In Which The Maven Gets Paid

When I meet new people - and I very often do - I'm eventually asked what I do for a living. "Oh! Uh... I'm a stay-at-home-mom, but I'm also a doula sometimes and a writer... Well, not really a writer. I mean, I write, but I've never been paid to write. I'm trying to get paid to write, but it's slow, you know? I'm building my portfolio... And stuff. Look, it's not like your average job, okay? It takes time and I don't exactly have a lot of that. I have three kids and a dirty house and five thousand animals... Well, six animals. But they shed a lot and the bunny cage is always full of poop. So, in short, I will be a writer someday, as soon as I don't have to put any effort in and something magically falls in my lap."

Well, wouldn't you know it: Something magically fell in my lap.

I don't know if there was any magic to it, exactly, but it did involve a friend of mine who is a successful full-time writer who I place way, way up on a pedestal because she does what I want to do for a living and I admire her for it. She's been really busy, and asked if I could help her out with a contract she was sure I could do. She was willing to pay me a good wage for it, too.

When I say "a good wage" I mean I made in five hours what I would make in an entire week watching someone's child. I have my earnings sitting on my desk and I just stare at it. Geekster wants me to deposit it into our chequing account and make a credit card payment.

He wants me to make a credit card payment.

A credit card payment? With my money!?

Isn't that what his money is for?

I seem to be much pickier about where my cashola goes than where his does. I had to actually work for this money, you know. It took me half of an entire day and you want me to pay down debt with it? Ick.

There was one other option, and I took it; the lesser of two evils, if you will. I bought the gremlins some shoes.

I wanted a nice top or a pedicure! (Insert foot stomping here.)

I did leave the giant super mega store with a certain sense of satisfaction, however. It was nice to be able to support my family - well, buy my family's footware - by doing something I'm passionate about. It felt a lot better than spending my husband's money, and I never thought I'd hear myself say that.

I probably don't want to say that to him, either, because he's likely to start encouraging me to make a lot more of my own money. That could lead to far fewer coffee dates and afternoon backyard shinanigans. I want to make money, but not, like, all the time. That would be like having a real job on top of all this gremlin herding.

So, I'm madly applying for contracts and will hopefully land some soon. Meanwhile, the cosmos has, naturally, re-ordered itself to suit my needs: E-man and his baby sister will be going to another daycare because their mom just got a full-time job. Why are they not staying here? Because there are a few jobs I told myself I will not do full-time:

• taxidermy
• bovine insemination
  
• killer bee extermination
• illegal alien smuggling
• childcare

It's nothing personal, it's just on my list. Having done some of these things full-time before (well, one of these things) I know it's not what brings me joy. And don't we all want me to be joyous? Of course we do. Not doing childcare or bovine insemination will give me time to focus on my writing, so that I may become a world-famous author and be worshipped by all.

I love how a plan comes together.

In short, when someone asks me what I do for a living I can now say 'Not only am I an amazing stay-at-home-mom, but I'm also a professional writer.'

Emphasis on the "professional" part. Damn, I rock.

Toddler Teeth and My Incredible Popularity

The big day has arrived and Spawnling had his dental surgery this morning. He now has four top front teeth missing, but he's still terribly cute.

I have to admit I was a little worried. I mean, he had a good face, you know? I wasn't sure how much of that was thanks to having teeth. Would it change his entire look? They move jaws forward or backward and it's eerily apparent. It looks like the entire bone structure moved and not just the bottom hinge.

My worries extended beyond cosmetic, but that really was in the forefront of my mind. I make nice looking kids. Sure, he's going to look like a hockey player or a banjo-playing mountain man. I knew that going in and have come to accept it. But the question remained: would Spawnling be an attractive banjo-playing mountain man? That was the million dollar (or $1500) question.

My vanity is so far-reaching it's almost embarrassing. At least I can say I fretted more over complete sedation and speech problems and pain. That counts for something, right?

The toothless terror passed out on the couch this afternoon, but not before consuming a popsicle, some ice cream, a glass of soy milk, some tortilla chips (which he insisted upon despite any attempt to convince him otherwise and did rather well with it) and the highly coveted mommy's milk.

I did notice that he looks a little strange when he sucks on a popcicle. His top lip gets sucked in with it. It's one of those almost-gross things I'm going to have to get used to, being his mom and all.

Um, I'm going to Hell, aren't I?

