The Text Bubble Intervention

Every now and then I need to stage an intervention in an effort to preserve a friendship.

It's not something I like doing, but if i feel it's necessary I'll use every ounce of assertiveness I can muster and present the problem in a loving and constructive way. I'll state the problem, provide reasons why it's an issue, and list a series of solutions.

Being really funny and incredibly good looking, I have a lot of friends, and thus a great deal of experience in staging these loving interventions. It's just what I do, being a great person and all.

Here are just some of crises I've had to help friends address over the years:

- Brown and black do not match, ever, and should not be worn together unless it's laundry day
- The reason you're not getting dates is because acid wash jeans went out with teasing one's bangs up (which you're still doing, so please stop)
- If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, looks like a duck, he's obviously screwing his secretary
- The fact that your toddler is calling everyone 'stupid' is a clear sign of your inability to parent effectively

No. Forget the last one. That's the intervention I'm expecting to get any day now.

The most recent intervention took place about three days ago, when I confronted none other than Pixie.

Now, some of you may be asking yourselves why I keep mentioning Pixie more often than other friends. It could be that I spend a great deal of time with her. It could be that she's just incredibly funny and gives me a lot of material. It could be that she gets a real kick out of being mentioned on my blog and that it's likely about as close to being a celebrity as she'll get in her lifetime.

But, the truth is, I'm madly in love and have plans to leave my husband so that she and I may escape to somewhere warm and build a new life together. All of these blog posts are my subconscious way of wooing her; of making her feel special enough to want to drop her entire life for me.

Actually, none of that is true (except, perhaps, wanting to live somewhere warm), but starting internet rumours can be a huge career booster. Don't Brangelina command more attention and money because their relationship began as an affair? Doesn't Tom Cruise still get cast in roles because he jumped a couch on Oprah?

Well, this is me, couch jumping an affair. Now somebody pay up.

But I digress...

Pixie and I used to send each other a lot of texts on our spiffy new phones. Lately, however, it seems like I've been doing most of the texting. One morning I informed her (via a text message, of course) that I was developing a complex. With that, she decided to give me a call:

"What's up, precious?" asked Pixie, completely unaware of the serious situation awaiting her. Incidentally, she calls everyone 'precious', so don't read into that too much. Other pet names for people involve 'baby', 'sweetheart' and 'darling'. She calls one of her sons 'Milkybug', although I'm grateful to not have shared that particular nickname.

"Baby," I said, because I'm now in the habit of using her pet names on her, "I need to talk to you about your serious lack of texting."

There was a slight pause before she asked "My serious... What?"

"Lack of texting. It's become a bit of a problem recently, Shnookums."

"I'm not quite sure I know what..."

"Pix, do you know how texting works? Generally, when you text someone asking a question or saying something funny, they reply or at least acknowledge receipt of your text. It's, as I like to call it, 'textiquette'. And sweetheart, you've been slacking on the textiquette."

"... But, but... My mom is visiting. I can't text when my mom is visiting. And before that I was on vacation, remember?" defended Pixie.

"Do you know how iPhone texting works? See, there are these coloured chat bubbles. In this case, green bubbles and grey bubbles. When I text you it shows up as a green bubble. When you text me it shows as grey. (I will now provide a handy dandy visual for my iPhone-less readers, courtesy of this website:)


"Pixie, in the last few weeks I've noticed a slow decline of grey bubbles in our conversation. So much, in fact, that there is now nearly a 4:1 ratio of green to grey. Do you know what this means?"

"That I've been busy? Or that you need a hobby?" retorted Pixie. Denial is so thick and so angry, isn't it?

"No. It means that you've been a bad friend. I'd like to think I have acceptable standards for friendship, and I fear you've crossed the line. If you're going to enter into a texting relationship with me you need to respect the rules of that relationship. Pixie, I'm afraid that if you don't get help for whatever is creating this lack of response, I may have to dump you as a text friend altogether and just see you at the park." I was firm, yet loving. It's a gift.

"You wouldn't!" she challenged. This is often how addicts behave, so it doesn't surprise me that slackers would do the same.

I took a deep breath. "Milkybug, it's time for change. Will you make that change with me?"

The anger left her and she melted into a puddle of acceptance. It was beautiful. I'm pleased to report that she's been practicing excellent textiquette for the last three days by doing it one day at a time. It's beautiful and I'm proud of her. It's also a relief, because interviewing for a Pixie replacement would take up a lot of my summer and I honestly don't have time for that.

Interventions are an important part of friendship. Be kind, and help those around you see it your way.

In Which The Maven Meets Cooler People Than Her

Now, I don't know if this is a noticeable trait of mine or not, but I apparently have a bit of an ego.

It's obviously a small glitch in my otherwise perfect personality, so it's nothing to get all huffy about. Awesome doesn't mean perfect. In fact, seemingly perfect people are never awesome. They downright suck because they're better than me. My (iddy biddy) ego doesn't like that very much.

