Getting my Groove Back

(Photo credit: Photo Lush, my most excellent sister.)

"What are you doing, mom?" asks an inquisitive Spawnling this afternoon.

Trying to balance a bottle of cleaner in the crook of my arm while tearing off a strip of paper towel, I say "Just cleaning the windows, buddy."

"Are they dirty?"

"Yes. They are."

"... Is that because I touched them without using Purell first?"

It's official: I've turned my youngest child into a germaphobe.

It's not my fault. Let's blame it on the Kawasaki he acquired last month. Throw in a little extra vigilance due to H1N1 and it's a recipe for disaster. What am I supposed to do? I can't go back to to my easygoing ways. I can't just say: "It's okay, Person With a Cold. You can come into my home where I have one child who's on aspirin and can't get a viral infection and another child who's lungs have about a 75% chance of contracting pneumonia every time he gets sick, and a mother who lives down the street who can't fall ill because she's immuno-compromised and resistant to nearly all antibiotics. Come on in! Want to wipe your nose on my sleeve? Maybe lick some cutlery?"

Ah, the reality of my current life; where I've had to beef up microbiotic security and shed my previously relaxed stance on germs. No two-year-old should have the word 'Purell' in his vocabulary. No person should shudder every time she's out and hears someone coughing. No mother should sanitize her door handles this much, even with three boys touching them. My laissez faire half snickers at my anal retentive half on a daily basis. I know it sucks, but it is what it is. It's an inner struggle I quell with evening chocolate.

Chocolate makes it all better.

Spawnling has his follow-up echocardiogram on October 20th. At that point we'll find out if his little heart made it through the Kawasaki-induced inflammation unscathed. There's a good chance it did. A very good chance: About 93%. So, I'm trying not to worry too much. I'm trying not to think of the little aneurysms that may be hiding in his artery walls. What aneurysms? I don't see any aneurysms...

Did I mention chocolate makes things better?

It's funny, you know. When I signed up for this parenting thing, nobody ever told me I might have to know what an echocardiogram is, or why a toddler might need one. I expected broken bones and antibiotics and asthma. I even anticipated some pneumonia, given my family's ridiculously bad lung karma (although Gutsy has broken some records, I'm sure). But dealing with extremely rare diseases? Apparently I didn't read the fine print.

The good news is that I'm feeling a little better these days. I've stopped crying when I talk about how traumatic our stay at the hospital was. I don't feel as big a lurch in my stomach every time I think about the few days when he was so sick we thought we might lose him. Every single time he says or does something insanely cute or funny does not fill me with so much emotion that I get teary. I mean, I still think he's awesome and miraculous, but his presence is once again becoming more every day, more commonplace; a good sign of healing if I've ever seen one.

I feel funnier again. I feel stronger. I feel more beautiful (if that's even possible). I'm really getting a grip on life again. I want to write more, and talk more, and be my excellent self more. Every task does not seem so overwhelming these days. I'm not gasping for air while trying to keep up with the every day. The house is looking more like a home and less like a nuclear test site. Meals consist of at least three food groups. School forms are being returned no more than a week after they're due.

Yep. I'm getting my groove back.

I'm trying not to think too much about October 20th or the news we might hear. It's a million miles away, and between here and there is a sea of activity, including Spawnling's third birthday.

You know, I used to worry he would grow up too fast. Then, in August, I worried he would never grow up. And now I'm just grateful to be celebrating his birthday at all. We were lucky and I don't think I'll ever forget that.

Perspective is a good thing. Know what else is good? Mixing peanut butter and chocolate, which I did last night when I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. I am going to go eat one or five of them now.

What's today's motto, everyone? Chocolate makes everything better. That's right! So go have some chocolate and think good thoughts for October 20th, ok? Awesome. Thanks.

Monday Doesn't Like Me

Ah, Monday. It's the day of peeling one's eyes open as the alarm goes off, only to realize the alarm has been going off for half an hour and you have exactly fifteen minutes to get your sluggish six-year-old onto the bus.

Obviously, you don't get him on the bus. And, with no pomp or circumstance, you throw a waffle at him as he's getting dressed, grab some of his clothes that don't match but you hope are clean, and make your husband drive him to school because he's bald and thus won't have to suffer the embarrassment of frizzy, unwashed hair in the front office.

Monday is snickering at you.

You invite a friend over for coffee, because that's what you do when the day isn't going according to plan. Coffee dates keep you centered. They keep you mellow. Mellow is good for handling unfortunate situations, like when you realize a few minutes after your coffee date arrives that your eldest son forgot his lunch in the front hall and you'll have to bring it to him. That is quite unfortunate, you think to yourself, as the coffee is brewing. Monday likes seeing you waste good coffee. The good news? It's a ten minute drive to the school, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa.

Take that, Monday.

Packing up your two-year-old and your overly-accommodating friend (thank you, friend!) you put the pedal to the metal and break away for the big, scary junior high school only to find out that they won't page your son out of class because it's against school policy. They won't tell him his lunch is there unless he asks. That's nice of them. Monday must have whispered in the secretary's ear that you were coming. It is obviously harboring an unhealthy resentment toward you. You leave the lunch at the front desk and hope he thinks of looking there before starving all day in the way only a preteen boy can.

