, on account of death.
I ran him to the clinic. I dropped everything. I left Spawnling with Geekster and we went. The entire time he said 'I want daddy to take me, I want daddy, I want daddy...' and he cried and cried about it, of course, because Mommy is chopped liver even when he's sick, apparently. Not this time, Gutsy. No way, no how. Like me or not, I am the one taking you to the doctor's. Like me or not, I'm going to be the one who's with you this time, because last time my life stopped when you were gone and I missed you more than anything, and I need to be there for you in a way you might never understand. And you need me there, too, even if you don't feel that way right now.
Once he got over his separation issues, he realized how much I rock. The clinic is above a grocery store, so I bought him a treat and some Crayola craft stuff to keep him busy while we waited over two hours to be seen. We played eye spy, we laughed, we took silly cell phone pictures, we cuddled. I totally worked it and I think he almost liked me as much as his dad by the time we got home.
Wow! I'm almost as awesome as Daddy and all it took was saving his life and buying his love? Why haven't I gone this route before now?
The doctor told me that if we had waited until tomorrow he would probably have full-blown pneumonia, but that it appears to be just the start of it now. I'm just glad my mommy instincts started roaring and I got him in there before the really bad stuff happened. And, in the end, I've concluded that I don't care whether or not I'm the favourite. I'm his mom, he needs me, and I really need him, horns and claws, favouritism and all.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Forgiveness is Key
Yesterday I took Spawnling to get his twelve month vaccines.
Yes, I said twelve months, as in one year. And if your brain cells aren't completely fried from the college days - or, in my case, the junior high days, as the truly gifted users tend to leave you wussy dabblers in the dust - you'll notice that he would be about 15 months behind schedule.
A mistake? Nay. A carefully coordinated attack on a sensitive issue.
I'm a little scared of needles; not only because they're sharp little bastards that hurt even when I'm promised they won't, but also because they do funky things to the immune system that I can't fully wrap what's left of my brain around.
Then there's the alleged autism link, the mercury now removed from most - but not all - vaccines, the unknown longterm effects of immunization against something more or less benign (such as chicken pox). The worry that even after several needles given to a terrified and screaming baby, there is no guarantee of safety from the many strains of meningitis.
On the other hand, I'm not completely against them, either. They're not a cure-all for our health, and truly we need to care for our immune systems through diet, rest and stress-reduction, but they do serve a purpose. For example, I don't think any amount of organic tofu will prevent polio. And when I pierced my leg on a rusty nail last summer and learned all about the horrors of watching people die from lockjaw (thank you for that, emergency nurse) it occurred to me that my supplements probably won't keep tetanus from doing me in.
I wish I felt either black or white on the subject, but, in true Maven fashion, I have a stunned look on my face as I straddle the fence. I've read just about everything I can read on vaccines from a variety of sources and have come to a solution that seems to work perfectly: The Gremlins get vaccinated, but on a schedule I think their scaled little bodies can handle better. That's why Spawnling received the dreaded MMR yesterday and not a year ago. He tried his best to bargain his way out of it, too: "No, it's okay," he said to the nurse. "You can have the needle. I don't want it and I don't need it. I will colour over there and you can get it. Or maybe Mommy. Ok? Bye!"
I had to bribe him with a Doodlebops movie. Ever heard of them? Neither have the four stores I looked in afterwards in my attempt to buy/rent a DVD of his favourite show. After dragging him out for nearly two hours I found something else that was satisfactory to the tired terror. He sat on the couch feeling grumpy while eating chips and Peanut M&Ms.
Oh, yes. Didn't you know? I feed him nuts at the age of two. He's been eating them for over a year. So while we vaccinate very late, we also introduce high allergens very early.
It's all part of my master plan: his immune system is like the rival football team. I don't let it see my team's plays and that's how I win. No vaccines on schedule! TOUCHDOWN! Introducing nuts two years early! TOUCHDOWN! Letting him lick things at playgroup and roll around on the grocery store floor! TOUCHDOWN!
The Mavenites win!!
Now, isn't that far more exciting than following a boring ol' parenting book? Doing that would make way too much sense, and when do I ever make sense? And then what could I blog about? Making all the right choices? Boring! Besides, all my readers would go away and cry in their rooms because they feel bad about themselves. I don't want to destroy anyone's self-esteem or anything.
I can't win. I've concluded that there is no perfect answer to parenting. It's a series of mistakes covered up by other mistakes and all done under the guise of unconditional love. We have so many choices to make: Homebirth or hospital birth. Breastfeed or bottle feed. Spank or don't spank. Home school or public school. One income to two incomes. Nursery rhymes or Eminem. Regular baths or washing them down with a hose in the backyard once a month. Tooth brushing or straight to bed with a goodnight chocolate bar.
Who can say which is the right answer? It's enough to make your head spin.
Naturally, I spoke to Pixie, my life advisor, about my frustrations. How do I know if I'm making the right choices? Will the gremlins grow up to resent me for screwing them up so badly? Will they point their clawed fingers at me in hatred? Will I find dog-eared self-help books about how to overcome a dysfunctional mother on their bookshelves?
'Maven,' Pixie said in her sweet voice. 'It's not about doing a great job raising them. All you have to do is instill a strong sense of forgiveness. Then they can't stay angry at you for all your mistakes. Isn't that easier?'
Somebody call Oprah, because that's an a-ha moment if I've ever seen one.
While I've been spinning my wheels for twelve years trying to make everything right in the gremlins' upbringing - making sure their horns are filed, fangs are brushed, not letting them cry it out at night in their pods, stuff like that - I could have been preparing them to forgive me for making them screwed up adults who form weird diseases due to being vaccinated off schedule.
I feel so cheated that I hadn't thought of this sooner.
Yes, I said twelve months, as in one year. And if your brain cells aren't completely fried from the college days - or, in my case, the junior high days, as the truly gifted users tend to leave you wussy dabblers in the dust - you'll notice that he would be about 15 months behind schedule.
A mistake? Nay. A carefully coordinated attack on a sensitive issue.
I'm a little scared of needles; not only because they're sharp little bastards that hurt even when I'm promised they won't, but also because they do funky things to the immune system that I can't fully wrap what's left of my brain around.
Then there's the alleged autism link, the mercury now removed from most - but not all - vaccines, the unknown longterm effects of immunization against something more or less benign (such as chicken pox). The worry that even after several needles given to a terrified and screaming baby, there is no guarantee of safety from the many strains of meningitis.
On the other hand, I'm not completely against them, either. They're not a cure-all for our health, and truly we need to care for our immune systems through diet, rest and stress-reduction, but they do serve a purpose. For example, I don't think any amount of organic tofu will prevent polio. And when I pierced my leg on a rusty nail last summer and learned all about the horrors of watching people die from lockjaw (thank you for that, emergency nurse) it occurred to me that my supplements probably won't keep tetanus from doing me in.
I wish I felt either black or white on the subject, but, in true Maven fashion, I have a stunned look on my face as I straddle the fence. I've read just about everything I can read on vaccines from a variety of sources and have come to a solution that seems to work perfectly: The Gremlins get vaccinated, but on a schedule I think their scaled little bodies can handle better. That's why Spawnling received the dreaded MMR yesterday and not a year ago. He tried his best to bargain his way out of it, too: "No, it's okay," he said to the nurse. "You can have the needle. I don't want it and I don't need it. I will colour over there and you can get it. Or maybe Mommy. Ok? Bye!"
I had to bribe him with a Doodlebops movie. Ever heard of them? Neither have the four stores I looked in afterwards in my attempt to buy/rent a DVD of his favourite show. After dragging him out for nearly two hours I found something else that was satisfactory to the tired terror. He sat on the couch feeling grumpy while eating chips and Peanut M&Ms.
Oh, yes. Didn't you know? I feed him nuts at the age of two. He's been eating them for over a year. So while we vaccinate very late, we also introduce high allergens very early.
It's all part of my master plan: his immune system is like the rival football team. I don't let it see my team's plays and that's how I win. No vaccines on schedule! TOUCHDOWN! Introducing nuts two years early! TOUCHDOWN! Letting him lick things at playgroup and roll around on the grocery store floor! TOUCHDOWN!
The Mavenites win!!
Now, isn't that far more exciting than following a boring ol' parenting book? Doing that would make way too much sense, and when do I ever make sense? And then what could I blog about? Making all the right choices? Boring! Besides, all my readers would go away and cry in their rooms because they feel bad about themselves. I don't want to destroy anyone's self-esteem or anything.
I can't win. I've concluded that there is no perfect answer to parenting. It's a series of mistakes covered up by other mistakes and all done under the guise of unconditional love. We have so many choices to make: Homebirth or hospital birth. Breastfeed or bottle feed. Spank or don't spank. Home school or public school. One income to two incomes. Nursery rhymes or Eminem. Regular baths or washing them down with a hose in the backyard once a month. Tooth brushing or straight to bed with a goodnight chocolate bar.
Who can say which is the right answer? It's enough to make your head spin.
Naturally, I spoke to Pixie, my life advisor, about my frustrations. How do I know if I'm making the right choices? Will the gremlins grow up to resent me for screwing them up so badly? Will they point their clawed fingers at me in hatred? Will I find dog-eared self-help books about how to overcome a dysfunctional mother on their bookshelves?
'Maven,' Pixie said in her sweet voice. 'It's not about doing a great job raising them. All you have to do is instill a strong sense of forgiveness. Then they can't stay angry at you for all your mistakes. Isn't that easier?'
Somebody call Oprah, because that's an a-ha moment if I've ever seen one.
While I've been spinning my wheels for twelve years trying to make everything right in the gremlins' upbringing - making sure their horns are filed, fangs are brushed, not letting them cry it out at night in their pods, stuff like that - I could have been preparing them to forgive me for making them screwed up adults who form weird diseases due to being vaccinated off schedule.
I feel so cheated that I hadn't thought of this sooner.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Mr. Maven Celebrates his Birthday
Dearest Geekster,
Today I stood in the kitchen for several hours and cooked for you. I made you quiche with homemade crust with these weird little carrot balls lovingly steamed in the microwave.
For you I baked a lovely lemon poppyseed coffee cake, which I screwed up royally even though it came out of a box, and then had to smother with homemade icing to hide it. But whatever. It was kind of good. if you got beyond the tough outer shell, right? Kind of like me. Yes. Yes, it was symbolism, you see. It symbolized your love for me, as it should on your birthday.
For you I collaborated to buy you the
best.
birthday.
gift.
ever.
which you do not have in your posession just yet because it is at my parents' house awaiting your parents' arrival on the weekend (they paid for half) and, while you think you might know what it is, you will be blown away when you see just how far my love reaches. I really am that awesome to be married to! You're so freaking lucky!
For you I have given my love and devotion, I have given my vows, I have given my body for three babies, and I have given my virgitinity.
...Forget that last part. I got carried away for a second, there. The other stuff is all true, though.
Happy birthday, my wonderful Geekster, you gorgeous creature, computer nerd extraordinaire, man with brain on 'roids, maker of banana bread and meatless chili, co-creator of the gremlins three, husband to one amazing woman.
I love you so much I'm going to stop blogging now and go to bed to read my book and snuggle with you on your birthday, because I know that's what you want more than anything.
Yes. A book and a snuggle. Hey, didn't you see the virgin part up there? What do you expect from someone so chaste and pure? Kissing with tongues? Ew!
Today I stood in the kitchen for several hours and cooked for you. I made you quiche with homemade crust with these weird little carrot balls lovingly steamed in the microwave.
For you I baked a lovely lemon poppyseed coffee cake, which I screwed up royally even though it came out of a box, and then had to smother with homemade icing to hide it. But whatever. It was kind of good. if you got beyond the tough outer shell, right? Kind of like me. Yes. Yes, it was symbolism, you see. It symbolized your love for me, as it should on your birthday.
For you I collaborated to buy you the
best.
birthday.
gift.
ever.
which you do not have in your posession just yet because it is at my parents' house awaiting your parents' arrival on the weekend (they paid for half) and, while you think you might know what it is, you will be blown away when you see just how far my love reaches. I really am that awesome to be married to! You're so freaking lucky!
For you I have given my love and devotion, I have given my vows, I have given my body for three babies, and I have given my virgitinity.
...Forget that last part. I got carried away for a second, there. The other stuff is all true, though.
Happy birthday, my wonderful Geekster, you gorgeous creature, computer nerd extraordinaire, man with brain on 'roids, maker of banana bread and meatless chili, co-creator of the gremlins three, husband to one amazing woman.
I love you so much I'm going to stop blogging now and go to bed to read my book and snuggle with you on your birthday, because I know that's what you want more than anything.
Yes. A book and a snuggle. Hey, didn't you see the virgin part up there? What do you expect from someone so chaste and pure? Kissing with tongues? Ew!
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Bowl is Half Full (of cereal)
Spawnling has asked me for cereal about five times today. No milk, just dry cereal. Every time I have given him what he's asked for.
'Mommy, I want cereal,' he demands in his kingly way.
'Don't you want something else instead? Like a banana, or some cheese, or an apple?' I ask with very little conviction.
'No. Cereal,' he thinks for a moment, then grins widely in that manipulative way children instinctively use to lure in their mothers. 'Pleeeeeaaase?'
I could argue with him, but I don't. I don't because that would take energy that simply must go elsewhere today.
If I say no and he starts to cry and scream and throw himself on the ground, it means that I have less patience to care for still feverish Gutsy.
If I say no, I have less energy to meet the demands of the Laundry Leviathan that grows and grows unless it is tamed regularly.
