So This Was Christmas, and I Sure Did Get Spun

I know, I know. It's been over a week since I last graced the Blogosphere with one of my incredible posts. I was wrapped up in the whole spirit of giving thing (although the receiving wasn't so bad, either - just sayin'.)

But fear not, my weepy little lambs, because I am back with a vengeance. For, even though we did nearly $300 worth of groceries yesterday and came home without coffee cream (I should have my Coffee Lovers license revoked for that major infringement), my lovely Coffee Fairy brought me not one, but two extra-large coffees this morning. Oh, and some creamers for any additional coffee I might want to have after the consumption of the first two.

Not only am I going to be in fine creative shape for this post, but I can already hear the snap of my brittle bones breaking as the calcium is leeched from them. I understand there are good drugs for premature osteoporosis. Thank the gods.

I hope everyone's Kwistmakkah was enjoyable. (Incidentally, I don't personally know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa. But The Brain on Arthur does and he's a cool dude, so it got smushed into my politically correct holiday address.) I hope the love was so deep you could drown in it, and that the gifts were bountiful, but not to the point of feeling like a commercialized whore.

I do have a way with words, don't I? Like little petals strung delicately together, they are.

We had a great Christmas, of course. I'm The Maven, after all. I have a great everything. Geekster took a couple of weeks off so as to provide tactical backup spend quality time with his family while everyone is home for the holidays. I thought his idea was a mix of sweetness and responsibility, with a thick coat of crazy. I said 'Look, I have to be here because I'm a stay-at-home-mom. That's my job. But you could take vacation any time. Why do it when you're not going to get any rest at all?!'

His coating of crazy is especially thick, because he has yet to lose his shit on anyone. I am obviously the sane one, as I've had at least two or three good yells at the boys over the last week. at one point, I even contemplated a lobotomy with Geekster's cordless drill, but the damn Christmas tree was using up all the wall sockets. Instead, I chose to break my sugar-free stretch and escape into the world of chocolate. It's been nice, but I'll be revving up the detox engines again soon. My waistline - or the spot formerly known as my waistline - will thank me.

On the 23rd, we took the kids to the Museum of Nature and over to the Elgin Street Diner for poutine. Lunch cost $65. Welcome to the reality of a family of five. The good news? The poutine was delish, and after a couple of hours of dinosaur-gawking, we needed the calories (or so I tell myself).


According to Gutsy, dinos are huge. I love the expression of wonder on his face. It's significantly more pleasant than his expression of anger, and much quieter than his expression of screaming.

The 24th was a day spent out and about with The Sister. The two smallest gremlins ran into Santa at her office. Spawnling wouldn't go near the dude in the red suit, but Gutsy was all over him. That charming little gremlin was just making sure the big guy remembered his face before he set out with a sack full of toys that night (it worked).




(Note how Spawn is sooooo not impressed.)

Then, we spent the afternoon at Rideau Centre, Ottawa's largest shopping maul (yes, I misspelled that on purpose - we were there on Christmas Eve, after all). I was finished shopping, but went along with The Sister to attempt to finish hers. Gutsy had a blast listening to some tracks at a music store.


(Santa and headphone pics courtesy of The Sister. There's a reason why she calls herself Photo Lush)

It sounds crazy, right? Dragging two small children through a maul a few hours before the stores close. It's something I never would have considered after my first - or even my second - child. But there's a method to my madness. From years of experience, I can tell you what the alternative would have been had we stayed at home all day:

When is Santa coming? Are we going to make cookies? Should we draw him a picture? How does Santa get around the world in one night, anyway? And does he come through the wood stove chimney or the furnace chimney? And what if it's hot? And can we open one gift before we go to bed? Please oh please oh please? Is it bedtime yet? No? What about now? No? What about now? Good, because I can't sleep anyway! And what about the gingerbread house? Can we eat that? Can I have the roof? NO! I WANTED THE ROOF! I SAID IT FIRST! MOOOOOOM!!! MY BROTHER IS TRYING TO HIT ME BECAUSE I SAID I WANTED THE ROOF AND I TOLD HIM HE'LL BE ON THE NAUGHTY LIST IF HE DOES THAT AND NOW HE'S CRYYYYIIIIING!

No. Thank. You. The chaos of busy stores filled with frantic last-minute shoppers has nothing on Christmas Eve at Casa Maven.

And Christmas came, bright and early (but not too early - 7:30 is an acceptable wake-the-parents time), and it was magical. Spawnling had crawled into our bed and whispered 'Merry Christmas' to me as he gently stroked my face, followed closely by 'See? I told you I was going to "merry" you someday."

That's the sound of my heart melting. Who knew it would make a sound?

And what did we do on Christmas day? Ready for this?

Absolutely nothing.