You come home and plan on finally chatting with your friend. Coffee makes it all better. But Monday is waiting for you. It informs your toddler that playing independently is for suckers. It shows him the Rescue Heroes bin and points at your friend. Suddenly, you can't have a conversation because the situation is being monopolized by a two-year-old waving Billy Blazes in your friend's face. Nice.

But Monday has made a fatal mistake in choosing this particular friend: She would be more than happy to play Rescue Heroes for a few minutes. In fact, you even find some time to - get this - clean your house. A visitor, mother's helper and coffee date all rolled into one? Monday's powers are weakening.

Oh, sure. There are a few other annoying little things awaiting you today. It's raining and all your toddler wants to do is go to the park so you have to hear about it incessantly, your dog has found a favourite pee spot in the basement (it's a good thing they don't make sausages out of dogs or you might sell him for some pocket money), the children have forgotten how to use their indoor voices, and the dirty laundry pile is large enough that it should be declared its own sovereign nation. You just have to fasten a flag to the top and call the UN to make it official.

Monday is getting its jollies.

Still, the day will end with everyone sleeping and an episode of your very favourite narcissistic doctor; House is on at eight, and there are cookies in the cupboard.

Monday just got kicked square in the junk and is off in a corner whimpering. Another epic win for you, The Maven.

A True Sign of Things Returning to Normal

Geekster and I are trying hard to reduce the stress and overwhelming feeling that there is always something that needs managing, controlling, doing or fixing in our household. Since we're both high strung people (Me? High strung? Who would have guessed?) and would like our hearts to last more than another 20 years, we've decided to slow things down a little. Fewer non-essential commitments, fewer non-essential expenses, and more time as a family.

That's do-able, right? It's not like we're chasing the proverbial dragon of parenting, are we? Surely all those other families out there are managing to find a perfect balance in their lives, so why can't we? As far as I can tell, we're the only over-committed, under-funded and time-stretched people out there.

(Quick! Wipe the coffee spit off your keyboard before it damages it!)

One of the ways to reduce our expenses and increase quality family time is to go to the library. Name one thing about going into a quiet book-lending establishment that isn't mellow and happy.

Can't think of one? I can: His name is Spawnling and, since he's not quite three yet, he is sucking the life out of what's left of his Terrible Terrific Twos.

This was not Spawn's first experience with the library. It was probably the third in his recent memory, and I think that's why things ended up the way they did. He needs to acquire a certain level of familiarity with his surroundings before the horns come out. It's a sign of high intelligence, I tell myself - and a dash of brattiness, which is the not-so-secret secret ingredient in Meltdown Souffle.

I have to admit that a lot of this is my fault. See, I decided we should go to the library yesterday afternoon; not morning, not at lunch time and not the next day. Oh, no. It had to be at 3:30PM, when the no-longer-napping entity is at his emotional worst. Why, you ask? Because I had things to do first, and was using a book-borrowing trip as a bribe for good behaviour. I'm all about rewarding good behaviour. But, that bad behaviour stuff? I don't tolerate any of that.

Nope. None at all. Observe:

Everything was going swimmingly at first. I was exceedingly proud of my parenting skills as the gremlins eagerly picked out book after book, sitting down to read some in the kids' section with a stack to bring home with them afterward. I saw a mom from Gutsy's old preschool with her two boys and smiled at her in that 'You have nice, quiet, literate boys and I have nice, quiet, literate boys because we're both awesome mothers' sort of way.

The second thing I did wrong: we overstayed our cosmic welcome. People who swim with sharks don't tread water all day with dozens of toothy limb-munchers swimming around them. They wave some food around, take some video footage of them not dying, and get out before the bucket of meat is empty. Because, eventually, those overgrown fish would take a big, juicy piece of foot. It's not their fault; that's just what sharks do.

And, just like carnivorous salt water dwellers, toddlers have their own time limit. There is only so much good energy to go around in public situations, and you need to take advantage of it in as short a time as possible. If I bring my children to the mall, I conduct a 'get in and get out' operation; there is no window shopping or bargain hunting going on. I know what I need and I acquire it as quickly as I can before I end up with someone sobbing, running, kicking or breaking things. I know this from experience - traumatic, panic-inducing experience. So, why didn't I listen to my Inner Maven yesterday?

Anyway, we had our books, we had our DVD's, and we had our well-behaved children. We were in the check-out line when I asked Geekster if he could take out Spawn's movie on his card.

"Here, Spawnling. I'm just going to put this on my card and you can take out the books with mom, okay?" said a smiling Geekster.

"YOU TOOK MY MOVIE!" wailed Spawnling. He went from zero to screaming in less than a second. It was very impressive. "YOU TOOK IT!"

I rushed in to calm the toddler wonder, who had already thrown himself on the floor. I balanced the stack of books I was holding precariously as I bent down to soothe him. We were next in line, but the computer was apparently misbehaving and every book scanned was taking an excruciatingly long time.

"Spawnling, honey, it's okay. Daddy is just getting the movie, but you can have it in the van." I smiled down at him lovingly, soothingly, like a good mother does.

"NO! I WANT MY MOVIE, STUPID MOM! I'M GOING TO BREAK ALL THE BOOKS IN THE LIBRARY!"

