Intrepid Turns 13, part 2

Well, well, well. Look at who did thirty posts in thirty days. I believe some coffees and surprises were offered if I made it this far. I'm fully expecting the pay-out. I am, more than ever, an awesome human being.

It seems fitting that the last day of NaBloPoMo falls on the birthday of the boy who started it all: Intrepid is thirteen today, officially making me the mother to a teenager.

Thank the Gods that I'm also young, beautiful, talented, and intelligent or I might just be feeling really confused right now. I might be sitting here wondering how, exactly, that darling little baby I held in my arms thirteen years ago is now almost as tall as me and has feet so big that I can slip his shoes on with ease.

I might be wondering how this child of mine went from a baby who had no respect for my previous life, its sleep patterns, un-engorged breasts, and food that was actually prepared rather than microwaved, to a young man who used his some of his birthday money to buy his brothers Christmas presents.

I could be pondering how on earth we got here, with such a great kid who is loved by everyone he meets and who has made entering the teenage years anything but scary. We were painted a very grim picture of who this child would become. He was supposed to have learning disabilities, a severe case of ADHD, major behavioral and social issues, and quite possibly end up a dysfunctional delinquent.

It figures he'd break the mold, that one.

Intrepid's birthday ended exactly the way he wanted it: with a game of Super Mario Bros. Wii with his dad and I. Tomorrow, we visit the orthodontist so he can tell us how much his mouth is going to cost.

I'm so happy we're in the process of remortgaging.

My boy is growing up, and I love him more every year. Happy birthday, my wonderful son. It's amazing how someone so perfect could have come from someone like me. Miracles really do happen.

(photo courtesy of my sister, of course. The picture on the left is of Intrepid holding baby Gutsy for the first time. He then handed him back, ran into the bathroom and puked. Leave it to one of my gremlins to get a stomach flu when I'm birthing his brother.)

Intrepid Turns 13, part I

I promised a significantly better post than yesterday's, and I shan't disappoint. I even used a spiffy word like "shan't," so you know there's something good coming.

In just a few short hours, my firstborn, my darling Intrepid, will turn thirteen.

Thir-freaking-teen.

That's, like, a teenager. An official teen boy will be living in our house, complete with the large appetite, odd smells, and soon-to-be-cracking voice that goes with the territory. I'm feeling oddly sentimental. I used to think I'd dread this moment, and instead I'm so gosh darn proud of the kid that I need to get my write on and tell everyone about how instrumental he's been in shaping our lives.

Of course, every boy in our batch of gremlins has brought with him drastic changes and lots of chaos, anxiety, stress, pure unbridled joy. But there's something really special about the first.

I don't love him any more than the others, just differently. It's hard to describe exactly, but I'll try: Remember your first love? And I don't mean the guy who dry humped you on his parents' corduroy couch, or the girl who made you tingly in your happy places but purposely gave you the wrong phone number after the dance. I mean the first one who really loved you, and who you loved back. The one you remember years later because it just felt so gosh darn good to be together, experiencing love for the first time. Everything he or she did was new and exciting and fresh. You couldn't wait to see him or her again. You could go on and on about how incredible the person is, or how needlessly long this paragraph is becoming because people obviously get the point by now and you should move on.

Now, add in a dash of whatever you felt when you realized what the stars and planets were, what it meant to have them there, and how amazed you were by the thought of an entire universe of wonders out there.

Now, fold those two ingredients together and mix in the immense pride and sense of accomplishment you had when you taught your puppy to "sit", and you have some kind of an idea.

Love + Wonder + Pride = Firstborn.

The greatest thing about firstborns is that the older the get, the more they impress you. Sure, walking was cool, and that first word - or whatever you convinced yourself sounded like a first word - was neat-o, but seeing your child perform a piano solo or win a spelling bee? That takes the sugar-free cake.

But with Intrepid, there's a little something extra: What sets him apart from a lot of other kids is that he's defied nearly every expectation of who he would become. I'm going to brag in two parts, starting now and concluding tomorrow, on his birthday. Prepare to roll your eyes a great deal as I take a trip down memory lane.

Hey, it's my blog and I'll brag if I want to. Want to stroke your own ego in a purely exhibitionist fashion? Write your own damn blog. This one's mine and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

We just barely escaped the stigma of teen parenting. I was nineteen, and Geekster and I had been together for just over two years when we realized that, despite the bleak picture painted by a doctor about my fertility, not using condoms could result in a pregnancy. Oops.

There was never a time when we didn't want the baby. The ultrasound tech dating my pregnancy asked that very personal question, and when I said we were happy to become parents, she zoomed in on my six week old embryo's heartbeat. I was blown away, completely smitten, and I walked out a mother.

I've had countless people say things like 'There's no way I could have been a mother at twenty.' Actually, you could have.

Unless you're a dude.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend motherhood at that age for most people, but it's definitely doable. I'm going to step out of my usual grandiose skin for a minute and say, quite honestly, that there was nothing spectacular or unique about me.

Could you at least pretend to be shocked by this news? Thank you.

I was just a girl who loved a boy and made a baby with him. Then, we made a choice to have that baby (and I don't judge those who chose not to, just for the record). And then, we did everything we could to make it a good choice. It really was that simple.

In short, I wasn't born awesome: Motherhood made me awesome.

Were we scared? Of course. The Maven may be many things, but an idiot she is not. Geekster and I were poor, had very little education, no car or license, and had both only very recently quit smoking (like, maybe a week before conception). And folic acid? What on earth was that? I only started taking prenatal vitamins after my first doctor's visit at five weeks. "Scared" didn't even begin to describe it. But we were excited, too. And eager and happy to become parents, too. We felt ready emotionally and ready to grow our family. We would make it work, we said to each other.

There were several people who kindly informed us that having a baby at that time would be the end of our relationship, our aspirations to climb above the poverty line, and any chance at a life that wasn't straight out of an episode of Cops. Our baby would have only limited resources to become a well-adjusted, well-educated, productive member of society.

Supportive, positive people are wonderful, aren't they?

When I was alone, I would rub my belly and tell Embryo-trepid that it (we didn't know the gender) would be okay. Daddy and I wouldn't let anything bad happen. That together, we would shatter those stereotypes. After all, this child was from my womb, and therefore it was genetically impossible to suck.

And then, one day, at my routine 39 week checkup, I was told my blood pressure was suddenly sky high and I needed to get induced, like, now, because my baby and I were in danger. Young, first-time mothers are at a higher risk for preeclampsia. That was one stereotype my body was kind enough to honour, the bitch.

I'll spare you the gory details of a traumatic birth experience. Suffice to say that, fourty-eight hours later, what I knew about love and the meaning of life was instantly transformed with a cry.

My son entered my world, and that world shifted.

***

Continued tomorrow...




Oh, wait. I guess I should probably do some kind of cartoon thing, like this:

Will The Maven and Geekster feel they made a grave mistake?

Will their relationship fall apart?

Will baby Intrepid join a gang?

Will parenthood drive The Maven to drink (again?)

Stay tuned for another excited episode of As The Maven NaBloPoMos!

I'm way too tired to blog tonight.

I suck.

But I still get a post in, even though it's the worst post ever.

Tomorrow morning I'll write a much better one.

And we shall celebrate my awesomeness.

The End.

Wordless, uh, Friday? Yeah...

In keeping with the laziness trend of my day - which involved shopping most of the morning and afternoon, followed by cooking an embarrassingly unhealthy meal for my gremlins - I'm putting only minimal effort into this blog post.

Hey, it's after 7PM, Spawnling is tired but not sleeping yet, the older boys have been fighting since school let out, and I'm still running on about 95% less sugar than I was at this time last week (but my clothes are fitting much better. Hot damn! Who knew I could be more attractive than I already was?). I have Coraline and season one of Supernatural to start watching later (provided by the lovely Nat, who has an eye for, well, eye candy). A spooky evening with my hubby, a bowl of popcorn and my favourite slippers.

Sorry, but that so wins over blogging. I don't get cuddled by a hot guy while I blog. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Should we look into starting a CudLoBloMo? You know: Cuddle a Local Blogger Month? It could work, you know. We'd have to really screen the applicants, though.

Also, it was my idea, so I get first pick. Step back, bitches, because I can throw a mean sucker punch.

Anyway, I did spend a minute in The Gimp touching up a picture of some bathroom stall graffiti art I found in my local Wal-Mart a few weeks ago. No matter what I did to the colours, I couldn't get the faint pen writing at the bottom to show up clearly, so I did a quick trace over it with the airbrush. It was totally worth it; hopefully you'll now be able to see my reason for taking the picture in the first place.


I think we may want to call this an epic graffiti fail, times two.

The Sound of Chaos

Those who've started reading my ridiculous blog only recently may not know that our oldest boys, Intrepid and Gutsy, are hearing impaired.

Or hard of hearing, or deaf, or whatever.

Whatever you want to call it is fine - I'm not one of those people who takes offense when someone doesn't know the politically correct nom du jour for a disability.

Sorry, I mean a type of challenge for the differently-abled.

Um, I mean...

Ugh. This is what happens when I tell people I'm part indian, native, aboriginal, first nations. I trip myself up a great deal and get flustered like I've somehow insulted a quarter of myself. So, instead, I just say "some of my ancestors were horribly oppressed by my other ancestors, which is why I'm such a conflicted person."