Yep, that's right. We did nothing. The gremlins three stayed in their pajamas and played with their new toys all day. We all ate copious amounts of fattening food. We did not clean the house. We watched movies and played video games as wrappings lay all over the floor. No stress, no fighting, no rush. It was a well-deserved break after a very long and stressful year. Watching Spawnling tear open his gifts was a sobering reminder that he was in a hospital not too long ago for one very terrifying week, and spent weeks building back up to the boy we know. Now healthy and happy again, he got the one thing he really, really wanted for Christmas: a Wall-E Laptop.


I breathed in every second of his joy, and I'm sure Geekster did, too. Our little Christmas miracle is he.

On the 26th, Spawnling once again woke me up with a 'Merry Christmas!', followed by 'Wait, is it still Christmas?'

'Sort of,' I replied. 'It's Boxing Day.'

Confused and worried, Spawnling said 'Boxing day?! Uh, can I just go bowling instead?'

I made that kid. I really did. He came out of me.

We headed to Peterborough, Ontario, for a visit with the in-laws. We had a fantastic time, minus the fact that four of us had colds and mine was at its peak. Just a minor bug, but not when you're driving four hours in bad weather and catching up with family you only see once or twice a year. That takes some serious energy. Thank goodness for coffee and diet colas.

We all got some really nice, thoughtful things this year, but I have to say my favourite was the donation to Plan Canada in my name for 10 home birthing kits, thus ensuring a safer delivery for 10 little ones and their mothers in developing countries. That did my heart some good. Geekster's parents symbolically adopted an emperor penguin in his name.

(We recently watched Happy Feet, and as soon as the boys discover the fuzzy little bird which came with that WWF kit, there will be fights, I assure you. It won't be pretty.)

The good news? I just got an adorable new camera to capture said fights in clear detail. Its frame rate will ensure that even the fastest flying fists can be captured clearly and easily on video.

Oh, and it's hot pink. Merry ho ho to me and only me, because nobody else will touch it on account of it being a "girl colour."

Well... I might have to keep an eye on Gutsy.

So that's the rundown 'round these parts. Now that the chaos is mostly behind us, I should have more time to post again. That is, after the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Cleanup, who will wave an ethereal hand and re-organize my home in the blink of an eye.

You know, the fifth ghost? There was the Ghost of Christmas Past, then Present, then Future, then that Death guy, then Cleanup, right?

I swear it's in the book. I'm going to sit here and keep waiting.

Birthday Cards from my Kids

I love kid art. Nothing makes me happier than when one of my gremlins scurries over to me, grinning proudly through his fangs as he shows me the latest picture of he and I doing something together.

Sometimes, we're walking hand in hand through a park with the sun overhead and big smiles on our faces. Sometimes, we're riding a bike - or what I'm told is a bike after I casually ask what that grey scribble is beneath my crotch. And sometimes, we're doing one of my favourite quiet time activities: zapping aliens with our radar guns in outer space.

I like my kids' drawings so much, in fact, that I asked them to make something for our neighbour across the street. It was his birthday yesterday, and I had already brought them some chocolates a couple of days before, so I decided to milk the 'I have small children who make cute pictures' cow for as long as possible. I've come to realize that many older people love fridge art, and that this can be a gift in itself.

Or so I tell myself when it's someone's birthday and I'm broke because it's less than a week before Christmas.

Do you have any idea how much money a person can save with some offspring, a box of markers and some printer paper? One child gives you a good seven or eight years worth of artwork. They make cards, snowflakes, paintings, Christmas tree ornaments... The slave labour possibilities are practically endless! And, if you're previously infertile smart like we were, you space the births out over a decade, thus maximizing money saved by not overlapping their cutsey-wootsy talents; Just as one grows out of card-making, another is ready to take on the role.

Brilliant, I tell you. Absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, both Spawnling and Gutsy worked their forked little tails off making something special for our neighbour, Mr. Len. Naturally, I had to take pictures of their, uh, pictures, and share them. After all, everyone needs a good laugh on a Monday:

Before anyone comments on Spawnling's incredible writing skills, I should probably mention he had a little help from me. Now you can comment on my incredible writing skills. Go ahead: my letter forming is rather impressive.

"I'm going to draw some balloons for Mr. Len!" Spawnling declared. I got out my trusty blue marker. A mother just knows that sometimes these displays of artistic talent require a description (note what I wrote at the bottom left). He was quite adamant about using brown for his picture, which I now see is because that colour invokes within him the ability to draw something comprehensible. The brown shape is about the only one resembling an actual balloon. The rest either look like stink lines or are depicting the brown balloon having some type of seizure - I'm not quite sure. He then topped it off with some 'sparkles'. My kid is awesome.

Gutsy is turning into quite the little artist. He's come a long way since stick figures and ovals with legs that are supposed to be one of a dozen different animals. He's now into drawing anime-like characters, in part due to big brother Intrepid, who is pretty much obsessed with the stuff.