Every now and then the universe puts someone in my path to bring me back down to earth. Someone who carries around a giant pin with which to deflate my ego (before I hastily slap some duct tape on it in order to preserve the arrogance required for writing such a self-centered blog).

Today I had the pleasure of meeting four of those people.

You may remember Jacob, the little boy at the gremlins' school battling cancer. If you don't, here's his website and his Facebook group. Jacob is now at home and doing a series of therapies and getting himself ready for the 2009-10 school year. The little guy has been through the ringer since last November, so it's exciting to see his life returning to some kind of normal. Throughout the last few months, I've been reading his mother's updates and, like so many others, cried a great deal - tears of sadness and of joy.

Not to toot my own horn - well, okay, to toot my own horn a little - I am sometimes referred to as a strong individual. I have eighteen years of sobriety under my belt, raise three boys, and have emerged from being a depressed, suicidal loser in my school years to a level of popularity that is practically embarrassing (I secretly like it, but ask me in person and I'll play it down like it's nothing. Popular people shouldn't brag lest they might become less popular.)

Do those things make me a strong person? Maybe. But not in comparison to getting really sick, or watching your child get really sick. And this is what I realized as I read post after post of Jacob's mom's entries on the Facebook group. While I would sit there and sob and eat my feelings, I also walked away from each update with a new understanding and a new appreciation for the situations of others. I had a new level of empathy for Emely, my wonderful friend who is battling cancer while raising three kids of her own. I forged a deeper connection in my heart with my own parents, who have spent the last twenty years raising my most amazing brother with Downs Syndrome, Hefner.

And, overall, I realized that I am pretty much a big wimp. Because, while I may sit lazily in the shade of my own ego as it feeds on the compliments of others, I don't know if I'm cut from the same cloth as Jacob, his parents, my parents, my brother, or my friend. I don't think I'm that kind of strong.

Anyway, like I was going to say before that incredibly long lead-up, today I had the pleasure of meeting Jacob and his family. How did I go about doing it? I stalked them, of course.

No, I mean I really did. I stone cold stalked them. I didn't realize it until afterwards, but the proof is in the pudding. It went a little something like this:

First, I started reading his mom's posts and getting all teary, which made me feel a connection to her in some way: Stalkers often feel they have a connection to their prey.

Second, I volunteered at the bake sale for one of Jacob's fundraisers: Stalkers often try to be where their victims are so they feel as though that connection is strengthening.

Third, I wrote to Jacob's mom, Liliane, (I will have to find a catchy name for her at some point) and told her a story that I hoped would be inspirational: Stalkers often try to relate to their victims so they can weave a false relationship in their minds.

Fourth, I saw Jacob and Liliane at Wal-Mart a couple of weeks ago and was going to go say hi... until I remembered we hadn't actually met yet, so it would probably be weird and creepy: Stalkers often wuss out on meeting their prey for a good while, as they struggle with separating reality from fiction.

Fifth, I saw Jacob's dad at the hardware store and decided to get out of my van and go say hello to him. No, I hadn't met him before, either: Stalkers will often ramp up their efforts as they feel the pretend connection getting stronger and the urge to reach out impossible to resist.

Oh, my. How terribly disturbing.

When you look at all the facts, it's apparent that I'm psycho. The good news is that they seem rather comfortable with psychotic behaviour, because they invited me over to their house this morning. I brought coffee, which softened the blow. I also brought Spawnling so they could focus on him and not on my crazy.

All kidding aside, they are a rockin' family. Jacob stole my heart the minute he said hello, and he even managed to get my toddler terror giggling within a few minutes - no small feat in a new environment. His baby brother is the mushiest marshmallow baby ever, and I almost took off with him until I realized that, as much as I like babies, I'm currently in the celebratory stages of not having any more. As cute as he is, I bet he poops and pukes like normal babies, which would likely cramp my style a bit.

His parents just blew my mind. They are cool and funny and real, exactly like my stalker mind pictured them. The most amazing part - other than the fact that they trusted me to sit in their kitchen - was that the air in their house was thick with love and joy. I left wanting to go home and hug my boys just for being them, and to find the beauty in all the things they do, even if it involves red paint and a beige carpet and some sparkles for added staining.

That scenario and being kicked in the kidney are things I'm still trying to find the beauty in. I'm a work in progress.

So, it's true: people who are more awesome than me actually exist. They may be rare, but when you find them you have to hold on tight and never let go no matter what and make sure you know where they are at all times and what they're doing and who they're with and make them like you damn it!

... Uh, forget I said the last few words.

The Great Weaning

There comes a time in every woman's life when she must reclaim what is hers. When she must gather strength to honour herself and the path she sees before her. When she need not fear the repercussions of her decisions, but plant her feet firmly in the ground and hold on as the winds of change whip violently at her fortitude and dignity.