Ffter several years of being a proud mom to deaf children, I still don't exactly know what to call them. The boys aren't completely deaf, after all: They have a moderate loss, which means there is enough residual hearing that they can function quite nicely with hearing aids. Furthermore, Gutsy's class is equipped with a soundfield system, which amplifies the teacher's voice. A nice bonus of the system is that it's supposed to help all the kids in the class by making it easier for everyone to tune out background noise and focus on the teacher.

Heck, if we had had a soundfield system in chemistry class, I might have actually learned something, instead of thinking the elements were different types of weather.



The boys have a bilateral sensorineural loss, which means the loss is in both ears, and that many of the little hairs in the cochlea that pick up sound and send it through the auditory nerve into the brain are dead, or missing. This likely happened before they hatched from my womb and is genetic in nature. I've been assured that no amount of prenatal gorging on Peanut M&Ms could have caused this.

My guilt is alleviated.

***

I used to worry all the time.

Would they make friends?

Would they get teased?

Would they be able to learn in a regular class?

Will they have a hard time dating in the future?

Will they be severely limited in their career choices?

Will they go completely deaf?

If it's a mom's job to worry, then I've been a workaholic. Keeping up that pace of concern involved a great deal of chocolate and crying. Mostly crying, but the chocolate played a great supporting role.

In the last few years, Intrepid and Gutsy have had months of speech therapy, dozens of hearing aid adjustment and repair appointments with the audioprosthologist (say that three times fast), several hearing tests, meetings with our wonderful support person from the oral school for the deaf (they attend regular public school but receive outside support from the MOSD), and not nearly enough trips to their very attractive ENT doctor.

Lately, two things have happened: I've cut chocolate from the cast list, and I no longer lose sleep over my little gremlins' pointy ears. They have shown repeatedly how people with a hearing loss can not only take part in the hearing world, but absolutely thrive in it. They amaze me with how well they've adapted to nearly every situation. And, just as importantly, they've shattered any stereotype I may have had about the hearing impaired. The grim picture I imagined of life as a deaf person has been replaced by the colourful, fun, chaotic and, dare I say, fairly normal lives of these two boys. In fact, I sometimes forget they're hard of hearing until I hear the T.V. blaring and see a pair of hearing aids sitting on top of the microwave (a favourite resting spot, for some reason).

This morning we had their audiology appointments; they used to be every six months so we could monitor the loss and see if it was progressive (meaning it would keep getting worse). However, we've now scaled back to a yearly visit because, if it is progressive, it's not happening yet.

I'm pleased to report that, once again, the boys' hearing is stable. As much as I'm sure they would continue to thrive if completely deaf, I'm beyond thrilled they can still hear me yell at them to please stop fighting and just sit down, for the love of all things good and true, before I lose my ever-loving mind.

So, I'll be joyous along with my American friends celebrating their Thanksgiving (you do things really late there - maybe you should move Christmas into January to stay consistent). Yanks, If you're lacking any gratitude, please let me know. I have a lot to spare today.

Plees Lern Tu Spelle

This piece of paper had been taped to my fridge for the last several months until this morning, when I finally recycled it. It's been a constant reminder to continue to make education a priority in the Maven household.

The paper was initially taped to my son Intrepid's back in grade 6. If I remember correctly, it was an exercise in complimenting and compliment-taking.

See anything interesting?

Other than the obvious - that my child is very bright and talented like his mother - there is an underlying tone of, well, kids who can't write good.

A local friend of mine went to a parent-teacher interview recently, and was told by her daughter's teacher that our school board doesn't really fail anybody. I'm not sure exactly what that means or whether or not the teach was being facetious, but looking at that paper, I think there may be some truth to it.

There are little errors. For example, one girl (and I'm saying "girl" because she wrote in pink and has pretty handwriting - frankly I'm surprised she didn't dot her "i"s with hearts) misspelled "intelligent." It's an honest mistake, and one that most adults would easily make. Heck, I would, too, if I didn't have to type the word every time I describe myself.

But there are other, more disturbing errors hidden in these compliments.

You the coolist: Seriously? You at least eleven years old and you don't know the 'est' rule? Not good.

Your always happy: Apparently Intrepid owns the word 'always' and it is happy.

Good drawen: I can't figure out if the student meant to write 'good drawen' or 'good drawer.' The second would be slightly more acceptable. And I suppose I can't fault the kid for making an 'r' look like an 'n' - it was written on my son's back, after all. It's not a bloody calligraphy contest.

Oh, but my absolute favourite - the one that makes me laugh every single time - is this one:

I remember back in the day when I never know you

Not only is there a tense error so blatant it makes my skin crawl, but I honestly can't find the compliment in this sentence. He should have failed the back writing test, dammit.

Anyway, I think these grade six writings are proof that we need to rethink our touchy-feely approach to education. I am all for preserving the tender self-esteem of our youth whenever possible. However, I do not think we're adequately meeting the needs of our children and community as a whole if we don't hold people up to a higher standard. It's preposterous (I had to spell check that word) to allow these kids to go on to a higher education if they can't formulate a decent sentence.

Do we want our lawyers to make typos in our legal documents? I don't know about you, but I want my doctor and/or pharmacist to be able to do basic equations well enough that she won't get my medication dosage wrong. I like the idea of tomorrow's librarians being able to understand the concepts in books before they share them with my grandchildren at story time. And if the carpenter putting in my new bamboo flooring (a girl can dream, right?) can't figure out the area of each room, I will wedge a rudimentary geometry set where the sun don't shine.

When I hear that a teacher has several kids who are not deemed "special needs," and yet read and write a full three grade levels below where they should, that worries me tremendously. And when she apparently says she can't fail them due to board policy, that worries me even more. I hope we're being misinformed, and that kids do get held back when there's a problem. That would be the sensible thing to do. Sure, some confidence might be shaken for a little while, but a lot less than seeing red pen all over your thesis paper or getting turned down for jobs because you spelled it 'rezumay.'

In the Maven household, there is little worry when it comes to literacy and education as a whole. Geekster and I run a tight ship, which includes instilling a love of reading, sitting with the kids when they do their homework (or at least nearby when Intrepid does his), getting the boys hooked on museums and other fun learning places, and generally being proactive in our gremlins' education. After all, we can't expect the public system to do everything - it is government-run, you know.

I'd send this blog post to the board of education, but I'd likely have to copy it in triplicate and attend 37 different subcommittee meetings to see any action. In the meantime, all that red tape might suffocate me. Instead, I'll probably just ask the principal for clarification.

Taking the easy route is the coolist.

Maven out.

Why I Should Not be Allowed to Make Analogies

I was glad to have coffee with my fantastic friend Nat this evening. I did so without having read her most recent blog post, which involves a scary trip to the hospital with The Boy and his new friend, Mr. Asthma Attack. This happened only two days ago, and the feelings are still very raw for poor Nat. Seeing your child that sick, with machines monitoring his oxygen levels and a mask full of medicine to help him breath, is one of those scary situations a parent hopes to never find themselves in. Well, she found herself in it, and I didn't realize when I walked into the coffee shop how much I needed to be there for my friend.

I'm so glad I could be there.

It's yet another example of how a bad situation - like Spawnling's illness three months ago, Gutsy's stay at the hospital for pneumonia 18 months ago, and Intrepid's exciting broken femur episode 2 years ago - can be manipulated into a positive. As it turns out, I've become an unwilling expert in the field of childhood injuries and illnesses requiring prompt emergency treatment and hospitalization. I do not like it, Sam I Am. But it is what it is, and I sure am glad to lend that ear and tea (which was free and provided by my distraught friend who was too upset to realize she buys way more than I do).

My company costs about $2.50 an hour. The Maven is a cheap whore. Spread the word.

How interesting that I would happen to write yesterday's post about Spawnling's traumatic experience changing me for the good, and then find myself with someone going through something similar tonight.

Ethereal forces, you keep me smiling.

I wanted to say thank you, once again, to everyone who has been so amazingly supportive over the last few months. I don't think I can say thank you enough times or in enough ways. Whether I know you in real life (lucky you) or only online (in which case you really should put "meeting The Maven" on your bucket list, trust me) your kindness has helped heal this huge gash in my heart. I'm no idiot: the sole reason I've been able to be a strong mom for Spawnling is because I have good backup. A ton of sidekicks. Dozens upon dozens of Robins. Thank you, and if you ask nicely I'll let you use the utility belt.

That's the way the world works though, doesn't it? Give and ye shall receive, and whatnot. It's that whole karmic circle thing: My life was shit on toast, people helped me make new toast that didn't have shit on it, I ate that instead and felt better, and now I'm helping someone else with their choice of breakfast spreads.

That was, by far, the worst, and yet, best analogy I've ever come up with. I don't know whether to pat myself on the back or delete my blog altogether because I don't deserve to call myself a writer.

We had a perfectly good day today, my herd of gremlins, co-shepherd and I. Spawnling and I went to playgroup and he only pushed one little friend, and only because he was overwhelmed with joy (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). We had our friend Jacob over for lunch, and then The Madre over for tea, after which I passed the shepherd's crook over to her for a little while so I could clean the kitchen.