I suppose, if there is a Hell, that I was already heading in that general direction. So we might as throw in some shalloweness for good measure.

I know I normally make people gag with my positive outlook, but this week has really sucked things that look like popsicles but aren't. In fact, it has sucked so greatly that I received not one, not two, but three bouquets of flowers from friends. Which just goes to show that I do have actual, real, live friends; people who talk to me in public places and seem to like it. I don't quite understand their reasoning, but I sure am grateful to have them.

The first bouquet was from my neighbour across the street. I think she felt bad about having to tell us Geekster's car window was vandalized. Later that day she sent Gutsy into the house with these:


It was pretty hard to stay in a bad mood after that. Instead I cried about what a bittersweet symphony this life is.

And shortly thereafter I started my period. Shocking.

The next bouquet came from the friend I do daycare for. Remember how I was bragging about E-man and Spawnling's excellent behaviour at Casa Maven? How I could get things done while they play happily together?

I remember that. I also remember how I had to call the school later that day and left them alone for ten minutes so I could actually hear my phone conversation.

I remember telling them they could each have a juice box. (It was the day before Earth Day, alright?)

I remember them screeching with delight in the distant background, which I thought was cute. In fact, I was slightly envious that I wasn't having that much fun doing the mundane things they must be doing.

Then I remember finding them in the living room, half a dozen squished and empty juice boxes littering the floor, juice all over the carpet, the couch, the window, the walls, and them. I remember them screaming gaily as they pierced yet another set of boxes and sprayed orange juice at each other.

My initial reaction was shock. After that it might be natural to be angry, but first I had to fight off the urge to join in. I mean, there was already orange juice all over my beige living room. What's a little more? And wasn't I just saying I wanted to inject some more colour in there? Orange is a nice colour...

When I get those thoughts it's not Grown Up Maven talking; it's inner child Maven. She's not allowed out during the week for obvious reasons. So instead I had to use my big girl voice and send both boys for a time-out before getting them to help clean up the mess.

What a bully I am.

When Mama E-Man called to check up, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I said laughing was probably best, but only because I own a carpet cleaner.

She brought me these:


Orange. Nice touch.

Yesterday I was gifted with some beautiful flowers from my longtime friend Reese, a stay-at-home-mom who recently started her own business with a friend. If you're in the Ottawa/Gatineau area and you like to perform random or not-so-random acts of kindness while at the same time supporting some awesome women who are in turn supporting their own brood of gremlins while I write this awful run-on sentence, you want to check out their new website:

http://justbecausegifts.net/showcase/

Do it. Make her some cash. She brought me flowers, you know. Check out these lovelies:



I love pink. Nothing in my house is that colour except what I can stuff into my closet and wear when I'm feeling suffocated by testosterone.

In short, many people love The Maven, and The Maven loves to be reminded of that when her week is crap. When I think about it I realize what I was missing out on in high school.

Is it too late to be a cheerleader?

Spawnling, the Cold War and Monsters

You know, I was never a big fan of the Cold War until I started doing daycare. It was then that I realized how important the dance of intimidation can be on virtually ever scale.

Observe:

Spawnling has more than lived up to his name as a toddler terror. He's getting better, but there are still children he can't be in the same room with without wearing oven mitts. If he makes the first battle move and there is retaliation of any kind - or, if the child in question dares invade his bubble to snatch a toy - they launch into a full scale war. It's an ugly sight and often ends the playdate a tad earlier and bloodier than anticipated.

Enter E-man, the boy I watch once or twice a week while his parents are off at their jobthingies. He's four, built like a Brinks truck, and you probably don't want to mess with him. That is, to say, he looks like someone you wouldn't want to mess with if you were a two-year-old who's a full head shorter. In truth, E-man is quite gentle and kind. He shares well and gets along well with other kids. But Spawnling doesn't know this; it's trickery of the mind, you see.

And it works.

Much like the Cold War, Spawnling will not make the first move. As far as he's concerned, the potential enemy has nukes and isn't afraid to use them. If Spawn fires a missle, E-man could, in theory, fire off several bigger ones. And BOOM! Spawngaria is wiped off the map, just like that.

Spawnling does not mess with E-man very often. He sometimes tempts fate by putting sanctions on the Duplo, but that's as far as it goes. In short, I now believe that living in sheer terror has its good points, too - especially when it gives you time to drink a coffee and blog.