If I say no, I have less time to work on my portfolio in hopes of landing one of those jobthingies everyone else seems to have.
If I say no, I have less brain capacity to structure my day into the important categories: breathing, eating, Rockband, childcare (can also be Rockband), housework, exercise (can also be Rockband), job hunting, looking pretty, and the all important blogging.
Plus, we must look at all the health benefits of fortified cereal. If we are to close our eyes and ignore any nutritional education we've had on how poorly many vitamins and minerals in fortified foods are absorbed, we can smile stupidly at the side of the box and think we're doing a great job at giving little Spawnling his daily iron and vitamin A requirements.
If we sink a little deeper into Duhville we can skip merrily out of the kitchen after filling the Toddler Terror's bowl full of cereal sweetened not with sugar but with juice. And doesn't that mean he's getting a serving of fruit, too? And isn't fruit full of antioxidants? How delightful! What a healthy gift to bestow upon my child! His brain and body are getting exactly what they need from dry, little, coloured circles. Ah, science! It's a marvelous thing.
Life is all about perspective. Today, I'm choosing to look at everything through the lovely rose-coloured glasses of denial. Sure, my child has had nothing but cereal in his belly all day, but it's only 11:30AM, and hey, my laundry is all but caught up and, even better still, I blogged.
Yep. It's a pat myself on the back kind of day. Looking at life like this makes me realize that I am so awesome it's not even funny.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I've got my blog, I've got my Orange Crush
I realized yesterday that I have 25 public followers. Twenty-five! Wow!
I feel like a bloody rock star.
Or blog star. Or something that maybe doesn't sound as lame as ''blog star".
The important thing is that 25 people have decided to come out of the closet and admit to the world that they actually read my stuff. That's a very brave move considering I write about sensitive topics like parenting and, even racier, food experimentation. Do you really want be associated with a girl who eats peanut butter and chips in a single sitting? You do? Great! I'm enlightening the human race to new ideas and you're boldly coming along for the ride. It's like the 60's all over again, man.
I wish I could reward all my sheeple with an excellent post, but unfortunately I'm feeling rather run down and, thus, uncreative. I think it's a combination of too many late nights partying it up with diet drinks in hand, my body's reaction to Onion Fest 2009 (see yesterday's post), and a mild yet annoying virus running through the Maven family.
Two of my three gremlins are down for the count. Gutsy had a mild fever today and slept on the couch, randomly singing things in his sleep. It was amusing and rather creepy. He gets weird like that every time he's feverish. I sometimes sit next to his bed and wait for his head to turn around and his body to spew forth the vomit of Hades but it hasn't happened as of yet.
Spawnling has a disgusting runny nose but is otherwise fine. Well, if you count sleeping like ass as fine. I define 'sleeping like ass' as waking up at least half a dozen times throughout the evening and night, which means I can't do much of anything but hang out where I can hear him (read: not in front of the television. Sigh) and wait for the next time he starts crying for me. Princess Stuffynose finds that illness does not agree with beauty rest. And then her servant - that would be me - has to convince her highness that the two of them can go together. Over, and over, and over. I've contemplated some kind of mild narcotic concoction to help with the convincing but I've heard that's actually illegal in most places.
Stupid laws.
No sleep for the wicked, or rather, The Maven, means that I was bound to get sick. Thankfully I've been feeling the effects of germ invasions far less since giving up meat. If I get hit it's much milder than it used to be. I have my theories on that (like fewer toxins and such) but I think it's at least partially karmic. Not killing animals for food must put me a little higher on the righteous scale, shouldn't it?
...What's that? The self-righteous scale? Really? Oh, you're hilarious. Now be nice or I'll feed you to one of my eager followers. There's a good chance that one of them is willing to try cannibalism at least once.
I'm certainly glad I got the busy part of this weekend finished off before the ick factor settled into my body and made me not want to do stuff. Other than having a steaming hot bath I have folded and put away some laundry and watched The Thunderbirds.
Yes, the kids' movie. Yes, with my kids. Well, Gutsy was sleeping and Spawnling was playing with toys and Intrepid was out with his dad getting a haircut until the last five minutes, but whatever. Leave me alone, alright? My fragile mind can't handle anything more complex than movies about teenage boys trying to prove themselves to their fathers.
Geekster came home, made fresh bread, buttered a piece and brought it up to me in the bath. He also brought me a Timmies coffee. I love that man. Now he's playing Mario Kart with Spawnling while Intrepid is fishing for compliments from Gutsy in the kitchen. 'Like my new hairstyle? I look older, eh?'
He does indeed look older and grinned from ear to ear when I told him so. It's so very wrong that I have a child who will be driving in four years. I'm far too young and beautiful for this to be happening so soon.
I'm going to go curl up and watch the races in the livingroom. I'll leave my readership with a funny anectode from playgroup this week that I keep forgetting to write about.
Spawnling was happily playing with a dollhouse for a good while before coming over and asking me for his guitar. I said 'What do you need your guitar for, little guy?'
He looked pointed at the toy he had been playing with and said 'I want to rock the house.'
That's my boy.
Now back to being sick. Please send me nice comments and maybe buy me some chocolate.
(You can't have followers and not ask for stuff, right? It's worth a shot, at least.)
I feel like a bloody rock star.
Or blog star. Or something that maybe doesn't sound as lame as ''blog star".
The important thing is that 25 people have decided to come out of the closet and admit to the world that they actually read my stuff. That's a very brave move considering I write about sensitive topics like parenting and, even racier, food experimentation. Do you really want be associated with a girl who eats peanut butter and chips in a single sitting? You do? Great! I'm enlightening the human race to new ideas and you're boldly coming along for the ride. It's like the 60's all over again, man.
I wish I could reward all my sheeple with an excellent post, but unfortunately I'm feeling rather run down and, thus, uncreative. I think it's a combination of too many late nights partying it up with diet drinks in hand, my body's reaction to Onion Fest 2009 (see yesterday's post), and a mild yet annoying virus running through the Maven family.
Two of my three gremlins are down for the count. Gutsy had a mild fever today and slept on the couch, randomly singing things in his sleep. It was amusing and rather creepy. He gets weird like that every time he's feverish. I sometimes sit next to his bed and wait for his head to turn around and his body to spew forth the vomit of Hades but it hasn't happened as of yet.
Spawnling has a disgusting runny nose but is otherwise fine. Well, if you count sleeping like ass as fine. I define 'sleeping like ass' as waking up at least half a dozen times throughout the evening and night, which means I can't do much of anything but hang out where I can hear him (read: not in front of the television. Sigh) and wait for the next time he starts crying for me. Princess Stuffynose finds that illness does not agree with beauty rest. And then her servant - that would be me - has to convince her highness that the two of them can go together. Over, and over, and over. I've contemplated some kind of mild narcotic concoction to help with the convincing but I've heard that's actually illegal in most places.
Stupid laws.
No sleep for the wicked, or rather, The Maven, means that I was bound to get sick. Thankfully I've been feeling the effects of germ invasions far less since giving up meat. If I get hit it's much milder than it used to be. I have my theories on that (like fewer toxins and such) but I think it's at least partially karmic. Not killing animals for food must put me a little higher on the righteous scale, shouldn't it?
...What's that? The self-righteous scale? Really? Oh, you're hilarious. Now be nice or I'll feed you to one of my eager followers. There's a good chance that one of them is willing to try cannibalism at least once.
I'm certainly glad I got the busy part of this weekend finished off before the ick factor settled into my body and made me not want to do stuff. Other than having a steaming hot bath I have folded and put away some laundry and watched The Thunderbirds.
Yes, the kids' movie. Yes, with my kids. Well, Gutsy was sleeping and Spawnling was playing with toys and Intrepid was out with his dad getting a haircut until the last five minutes, but whatever. Leave me alone, alright? My fragile mind can't handle anything more complex than movies about teenage boys trying to prove themselves to their fathers.
Geekster came home, made fresh bread, buttered a piece and brought it up to me in the bath. He also brought me a Timmies coffee. I love that man. Now he's playing Mario Kart with Spawnling while Intrepid is fishing for compliments from Gutsy in the kitchen. 'Like my new hairstyle? I look older, eh?'
He does indeed look older and grinned from ear to ear when I told him so. It's so very wrong that I have a child who will be driving in four years. I'm far too young and beautiful for this to be happening so soon.
I'm going to go curl up and watch the races in the livingroom. I'll leave my readership with a funny anectode from playgroup this week that I keep forgetting to write about.
Spawnling was happily playing with a dollhouse for a good while before coming over and asking me for his guitar. I said 'What do you need your guitar for, little guy?'
He looked pointed at the toy he had been playing with and said 'I want to rock the house.'
That's my boy.
Now back to being sick. Please send me nice comments and maybe buy me some chocolate.
(You can't have followers and not ask for stuff, right? It's worth a shot, at least.)
Saturday, January 24, 2009
My Near-Death Experience
Wikipedia - the bible of all definitions and explanations - describes Hell as the following:
Interesting, but mostly wrong. And I would know. Allow me to explain.
Today I personally witnessed Hell. I was bound to end up there at some point, right? But since I've now been there and you have not, I fancy myself a bit of an expert and feel it important to clear up a few pieces of misinformation.
It is not below the ground, but rather about three steps up into a cookie cutter building. It is not fiery but it is indeed painful, particularly in the ear canal. There is much suffering, however; that part is certainly true.
The innermost circle of Hell is not a frozen lake of blood and guilt (who thinks this stuff up? How does one add guilt to a lake of blood anyway?), but rather a Plexiglas enclosure full snot and screaming. It is indeed populated by demons: short and noisy ones who can't sit still for very long.
Today, my lambs, I spent 90 minutes visiting Hell on earth, and it was in the form of a McDonald's birthday party. It was Pixie's son's special day and I don't think any of us quite knew what we were in for. While the children had a great time I think the parents (those brave enough to stay, like yours truly who is one of those amazing mothers you hear about and wish you could be like) will most likely be decompressing this evening with a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, or a bit of heroin. I, of course, like to blog my stress away.
I can handle a lot of noise, you know. I have three boys. I'm capable of tolerating levels of insanity that would cause most people's brains to implode. But nothing prepared me for the chaos of nine boys caught in the perfect storm of processed deep-fried food and the uncontrollable instinct to climb and conquer a playstructure at any cost. This experience changed me on a fundamental level and solidified my decision to stick to three children. Also, I now fully comprehend the meaning behind the term boisterous, although I think it should be spelled boysterous.
I'll contact Webster on Monday.
After taking five years off my life in 90 minutes, I drove a tired Gutsy home and made my way across the city to have a late lunch with XUP, Nat and Alison. They had been planning this get-together for a while and it just sort of worked out that if I timed my trip from the party to the pizza join exactly right I could hang out with some very cool chicks.
I had no idea how much I would need that lunch. I also had no idea I would stare death in the face on a Saturday afternoon.
I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I have an onion allergy. No, seriously. I really do. It's bordering on life-threatening at this point and my doctor says I need to start carrying around an Epi, just in case. Raw onion is my nemesis. If it's very well cooked I can eat it, such as in pasta sauce or chili. If it's fried for a very long time it's also acceptable to my body's immune system. If it's somewhat cooked I might get big lips and a numb mouth, but that's about it as long as I don't ingest too much. Once we get into the completely raw category I'm looking at some throat swelling and such. Not a good thing, just so we're clear.
So, I'm ordering the vegetarian pizza and I specifically mention my onion allergy and tell the server to make sure there are no little deadlies on my lunch. The pizza arrives, I lift up the topping on the first slice just to make sure it's Maven friendly and it looks clean. Fantastic. I dig in.
I start on the second piece. It's as delicious as XUP said it would be. At least, it was, until my tongue started to feel tingly. Then it started to feel a little bigger, too. I peek under the cheese. There they sit, little bits of layered death. Damnit. I start picking them off and keep eating. Not smart, but I'm really hungry. Nothing more happens to my tongue so there's no need to take any major measures. I'm feeling a bit woozy but I have a wall to lean on. And seriously, the pizza is really good.
I could have raised a stink and had a new pizza made on account of it possibly killing me, but I didn't for a number of reasons. The most important one was that I didn't feel like dying while waiting for a new plate of food. You know, just in case, the onions were slowly doing me in and I didn't know it. I'd rather live my last few moments looking like I was practicing portion control instead of not ingesting pizz that could cause my untimely demise.
Like my mother always says, go out with a bang, or at least with the appearance of being in control of your diet.
Okay, she's never said that, but I thought it looked better coming from her.
When the server went to wrap up my pizza to take home,\ she realized there were little white chunks piled up in the corner of the plate. Mortified, she went to speak with the cooks. She tore a strip into them when they insisted there were no onions in my food. She then came back to our table extremely apologetic and upset about the entire incident. I was just happy I wasn't dead and could finish my pop.
People make such a big deal about things. I tend to just take most of those same things in stride. If it were my child with an allergy and that had happened I would have exploded into a mad rage and called my lawyer (I don't really have a lawyer, but I would act like I did and punch random numbers into my cell phone). Then, I would go into the kitchen and personally blend the cooks into an energy drink.
But this wasn't about any of the gremlins. It was about me. And I was fine, and this has happened more times than I can count in restaurants and in other people's homes where 'onion' isn't a dirty word. It was an honest mistake. They said they were sorry. And the world is mean enough without me adding to it.
I'm such a great person, aren't I? I mean, really. It takes a great deal of maturity and tact to handle delicate situations such as this.