I made one of the world's laziest dinners: sandwiches coupled with a piddly amount of baby carrots on the plate so I can say it comes with a serving of vegetables.

Then I went out for coffee with Nat, and now I'm back here, blogging about nothing extraordinary. Just another example of me being awesome, people around me being nearly as awesome, and shit on toast.

Deep Thoughts, by The Maven

I'm doing okay with this next-to-no-sugar thing. When the cravings come, I want to grab a bag of the white stuff and dry hump it, but otherwise I'm fine. I've been (barely) swallowing tablespoonfuls of unsweetened yogurt throughout the day to destroy the candida metropolis undoubtedly thriving in my body. The sugar mine is closed, little yeasties. Pack up your belongings and move on out.

Spawnling's withdrawls have been more... pronounced. While his mood swings are less intense than they were, the unpredictability of when and what he'll destroy next has been the theme of the day. The sac of cane sugar that broke the mule's back was when he scribbled on my antique chair - correction: my late grandmother's antique chair. We are not amused. Part of this evening will be spent learning how to delicately remove pen from fabric.

My mind is clearer, my mood is more stable and I have more energy. Now as long as I can continue to resist the siren songs of Lady Chocolate, I should be alright. It's a good thing I'm familiar with the philosophy of 12 step programs, because one day hour at a time is about all I can do right now.

***

As I was filling my cart with wholesome foods at the grocery store tonight, a chatty and adorable Spawnling in tow, I realized something.

No, not how awesome I am. That was established a good while ago. Keep up with the news, already!

I realized that, while Spawnling's health scare in August was traumatic enough that I still get teary when I think about it, what it has done to me on a personal level isn't all bad. In fact, I would say that the woman who walked her son through Kawasaki Disease and all the scary potential diagnoses leading up to it, is a better person than she used to be. Someone who sees how beautiful, how precious, and how short life is.

I was given a second chance at living when I got clean and sober at fourteen. I walked into rehab a shell and walked out a new person who wanted more for herself. I was given new breath yet again when I became a mother, and I learned there is a kind of love deeper than any other. It was transformational. And exhausting.

And then, when it looked like I might lose my littlest boy in those dark days of August, something snapped inside me. I remember the exact moment it snapped - you can't forget that feeling.

At first I thought it was a bad something and would require a phone call to my therapist. And maybe some drugs. And Oreos. But as shock and sadness lifted, as he gained his strength back and, finally, as his heart was given the all clear - for the next year, at least - everything looked different, felt different.

It wasn't intentional, but it seems I've given myself a makeover from the inside out. I've re-prioritized what's important to me, who's important to me, and what I'm willing to put time and effort into. I've had no problems cutting ties with people who are unhealthy - passive-aggressive, immature, continuously self-destructive. In fact, there are a few people I spoke to regularly in August that I don't speak to at all anymore. The funny thing is that it's not done out of anger or spite or a sense of superiority; I'm just not willing to put in the effort to keep a one-sided or very unhealthy friendship afloat. If I get sucked into someone else's negativity, then I'm wasting my energy on those things and not putting it into the important stuff.

Then, exhausted, I binge on chocolate. This is a lose/lose situation, obviously.

At the same time. I think I've been more real, more assertive, more kind, more honest. I cherish the people in my life, I love them deeply, I let them know. Spawnling has taught me to embrace every day - except during PMS time, when I get a couple of days to hate everyone's face.

***

So, this sugar thing? This didn't just randomly come about like I thought it had. It was a natural progression. I've been weeding out the negative in my life, and eventually I dug deep enough to hit my diet, that's all. It's very simple. It feels right because it is. I've arrived at a place and time when taking care of myself and my loved ones is the only thing that makes sense. I'm transformed. I don't think I can go back to who I used to be. But then again, I don't think I want to.

And there you have it. My deep thoughts for the day, brought to you by a three-year-old, a grocery store trip, and an experience that maybe I don't want to forget as much as I want to look at in a different light.

Holy crap, I'm awesome.

You are my Candy Girl

Yeah. So, like, I cut my refined sugar intake way back the last few days, and today it's catching up with me. My brain is mush. Then again, my waistline is mush and my heart will turn to mush soon if I don't start taking better care of myself. Thus, less sugar and a detoxing Maven have we.

I've tried doing this before, but always to an extreme. No sugar. Ever. At all. The end. It was doomed to epic failure right from the start. I'm not doing things differently this time and incorporating a neat little idea called 'in moderation'. And not in the way I used to incorporate it, by implying that if I only eat one chocolate bar a day that's 'in moderation'. I'm good at many things, including lying to myself. It's a curse. Getting real about this little sugar problem was a slow process, but I feel like I'm there now. I want to eat better. I want to feel better. I want those things more than cupcakes. This is a very positive thing.

I've taken my family on the journey with me, explaining to the boys the benefits of eating more whole foods. Despite sounding like an after school special, the little chit chat went rather well. Intrepid was interested in sugar's ability to weaken the immune system, and found it ironic that, after two days of binging on Halloween candy, he came down with H1N1. I was going to state that it could just be coincidence, but his enthusiasm was intoxicating and I didn't want to ruin the moment.

Gutsy was all for it, until after dinner. Then, he asked what we were having for desert. I said we weren't having desert. He glared at me. After about an hour of persistence, we settled on some graham crackers. We either both won or both lost that fight. I'm not sure which.

Spawnling is a big reason why we decided that sugar needs to take a backseat in our lives. He is completely and utterly addicted to the stuff.

No clue where he gets it from.

He's a typical addict. He craves, he binges, he gets high, and he crashes. When he crashes he's the moodiest little demon on two hooves. He tips chairs, throws things, randomly slaps people, and then realizes the monster he's become and sobs apologetically. Dr. Phil would beg me for video footage of these tantrums. Given our current debt, I wouldn't say no. Give him a bag of cookies and watch the money magic happen.

I think this will be a good change for everyone. We'll likely all feel like complete ass for a few days as we adjust to eating less refined crap, but by the end of the week we'll hopefully see less chair tipping and, I hope, a little more room in my jeans. I love chocolate, but I love my kids significantly more, and I want to be around for them for a long, long time. I need to marry my health and only have the occasional tryst with mistress sugar.

It's been a good run, baby, but we just can't do long term. It's not you, it's me, and all those other things we say when we're trying to delicately end a relationship.

Now shut up and pass the sunflower seeds.

Dog Walkers Don't Need Cappucinos

I like Christmastime, I really do. The music, the lights, the warm hearts, family gatherings, and my belly full of seasonal lattes.

I won't lie: the lattes inch further up the list every year. Soon I'll be wishing everyone a merry Gingerbread Spice day.

And I like buying gifts for people. They'll be small this year to match our budget, but thoughtful and wrapped in love, with a pretty little boy of joy.

(I know that was puke-tastic. I wrote it that way on purpose. If Jobthingy can make us gag on her and her boyfriend's love every freaking Saturday, I want to join the party and stamp my blog name on some barf bags. It's good advertising until you get close enough to smell it.)

But something happened this morning that cracked my pretty snow globe and spilled Christmas spirit all over the kitchen floor. I got a flier (I hate fliers, by the way - they make trees cry) from Second Cup, a reputable Canadian coffee house. Excited at first, I opened it up and instantly lost my holly jolly. There were two reasons, and they are:

1. There are no coupons. How dare someone make a flier about coffee and not include a coupon? When I'm Universal President I will demand a law be put into place banning such terrible business practices.

2. There is a list of people one should "remember" to buy gifts for. Surprisingly, this list is my biggest beef; moreso than the lack of coupons. Maybe it's because I'm not a commercial kind of gal. I shudder when, on the morning after Halloween, I find Christmas decorations hanging in the grocery store. I despise hearing Xmas muzac pumped of mall speakers any time before December 1st. So frankly, this list made me want to jingle someone's bells, and I mean that in the least jolly and least perverted sense possible.

There are plenty of occasions to give plenty of people the gift of coffee. Pretty much any time is fine with me (like when the Coffee Fairy did so this morning, which was so good of her). However, there are certain people I do not feel the need to buy caffeine or caffeine-related products for at Christmas time. People like:

Workmates, from the boss to the mailroom boy: Um, seriously? If you're going to bribe your way to the next promotion, at least make it sparkly and diamond shaped like, oh, say, a diamond. And the "mailroom boy"? For reals? I didn't realize we were living in a 1950's comic book.

Personal trainer and yoga instructor: Thank you for showing me how weak and pathetic my body is. Please accept this gift of carb-filled hot chocolate mix, which of course I will not drink because it might make my soul fat.

Nanny and babysitters: Wait. You can have both? At the same time? Why wasn't I aware of this? I don't have either, but if I did I'd be really broke and couldn't afford to get them much anyway. However, speaking from experience as a former daycare provider, if you're going to spoil anyone this year, make it the chick who wipes your kid's butt for (very little) money. She's a gift from the heavens and you should treat her as such.