The problem is that everyone and everything is made into an anime character. He brought home a picture of he and his teacher, and both of them look like they're straight out of a Pokemon episode. And now, our elderly neighbour has his own special place in Japanese-style cartoon art.

There are a lot of different elements to this picture. For one, there's Mr. Len himself, complete with the standard spiky anime hair ("I'm colouring it grey, because he's old," explained Gutsy.) Mr Lenimon has an expression that says "I'm about to kick someone's ass and love every second of it," all the while giving everyone the finger - which is okay, because he has an abnormally large number of them on that hand, and could probably spare one or two of them.

You know, I once had a friend who was reduced to tears because her son's grade 1 teacher said he wasn't drawing fingers on his people and that this meant he was somehow delayed in that area. My son now has the same grade 1 teacher, and I'm wondering if he'll say Gutsy is gifted because he draws excessive amounts of fingers on his people.

Ok, probably not. But it was a nice thought.

Making Mr. Anime Len even more bad ass is that his age is proudly displayed beside him, with a giant arrow letting you know that he's 78 and still going to beat the crap out of you. And what's going to help him? The balloon-type thing floating next to him, which I can only assume is his trained Pokemon ally.

Dude, I love my kids, and I love their art. Nothing makes my day more than something they've made. I could have a house filled with it.

Oh, wait. I do. That's why I pawn it off on other people.

A Maven Quicky: Conversations with Spawnling

We were supposed to go out with my friend Sheri (AKA The Dog Whisperess) for a coffee this morning. Spawnling liked the idea at first, until he decided the Wii would be more fun than going out in the cold.

I started getting dressed and gave him a ten minute warning, to which he replied with sighs and slight protests, all the while playing Super Smash Brothers (yes, I know it's a fighting game and he's only three, but his big brothers play it, and quite frankly, I need to pick my battles around here. I am so very outnumbered by the testosterone-driven kind of humans it's not even funny)

But then, Sheri called, and broke the news that she had just gotten sick and probably shouldn't go near us lest she spread the vomitous love. I appreciate considerate people.

The problem? Spawnling loves Sheri very much. When she comes over, he takes up a great deal of her time and even kicks me out of the playroom so they can be alone. I was worried he'd be very sad.

The conversation we just had, however, is leaving me doubting his commitment to her. I just sent Sheri the following email:

Me: Spawnling, Sheri can't come to Tim Hortons because she's sick.

Spawn, not taking his eyes off the screen: Great!

Me: Uh.... She's sick. She just threw up.

Spawn: I know. That's awesome.

Me: ... Why is that awesome?

Spawn: Because I like Sheri.

Me: But she just threw up!

Spawn: I know. I like throwing up, too. It's really fun ... Uh, can I play Super Smash Brothers now?

You may want to find yourself a new boyfriend. This one isn't very supportive. And this is SO going on my blog.

Even though throwing up is fun, I hope Sheri feels better soon.

Thoughts on the "Childless by Choice" movement

I received a request from a friend of mine to blog about the Childless by Choice movement that is becoming a bit of a trend in some of the wealthier countries. Because I like to know what I'm dealing with, I decided to do a bit of digging, and came across this and several other similar sites that tout the benefits of not raising a family.

Now, my readers should take into consideration that I've been writing this on a day when Gutsy is home "sick" (he is so going to school tomorrow) which means the boys have been fighting almost non-stop, and Spawnling managed to throw a 45-minute-long tantrum over not getting any candy. My mommy morale is low, and no amount of caffeine seems to be able to give it a pep talk.

Living childless by choice: It's an interesting concept to me, as I was always of the mind that I wanted my own little band of gremlins to tame. I came from a larger family - there were four of us - and it shaped my perception of what "family" means: kids, chaos, and calamity. And, as a stay-at-home-mom to three boys, I'm living the dream, baby. My house is full of all of those things and more. It's loud, it's unpredictable, and the place is nearly always messy. There are days when it's downright condemnable, or at the very least, looks like a runner-up for an episode of Hoarders (I admit I watch the show just so I can feel better about my own mess. It borders on pathetic that I need to see something that extreme in order to excuse the disaster in my kitchen.)

Yesterday, I visited good friends of ours who just had their fourth baby. I held that little guy, patted his bottom, kissed his crown of downy dark hair, inhaled his newborn scent and wondered how I might bottle it for resale -- and gladly handed him back so his mom could nurse him. Did my uterus twitch? A tad, sure. He reminds me of my own little creatures before their horns grew long and claws grew sharp. So innocent and sweet.

But I didn't want to rush home and have one. Why? Because I'm done having children and happy about it, thank you very much. Just over two years ago, I drove Geekster to the vasectomy doctor and followed him in doing cartwheels and throwing confetti to mark the special occasion. For, within a few short weeks of that appointment, I knew that sex could be sex again, without the threat of morning sickness and more college tuition to save up for.

