Super Mom Vs. The Horrible Hobble

(Image credit: Wikipedia.org)

In the last set of comments (yes, I do read them - every single one - and they totally feed my writer's ego make my day), Deb asked if I would write a post about my recent injury. So, since I'm nice like that, allow me to flex my non-injured wordsmith muscles and tell the tale.

First, I have a confession to make: I've been working out. But if you're not my Facebook friend, you likely wouldn't know it (and if you are my Facebook friend, I apologize for spamming your live feed with my annoying workout messages). For the most part, I've been doing it all secret-like in my office or bedroom, kind of like a teenager with a case of the late night porn itch.

(Come to think of it, it's a lot like porn: skinny, scantily-clad women on the screen working up a sweat, telling you to keep going, twisting themselves into... Well, anyway. I think I've made my point.)

I've been trying not to be too rah-rah about the whole exercise thing. I tend to get overzealous and fall head over heels for something new, then lose interest, much like the guy in high school who never called you back after you got to third base.... not that teenage me would have any experience with that (the jerk). When I make a small change in life I should just do it, do it regularly, and appreciate the results. This is what I've done this time, and it's been amazing. And It feels different. I love how strong I'm getting, how much energy I have, how I tore my calf muscle while kicking myself in the ass...

Oh, yes: the injury! I had almost forgot. I was in the middle of this wonderful exercise called a "butt kick." Basically, you have to run in place while kicking so high you whack yourself in the buttocks with your heels. It's not the most attractive thing in the world, but it does get the heart pumping. I'm not quite getting foot to ass yet, but nearly. In fact, I was trying ever so hard to reach my sizeable bum with my $200 running shoes, using their uberpadding to the fullest as I pushed myself off the floor and - POP! - there went the party.

Did you know calf muscles could making a popping sound? I sure as hell didn't. In fact, it wasn't the pain that made me cease and desist, it was the fact that my leg made the same sound as a champagne bottle on New Year's Eve. The pain only came after that awful sound in the form of a rather unpleasant cramp.

I'll skip the part where I cried in agony in the shower and hastily sent off a message to a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about working out. We'll ignore my visions of having to have my leg's innards surgically reattached, or the horror running through my mind as I pictured watching helplessly from the couch as my once-tidy house goes to shit while I recover from said surgical procedure. I won't even mention my fear of gaining back the weight I've undoubtedly lost (I don't weigh myself at all these days so as to not get hung up on numbers) and watching all the muscle mass I've worked so hard for turn into flab I simply don't need more of.

But I'm not dramatic or anything. And definitely not anxious or someone who skips ahead. Me and the Dalai Lama, staying in the present like the centered beings we are.

The good news: It doesn't look to be serious. I know this because it's been getting a little better every day. As per my friend's suggestion, I immediatley applied the R.I.C.E. technique: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation (I hope I got that right. If not, my botched memory created a whole new recovery system that worked anyway and maybe I have a future as a trainer).

Okay, I maybe lied a little bit. I only took care of myself after donning my Super Mom cape for a few hours. After my shower, I went to the grocery store, drove my sister and Gutsy somewhere, and took Spawnling to the park to play with his little friend Dalek. It was all going swimmingly - minus the part where painkillers did absolutely nothing for pain and I gasped in agony every time my calf muscle was stretched even the slightest amount - until Spawnling and his buddy decided to try to kill each other at the top of a very high play structure. They never fight -- well, hardly ever. They picked the one day I was crippled and Dalek's fairly pregnant mom was the only other adult at the park. They attacked each other ten feet off the ground, surrounded by four long slides and two openings fit for bone-crunching falls.

Fan-freaking-tastic. What on earth was I supposed to do?

After yelling at them to stop failed miserably, I rushed up to the top as quickly as I could, narrowly avoiding my now tattered Super Mom cape getting tangled up in the monkey bars. It was only once the boys were on the ground sobbing and tending their wounds with retracted claws that I felt an intense surge of major ouch. When I got home, I told the kids that mommy was done for the day. There would be no fetching of favours, no snack acquisitions. They were on their own until their dad got home from work.

Gutsy pushed the ottoman up to the armchair, put a pillow on it and carefully lifted my leg. He then grabbed an ice pack and a cold drink and handed them to me. "Are you alright, mommy? Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked kindly, and stroked my cheek. Later, he, Intrepid and Geekster took orders, formed a sandwich assembly line, and delivered a late but very yummy dinner. The even did the dishes.