Hair stylist and esthetician: I tip them every. single. time. Now I have to buy them a Christmas gift, too? I appreciate what they do, but doesn't my monetary gratuity reflect that already? (Incidentally, I don't have a regular hair stylist or esthetician at the moment. But if I did I suppose I'd have the means to buy them gifts)

School bus driver and dog walker: What the hell? Are you lumping the person who walks my canine and the person I trust to get my child safely to and from school in the same category? This is not equal billing. It's like saying "Influential artists, like Beethoven and N*Sync" I don't have a dog walker, but I'm sure they're lovely people. Still, they don't drive a large vehicle full of loud children down busy streets to and from a busy school. That person is a saint and deserves some Christmas cookies. I never forget the bus driver.

Doorman and cleaning people: Aha! Now I'm starting to figure out who this pamphlet is really for. People who live in Manhattan. I've seen enough movies to know that all doormen reside in Manhattan.

Doctor, dentist and veterinarian: Are you kidding me? There have been years when I've indirectly purchased a new game console and half a trip to Maui for my family's medical professionals. They should be buying me Second Cup gifts.

Neighbours and friends: And maybe acquaintances, too? Oh, and that guy who drives past my house in the morning? And the old lady I sometimes see in the produce section of the grocery store on Tuesdays? We are in a recession, people. The money tree I planted hasn't bloomed yet, but as soon as it does I'll start boxing up a little something for all my Twitter followers, too. Promise.

What was supposed to be a handy dandy guilt list checklist has now been picked apart by yours truly. Second Cup, I may have been more forgiving if you had included a $1.00 off coupon or some such. It would have lessened the blow of your blatant faux pas - the one where you insinuate we should buy for absolutely everyone, thus sucking the life out of our bank accounts and destroying the earth simultaneously.

Everyone needs to stop killing Christmas. Besides, I'm sure just knowing me is enough of a gift for most people.

Rant over. Goodnight.

Deliciously Defensive Diva, Complete with Sore Arm

Ow. Oww. Owwwwwwww!

That's me, whining.

Spawnling, Gutsy, and I got the H1N1 vaccine today. It didn't hurt at all.

Until later, that is. And now it feels like a professional pitcher just threw a brick at me from six feet away - and that's after taking Advil.

I've had flu shots before, but I don't remember a single one hurting quite this much. I would get some muscle aches and soreness around the injection site, but nothing that travels into my back and neck like this. Still, it's better than getting the flu - especially if you're asthmatic like Gutsy or me.

I gave it a lot of thought, and ultimately decided that we would get vaccinated when it was easy to do so. No standing in line in the wee hours of the morning, no waiting in a crowded, disorganized environment; The Maven likes good service and is willing to wait for it. I want my social medicine served with a side order of quality, which is exactly what we got today.

I've been PMSing this week and am frankly a bit disappointed by the lack of rudeness over my choice to get this vaccine. Like the flu, the preventative has been blown out of proportion to make it seem so big and so scary and so greed-driven that everyone seems to have an opinion one way or the other. I was sure people would be more confrontational when I said I was getting vaccinated. Instead, most friends who don't want the vaccine are being rather polite about the whole thing.

Why can't you just argue with me? Can't you see I'm bitchy and need an outlet? Don't you want me to lose my shit on you? We can always make up after, anyway. And if I'm really good, I can make it seem like your fault and you'll buy me a coffee and we'll both feel better. This could be a good thing for our relationship.

Mostly for my side of the relationship, but whatever - that's the important side.

I have, however, magically resisted the urge to start a fight when someone is trying to be politically correct by saying 'The vaccine isn't for me'. It's a very nice thing to say, isn't it? And the non-PMSing me would never think of countering such a perfectly acceptable statement. After all, it's not targeted at yours truly; it's not a statement of superiority veiled in a seemingly benign comment. Reading too much into things is what Typical Maven strives to avoid.

But the PMS-infested Maven, well, she wants to lash out at people who don't seem to understand what a child with weakened lungs goes through with a cold, let alone a flu. She wants to viciously reply with 'Want to know what's not for me? Seeing my son gasp for breath because his lungs are filled with fluid. That's way less appealing than a vaccine, don't you think?'

She wants to describe what it's like to have a child with low oxygen who has to stay at the hospital for several days on i.v. antibiotics, and get mask treatments, and stay in an isolated room. Because a Maven ravaged by hormones gets defensive, and thinks people don't understand her, and plays victim beautifully. It's a great excuse to dine on a big bag of jellybeans and feel sorry for herself because people just don't understand.

Well, that could of been a lot of wasted energy and hurt feelings. Really, I could skip the entire first part and just have the jellybeans. That seems to make more sense.

I realized today how defensive I was feeling about the whole thing, and then stopped and laughed at myself - which I often do, but this time I had to hold my arm because it hurt. What a silly not-so-little person I am. I mean, I'm The Maven, for crying out loud. I make fantastic decisions (minus the chocolate eating and occasional late-night coffee, which we all know keeps my body humming in a very manic state until the wee hours of the morning.)

I did my research, I weighed the pros and cons, I saw firsthand what the flu did to my 12-year-old, and knew it could do a lot worse to my pneumonia-prone seven-year-old or me, the awesome asthmatic. I made the right choice for me, for my family, based on the data available right now. What's there to be defensive about? And, really, it's a flu and this is just a flu shot, which we always get because we're at higher risk of getting up close and personal with a ventilator or a coffin. It's sort of a no-brainer, so I don't see why I even agonized over it.

I'm pleased to say the insecure portion of my otherwise stellar personality will be very soon locked away for another three weeks or so. I don't like to let her out much. She's a drag at parties, kind of like a whiny chick with a sore arm.

Which would explain why I'm not at a party right now.

Let's Talk About Debt

I want to be someone who has no debt and is married to someone who is also debt-free.

And then I woke up.

Funny stuff, right? Well, maybe not. I do know a select few people who don't have a cloud of balance owing hanging over their heads, don't cringe at the first sign of a bill, and for whom Christmas is not a dirty word. They are few and far between, even in my sizable circle of friends and acquaintances, but they do exist. When encountering such a person - and after the tsunami of envy retreats back into my ocean of inappropriate feelings - I like to pick their brains about how they've managed to wind up in such a good place. What I've concluded is that the debt-free are made up of three types of individuals described below:

1. The Ex-Indebted

This is the woman who used to have enough shoes in her closet to lose a small child, or the guy with a television and entertainment system impressive enough to make him both blind and deaf. They received too much schooling and not enough salary, bought a shiny new penis-extender sports car, and have a great deal of Facebook pictures of themselves on a beach somewhere. Or, in some more unfortunate cases, they simply fell on some really hard times. In short, they have a checkered financial past and escaped it by the skin of their teeth. These are the people who are either completely reformed cash-only spenders, or in between huge money mistakes. Either way, they currently have no debt and that's good for them. Jerks.

2. The Very Fortunate

I try very hard not to hate these people, because they are normally quite nice - just too damn lucky. We all know them: they come from a good family - or at the very least a family where mom's drinking is done mostly in private and dad's little hooker problem is swept quietly under the rug. A family where Little Darling is put through college, her wedding paid for, the down payment on her first home taken care of. She got a job through a friend right out of college and makes good coin. Rich family members fall over dead at least once every decade and she inherits money for all those overseas trips she wants to take. No major job losses, marriage break-ups, serious illnesses or dismemberment. They are good people, happy people, god awful to be around people. However, their backs are take on a funny shape due to the large, golden horse shoe stuck way up their asses. At least you look better in a skirt.

3. The Angelic One

This is the person who, for whatever reason, has it all figured out right from the start. Maybe mom and dad were great with money, or explained to the kids how they should have done things, or taught them that credit cards were only to be used in an emergency. This person pays cash for everything, saves up money while commuting by bus instead of - gasp! - taking out a car loan. Perish the thought! They buy a modest home, live a modest lifestyle, completely ignore the Joneses and whatever they're doing, and are just... happy. These are the people I place high up on a pedestal and admire from below. I pace around them, trying to figure out what makes them so much better at this whole capitalist society thing than I am.

***

A few days ago, we noticed we haven't been able to make much of a dent in our debt situation in quite some time. The company Geekster works for has been bitch-slapped by this recession and that sting has been passed on to its employees in the form of hour reductions - two days every three weeks, to be exact. For a family of five on one income, that's not an easy pill to swallow. And for one who's been living at or slightly above its means while doing renovations to the fixer-upper home they bought two years ago, choking on the proverbial pill would be a more accurate description.

It's been a full year of reduced pay, and we've realized something critically important: Geekster pay doesn't really need to come back up (although that would be nice for many reasons), we need to reassess our lifestyle. We're piggish consumers in many ways, buying on emotion, on impulse. We're not horrible, but we don't always make great choices. Our latest not-so-great choice? The hot tub. How did we justify it? It was on sale, and still way less than any major vacation - which, by the way, we've never taken, not once, ever. It's easy to justify by saying it's like a vacation that keeps on giving, or some other crap. But the truth is that we couldn't afford it or a vacation. It was a dumb move.

See, we both left home at sixteen, and were faced with the harsh reality of sleeping in stairwells and shelters and half-way houses, lining up at the welfare office and the food bank, living with cockroaches and above some very scary drug dealers with an even scarier rottweiler. At nineteen, when Intrepid was born, a friend came to visit and said "He's very cute, but you realized you just fucked up your life." She went on to say we'd never get out of poverty and I would end up a single young mom with no education and nowhere to go. A really thoughtful thing to say to a new mom, wasn't it?