*~*~*

Yesterday, after Geekster and I got his car window fixed, I brought Toughy the Toddler to the Museum of Agriculture, or, as us yokels call it, the Experimental Farm, or, as Gutsy calls it, the Animal Science Farm (creepiest/best name ever). We hadn't been in a while and I thought it might be nice to show him some of the baby animals born over the last few weeks.

Big mistake.

After shelling out $65 for our yearly membership renewal, we made our way into the first barn. Ted and King, the giant workhorses, greeted us at the entrance. Spawnling would not look at them. He would not leave my arms. He would not let go of my jacket as he clung to me like a terrified monkey.

No problem. We would go see the pigs. "Monsters!" screamed my toddler, and he started to wail. How pigs look like monsters I'm not entirely sure. But apparently they do; big, pink monsters that lie on the ground and don't move. Sort of like me after doing a pilates video. You'd think this would be familiar territory.

Onward.

Sheep. Who could be afraid of sheep?

Spawnling can be afraid of sheep. Little black heads on huge, white, fluffy bodies was enough to keep him sobbing into my coat. This was not going well. But oh, wait! One of the employees had a little lamb out for the kids to pet. Cradled in her arms it was no bigger than our cocker spaniel. Perfect.

After a bit of coaxing, Spawn crawled out of my arms and approached the lamb. "Cute," he said, as he put his hand out to pet it.

The lamb opened it's mouth: "BAAaaAAaaaAaAAAAaAAaaaAAAA!!!!"

"MONSTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

We left the barn.

Since he wouldn't even approach the fence behind which cows were quietly munching hay, we gave up on anything breathing and instead focused our attention on the barn with toys and two simulated tractors and no animals. The last time we visited the farm - about five months ago - Spawnling loved the tractors. You can climb up into the seat, hit a switch and pretend to drive. They bounce up and down and are a jolly good time.

Unless you're going through a phase, that is, and then they are apparently terrifying.

No tractors.

In the end, Spawnling found the outdoor play area. It's a play structure in the shape of a barn, with a little wooden tractor at the base that doesn't move.

"This is fun, Mom!" exclaimed a happy Spawnling. He went down the twirly slide, climbed ladders, didn't push any other kids. He had found the un-scary part of the museum.

"I'm glad you're having fun, little guy. But is this the only part of the farm you like?" I asked.

"Yep."

"So, what you're saying is, I just spent $65 so you could go to the park?"

"Yep."

Sigh. I guess we'll try again next month.

Delinquents Shall Fear My Wrath

I would like to dedicate this post to the Saturday I was supposed to have had. How I mourn you.

That one - the Saturday I was supposed to have had - involved sleeping through the night, waking up peacefully, eating a healthy breakfast, conversing with my husband, playing with my children and doing some light yard work.

Instead - on the Saturday I actually had - I woke up at least every half hour as of 5AM with a teething Spawnling, was jarred awake for the last time at 8:30 by my neighbour across the street who called to let me know the rear window of Geekster's car had been smashed out, filled out a police report, listened to my husband swear a lot, enlisted child labour to haul things out of the garage so we could make room for the shattered Geekmobile to be parked until Monday, and then headed to the hardware store to buy a motion sensor light (as of yet uninstalled).

Definitely not what I had planned, and dare I say I'm feeling a tad resentful about it, too. See, last Saturday involved a fair bit of Feaster travel and next Saturday will involve the removal of three of Spawnling's teeth as he undergoes dental surgery. This was the Saturday where I was going to unwind and do some things to bring down the stress level. Maybe even go crazy and drink a latte and watch a chick flick or something.

We are not amused.

The Good Maven - the one who understands how resentments can lead her recovering alcoholic self right back into the bottom of a bottle - wants to do something healthy like pray for the poor, neglected souls who were obviously at the back of the line when The Powers That Be handed out happy families, and thus had to act out by smashing out the back windows of three cars on my street. The part of me with a halo of blinding brilliance would like to tell those teens that she wasn't a very sensible young woman herself a few years back and did a lot of stupid things, too. That they can change their lives around if they want to make that choice.

That's the good part of The Maven. We like her. She gets Christmas cards and has many people on her Facebook page.