In this case it was a toddler jamming his dirty little toddler hands into my cleavage, but I thought the above sounded a more tasteful.

Spawnling and I have been talking at length about his upcoming birthday in October. I had big plans for his third birthday, and I don't mean a trip to the zoo. Using a little method I call lying the art of persuasion, I explained to Spawn that being three means he'll be a big boy pretty much overnight. And guess what big boys don't do? They don't have mommy's milk and they don't use diapers.

He seemed very keen on becoming a big boy. So keen, in fact, that he announced quite suddenly on Thursday that he was not going to have mommy's milk anymore (no mention of the diapers. Damn it!) I was skeptical and tried not to get too excited. After all, this was sounding too good to be true. Spawnling practicing self-led weaning? About as likely as Amy Winehouse getting sober without an intervention.

We have to backtrack a little to get the full scope of my incredulous reaction. I never wanted to breastfeed before Intrepid was born. When he was in my belly I figured I might try it, but I said it like I was thinking about making a Bundt cake. "I've never made a Bundt cake before, but I hear they're decent. Maybe a little better than a regular cake. How about I try to make one, but if it doesn't work out I'll just go buy some eclairs? That sounds reasonable." It was a lot like that.

I was nineteen, and breastfeeding wasn't cool like it is today, kids, nor was the information readily available on the internets like it is for all you spoiled brats. We had to go to the store or the library and acquire fancy books on the subject - and there were far fewer of those, too.

But when Intrepid was placed in my arms and my milk started leaking to the sounds of his cries, I knew I didn't want to feed him any other way. We had a very difficult go of it and he ended up weaning to a bottle at eight months, but it was a good run overall. Not as long as I had wanted, however, and I vowed to make it last longer the second time: no introduction of bottles, no comments from the peanut gallery about how or for how long I should feed my child. It was going to be me with my baby at the breast for as long as we both wanted (which would be no more than a year to eighteen months, just so we're clear. Any longer than that would be disgusting and perverted and take too much time away from other things I wanted in my life, don't you know.)

I nursed Gutsy for 3 1/2 years.

When you do the math, it goes a little something like this: I have been pregnant and/or breastfeeding since Spring of 2002. That's over seven years of continuous maternal hormones. Seven years of dedicating my body to the feeding and care of gremlins.

Seven. Freaking. Years. And that's not even counting the gestation and milk provision of Intrepid.

Despite being a postpartum doula and unabashed lactivist, I feel so, so ready to be done. I reclaimed my uterus for the last time 33 months ago and eagerly anticipated having my breasts join the 'welcome home' party.

Don't get me wrong: I've never been in a big hurry, nor did I ever want to be forceful about it. I did have a goal of between two and three years this time, but I was gently working towards that goal without being a bully about it. Breastfeeding, like most parenting endeavors, is not an exact science. However, if I could wave a magic wand, I would not only make all lattes calorie-free, but would also have a mutually agreed upon weaning time in place with no tears from either of party.

When Spawnling announced he was done having mommy's milk, I went into a state of shock. When I put him to bed without unclasping the sleep inducer, I grinned in that excited and bewildered way. This was going to be great! Finally, something was happening according to The Plan of Maven. Finally, the universe was unfolding as it should and granting me a little peace and tranquility.

5 AM was absolutely horrible. I mean, tantrums are bad, but tantrums before it's even light out? Brutal. I was kicked, screamed at and clawed at. It's a good thing I had the foresight to wear a sports bra and tight t-shirt tucked into my pajama pants or we both would have weakened in our tired states. I was also crafty enough to offer up some bribery before bedtime: if Spawnling didn't nurse overnight, I would buy him some little Cars figurines in the morning.

It took about twenty minutes to convince him that Lightning McQueen was worth taking a sippy cup, but it worked. That morning he was rewarded with ridiculously pricey toys that almost never leave his side. That night he only screamed for two minutes. The night after, he whined and groped me for thirty seconds.

Sounds good, right? Absolutely! Until I mention that I barely slept all weekend. In fact, Saturday night - after hosting a surprise "back to work" party for Pixie - I managed three hours of couch sleep followed by three hours of broken sleep in my bed. It was broken because Spawnling, who had not mastered the 'going back to sleep without nursing' trick just yet, sat in my bed and used my body as a racetrack for his new toys. When he wanted me to get him a third morning snack and I didn't budge, he stuck his fingers up my nose and giggled. He poked my ears, stuck twigs in my hair and smacked my bum.

I'm so glad I quit nursing. See how easy this has made my life?

Yesterday Spawnling jumped up and said 'Look at me, Mom! I grew! I a big boy now because I all done having mommy's milk!' He then proceeded to run around to everyone in the house and tell them about his sudden growth spurt.

He's also found new ways to get close to me. Yesterday he grabbed both my cheeks, pulled my face in and gave me a big, wet toddler kiss. 'I love you, mommy. I love you so much.'