Look, parenting is hard. It's not some fun, whimsical journey through Magic Happy Land filled with little gnomes who say 'Will you be my mommy?' and traipse gaily through the tulips along side you as your heart swells with joy. Childbirth brings pain of many kinds, and that's only the beginning. In parenthood there is vomit, poop and pee in copious amounts. There are tantrums, lies and broken teenage hearts to deal with. There is an overwhelming amount of laundry.

No, for real. There's a lot of laundry, dudes.

And no matter what you do - what lengths you go to in order to raise happy, healthy human beings - they will likely resent at least some of what you did. More seriously, there are the concerns over raising a child with special needs - be they physical, mental or emotional, that can take your life in a very different direction than planned. Taking on the role of parent may not be what you think you signed up for in the first place.

Then, there are the parents who probably should have given more thought before signing a birth certificate. There are the obvious people - the drug-addicted, abusive, neglectful types who remind us of the unfortunate reality that you don't need to pass any exams to get this job. But there are also the more subtle bad parenting types - the ones who treat their children like accessories. They have them because they figure they should, for one reason or another, then resent the hell out of their lives for doing so. They're obviously miserable, and try as they might, can't seem to make their offspring a priority. Those kids are the ones who know more about what's on television than what's going on in their parents' lives, regularly get sent to school or daycare when they're obviously too sick to be there, and end up getting into a great deal of trouble later on because they figure nobody cares anyway.

With those things I mind, I'm all in favour of someone deciding they don't want to take on that role. Maybe they don't think they'll make good parents, or maybe their idea of enjoying life does not include pacing back and forth at 3AM with a teething baby. Maybe they want to travel, or throw themselves into a job that isn't conducive to having a family. Whatever their reasons, I give them a giant high five for not only recognizing what will make them happy, but not bending to the pressures of community, religion, or society as a whole. They've just saved a potential child from growing up feeling unwanted.

My tree hugging side also understands the environmental impact of having one less potential human on the planet. Fewer carbon emissions, less waste, one less consumer. We're not exactly an earth-friendly species, and I see nothing wrong with having fewer people to share limited resources.

Furthermore, I understand how exhausting this parenting gig is. I know firsthand how much time it takes and how much commitment is involved in boarding the S.S. Embryo. There is a large chunk of one's social life and relationship that walks the plank the minute that first cry is heard. If you're lucky, you'll find it washed up on shore in a few years and can reclaim what's left of it. But in the meantime, it's an all-encompassing, loud, smelly thrill ride. As someone who has spent thirteen years swabbing the parental decks, I'm happy to know I have some shore leave in my future. It's nice on the beach. Maybe some folks don't want to leave it - can I blame them?

While I'm sympathetic to the choice of the purposely un-knocked-up (or un-knocking-up, depending on one's gender), I would also like to point out some of the potential drawbacks of couples who decide not to combine their genetics. For one, as much as much as they may love each other, it's important to know that the love is conditional. Trust me: it is. Don't kid yourself (pun intended). I love my husband like crazy, but I couldn't possibly compare that love to what I feel for my boys.

What does conditional love mean? Well, it means that, as smoochy-cutesy-wootsy as you might be right now, there's still a half-decent chance you'll find yourselves on opposite sides of a courtroom in the future. Or, one of you may pass away prematurely, leaving the other one quite alone. There's the whole unfortunate aging bit, too - you'd better hope you have enough money to have good care when you're older, and that you have people concerned enough about your well being to make sure nobody is hurting you, or stealing from you.

What? Did The Maven just imply that one should have children for the soul purpose of not being alone later on? No, but I'd be lying if I didn't count that as a distinct advantage. My children don't owe me a thing because I chose to bring them into the world, but I would hope the unconditional love we share will continue throughout the years.

That love; that unconditional, incredible bond one has with a child. That is the gift that minimizes the resentment of any unpleasant parental task. It's indescribable to someone who hasn't held their own baby. But you know it has to be good, because it has been, in large part, what has kept the species going for a very long time.

Well, that and sex feels really good. But I digress.

***

Tonight, after a very long and exhausting day of breaking up fights between Itchy and Scratchy Gutsy and Spawnling, my husband knew I needed a break. He booked the babysitter - that would be Intrepid - and took me out for a late-night dinner on the cheap at a local Italian restaurant. We drank water out of wine glasses and had food that would make our gremlins gag. We laughed and talked and stuffed our bellies full of deliciousness.

Meanwhile, this post was sitting half-finished in one of my many Firefox windows. I brought the topic up with Geekster and we both agreed that, while we love the freedom of nights out like tonight, we wouldn't trade the kids, chaos, and calamity for anything else. Nothing brings us more fulfillment, happiness, and a sense of partnership than raising our boys.