She has not received a single Christmas card from us, I'll have you know. And also, I think I'm way happier than she is. And more awesome. And somewhat prettier. Just sayin'.

It's been seventeen years since I left home, sixteen since I met the love of my life, and nearly thirteen since our first gremlin was born. Sometimes I think we're too hard on ourselves. Statistically, life should really suck right now. We shouldn't be together, let alone smitten with each other. Our son should be a delinquent who has a lot of trouble in school. I should probably have a litter of kids-- I suppose that part is somewhat true. Three is a small litter, right? And we should be quite poor and regretting the decision to keep our baby.

As per usual, I am pleased to be a statistic abnormality: Happy, married, good kids, food to eat, home owner, a vehicle to drive and good credit. Oh, and an adorable smart phone I can't really afford but have to keep for at least the next 2.5 years. You can see I'm pretty broken up about that.

Soon, I'll get discovered for my ravishing beauty or exceptional writing talents and we won't have to worry about juggling the bills anymore. Until then, I'll pat myself on the back on nights like tonight, when I walked out of a very tempting Tupperware party and didn't buy a single thing.

I'm ridiculously proud of myself.

Instant gratification. Wants masking as needs. We're as guilty and, dare I say, imperfect as the next person. Judge if you'd like, but I get to think about all my mistakes while sitting in my warm, bubbly, amazing, relaxing mistake of a hot tub. So there.

(I might let you into my hot tub if you tell me about your debt/lack of debt and give me some fantastic advice - and don't have any communicable diseases.)

Future Career Paths for the Gremlins

Ever wonder where your little wonders will be in a few years? Well, nobody knows your kids better than you. My darling gremlins will ultimately choose their own ways to buy me wonderful Mother's Day gifts, but in case they need my wisdom to guide them, I have a few suggestions:

Intrepid:

Hoarder
This isn't exactly a career path, but since they now have a show dedicated to it, maybe Intrepid could make some money by allowing cameras into his cluttered chaos. A walk through his living room in twenty years could reveal anything from half-eaten snack wrappers to moldy old stacks of locker and desk entrails. Why does he insist on keeping every single workbook he's ever used? WHY?! I'm all for his love of education, but not an entire forest's worth in a 10x10 bedroom.

Screenplay Writer
Ah, talented, just like his mother! Intrepid is a child filled with great ideas and just enough procrastination to always put off writing the next big thing until later. Like I said, a chip off the ol' block; It's a good thing we started our family by accident and didn't put it on the to-do list or I would have been a 55-year-old first time mother. The good thing about screenplays is that they fetch a pretty penny - there's some motivation. And, he can keep his mother in the lap of luxury like she deserves (and would provide for herself, eventually. You know, when she got around it.)



Gutsy

Professor of Whine-ology
He could teach it in university; from the tone that makes a my eye twitch, right down to launching himself upon my bed as he says - for the tenth time - how incredibly hungry he is despite just eating dinner followed closely by a granola bar. Don't I know how starving he is? Don't I care? It's a delicate art, whining, and it takes an experienced professor to teach it properly. Before long, every student in his class would have a new car and their books paid by highly irritated parents who thought the whining stage ended at some point.

Fashion Designer
Today we went to an indoor play area with our good friend Jacob, his baby brother Liam and their mom/my awesome friend The Guilt Goddess. We had a blast, of course, despite my feelings of disappointment over the lack of snooty, distant, upscale moms who TGG says regularly frequent the area. I had my best fake smile ready, and was really looking forward to talking to them about my fixer-upper home and the van I'm still driving from - gasp! - 2005! There's nothing like some purposely uncomfortable conversation to make my PMS Wednesday a good one. Anyway, before the boys left they handed in the tickets earned from playing games in exchange for little prizes. They had everything from ninja action figures to stickers and kazoos. What did Gutsy pick? A necklace with a happy face and a blue bracelet - to match his blue outfit - of course. And earlier this week, he threw a fit in the morning because his clothes didn't "match". Now, if he could turn this passion of his into a runway career, not only would he make some killer cash, but those snooty moms would be clambering to share a bench with TGG and I at the park. "Um, Maven? Do you think Gutsé would design a gown for me to wear at the Ottawa Art Gala?" See? A win/win situation.



Spawnling:

Actor in a 2025 remake of The Hulk
Dude can go from happy to tantrum in mere milliseconds. Today I told him not to walk his new toy on the hood of someone else's car, which resulted in him yelling 'No!' and running full-tilt into the parking lot. His impulse control button has been malfunctioning as of late. I've contacted the manufacturer, but so far no recall has been issued on this model. We're going to have to go MacGyver and fix it with a shoelace, a piece of gum, and maybe six months of maturation. Help me.

CEO of a Candy Factory
The Spawn has a serious sugar addiction. No idea where he gets it. Nope, no clue whatsoever. Must be from his dad. I swear, all he needs is a top hat and a really bad suit and he could be Willy Wonka. And maybe, just maybe, he could meet Johnny Depp, who played Willy Wonka a few years ago. And maybe, just maybe, Johnny Depp would like to come visit the factory and meet Spawnling's mom. And maybe, just maybe, Johnny Depp would like to sneak off and knock boots with me in a bin of cotton candy.

Oh, sorry. This is about my kids' career paths. I'll save my fantasy romps with Johnny (and Chris, and the brothers in Supernatural, and nearly the entire cast of House, and...) for another post.

It's That Time Again, Folks!

...And I'm not talking Christmas.

I had a coffee with a friend this morning, another coffee with a friend this afternoon, and a quick and efficient shopping trip between those two social events.

My children are all home, safe and healthy, and have only had one major fight in the last 90 minutes (a good afternoon, I'd say)

While I haven't lifted a finger except when it's been gripped around a mug, my house is not filthy; Not spotless, but not filthy.

And I am eating chocolate.

I should be really happy. And I am not.

Why? Because I'm PSMing, that's why. It's making me moody and sleepy and weepy. I'm worried about report cards, I'm concerned about money, and I'm stressed about the fact that I don't have a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Everybody needs a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Life isn't fair, dammit!

I'm feeling fine, body-wise. I don't have the flu like I thought I might. I don't have anything but a consistent feeling of wanting to scream and/or cry into a pillow. And maybe I want to hit some things. And perhaps yell at some people for good measure. Maybe I'll find someone to take this out on, like the people that invented "child safety seals" on caps. Ever seen what a naked crazy-glued toddler looks like? I have. It's not pretty.

Gutsy got his first report card home today and it wasn't so great. He technically failed 1st term French by three points, and scored below class average in practically every subject. This means he passed, but barely.

As I've mentioned previously, this is Gutsy's first year in a French immersion class. We had placed him in the English stream last year because of his hearing loss, but realized over the summer that he would likely need more of a challenge. Now I'm rethinking that.

Except I'm not, really. I know this is a bump in the road and that he's working really hard. By the end of the year, he's going to be a rock star in the immersion world. That pessimistic view is PMS Maven talking, and she is one negative little bitch. She likes to draw unhappy conclusions in life and whisper them in my ear for two or three days every month. I would appreciate it if she left my life entirely, but I haven't figured out how to take her off my Facebook list yet.

Even Mavens have low days, folks. I know it's hard to believe, but all this - *making wild circles with my arms all around my body* - needs a perfection break sometimes. It's scheduled maintenance: every 29 days the production of Awesome comes to a halt while the machinery is oiled with sweet, chocolaty deliciousness, and reset with a 20 minute power nap.

Tonight I have a meeting with Sponsette followed by a coffee with Photo Lush. That technically qualifies as four coffee dates in one day. If that doesn't cheer me up, I don't know what will.

(Damn. I take back what I said earlier. They're having another fight. Must go. Someone pass me a pillow, will you?

To scream/cry in, of course. What did you think I was going to do with it? I'm not the murderous kind of moody. Try to keep things in perspective, ok? You're overreacting. Is it that time of the month? Want some foil eggs?)

Extreme Makeover, SAHMayhem Edition

So I may have the flu, and I may not. Who knows? Last night it felt like I had been inappropriately touched by a steamroller, but by this morning it was more like being lightly fondled by a dump truck. I had a bit of nausea today, some aches, and a handful of chills, and the thought of doing much more than checking out LOLCats seemed ridiculously difficult. Mostly I watched Spawnling make a mess and fed him sugary things to keep the peace.

This afternoon I feel almost normal. Well, I think. I don't believe I've felt normal for a very long time. I lost that feeling the first time I stayed up all night with a teething baby. My sanity batteries ran out by 4AM and to this day I still can't find the charger.

The good news? Being sort-of-but-not-really-sick gave me an excuse to give the blog a facelift. The old girl was looking rather tired, even with Pippy Longstocking and her cup of coffee lounging in the background.

And, yes, I made the logo myself. I do have talents other than being very beautiful, really smart, and scrambling to the top of the popularity dogpile with ease, you know.

I'd ask everyone to post an honest opinion of my new custom theme, but instead I'll just have you lie and tell me you like it, even if you don't. I have absolutely NO desire to change it, so I'm afraid any complaints will fall on deaf ears.