That totally made up for the nose picking incident.

Last night, Spawnling slept straight through and woke up smiling. He hugged me good morning, asked for a cup of soy milk and a granola bar, and played with his Cars toys.

Other than acting like a Tasmanian devil on the first night he's done fairly well. Like a mama bird, all I had to do was encourage what was already there. I knew he could fly, I just had to nudge him out of the nest a bit and block when he tried to kick my ribs in.

Am I sad? Not in the slightest. I've nearly spent a combined seven years nursing my three gremlins. For all my faults, this is something I feel damn good about. I think I should buy myself a terribly baby-unfriendly bra in honour of my awesomeness. Something with scary under wire and ridiculous amounts of lace.

Also, if I could find some prescription medication I'm not supposed to take while nursing I might wolf that down, too. Not because I need it, but because I can. Anyone have some strong antihistamines?

Long live the free range mounds of Maven. May they rest peacefully upon my reclaimed body, and not shrivel up into tiny raisins.

Being The Fat Friend

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to my last post. I would thank each and every one of you individually, but I'm too lazy. It's summer, it's raining, I have my period and I'd rather write something new with what little energy I have on seven hours of very, very broken sleep. I'm sure you understand.

I will say that Gutsy and I are starting to get along significantly better the last few days. I haven't finished reading the book yet, but I have come up with two techniques that really seem to help: keeping my cool even when he's not, and defusing the situation by making him laugh. This creativity is another shining example of what makes me so great.

My awesomeness: it's visible nearly everywhere you look.

Notice I said 'nearly'. That's my lead-in to today's topic (writers like lead-ins).

I've come to the conclusion that I may very well always be The Fat Friend, or some variation thereof. It seems that, no matter what group I'm with, I'm the heaviest of the bunch. I forget that fact sometimes because I like myself so much that it's easy for me to overlook the lack of skinny in my jeans. I only tend to really notice it when pictures of me emerge that are not cropped at the neck. These sometimes make me sad for a few hours. If I were a queen, I would simply order a ban of all such pictures and demand that those in existence be burned in the town square. Then I would do some random flogging, but only because I like the word 'flog' and also enjoy abusing power.

But I digress.

I'm not a self-hater. I'm really not. There are aspects of me I don't enjoy - like my genetics - but I actually think I'm pretty great overall. About the only time I start to question myself is when I'm around a group of women who are significantly smaller than I am and go on and on about how fat they are (and they're not fat - not even close - which is so infuriating). It's apparent that, if they were my size, they would carve the fat off their bodies with a kitchen knife before going out in public. That type of poor body image is contagious, and so I attempt to fill my friend basket at least 75% full of women who care about their health but not necessarily the number on their scales (these friends tend to have the least amount of weight problems - imagine that!) Those women don't see my weight and don't really care too much about theirs; they take notice of how their pants are fitting, try to eat reasonably healthy and get a bit of exercise, but that's where it ends. That's where I want to be: healthy, but not obsessive. I admire that trait and I think I'm nearly there.

Being The Fat Friend is also hard when you happen to surround yourself with very beautiful people, like I do. I don't purposely invite them into my circle, but rather they flock to me like moths to a flame; a chubby little flame that bounces light off their elegant wings.

I know my friends like me because I'm cool and funny and talented and positive and terribly smart. But I also wonder if I'm more approachable because I'm not a threat to anyone's ego. I mean, who's going to look better in a summer dress? There's so little competition. Heck, I don't even own a summer dress. I haven't had one since I was about sixteen. That's over half a lifetime ago.

It's not like I'm feeling sorry for myself or anything. I have been gifted with many great things in my life; addictions and cellulite balance me out nicely. I can't be too perfect or no one would hang out with me, right? That's why I have to keep this jogging thing to a moderate level and not go all crazy with the weight loss. If I hit Skinnyville I've gone too far, and my Facebook event invites will drop dramatically. By maintaining a certain level of pudge on my frame I pretty much ensure my continued success as a popular girl.

As with everything else in life, fat is what you make of it. If I can take enough off that my heart will want to keep beating for another 50 years, yet not take enough off that I get snubbed at the park for having great legs and great hair (there's a fine line between admiration and jealousy, ladies), that would be perfect.

But in all seriousness, I'm likely never going to be a very small person. I just don't care enough about what other people think and I like food too much not to eat it, or to barf it up afterwards. If I hover in the early teens in dress sizes that will be perfectly acceptable. As it is, I've lost a full size in my first few weeks of running, and it feels damn good. I'm still The Fat Friend, but I may put in for a name change so I can be known as the Slightly Less Obese Friend. With any luck I'll be The Borderline Healthy Weight Friend in a few months. I don't care to be much more than that, as I can still enjoy pastry and whole fat lattes without worrying about gaining 8 pounds in a sitting.

