Gluten-Free: Six Months Later

Eight months ago, I looked like this:

Two months after that was taken, in a desperate attempt to feel anything but sick, I took all gluten - wheat, barley, rye and anything derived from those products - out of my diet. After an uncomfortable week of withdrawals, I started to feel better - a lot better.

Today, about six months later, I look like this:

And yes, I have headphones on. I was listening to the Black Eyed Peas and didn't feel like stopping just to take a picture. I might be vain, but good music takes priority. 

The greatest thing about all of this is that I never did it for the weight loss. Honestly, I was sick of trying to lose weight. Anything I've ever done in the name of shedding pounds has backfired on me. I did this to get my health back, and my body is responding with a slow, but steady "Thank you!" And I am responding to my body responding by grinning every time I look in a mirror. I would say this is a rather pleasant side effect to improving the quality of my life.

I saw my doctor a couple of weeks ago for a physical and told her I had gone gluten-free. She was very supportive, especially after seeing the results on the scale. She does not recommend I get a formal test for Celiac Disease as I'll just cause myself unnecessary pain and sickness going back on the gluten in order to test for antibodies. It's very apparent that my body is allergic to gluten. Duh. As a result, I can never eat it again without getting sick. Ever. When I've accidentally ingested it at a restaurant or through cross-contamination making gremlin sandwiches and the like, I've been sick for two or three days. Yucky, awful, digestive issue sick. My symptoms point to Celiac Disease, and that's what I'm now informally diagnosed with.

I whined a lot in the first little while after being forced to make this lifestyle change. I like whining about new things as I adjust to them. It's my way of processing everything that's happened while simultaneously getting on everyone's nerves: two birds, one stone. I complained at how unfair this is, how hard it is, how tedious it is. The world makes it really easy to feel sorry for ourselves when we have to make a big change. I've quit drinking, smoking, and a few other unmentionables in my life, but gluten has definitely taken the cake - yes, that's a pun -  for most challenging in my day-to-day.

However, there's only so much bellyaching a girl can do before she has to accept what is and move on. I'm there, and looking rather fabulous in my acceptance if I do say so myself. There are some wonderful bonuses to being gluten-free. Allow me to explain:

1. I look hot. Oh, I'm sorry. Have I mentioned that already? My skin, my hair, my nails have all improved, and it's exciting to see what I look like underneath this weight. I love myself no matter what size I am - I had to learn to be kind to myself in that way years ago or risk passing on a lot of self-image crap to my kids - but I'm really enjoying this transformation. When I started, I was a size 20-22. I'm now a size 18, and will very shortly become a 16. I can't tell you the last time I was a 16. I think I might have been, uh, 16.

2. I have now have a healthy relationship with food. Food and I have made peace. I no longer crave carbs (save perhaps two days each month - and you can probably guess which two days), I just eat them when I happen to eat them. I will go without bread/bagels/insert-other-carby-food-here for weeks and not even miss them. I no longer need specific foods in my home or in my belly to feel happy/calm/like I'm taking care of myself. Food is no longer love nor comfort; It's a means to an end. I generally eat nutrient-dense foods that I've prepared myself rather than the processed, pre-packaged junk. The reason is twofold: First, eating out safely is a challenge unless I plan it in advance, and I can't afford to buy most pre-packaged gluten-free foods in the grocery store. Second, now that I don't buy them anymore, I don't really want them, either. My diet consists mostly of whole foods, and that's doing wonders for me in every way. I don't think I could have kicked my food issues as easily without having a disease that made me do it. That makes me very grateful, actually.

3. I'm super awesome. I'm more alert, less anxious, wittier, more creative, and overall a more interesting human being. Scientists didn't think it was possible to improve upon The Maven, but an unclouded mind in a detoxed body has made it so. How wondrous for all who are fortunate enough to know me. You're very welcome.