Put out good karma and the world gives it back. My world became balanced once again when I was gifted a free lunch by the restaurant and our amazing, sweet, adorable server. All just because their food could have killed me. How sweet of them. And, in the end, I was able to use my would-be lunch money at Fourbucks to get myself a big ol' latte in honour of the day when I made it out of Hell alive and lived to tell about it, even after a botched pizza.
The moral of the story everyone has been waiting for: When life gives you a numb tongue, check under the cheese for onions.
I bet you feel terribly enlightened now. You're welcome.
In Christianity and Islam, Hell is traditionally depicted as fiery and painful, inflicting guilt and suffering.[1] Some other traditions, however, portray Hell as cold and gloomy. Despite the common depictions of Hell as a fire, Dante's Inferno portrays the innermost (9th) circle of Hell as a frozen lake of blood and guilt.[2] Hell is often portrayed as populated with demons, who torment the damned. Many are ruled by a death god, such as Nergal, the Hindu Yama, or the Christian Satan.
Interesting, but mostly wrong. And I would know. Allow me to explain.
Today I personally witnessed Hell. I was bound to end up there at some point, right? But since I've now been there and you have not, I fancy myself a bit of an expert and feel it important to clear up a few pieces of misinformation.
It is not below the ground, but rather about three steps up into a cookie cutter building. It is not fiery but it is indeed painful, particularly in the ear canal. There is much suffering, however; that part is certainly true.
The innermost circle of Hell is not a frozen lake of blood and guilt (who thinks this stuff up? How does one add guilt to a lake of blood anyway?), but rather a Plexiglas enclosure full snot and screaming. It is indeed populated by demons: short and noisy ones who can't sit still for very long.
Today, my lambs, I spent 90 minutes visiting Hell on earth, and it was in the form of a McDonald's birthday party. It was Pixie's son's special day and I don't think any of us quite knew what we were in for. While the children had a great time I think the parents (those brave enough to stay, like yours truly who is one of those amazing mothers you hear about and wish you could be like) will most likely be decompressing this evening with a hot bath, a few glasses of wine, or a bit of heroin. I, of course, like to blog my stress away.
I can handle a lot of noise, you know. I have three boys. I'm capable of tolerating levels of insanity that would cause most people's brains to implode. But nothing prepared me for the chaos of nine boys caught in the perfect storm of processed deep-fried food and the uncontrollable instinct to climb and conquer a playstructure at any cost. This experience changed me on a fundamental level and solidified my decision to stick to three children. Also, I now fully comprehend the meaning behind the term boisterous, although I think it should be spelled boysterous.
I'll contact Webster on Monday.
After taking five years off my life in 90 minutes, I drove a tired Gutsy home and made my way across the city to have a late lunch with XUP, Nat and Alison. They had been planning this get-together for a while and it just sort of worked out that if I timed my trip from the party to the pizza join exactly right I could hang out with some very cool chicks.
I had no idea how much I would need that lunch. I also had no idea I would stare death in the face on a Saturday afternoon.
I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I have an onion allergy. No, seriously. I really do. It's bordering on life-threatening at this point and my doctor says I need to start carrying around an Epi, just in case. Raw onion is my nemesis. If it's very well cooked I can eat it, such as in pasta sauce or chili. If it's fried for a very long time it's also acceptable to my body's immune system. If it's somewhat cooked I might get big lips and a numb mouth, but that's about it as long as I don't ingest too much. Once we get into the completely raw category I'm looking at some throat swelling and such. Not a good thing, just so we're clear.
So, I'm ordering the vegetarian pizza and I specifically mention my onion allergy and tell the server to make sure there are no little deadlies on my lunch. The pizza arrives, I lift up the topping on the first slice just to make sure it's Maven friendly and it looks clean. Fantastic. I dig in.
I start on the second piece. It's as delicious as XUP said it would be. At least, it was, until my tongue started to feel tingly. Then it started to feel a little bigger, too. I peek under the cheese. There they sit, little bits of layered death. Damnit. I start picking them off and keep eating. Not smart, but I'm really hungry. Nothing more happens to my tongue so there's no need to take any major measures. I'm feeling a bit woozy but I have a wall to lean on. And seriously, the pizza is really good.
I could have raised a stink and had a new pizza made on account of it possibly killing me, but I didn't for a number of reasons. The most important one was that I didn't feel like dying while waiting for a new plate of food. You know, just in case, the onions were slowly doing me in and I didn't know it. I'd rather live my last few moments looking like I was practicing portion control instead of not ingesting pizz that could cause my untimely demise.
Like my mother always says, go out with a bang, or at least with the appearance of being in control of your diet.
Okay, she's never said that, but I thought it looked better coming from her.
When the server went to wrap up my pizza to take home,\ she realized there were little white chunks piled up in the corner of the plate. Mortified, she went to speak with the cooks. She tore a strip into them when they insisted there were no onions in my food. She then came back to our table extremely apologetic and upset about the entire incident. I was just happy I wasn't dead and could finish my pop.
People make such a big deal about things. I tend to just take most of those same things in stride. If it were my child with an allergy and that had happened I would have exploded into a mad rage and called my lawyer (I don't really have a lawyer, but I would act like I did and punch random numbers into my cell phone). Then, I would go into the kitchen and personally blend the cooks into an energy drink.
But this wasn't about any of the gremlins. It was about me. And I was fine, and this has happened more times than I can count in restaurants and in other people's homes where 'onion' isn't a dirty word. It was an honest mistake. They said they were sorry. And the world is mean enough without me adding to it.
I'm such a great person, aren't I? I mean, really. It takes a great deal of maturity and tact to handle delicate situations such as this.
Put out good karma and the world gives it back. My world became balanced once again when I was gifted a free lunch by the restaurant and our amazing, sweet, adorable server. All just because their food could have killed me. How sweet of them. And, in the end, I was able to use my would-be lunch money at Fourbucks to get myself a big ol' latte in honour of the day when I made it out of Hell alive and lived to tell about it, even after a botched pizza.
The moral of the story everyone has been waiting for: When life gives you a numb tongue, check under the cheese for onions.
I bet you feel terribly enlightened now. You're welcome.
I Know What You're Thinking
Where the hell is yesterday's post? Didn't Maven promise a post every day?
Yes, I did. However, I also said I'm allowed to bow out under certain circumstances, like loss of limbs and fear of puking on my keyboard and other important stuff.
Stuff like being very social.
Yesterday, I carted the gremlins to a museum because it was a PD day and I had stimulate them intellectually lest they get bored and decide to study cannibalism on their mother.
Then I had to do groceries. By myself. For two hours.
Jealous? You should be. That's the beauty of having a twelve-year-old. All that judgment placed on me as a pregnant nineteen-year-old is totally paying off now. Look at my thirty-two-year-old self with a built-in babysitter. Neener, neener, people who plan out their lives and have kids only once they're "established". See what you're missing out on?
(It's important to look at the bright side of any situation. Although I'm not sure if bragging is necessarily a positive way to do so. Whatever.)
Then I had mom's night, which was a blast as always. Pixie and I are always invited for the entertainment factor. I don't think they actually like us, but we're crazy (crazy = liberal mixed with natural insanity and a thick coating of TMI) and they love us for it.
And then I had friends over until 1:30.
And now I am here, but running out the door with Gutsy. More on that later.
I'll blog twice today to make up for yesterday's indiscretion. Who loves ya, baby?
Yes, I did. However, I also said I'm allowed to bow out under certain circumstances, like loss of limbs and fear of puking on my keyboard and other important stuff.
Stuff like being very social.
Yesterday, I carted the gremlins to a museum because it was a PD day and I had stimulate them intellectually lest they get bored and decide to study cannibalism on their mother.
Then I had to do groceries. By myself. For two hours.
Jealous? You should be. That's the beauty of having a twelve-year-old. All that judgment placed on me as a pregnant nineteen-year-old is totally paying off now. Look at my thirty-two-year-old self with a built-in babysitter. Neener, neener, people who plan out their lives and have kids only once they're "established". See what you're missing out on?
(It's important to look at the bright side of any situation. Although I'm not sure if bragging is necessarily a positive way to do so. Whatever.)
Then I had mom's night, which was a blast as always. Pixie and I are always invited for the entertainment factor. I don't think they actually like us, but we're crazy (crazy = liberal mixed with natural insanity and a thick coating of TMI) and they love us for it.
And then I had friends over until 1:30.
And now I am here, but running out the door with Gutsy. More on that later.
I'll blog twice today to make up for yesterday's indiscretion. Who loves ya, baby?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
He Comes by it Honestly
Can I just say that yesterday's naughty-but-nice post was pure pleasure to write? I giggled like a thirteen-year-old girl the entire time. Maybe I should be one of those erotica writers. If anything it would provide me with some wonderful ice-breaker conversation: 'So, Maven, what do you do for a living?'
'Oh, I write smut. And you?'
On second thought, I don't believe my children would appreciate if their mom was in that line of work. If Gutsy's having a rough time on the bus now imagine what an iffy career move on my part would do. I should probably stick to PG rated material.
So, back to my usual blog writing, where parental guidance is strongly suggested but not required. Still, you might want to call mommy afterwards to ask her how someone like me could be allowed to roam the streets without medical supervision. It helps to work out the big questions with your parents, kids.
Speaking of Gutsy, it appears he's flashing his little horns around at school. He was acting so sweet and innocent for a little while there. I truly thought it was something I was doing at home that caused the behaviour, as he's been so wonderful for his teacher and all the support staff.
Until yesterday, that is, when my fears of it being all about me were abolished. It appears the fangs will come out as soon as he feels comfortable in his surroundings. Lovely.
I found a behaviour report in Intrepid's bag (how smart to send it home in the sibling's bag so it doesn't accidentally get "lost" by the kid in trouble. Kudos to the school). The long and short of it is: As my six-year-old was removing his outerwear after recess he thought it would be fun to swing some of it around in a circle, which accidently struck a child and caused said child to bleed. When he was asked what happened he said he didn't know because he didn't do it.
They all saw him do it.
This is not an abnormal excuse for Gutsy as of late. The other day he punched me in the back of the leg and then said he didn't do it. It was either him or the cat, and I don't think Simba can hit that hard without some brass knuckles (which I took away from him when the neighbourhood tomcats started getting taken away in ambulances. Then we placed him in a gang rehabilitation program. Anyway, that was a long time ago and I don't like to trudge up the past. He's a good cat these days and completely off the 'nip.)
The school staff member tried to get Gutsy to tell the truth. My hooved wonder insisted it wasn't him (That's my boy! Deny 'til the end. God help us all.) He was then asked to go to the office and speak with the principal. He said 'no' and wouldn't budge.
The teacher was called. She took his hand and tried to lead him to the office. My well-behaved child refused once again.
They pulled out the big guns. They had to get the janitor/bouncer to bring him to the office. Only the really bad kids have to deal with the janitor/bouncer.
That's how we got a note home. Isn't that nice?
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that Intrepid had his moments of school-aged terrorism, too. The teacher thought it amusing that he was so bright and yet so very naughty (must get that from his father's side. The naughty part, I mean) so she would make him write out his own notes every time he did something innapropriate. When she handed me the first one she insisted I keep them for future perusal. 'You may be upset right now, but I guarantee you'll love looking at these later!'
We have several in his keepsake box and we take them out every so often. By the end of our walk down memory lane we're all in tears - good ones. Intrepid and I dug them out just for this post and are sharing some of our favourites for your enjoyment:
I was kicking Graham. I will not kick again.
Comments: Sweet little note, isn't it? Direct, to the point, and it even comes with a comment from his teacher. We did talk to him about kicking. Did it work? See below.
Dear Mom and Dad, today I was throwing great big rocks. I will never do that again. PS: Because Jaxin who was in our class got a big cut on his head and he died. (which is scratched out by the teacher and replaced with "went to the hospital")
Comments: Intrepid says he really did think this Jaxin kid died and the teacher had to correct him after the fact so we didn't think our son was guilty of manslaughter. Also, the teacher wrote on the back and told me Intrepid wasn't the one who hit Jaxin (great name). Still, I wonder why I've never seen this boy around...
I got a problem. I was hitting Denax (??) and Corey. I have to be gentle. (the teacher then writes: I will try my best.)
Comments: Who the hell is Denax? I don't know if the teacher is writing the footnote for Intrepid or if she's stating that she's trying her best not to lose it on him for making her sit there while he writes a letter every day. At any rate, he did pretty this one up with a picture. I don't know if it's Intrepid, Corey or Denax (??) but he has a very lovely coat/flute/domino on.
Dear Mom and Dad. On Friday I had a problem. I must be gentle. I hurt a kid and when the supervisor told me to come I didn't. I should listen.
Comment: Doesn't this sound familiar? My kindergarteners don't respect authority - they stick it to the man! It must be genetic. Therefore, not our fault and something he will outgrow. Yeah. That's it. I like the teacher's note, too. She's basically telling us he's had a relapse. Maybe he was addicted to violence. Not calling his sponsor, not going to meetings... and look what happened. Disasterous. He got back on track, though. There's still hope for Gutsy if we stage an intervention.
'Oh, I write smut. And you?'
On second thought, I don't believe my children would appreciate if their mom was in that line of work. If Gutsy's having a rough time on the bus now imagine what an iffy career move on my part would do. I should probably stick to PG rated material.
So, back to my usual blog writing, where parental guidance is strongly suggested but not required. Still, you might want to call mommy afterwards to ask her how someone like me could be allowed to roam the streets without medical supervision. It helps to work out the big questions with your parents, kids.
Speaking of Gutsy, it appears he's flashing his little horns around at school. He was acting so sweet and innocent for a little while there. I truly thought it was something I was doing at home that caused the behaviour, as he's been so wonderful for his teacher and all the support staff.