And, if I ever have a Fat Friend of my very own, I'm going to take her out shopping for a stunning summer dress so she can feel like she's rockin' the park instead of hiding her blindingly white legs in those capris. Maybe I'll get one of my own little dresses then, too.

In Which The Maven Admits to Crossing the Line

A couple of weeks ago I did something I swore I would never, ever do: I spanked one of my children.

I don't think parents who use corporal punishment are bad parents, or that they don't know what they're doing. It's just that I 've always maintained that raising my hand is not how I want to raise my boys, because, as far as I'm concerned, kids can be brought up very well without ever having to physically harm them.

But this isn't the first time I've done something I vowed never to do. That train of misconception started with 'I'll never breasfeed/co-sleep/stay-at-home' and continued along the railway line with memorable quotes like 'we have a strict no toy weapons policy at our house because I believe you can teach your children to be peaceful through example' and 'my child will never behave like that in a grocery store'.

But I held strong to having a spank-free household. It just wasn't something we were going to do, ever. And for twelve-and-a-half years I successfully resisted the occasional urge to put hand to bottom.

Until, one day, Gutsy crossed the line in such a way that I didn't see any other option.

I won't go into gory details because I don't want to lay down a story that will justify what I did. Suffice to say that there was some very serious defiance going on involving screaming, throwing, banging, threatening and physically harming me. An absolutely impressive display of emotion!
As a drama queen myself, I have to appreciate the effort that went into that fit. It was rather lengendary, really, and looking back I would have to give him a score of 9.8: Very strong presentation, good verbalization of his anger, shock value, and interesting use of props. If there were an olympic tantrum competition he would have had a good shot at the gold.

I tried just about everything I could think of, from attempting to talk him down, to giving him a time-out, to taking away priviledges. And all the while it got worse and worse and worse. More and more violent, more and more dangerous for both of us, more and more terrifying for his brothers. Finally, having exhausted anything my stressed-out mind could think of, I put him over my knee.

And it did absolutely nothing to solve the problem. (And please don't waste your time sending me emails and comments about how I didn't do it right. I'm not looking for a how-to or a FAQ on corporal punishment. This was a one-time deal. Great Big Maven's Spanking Outlet Store has permanently closed.)

In the end, what ended the fit was me telling him I was giving up and going outside for a breather. When he followed me into the backyard a few minutes later and found me softly crying, he melted and we both cried together.

That was the beginning of the end of all conventional discipline methods with Gutsy. The straw that broke the camel's back. The spank that broke both our hearts.

(See the drama queen coming out? He comes by it honestly.)

After doing a bit of research while he was busily camping with Intrepid and Geekster, I came across a book called The Explosive Child.

Is there any better way to describe Gutsy the gremlin? I think not. It even has a sad little boy on the cover with a bomb for a head, which is rather morbid and disturbing and yet so very true of how Gutsy feels after an emotional explosion.

What I've read so far has been very enlightening: the parts of the brain that control a child's ability to be flexible in routines and transitions, and to be able to control frustration levels, are in the same location as where issues like OCD and ADHD seem to crop up (I'm not a big fan of labelling children and neither is the author, but he wanted to point out that the brain scans are similar).

The turning point for me was understanding that Gutsy does not act out like this on purpose. He has a strong desire to please (we see this when he's calm) and wants to do better, he just can't. He doesn't know how. His ability to control himself in stressful situations is underdeveloped for his age. The author equates it to having a learning disability of sorts. You can't teach a child like this using time-outs and sticker charts, removing priviledges or, as I've newly discovered, spanking. It's a whole new ballgame.

Once I discovered that Gutsy has no more control over losing his shit than I do over being incredibly awesome, I felt a lot better. I think I might be able to start liking him more again. Oh, sure, I love him tremendously, horns and all, but I don't necessarily like being held hostage by his behaviour.

It's surprising to me that my children aren't perfect. I mean, didn't they come from me? But what surprises me more is the sadness I've been feeling over not being a good mother to Gutsy. I feel like I've failed him in so many ways despite my best efforts. Spanking him when I swore I wouldn't didn't help my mama self-esteem, either.

The rest of the book - the part I haven't read yet - is all about how to retrain the brain and usher it into a new era of self-control. I'm all about self-control; he obviously didn't get that problem from me. I mean, that's why I'm a skinny social drinker.

Damn it!

I hope this works. If it doesn't I may just put on my new running shoes and take off for the hills. Maybe I'll be adopted by a pack of wolves and can hunt with them.... Until they discover I'm a vegetarian wuss and devour me. Do you suppose spanking a wolf woud make it stop biting?

The Chaos-Free Weekend (yes, it's true!)

Had I gone somewhere tropical, this weekend couldn't have been better.

Had I painstakingly scripted my idea of a perfect 72 hours, it wouldn't have measured up to this one.

Had I...

... Alright, fine. I'll shut up now.