4. There is no 4, actually, but I figured that wasn't a very long list and I'm trying to impress people.

5. Or a 5, but I wanted to round it off. 5 points are better than 4, even if the fourth wasn't real. 

And there you have it: 3 5 great things that have happened to me since going gluten-free. I can't wait to see what the next 6 months bring.

How to be a Good Mom on a Bad Day

We all have them: those low points in our lives where we wish we could just go crawl into bed and watch nothing but Grey's Anatomy reruns with a box of tissues and a big bowl of eat-my-feelings chocolate-covered almonds. Those times when shutting out the world and forgetting we know anyone but those crazy, half-toothed guests on trashy talk shows would be the best self-help a girl could get.

Sadly, shutting out the world is generally reserved for the woman who has not, in the last 18 years, pushed a screaming watermelon out of her hooha. I was reminded of this yesterday when I was having one of those gallon-of-ice-cream-down-the-cry-hole days and Spawnling wanted to... play. The very last thing I wanted to do in the world was play. The very first thing was I wanted to do was scream, followed by cry, followed by maybe some good ol' fashioned moping. But I had no such luxury. Having had unprotected sex five years ago, my ability to lock myself away in my room was severely impeded.

(May the last sentence be a warning to all young girls who are sad right now and thinkibg "Maybe if I just had a baby, I'd have someone to love me and wouldn't feel sad anymore!" Uh, no, little emo chick. You'll feel sadder because you'd have stretch marks, and you won't have any time to write your cryptic Facebook statuses and notes with ex-boyfriends tagged in them anymore, because you'll be too busy catering to someone who cries even more than you do. Go talk to someone instead.)

Anyway, I had no choice but to abandon my hopes of curling up in the fetal position, and instead be a responsible mom. Ick.

It got me thinking about how I've managed to muddle through all those other days in my parental past where I've felt like absolute garbage. How have I done it? And, more importantly, what Mavenly wisdom can I pass along to the masses? Naturally, I've made a list. At 5:30 a.m. with a cup of decaf by my side, may I present to you my findings:

1. Keep busy. Very, very busy. If you're anything like me, the most dangerous thing to have on a bad day is time on your hands. When I'm stressed out, my mind can be a scary place with nary an off switch in sight. So, I make lots of plans. Since I had my first actual day off yesterday in at least two weeks (note to self: schedule yourself better so as to avoid future burnouts), I took Spawnling to the museum with some friends. That took up a good chunk of my day and staved off the emotional wrecking ball in my brain for awhile. When we were there, I saw this sign. Being the incredibly self-absorbed human I am, the title made me think it was put there just for me:

True dat.

Awesome! I'm dealing with extreme pressure right now! I thought to myself. And I was going to read it, until I realized it was on the side of a fake submarine. And then I saw the picture of the octopus:

Oh hai, octopus.

And I remembered we were in an ocean exhibit. Different kind of pressure. Just slightly more deadly. Gotcha.

2. Eat your feelings. It's okay to have a day where you shove your emotions down the gullet with some less-healthy options. Don't be a hero, dude. Say "yes" to chocolate! Say "yes" to cupcakes! Say "yes" to that fourth cup of coffee! Yes, you can. Or, if your stomach is too tied in knots to eat much, think about how skinny your going to be if this keeps up. I devoted at least 2 hours of my thought process yesterday to how many pounds I could take off if I felt this awful every day. The idea was almost as delicious as candy.

3. Reach out to someone. I know this sounds impossible with little ones underfoot, but it really can be done. A quick phone call or an email works - with junk food as toddler bribery. A coffee date carefully disguised as a playdate can fool your kids into thinking you did something nice for them when really it was all about you, you, you (suckers). It's incredible how someone else's words and understanding can pull you out of The Dark Place. Last night, I did a lot of talking; deep, heartfelt, gut-wrenching sharing with someone I trust. Then I came home and let my husband pamper me (so nice of me, I know). I watched two episodes of Mad Men - which is not quite Grey's Anatomy in terms of distraction, but definitely juicy enough to keep me entertained. Then I slept like a rock - until Spawnling crawled into our bed at 4:30 and I woke up just enough to start thinking about how I should go back to sleep. Game over.