But then there's the other side. The Dark Side. The side that wants to let that resentment fester because not only did they do senseless damage to her property and cost her family a fair bit of money, but they also put Geekster in a very foul mood and didn't stick around to deal with it. Instead, she had to hear about how this neighbourhood is going downhill and what do we pay taxes for anyway and how are we supposed to feel safe and he should just wait outside with a bat and maybe we should just move out to the middle of nowhere and that if we don't do that we should put up a six foot iron fence around the entire half acre of property and do you know how much debt we're already in and those little shits are going to make sure we never get out of it, and...

... Suffice to say it was not a good day. I never did get a latte, either, and The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants stayed in its case. As a result, there have been minutes today where I've felt a little... murderous.

Note to self: I must not murder hooligans. Perhaps I should make this my current mantra.

The biggest beef block of tofu I have about what happened is this: All signs indicate this was the work of bored/drunk/stupid teenagers. Three weeks ago there was also a rash of car theft in our neighbourhood that pointed toward amateurs.

And, if all these assumptions are true, where on earth are the parents?

My generation is pretty much the most selfish one I've ever seen. To be honest I'm almost embarrassed to be in my 30's. We're obsessed with instant gratification and the accumulation of things: big houses, big cars, big vacations, the nicest bodies, designer clothes, the newest electronics, 40 different t.v. shows we have to watch every week, so could you please not disturb us right now, son? We're trying to catch up on Grey's and CSI. Why don't you go do something somewhere else, ok? That's a good boy. Come back whenever.

If teenagers are taking a crowbar to the back of a vehicle in the middle of the night, I'm going to point a finger right into their livingrooms and ask what the hell is going on. And before anyone feeds me the 'maybe they have single parents who work shifts' line, can I just say that, being as insanely popular as I am, I know many single parents - some of them who do shift work and are not always home - and they do a fantastic job at spending quality time with their children and making sure they feel loved.

There are very few good excuses in my book. And my book is the only book worth checking out. Unless you're religious that is, and then maybe it's one of two only books. (I say this so as not to get lightninged by an angry diety)

Back to you neglectful parents: Something's going on and it can probably be fixed, so fix it. It's often as simple as getting to know your child. Mother of the year I am definitely not and mistakes will be made around here, but rest assured I will know where they are at 3AM. And God help them if I find out they were supposed to be sleeping at Timmy's house and they're out in a pre-penitentiary posse.

Alright, I admit it. I'm feeling a bit ranty. But we're going to be out $350+ by the time this is said and done. We don't exactly have that money lying around and I've already put the idea of prostitution out of my mind as a quick cash grab. I even returned the micro mini skirt and leopard print shawl. I told Vicious D. Loco to take his Cadillac to another corner. Sometimes I regret the decision, but I think I might need to find another way to pay for all these little "surprises" that keep coming up.

I suppose I could write the next bestseller, but that's so overdone.

In the meantime I'm going to go out in Vanzilla and scope out the 'hood. All the delinquents can cower as I pull up blasting Katy Perry and asking them where their parents are. Domination and intimidation is the name of the game; it's quite a bit like dog training or bad parenting.

The Juvenile Delinquent Whisperer. Maybe I could just get a show on TLC. That would pay for a lot of glass.

Karma vs. The Maven

I have a faulty circuit in my van.

It lies above my gas tank, so while the circuit itself only costs about $100 to replace, the labour costs bring the total up to - are you ready for this? - $483.00 + taxes.

Since I was already shelling out $530 for brake repairs, I was just a wee bit hesitant to part with more pretend money. (You know: money that doesn't exist yet but you will somehow pay back with all your real money you tell yourself you'll eventually make?)

I asked what, exactly, this circuit does. Is it life-threatening not to have it? Am I going to go up in a fiery ball of stupidity for not pumping out a few extra hours of floor scrubbing and baby changing and (hah!) article writing?

"No. It's not dangerous. It's the circuit that controls emissions in the gas tank. Basically it tells the system to re-absorb the vapors instead of sending them back into the atmosphere."

"Ah. I see. Not dangerous. Got it. Well, close the hood and I'll be there in a few minutes." My question answered, I was ready to get off the phone and go pick up my van with the shiny new rotors.

"You won't pass an emissions test with this circuit gone. It's going to pollute a little more." warned the mechanic.

"Well, the nice thing about living on the Quebec side of the river is that we don't have emissions tests yet. Can you turn the engine light off for now? It's annoyingly bright at night."

Being satisfactorily warned, I hung up the phone and pondered the lack of guilt I was feeling over clogging the air with more carbon monoxide. Does every environmentalist have a price, or am I just a poseur? Does the fact that my husband took a pay cut justify the damage I would be causing Mother Earth by driving not only a minivan, but a environmentally defective minivan? And, most importantly, how would this decision affect my karma rating?