That's, like, a bomb threat to a librarian. Heads shot up from stacks of books like prairie dogs in the in a field.

I glanced behind me to see the preschool mom and her children, who were obviously bewildered by the verbally explosive Tasmanian devil before them. I was expecting her to usher them silently out the door.

Scan. Bleep. Scan. Scan-scan-scan. Bleep. Scan. Scan-scan. Bleep.

The computer was still glitchy, the librarians were on high alert due to my child's threats, and I was about to tell the guy ahead of us that he reads too much and obviously needs to get a life.

"No. You won't break the books, Spawnling. Now, get up and we'll go borrow your books, okay?"

"NO! I WON'T! YOU'RE STUPID, STUPID MOM! I WANT MY MOVIE!"

There are many things I could have done at that point. I could have put the handful of books down, picked Spawnling up and left the library. I could have given the books to Geekster, picked Spawnling up, and left the library. I could have picked Spawnling up, directed him towards the nearest stack of books, and made a neat YouTube video.

But I did none of those things. In fact, I did a terrible, terrible thing. I put the books down, thought about leaving, realized I had spent over half an hour painstakingly picking out those books for my kids, decided not to leave, and gave him the movie back to make him stop screaming.

I know. I know. I did say it as a terrible thing, though, didn't I? I forewarned my readers of an impending bad choice. Now quit rolling your eyes and let me finish my story, will you?

One would assume that, once a toddler acquires what it is he was so adamant about acquiring, he would stop his fit and be happy. This is a good theory up to a point. However, once the complex math equation of Length of Fit x Exhaustion + Public Location = Outcome is examined, it comes as no surprise that a point of no return can be reached.

This, I'm afraid, was one of those times.

The Smurfs DVD case was thrown down on the floor, followed closely by Spawnling's body as he wailed, beet red, and pounded the carpet. Lovely.

And that's when I took him out of the library and showed him who's boss. And that's when I picked him up and let him keep yelling in my arms until he settled down. It was probably only less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity. An embarrassing eternity.

We made it up to the check-out and I had him apologize to the librarian behind the counter for disrupting her quiet library. Through the post-tantrum gasps for air, he said, in his most adorable voice, 'I very sorry'. We then got his books, his floor movie, and made it out the door, alive. Stressed, but alive.

The moral of the story, I suppose, is this: You can misbehave and still get what you want.

Oh, and that even I'm not perfect, despite what you may think.

I'm glad I could make everyone feel a lot better about their own parenting. You'll find a lot of that here, and you're welcome. It's one of the many things I'm good at.

Children: The Great Regret?

Can we discuss this woman?

In case you haven't heard her story or don't want to read it as it would take your limited leisure time away from my blog (an understandable concern), I will give you the abridged version:

A Parisian woman named Corinne Maier and partner, Yves, have two children. She describes this scene to The Globe and Mail:

"We went to a family dinner in the suburbs of Paris. It took us a lot of time to go there with the children, and we went because the children wanted to go. We didn't want to go, my partner and I, and it was a bit boring, but we took them anyway," she says with a Gallic nonchalance, strolling across an empty floor in the enormous, art-filled house in one of the better corners of Brussels where she lives in a kind of exile from France with her partner, Yves, 45, their daughter Laure, 13, and son, Cecil, 10.

"And on the way back, the two of us thought that it would be nice to see an exhibition on Belgian surrealists. Once inside the museum, the children began to be awful." Laure said that the exhibition was "bullshit." Cecil began to scream, so Yves took him outside. "And I started yelling at him for this: 'Why aren't you more strong with him?' And we began to argue. We didn't see anything. And at that point, I thought, 'I really regret it, I regret having children.' "

So, not only does she come to this epiphany, but she writes a book about it entitled NO KIDS: 40 Good Reasons Not To Have Children. Since she regrets ever birthing the little ankle biters, she decides to save those who have not yet filled their wombs by offering them many reasons not to breed.

Not only can I find a lot of holes in her 'good' reasons to remain childless (a list of them is provided in the article linked above), but I can also pick apart the catalyst that brought her to her parental knees and inspired her to write the book.

First of all, if you don't want to go out for dinner and your children want to, I have an often unused Ninja Parenting Trick, passed down from the masters. I found it in a secret book inside a secret hovel inside a secret tree knot in a secret forest. It sounds absurd at first, so try to keep an open mind:

Just tell them "no".

I know what you're thinking: Who says "no" to small children, thus fracturing their precious little hearts? However, my sources inform me that they will, eventually, get over it. If in doubt, take the money you would have spent on a dinner for four and put it in a savings account. Then, if they still resent you in twenty years, you can hand them the sum of a missed dinner and other outings you denied them and they can funnel it into their therapy sessions. Ta-da! It's a win/win situation.

And we can all identify the next obvious problem: Who, in their right mind, decides to take children to see an exhibition on Belgian surrealists?

People who are looking for trouble, that's who.

I'm with her daughter: The exhibition does sound a lot like bullshit. And her son started screaming? He probably was going crazy from looking at pictures of apples that look like wooden asses. I mean, is it an apple or an ass? Who can tell? Those Belgian surrealists are freaky people.