4. Don't over-think. A friend of mine said this week that our thoughts are like a train, and that we're supposed to sit onside the tracks and watch it go by (I really hope I got that right). But sometimes, when we're over-thinking things, it's easy to grab hold of one of those cars and get violently whisked away from that peaceful place. I'm trying to stay passive in my thought processes and not touch the shiny cars. Hands off, watch them go by. Of course, the next question is "How on earth do you not do that, Maven?" Which leads into,

5. Enjoy the moment. Yesterday, as my head was clouded with a hundred racing train cars, Spawnling walked into my room, hopped up on my bed, and said "You know, Mom. We never used to have computers, or beds, or TVs, or anything! They weren't always here. And in the future, we'll have new things that are really cool" He paused for a moment, thinking, then said "It's like the world is a story that never ends..." Wow. The train came to a halt as I absorbed what my philosophical four-year-old had just said. I blocked the tracks with cattle, dumped out the coal, and breathed in a very special moment. Later, I sat for a few minutes and sang Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" with the littlest gremlin, back and forth, back and forth, listening to his sweet little voice when it was his turn. That boy is so full of wonderful, which leads into,

6. Embrace joy - and I'm not talking about the scowling cafeteria lady downstairs by the same name. It's not always an easy thing to do on bad days, but joy is always there, hiding in the peripherals of our clouded vision. Sometimes it finds us, and all we have to do is let it in. When I was in my not-so-happy place yesterday, the universe thought it a good time to remind me of how lucky I am. Spawnling and I were at the museum with friends, but what we didn't realize is that there was a school trip filled with a bunch of other people we knew who were visiting at the same time. And, believe it or not, that was the second time this week this has happened to us, in different museums and with different schools. I lost track of the people I ran into yesterday, and how many hugs, handshakes and laughs we had. Joy: It's everywhere. I just needed an extra big dose yesterday, and it was delivered right to my front door-- or the museum. But whatever, I'm not picky.

I woke up ridiculously early this morning, but I'm feeling a lot better. Yesterday was tough. Those are days I sometimes wish I didn't have, but they're ones I wouldn't trade for the world, either: growth days, reminder days, days that make me grateful for the less painful ones. I threw my grappling hook up and caught the side of the pit, and pulled myself up - with a little help.

And I did it all with a four-year-old on my back. Good job, me. The Maven, as always, rocks on.

What do you do on a bad day? Any advice to impart? Do share.

Gutsy the 8yr. old Vs. The Maven, round 3,592

If you lived here, you'd be Gutsy's mom.
Photo credit: http://mistressofthemoonlight.wordpress.com/

He wouldn't get out of bed this morning; the lump of an eight-year-old curled up in his blankets, unwilling, unmotivated, and unnecessarily unkind.

He moaned and groaned and hesitated. He whined and flopped and complained. I coaxed, encouraged, and enticed with promises of breakfast and hugs. Nothing worked.

After 25 minutes, I left his room, snapping "Get up and get dressed, now. I have to make your lunch." My patience had been properly trampled. "And whatever you do, don't start yelling for me. Just get up, put your clothes on and come and see me for breakfast."

He yelled back "Mommy! Mooommmyyyy!" in the whiniest, loudest most grating voice he could conjure up. Truly, the child has mastered the exact pitch that will push all my buttons at once. But I breathed through it, and walked into the kitchen over his protests. I knew what he wanted: he wanted me to keep coaxing, to keep playing the wake-up game. I refused. Maven don't play that anymore.

I ushered him into the van as he protested - rather loudly, I might add. The neighbours walking by had a front row seat as he blamed me for absolutely everything. Everything was my fault: it's my job to get him out of bed on time to eat breakfast, it's my job to get make sure he's happy, it's my job not to send him to school when he's this upset. "It's all your fault, mommy!"