And besides, I'm too *cough, cough* sick to design a do-over. What kind of harsh critic are you? Get a life, slave driver.

The Incredible Irony

I was dying for Gutsy to turn seven. Eager. Excited. Stoked.

As the legends go, seven is the magical age of reasoning. Children are struck by the almighty hand of common sense, thus propelling them into a new behaviour where they - get this - stop and think about what they're about to do. They call to memory previous situations and make an educated guess as to what might happen should they choose door number 1 or door number 2.

For example, Gutsy may, upon careful consideration, not scream at the top of his lungs at one of his his brothers if he sees no reason behind doing so, because it never got him anywhere before. He may choose not to throw himself on the floor as soon as the word "no" parts from my lips, because it is not reasonable to do so.

See where I'm going with this?

Anyway, in the last few weeks we've noticed a change in our normally quick-to-react middle gremlin. He yells less, and his claws only come halfway out most of the time. He has this new ability to retract them before it gets nasty. It's a beautiful sight.

So, you can see why I'm not terribly upset that he's getting older. I mean, I still think it's all happening too fast, but the selfish side of The Maven likes that things are beginning to calm down with the Gutster. Intrepid, who was by far our most aggressive unpredictable downright terrifying spirited little pod-dweller, really calmed down around the age of seven. He became the child everyone tells me they envy: Empathetic, funny, outgoing, creative, intelligent - all the things his mother is. In fact, he is such an amazing kid that I am not as afraid of his fast-approaching teen years as I thought I would be.

Yes, seven is a good age. A magical age. The well-deserved eye in the proverbial parental hurricane. I traipsed around the living room last night, delivering joy and chips and pizza to all the other seven-ish-year-olds at Gutsy's party, and quietly celebrating my own personal victory of surviving the first seven years.

Then, today, Spawnling threw a tantrum like I had never seen him throw. He body surfed on the floor, turned 11 shades of red and purple while screaming at us, randomly slapped Gutsy upside the head, called me stupid about 30 times, had three consecutive time-outs, and launched a toy guitar across the kitchen. I finally calmed him down with two library books - one being about underwear. Nothing gets him giggling like underwear.

Spawnling just turned three. We could very well see four more years of this.

Four.

More.

Years.

Are there enough library books in the world for four more years of this?

Irony, I so hate your face.

A Conversation with Gutsy's Friends

Seven boys in my house.

Seven. Boys.

"Tired" doesn't even begin to describe my desire for a long, hot shower and an even longer, uninterrupted sleep. One of those things will likely not happen. Guess which one?

Gutsy loved his party, and everyone had a really great time. Dawson's parents even let him come. Great news , considering that, just last week, I thought I was one ditch-splashing away from a visit from our local child protection agency.

A lot of people have asked what a "half-sleepover" is, so I will explain: A half-sleepover is what parents with experience and clue organize for their child instead so as not to go completely crazy by morning. The children arrive around dinner, eat some pizza, have cake, play some games, get in their jammies and watch a movie. Then, just before everyone gets tired enough to fall asleep and, more importantly, because freaked out little kids start crying about wanting to go home, the party is over! Parents pick up their tired, wound-up, sugar-high kids, we get a full night's sleep, and Gutsy thinks we are the bomb.

We came by this experience and clue honestly. Intrepid's wake-over sleep over a couple of years ago taught us that we must avoid another at all costs. Gutsy stayed up until an ungodly hour and was as easygoing as a rabid grizzly bear at a honey convention the next day. Spawnling was but a year old and woke up every hour or so to laughter and the ongoing use of outdoor voices emerging from the living room.

To prove how traumatized I still am from the experience, I would give away my coffee pot if it meant we never had to have a group of boys sleep in our house again.

(Unless those boys happened to be Chippendales who's tour bus broke down in front of my house. I would be a very kind hostess to them; they could even sleep in my bed. As you all know, I'm a big proponent of co-sleeping.)

It's now 10:30. I am beyond exhausted a full day of party prep and the management of excited, antsy gremlins who woke me up at the jaw-dropping hour of 6:40AM.

Two parties down, one to go: Intrepid turns thirteen on the 30th.

Thirteen. A teenager. We're going to pretend I didn't just say that.

I drove two of the boys home tonight: Elijah and Dawson. On the way out the door, I complemented Dawson on his proficiency at shoelace tying. I said I was nearly eight before I could tie laces that well, but that I do a pretty good job at the age of 33. I then laughed at my own joke.

"You're thirty-three?!" gasped Elijah.

I smiled and nodded. I waited for the inevitable "You look a lot younger than that!" to follow. I get that all the time.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Dawson.

"My mom is only twenty-nine," said Elijah.

"Yeah, and mine is only twenty-eight," Dawson added. "You're older than my mom?"

"I guess I am!" said I.

"And my mom, too! You're older than both our moms."

My smile was more like a grimace now. An old person grimace.

"Yay me!" I grimaced. "The van is this way."

I used to roll my eyes at women who lied about their age, or were hesitant to give it. I would now like to sign up for that club, please. And do I get some free Botox injections?

Bloody hell.

This still counts because I said so

Look. I know what you're thinking. It's 1:21AM and I haven't written a blog post yet.

But here's the thing: It was Gutsy's seventh birthday, we had a family party, I had to buy a pinata for his half-sleepover party tomorrow, Spawnling drove me absolutely batty when I took him out to run some errands today (and naturally, it took twice as long to get anything accomplished than if I had gone by myself).

And then I went to see a movie that was three hours long. I figured I'd be home earlier and could sneak a quick post in before midnight, but James Cameron doesn't like to cut scenes. You've seen Titanic, right? Well, 2012 also involves boats, but adds in a little broad scope planet destruction. Long, fun, a little too long, definitely fun, but I wanted to murder the guys behind us who would just not shut the hell up, like, at all. More on that another time.

Oh, and my 'Q' key is very broken. I don't know why. So every time I tap it, it takes about 15 or 20 tries to make the letter appear. Not that this has anything to do with why I didn't post before midnight, but I need some sympathy for what I'm about to say.

Given everything I've done today, and the fact that I'm dedicated enough to write a post at 1:30 even though I'm absolutely exhausted, and the fact that I'm the damn Maven and can do pretty much anything I want (except murder, I reminded myself several times in the theatre tonight), I have decided that, since I have not gone to bed yet, this still qualifies as a post for November 13th.

It's Gutsy's birthday, and all he wants is for you to agree with his mother. You won't deny him that, will you?

NaBloPoMo, I'm still rockin' you!

And more on Gutsy's birthday tomorrow as well. I have some really great things to say about a really great kid. He's not all screaming and scissor necklaces, you know.

November 14th may commence now. Goodnight.

Respect the Elderly

Tonight, when Geekster and I were out shopping for Gutsy's birthday, I pointed out my very favourite slippers and hinted that they'd make a great Christmas gift.

Then, when we went back to the minivan, I took out the hand cream I use religiously on my cracked, eczema riddled hands, and mentioned that some more of said cream would be a great stocking stuffer.

He snickered ever-so-quietly when I mentioned it.

"What?" I asked.

He snickered again. "Nothing, honey."

"WHAT?" I demanded in a definitely unquiet manner.

"Nothing... It's just that, well, hand cream and slippers for Christmas? Are you eighty?"

It dawned on me then that, at the age of 33, I am really fucking old.

I got home, sat down in my favourite armchair (*snicker*), put my feet up on the ottoman (*snicker*) and grabbed the remote to see if I could find a good documentary on Discovery (*snicker* *snort* *snicker*)

I got a text message from my sister asking me if I wanted to go out for coffee. I only hesitantly said yes because, let's face it, I had just sat down for the evening. Having to get back up again sounded like a lot of wasted energy. What got me was the fact that she was high on painkillers. Don't get me wrong: I'm sorry she has a suspected kidney infection and needs something to take the edge off. But if you've ever seen my sister intoxicated on anything whatsoever, you know it's worth the trip out.

Besides, Photo Lush is eight years my junior. Hanging out with someone in their mid-20's would more than compensate for my geriatric Christmas list, right?

I picked her up at 8:45PM. We went to the coffee shop and had herbal tea and paninis. Unfortunately, her narcotic haze was nothing more than a mellow trickle and was barely noticeable. We talked about weddings, trips planned anywhere from six months to three years in advance, bus tours in historic cities, and kids' birthday parties. I dropped her off at 9:30.

My plans for the rest of the evening? Blog, then hot tub, then early bed to read my library book. My sister's plans? Old episodes of Felicity on DVD and planning out what movies we're going to watch when we wrap gifts later this month.

I feel a bit better now. I may be really fucking old, but so is my sister.

Hurricane Kids

First, I want to honour the men and women who have fought bravely to protect our country, our freedom, and our safety from those who do not think we rock as much as we think we do. While I am far too wussy to join the army, I salute those of you who have and who will. Thank you!