Seriously: If you're going out with your kids, take them to a movie. Take them to a park. Take them to a fair. There are also these people called "babysitters" you can hire to watch them when you want to go look at apple asses. Or - hey, wait a minute! - you can leave your children at home because they're 10 and 13. No babysitter expenses required and lots of time to look at crazy art with no distractions. What a concept!

That day was bad because the parents made it bad. They seem to have resented taking their kids somewhere kid-like, then wanted to make themselves feel better by doing something completely un-kid-like - with kids in tow. It's true that their children did not behave themselves; not only was the environment unfriendly, but there seems to be a serious lack of discipline going on, and it's probably been that way for a while. A likely reason why she was yelling at her husband about not being "more strong" with their son.

Not to mention that the environment in their house sounds about as warm as a naked stroll through Antarctica. A big house full of art and empty floors? But I digress.

I'm not an educated woman. I'm not a worldly woman. But I know how people work. I'm going to put on my fake Freudian beard for a minute and psychoanalyze this family: The problem here has nothing to do with children ruining their life. The problem, I'm afraid, is that mom and dad are giant tools with a skewed version of fun. They were tools before they ever bred, but it's become more apparent now that they've gone and made themselves responsible for the lives of others.

Children are not Prada bags. They are not a cute new pair of shoes. They are not the latest gadget. The sooner couples stop looking at children as accessories worn by celebrities on all the gossip sites, all the while thinking to themselves 'I would look so good with that diaper bag over my shoulder at the next wine and cheese,' the better. Unless your child wakes you up on Saturday morning and says 'Mommy, I would really like to see the work of Belgian surrealists today!' you might want to wait until date night.

The author makes a lot of arguments, and some of them are convincing: The world is overpopulated. You will get less time for yourself. Children are really expensive. Your career may suffer a little once you become a parent.

But, here's the thing: I worried about a lot of those issues, too. But the minute I held each of those gorgeous babies in my arms the concerns I had paled in comparison. Why? Because I love my children, little horns at all. I hate their tantrums, cringe at their messes, and am perplexed by the excitement I feel whenever my husband and I can sneak off to the grocery store together for some 'alone time'.

Has life changed? Absolutely. Is it hard sometimes? Definitely. Do I regret having children? Not for a second. Sometimes I envy the childless, but it's a fleeting moment. And then Spawnling asks for a plate of 'awfuls and syrup', or Gutsy creates a secret lab under the table with green potions made of water and dish soap, or Intrepid tells me about how he helped a little girl with her reading at the homework club he volunteers at, and that thought vanishes.

You know what frightens me? That the author can create these wonderful - albeit imperfect - little beings and yet regret having them so much that she would write a book about it and even give each of them a copy (Yes. She really did. It's in the article).

You know, just to let them know how much she regrets having them. Better to hear it from your own mother, I guess.

If there's one thing I've learned from browsing this book and reading the accompanying reviews, it's this: Do not have children if you don't want to have them. Nobody is forcing you to and you don't need to give people excuses or reasons why you don't want them. You don't need a book to justify your decisions. Go on about your life and enjoy your free time. Good on ya.

And, if you happen to be a complete narcissist who enjoys the work of Belgian surrealists, you should not have children, either. In fact, you should probably consider removing your uterus altogether just in case. I would not wish having you as a mother on anyone. Just sayin'.

Brace Yourselves: It's an "All About Me"

I thought it would be good to start this week with an 'About Me', considering it's been over three years of blogging and I don't have one. Considering my 'Followers' list is growing exponentially every day - alright, so it's not. But it is growing and if I want to throw a smart-sounding word after it I should be allowed - I figure this is as good a time as any to introduce myself properly to all the newbies. I know you're all dying to get to know me. And who could blame you, really?

So, without further ado, I bring you a lot of useless knowledge about yours truly:

My name is The Maven. Well, actually it's Amanda. And I have a last name as well, but since I've already been stalked online I'm not going to write it here. I'm pretty much a blogging sensation - a celebrity, even - and I don't want anyone breaking into my house and stealing my undies. Especially the pink ones because I really like those.

I'm a bit egotistical. Just a little bit.

I live in the Ottawa area. Ottawa is the capital of Canada with an overall population of about 1 million. I am the most important resident other than perhaps the Prime Minister. Although he doesn't blog, so that's highly debatable. Contrary to popular belief, Canada does not always have snow; there are at least three weeks a year where we can see the permafrost on the ground and the ice roads start to melt.

I have a thriving parka business. I met my husband, Geekster, at an outerwear conference in 1993. He was selling caribou fur boots and they matched my Fall taupe line perfectly. When he showed me how wolf teeth could be used as ice grippers on the soles, it was love at first sight.

I made up one of the last three paragraphs and at least half of another one. Try and figure it out: it's tricky!

(All the Canadians are laughing right now. If they're not they have no sense of humour and should not read my blog, or they really do sell caribou boots on the side of northern ice roads, in which case sincerely I apologize for making fun of your lifestyle.)

Geekster and I have been together since the Triassic Period and have three boys: Intrepid (November '96), Gutsy (November '02) and Spawnling (October '06). Having children who are all so close in age is a real challenge!