As we drove the two minutes to school, he told me through tears how he's going to take a whole bunch of stuff from people he hates and use it to buy a mansion (I'm thinking he must hate a lot of people - or at least a decent amount of rich people). And he's going to move in his best friends, and maybe his brothers and his dad, but not me. Oh, no, definitely not his mean ol' mom. He's going to buy me a smaller house and make me live there.

I'm being punished via square footage. Extra points for creativity.

We got to school at exactly eight (which is when it starts), he in tears, me close to it, my blood pressure likely high enough to harness as fuel and light a small city. I let him calm down in the van and eat his granola bar - which he was righteously pissed off about getting for breakfast, as he wanted cereal and I told him there wasn't enough time. We got in as the late slips were about to be given out, and I got him off to class just in time. By the skin of our teeth, with resentment still in his eyes.

So, like, it's been a really lovely day so far.

*~*~*~*

I've come to the point where I've accepted that this is what some of our mornings are going to be like. This is Gutsy, and this is the way he behaves when he's tired or stressed. I can't change his core personality. I can only my best to work with it. If he doesn't feel motivated then he doesn't want to get up, period. Sometimes the promise of meeting a friend at recess is enough, or the fact that the teacher lets him turn on the computers if he gets there early enough, or the dollar we've started dropping into a jar every time he gets out the door on time.

But sometimes none of that is enough, and we're stuck with a child who seemingly has an overactive anger gland.*

The last time he did this, which was about a week ago, I literally picked him up and put him in the van as he screamed at me. It was much worse than this time, and the hurtful things spewing from his mouth were epic. Everything, of course, was my fault. It was like a scene from the exorcist, except his head wasn't spinning around all that much.

When he got home in a cheery mood that afternoon, I said "Gutsy, I think we need to talk about what happened this morning."

He put his school bag on the ground and walked toward me with open arms, saying, "It's okay, Mom. I know you were just trying to get me to school on time."  There it was: after a few hours of reflection, he had realized he was wrong. My usually sensible and loving child had used his giant brain and figure things out. A light had gone on. He was a changed person.

He wrapped his arms tightly around me.  "I forgive you," he whispered gently.

I took a very deep breath and fell into his hug. Sometimes you just have to let it go.

I look forward to his interpretation of this morning's screamfest. Truly, I do.

*There is no scientific proof of an anger gland, but I'm quite sure one exists. Or, in Gutsy's case, quite possibly two.

The Cake of Hate

Photo Credit: http://comesitbymyfire.blogspot.com/

In case you've been living under a rock for the last ten days, you probably figured out that I epically failed at the whole NaBloPoMo thing. This whole "one blog post every day for a month" is not meant for me at this time in my life. I am far too busy in my role as mayor of Very Important Personville (population: 1). I just finished a sizeable contract, have another one on the horizon, and another-other one on its way. Then there are my feisty little gremlins, of course, and a house that looks more like an episode of Hoarders than anything on HGTV.

If I manage to put together two posts a week, I will throw myself a damn parade.

I could beat myself up about not meeting this lofty goal I set, but frankly I've been my own best punching bag enough lately. There's no need to add more icing on the cake of hate.

Or "hate cake". Both are kind of catchy, really.

It's ironic that my last blog post had to do with self-esteem, ego and all that, because I've fallen so far down the slippery slope of self-love that I'm scrambling to fasten enough vines together to pull myself back up. I'm not a big fan of Me right now. "And why is that?" you ask with a fair bit of bewilderment. Well, I'm glad you asked. I worked through a lot of it today, I think. But first I really need to paint a picture of this less-than-fabulous Monday morning.

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to both the cat meowing and Spawnling calling me from upstairs. Spawnling came into our bed and the cat stopped her noisemaking, so I went back to sleep.