Until yesterday, that is, when my fears of it being all about me were abolished. It appears the fangs will come out as soon as he feels comfortable in his surroundings. Lovely.
I found a behaviour report in Intrepid's bag (how smart to send it home in the sibling's bag so it doesn't accidentally get "lost" by the kid in trouble. Kudos to the school). The long and short of it is: As my six-year-old was removing his outerwear after recess he thought it would be fun to swing some of it around in a circle, which accidently struck a child and caused said child to bleed. When he was asked what happened he said he didn't know because he didn't do it.
They all saw him do it.
This is not an abnormal excuse for Gutsy as of late. The other day he punched me in the back of the leg and then said he didn't do it. It was either him or the cat, and I don't think Simba can hit that hard without some brass knuckles (which I took away from him when the neighbourhood tomcats started getting taken away in ambulances. Then we placed him in a gang rehabilitation program. Anyway, that was a long time ago and I don't like to trudge up the past. He's a good cat these days and completely off the 'nip.)
The school staff member tried to get Gutsy to tell the truth. My hooved wonder insisted it wasn't him (That's my boy! Deny 'til the end. God help us all.) He was then asked to go to the office and speak with the principal. He said 'no' and wouldn't budge.
The teacher was called. She took his hand and tried to lead him to the office. My well-behaved child refused once again.
They pulled out the big guns. They had to get the janitor/bouncer to bring him to the office. Only the really bad kids have to deal with the janitor/bouncer.
That's how we got a note home. Isn't that nice?
I have to take a deep breath and remind myself that Intrepid had his moments of school-aged terrorism, too. The teacher thought it amusing that he was so bright and yet so very naughty (must get that from his father's side. The naughty part, I mean) so she would make him write out his own notes every time he did something innapropriate. When she handed me the first one she insisted I keep them for future perusal. 'You may be upset right now, but I guarantee you'll love looking at these later!'
We have several in his keepsake box and we take them out every so often. By the end of our walk down memory lane we're all in tears - good ones. Intrepid and I dug them out just for this post and are sharing some of our favourites for your enjoyment:
I was kicking Graham. I will not kick again. Comments: Sweet little note, isn't it? Direct, to the point, and it even comes with a comment from his teacher. We did talk to him about kicking. Did it work? See below.
Dear Mom and Dad, today I was throwing great big rocks. I will never do that again. PS: Because Jaxin who was in our class got a big cut on his head and he died. (which is scratched out by the teacher and replaced with "went to the hospital")
Comments: Intrepid says he really did think this Jaxin kid died and the teacher had to correct him after the fact so we didn't think our son was guilty of manslaughter. Also, the teacher wrote on the back and told me Intrepid wasn't the one who hit Jaxin (great name). Still, I wonder why I've never seen this boy around...
I got a problem. I was hitting Denax (??) and Corey. I have to be gentle. (the teacher then writes: I will try my best.)
Comments: Who the hell is Denax? I don't know if the teacher is writing the footnote for Intrepid or if she's stating that she's trying her best not to lose it on him for making her sit there while he writes a letter every day. At any rate, he did pretty this one up with a picture. I don't know if it's Intrepid, Corey or Denax (??) but he has a very lovely coat/flute/domino on.
Dear Mom and Dad. On Friday I had a problem. I must be gentle. I hurt a kid and when the supervisor told me to come I didn't. I should listen.
Comment: Doesn't this sound familiar? My kindergarteners don't respect authority - they stick it to the man! It must be genetic. Therefore, not our fault and something he will outgrow. Yeah. That's it. I like the teacher's note, too. She's basically telling us he's had a relapse. Maybe he was addicted to violence. Not calling his sponsor, not going to meetings... and look what happened. Disasterous. He got back on track, though. There's still hope for Gutsy if we stage an intervention.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Menage a Maven
I have a confession to make. It's a doozy, so brace yourselves.
(Mom, you might not to read this, as I don't want to sully your angelic view of me)
Ok, here it goes: I had a threesome.
Phew. There. I said it.
Last night, in my house. And you know what? It was really fun! I had been thinking of experimenting for a little while now. The craving to do something rebellious and exciting had been in the back of my mind.
Yesterday evening I was shopping alone and my thoughts were going wild. I started thinking of a couple of friends I've gotten to well separately over the years. I've developed a great relationship with each of them, but have always held back on taking it further for fear of losing myself in the moment. That can be dangerous and have dire consequences.
But, try as I might, I couldn't get my thoughts off the idea of doing something terribly naughty.
I forced myself to remember what kind of person I am: my values, my beliefs and my goals in life. I had never done anything like this before, although I had fantasized about it many times. Some things are best left to fantasy, Maven, my sensible side said.
The other part of me, the perverse and mischeivious side, spoke more strongly. Why not do it, Maven? It purred lustfully. Why not throw caution to the wind this one time and do something that will satisfy that need you can't seem to shake?
So, while still roaming the store, I nervously made the necessary arrangements with the other two parties.
We got together at my place after all the gremlins were in bed. The lights were dimmed and a movie was on the television. Geekster was around but understood that this was my thing and gave me some space. He said he might like to partake a little, but he knew how important this was to me and loves me enough to let me experiment without any jealousy whatsoever.
With my husband's blessing, I broke the ice slowly by bringing both of them onto the couch with me, one on each side. I was the ringleader, the center of attention. It was all orchestrated by me and for me, with my pleasure in mind.
Then we three came together, and it was everything I imagined it would be: Honest, breathtaking, a little sinful and so very delicious.
Now I know for sure that peanut butter cups and chips really do go that well together.
(Mom, you might not to read this, as I don't want to sully your angelic view of me)
Ok, here it goes: I had a threesome.
Phew. There. I said it.
Last night, in my house. And you know what? It was really fun! I had been thinking of experimenting for a little while now. The craving to do something rebellious and exciting had been in the back of my mind.
Yesterday evening I was shopping alone and my thoughts were going wild. I started thinking of a couple of friends I've gotten to well separately over the years. I've developed a great relationship with each of them, but have always held back on taking it further for fear of losing myself in the moment. That can be dangerous and have dire consequences.
But, try as I might, I couldn't get my thoughts off the idea of doing something terribly naughty.
I forced myself to remember what kind of person I am: my values, my beliefs and my goals in life. I had never done anything like this before, although I had fantasized about it many times. Some things are best left to fantasy, Maven, my sensible side said.
The other part of me, the perverse and mischeivious side, spoke more strongly. Why not do it, Maven? It purred lustfully. Why not throw caution to the wind this one time and do something that will satisfy that need you can't seem to shake?
So, while still roaming the store, I nervously made the necessary arrangements with the other two parties.
We got together at my place after all the gremlins were in bed. The lights were dimmed and a movie was on the television. Geekster was around but understood that this was my thing and gave me some space. He said he might like to partake a little, but he knew how important this was to me and loves me enough to let me experiment without any jealousy whatsoever.
With my husband's blessing, I broke the ice slowly by bringing both of them onto the couch with me, one on each side. I was the ringleader, the center of attention. It was all orchestrated by me and for me, with my pleasure in mind.
Then we three came together, and it was everything I imagined it would be: Honest, breathtaking, a little sinful and so very delicious.
Now I know for sure that peanut butter cups and chips really do go that well together.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Historic Moments Turn Me Into a Sissy
Being terribly popular, I had to naturally throw some kind of party to commemorate the historic inauguration of one of the most amazing men on the planet. I couldn't very well watch it alone, could I? My entourage would be sad if they weren't able to share this special moment with me.
Coffee Fairy brought treats and coffee, Pixie brought chocolate and a sore ass from working out on her new eliptical ("I did nine solid minutes today!" she proudly exclaimed.) It was nice to spend this time with my friends and their little crumb snatchers. They kept each other busy while we stuffed our faces full of food which we declared calorie-free, considering the circumstances.
When President-Elect Barack Obama took the oath this afternoon and became President Barack Obama, I didn't cry. I thought I would; I was positive I would become a blubbery basket case of hormones. I'm still nursing, you know, and all that progesterone can really make me feel the love in situations such as these. But I gave myself a wedgie with my big girl panties and stuck to just feeling really hopeful and connected without all that sissy sobbing stuff. The hostess has to keep things together amidst sword-fighting children blocking the television screen and electronic toys drowning out the audio. It's my job to keep the party rockin'.
In fact, I was very focused on the Obamas' daughters, who sat so nicely behind their dad during the entire ceremony. Then I wondered what my children will be like when I become elected Prime Minister of Canada (which is the obvious next step in my life as a stay-at-home-mom/writer/postpartum doula). Will they sit as quietly, or will I be the first leader to bring decoy children to all the events? You know, ones that look like my boys but aren't really. Then I can also have moms all over the world comment on how well-behaved and calm my family is.
It was only when the older gremlins returned from school that things began to fall apart. Huddled together in front of the television we watched the parade, the Rosa Parks commemorative bus, the beautiful smiling power couple. We talked about how historic this day truly is, and how we are witnessing history. I told them to remember the moment because it's so very important.
Then I cried like a big sissy baby. Of course as soon as I involved my children the tears had to flow. It seems to be a theme as of late.
Congratulations to all my American friends on your new president. You must be so damn proud today.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Two Out of Three
Gutsy and I got into an argument last Thursday.
Truthfully, we get in arguments most days, but they don't escalate to this level.
See, I had made a nice dinner and called everyone to the table. I was wearing my apron, a pretty pink blouse, a lovely skirt dipping just below my knees (for modesty, of course) and served everyone with a smile.
Actualy, that part is not true at all, but I thought it made for a nice visual. In truth I was wearing jeans that hadn't been washed in three days and had some kind of mystery stain on one knee, a grey rocker shirt and a cream coloured hoodie. Way cooler, but not what you would envision mom donning in the kitchen. I'm that new, cool kind of mom.
I counted those who decided to grace me with their presence: one, two, three. Two gremlins and their male tamer. Where was the middle child, the one with the pointiest horns as of late?
I found him in the playroom on the computer. He probably didn't hear me. 'Gutsy,' I said with a smile. 'Time for dinner.'
'In a minute. I just have to finish this level.'
'I'm coming back in a sec. If you're not done there's going to be a consequence.'
It's apparent where this is going, isn't it? When I returned the boy had apparently finished his level and started an entirely different game. When I asked him once again to come to the table he gave me the in a minute speech, which frankly was getting about as repetitive as Joan Rivers' Botox sessions. So I switched off the monitor and said 'March!' in my firm, growly-mother voice.
That went over very smoothly.
'I don't listen to you! I only listen to Daddy!'
That earned him a time-out on the stairs.
He did not take that time-out. Instead, he stood up and yelled it again. 'I don't listen to you! I only listen to my DADDY!' Daddy asked if he should intervene and I said no, because I needed to assert my alpha mother authority.
After another attempt to get him to sit nicely for his time-out, I picked him up (all 62 pounds of him) and carried him to his room. He then screamed 'I DON'T LIKE YOU! I ONLY LIKE -'
'Yeah, yeah. Daddy!' I said as I slammed the door and stomped downstairs.
(Take note: perfect parenting such as mine takes a great deal of patience and maturity. It will come in time, grasshopper.)
I then temporarily excused myself from dinner and had my own ten minute time-out in the bedroom, where I surfed the 'net and grumbled under my breath.
Having given us both some time to chillax, I made my way upstairs expecting to find a morose and apologetic Gutsy waiting for me with open arms. Instead, I found him crying in the bottom bunk holding a stuffed animal.
'I don't want to talk to you, I only want -' began my second born.
I cut him off, not wanting to hear those painful words again. 'Gutsy, I love you too, you know. Talk to me. What is it about Dad that makes you only want him?'
In a quiet little voice he replied 'Daddy does lots of cool things with me. He comes home from work and he plays with me and he reads to me and he builds things with me. You're always busy doing other stuff, like cooking meals I don't like. You don't play with me as much as Daddy.'
A fire lept up inside of me, the flames tickling my throat. I wanted to spit out something along the lines of: Oh yeah? Well, who do you think makes that all possible, Gutsy? Who makes sure those icky-but-healthy dinners are cooked so your dad doesn't have to skip playing with you so he can make meals you won't eat and just complain about? Who does all the boring, mundane stuff like do your homework with you, sign your permission slips, make you snacks, fold your laundry? And, and... Who convinced your dad he wanted another baby when he was so happy with just one? Yeah, that's right. Five years, Gutsy. Five years to have you. I was your biggest fertility cheerleader. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me! Who's so special now, huh? Who's the one you gave you life? Went through 27 hours of horrible labour only to get a c-section? Nursed you for three years? Planned all your birthday parties? So... So... you better like me, ok? I'm pretty special. I'M YOUR DAMN MOM.
But I couldn't tell him all of that, of course. I would have made his fragile six-year-old brain explode and leak dysfunction into his tiny body, breaking his heart and launching him into weekly therapy sessions for twenty-five years. So instead I just sat there on the bed and stroked his hair lovingly, and the lines of his sweet little face, and wiped his tears.
And then I turned my head away and tried not to shed some of my own.
I failed.
Gently, Gutsy took my hand in his. In the sweetest, most sincere voice, he said the words he felt would make it all ok: 'Mommy, it's not that I don't like you. I like you a little bit. Just not as much as Daddy. Ok?'
And, with that, I hugged him, wiped my own tears and went down to dinner holding his hand. What else could I do? Honesty is a good thing. And besides, Intrepid likes me when I'm not battling his teenage angst, and Spawnling likes me because I have boobies that make milk. Gutsy will come around in time - probably once I become a rich writer and can buy him some cool crap. Until then, in the words of the mighty Meatloaf:
Truthfully, we get in arguments most days, but they don't escalate to this level.