Both Intrepid and Gutsy were born with a moderate sensorineural bilateral hearing loss. It's genetic in nature, but before we knew that I just told myself I listened to too much crappy top 40 while pregnant with them. There's only so much Britney Spears a fetus can take. Neither Geekser nor I have hearing loss, so either it's a recessive gene or I had an unmemorable affair with a deaf guy. The boys wear hearing aids and we mostly forget they have any kind of 'special need'. They're kind of awesome in school, actually, and read well beyond their grade levels and are bright little cookies. They may have inherited bad ear genes, but they also have smart people genes (from their dad, although I'll tell you it's from me).

Spawnling, not wanting to be left out of the 'weird things that happen to The Maven's kids' club, decided to acquire Kawasaki Disease in August of 2009. Go big or go home, Spawn. I give him a solid 10.0 for rarity and effort. If you're searching the web for firsthand accounts of Kawasaki Disease, you'll find some on my blog.

I like to refer to the boys as The Gremlins. Why? Because they are very much like destructive little gremlins. Duh. Besides, feeding them after midnight is not a good thing. Crumbs in the bed and such.

I am many things - depends on who you ask - but primarily I am a stay-at-home-mom and freelance writer. That's right, folks: This awesomeness is for hire. It took a while for me to take the plunge into paid writing, but turning my passion into a career I can do in my pajamas is too good to pass up. Surprisingly, parenting isn't the only thing I can write about. I do, like, know about other stuff, too. I work hard and I drink a lot of coffee until the job gets done. Send me an email at mavenmayhem@gmail.com if you're interested. And you know you are.

There's another love in my life and its name is Lactation. I am a postpartum doula who is slowly working her way toward becoming a Certified Lactation Consultant. I have a boatload of courses and workshops under my belt - now all I need is some more time in the field and they might take me seriously enough to let me write the board exam. I've done a lot of things, but nursing the gremlins for a combined total of seven years something I'm incredibly proud of. I love working with new families and helping them achieve their goals, too.

Wow. That was really sappy. Let's keep going before I get so sweet I start to rot. Onward!

I am a huge fan of coffee and drink it daily. There's a simple reason for that: I don't drink alcohol. That's right, folks: I do not drink at all. Why? Because I used to drink too much of it. Way too much of it. I've been clean and sober since spring of 1991, and smoke-free since 1996. No drugs, no booze and no smokes and yet I'm a writer. A walking contradiction, I am.

Speaking of contradictions, I'm a blogger who has a thriving social life. How did this happen? Am I really that awesome? Not really, no. The secret is in telling everyone I am. A lot of people I know read my blog, and in it I talk about how cool of a human being I am and how great it is to be me or, at the very least, hang around with me. The result: I have created a fake coolness that people have fallen for. If I had known popularity could be so easily created I would have been head of the cheerleading squad in high school. Well, other than the chubby thighs and my serious lack of symmetrical body rhythm.

I am a fat jogger. The human oxymoron strikes again! Perhaps if I didn't eat so much chocolate I might get skinnier. But that would suck, so I will not.

I was a vegetarian for an entire year. Now I also eat fish, so that makes me a pescatarian. I'm sorry, fishies. Blame the delicious salmon that was calling to me.

My favourite shows are House, Glee, The Tudors, How I Met Your Mother, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice. Basically, anything that has laughs, sex and/or aliens. Yes. I said aliens. The inner loser emerges.

I read a lot. I will not list all my favourite books because that would take way too long and I would lose readership. My very fave is Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, followed closely by Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere.

One day, Coldplay's Chris Martin will realize how incredible I am and we will run away to a vegetarian island with a piano and live happily ever after. Just sayin'.

And there you go. A whole lot of things you didn't want to know about me and had no interest in asking. You're welcome.

Has it Really Been a Month?

After mooching coffee, lunch and childcare off my parental units, I spent the later part of this afternoon sorting through clothing in the kids' rooms. How ridiculously emotional I become over this simple task never ceases to amaze me. I take a moment to consider every stitch of clothing: I recall where we acquired it, how many gremlins wore it (a few lucky items make it through all three, and they are cut from the fabric legends are made of), how cute it looked while being worn, and a whole bunch of other sappy crap.

With some items I become nearly rebotic as I place them in the 'donation' or 'put away for the next gremlin in line' pile, but those are few and far between. Most of the time my heart aches as I stuff a t-shirt into a bag destined for a thrift store, and even those going into the basement for a couple of years. Sometimes I get a little teary. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to say, I give the sweater or pair of jeans a little kiss as a final farewell before it goes away.

There. I said it. I kiss it. Not in a sexual way, or that might go from laughable to creepy. However, there may be a whole new form of mental illness lurking inside yours truly. Who on earth has that much attachment to their children's clothing? Not normal people, that's for sure.

***

To understand where my sickness stems from, we must travel back through time - please wipe your feet on the time machine's 'welcome' mat - to 1998, in the late Cretaceous period. Other than the last few dinosaurs, you'll meet myself, Geekster and toddler Intrepid. (I can't meet myself because it disrupts the space-time continuum or something or other. That's what Spock says, anyway. Just tell her I said 'hi' and that she's going to get a little skinnier in the future. Just a little, not a lot. She still likes chocolate too much.)