That is, until Spawn peed the bed - our bed - and I had to take care of that. I then fell back asleep and woke up at 7:15 - a full 45 minutes after my alarm is supposed to go off. This is because Geekster set the alarm for 7:30 a.m on Saturday so he could wake up for Tae Kwon Do and never set it back to 6:30. I never checked the alarm before bed, so... yeah. Oops. It's a good thing my internal clock woke up me, or we would have been far more pressed for time.

It's Monday, and we have now woken up late. Oh, and my cat is eating a mouse on the kitchen floor. Fabulous.

Gutsy had a tummy ache last night which persisted into this morning, so we kept him home. One gremlin home on a would-be childless Monday isn't the end of the world, but certainly not what I had planned for my first actual day off in days (I've been a busy worker bee the last couple of weeks - especially on gremlin-free days).

So now it's Monday, we woke up late, there's half a mouse on my floor, and a sick child home.

And just when I think the day can't possibly get any more fan-freaking-tastic, I remember that I have a doctor's appointment. A pap test, even. And my doc's office is a thirty minute drive.

And guess what? It's fucking snowing. Like, a lot.

That was the start of my Monday. Add to this that I'm feeling ridiculously small and insecure lately, and I just knew that if I didn't do something, I was going to take a day trip into my Dark Place. I don't go there very often, but when I do it's not exactly a fun excursion.  It's all rainclouds and misery and heaping servings of self-pity. Considering I'm The Maven and do everything big and impressive, you can only imagine how impressive my Dark Place is. (It got a five-star rating in last year's Depressive Traveller's Guide.)

I'm a woman of action. These things need to be nipped in the bud quickly so they don't fester. I decided the best thing to do was to get some therapy. So I emailed a friend of mine and offered her coffee in exchange for her couch and wise words. She wrote back right away with an invitation to come by, and I truly believe that turned my entire day around. I told her everything that's been bothering me lately - baring my soul in a way everyone has to do from time to time. She did all those things a good therapist does, like nodding and empathizing and interjecting with some sound advice from time to time. And, in the end, we both agreed that I'm running predominantly on fear these days. Not exactly healthy.

All three of my children have had a hard time with transitions. Switching gears is a challenge for them. Time for dinner = tears at giving up playing trains. Time for bed = tantrum over turning off the t.v. I used to blame the sugar (my favourite scapegoat), but I'm kind of seeing a genetic connection right now - although I'll deny it if anyone asks me.

I'm in this high point of transition in my life. The kids are getting older, I'm going back to work part-time,  There are big, healthy lifestyle changes going on. I'm no longer who I was just a few months ago.  She was amazing, but this new woman emerging is going to shine even brighter. Like my friend said to me this morning, I just have to go through the process of shedding my old skin first, and that can be uncomfortable. I'm going to have doubts, I'm going to have worries, I'm going to have that little voice in my head telling me that I'm not good enough, not strong enough, not awesome enough. I'm going to need reassurance from those close to me. But, more importantly, I'm going to have to learn to reassure myself that everything is okay; that I'm going to be okay; that I am The Maven and I totally rock - even during my weaker moments.

I mean, who else can have an impromptu therapy session for the cost of a coffee? Major score.

I left her place and drove through the snow, belting out tunes and enjoying the scenery. I walked into the doctor's office smiling, and she said she wished everyone was that happy about getting a pap test.

Now I'm home, blogging for the first time in days, and feeling a little bit lighter. Things are going to be okay as soon as I get this skin off.  Anyone have a good exfoliator?

Self-Esteem

SELF-ESTEEM noun


confidence in one's own worth or abilities ; self-respect ; 
Some days, The Maven's self-esteem could use a giant coffee.

Yesterday, a friend of mine mentioned a recent US study that showed women with self-esteem issues tend to post more pictures of themselves online.

Why did she tell me this? She suggested that I take, well, a few too many pictures of myself.

Me, The Maven. Humble, quiet, mild-mannered me. Can you believe it? Well, I have...

NO

IDEA

WHAT

SHE'S

TALKING

ABOUT.