It's a wonder I managed to write that at all. I was sure I'd forget, even though I appreciate Remembrance Day and what it reminds us of. When I signed up for NaBloPoMo, I knew it would be one heck of a commitment. I knew I would have to post every single day for thirty days. I knew I would have a hard time. What I didn't know is how much it would drive home my current situation. I was lying in bed with Spawnling a few minutes ago, waiting for his breathing to slow and his eyes to close and his cute little feet to stop kicking the wall in a very un-cute fashion and fall asleep, for the love of my sanity, please. While I pretended to also be sleeping so he would stop talking to me and take the hint, I thought about what I would write tonight. It didn't take long to come up with a topic: feeling completely overwhelmed. What took longer was figuring out how I would put it into words.

I often use metaphors. In fact, yesterday's post involved one mother of a metaphor (self, that was a fabulous pun!), and today we will continue that trend.

Lots of people equate that overwhelmed feeling with drowning, or suffocating, or some other unfortunate situation that impairs the ever-important human function of breathing. That's great, but it's getting old. I need to use something more unique. I am The Maven, after all, and I don't do imitation very well.

Try to picture life as a beautiful house by the ocean. It's everything you've ever wanted: it has cute red shutters, nice wood floors, and a beach for a backyard. Most importantly, it has everything that matters to you set up so you can see it, touch it, and rearrange it if necessary. You like being in your house because the control is entirely yours. Want to redecorate a room? No problem! Just feel like a light dusting? Sure thing! Need to pull out that old recipe book and whip up something nice? Look no further, it's right there!

One day, an alert pops up on your smart phone from the weather station: There's a tropical depression heading your way. Tropical Depression Intrepid, they're calling it. That's fine. There's nothing like some active weather to spice things up a bit! You close the windows, lock the door, and watch the wind blow. A few things shake inside your living room, but it's nothing to text home about.

Then, another alert lights up the screen: Tropical Depression Intrepid has been upgraded to Tropical Storm Gutsy. Well, dang. Guess those clothes will have to come off the line. And, hey, maybe the shutters should actually get shut for a while. Before you close the last one, you notice something fly by... is that the patio furniture? The roar of the storm can be heard from your bedroom, and you hold tightly to some of your most important things. Still, it's just a storm. You can ride those out: you're a trooper!

Another alert: Guess what? This weather hates your face. It doesn't like your positive attitude and ability to wait it out until it passes. It's having none of that. It is now a full-blown category 4 hurricane called Spawnling, and it's going to eat your house down to the foundation.

***

Wow. What a bummer of a post, right? What the hell is going on? Am I trying to say that I hate being a mom by conjuring up images of weather phenomena causing mass amounts of destruction to all I hold dear? Sure sounds that way, but you know that's not the case, right? If not, you don't read my blog enough and should commit to doing so more often.

Like I mentioned above, I'm just feeling completely overwhelmed today. I have what seems like a million things to do and I just can't seem to do them. Emails are piling up, phone calls are not being returned, the kitchen looks like it was a North Korean nuclear test site (except there are no creepy flags of the Great Leader planted in the rubble), Gutsy's birthday party is on Saturday, Intrepid's is in two weeks, we have more commitments than a metropolitan mental hospital, and more appointments than a droopy-faced heiress at a Botox clinic. Throw in what seemed like an unending wave of illness until a couple of days ago, and well, I've been foaming at the mouth.

Anyway, I've been doing some thinking. Let me finish my most excellent metaphor and we'll talk about that.

***

Your attempt to board up the windows does little to save your house and its contents from the hurricane's wrath. In the end, Hurricane Spawnling and his brother storms suck everything up into the clouds, or drown into the waves, leaving you to wonder what on earth happened to your perfectly manageable and very quaint life house.

The thing is, you can't blame the weather for your problems. Intrepid, Gutsy and Spawnling are not responsible for your insistence on trying to maintain your home after their arrival. A smarter move would have been to accept that you can't possibly keep up with everything else while dealing with natural phenomena of that degree; by realizing you're only human. That maybe you should have been more dynamic in your thinking and accepted life on life's terms.

The hurricane churns, and as it does it spits out a few broken reminders of what you used to have in your house: Remembering everyone's birthday, cleaning the gutters, writing songs, painting the hallway, finishing school, jogging every day... You collect what you can and put it in a bag. You start up the beach toward higher ground.

The funny thing is that there are a lot of people doing the same thing. The beach is positively filled with other bewildered individuals. You all turn and walk up the sandbank, worriedly looking behind you for fear that nothing will be as good as what you're leaving behind.

But you know what? It's going to be okay. The weather is still crazy down by the beach, but it's good up here. You sift through lost memorabilia and find a few things of interest: nights out, contracts you don't have to leave half-finished because the school called, the rare R-rated movie, an uninterrupted conversation with a friend. You dust them off and put them on a shelf, one at a time, in your new place a few miles from where you once lived. It's a cluttered, smelly, inhumanely loud patchwork of a place. It really is. But it is what it. And it quickly begins to feel more like home than anything else. Besides, there are always smelly candles and headphones, right?

***

Acceptance. I need to use some of that. My house will not be clean, I will not be able to see everybody I want to see when I want to see them, my plants will die because I forget to water them, I will take a month to finish a 300 page book, and I will swallow my pride when I hear specialists say "We were supposed to see [insert child's name here] [insert a time so old it should be carbon dated here]"

The problem isn't that I have too much to do. We, as parents, always have too much to do. It's how I deal with it that matters. In the last few days I haven't exactly been the essence of serenity.

Acceptance. That's what I need.

And maybe a little less coffee.

Unless it's decaf.

Why The Maven should not teach school children

Gather 'round, children! We're about to learn something new from our very best friend, The Maven!

Hey, kids! Glad you could all be here today! Wow, there sure are a lot of you. Is it possible to sit the quiet ones closest to me? I'm a little frazzled today and I need to be near people who know how to use their indoor voice.

Oh, and ixnay the osenay ickerpay, will you? Move him far enough away that he can't wipe his fingers on my shirt. Gross me out.

Perfect. Thank you.

Now, kids, we're going to learn about my very favourite word. Actually, it's not always my favourite, but after the day I've had, it gets top billing in The Maven's Dictionary of Awesome Words and Stuff. It's a toughie, so I'll say it slowly and you can say it along with me. Ok? Ok! Here we go:

Va-sec-to-my. Va-sec-to-my. Vasectomy. Very good!

It sounds like a lot of you have never heard that word before. That's okay, you'll likely hear it again in about thirty years, either out or your own mouth, or from the poor woman who is suffocating under a pile of your offspring. I'll pull out my pocket dictionary and hold it up so you can all see - and I don't mean that as a play on words, kids. Your teacher is looking a little pale right now because she understands what "play on words" means. Lighten up, teach, and go get me a coffee, will you? My tax dollars pay for what's percolating in the staff room. Don't worry, the class is in good hands. I am The Maven, after all.

Anyway, here's what the dictionary says about our new word:

Vasectomy is a minor surgical procedure wherein the vasa deferentia of a man are severed, and then tied or sealed in a manner such to prevent sperm from entering the seminal stream (ejaculate).

I see the confusion in your innocent little eyes. And the nose picking from the kid in the corner, I might add. Is that a stress reliever, little man? Tell your parents you need a therapist. There's no shame in it; they probably have one, too.

Don't worry about the technical garble, my little friends. That mumbo jumbo doesn't mean much to you or me or anyone who doesn't have to actually perform a vasectomy. Only doctors have to care about that stuff. We need only to know that it helps mommies and daddies regain their sanity. "Sanity" means your breakfast gets made every day and you don't wake up to find mommy making little origami animals in the middle of the night. It's a good thing.

Let me explain how vasectomies work:

See, Daddy is an oil truck that never runs out of oil. Just when it looks like the tank is empty, he refills it. Kind of like the snot in little Timmy's nose. It's just always there, ripe for removal.

Mommy is a factory that assembles people-- Yes, little Sally, kind of like the Play-Doh factory. The difference is that Mommy's factory doesn't involve shoving some goop into a tunnel and squeezing out... Actually, it's a lot like a Play-Doh factory. When you get to high school, be sure to ask your guidance counselor about Harvard scholarships. You're a freaking genius in the making.

Mommy's factory has a furnace that needs oil from the hose coming out of Daddy's truck. If enough oil reaches the furnace, the factory lights turn on, buttons press and pistons, uh, pist, and the intricate and beautiful process of creating life begins. Nine months later, a gorgeous little human is shipped from the factory and into the loving arms of Mommy and Daddy.

Isn't that a sweet story? I'm getting a little teary. Timmy, stop hogging the tissues and give me one. You're pretty damn proficient with those fingers, anyway.

Eventually, though, the factory workers get tired. Building two or three of four of these baby models gets a little much. They start dreaming of warm beaches and looking at people in swimsuits who's bodies have never grown a baby. So, the day comes when the factory needs to be shut down permanently. There are some things Mommy can do to make that happen, but they involve a lot of demolition and renovations that are uncomfortable and sometimes dangerous. Besides, why does Mommy need to do everything? Why can't Daddy take some responsibility sometimes? I mean, it's always up to the woman, isn't it? "Are you on the pill," and "Here, hold the baby so I can go watch football," and "What do you mean you feel 'touched out?' I have needs too, you know," and...

Sorry, kids. I got off on a little tangent there.