See? The family can survive without me -- for at least 12 hours! I was mostly back on my feet by the following morning, getting things done one limp at a time. I am nowhere near ready to start kicking my own ass again, but I did get a great upper body and abs workout done yesterday. Soon, I'll try walking a block or two, and then hopefully a little ways longer. By next week I hope to jog, and then I'll tentatively (and a little fearfully) resume my regular exercise routine that involves a fair bit of things that can apparently make Maven's muscle go "Pop." Yikes.

Injury sucks. However, it's reminded me just how grateful I am to be this healthy and mobile; all the more reason to keep working hard, getting stronger and healthier.

Oh, and hotter. Yes, I'm definitely getting hotter and really buff. If you know me in real life and I haven't asked you to feel my bicep yet, consider yourself lucky. I've been making everyone touch it. I expect a flood of restraining orders to start coming in soon.

Look, just fondle my arm, ok? Don't make me hobble after you.

Baby Hater

(Photo credit: Katie Trinque of Trinque Photography)

Last week, my sister and I herded the two littlest gremlins into an oversized restaurant booth. We met a friend and her new baby for breakfast. Gutsy was so excited to meet an infant. Spawning was more excited for sausages.

Baby Morgan is adorable: Smiley, cooey, beautiful. Gutsy was absolutely smitten. He took every opportunity to talk to her sweetly, hold her plump little hand, stroke the fine hair on her round little head.

Spawnling gave her nary a second look. While we were all taking turns holding her and gushing over her, he played with his cars and slurped chocolate milk.

If you couldn't already tell, Spawn isn't a big fan of babies, and everybody knows it. He finds them annoying or perhaps invasive. He takes no interest in them at this point unless they're trying to grab toys he's playing with (and then he's even been known to push them over, much to my extreme embarrassment) It's funny, because he loves animals and other kids, but not babies. Are they not interactive enough? Do they make him jealous? Who knows?

Poor Morgan. She kept looking over at Spawnling like he was some sort of god, craning her neck and cooing at everything he did. "Look, Spawn!" said mama Angie sweetly. "Morgan is so interested in what you're doing."

Spawnling sighed and didn't even look up. "Yeah, I know."

"My brother doesn't like babies very much," explained Gutsy.

"No, I don't," Spawnling agreed.

"Spawnling..." I warned, and tried to hide behind my coffee cup.

Gutsy continued. "In fact, he would probably kick a baby if he could."

I stopped mid sip. "Gutsy!"

Spawnling nodded. "Yeah, I would kick it."

"Spawnling! Don't say that!" shushed I. Meanwhile, Angie and The Sister were trying to stifle their laughter.

My youngest shrugged. "Well, I would," and went back to playing cars.

Thank you, darling. It's not every day I get to feel that level of intense mortification.

It's also reason #32 why my husband's vasectomy is a good thing, reason #181 why I'm glad I don't run a daycare anymore, and reason #568 why it's a damn good thing that boy is so cute.

(Thankfully, he did come around and end up taking a bit of an interest in little Morgan. No babies were kicked in the telling of this tale, and I am breathing a sigh of relief that we have no infants in our future. Hopefully, by the time one of his older brothers blesses us with a grandchild, Spawnling will be well beyond the baby punting stage. We hope.)

Gutsy's Last Day of School - An Update

Is it the last day of school already?!

As of this afternoon at 3:00 - or, more likely, at 12:30 when I leave annual school picnic with Gutsy undoubtedly in tow - I will officially be the full-time caretaker of three gremlin boys once again.

Is there a way to convey anxiety-driven ticks? Because I think if I just write "*tick tick*" people might think I'm imitating a clock and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out how that fits into the context of this post.

Instead of ticking (not like a clock), I put all this nervous energy to good use and cleaned my house up all spotless like.

I did that on Friday.

It's now Wednesday. My house is still clean, even with three boys, 2 dogs and 2 cats living in it.

Throw away the yoga mat, people; I'm living proof that being a neurotic freak can be hugely beneficial to one's life.