Within our cave you'll also find an assortment of basal body temperature thermometers, charts and a well-worn copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility. We're trying to get pregnant again, and things aren't going very well. In fact, things aren't going at all: I'm not ovulating and I'm having a period about every three months. Also, I was just diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Not exactly a positive baby-making environment.

And I'm sad. Oh, so sad. For, while I'm over-the-moon-in-love with my beautiful/tantruming/otherwise pretty awesome Intrepid, I'm blue that we can't seem to give him a brother or sister. At twenty-three I should be a fountain of fertility. Instead, my body is failing me and I don't know why.

For four years I watch my son growing up without knowing whether or not we'll be able to have another. After the first couple of years, I start to give the clothing away instead of holding on to it, figuring there is no point in hording something for a baby that may never come. After suffering a miscarriage in 2001 I pick up the pace and get rid of virtually all our baby stuff; keeping what we have is becoming unhealthy for me and this obsession to have another child has to stop. I have reached the unfortunate conclusion that growing our family may not be part of the agenda.

Still, my heart hurts a little every time Intrepid outgrows his coat, his shoes, his shorts. Every time I pack something up in a box and give it to a mom with a younger boy than mine I remind myself that I'm not allowed to fall apart. That I have to remember how lucky I am to have one amazing kid to love.

And I am lucky. I just want to be luckier.

***

Alright. That's enough depression for one day. Let's put down the razor blades and head back to the time machine. I need a fresh coffee, anyway.

Obviously, that story has a happy ending. As we all know, The Maven ends up getting her heart's desire in the form of two fresh little gremlins to love and hold and file down their claws. She gets to dress them up in cute little outfits again and again and really doesn't mind shopping for new things. In fact, she loves shopping for kids' clothes and making her boys all adorable and stuff. Dressing them in the right attire is a great way of hiding their forked tails fluffy angel wings.

Still, giving away clothing is not an easy task for me. I know it's lame and rather disturbing that I have to say goodbye to some fabric and dye made by a person in a third world sweat shop for a ridiculously unfair amount of money, but it is what it is. It's residue from a long time ago when I didn't know how full and amazing my life would become.

So, what brought me out of today's wardrobe heartache, you ask? Remembering that, just one month ago, my current toddler was lying in a hospital with machines hooked up to him and worried doctors and nurses hovering over him. And I, sitting by his bed, holding his limp little hand, was thinking very dark thoughts. Like whether or not I would be strong enough to pack up his stuff and donate it if we lost him to this unknown illness making him so very sick. That, my sheeple, is a thought I don't EVER want to think again, and that I hope you never have to, either. Like, ever.

When I look at how far we've come this month - the newest news being that Spawnling's eye is now starting to move properly again! - I realize that giving away clothes because my children are healthy and strong and growing is not a bad thing. It's a reason to celebrate.

And a reason to buy new clothes.

Which means I have to go to a mall.

And malls have places that sell coffee.

And I like coffee.

Life is good.

I am Not a Good Mom (and other nonsense)

See that picture? That is what I served my children mid-week because I was too tired/lazy/busy watching Dr. Phil to cook them anything wholesome. It's a fried egg inside a grilled cheese sandwich with a handful of chips and topped off with what I like to call 'guilt grapes' - you have to serve everything a fruit or vegetable, you know.

This week I was called a 'good mom' twelve times, give or take. I didn't actually count, obviously. I do have other things to do, like not mopping floors and not putting laundry away. I'm a very busy Maven.

Every single time someone says 'You're such a good mom, Maven!' I laugh. And then they say 'I'm serious! You really are!' and I laugh some more. It's an uncomfortable laugh, like the laugh I give crazies; sort of like if they just told me I'm purple with glorious gold striping.

Some would say I'm a great parent because I've sacrificed a lot in the name of my children. But I don't see it that way. Who needs silly old school or oodles of job seniority anyway? Stability is for suckers and people who plan too much. So what if I've never crossed an ocean? Or been someplace where snow is an impossibility? Do I look like someone who wants to see the eye of a hurricane? I think not. And the debt? Well, that's just a natural part of being on one income, isn't it? We have enough debt right now that it could actually be considered a modest year's anti-salary. Somewhere in the karmic world, a person just managed to get a mortgage because of my decision to stay home for twelve years and herd the gremlins. You're welcome.

Sure, there are things I do which are above and beyond what the typical parent does. There's the extended breastfeeding, for example, which I'm very pleased I did. And other than Gutsy's chronic pneumonia problem and Spawnling's itsy bitsy bout of Kawasaki Disease less than a month after I weaned him, I think that went off without a hitch, don't you? And all that being home with them full-time has really paid off; I only get called 'stupid' by my toddler a handful of times every day: A true sign of the respect he's learned from our days together. And Gutsy waits a whole two weeks into July before letting me know how bored he is and how school is way more fun than I am.

Of course, we also can't forget all those healthy vegetarian meals I cook for them...

...Er, never mind.

Despite my best efforts, I've had to hand in my cape and admit that I am nothing more than a mediocre mom. It's not such a bad thing, really. It's a lot like being a plus-sized girl. You have to get up every morning and say 'Today, I will be the best darn fat chick and/or mediocre parent I can be!' and own it, just like that. Claim the title and strut proudly. Work with what you've got.