Screw it. Here's the action plan: plant more trees, grow organic vegetables in garden, compost more, hug some squirrels and drive the DeathMobile for the foreseeable future.

It's true: I am a failure. David Suzuki is so going to kick me out of the Super Friends club. I will be sent down to the pits of Hell with all the Escalade drivers (even owners of the hybrid models because we all know how ridiculous a hybrid Escalade is), where we will be whipped by rainforest vines and ripped apart by the souls of starved polar bears.

Karma: -1

Oh, but wait! I did do something good today. I really did! I was kindly asked to submit a post to The Second Road about two weeks ago. I said I would write it immediately and send it in. And, as a shout out to procrastinators everywhere, I submitted it today. Go team Maven!

Well, I couldn't exactly be on time. I'm an alcoholic; we're notorious for putting off what isn't absolutely necessary in lieu of doing something self-destructive. In this case it was consuming copious amounts of my sleeping children's Easter chocolate. If they only knew how generous they were being.

(I feel the treadmill calling me and seriously wonder if I surpass the weight restrictions after that naughty/delightful sugar binge.)

Anyway, you can read my post here. I warn you: it's not in my usual style. It's, like, serious and crap. Because I take my recovery seriously. That should be fairly obvious considering how I've managed to stay clean and sober despite taming my horde of little gremlins.

Karma: 0. Neutral. Perfect.

Finally, I'd like to congratulate AngelMama, who called me with some good news yesterday. The conversation went something like this:

AngelMama: I have some news for you. It looks like my husband is going to be a father again!

The Maven: Oh wow! That's fantas... Wait a minute. Like, with you, right?

AngelMama: ... Yes, with me!

The Maven: Oh, good! Well congratulations, then! I just thought I'd make sure. Heck, you're the one who pointed out Six Babies Six Dads in the beer tent at the fair last year, remember? You never know what goes on in those small towns...

AngelMama, laughing to kill herself: You won't believe this, but she's also pregnant!

The Maven, now feeling vindicated: ... Um, not with Rob's baby, right?

AngelMama, asking Rob: He says it's not his. They DNA tested her other kids, so I guess we'll find out in a few months.

The Maven: Sweet. Can I come over on Thursday?

Karma: -1. Damn.

How much do you want to bet she'll poison my otherwise healthy vegetarian meal?

Yet Another Life Lesson From The Maven

The old saying is true: When life gives you lemons, whine a lot, beat the crap out of life, ask if they're fair trade make lemonade.

I had to find the silver lining in all sorts of unpleasant situations today. I was covered in baby snot - someone else's baby's snot, I might add - but I got cold hard cash which mostly wiped away the memory. I then used that money to go out with Geekster for some Bunny shopping and a late dinner. The money is now in my belly in the form of a veggie burger.

I had to fight Gutsy tooth and nail to clean the playroom this morning, but I managed to figure out that guilt works very well on him. All I have to do is traumatize the boy by telling him that his actions leave me feeling disappointed and *poof!* everything magically gets put away. I feel we both benefit from my questionable parenting tactics.

Today's biggest life challenge involved not pawning/abandoning/being passive aggressive with Spawnling for sleeping like ass last night. He fell asleep at 5:30PM, which is about 90 minutes before he would normally get tucked into his pod. I was trying to keep him awake but he passed out sitting up in my computer chair watching a Weezer video (his favourite band, even).

Then, in typical weird two-year-old fashion, he woke up at 10:30PM fully rested, and proceeded to watch preschool television until the wee hours of the morning. I tried to sleep on the couch beside him for most of the night which turned out to be an epic fail. At 5:30AM I was finally able to move us both to my bed when I found him sprawled out on top of me, elbow in my face and nursing with the world's worst latch. Ouch.

I kicked Geekster out of bed at 7:30 with a bit of nonsensical mumbling. It is a PD day, you see. All three gremlins were wide awake and foraging for food, and I was in no state to be pouring things that could make large messes on the floor.

The silver lining in this toddler tale of terror? Relax. I'm getting to it.

At 9AM, as Geekster was walking the dogs, the phone rang. I didn't even try to get it. I put a pillow over my head and figured it would either drown out the ringing or I would suffocate myself; both acceptable options at that point. But Intrepid, being a boy with a sixth sense for things which will bring his mother joy, ran into the room and whipped the phone at my covered face. "It's Coffee Fairy, Mom!"