Gutsy finishes grade 1 today. It's been one hell of a year for our middle gremlin. He started in french immersion class and ended up in the english stream with large helpings of stress for all during these difficult few months. It's incredible to think that, only a couple of months ago, our entire family was on the verge of collapse under all the daily pressure of his outbursts and, dare I say, depression. Looking back, I can clearly see the signs of overwhelming stress and sadness. I've been depressed, I've felt stuck and alone. That's how Gutsy was feeling. It breaks my heart. I get teary thinking about how hard this year has been for him.

And yet, he went off to school smiling today as he's done nearly every day since joining his new class in April. He comes home beaming and telling me about his day. He feels connected and happy. I see that sparkle in his eyes. I feel like we have Gutsy back again. It's not perfect; he still has outbursts and we still feel overwhelmed when they get bad, but the improvement is huge. With some therapy to teach us all some coping skills, I think we're well on our way to a more harmonious family.

I may be eating those words in August. Start placing bets.

We have learned so much as a family this year. We didn't collapse, we got stronger. We didn't shrink when faced with a challenge, we pulled together as many resources as possible and are using them. We didn't lose Gutsy, we got to know him better.

My only worry about this summer is that it's going to throw Gutsy's groove off. Being an anxious kid, he needs some kind of structure -- but not too much structure, because that's stressful. And it has to be the right kind of structure. Oh! And it it has to suit his brothers, too, who are six years his senior and four years his junior.

But, no pressure or anything.

I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off without losing the rest of my mind. But hey, my house is clean. Have I mentioned how clean my house is? Yes, my house is very, very clean. In fact, I was up until almost 1AM cleaning it because my brain kept shifting between "Tomorrow is the last day of school! YAY!" and "Tomorrow is the last day of school! EEEEEEEEEP!" So I just kept cleaning until the voices went away.

(I think this is the way OCD starts.)

Anyway, I need to go make some bagels. I promised one to the middle gremlin for his picnic lunch, and a smiling Gutsy makes Maven happier than a brooding Gutsy. Then, we'll head to the picnic.

And then I think I'll clean the kitchen until it sparkles.

Seasonal Sanity-Saving Survival Strategies (SSSSS)

I woke up this morning in a panic. It dawned on me that school is almost over and the summer mayhem will soon commence.

Including today, there are only five - 5, cinq, cinco, - days of school left for Gutsy. Intrepid finished last Friday and has been home playing video games skulking around the house eating everything in sight enjoying his summer ever since. Today, he gets interviewed for a seven week training and work placement. If he gets in, that means he and Gutsy won't have as much time to try and kill each other.

I'm positively buzzing with excitement at the prospect.

... Or maybe that's just the extra large coffee.

Trying to prep a thirteen-year-old boy for an interview is harder than you might think. For one, there's the grooming thing. Because girls are only a passing curiosity and not a full blown obsession just yet, the boy is not really into his appearance. I've effectively had to pick out his clothes for him. He probably would have shown up in his favourite fashion statement: a black patterned t-shirt and navy blue basketball shorts with a stripe down the side. I keep wondering what Stacey and Clinton would say about that. The possibilities are endless.

Then, there are the interview questions. I have no clue what they're going to be asking him, so I don't know what direction to guide him in. Because this is a community program, the questions could go from the very professional to the extremely personal. Rumour has it they tend to favour at-risk kids for this program, so I've given Intrepid full permission to use whatever would make him sound at greater risk for running his life into the ground at a moment's notice. Things like: "My mommy used to drink too much," "My little brother is seeing a social worker for his anger issues," and "My dad's work cut his hours back and now my parents argue over the bills" are all excellent choices.

Look, you have to use what you have. None of those are lies or even exaggerations, right? Do they mean Intrepid is destined for a life of crime and meth? Probably not, but we can let the program director be the judge. Heck, I fully plan to go in shortly after my grueling morning workout - the one that leaves me looking like complete ass. Nothing says "Mom is jonesing for her prescription pills again" like a little sweating and shaking. Throw in a faint "I need to get to the pharmacy soon" smile and he's as good as in!

All our dysfunction has to pay off somehow, right?

Anyway, back to summer. There are some good things and not so good things on the horizon, coupled with a whole lot of unpredictability. As a stay-at-home-mom, I don't have my kids signed up for camps and daycare and all that other stuff, which means I need to come up with a list of seasonal sanity-saving survival strategies. Intrepid possibly getting that job is one of them, but there are other very important items. For example:

- We have Gutsy's therapy sessions in place. Once per week through the summer. Thank goodness for that. If anything, it'll give me an hour to sit in a waiting room and read a book. I'll make sure to bring a coffee, too.