Spawnling and I make a really fantastic duo - a fact I've all but forgotten during this crazy summer. We're like peas in a pod, coffee and cream, and other things that blend together perfectly. Well, except when he's calling me 'Stupid Mommy', which happens whenever I don't give him what he wants. I keep telling him he needs to be less subtle and just say what's on his mind, you know? Don't hold back, Spawn. Don't hold back.

In his defense, he's an equal opportunity verbal abuser. He calls everyone else stupid, too. Stupid Daddy, Stupid Brother, Stupid Grandma, Stupid Dog, Stupid Cat... Everyone's stupid, and you can be stupid, too! Anyone up for a playdate? Piss The Spawn off enough and he can help dig a deep trench in your young child's vocabulary in which to stick a few choice words that may never come out.

No takers? Really? Your loss, I guess.

I am very, very relaxed. Well, I was very relaxed until my good friend Sprockett came over with an iced latte containing three shots of espresso. Thanks, man. I'll be manic until 3AM, at which time I will fall exhausted onto my bed and sleep the dreamless sleep of people who've had too much caffeine. Have I mentioned he's single, ladies? Never mind that he's smart, funny and attractive. Those things are irrelevant. He usually brings coffee with him. If that's not incentive to go on a date I don't know what is.

Over the last three days I've had all the elements that make up a perfect environment for emotional decompression: I was in my own home with only one child who just happened to sleep through the night without complaints. I went out, but not too much. I stayed in, but not too much. I entertained, but only for people I like and who don't expect a perfectly clean house. That being said, my house is the cleanest it's been since school let out. The only child in my care wanted to do all the same thing I wanted to do, was very social, (mostly) polite, used the words stupid please and shut up thank you, and did not get into anything dangerous or extremely messy. I had a girl's night, a coffee night, a lunch, a brunch, two city bus rides for Spawnling, watched a movie that spewed forth estrogen from the screen, was shown the joys of smart playlists for my iPhone, played a great deal of Wii Fit (yes, I did get one - was there ever any doubt?), drank copious amounts of coffee, ate a great deal of junk food with no guilt whatsoever, and got over my cold just in time to start running again tomorrow.

Go, Team Maven!

Today I took Spawn up to the campsite Geekster and the older gremlins are frequenting. I figured we could go for three or four hours and call it 'camping'. It's the type of camping I like: quick, not-so-dirty, no sleeping in a tent, and out of there well before my cell phone battery dies.

The Maven and 'roughing it' do not mix. It was a rocky relationship from the start; we tried to make it work, but realized we have different priorities. I like to feel very unlike a caveman and celebrate the fact that we've evolved to the point of showering and sleeping on memory foam mattresses. It's a personal choice.

When the boys asked if I missed them, I smiled widely and declared "Of course I missed you! I can't wait for you to come home tomorrow!"

I think it was almost believable.

See, the dirty little secret is that I wasn't quite at the point of missing them that much. Judge me if you will, but I've been a stay-at-home-mom for over twelve years. I've earned this calloused heart. I love those little demons of mine dearly, but loving them from a distance has been rather... nice.

Oh, sure. My soul would eventually ache for the sweet sound of blood-curdling screams emerging from the playroom as one yanks a Rescue Hero away from the other and launches it across the room. My eyes would eventually miss seeing the teasing inflicted on a six-year-old by a very skilled twelve-year-old. My arms would eventually feel the emptiness of not picking up after forts, spaceships and evil robot building projects.

Eventually. Just not quite yet.

Still, I look forward to seeing their tired little faces when they get back around lunch tomorrow. They may be loud, destructive little things, but they're my loud, destructive little things. Since they come from me, that automatically makes them pretty awesome. Awesome people are always welcome around here.

(Awesome people who clean up after themselves get a VIP pass straight into my good books, however. I wonder if they got that memo...)

Off to bed now. This girl needs her strength for what awaits her in the morning.

Welcome back, chaos. You old, familiar friend, you.

(Photo cred: The Sister, of course)

Why a Skewed Perspective Sometimes Rocks

My week with Pixfish was going swimmingly (you know you loved that pun) until the unthinkable happened: I got bitch-slapped by a summer cold.

You know who I thought didn't get hit by colds this hard? Vegetarian joggers. Because not only do we have strong hearts, but all the little animals think warm thoughts for us as they're not being sent to their deaths because of our food choices. All that karma and cute shoe wearing should really pay off, right?

Wrong. So wrong that we've come full circle and are almost at 'right' again. For the last five days I've been going through tissues like I used to go through booze, whining more than I normally do (unfathomable to anyone who has to deal with me on a regular basis) and sleeping the broken sleep of only the very sick or the very new parent.

And who has been by my side every step of the way? Who has been putting her delicate plastic hand in mine as I suffer through this torture? Who has let me play with her creepy straw-like hair in between hacking fits?