All those things like attending social gatherings, dinners out, vacations, careers - they can all be quite enjoyable. But once you see your child for the first time, everything changes. Those things lose some of their vibrancy, because the new palette of parenting is so much more vivid in comparison. That's the beauty of unconditional love, and the bottom line for me. It's what made my choice to become a mother so damn easy.

But your mileage may vary, and once again, I respect that. Even if you don't have kids, we can hang out and stuff. And you can pay, because you likely have a lot more expendable cash than I do.

See? I can be very PC-like and inclusive. Isn't that nice of me?

Embracing my Inner Loser

I had a conversation today with my good friend The Guilt Goddess. We were on her front porch and I was getting ready to leave after brightening her day with my presence. It went something like this:

Me: [blah blah blah something or other leading up to]... me being so popular and everything.

Her: You mention your popularity a lot.

Me, shrugging: Probably. I am rather proud of it.

Her: But you don't have to, you know. You can be popular without announcing it all the time.

Me: ... But what's the fun in that? Besides, you're probably more popular than I am, or at least as popular. Maybe. So it's not like I'm bragging.

Her: Sure, but I don't have to tell people.

Me: You just did.

Her, trying hard not to throw something at me.

Me: I'm not that bad. I mean, I kid around, but I'm pretty humble, really.

Her: Oh my God. Did you just say you're --

Me: In fact, I think I'm probably the humblest person I know.

Her, rolling her eyes.

Me, having an epiphany: ... I bet that's what makes me so popular. My incredible humility...

Her, laughing because she can't control how much she adores me: Get out of here!

She loves me, that one.

***

Popularity. I throw the word around a lot, but frankly I've never looked up the definition. Let's see what the dictionary says, shall we?

pop·u·lar·i·ty

n.

The quality or state of being popular, especially the state of being widely admired, accepted, or sought after.

Interesting stuff. Let's break this down and see if I, Humblest Woman Alive, fits the bill and can grab herself a head cheerleader outfit.

Am I widely admired? Tough call. If by "widely" we mean on a global scale, like Ghandi, then no. If, however, "widely" implies the two little gremlins who thought I was Queen of Bosstown because I made them some peppermint-scented playdough this afternoon, then yes. In the wide open space of my kitchen, I am admired. Check.

Accepted. Well, that depends on who you're talking to. There are some people who don't accept me. In fact, they downright don't like me. But I tend not to like them, either, and I learned in math class that two negatives cancel each other out and become a positive. Therefore, they don't count. And, when I eventually take over the world by being really fabulous, I'll probably decree anyone who doesn't think I'm a splendid human being a mutant, and send them to live in the badlands where their opinions won't matter. They can eat raw meat and build huts out of shunned fashion items, like pleather and legwarmers (those should have stayed in the 80's as they have no place in this millennium) Therefore, whether I'm accepted at face value or because I strike potential fear into the heart of naysayers, I think we have this part covered. Check.

Am I sought after? Hell yes I am! People seek after me all the time: they want spare change, or would like me to pay my cellphone bill, or come find me to say that my child is screaming because I accidentally left him in the other aisle at the grocery store and he's terrified... And speaking of children, my (still three, because I haven't lost any at the store yet) gremlins are forever seeking after me so I can make them food and settle arguments and the like.

Very, very check.

I guess that settles that, then.

***

I was never a popular girl, and it only grew worse with every passing grade. For example, I had the opportunity - nay, the privilege - in grade 7 of being the biggest loser in my high school. The year started off with me being gifted the nickname of "Zenji" due to:

A) Having a lot of acne, and
B) Being "dog ugly" like Benji the dog, who was actually pretty cute if you ask me

As you can imagine, walking down the hallways was a very pleasant experience. That may be why I started keeping liquor in my locker. It made going to and from class a little more tolerable. Being slightly buzzed Zenji was better than being un-liquored-Zenji.

At least, until Zenji ended up in rehab a year or so later, but I digress.

That fantastic year ended with having hairspray sprayed upon the back of my sweater, followed by a fun game of "Let's see who's match will light Zenji on fire." Someone won, but forgive me for not remembering which of the two girls it was. I was busy stopping, dropping and rolling. Thankfully there was no scarring, unless you count the emotional kind.

Anyway, the point of that unpleasant walk down memory lane is to provide enough background so as the reader understands my unhealthy lifelong desire for popularity. I always figured that, if I were simply a really cool chick that everyone liked, then life would be good. I would get what I want, I would be instantly happy, and the world would be my oyster.

I never did care much for pearls, though...

***

So, Zenji grew up, and eventually, through a series of important transformations brought on by that icky thing called "maturation," became The Maven. And, as we've established, The Maven is a fantastically popular gal. However, I need to state a few things about life today that are markedly different than what I thought they'd be:

For one, life is not perfect. Apparently, popularity does not stop your children from getting very sick, or prevent unexpected car repairs. It doesn't lower the cost of your satellite package either, which is a real bitch. Oh, and another thing? It doesn't do your laundry. That's probably the worst part. It's hard to be the glamorous woman people expect when I'm all sweaty from hanging out the clothes on the line. Popularity should totally come with a housekeeper.