- I cleaned the master bedroom. If you're like us, your matrimonial bed is lost in a sea of toys, a mix of dirty and clean laundry and anything that needs some place quick to go before company arrives. This may not seem important in the grand scheme of things, but trust me: it's essential. With a clean bedroom, I can give myself a mommy timeout without worrying about tripping over last year's Christmas boxes. And heck, if the rest of the house is in summer disarray, I can just serve tea on my bed when people stop by.

- Great, fantastic, fabulous news: After over 18 months, they're restoring Geekster's full pay. We'll get half of what was lost this summer and it will be fully restored, in steps, by the new year. What does that mean? We might be able to go see The Karate Kid and Toy Story 3 instead of having to pick one and wincing through the cost of it, thus battling the 'We never do anythiiiiiiiiiiiing!' whining -- well, until mid-July, anyway.

- Park dates, park dates, park dates. If you're my friend and you're local, you're going to get a phone call to head to a park at least once or twice over the summer. There, you will be greated by a somewhat unkept and twitchy me with a trio of rambunctious kids. And if you avoid me, I'll find you. I'm a proficient stalker and I'm not afraid to coerce you into spending time with me and the Gremlins Three. You may now make preparations to leave the country if you wish. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Alright, must run. The skulky teen has an interview soon and I need to get my stoner game face on.

19 Years

I decided to write this post in the living room today, so as to be with the Gremlins Three instead of squirrelling away in the (generally) child-free office. After all, I'm a woman with a family, right? Surely I can get a blog post done surrounded by my beautiful children, right?

I don't know what I was thinking. It's been 15 minutes and I've managed to write one lousy paragraph. One. I've broken up two fights, comforted a sobbing child, managed to get a dog to stop barking with excitement as Spawnling taunted her with a very loud squeaky toy, and threatened to take the highly anticipated chocolate store trip away if everyone didn't give mommy some freaking quiet time to write her gosh darn blog post (Yes, I managed not to swear. It took more effort than I could possibly convey in writing).

The threat is working -- for now. I'll write quickly. Please excuse any grammatical errors or accidental cursing that may happen during the making of this post.

Wait a minute. My husband just came in and started talking my ear off. Does he not understand the mental zen I need to achieve to write such masterpieces? He so owes me coffee.

There. I just read him the first three paragraphs and he took the hint. Smart man. Onward, shall we?

Today marks my nineteenth year of sobriety. No drugs or alcohol for nearly two decades. It's unbelievable, really, that someone as infatuated with escape could go this long without. And yet, here I am. Thank goodness for sugar and caffeine to get me through the rough patches.

... Hey, nobody said I was perfect. Near perfect, maybe, but not perfect.

Nineteen years ago, I was a fourteen-year-old addict who drank every day, got high whenever she could manage to score, was terribly depressed, cut herself to release the pain, had pushed away any friends I had left, had been expelled from school, and wanted to die more than anything in the world. I was a lost soul with no future in sight.

By all accounts, I shouldn't be here today. By all accounts, I should be dead.

It took some persistent parents, six months in rehab, countless self-help meetings, lots of therapy, and a willingness to change that I had no idea I even possessed, but here I am, at 33, alive and sane enough to tell the tale.

"We have a good life," Geekster said to me this morning as we sat outside and had our morning coffee. The littlest gremlins were running around with their new water guns, the sun shining down on their bare shoulders. Their laughs infectious, I smiled wide.

We really do have a good life. Nineteen years later, I have a fantastic husband, three great kids, a home I love, the most incredible friends, and I fall asleep every night feeling grateful for all of it. Even the ugly, frustrating days. Even the overwhelmingly sad days. I'm just grateful that I'm here to experience it, and that I have more than I imagined I would. When you figure you'll be dead before you hit twenty years of age, anything and everything feels like a miracle.

On Friday, Intrepid accepted an honour roll award and made his mama very proud. When I looked at him up there accepting his certificate, I thought of what I was like at thirteen, in grade 7. I was in a completely different place; a darker place. And yet, wonders of wonders, I managed to have a son who is racing into his teen years with a smile on his face and a good head on his shoulders. It's amazing.