The only person I would accept a phone call from after a night like that would be the one and only Coffee Fairy. Wonderful, thoughtful, intuitive Coffee Fairy, who flutters her magical wings and bestows upon me the gift of alertness.

As soon as she heard my cracked and slurred voice, she knew I needed caffeine. Then, when she found out I was not only running on empty but also had three gremlins home and was doing childcare in the afternoon to boot, she hung up and rushed my way, stat. Within a few minutes I was gifted with two extra large coffees ("One for now and one for when you're about to pass out again") and enough sacrificial sugar to keep the gremlins from committing mutiny.

See? When life gives you lemons, drink free coffee.

My friends are amazing. I am a lucky Maven. When I'm rich and famous, Coffee Fairy will get a nanny for each of her children and a very hunky pool boy (the fact that she doesn't have a pool isn't really the issue here).

And I may have spent all day looking for my camera cable, but only because I just had to post this video Intrepid took. The silver lining of gremlins taking my camera without permission is that I get to post their videos on my blog without permission. An eye for an eye and all that.

It's all in Parenting 101. Didn't you read that footnote?




Off to bed. The real bed. Sans Spawnling. Goodnight.

A Poem for Monday

Monday morning so full of havoc,
I dream of lying in my hammock,
Except a hammock I don't possess,
So I shall have to live with stress

Intrepid won't get out of bed,
He says the daylight hurts his head,
I throw some clothes in his general way,
'Get dressed or no t.v. today'

Up is Gutsy, my early riser,
Hoarding cereal like a miser,
Not so willing to put clothes on,
Busy yelling at brother Spawn

Spawnling half-awake and moody,
Because I cut him off the booby,
Grabs the cereal demanding more,
Before flinging it upon the floor

Geekster looking quite distressed,
Staring at the new found mess,
Dogs are running to the scene,
Canine tongues make floorboards gleam

Insane amounts of persistence,
Make our gremlins go the distance,
Shoes on, coats zipped and with much fuss,
They finally make it to the bus

Already tired and only eight,
Geekster and I don't celebrate,
But we try to turn the day around,
To wash away the mopey frowns

Coffee's bitter taste will calm,
This zonked yet oddly twitchy mom,
I pour my cup feeling so serene,


....Well, shit. We're all out of cream.

Gutsy's Dance Recital

Quick: If someone brings a vacuum, a sword, a bulldozer, a monster truck and a plastic octopus into a room, what are they planning to do?

Any idea?

That's what my two-year-old just gathered up and dropped at my feet as I was about to start blogging. Then he explained the need to do some 'light cleaning' in my bedroom.

I think he may be saying my room needs a little more than your typical tidy. And he would be right. I spent an entire day not two weeks ago doing everything from windows to floors, and it's already a complete disaster. I don't exactly know how a plastic octopus is going to help The Spawn tackle the clutter, but our little evil genius always seems to have a plan that works out in the end.

Anyway, Spawnling gets a lot of sentences dedicated to him on this blog. It's always Marsha, Marsha, Marsha Spawnling, Spawnling, Spawnling! This isn't a Spawnling post. This one is dedicated to the middle gremlin.

I can't recall if I mentioned this before, but Gutsy took a lunch hour dance program at school this term. We've asked him if he wanted to take drum lessons, go back into gymnastics, join a baseball team, a soccer team or take skating lessons. We've offered him swimming courses, taekwondo classes, even yoga sessions: No interest. He's an active kid but he doesn't like the idea of spending his precious time being run from one activity to the next on top of wreaking havoc at school all day.

We're not activity pushers and believe strongly that free play is far better for the gremlins than running from one structured activity to the next, especially if they're in school full-time. And just because there's some real science to back us up doesn't mean we haven't always felt this way. In fact, I'd like to think we're pioneers in bringing back lazy parenting. By opening the back door and letting them out to explore and use their imaginations, we're not only making more Oprah time but also strengthening their brains and social behaviors and all that crap. And we were doing this form of armchair parenting before it even became trendy again. Before we ever knew there were actual, scientific benefits. We've raised healthy children quite by accident. Sort of like when abstract becomes art.

In January, when we were flat broke from Giftmas, Gutsy bounded home from school and slapped down a piece of paper next to the cutting board I was using. "I've decided. This is what I want to do, Mom."