Another thing: popularity doesn't end insecurity. What on earth is that all about? It was supposed to make me more sure of myself. Isn't that how the in-crowd works? Everyone relies on everyone else to give them that air of superiority, and then we collectively look down on the peons from our high horses, right? Apparently, that's a big, fat lie. I don't even have a high horse on which to look down at people from. It hasn't made me feel grandiose or special. I still get my feelings hurt, I still cry, I still wonder what's wrong with me - especially during PMS week. I find fault with myself regularly, and I have not become a natural blond with a small waistline and great teeth. Someone didn't get the memo.

Also, I haven't let go of the past, and use that annoying empathy thing frequently. My inner Zenji often runs around and checks to make sure that people feel happy and included. Inside this cold, Maven exterior, loyal Zenji has a big heart. Figures, her being an acne-riddled dog and all.

Finally, I've learned that, while knowing a lot of people is not a bad thing, my tried and true method of having a few close friends is by far the most important aspect of my social circle. I love my girls; the ones I can truly be myself with, call when I'm having a really bad day, rant to, cry to, laugh with and relax with. The ones that read my crazy blog posts and yet still respect me in the morning. The ones that have been there through the though times - and there have been a lot of those lately - and celebrate the good times. The ones who know how jam-packed full of mayhem my life is and wait patiently until the dust clears, or show up with coffee in hand during the eye of the storm.

The funniest thing about popularity? When I stopped looking for it - stopped feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely; stopped wondering what was wrong with me; stopped picking at my flaws and instead embraced who I was and showed it boldly to the world like I had nothing to lose - love and acceptance inundated my life. And it only gets better every year.

My authentic self, the one I display regularly on this silly little blog for the world to laugh at with, is the one people like. And to think I spent years trying to be someone else. Someone "better".

I guess Zenji wasn't so bad after all. She just needed a little Maven to spice her up and help her grow a backbone, that's all.

Whipping it Out Everywhere

Know what really pushes my buttons? Uptight people.

Know what pushes my buttons even more? Ignorant uptight people.

The two are generally synonymous, but when it's blatantly obvious that someone is going for the title of Douche of the Universe, it makes my entire wall of buttons get all pushy-like.

Tonight I will discuss a topic that not only pushes my buttons, but twiddles my knobs, too. And I mean that in the least perverse manner possible.

You'd have to be living under a rock - nay, living at the bottom of a chasm in the deepest part of the ocean under a very heavy and unmovable rock - to not know breastfeeding is the golden standard for infant nutrition. It's not even an arguable point, as it has countless studies to back it up. This post isn't about whether or not babies should be nursed. I mean, I'm a postpartum doula with a background rich in breastfeeding courses: it should be apparent where I stand on that issue.

Gone are the days where I try to tell people how they should feed their child. The information is out there and you can decide for yourself, like I did. Heck, I have a few friends who didn't nurse and I still think they're cool chicks. Sometimes, we sit around the fire and sing Kumbaya while holding hands. It's a beautiful thing, our ability to accept each other.

Today, I saw a re-tweet (Twitter talk for a tweet - or post - from a person that is then rebroadcast by others) with a link to a post on born.in.japan. The blog itself is a good read, so I'll be putting it on my blogroll. However, the first picture in this particular post angered me as much as it did the author. You can visit the blog to see it for yourself, but essentially it's an posted ad from the site Chicago Now, which states:

Breastfeeding in public is tacky!
Seriously, how hard is it to find a bathroom, mommies?

Ouch.

Now, later on, the ad is replaced by another, nursing-friendly one. And when I checked out Chicago Now's site, I found this very supportive article about public breastfeeding. The poster was obviously a provocative attempt to incite web visits. I get it, but I don't like it.

***

I'm going to admit something here, not only because I'm trying to make a point, but because I hope it'll help someone else out if they stumble across my lowly little blog:

I used to be a bathroom stall breastfeeder.

There, I said it. It's a hard thing to admit, being the knowledgeable lactivist I am today. But it's because of those awful experiences of sitting on the toilet with my newborn that I'm able to encourage women to proudly nurse their babies wherever they are.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I was going to give breastfeeding an honest try. Even in 1996, the literature spoke loud and clear in favour of breastmilk, and I was so enchanted with my new son that I wanted to give him the very best start in life. At the same time, however, I was a mere twenty years old, was suffering from then-undiagnosed postpartum depression, had very few friends with kids and none who were nursing, and had not grown up with a lot of breastfeeding around me. This left me in a bit of a quandary: I wanted to exclusively nurse, I sucked large at pumping or hand-expressing, and yet I was very insecure and worried about what people would say if I were to let my baby eat in public.