Intrepid says it's because he sapped me of my awesome stores while in the womb. He's probably right. It's a good thing they replenish so quickly. I'm an evolved form of awesome, you see.

Thus concludes my sappy moment in the Blogosphere. Thank you for indulging me. It's just that, sometimes, I can't believe I'm here, in this place, so damn happy most of the time. It's cause for making people puke a little in their mouths, it is. Breath mint?

My family members did stop interrupting me for a few minutes. We're still go for the chocolate store trip.

Thank god. I think that would have hurt me more than them.

Why I'm Not Too Keen on Daycare

Today, I took Spawnling to Ikea. It's not a place where I regularly frequent as of late for several reasons, not the least of which that I try very hard not to be an allen key toting consumer whore. Look, with three kids under my belt I'm sure there are rumours of other types of whoring in my life, so why make things harder on myself? It would be nice to leave at least my consumerism unsullied.

Still, I was drawn to the magical promise of uninterrupted coffee and browsing. With Spawnling being three, potty trained, and of the required magical height, he now qualifies for an hour in free daycare the Ikea ball pit. And what does that mean for mommy? A type of freedom I don't often experience during the day: Alone Time.

Except I wasn't alone, because I met two other stay-at-home-mom friends there and we all unceremoniously plopped our preschool-aged boys into the germ haven at the store's entrance before purchasing some cheap, shitty coffee at the store's exit. We started to wander aimlessly. We had an hour. One complete, beautiful hour to look forward to, where we knew our children were safely behind plexiglass with some energetic, undoubtedly childless young man to keep an eye on them.

We made it through 15 minutes before the pager went off.

Do you have any idea how long it takes to walk through an Ikea? The place goes on forever, even if you happen to know all the shortcuts (which we did). It was like a giant obstacle course full of strollers (almost sideswiped a toddler in the restaurant), shuffling old ladies who stop to look at everything (and I mean everything), and a concerning number of career-aged people who seem to not have a career to go to on a Thursday morning yet have a cart full of Swedish lots-of-assembly-required products. I think I may have broken a sweat as I sped walked, in high-heeled sandals, toward what I was sure would be a sobbing Spawnling who missed his mommy.

It wasn't. It was a nonplussed Spawnling's friend who wanted out of the chaos and into our would-be adult time. Spawnling saw me and waved, grinning wide before diving into the balls again.

We sat in a fake living room with a rocking moose - yes, I said moose - just out of site from the ball pit. We were there for perhaps ten more minutes before we heard "Spawnling's mom?"

It was the happy ball of energy employed by the European megacorp who was calling to me to come get my son. Spawn had also had enough of coating himself full of disease and wanted a slice of that rocking moose action.

Well, it was a nice 30 minutes.

It's funny, because I don't usually leave my kids with complete and utter strangers. Heck, I've never even put them in daycare. The closest we've come before the age of five is part-time preschool. I have trust issues that have apparently taken over thirteen years to work through.

And just as I'm starting to get into the mindset of maybe putting my youngest gremlin into a new preschool for two days a week in the fall so I can get some contracts done, I see a major daycare faux pas. I have dubbed it:

DayScare

(Like that? You just add an "s." I really am that creative. Does that intimidate you?)

You may not know that your child is in DayScare. You may think that he or she is in the hands of responsible, hands-on professionals. And you may be right. I certainly hope you are. On the other hand, you may have your child with one of the four scary dayscare providers I saw at the park two days ago. I can tell you right now at least 20 parents have no idea they're not getting top quality care for their money.

These dayscare ladies pulled up their minivans, unloaded a herd of children, let them loose in the park, and sat down at a table.

When I showed up, the little darlings were running wild, pushing other children to the ground, hitting and kicking each other, dangling dangerously off a play structure meant for older kids. One of my friends showed up with her son, who was then shoved abruptly down the slide by one of the dayscare kids. He tumbled all the way down and was hurt pretty badly. My friend asked who this child belonged two in both official languages, yet nobody responded. Not one of the dayscare divas even bothered to glance over. My friend ended up talking to the boy herself about how there is no pushing.

This went on for about two hours. The other parents and I had to hover around our children constantly to make sure they didn't get hurt by the kids left to run wild.