Anyway, the point is that if your Daddy wants his truck to still park in the factory hanger on a regular basis, he's going to have to tie a knot in the hose. Otherwise, Mommy might be too exhausted from dealing with the tantrums and the fighting and the screaming and the crying and the throwing and the destroying and the tattling to want anything to do with Daddy, lest she get more of the same in another nine months or so.

And that is what a vasectomy is. My boys' daddy willingly had one, and on days like today, I am most certainly glad he did. In fact, when I am done with our little info session, I may make him some tea and kiss him and tell him thank you, thank you, thank you, three is more than enough and please excuse the twitching; it will go away once they've been sleeping for a couple of hours.

Any questions?

NaBloPoMo Day 9, or When Life Gets in the Way

Dudes. I almost forgot to post tonight! I nearly blew my chances at being crowned queen of NaBloPoMo, or some other imaginary title involving imaginary money for my imaginary retirement fund.

My excuse? I was really busy being social and productive.

I went Christmas shopping (yes, really), had coffee, herded gremlins at the park, chose not to herd gremlins into the library and instead went alone (smart choice), got a surprise editing contract due tomorrow (It's half finished - see following) and watched House (good episode).

I had plans to write tonight - both for pay and for pleasure - but instead I ended up watching The Breakfast Club, which I reserved at the library. See how this day goes together? It's like a giant circle, or some other mystic thing that sounds better than 'it's like a giant circle.'

I should mention that this is the first time I've ever watched The Breakfast Club.

Yes, it's true: this was my first time. I was a virgin, and the Gatineau Library popped my eager cherry. And it was mind-blowing-ly amazing, I might add. Um, the movie, just so we're clear. The acting was first rate, the script was fantastic, and the characters really moved me. Mostly, I could relate to the criminal and the basket case, with a little bit of the brain. Who do you relate to the most?

*Yes, I just asked a question on my blog in hopes that it will detract from the fact that this post is short and poor. NaBloPoMo can, unfortunately, produce some quantity over quality. Tomorrow I'll aim for quality. It will depend on how much coffee I get into my system and how quickly I can send off this contract. That is a hint that you should bring me coffee if you live anywhere in the near vicinity. I accept any and all kinds as long as they don't have sugar in them. Gross me out! Gag me with a spoon! Totally uncool! Barfsville! Can you tell I've been watching 80's movies?)

Last week, I saw Sixteen Candles for the first time. It was meh. I'm sorry, I realize it's a classic and I might get shunned by John Hughes fans everywhere, but I have to be honest: That was his weakest movie by far. I fancy myself a bit of a teen movie expert. There's nothing I like more than kicking back and watching the mayhem of foul-mouthed horny boys in SuperBad, or excitedly seeing Molly Ringwald make her gorgeous dress out of other, crappier dresses in Pretty in Pink. I will never tire of a good teen movie.

Look, I don't want any arguments about the Sixteen Candles thing. As in most cases, I'm right and that's all there is to it. It was a sucky movie in comparison to the others. Don't believe me? This man will help quell any disagreements:


Apology accepted. Goodnight.

A Date with Gutsy

Sunday is to the Blogosphere like Friday nights are to television: dead. So I'm not going to write anything too long today. I've written several lengthy posts this week, so if you're looking for something more in-depth you can scroll down. My life is, as always, pretty amazing, so you're bound to find something that will captivate your attention.

I'm leaving in a few minutes to spend time with my middle gremlin. Gutsy and I have had a hard go of things this week. We've argued a fair bit and I think I've yelled at him as much or more than he's yelled at me. Need a shining example of good parenting? Right here, baby.

I love him, you know. Like, a lot. He's that amazing baby who hung on in my womb for dear life and did not go the way of the miscarriage like several before him. He has brought me an immense amount of joy, and has made our family so much funnier, and more loving, and far more interesting. What other child could come up with a scissor necklace? Only my Gutsy, I tell you.

For a kid who has a scream that could put an opera singer to shame, he sure can be soft spoken and gentle. He loves Hannah Montana, any game that involves spies, ghost hunting and Stitch. He's a born leader and will butt heads with people when he doesn't get his way, but he can also be incredibly gentle and a great friend. He's a good boy. A high strung, easily-overwhelmed, but amazing boy.

Today we're spending time with his friend Diva and her parents. We're going to the library, then the pool, then out for hot chocolate. I'm going to leave the other two gremlins in the care of their dad, because I have that instinctive gut feeling that Gutsy and I need to reconnect. This week has not been kind to our relationship. It's a good day to buy his love with books, swimming and food.

He's turning seven this week. I have no idea where the time went. I just know that I'm happy we haven't imploded in a fiery death match and that I have not sold him to Gypsies as threatened many times over the years. He's a cool guy and I'm an awesome chick; Sure we can work this out. There's nothing hot chocolate can't fix.

Dawson's Mom

Dawson is a little boy in Gutsy's class. I don't know him very well, but I do know that Gutsy really likes him. He lives about two blocks from our place, so you would think the boys would get together and play sometimes, but they don't. And it's all my fault.

One day, about a year go, I decided my van had suffered enough neglect and needed a good cleaning. By 'good cleaning' I mean it probably needed to be dunked in a lake of bleach, but a quick tidy would have to do. So, I brought Gutsy and Spawnling outside to play while I tackled the colossal, overdue task.

I admit, I got a little obsessed doing it. I mean, there was a lot to clean up. Some of the old food I found was growing new forms of life on it, while the old toys had been stepped on so much they had broken into fun and exciting new toys. "Hey, kids! It's everybody's favourite hazardous action figure, Pointy Pete! Whoa! What's attached to his arm? Not a hand holding a jackhammer anymore! No way! It's a long, sharp piece of undoubtedly lead-laden plastic! Nobody can stab like Pointy Pete! Awesome!!"

I was busy helping Pointy Pete and his band of eye-gouging superheroes into my shiny green plastic bag, when I heard a sweet voice from the road saying. "Hey, little guy. I don't think your mommy would want you in there."

We have a ditch in our front yard lining he edge of the road. It's fairly deep as far as ditches go - probably about four feet - and is filled with weeds, varying levels of water, and sharp rocks. Guess where Spawnling was? Spawnling, who had never gone into the ditch and has not again since that day, was splashing around merrily in his rubber boots. And what was yours truly doing while this dangerous activity was going on? Why, I had half my body in the van as I reached for an old juice box under one of the bucket seats, with the radio on just loud enough to drown out any sound of my toddler creeping into the ditch to, well, drown.

I looked up when I heard the voice, and saw a mother and her two boys stopped on the road in front of my house. One child stared at Spawnling quizzically from his stroller, while the other one waved and said "Hi, Gutsy."

"Hi, Dawson!" replied Gutsy.

"Oh, shit," replied I under my breath. It's bad enough that another mom had to coax my child out of danger's way. The fact that our boys knew each other was the cherry on my embarrassment sundae. Awesomeness.

I helped Spawnling out of the ditch, sputtering something about how he had never done that before, and how my back had been turned for only a minute, and how I appreciated her noticing, and how it's nice that Gutsy and Dawson are friends, and that hopefully we'd see them again.

She was incredibly nice and warm, leaving insecure me to assume that she was simply quite good at concealing her judgment. I had it set in my mind that she would be going home to Tweet about how the mother down the road might want to actually supervise her children sometimes.

Fall turned to winter, which turned to colder winter, which turned to warmer winter, which eventually turned to a few short weeks of spring, which turned into a summer that felt more like spring, and eventually into fall again. All through the months I would hear about how one of my friends is caring for Dawson before school, and how nice his parents are, and how another friend's child went to Dawson's birthday party, and how lovely his mother is. I would nod and smile politely, all the while feeling shame churning 'round in the pit of my stomach. Gutsy would tell me virtually every day that he wanted Dawson to come over and play. I would smile nervously and wonder just how much his parents would not want him to come over and play at the irresponsible Maven's house.

Today, I met my good friend The Dog Whisperess and her daughter Diva at our neighbourhood park. While Gutsy, Spawnling and Diva were arguing for artistic control over their sand creature frolicking joyously in the warm fall air, a very familiar boy came skipping down the path.

Dawson.

My heart jumped. This was it. In a few moments, his mother would turn the corner, call to memory our unfortunate first meeting, and blast me with the cold stare of judgment. My heart leaped into my throat as I awaited the reality of what was to come.

She turned the corner.

She walked down the path.

She stopped and... smiled? Was she smiling? No, that must be a grimace. She was grimacing at me because I am an awful parent who didn't notice my two-year-old about to be sucked into the Ottawa River through a series of waterways.

"Hi! How are you?" she beamed. And it wasn't one of those polite 'How are yous' - The Maven would know, as I am a social goddess in most circles - this was a genuine, happy greeting.

She stopped and talked to us for a good while as the children played. In that conversation I mentioned my embarrassing first impression in that ha-ha-but-seriously-I'm-not-a-horrible-mother kind of way. She laughed about it and said something really nice and reassuring about how that happens to everyone - and not in that 'I'm just trying to make you feel better, you trashy excuse for a parent' kind of way, either.

I left the park with their phone number and tentative plans to meet at the park again in a few days.

Dawson's mom is very nice and she doesn't hate me. I'm glad it only took me a year of assumptions and avoidance to resolve this little issue. Not bad. I feel much better.