Not that old best friend of mine, What's-Her-Face. She was off visiting relatives while I was dying on my couch. She was sending me maybe a text message every two days about something random, like being on a beach, while I was wheezing so loud I couldn't hear the romantic comedy I was trying to watch.

The nerve. What kind of friend isn't there for you in your darkest moment?

I've come to realize that if she were any kind of friend at all, What's-Her-Face would have a perfectly realistic magical psychic connection to me, where she could sense I was coming down with a cold the day before it actually struck, leaving her enough time to wake her children up, excuse her early departure, and whip down the highway in time to get here for my first sneeze. That's a real friend for you. I don't think it's asking too much to meet my needs first, you know?

The one who sat with me through thick and thin this week was none other than Pixfish, my sweet little bundle of foreign toxins. That bi-mythical beauty got me through a tough time, showing me how lovingly co-dependent she is, and earning herself a place in the heart of The Maven for years to come.

Or until one of the dogs uses her as a chew toy. Whichever comes first.

With the plague behind me, I'm anxious to get back to running. It's been just over a week, now. I yearn for the sweat to pour down my face and to hear myself gasping for air again.

Actually, maybe I should take up knitting.

No! Back, fowl beast of slackerdom! I will run again. Just not this weekend. And why is that?

Get ready for it. Get ready...

... You might want to be sitting down for this one.

...Because Geekster took Gutsy and Intrepid camping for four days!

Four freaking days!!

"But wait a minute, Maven. Don't you still have Spawnling?"

I do, but I'm still happier than a free-range pig in free-range shit. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, my lambs. It's a good one, so pay attention:

Having only one child is easy. Easy, easy, easy. Don't ever let anyone with an only tell you otherwise.

It's not that they're lying. In the parents-to-an-only mind, it's a tough job raising just one little ankle-biter to the age of 18. And why is that? Because they lack perspective.

See, before raising Junior they were only raising themselves. It is technically harder, but not as hard as what they could have. Once you've had two crumb-snatchers you start to reminisce about how simple your life was with Junior before you gave birth to Junior-er. And, in the case of the truly insane who end up with Junior, Junior-er and Junior-est, going back to the days of only Junior sounds like winning a garbage bag full of money.

See? Perspective. And from where I sit in my crazy chair, having just a Spawnling around sounds like the makings of a pretty quiet weekend. I'm positively stoked!

I am now waiting for the mothers of four to start telling me raising three children is easy. Save your breath, ladies: you're absolutely right. So right, in fact, that I drove my husband to the pee-pee doctor last year to make sure there were no more Geekster Juniors in our future. I believe I have more than enough perspective now. Most days I would say my cup runneth over with perspective and I choketh on it.

The good news is that I should theoretically have more time and energy for blogging over the next couple of days. It's almost like having the older gremlins back in school again; all day and all night school.

I believe that's called a 'boarding school', and it's usually reserved for rich kids who's parents would rather go skiing after dinner than practice the times tables. Since I'm neither rich nor a skier, I'll take this limited opportunity for near-solitude and report back ASAP with how our weekend is going.

Pixfish, I promise to make up for this week of sucktitude with some most excellent social frolicking. Onward!

The Continuing Adventures of The Maven and Pixfish

I've moved up the running ranks enough to have a partner; someone I run with more often than not and who keeps telling me I'm doing a great job even though I'm well aware of my obvious sucktitude. Her name is Daring D, and, on top of giving me a run for my money (that was a pretty awesome pun, if I do say so myself) she owns a Wii Fit. I had no idea how cool they are, and now I want one. Considering I just took out a mortgage on new shoes (think the second most expensive ones at a specialty running store - ack!) and an iPhone, I don't think I'll be getting the Wii Fit any time soon, so I'll just have to keep mooching hers.

I have a foot injury, by the way. Nat, From Nat's Brain , helped me diagnose it. It's this one, and it sucks. I'm almost pain-free at this point and am looking forward to running again, but it's been four days and I'm positively jonesing. I can get addicted to anything if I really put my mind to it. I also should admit that I'm secretly proud of my injury, as if I'm somehow more badass for having one: "Oh, the limping? It's nothing. Just a foot injury from running. Did I mention I'm a runner? You know: one of those people who runs? Want to see my new shoes?"

It's been fairly busy this week. Pixfish and I have been all over the place. Naturally, I documented a few of our outings. It's been nice getting to know my new best friend. I learn stuff about her every day. Observe:


We went for a late night run with Daring D a few nights ago. She wore her headlamp for added visibility. PF is a safety girl.


Pixfish wants me to get a Wii Fit. She wants me to, can't you see? Geekster, do you not understand how important this is to her? I think we need to seriously consider getting one in order to preserve my special friendship.

Also, I believe she might be a bit of a kleptomaniac. That's my running partner's shoe...


I think my BFF might have a little problem with coffee. Every time I see her the girl is guzzling down some java. When you're drinking out of a cup you could likely drown in, it might be intervention time.