Look, I'm not coming down on childcare workers. I was one (and will never be one again now that I'm well on my way to becoming a world famous author and sex symbol), and many of my friends take other kids into their homes for a living. But the difference is that the providers I know personally actually work for their pay by, you know, paying attention. Making sure the sweet pumpkins don't trample each other. Teaching empathy and kindness. When you spend 40+ hours every week with a little somebody, you don't just make sure they're fed and watered.

I get that it's an exhausting job. Heck, that's why you couldn't pay me enough to do it anymore. The scariest part about daycare is that it's a bulk business. In my community, the only way to make any decent money at it is to take in as many children as possible, feed them as inexpensively as possible, and hope to god they don't smash your flatscreen with a wooden train. I didn't make a killing because I would only take in two full-time kids at once. I don't pride myself on being the world's best business woman (just the world's most awesome woman).

But now that I see you can just dump them in a park, turn your back to them and drink coffee with your friends, I see that I had it all wrong. Why did I put myself under so much pressure to do a good job when I could get paid the same amount to do nothing at all?

So, in short, it took a lot for me to let my gremlin go wander into the ball pit under someone else's supervision today. He did not get hurt, he had a lot of fun, I enjoyed my 30 minutes, but I was a little relieved to have him back by my side after what I saw at the park this week. Hopefully I'll regain some trust in time to enrol him in preschool.

Or maybe I'll just bring my laptop to Ikea twice a week and work there. The coffee sucks, but there is a Starbucks right across the street.

Did she really just ask me that?

I suffer from eczema.

Worse still, it shows up on my hands.

Even worse still, it appears to be stress-induced. Every time life hands me those bitter little lemons, I try to make lemonade and my damn hands get all busted up.

Last week, after using evil, skin-thinning cortizone cream for far too long to absolutely no avail, I decided to try the healthy, hemp-happy health food store. I am a crunchy girl at heart, after all. I like natural things with ingredients I can pronounce, preferably not tested on angry monkeys.

I made one big mistake: I brought Spawnling with me.

Actually, make that two big mistakes: I brought him right after I fed him a donut full of sugar with sprinkles full of artificial colours.

When we pulled up, I guiltily attempted to wipe the multicoloured evidence off his mischeivous little face, took him out of the car seat and walked into the organic wonderland. I directed him toward the little play area for kids and walked a few steps over to find the naturopath. There, I showed her my hands and we started to talk about how and why this rash was happening.

"Have you had this rash a long time?" She asked me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Spawnling climbing out of the toy area.

"No... Well, yes. I mean, sort of," I replied. Spawnling was now examining the bags of kettle chips and thinking about picking one up. He decided against it and shuffled just out of sight.

She said "Are you asthmatic?"

Spawnling started walking toward us with a jar of honey. "Um, excuse me for just a .... Spawnling, can you put that back, please? Very gently. That's right. Okay, go play with the toys now.... Yes, sorry. Mildly and unmedicated most of the time."

"And do you have trouble sleeping? Anxiety?" she asked. My three-year-old giggled and ran down another aisle.

"Um, a little. Yeah. I mean I sleep okay. Anxiety, yes. I have a history of it."

"Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" Spawnling ran at me with a loofah.

Stress? Really? Did she just ask me that? Lady, I have three kids. One is a teenager, one is a quick-to-anger seven-year-old, and the other is attempting to impale me with a sponge on a stick as we speak. My house is a mess, I have next to no time for myself, I'm always busy but nothing ever seems to get done... and you're asking me if I have a lot of stress?

I took a breath and smiled as I walked The Spawn back to the natural sponge display rack, then back to the toys. "Yes, I think it would probably be safe to assume that. See that little testosterone terror? I have two older versions of him at home."

Her eyes went wide. "THREE BOYS?! Say no more. No wonder you're stressed. I have three girls and that was pretty busy, but I can't imagine three boys! Do you ever get time to breathe with all that energy in your house? Oh my goodness. You need a B-Complex for stress, a probiotic to cleanse your gut, and some topical cream for your hands. And rest, and some extra help if you can get it. Come back and see me if this doesn't help. And good luck." She handed me the goods and gave me a look filled with -- was that respect? Respect because I was still breathing, perhaps, or maybe just because I managed to have a shower and put makeup on that morning.

My hands are slowly getting better. The B-Complex is helping a great deal, and my tummy feels healthier already. No loofas were injured during the retelling of this tale.