What if someone saw my breast? What if someone was rude to me? What if the few friends we had left didn't want to hang out with us anymore because I made them uncomfortable?

See? I was a very different Maven back then. I was still in the caterpillar stage and not the soaring, glorious bitch of a butterfly I am today. It takes time to mould oneself into such a state of perfection, you know.

So I took it to the stalls. The smelly, disgusting stalls. There were no nursing rooms in Ottawa back then. There were no comfortable chairs just inside the bathrooms, even. So, to avoid mean looks and unwanted comments, I would put down the toilet seat and latch my baby on while I read the graffiti adorning the stall walls.

It didn't take me long to realize that I would rather deal with the douchery of others than subject my child to the bacteria-infested public washrooms. I clearly remember the day I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, got ready to nurse, said 'screw this' and walked back out again.

And then, I nursed everywhere. Everywhere. On the bus, on benches in the middle of Ottawa's largest and busiest malls, at people's houses without asking if I should leave the room, on our front porch, at the park, every-freaking-where. Was I discreet? As much as I wanted to be. If I covered up, it was for Intrepid's comfort or mine, and not for those around us.

And I dared someone to come up and say something to me, or look at me the wrong way. When I breastfed in public, I wouldn't sit with downcast eyes; I would look around at the faces of others to let them know that I wasn't ashamed of what I was doing. I was damn proud of it. And I would smile, and sometimes I would even say 'Hello' - I saved verbal greetings for the people who looked the most shocked/uncomfortable. I felt good about what I was doing: not only was I giving my baby the best, but I was making doing so a normal sight again - like it was two generations ago, or like it is in so many other, less uptight countries. I knew even back then that I was making it easier for the next generation of moms.

But that's me, right? That's full-throttle Maven mode. Unfortunately, I've counseled women much older than I was, who are new moms in a new decade where breastfeeding has once again become the norm, who are still terrified of publicly feeding their babies lest they be judged by others.

It makes me shake my head full of beautiful curls, it does.

So, let's see: We are feeding our babies in the normal, expected way with milk that is scientifically proven to be hugely beneficial to both mother and child - and produces absolutely no waste, I might add - and this is frowned upon? We're asked to cover up, pump into a bottle, or find a "quieter spot"?

And people think this is okay? Like I said: ignorant, uptight people really piss me off.

Sorry. I think I said they push my buttons. I was trying to be nice. Now I'm feeling less nice because I'm all angry-like.

The thing about Chicago Now's "advertisement" is that, while the blog seems to support public breastfeeding (as it should, really), seeing that statement on a sign with no further explanation could potentially cause a nervous mom to make a beeline for the nearest restroom. Worse still, opinions spouted off by ignoramuses, no matter where they are found, could make a pregnant woman decide not to breastfeed at all because she can't handle the comments. That's completely unacceptable to me, so it should be to you, too.

I'm always right, after all.

In short, I just don't want to see someone feel like they have to hide what their body is supposed to do. We're meant to make milk and our babies are meant to drink it. It's as simple as that. Anthropology 101. If you have a problem with a suckling baby, don't look. In fact, if it's really bothering you that much, I can direct you to the nearest bathroom stall. It's nice and private in there.

Rock on, nursing moms. This one was for you.

Braces and Debt with Sugar on Top

It feels like forever since I last blogged, and yet it's only been two days.

That's what NaBloPoMo does to your brain; it makes it all efficient and stuff. I'm hoping that unfortunate ability gets turned off soon. I'm nothing if not a slacker. But how I loved that break; that glorious two-day break. I was able to watch Glee last night without thinking to myself 'Ok, so after the show I have to write something before I go into the hot tub, because after a soak I'll be too relaxed to do anything but sleep...'

See? I lead a life fraught with many challenges.

Since it's been a whopping 48 hours since my last post, I might want to do some updates on life in the Maven household.

For one, I'm starting to respond to emails again. I've been carrying tremendous guilt. For example, a long lost friend got in touch with me, I wrote her back, she wrote me back... and communication ended there. What little time I've had between a bazillion birthday parties, a disgusting amount of blogging, and all those other things I have to do in a day left me with little time to sit down and write stuff. Not only has said friend been ignored, but also the woman who advocates for my deaf children at school, and people from two committees I'm a member of.

I admit it: I was a giant pile of suck the last few weeks.

I figured I should update on a few things I talked about in the month of November. Why? Because that's about all my only slightly-caffeinated brain can come up with right now, that's why. I'm kind of a bitch before I get enough coffee in me, so I suggest you politely smile and keep reading if you know what's good for you.

The Sugar

I spoke about my sugar addiction, and how I had to cut the white stuff way back for a little while. I'm happy to say that's still happening. On the weekend I went to two birthday parties - including Intrepid's - and I did have a small piece of cake at each, but it ended there. Then last night, I tested the waters and had some donut holes (Timbits, for the Canucks) because I felt like having something sugary.