See, I had made a nice dinner and called everyone to the table. I was wearing my apron, a pretty pink blouse, a lovely skirt dipping just below my knees (for modesty, of course) and served everyone with a smile.
Actualy, that part is not true at all, but I thought it made for a nice visual. In truth I was wearing jeans that hadn't been washed in three days and had some kind of mystery stain on one knee, a grey rocker shirt and a cream coloured hoodie. Way cooler, but not what you would envision mom donning in the kitchen. I'm that new, cool kind of mom.
I counted those who decided to grace me with their presence: one, two, three. Two gremlins and their male tamer. Where was the middle child, the one with the pointiest horns as of late?
I found him in the playroom on the computer. He probably didn't hear me. 'Gutsy,' I said with a smile. 'Time for dinner.'
'In a minute. I just have to finish this level.'
'I'm coming back in a sec. If you're not done there's going to be a consequence.'
It's apparent where this is going, isn't it? When I returned the boy had apparently finished his level and started an entirely different game. When I asked him once again to come to the table he gave me the in a minute speech, which frankly was getting about as repetitive as Joan Rivers' Botox sessions. So I switched off the monitor and said 'March!' in my firm, growly-mother voice.
That went over very smoothly.
'I don't listen to you! I only listen to Daddy!'
That earned him a time-out on the stairs.
He did not take that time-out. Instead, he stood up and yelled it again. 'I don't listen to you! I only listen to my DADDY!' Daddy asked if he should intervene and I said no, because I needed to assert my alpha mother authority.
After another attempt to get him to sit nicely for his time-out, I picked him up (all 62 pounds of him) and carried him to his room. He then screamed 'I DON'T LIKE YOU! I ONLY LIKE -'
'Yeah, yeah. Daddy!' I said as I slammed the door and stomped downstairs.
(Take note: perfect parenting such as mine takes a great deal of patience and maturity. It will come in time, grasshopper.)
I then temporarily excused myself from dinner and had my own ten minute time-out in the bedroom, where I surfed the 'net and grumbled under my breath.
Having given us both some time to chillax, I made my way upstairs expecting to find a morose and apologetic Gutsy waiting for me with open arms. Instead, I found him crying in the bottom bunk holding a stuffed animal.
'I don't want to talk to you, I only want -' began my second born.
I cut him off, not wanting to hear those painful words again. 'Gutsy, I love you too, you know. Talk to me. What is it about Dad that makes you only want him?'
In a quiet little voice he replied 'Daddy does lots of cool things with me. He comes home from work and he plays with me and he reads to me and he builds things with me. You're always busy doing other stuff, like cooking meals I don't like. You don't play with me as much as Daddy.'
A fire lept up inside of me, the flames tickling my throat. I wanted to spit out something along the lines of: Oh yeah? Well, who do you think makes that all possible, Gutsy? Who makes sure those icky-but-healthy dinners are cooked so your dad doesn't have to skip playing with you so he can make meals you won't eat and just complain about? Who does all the boring, mundane stuff like do your homework with you, sign your permission slips, make you snacks, fold your laundry? And, and... Who convinced your dad he wanted another baby when he was so happy with just one? Yeah, that's right. Five years, Gutsy. Five years to have you. I was your biggest fertility cheerleader. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me! Who's so special now, huh? Who's the one you gave you life? Went through 27 hours of horrible labour only to get a c-section? Nursed you for three years? Planned all your birthday parties? So... So... you better like me, ok? I'm pretty special. I'M YOUR DAMN MOM.
But I couldn't tell him all of that, of course. I would have made his fragile six-year-old brain explode and leak dysfunction into his tiny body, breaking his heart and launching him into weekly therapy sessions for twenty-five years. So instead I just sat there on the bed and stroked his hair lovingly, and the lines of his sweet little face, and wiped his tears.
And then I turned my head away and tried not to shed some of my own.
I failed.
Gently, Gutsy took my hand in his. In the sweetest, most sincere voice, he said the words he felt would make it all ok: 'Mommy, it's not that I don't like you. I like you a little bit. Just not as much as Daddy. Ok?'
And, with that, I hugged him, wiped my own tears and went down to dinner holding his hand. What else could I do? Honesty is a good thing. And besides, Intrepid likes me when I'm not battling his teenage angst, and Spawnling likes me because I have boobies that make milk. Gutsy will come around in time - probably once I become a rich writer and can buy him some cool crap. Until then, in the words of the mighty Meatloaf:
Don't be sad, 'cuz two out of three ain't bad.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Ultimate Baby Accessory
There is a sign above the rabbit cage in a local pet store that reads:
My initial reaction when I heard about this was that of laughter, followed quickly by irritation. Why don't babies come with a warning like this? Why is this message not printed at the beginning of the standard parenting manual?
And, before anyone states the obvious: why is there no damn parenting manual? Don't they realize we need one? A how-to guide should have been included in the evolutionary process of our species. Soon we'll be born with no little toes or wisdom teeth. Why can't some chapters on sleeping and poop consistencies and - shudder - what to do when you find condoms in your teen's pocket be included in there?
Like most women, my crazy comes out full force when I'm pregnant. Other than being highly irrational and hating things like chocolate and coffee, the rest of the insanity comes though in dreams.
When I was a nineteen-year-old expecting mama to Intrepid, I had a dream I was getting my hair did at the local salon. The stylists were making a huge fuss over my "adorable belly" which, truth be told, was much cuter and rounder than my awake one.
'Would you like to have a peak at your baby? It's only an extra $12,' asked my hair stylist. She had crazy curly bright red hair, so maybe she was Nat. Not too sure, but it's a distinct possibility.
'You can do that?' I asked, astonished.
'Absolutely. All the girls are certified in it. You'll be happy you did!'
What did I have to lose? I was nearly full-term anyway and dying to get a glimpse of our impending arrival.
She rubbed a numbing cream over my smooth, stretch mark-free stomach (aren't dreams wonderful?) and took out a scalpel. Very carefully, she made a 90 degree incision and folded back a thin layer of skin. Underneath that layer was a see-through sac (no fat, though - have I mentioned dreams are wonderful?) and, inside the sac, a beautiful little baby.
'Aww! There's the baby. How sweet!' they all cooed.
I looked at my gorgeous little baby and its thick umbilical cord. I started to tear up a little bit. What a wondrous site! What a gift! What a... What on earth was that? Something floated up from behind my baby's curled up body and - bloop! - rested between it and the embryonic sac. It appeared to be a small booklet and a couple of pamphlets, all encased in waterproof plastic.
'Look! There it is!' shouted the hairstylist who could be Nat. 'The instruction manual and registration card! Make sure to fill that out right after your little one's arrival.
'... There's... There's an instruction manual?' I gasped. This was too good to be true. Here I was, scared out of my mind that I would have no idea what to do with a newborn, and the whole time it was going to come with instructions? I felt like I had won the lottery. 'Can I look at it?'
'No, honey. You can't right now. You have to wait until the baby is born.' She began to close the skin flap again.
Panicked, I started to scramble for some kind of compromise. 'Ok. But... Wait! Could I just peak at the front of it through the plastic? It would be nice to get a head start, you know? Please?'
The stylist laughed and sealed my belly shut. 'Wouldn't it, though? Sorry, doll. You'll have to wait a few more weeks. But wasn't that worth the $12? That baby is going to be so cute!' and with that, she went back to layering my locks.
It was then that I woke up angry. What a cruel dream. See my baby and not touch it? See an instruction manual and not read it? What a sick mind I had! The realization that it was all in my head and there would be no manual upon Intrepid's arrival pretty much ruined my day. Stupid brain. Stupid imagination.
However, twelve years later and ramping up into puberty, I can say for certain that I'm thankful Intepid did not come with a registration card. There are countless times I would have considered returned him as 'malfunctioning' and demanded a repair or replacement if it had been an option.
I guess it's a good thing there are no warranties, guarantees or guides of any kind when it comes to raising gremlins. Also, there's no way a manual on childrearing could have come out of my hooha. Or anyone's hooha, I would think.
I would hope.
Let's not dwell on that thought for very long. I would rather not lie awake all night haunted by traumatizing visions.
Naturally if one is a regular here, one would be looking for a moral to the story. So here it is:
Warning: These live a long time and are hard to take care of.
My initial reaction when I heard about this was that of laughter, followed quickly by irritation. Why don't babies come with a warning like this? Why is this message not printed at the beginning of the standard parenting manual?
And, before anyone states the obvious: why is there no damn parenting manual? Don't they realize we need one? A how-to guide should have been included in the evolutionary process of our species. Soon we'll be born with no little toes or wisdom teeth. Why can't some chapters on sleeping and poop consistencies and - shudder - what to do when you find condoms in your teen's pocket be included in there?
Like most women, my crazy comes out full force when I'm pregnant. Other than being highly irrational and hating things like chocolate and coffee, the rest of the insanity comes though in dreams.
When I was a nineteen-year-old expecting mama to Intrepid, I had a dream I was getting my hair did at the local salon. The stylists were making a huge fuss over my "adorable belly" which, truth be told, was much cuter and rounder than my awake one.
'Would you like to have a peak at your baby? It's only an extra $12,' asked my hair stylist. She had crazy curly bright red hair, so maybe she was Nat. Not too sure, but it's a distinct possibility.
'You can do that?' I asked, astonished.
'Absolutely. All the girls are certified in it. You'll be happy you did!'
What did I have to lose? I was nearly full-term anyway and dying to get a glimpse of our impending arrival.
She rubbed a numbing cream over my smooth, stretch mark-free stomach (aren't dreams wonderful?) and took out a scalpel. Very carefully, she made a 90 degree incision and folded back a thin layer of skin. Underneath that layer was a see-through sac (no fat, though - have I mentioned dreams are wonderful?) and, inside the sac, a beautiful little baby.
'Aww! There's the baby. How sweet!' they all cooed.
I looked at my gorgeous little baby and its thick umbilical cord. I started to tear up a little bit. What a wondrous site! What a gift! What a... What on earth was that? Something floated up from behind my baby's curled up body and - bloop! - rested between it and the embryonic sac. It appeared to be a small booklet and a couple of pamphlets, all encased in waterproof plastic.
'Look! There it is!' shouted the hairstylist who could be Nat. 'The instruction manual and registration card! Make sure to fill that out right after your little one's arrival.
'... There's... There's an instruction manual?' I gasped. This was too good to be true. Here I was, scared out of my mind that I would have no idea what to do with a newborn, and the whole time it was going to come with instructions? I felt like I had won the lottery. 'Can I look at it?'
'No, honey. You can't right now. You have to wait until the baby is born.' She began to close the skin flap again.
Panicked, I started to scramble for some kind of compromise. 'Ok. But... Wait! Could I just peak at the front of it through the plastic? It would be nice to get a head start, you know? Please?'
The stylist laughed and sealed my belly shut. 'Wouldn't it, though? Sorry, doll. You'll have to wait a few more weeks. But wasn't that worth the $12? That baby is going to be so cute!' and with that, she went back to layering my locks.
It was then that I woke up angry. What a cruel dream. See my baby and not touch it? See an instruction manual and not read it? What a sick mind I had! The realization that it was all in my head and there would be no manual upon Intrepid's arrival pretty much ruined my day. Stupid brain. Stupid imagination.
However, twelve years later and ramping up into puberty, I can say for certain that I'm thankful Intepid did not come with a registration card. There are countless times I would have considered returned him as 'malfunctioning' and demanded a repair or replacement if it had been an option.
I guess it's a good thing there are no warranties, guarantees or guides of any kind when it comes to raising gremlins. Also, there's no way a manual on childrearing could have come out of my hooha. Or anyone's hooha, I would think.
I would hope.
Let's not dwell on that thought for very long. I would rather not lie awake all night haunted by traumatizing visions.
Naturally if one is a regular here, one would be looking for a moral to the story. So here it is:
Bunnies come with warnings and babies do not, which makes absolutely no sense, since bunnies are easier to care for. Also, do not try to birth anything other than an infant because your hooha will be quite sore. And then you'll wish it had its own warrantee card.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
In Which The Maven Throws a Dinner Party
Ah, the dinner party.
It conjures up visions of good food, good wine, and good friends - unless you have certain types of eating disorders, are a recovering alcoholic, or someone who's always smelled funky and nobody wants to be around you. Then you probably don't plan dinner parties anyway, but therapy sessions. Whatever.
This week I decided to throw a small dinner party. On the surface hosting an event such as this shows my maturity, a coming of age if you will. If you're old enough cook something other than Pizza Pockets to serve to your friends then you've arrived. Poof! Just like that.
Peel back the layers of such a festivity, however, and you'll find a festering mess of dysfunction. Dinner parties lead to evil, folks. Case in point: The Last Supper. Look at what happened after that little shindig and you can see I'm not pulling this out of thin air.
But how can dinnertime get-togethers become so very, very bad? It's all about feeding the ego. And Evil Ego Maven loves the idea of growing round and piggish through seemingly innocent plans.
What is the first thing I have to do in order to plan a dinner party? Invite people. Inviting people makes me the hostess and that not only makes me the it girl of the moment, but also makes me look very thoughtful. 'How thoughtful that you invited us, Maven! How kind! You're such a wonderful person!'
Yes, yes, I am, thank you. Keep talking.