When I brought this up to Pixfish, she rolled her eyes and told me she's a pixie/mermaid, therefore she can't drown. Duh.

(She's clearly in denial. I'll keep working with her.)


See? See? There she is with a latte again! She's apparently found a new dealer in Jess, my single mama friend who's new abode the gremlins and I defiled sullied tainted visited last Thursday. After speaking with Pixfish, Jess informed me that the reason she has both a tail and wings is so she can hang out with the swimmers and flyers.

"Jess, Jess, Jess," I explained calmly. "If Pixfish were bi-mythical, do you not think she would have told me? We have a relationship built on trust and acceptance; surely she would feel comfortable sharing her life choices with me. Now please stop pretending you know her. You were with her for two or three hours. I've known her for seven days. That's, like, a lifetime of getting to know someone."

How very wrong I was. Because, after taking a few more pictures, I realized there are some things she has been keeping from me.



How did I never pick up on this before?

Judging from these photos, she's clearly a swinger.

And just when you think you really know someone...

Near Insanity + Abandonment Issues = This Post

I haven't been able to finish a blog post in over a week. Creativity has taken a backseat this week so that big, ugly Chaos can ride shotgun. Children screaming. Children fighting. Children messing up my home. Children being, well, children. Ick. Could they at least try and act mature? Chaos has been pointing its finger and laughing as I drive down the road of life. It didn't even open my coffee for me, which is the sign of a very poor co-pilot. As soon as I find a truck stop I'm going to send it in for chocolate bars and take off. Take that, asshat!

In the meantime, I'm stuck with very limited time to write about all the goings on in the life of Maven. A pity, really, since there are at least two or three people who want to hear about what's going through this brain of mine. The long and short: it's hovering near the breaking point and will soon be festering with insanity. This part of '09 will forever be remembered as The Summer That Never Ends. The Gremlins will throw a yearly street party.

I have so much to say, but no time to say it. How is that fair? Do you have any idea how much I want to tell you how I pretty much lost my shit on Gutsy on Sunday? You bet you do. So that'll be tomorrow's post, provided I can get around to writing. My shipment of kiddy sedatives hasn't arrived yet - and to think the seller promised quick shipping. Hmph.

To make matters worse, Pixie, my friend, my glue, calmer of my would-be temper tantrums, is away visiting family for the next week. She leaves in the morning.

Meh. Not that I care or anything. I mean, who needs her around, anyway? I'll be way too busy having a great time in my great life. I mean, she's the one who will be missing out on basking in my presence. She's the one who will be wishing I were around to make her days a little brighter. She's the one who will...

... Is this at all believable? Didn't think so. I'll quit while I'm ahead.

But I'm a survivor. I keep on truckin' because I find new and interesting ways to make my life work. And, in times like these, desperate and slightly unconventional methods must be applied. I need Pixie around to vent to, and she's abandoning me. Leaving me for that sister of hers, as if blood is thicker than water or something.

Well, screw you, Pix. I don't need you! Because, after a quick run the dollar store for swords and dart guns, I stumbled upon your replacement:

Introducing my new best friend of the week, Pixfish!


The top of her box says 'Play with Me', so you know she knows how to have a good time. With a few beers in her she'll be telling stories in no time! Not like boring ol' Pixie.

Pixfish is even better than a pixie: she has wings and a tail. Why? I have no bloody clue, actually. I don't understand how wings would be at all useful in the water. But the fact that she's two girly characters in one makes me incredibly happy. Her tail is even sparkly, see?


Isn't she fantastic? Her starfish-shaped tail even has glitters on it. Glitters! We're going to be very good friends, Pixfish and I...

...Um, except her hair's a little long. Pixie has shorter hair. Not that I'm trying to make her look like that girl. It's just that I'm supposed to have the long hair in this relationship. The problem with dollar store dolls is that they have all these bald spots, so you can't exactly chop it all off. But no matter. I took these pictures at my neighbour's house, and Gokalie has a girl child with elastics. Therefore...


Perfect. And she likes fruit? What a wonderful coincidence. I like fruit, too! Now we can definitely be friends!

I do like the bad girls, though. Being as close to saintly as I am, the rebellious chicks keep my life interesting. If all Pixfish likes is healthy stuff I'm going to have to dump her limp body in a Salvation Army dumpster. Maven needs a little spice in her friends.

Oh, what's that, Pixfish? You and I have similar tastes? How so?


... Coffee?!


... And... Saturated fat? Oh, Pixfish! You're the sister I wouldn't want because you're too damn perfect!

Pixfish and I will be doing a lot of great things this week while that has-been Pixie is out of town. Maybe when the ex-entourage member comes back from her visiting all those important people we can talk about her return to the group.

Or maybe I'll just be too far gone down the insanity slope to form any words. A likely conclusion to what will be an interesting week in the Summer That Never Ends.