Coming Out of the (Writer's) Closet

I'm just going to come out and say it.

I feel an enormous amount of pressure to put out -- good posts, that is. Because I'm a writer by trade (I love being able to say that), I'm always trying to outdo myself, raise the bar, make the next one better than the last. And what does that result in? A serious lack of posting, heartbroken readers, and a frustrated Maven, that's what.

I pondered this over my afternoon coffee today, and then tried to come up with solutions. I managed to think of three:

1. Shut down my blog so I don't have to worry about it anymore (not really an option, as the world would be reporting a surge in attempted suicides shortly thereafter)

2. Keep stressing out about coming up with The Ultimate Post (not really an option either because my stress quota is pretty full as it is, thank you very much)

3. Quit worrying about it and write what I love, even if not everyone loves it as much as I do -- like those owners of really ugly purebred dogs who think they're the cutest things in the world

Maybe this blog is my greyhound. Maybe it's not to everyone's taste and will never be a wildly successful online parenting pagoda, but as long as I smile when I see it, that's all that really matters, right?

When I first started posting, I wrote about our day-to-day lives. I had gremlin #3 growing inside of me, the first two scuttling around me daily, and a home daycare to boot. I needed a place to vent, to bitch, to whine, to look at things in ridiculous and highly inappropriate ways. It was a great release, which is why 2006 is filled with many entries. I felt free to write whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I made a fatal mistake: I tried to categorize myself.

Much like the boy who sat next to me in grade 10 art class, I felt confused. What kind of blog was I trying to write? What message was I attempting to convey? Should I stay completely anonymous or let people know who I am? Should I use profanity or keep it G-rated? Should I be funny all the time or allow for some self-pity posts?

The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. But, unlike my grade 10 art buddy, there are no support groups for this kind of thing. There are no stickers on the back of other people's cars letting me know that I'm not the only who's ever questioned her bloguality.

Yeah, I like that word, too. That's why I made it up.

Today, as I sat in front of a blank post screen yet again, wondering what on earth I could write about that would be fun, thought-provoking and rich in quality, an idea came to me:

Screw this noise and get back to your roots, Maven.

As per usual, the inside voices are right. And to think the doctor said I should quiet them down with medication. Besides, who else would tell me when I need to wear my tinfoil hat?

First of all, there is absolutely no way I can categorize this blog. I'm a walking oxymoron; I'm a mom to three gremlins (mommy blog), addict (recovery blog), writer (professional blog), postpartum doula (breastfeeding blog) who has two kids with hearing loss and sensory issues (special needs blog). How on earth do you fit that all into one category?

Secondly, I can't write posts to please other people -- unless they pay me to do it, in which case I'll write whatever they want. Email me; I will be your whore. (Sorry, that's the freelance writer in me coming out) It's just not humanly possibly to please everybody all the time, even for someone as extraordinary as myself.

Finally, The Maven needs to stop worrying about what everyone else wants, and start writing for herself again. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what a self-centered, egotistical bitch I am. Where's the fun in thinking of others? That's for chumps and people named Oprah. This is the one spot in the entire world - in my entire child-filled life - where I can plant a flag firmly in the ground (hopefully not spearing my foot in the process) and make this my own territory. It's time to step out of the closet again and breathe the fresh air of narcissistic exhibitionism.

It's quite invigorating.

So what, exactly, does my readership get out of this deal? Simple:

1. You'll get more posts because I'll be drawing from my inner fabulousness instead of trying to find it externally all the time, and,

2. You'll get inside my very scary head and even scarier life as I recount the day-to-day goings on with three gremlins and a house full of chaos

Sounds great, right?

...Wait! Where are you all going?

Don't you want to see three-year-old Spawnling's (Jack's) first attempt at writing his own name?

Don't you want to hear about how I cleverly distracted the littlest beast for an entire day last week by taking him to the newly improved (and absolutely beautiful -- definitely go see it if you can!) Canadian Museum of Nature? I told him if he didn't listen I would let the dinosaurs eat him. The horned wonder informed me that dinosaurs died a long time ago and these are just fossils, stupidhead.

Little know-it-all.

Anyway, I'm going to try and shrug off this writer's block with a good amount of coffee and some personal freedom to just write whatever, whenever. My inner critic can critique something other than my blog posts. Heck, if she judged the state of my house half as much, the place would be spotless.