What is the second thing I must do? Pick a day that suits everyone. How about this Saturday? Does that work for you? I want this dinner to accommodate your schedule, of course. 'Saturday is great! Thank you, Maven. You're so considerate.'
Indeed I am. Keep talking.
What is the third thing I must do? The day of the party I must clean my house. There's no sense in tidying up in the days preceding as the gremlins will undoubtedly spew piles of toys and popcorn over anything resembling a newly revealed floor. But, if I get up bright and early, I can have a clean and sparkling home by 3 PM. 'Why, Maven! What a clean and sparkling home! You really take pride in where you live. I'm very impressed. How do you do it?'
How do I do it? With the motivation that I will be heavily rewarded in compliments upon your arrival. Keep going. Thanks.
What is the last thing I must do before the impending arrival? Make a meal fit for a king, or at least fit for someone who doesn't want food poisoning. I must create a culinary masterpiece that both surprises and delights my guests. 'Oh, this is so good! Did you make this all yourself? You did? And it's vegetarian, too? You certainly missed your calling. You should have been a chef!'
And you should have been a groupie. This is fantastic. My ego is completely stuffed. Thanks for coming. Oh, really? Has it only been a hour? It feels like so much longer, though, doesn't it? You must be exhausted. Here are your boots. Catch! I'll pack up some desert so you can eat it on the way home. My gift to you. Enjoy!
See what I mean? Dinner parties can so easily suffocate the soul. So, in order to counter that and reclaim this activity as a healthy one, here are a few tips from The Maven:
1. Invite people you actually like and who don't judge you. Not people you just pretend to like, or who you know don't like you but want to see you screw up a quiche. We had good friends over tonight and were actually able to relax and - wonder of wonders! - enjoy ourselves.
2. Don't invite people who have never been over before. It's hard enough to cook for an army without having to ensure the house is clean enough to give a proper newbie tour. A fledgling relationship is best broken in with coffee or console games. Trust me: when you're as popular as I am you know how to properly pop a friend cherry.
3. Cook what you know, or at least what your partner knows (if you have a partner. If not you might be able to hire an escort who's paying his/her way through culinary school. That would work, too). My goal today was to make chili, soup, salad and apple crisp. I made chili that Geekster had to rescue (more spices, less tomato!), soup that he had to gently mention required a fair bit more water lest it clog the entrance to a guest's windpipe (apparently death doesn't go well as an appetizer), and he ended up making both the salad and apple crisp because I was too overwhelmed with the realization that I cook like ass.
4. If you can manage to have me around at the dinner party - and I'm not the one cooking - Do it. It's guaranteed to be a great success. Although I may eat all a lot of apple crisp. Are you finished with that? Can I lick your bowl?
It conjures up visions of good food, good wine, and good friends - unless you have certain types of eating disorders, are a recovering alcoholic, or someone who's always smelled funky and nobody wants to be around you. Then you probably don't plan dinner parties anyway, but therapy sessions. Whatever.
This week I decided to throw a small dinner party. On the surface hosting an event such as this shows my maturity, a coming of age if you will. If you're old enough cook something other than Pizza Pockets to serve to your friends then you've arrived. Poof! Just like that.
Peel back the layers of such a festivity, however, and you'll find a festering mess of dysfunction. Dinner parties lead to evil, folks. Case in point: The Last Supper. Look at what happened after that little shindig and you can see I'm not pulling this out of thin air.
But how can dinnertime get-togethers become so very, very bad? It's all about feeding the ego. And Evil Ego Maven loves the idea of growing round and piggish through seemingly innocent plans.
What is the first thing I have to do in order to plan a dinner party? Invite people. Inviting people makes me the hostess and that not only makes me the it girl of the moment, but also makes me look very thoughtful. 'How thoughtful that you invited us, Maven! How kind! You're such a wonderful person!'
Yes, yes, I am, thank you. Keep talking.
What is the second thing I must do? Pick a day that suits everyone. How about this Saturday? Does that work for you? I want this dinner to accommodate your schedule, of course. 'Saturday is great! Thank you, Maven. You're so considerate.'
Indeed I am. Keep talking.
What is the third thing I must do? The day of the party I must clean my house. There's no sense in tidying up in the days preceding as the gremlins will undoubtedly spew piles of toys and popcorn over anything resembling a newly revealed floor. But, if I get up bright and early, I can have a clean and sparkling home by 3 PM. 'Why, Maven! What a clean and sparkling home! You really take pride in where you live. I'm very impressed. How do you do it?'
How do I do it? With the motivation that I will be heavily rewarded in compliments upon your arrival. Keep going. Thanks.
What is the last thing I must do before the impending arrival? Make a meal fit for a king, or at least fit for someone who doesn't want food poisoning. I must create a culinary masterpiece that both surprises and delights my guests. 'Oh, this is so good! Did you make this all yourself? You did? And it's vegetarian, too? You certainly missed your calling. You should have been a chef!'
And you should have been a groupie. This is fantastic. My ego is completely stuffed. Thanks for coming. Oh, really? Has it only been a hour? It feels like so much longer, though, doesn't it? You must be exhausted. Here are your boots. Catch! I'll pack up some desert so you can eat it on the way home. My gift to you. Enjoy!
See what I mean? Dinner parties can so easily suffocate the soul. So, in order to counter that and reclaim this activity as a healthy one, here are a few tips from The Maven:
1. Invite people you actually like and who don't judge you. Not people you just pretend to like, or who you know don't like you but want to see you screw up a quiche. We had good friends over tonight and were actually able to relax and - wonder of wonders! - enjoy ourselves.
2. Don't invite people who have never been over before. It's hard enough to cook for an army without having to ensure the house is clean enough to give a proper newbie tour. A fledgling relationship is best broken in with coffee or console games. Trust me: when you're as popular as I am you know how to properly pop a friend cherry.
3. Cook what you know, or at least what your partner knows (if you have a partner. If not you might be able to hire an escort who's paying his/her way through culinary school. That would work, too). My goal today was to make chili, soup, salad and apple crisp. I made chili that Geekster had to rescue (more spices, less tomato!), soup that he had to gently mention required a fair bit more water lest it clog the entrance to a guest's windpipe (apparently death doesn't go well as an appetizer), and he ended up making both the salad and apple crisp because I was too overwhelmed with the realization that I cook like ass.
4. If you can manage to have me around at the dinner party - and I'm not the one cooking - Do it. It's guaranteed to be a great success. Although I may eat all a lot of apple crisp. Are you finished with that? Can I lick your bowl?
Friday, January 16, 2009
Gutsy vs. the Bus
Gutsy and Intrepid came through the door this afternoon, both near tears.
Fantastic. What a great start to the weekend.
"What's wrong, guys?" I asked.
"Gutsy thought it would be funny to tackle me on the school bus and all the kids said it was disgusting because it looked like we were having S-E-X!" exclaimed a very embarrassed twelve-year-old.
I suppressed the first logical thought: how would they even know what S-E-X looks like when half the bus is still young enough to watch The Backyardigans and the other half still watches it but would never admit it? Did I miss an episode or something? I don't remember Austin and Tasha getting busy.
(Not that I watch that show or anything because I'm way too old. Only babies watch stuff like that.)
I hate school sometimes, with its groups of children old enough to say S-E-X but not old enough to know what it actually looks like, which certainly is not two boys in snowsuits and backpacks on a bus. Stupid know-it-all kids.
Gutsy, meanwhile, was looking very sad and in need of some serious mommy Maven comfort. He fell into me crying and saying 'Nobody likes me on that bus! They think I'm annoying and they hate it when I sit in the back. They don't even want me in the middle. They tell me to sit up in the front! The front!!'
Now, if you know anything about the social hierarchy of school buses, you'll know that the back is where the cool kids are, the middle is for the well-liked kids, and the front is where all the band camp, chess club geeks hang out because they need to stay close to the bus driver lest they get their butts kicked.
... And these kids want my child to sit in the front? My child? The Maven's boy? I think not.
I resisted the urge to do a few things:
- Call the school and make an ass out of myself
- Flag down the bus that was now pulling away so I could step onto it and beat down the nasty kids who dare make my boys upset
- Eat my feelings
- Encourage Gutsy to eat his feelings with me
- Admit to myself that, while I find the middle gremlin to act in an annoying fashion sometimes (well, a lot of times), I do not appreciate other people noticing that quality in him, thankyouverymuch
So I gave the boy a cuddle, a story and a granola bar; all the good mommy things I shine at. Obviously it made everything better, but as anyone who's cuddled me can attest to, that's pretty much a given.
The funny thing is that, while I can be very nonchalant about the things that happened to me as a bully magnet, I'm a raging bitch when it comes to the gremlins' social affairs. I was on the school's governing board a couple of years ago due in large part to my dedication to the anti-bullying policies, which I wanted to make sure were enforced. So, basically, I'm a control freak.
An alcoholic control freak? Who ever heard of such a thing? Madness, I tell you!
Spawnling received a sizable scratch on his cute little face yesterday due to an altercation between he and another male toddler. They were fighting over a seat in front of the princess vanity mirror at playgroup. You can see how this quickly turned ugly. Both tots are the youngest of three brothers, so are quick to unleash rage and fury upon the enemy. It was really neat to watch how fast it escalated, too; within seconds my sweet little Spawnling reached up with both hands and pinched the other boy's cheeks. Not to be outdone, his wrestling opponent went all Wolverine and actually drew blood. Impressive!
The mother was so embarrassed and apologized as we held our crying boys. "I 'cared, Mom!" sobbed my child, which is Spawnling for "I'm scared, Mom!" (he doesn't pronounce 's' very well yet). I didn't feel bad for him, though, and he certainly had his own apologizing to do. If he had been a true princess he would have been courteous enough to take turns in the vanity mirror. This was not a bullying incident but a sharing problem. Next time he'll think twice about wanting to put his tiara on first.
What's been happening with Gutsy on the bus has been a problem since the beginning of the year, however. I have a difficult time not flaring up into Ninja Mama Maven Bear at the slightest thing. Don't these kids know what they're doing? Don't they realize that they're destroying his self-esteem? That he might start hating himself, isolate, drink too much, do some drugs, run away from home and become a shaggy man who rides the rails? Do they truly want to contribute to this tragic outcome for my son?
Deep breath. I tell myself to keep things in perspective. Having been the bullied of the moment at more than one school I could pretty much write a book on crappy things that can happen to you before you're old enough to consider to call it harassment and start threatening lawsuits. This getting teased on the bus thing is maybe a 2.5 out of 10. People have different emotional thresholds, however, and because I turned into a self-loathing, suicidal alcoholic by the age of fourteen, I underestimate Gutsy's ability to handle a bit of teasing without it completely destroying him.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to what it's like to be a dysfunctional human being attempting to raise functional kids. Come see what oddities await you inside the tent!
I could probably make some sweet cashola and retire if I just started charging for a peak inside my tent.
(That is not, by the way, a metaphor for something else, although I could probably make some money at that, too, if I marketted myself effectively. But it's kind of dirty and definitely illegal, which made me finally decide to scratch it off my list of 'ideal work-from-home jobs')
Thursday, January 15, 2009
You're Welcome!
Tonight I met Nat at a local coffee shop and engaged in what seemed like endless conversation. We drank hot beverages, ate treats and she even bought me a tea (switching it up from the usual free coffees I get - leave it to her to be different!)
Anyway, I just want to say how happy I am for her that she was able to have that special time with me. It obviously meant a great deal and I'm sure she felt all warm and fuzzy afterwards. I'm awaiting her next blog post in which she will undoubtedly gush over my great looks and rockin' personality.
It's so good to be The Maven.
All ego aside - let me just whip it back into the cage for a minute - I was glad to steal some one-on-one time with this chick. She struck me as someone I needed to get to know better when I met her at the Ottawa blogger brunch a couple of months ago. She's witty and intelligent and hip and has extremely cool hair. Cool hair gives people bonus points on my score sheet. People who rock the hair often have wicked personalities, and being a social succubus I tend to feed of the energy of others. It's sort of like being an empath but far more selfish. It really suits my style.
I confided in Nat that I'm always a little nervous meeting people who read my blog. I worry that they're going to expect this really funny, outgoing person who's snappy comebacks roll off her tongue like a toddler barfing up a marble.
The problem, of course, is that I'm a rather dull person. Think about it: I have three kids, I'm a stay-at-home-mom, and I blog. Wow. That's a life of excitement right there. I'm practically bursting at the seams with funny anecdotes and fling them around the room using perfect timing: BAM! There's one now. Everyone's laughing. BAM! There's another one that's related to the first. Look at the precision that Maven has! She owns the room!
Oh, how I wish.
I prefer when things go the other way: when people I know in real life read my posts and suddenly realize that I might actually have a talent that goes beyond knowing when Dr. Phil comes on the various satellite channels.
Don't knock it. Not everyone can remember channel numbers off the cuff like that; they have to actually consult the guide. Losers.
I can be really geeky and serious at times. It's not all fun and games when you're The Maven. Sometimes you have to talk about alcoholism or secondary infertility or miscarriage or other tales of woe. And sometimes you even have to shut up and let someone else talk. And actually listen to them.
Ick.
This evening I told my coffee date how I cried before dinner because Gutsy said he likes daddy way more than me, and how I was set on fire at school when I was thirteen. Those are not light topics, people; they are very serious, feel sorry for me topics. I'm just glad I talked about interesting, drama-filled events and not how I placed an online order for a missing part to our steam cleaner. There's serious stuff related to the discussion and then there's loser talk. I don't go that far down the ladder and step into Loserville too often. Only when I'm really desperate for a topic. And tonight I was not. It appears some people like to talk as much as I do. I'm not as unique as I once believed. Tragic.