However, try as I might, I can't seem to get the general populace to accept my imperfections. They're obviously blinded by my overall greatness as a human being and it's left them confused. I understand it's difficult to view me as anything other than perfect. This is why I posted the incriminating photograph. Now everyone can see for themselves that I am not who they think I am. I mean, just look at that picture.

A super parent would have put way more grapes on that plate.

An Unhealthy Fear of Rejection

Last night I had to get up in front of an auditorium full of parents and explain why I would be the best candidate for a position on the school's governing board.

Why do I want to be on a boring ol' school committee? Because I'm interested in my child's education. Because I feel a civic responsibility to volunteer where I'm needed. Because I'm very good at it.

And maybe, just maybe, because it gives me a couple of hours out once a month where I can be around only adults and discuss something other than preschool television.

I had some great b.s. lined up in my noggin to say up in front of all those people and forgot at least half of it while I was up there. While I'm not generally nervous about public speaking, I'm positively terrified of rejection. I nominated myself because there were four positions available and only three people had been nominated. However, being the trend setter that I am, two more people wanted to jump on board after I did. That meant we were in for an actual election and that two people wouldn't be sitting around the table once a month with everyone else.

Therefore, when I got up and started doing my thing, I choked; I don't know if I appeared to, but I most certainly did. It's not like I had a lot of time to prepare a speech, you know? There wasn't supposed to be a speech because there wasn't going to be a need for one until those people started nominating themselves. Those people threw my groove off. How dare they put me in a position where I might not win by default?

When they came back in to announce the results, I was extremely nervous. I kept wondering how I was going to feel if I didn't get elected. I was up against people with education and experience that would make them prime candidates for the board. What did I have? A previous year on the board and a bit of experience I forgot to mention - I choked, remember? - coupled only with my good looks and incredible charm. It wasn't going to be enough. I was sure of it.

The first three elected officials were named and there was only one spot left. I was now up against a high school math teacher and a mom who seems to volunteer at the school way more than I do.

I wondered how I was going to walk out of there with my head up when this was all over. I knew so many people in that room it was insane. And I'd always ask myself who didn't vote for me. Those bastards.

***

Rejection sucks. In the days before I rose to this level of popularity I had been rejected more times than I can possibly count. To give a few examples:

• My best friend in elementary school used to threaten to find new friends all the time so I would buy her off with cards full of money because I didn't have any other kids to play with
  
• I've been told 'I'll play with you, but not at school because I don't want people to make fun of me' (and sadly still played with these kids after school because I had no self-respect)
• My friend asked the cute boy in our grade if he would dance with me and he laughed
• My boyfriend left me for my best friend (who laughed in his face when he declared his love, mind you, but that's not the point)
• Incidentally, I have never dumped anyone - I've only been dumped. How does that saying go: Always the dumpee, never the dumper?
  

That's just a sampling, but I think I've made my point.

The worst part of having a fear of being excluded is knowing, at the ripe old age of 33, that I'm blowing things out of proportion. I go through a lot of emotional turmoil over not being invited to a get-together even when I don't - and can't possibly - invite absolutely everyone to everything I host, either. Logistically I know I'm not being excluded because I suck, but those old tapes play over and over telling me that I'm forever going to be the loser and that this is one more example of that.

I need to replace that outdated tape deck with an iPod of positivity. iPositive?

Okay, that was lame. I deserve some serious rejection after that.

***

So, when I was sitting there last night looking cool and collected in my cute hairband and perfect metallic grey shoes, I was inwardly a complete spaz. Normally I'm outwardly a complete spaz, but I was trying to appear graceful as I prepared to walk the hall of shame.

"And our last elected official is The Maven," said the head of the committee.

Obviously. I thought to myself. Like there was ever any doubt?

(The good news is that I bounce back quickly, in case that wasn't apparent.)

I then proceeded to politely smile and wave as people clapped for me, trying not to think of the fact that I was the last name on that list and very likely received the least amount of votes of all the elected officials. I won't know if that's true because I never asked for confirmation. I chose to ignore it and bask in my political winnings.

I so rocked that vote.

The Mighty Super Spawn!

This morning I wrote a post. That post totally sucked. It was, in one of my loyal reader's words, "mysterious and vague... and a little bit icky". She was so right. It pretty much reflected my headspace as of late, which has been muddled and icky. So I've decided to delete that awful bit of confusing mess and start over. Here is attempt #2 at a decent bit of blogging.

This is Spawnling. By all appearances he is your average toddler. He has two older brothers, a father and a terribly good looking mother. He knows his colours, most of his upper case letters and how to count to fourteen. He boycotts the potty and has a healthy fear of the time out spot on the stairs.

But there's another persona lurking in the shadows. For, when the world needs righting and there are parks to conquer, Spawnling is magically transformed into Super Spawn!

Actually, he likes to be called Super Batmunk, after a most horrific Chipmunks at the Movies episode where they redo Batman in singing rodent form. It's also where he picked up Kenny Loggins' Danger Zone, which he sings at least once every waking hour. There's something very amusing about a two-year-old child singing a song from an 80's classic film. I almost want to teach him to say 'You can be my wing man any time!' but I don't want anyone answering with 'bullshit! You can be mine' because then he might add yet another unpleasant sentence to his growing vocabulary of words that make me blush.