I picked up the paper. "... Dance? ... Like, as in, dancing?"

He was adamant.

It never occurred to me that Gutsy would enjoy formal dance lessons - well, if you can call anything kindergarteners do "formal". He just didn't seem the type. But then I had to ask myself "What exactly is the type" anyway? Does a boy who joins a dance class have to be flamboyant? Feminine? Be a huge fan of High School Musicals 1 through 38? Know more about fashion than his mother? Was I, champion of equal rights for all, stereotyping my son? Stuffing him quietly into a pigeon hole so as to pass him off as one of those hockey kids?

And, worst of all, was I detecting a little bit of apprehension about putting him in this class? Was I, The Maven, maybe a little worried about people would think? That maybe he would go through childhood as "the boy in that dance class because he wasn't boyish enough to go into something sporty"?

I hate to admit it, but a little part of me was worried. Not the logical, intelligent and terribly good looking part. Just the old tapes telling me that, when I was young, no boy who was in dance was ever accepted and respected by his peers. And those who strutted their stuff usually ended up as a hair stylist or makeup artist, not that there's anything wrong with that.

So I punched those tapes in the junk and threw them out. Because if my boy wanted to cha-cha until his legs gave out, then God dammit, he was going to. And we would be there to cheer him on every step of the way.

***

Yesterday was recital night. Gutsy picked out his nicest white shirt, making sure the cuffs were done up and the collar was straight. He wore black pants and his awesome white and black plaid hightops to accentuate the outfit. He was calm and collected before his big performance. I, on the other hand, was probably more excited than he was.

When I had my third boy one regret crossed my mind: I guess I'll never go to a dance recital. As Minimaven I had a long term affair with the stage, performing jazz ballet, tap and theatre. Talented? Oh, I think so. And in my mind, I knew I would have a little girl who would also make her mama proud as she dazzled the crowd with her dance moves.

Three penises later, I had lost all hope.

That is, until Gutsy sledgehammered my stereotypes into rubble and dazzled a packed house as he danced with a little girl named Cindy, who he said later was "realy pretty but also kind of mean."

Geekster explained that's usually how it goes with girls. I gave him an elbow to the ribs.

Gutsy made us all so proud. There was a limit of two people allowed to attend per child due to limited seating. We were seven: Geekster and I, The Madre, The Sister, The Brothers and Chemgineer. Rebels, the whole lot.

After the performance I got a tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me," said a friendly voice - and I expected a chair to the face for having made someone stand in the back while my family took up nearly an entire row - "I feel like a total stalker right now, but I just had to say that I read your blog and I love it."

Oh.

My.

God.

Was I just recognized in public? Does that mean I have a fan? Or maybe a groupie? This must be an April Fool's joke. Except she seemed truthful and there wasn't a pack of mean girls behind her waiting to laugh at the pleased look on my face.

As it turns out she knows a couple of people I know and they seem to all like my blog. I have no clue why, but I don't question these things. Instead I dragged her around and showed her off to my family, stating in absolute disbelief that someone actually came up to me they love my work.

Or, well, close to it.

Then I asked her to add me on Facebook, which she did. And now we'll be friends forever.

Hah. Who's the stalker now?

To my new friend: You did well, but I think there's some room for improvement. If you want to be a real stalker and not just someone being nice, might I recommend figuring out where I live and maybe doing something creepy like ringing the doorbell and leaving me a coffee on my doorstep in the morning? Extra large, 2 cream. By doing it every day you'd be creating a ritual and thus upping your game and earning more crazy points.

Please don't poison the coffee though, as I would like to drink it. Also, if you start soon I can get some Roll-up-the-Rim cups. And if I win a car I'll let you drive around in it with me sometimes. Promise. I'm nice like that.

***

When Gutsy's dance was finished and he left the stage, he came right to me and crawled up on my lap, tired and proud. I kissed the top of his head I don't know how many times and held him tight. In that moment I remembered what a long and painful journey it was getting pregnant with him; the negative tests month after month, the losses, the sadness, the hopelessness, the often faltering determination.

Last night I was able to get another glimpse of the beautiful boy he is and the man he will become. I love him so much. I love them all so much. My heart just swells with gratitude when I think about it.

I mean, what would life had been like had we given up? What on earth would life be like with no Gutsy or Spawnling around?

I mean, other than peaceful.


They have my heart. All of them.