The nice thing about writing blog entries is that I can take the best parts of myself (and, well, some of the worst parts) and carefully craft them into words before sticking them up on a website. It allows me time to think about what I'm writing so I don't bore my readers (the thousands of you out there) to tears.
Recreating myself daily: It's my gift to you.
You're welcome.
But in the really real world I'm actually a pretty average girl. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that I can blend in fairly well in most circles and don't have (quite as much of) the ego I put on display here.
I am, however, above average in looks. And I'm really intelligent. I ooze brain cells out of every gorgeous pore. Just so we're clear.
Anyway, I just want to say how happy I am for her that she was able to have that special time with me. It obviously meant a great deal and I'm sure she felt all warm and fuzzy afterwards. I'm awaiting her next blog post in which she will undoubtedly gush over my great looks and rockin' personality.
It's so good to be The Maven.
All ego aside - let me just whip it back into the cage for a minute - I was glad to steal some one-on-one time with this chick. She struck me as someone I needed to get to know better when I met her at the Ottawa blogger brunch a couple of months ago. She's witty and intelligent and hip and has extremely cool hair. Cool hair gives people bonus points on my score sheet. People who rock the hair often have wicked personalities, and being a social succubus I tend to feed of the energy of others. It's sort of like being an empath but far more selfish. It really suits my style.
I confided in Nat that I'm always a little nervous meeting people who read my blog. I worry that they're going to expect this really funny, outgoing person who's snappy comebacks roll off her tongue like a toddler barfing up a marble.
The problem, of course, is that I'm a rather dull person. Think about it: I have three kids, I'm a stay-at-home-mom, and I blog. Wow. That's a life of excitement right there. I'm practically bursting at the seams with funny anecdotes and fling them around the room using perfect timing: BAM! There's one now. Everyone's laughing. BAM! There's another one that's related to the first. Look at the precision that Maven has! She owns the room!
Oh, how I wish.
I prefer when things go the other way: when people I know in real life read my posts and suddenly realize that I might actually have a talent that goes beyond knowing when Dr. Phil comes on the various satellite channels.
Don't knock it. Not everyone can remember channel numbers off the cuff like that; they have to actually consult the guide. Losers.
I can be really geeky and serious at times. It's not all fun and games when you're The Maven. Sometimes you have to talk about alcoholism or secondary infertility or miscarriage or other tales of woe. And sometimes you even have to shut up and let someone else talk. And actually listen to them.
Ick.
This evening I told my coffee date how I cried before dinner because Gutsy said he likes daddy way more than me, and how I was set on fire at school when I was thirteen. Those are not light topics, people; they are very serious, feel sorry for me topics. I'm just glad I talked about interesting, drama-filled events and not how I placed an online order for a missing part to our steam cleaner. There's serious stuff related to the discussion and then there's loser talk. I don't go that far down the ladder and step into Loserville too often. Only when I'm really desperate for a topic. And tonight I was not. It appears some people like to talk as much as I do. I'm not as unique as I once believed. Tragic.
The nice thing about writing blog entries is that I can take the best parts of myself (and, well, some of the worst parts) and carefully craft them into words before sticking them up on a website. It allows me time to think about what I'm writing so I don't bore my readers (the thousands of you out there) to tears.
Recreating myself daily: It's my gift to you.
You're welcome.
But in the really real world I'm actually a pretty average girl. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that I can blend in fairly well in most circles and don't have (quite as much of) the ego I put on display here.
I am, however, above average in looks. And I'm really intelligent. I ooze brain cells out of every gorgeous pore. Just so we're clear.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Parenting 101, sorta.
Since I'm such an expert on parenting, I thought it would be in my readership's best interest if I were to ask some questions that could be on the exam in my future parenting classes. It would give all my loyal visitors a head start on the course and they wouldn't have to miss out on any frat parties because they're too busy cramming for exams.
Imagine the travesty of missing the spring kegger. Horrific! (Unless you're me and you avoid keggers altogether for obvious recovery-based reasons...)
So, without further ado, here are some practice questions:
Describe all four phases of how The Maven, parenting diva, would deal with a tantruming six-year-old when they're both exhausted and she's trying to do the fifth manual load of dishes of the day because the stupid dishwasher is stupidly broken.
Phase 1. The Maven tries the calm approach by physically getting down to the child's level and lovingly but firmly telling him he needs to stop. She places a hand on his shoulder and rubs his arm while he screams loudly enough to make her eardrums want to drink cyanide. Like, if they had mouths. She cradles him in her arms and strokes his hair softly while she tells him it's alright, he just needs to calm down.
Phase 2. If he doesn't stop screaming because his previously embryonic self absorbed every ounce of genetic stubbornness from both his parents, she decides she needs some space and tells him that she's going to go to a quiet place so she can breathe and hopes that he'll calm down as well.
Phase 3. If he chases her down, still screaming, she keeps walking as she breathes very deeply and attempts to see any colour but red; preferably mauve with maybe some rainbows and unicorns floating around in the mauveness.
Phase 4. If the six-year-old whacks her on the back of the leg with all his might because he's not getting what he wants, The Maven, mother supreme, stoops to her son's level in a whole new way by screaming louder than he can and threatening to throw his precious laptop (a 10-year-old Apple with some missing keys and a broken hinge) in the garbage if he makes even one more peep. He goes to time-out quietly.
It works. The Maven wins.
(Did everyone get that? It might be a good idea to take some notes.)
Question 2: What would The Maven recommend you do if you had confirmed via email a meeting at the school with a woman coming from out of town to talk about your gremlins' hearing needs?
Well, first of all, don't write it down anywhere, especially on something useful like a calendar. Just make a mental note of it and tell yourself you'll remember because it's obviously too important to forget. Then have a few things break in the interim, like a furnace and dishwasher, and throw in several friends in crisis and in need of your advice and support, and voila: Twenty minutes after you're supposed to be at the school you'll get a phone call saying "Did you forget about me?" and you can stammer and apologize and make excuses and just generally feel really craptastic about the entire thing.
3. What should you do if your children have been cooped up inside the school all day because it's bitterly cold outside, are in foul moods, are throwing tantrums and/or crying about nothing and/or falling off of things and hitting their faces on tables, and you've been rather forgetful?
It's obvious you all need a nice healthy meal. Preferably something homecooked. But the day has sucked for you, the mom, and you know that example of putting your own oxygen mask on before your baby's? It's time to use that card and use it well. The Maven would recommend you throw steamed veggies to the wind and order some extra cheese pizza and pop. That's how we amazing parents roll, yo.
***
Thus concludes our lesson for the day. I thank you all for coming and hope that you will gain some valuable information from this session. It's not every day I impart wisdom of this magnitude, but it's truly my hope that everyone can shine as bright as I do when it comes to raising their children. Step up and be the best parent you can be. And, when all else fails, eat an extra slice of pizza and have a nap on the couch.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
R.I.P. Dishwasher
When we first moved into Casa Maven there was no built-in dishwasher. There wasn't even a spot under the counter for a dishwasher. What the house did come with, however, was a portable machine that the previous owner was more than happy to give away. She said it was a little tricky to get going and showed us how to attach the hose to the tap in just the right way. Right. Got it.
I decided to try it the very next day. I did exactly what she told me: I set the draught glass she left us upside down in the sink. Then I precariously balanced the bottom of the hose on the glass and screwed the top of it into the faucet. I put soap in the loaded dishwasher, turned it on and switched on the taps.
Water came shooting out of the hose where it met the faucet, the force of which was enough to send the hose flying through the air spraying everything in sight. At the same time, the beer glass flipped over and smashed in the sink. Soaking wet, I fought my way through our new indoor sprinkler system and turned off its water source.
I then unceremoniously hauled the dishwasher into the garage.
Stupid dishwasher.
But, you know, it wasn't so bad doing the dishes by hand. Casa Maven is situated on a half acre in a lovely, almost cottagey area. Although we're in the suburbs it feels quite rustic in our old fixer-upper home surrounded by 60-year-old trees. I didn't mind getting my hands soapy while baby Spawnling played happily on the floor with whatever he could find in our half-unpacked boxes. Doing the dishes by hand three times per day felt old fashioned and simple. I smiled and hummed as I listened to the splish-splash of the sudsy water.
That lasted about three weeks. Then the wet dishrag of reality snapped me in the eye.
It was really nice while it lasted, though.
By the end of those three weeks I had a hard time not breaking dishes as I slammed them into one another on the dishtray. Dishes three times a day? Who the hell did this family think I was, some kind of Cinderella? Surely they realized I had more to do in life than washing dried ketchup off of plastic Buzz Lightyear plates. If I had to stick my finger into the bottom of one more cup to scrape off two-day-old milk I was going to stick my head into the lavender-smelling water and quietly drown myself.
Not only had we just moved into our home, but we also had a ton of renovations going on. The downstairs bathroom was being gutted (the one that contains our washer and dryer, which were sitting in the dining room, unusable), a wall had just been built between the playroom and livingroom, and the entire house was being painted room by room. All of these renos were being done by Geekster and I. Well, mostly Geekster. Being the household manager, I feel it's best I delegate and focus on my primary task of motivating everyone while eating chocolate. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.
Geekster looked like a demon risen from the ashes of a hardware store. His clothes were covered in (very nice coloured) paint, his hands cut and oily, his goatee greedily hanging on to bits of insulation. He was so hot.
Hot like in body temperature, I mean. He's a sexy beast, but only after he showers.
In one of my greatest moments of empathy I politely told Geekster that if he would not build a dishwasher into the kitchen I would probably have to divorce him, as I was certain getting dishpan hands and a sore back were grounds for such a thing.
He understood, but explained that we had used up all our savings on the other house repairs and couldn't possibly afford one right now.
It's probably best I don't repeat what I said after that, lest I shock those who believe me to be quiet and respectful.
(... What? Nobody? I'm so hurt.)
It goes without saying that within a few days I had a brand new kitchen island and a (free, secondhand) dishwasher, all custom-built and installed by Geekster. Impressive and, most importantly, efficient. I welcomed laziness back into my life with open arms.
How I enjoyed having a dishwasher. It was noisy and made clunk-clunk-ROWR-wown-wown-wown sounds, but my dishes (mostly) came out clean. Life was good and I was a happy Maven.
***
Today my free secondhand diswasher broke. Isn't that wonderful? We're broke and it's right after Christmas, so the timing is perfect!
Sigh.
I feel like we just lost a family member. A noisy, unstable, and rather ugly family member, but that's beside the point. For 18 months Clunk-a-Dunk has been helping me maintain order in the busiest place in our house.
No, not the bedroom, you sly dog, the kitchen. Teehee.
I'm understandably stressed out. There is no happy baby Spawnling to play merrily in the now non-existent boxes while I scrub the stupid pots and pans. He's been replaced by a toddler who loves to get all up in my face at every opportunity. In order to do the dishes I'll have to fill the sink next to me full of water so he can splash it all over the floor and wet my socks. My alternative is to let him scream as he clings to my pants.
Oh, joy of joys!
I can hardly wait.
I'm brimming with excitement at the prospect.
Geekster thinks he might be able to repair the broken dishwasher. I certainly hope that it's not only repairable, but quick to fix. Because it goes without saying how much staying home to clean dishes will affect my social life.
Priorities, you know?
I decided to try it the very next day. I did exactly what she told me: I set the draught glass she left us upside down in the sink. Then I precariously balanced the bottom of the hose on the glass and screwed the top of it into the faucet. I put soap in the loaded dishwasher, turned it on and switched on the taps.
Water came shooting out of the hose where it met the faucet, the force of which was enough to send the hose flying through the air spraying everything in sight. At the same time, the beer glass flipped over and smashed in the sink. Soaking wet, I fought my way through our new indoor sprinkler system and turned off its water source.
I then unceremoniously hauled the dishwasher into the garage.
Stupid dishwasher.
But, you know, it wasn't so bad doing the dishes by hand. Casa Maven is situated on a half acre in a lovely, almost cottagey area. Although we're in the suburbs it feels quite rustic in our old fixer-upper home surrounded by 60-year-old trees. I didn't mind getting my hands soapy while baby Spawnling played happily on the floor with whatever he could find in our half-unpacked boxes. Doing the dishes by hand three times per day felt old fashioned and simple. I smiled and hummed as I listened to the splish-splash of the sudsy water.
That lasted about three weeks. Then the wet dishrag of reality snapped me in the eye.
It was really nice while it lasted, though.
By the end of those three weeks I had a hard time not breaking dishes as I slammed them into one another on the dishtray. Dishes three times a day? Who the hell did this family think I was, some kind of Cinderella? Surely they realized I had more to do in life than washing dried ketchup off of plastic Buzz Lightyear plates. If I had to stick my finger into the bottom of one more cup to scrape off two-day-old milk I was going to stick my head into the lavender-smelling water and quietly drown myself.
Not only had we just moved into our home, but we also had a ton of renovations going on. The downstairs bathroom was being gutted (the one that contains our washer and dryer, which were sitting in the dining room, unusable), a wall had just been built between the playroom and livingroom, and the entire house was being painted room by room. All of these renos were being done by Geekster and I. Well, mostly Geekster. Being the household manager, I feel it's best I delegate and focus on my primary task of motivating everyone while eating chocolate. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.
Geekster looked like a demon risen from the ashes of a hardware store. His clothes were covered in (very nice coloured) paint, his hands cut and oily, his goatee greedily hanging on to bits of insulation. He was so hot.
Hot like in body temperature, I mean. He's a sexy beast, but only after he showers.