Super Batmunk always wears a cape and sings Danger Zone. It's apparently in the rule book I'm not allowed to read because I'm not a superhero. The cape changes every few hours; sometimes it's an Ikea pillowcase, sometimes it's an old receiving blanket, and sometimes it's fabric I was going to make a pillowcase out of except that would mean I'd need to learn how to sew first, and who wants to do that? I'm busy enough as it is socializing and blogging keeping my house clean and caring for my children. It's not like I exactly have time to...

Sorry. Got a little sidetracked there.

Super Batmunk wears his cape to the park. He wears it to the grocery store. He wears is to bed. He wears his pirate patch (the sticky patch we put on his eye for a couple of hours every day and pray he doesn't take off) and says he's Pirate Super Batmunk. We make cars and planes out of anything we can find so he can whisk around and do whatever it is he does when he's in character. Because, you see, Super Batmunk doesn't appear to have an agenda. He doesn't hold a grudge or appear in any way like a vigilante. He never rescues people or fights bad guys. He simply runs/flies/drives around singing Danger Zone.

That, apparently, is all it takes to be a two-year-old superhero. Wouldn't it be better if every job description was that simple? It's a far cry from my stay-at-home-mom/writer/postpartum doula/social butterfly career. Fitting it all on a business card is virtually impossible.

Yesterday, I tried to help Pirate Super Batmunk stay distracted and thus prevent him from tearing off his eye patch prematurely. I figured a discussion about superpowers would be a good start.

I asked him if he could fly. He said no.

I asked him if he was super strong. He said no.

I asked him if he had super hearing or x-ray vision. He said no.

Super speed? Fireballs shooting out of his hands? Eyeball lasers? Enlarged toenails? No. No. No and no.

Creatively spent, I asked him what, exactly, his superpower was.

'I have spicy arms, Mom.' said Pirate Super Batmunk, picking at his patch.

'You... Huh?'

'Spicy arms. Don't touch them. They're hot.'

Goodness gracious, how I love that boy.

Yesterday, in the Supermarket

I was in the grocery store aisle, staring at all the school snacks in their enviro-rape packaging. My eyes quickly gravitated toward the Bear Paws. Just then, a very beautiful, very young and very thin woman parked her cart behind mine and came over to make her selections.

How on earth are people so thin? I thought to myself. She probably breathes in the steam from a bag of microwave popcorn and considers it a meal.

'I know, right? What on earth do you pick?' I casually asked. If I were a guy and picking up girls, I would have no problems striking up a conversation. The gift of gab is something I can work with. The spare tire and ridiculous outbursts of laughter would likely not score me a phone number, however.

'I'm thinking Bear Paws because they're on sale,' she contemplated. 'But which ones?'

Bear Paws? I know Bear Paws! My kids eat far too many of those! We've tried every flavour! I'm going to show off my wisdom so the pretty girl will want to be my friend, which make this shopping trip the anti-schoolyard of my life.

'Well,' I began with an air of confidence. 'My kids love the ones with chocolate chips.'

'Oh. Um,' she replied apprehensively. 'I'm trying to keep the kids away from chocolate for the most part.'

Oh, no! Red alert! Abort! Abort! She's one of those people. Act quick, Maven, or she'll make you look really bad!

'Yeah, me too. We're trying to gravitate away from all that stuff, too... I mean, more than usual.'

There! Good one. You just made it look so casual. You're so smooth you practically exhale silk.

She nodded her head. 'Exactly! I mean, they still have Easter chocolate so it's not like they need anything else. Right?'

Do not let your jaw drop. Do not let yourself ask how on earth the pod mother manages to maintain a store of springtime chocolate for her alien tentacle children when it's freaking October. Obviously they're feeding on the brains of innocent victims - likely prostitutes or the homeless because they would go practically unnoticed - and therefore, unlike you, they don't need chocolate to survive. Just let it go and walk away before she sticks her forked tongue through your eye socket.

But I just couldn't let it go. At the risk of losing my cerebellum, I watched her take the molasses flavoured Bear Paws off the store shelf and, just before she could put them in her cart, asked: 'Have you checked the sugar level of those? I think it's quite high.'

She flipped the box over and had a look at the side panel. Throwing me a sideways glance, she then grabbed a couple of other flavours and looked them over, too.

'You may find,' I casually mentioned 'that the "baked apple" variety has the lowest sugar content, but that "chocolate chip" isn't that much worse. In fact, it's better than most.'

'Interesting. Thank you!' she said.

She took the baked apple and not the chocolate chip. But you know what? I'm pretty great.

I then spent the next few minutes burying the junk food purchased from the following aisle underneath the fresh produce and whole grain cereals in my cart. Can't let the skinny otherworldly entity see that I just bought my kids a bag of M&Ms. She could consider me a lost cause and give me a lobotomy in the parking lot.

Can't be too careful.

(This post is dedicated to Liliane, AKA the Guilt Goddess, who is always good at poking a little fun at others with. Yesterday, her and Jason received the news that their dear little Jacob is CANCER-FREE! Congratulations, you guys!)