They were absolutely delicious.

But within a few minutes I felt awful: jittery, unfocused, anxious. I think the reason I never noticed before is that I was constantly feeding myself sugary stuff, whether it be in the form of a chocolate bar or a granola bar or some very sweet yogurt. I was never away from it long enough to notice the difference.

Lately, about the only sugar I tend to have most days is a spoonful in my oatmeal. Other than that, I stay away from it. So, it comes as no surprise that my un-sugary body reacted poorly to the invaders. Had I stopped at two or three Timbits like a normal person it probably wouldn't have happened. I had about ten of them and KABLAM! Super Maven was smacked down hard. I didn't like that feeling. Lesson learned.

I still eat fruit, whole grain breads and pasta, and am generally not afraid of carbs. I'm not counting calories, fat grams, or adding more exercise into my day right now. The result? My stomach is getting flatter, my jowls are less jowl-y, and I have more energy than I've had in years. Can we say "Borderline diabetic"? Oh, I think we can! If I can head off diabetes at the pass by being more mindful of my eating, all the better. And if I start looking excessively hot as a result, all the better.

Go team Maven!

Braces

Intrepid needs them. We visited the orthodontist the day after his thirteenth birthday. Fitting, really. The long and short of it is that Intrepid has a Class III underbite, which means his lower jaw is longer than it should be. Meanwhile, his upper palate is too small, the teeth are crowded, and if we don't do something now we're looking at some of the following in his future:

- Teeth jutting out the sides of his gums. Not exactly girlfriend-friendly
- Upper front teeth destroying lower front teeth by sitting on the back gums. I would have to seriously whore myself out (in a sexual way, with my eventual sugar-free slimness) to pay for implants, so let's not go there
- Lower jaw getting so long that, at the age of 21, they have to break it, remove a piece on each side, reset it and wire it shut for a few weeks while it heals. That sounds incredibly fun, doesn't it?

The bill? Somewhere around $8,000. I'm surprised my heart didn't stop right then and there. I'm sure a lot of it involves the high tech braces going onto his upper teeth to expand the jaw, but just walking into the orthodontic clinic gave me a very clear picture of what, exactly, we're paying for:





And yes, those are two of the three game consoles built into the walls of the playroom. The clinic itself is huge, brand new and state-of-the-art.

Pretty sweet, isn't it? I was too embarrassed to take a picture of the entire waiting area and instead made it look like I was only photographic my kids, but rest assured that every single parent had a smart phone and was dressed very nicely.

I see rich people.

Oh, and did I mention the robot in Texas that bends the titanium/nickel/some other metal wire to custom fit Intrepid's mouth every six to eight weeks? Or the specialized toothbrush that comes with his treatment? How about the self-serve single-shot coffee and tea station in the waiting area? Or the wheel kids can spin after a procedure that wins them anything from a $5 Dairy Queen coupon to a $25 HMV gift certificate? We're paying for extras at a high-end clinic, I'm sure. And yet, I'm pleased as punch we're going somewhere reputable and technologically advanced. I'll skimp in a lot of places, but when it comes to my gremlins' health, I don't want to mess around.

I'm happy to say that Geekster does have insurance, and that they should, theoretically, pay for half of this. Still, who knows? Insurance companies are crazy these days. This article scares me. Next thing we know, they'll say they've seen profile pictures of Intrepid on Facebook and he looks happy without braces, so they're denying the claim. Sheesh.

Debt

Ah, debt. I wrote about how we're sinking ever so slowly into a pile of it, and how I was crossing my fingers that our application to re-mortgage would be approved. When we visited the orthodontist, we hadn't heard a thing yet. So I came home with an $8000 estimate and no idea how we were going to pay our existing bills, let alone a new one.

And yet I didn't binge on sugar. I'm terribly proud of myself.

The next day - yesterday, for the record - we heard back: Mortgage approved. Everything should be done before the holidays. I'd like to say that means we're out of debt, but it actually means we get to spread the joy across 19 years. Still, it also means hundreds of dollars less every month in payments. We're canceling our line of credit and keeping only a small credit card for emergencies. This credit card, by the way, has a $1000 limit and we've told the company NOT to raise that limit without our permission. See? We can be responsible.

It also means I don't have to get one of those unfortunate job things, and instead stick to the occasional writing/editing contract. Thank goodness. All that time being a slave to the grind would really interfere with my sugar-free bonbon eating.

Learning to live on cash will be a challenge, but one we absolutely must do in order to not end up in this situation again. Any suggestions on how to save and what to save for are welcome. You be the teacher, I'll be your pupil.

That sounded kinky, didn't it? Don't run away in fear: I said I would only prostitute myself for implants.

Er... Tooth implants. Just so we're clear.