In one of my greatest moments of empathy I politely told Geekster that if he would not build a dishwasher into the kitchen I would probably have to divorce him, as I was certain getting dishpan hands and a sore back were grounds for such a thing.
He understood, but explained that we had used up all our savings on the other house repairs and couldn't possibly afford one right now.
It's probably best I don't repeat what I said after that, lest I shock those who believe me to be quiet and respectful.
(... What? Nobody? I'm so hurt.)
It goes without saying that within a few days I had a brand new kitchen island and a (free, secondhand) dishwasher, all custom-built and installed by Geekster. Impressive and, most importantly, efficient. I welcomed laziness back into my life with open arms.
How I enjoyed having a dishwasher. It was noisy and made clunk-clunk-ROWR-wown-wown-wown sounds, but my dishes (mostly) came out clean. Life was good and I was a happy Maven.
***
Today my free secondhand diswasher broke. Isn't that wonderful? We're broke and it's right after Christmas, so the timing is perfect!
Sigh.
I feel like we just lost a family member. A noisy, unstable, and rather ugly family member, but that's beside the point. For 18 months Clunk-a-Dunk has been helping me maintain order in the busiest place in our house.
No, not the bedroom, you sly dog, the kitchen. Teehee.
I'm understandably stressed out. There is no happy baby Spawnling to play merrily in the now non-existent boxes while I scrub the stupid pots and pans. He's been replaced by a toddler who loves to get all up in my face at every opportunity. In order to do the dishes I'll have to fill the sink next to me full of water so he can splash it all over the floor and wet my socks. My alternative is to let him scream as he clings to my pants.
Oh, joy of joys!
I can hardly wait.
I'm brimming with excitement at the prospect.
Geekster thinks he might be able to repair the broken dishwasher. I certainly hope that it's not only repairable, but quick to fix. Because it goes without saying how much staying home to clean dishes will affect my social life.
Priorities, you know?
Monday, January 12, 2009
A Few Notes To Self
Self,
Cookies will not make you skinny.
Exercise only works if you actually reduce or maybe maintain your caloric intake. Increasing it because "exercise makes me hungry" is not helping.
Just because your house is clean in areas that other people visit does not make you an excellent housekeeper. Please stop patting yourself on the back and go wade through the mess in a bedroom or two.
You might not want to ingest so much caffeine, like, ever again. If scientists were to come to the house and measure seismic activity the shakes from your body alone would produce a 3.6 on the Richter scale.
It's great you put Spawnling's baby clothes into some giveaway bags. Now you might want to actually give them away. That's what you're supposed to do with giveaway bags and not leave them in the hallway for months at a time.
Reading. It's good for you. Try doing more of it. Staring at your 'to read' pile of books does not actually count as reading.
While we're on the subject, Facebook does not count as reading either. It doesn't. Not even a little bit.
Oh, and the pile of art supplies sleeping on your printer? Works of art don't create themselves. There is no self-discovery in thinking about painting. Nice try.
Never, ever switch both your shampoo and hair styling product at the same time again. Frizzy disaster! They could make a B movie out of your hair right now. The Thing That Ate The Maven!! Your head currently has its own continent. Brutal.
Know what? Despite your faults you're actually a really cool chick. It's important to balance all that nitpicking with a compliment or two. You're also intelligent, funny, and dead sexy. You know, if we're going to be throwing around compliments. Go big or go home.
It's time to go do something productive. But before that happens can you please finally post links to the interviews you gave? Procrastination is definitely one of your superpowers, Maven.
Impossible M.O.M. - She knows exactly what she'd ask George W. Bush.
Nat - She lets us in on what a proper robot helper should look like.
Mary P. Jones - She reveals what Muppet she'd give a rose to.
Jobthingy - She ponders what kind of Starbucks drink she'd design.
Anybeth - She shares her top three 80's songs.
Momma - She designs a parade float that best resembles her life.
Jen - She changes one thing about life in Russia (Yes, Jen. Just one.)
(If I forgot that I interviewed you please remind me, and do understand that I am terribly busy and extremely popular coupled with the fact that I fried many braincells in my early, non-recovery days. Thank you.)
Cookies will not make you skinny.
Exercise only works if you actually reduce or maybe maintain your caloric intake. Increasing it because "exercise makes me hungry" is not helping.
Just because your house is clean in areas that other people visit does not make you an excellent housekeeper. Please stop patting yourself on the back and go wade through the mess in a bedroom or two.
You might not want to ingest so much caffeine, like, ever again. If scientists were to come to the house and measure seismic activity the shakes from your body alone would produce a 3.6 on the Richter scale.
It's great you put Spawnling's baby clothes into some giveaway bags. Now you might want to actually give them away. That's what you're supposed to do with giveaway bags and not leave them in the hallway for months at a time.
Reading. It's good for you. Try doing more of it. Staring at your 'to read' pile of books does not actually count as reading.
While we're on the subject, Facebook does not count as reading either. It doesn't. Not even a little bit.
Oh, and the pile of art supplies sleeping on your printer? Works of art don't create themselves. There is no self-discovery in thinking about painting. Nice try.
Never, ever switch both your shampoo and hair styling product at the same time again. Frizzy disaster! They could make a B movie out of your hair right now. The Thing That Ate The Maven!! Your head currently has its own continent. Brutal.
Know what? Despite your faults you're actually a really cool chick. It's important to balance all that nitpicking with a compliment or two. You're also intelligent, funny, and dead sexy. You know, if we're going to be throwing around compliments. Go big or go home.
It's time to go do something productive. But before that happens can you please finally post links to the interviews you gave? Procrastination is definitely one of your superpowers, Maven.
Impossible M.O.M. - She knows exactly what she'd ask George W. Bush.
Nat - She lets us in on what a proper robot helper should look like.
Mary P. Jones - She reveals what Muppet she'd give a rose to.
Jobthingy - She ponders what kind of Starbucks drink she'd design.
Anybeth - She shares her top three 80's songs.
Momma - She designs a parade float that best resembles her life.
Jen - She changes one thing about life in Russia (Yes, Jen. Just one.)
(If I forgot that I interviewed you please remind me, and do understand that I am terribly busy and extremely popular coupled with the fact that I fried many braincells in my early, non-recovery days. Thank you.)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Money, it's a gas
There are some really wonderful things about having a responsible husband. He's the type of man who makes his family a priority and models responsibility to his children. He cooks, he cleans, he shops, he fixes things and he's very hands-on when it comes to taming the gremlins. He's pretty near perfect a husband, really.
No, you can't have him. I found him first and I'm keeping him. Plus, he thinks I'm beautiful and I can't seem to convince him otherwise, even first thing in the morning. That right there is worth getting all amazonian on any woman who tries to move in on him.
There's only one problem: every two weeks, he insists we sit down and pay the bills. We tuck the tiniest gremlins into their pods for the night and he fires up the dreaded spreadsheet. Every time that graph paper-like document opens up I just about spew vomit all over his keyboard. On budget nights I would happily hand him over to just about anyone if it got me out of the chore I hate the most.
How would I deal with money if it wasn't for Geekster? I would probably book a holiday somewhere warm to get away from all the stress. And that is why I'm not the crowned Queen of Budgets.
See, I hate dealing with money. It's one of the few things I really and truly suck at. However, I do have my strong points in the dollar world: I can shop for sales, I can avoid buying things we don't need, I can find ways to cut costs. But I absolutely hate to look at the actual numbers.
Geekster lost 10% of his pay a few weeks ago due to some cutbacks at work. Not everyone had their cheques reduced, however. The rest of them were laid off. Therefore, we try to smile when we say "pay cut" because it's currently an antonym for "fired". In this economy you have to roll with the punches, so roll we have. We just cry a little while we're rolling.
We always said we'd never live beyond our means. In fact, we had a master plan of not even living at our means. We had a cute little house, two cute little cars, two cute little children and one solid income. Life was good. It could have gone on that way forever.
What crumpled up our life plans and tossed them in the proverbial recycling bin? Lust, my friends. Pure lust. At some point just about three years ago, Geekster and I threw caution to the wind and did some naughty things in our cute little house without a cute little condom. Before we knew it, there were two cute little lines on a test indicating that our lives were about to change forever.
Again.
Don't get me wrong: We all adore our little Spawnling, hooves of Hades and all. He's by far the greatest ending to our reproductive tale. However, his arrival meant trading in my compact sedan for a budget-busting van and our compact house for one with enough room that we wouldn't be eyeing each other homicidally all the time. The last three years have been a whirlwind of change with a serious lack of spare change.
I also thought that was a great sentence. Thank you.
Tonight, after I went on my daily doggy walk, I came home to find my nemesis the spreadsheet grinning maliciously at me from Geekster's laptop. "Just paying the bills," my husband said with a sigh.
Drat. Why did I have to powerwalk tonight? Couldn't I have taken my time? Maybe took a leisurely stroll and frolicked in the park for a while with the dog? Sure, I would have probably lost the tip of my nose to frostbite, but if it meant not talking about how much we need for groceries or how much I don't have in my pocket to spend on coffee over the next two weeks I'd be willing to make that sacrifice.
My biggest issue with paying the bills is not that I hate paying them. In fact, I like paying them because that means we no longer owe them money anymore. I've thankfully only had a single incident with a credit collector, and that was a hospital in the US looking for money my insurance company was supposed to pay them. This is the good part of having a responsible spouse who reminds me that a phone is more important than a pizza. No. My problem with paying bills is that it reminds me that I need to actually make some money like all those normal people with jobs.
But I don't want to be a normal person with a job! I don't wanna! I want to sit home and eat bonbons for the rest of my life and watch Ellen dance on TV and find out what happened to Ricardo once he got out of his second coma after being found in the water with his brother's boss' neice's dog's ex-groomer.
My best shot, as should be clearly apparent, is for me to make money writing my crap. Guess what I'm doing tomorrow? Starting to find someone who will buy my crap.
Then I get to be a sucker like all those working people.
Note to self: It would be wise not to refer to the editor as a sucker. It might be counterproductive to the whole finding a job thing.
No, you can't have him. I found him first and I'm keeping him. Plus, he thinks I'm beautiful and I can't seem to convince him otherwise, even first thing in the morning. That right there is worth getting all amazonian on any woman who tries to move in on him.
There's only one problem: every two weeks, he insists we sit down and pay the bills. We tuck the tiniest gremlins into their pods for the night and he fires up the dreaded spreadsheet. Every time that graph paper-like document opens up I just about spew vomit all over his keyboard. On budget nights I would happily hand him over to just about anyone if it got me out of the chore I hate the most.
How would I deal with money if it wasn't for Geekster? I would probably book a holiday somewhere warm to get away from all the stress. And that is why I'm not the crowned Queen of Budgets.
See, I hate dealing with money. It's one of the few things I really and truly suck at. However, I do have my strong points in the dollar world: I can shop for sales, I can avoid buying things we don't need, I can find ways to cut costs. But I absolutely hate to look at the actual numbers.
Geekster lost 10% of his pay a few weeks ago due to some cutbacks at work. Not everyone had their cheques reduced, however. The rest of them were laid off. Therefore, we try to smile when we say "pay cut" because it's currently an antonym for "fired". In this economy you have to roll with the punches, so roll we have. We just cry a little while we're rolling.
We always said we'd never live beyond our means. In fact, we had a master plan of not even living at our means. We had a cute little house, two cute little cars, two cute little children and one solid income. Life was good. It could have gone on that way forever.
What crumpled up our life plans and tossed them in the proverbial recycling bin? Lust, my friends. Pure lust. At some point just about three years ago, Geekster and I threw caution to the wind and did some naughty things in our cute little house without a cute little condom. Before we knew it, there were two cute little lines on a test indicating that our lives were about to change forever.
Again.
Don't get me wrong: We all adore our little Spawnling, hooves of Hades and all. He's by far the greatest ending to our reproductive tale. However, his arrival meant trading in my compact sedan for a budget-busting van and our compact house for one with enough room that we wouldn't be eyeing each other homicidally all the time. The last three years have been a whirlwind of change with a serious lack of spare change.
I also thought that was a great sentence. Thank you.
Tonight, after I went on my daily doggy walk, I came home to find my nemesis the spreadsheet grinning maliciously at me from Geekster's laptop. "Just paying the bills," my husband said with a sigh.
Drat. Why did I have to powerwalk tonight? Couldn't I have taken my time? Maybe took a leisurely stroll and frolicked in the park for a while with the dog? Sure, I would have probably lost the tip of my nose to frostbite, but if it meant not talking about how much we need for groceries or how much I don't have in my pocket to spend on coffee over the next two weeks I'd be willing to make that sacrifice.
My biggest issue with paying the bills is not that I hate paying them. In fact, I like paying them because that means we no longer owe them money anymore. I've thankfully only had a single incident with a credit collector, and that was a hospital in the US looking for money my insurance company was supposed to pay them. This is the good part of having a responsible spouse who reminds me that a phone is more important than a pizza. No. My problem with paying bills is that it reminds me that I need to actually make some money like all those normal people with jobs.
But I don't want to be a normal person with a job! I don't wanna! I want to sit home and eat bonbons for the rest of my life and watch Ellen dance on TV and find out what happened to Ricardo once he got out of his second coma after being found in the water with his brother's boss' neice's dog's ex-groomer.
My best shot, as should be clearly apparent, is for me to make money writing my crap. Guess what I'm doing tomorrow? Starting to find someone who will buy my crap.
Then I get to be a sucker like all those working people.
Note to self: It would be wise not to refer to the editor as a sucker. It might be counterproductive to the whole finding a job thing.
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