The girl is clearly delusional.

All kidding aside, she's right. I take way too many pictures of myself, and I do have self-worth issues. I will be the first to admit that I, like 99% of women out there, do struggle with my confidence levels. It's not that I think I'm hideous, it's just that I've spent a fair bit of my life trying to convince myself that I'm at least kind of pretty. Years of bullying and weight issues will do that to you. And I take lots of pictures so that I can hopefully capture the one that will make me think "Why, I believe I might have been wrong all these years. I'm not that bad looking after all!"

Despite all the brokenness mentioned above, I do surprisingly have a bit of self-esteem. I really do. You might have to squint to see it, but it's there. It precariously balances next to my ego, and they go back and forth in this tug-of-war for ultimate control.

My ego is like a big, bright bouncy castle that you'll see at any community fair. It screams "HEY! LOOK AT ME! OVER HERE!" and wants you very much to pay attention to it. When you do, it's thrilled. It gets even bigger and brighter and shinier.

But when you don't - because, say, you have your own life and you're too busy to really pay it the attention it wants - it's quick to deflate, pack up and go home, defeated. Obviously you don't care. You don't love me. You won't pay attention to me. I'm temporarily devastated.

Self-esteem is different; it's not based on how many people jump up and down excitedly on me (uh...). It doesn't care if you don't think it's pretty or smart or talented. It sits just behind the bouncy castle, slowly building itself up, brick by brick. It's taken years - and a copious amount of therapy - to create the foundation. You can't see it until that big annoying castle deflates, but it's there. It's smaller, less obvious - and far more solid. It will never puncture, it will never waiver. It's there for the long haul.

As much as I talk about the excitement of going back to work, I truly believe being a full-time stay-at-home-mom has taught me a lot about self-esteem. When there are no accolades, no pretty clothes, no reasons to put on makeup, no pay cheques rolling in; when there are only demanding kids, dirty dishes, runny noses and scribbled-on walls all day, every day - the only way to feel good about yourself is to feel good about yourself.


Yourself. You.

Because if you don't feel good about who you are, you're going to get depressed and lonely and feel worthless. It's so easy to fall into that as a stay-at-home-parent. There has to come a point where you stop looking elsewhere for who you are and find it within yourself, no matter where you are. That's self-esteem.

I definitely have some confidence issues, and my self-esteem foundation may be small, but I have one. Realizing that I need to be my biggest cheerleader is what made that little miracle happen.

But no, you won't see me taking any pictures in a squad uniform. Are you kidding? I don't have a self-esteem warehouse, people. It's, like, a shack, plastered with pictures of myself for you to compliment me on.

What's bigger in your world? The foundation or the bouncy castle? And how did you get there?

Buffet (of life)

MmmmMmmMmMmm.
I miss you, buffet.

BUFFET noun

A meal at which guests serve themselves from various dishes displayed on a table or sideboard.

The Maven wishes there was a local gluten-free buffet, because she misses them. 

There is so much going on right now that I don't even know how I'm finding the time to blog. I must adore you all immensely to whore out what little energy I have left unto you and your reading pleasure. You're welcome. You can pay me back in coffee.

There are big things afoot for The Maven. Monetary things. Job-like things. I have a fairly large contract I'm working on right now, plus another one looming (and not official until I sign on the dotted line in virgin blood, of course). And I use "looming" in the most positive way possible, because I'm actually quite excited about the whole thing. I like the idea of working part-time because it keeps my mind busy. 

The Maven's mind is a very scary place, indeed.

I also like the money. I like being able to pay bills without feeling sick to my stomach. I like not always having to say "no" to my kids when they ask for something. Turning my children into spoiled brats who get everything they want is an important part of being a Generation Now parent.  I especially like not having to tell myself "no" all the time. I want to say "Yes, Maven, you may have that beautiful pair of boots," and "Yes, Maven, you can buy a latte at Fourbucks today and not shed a single tear of guilt as you enjoy it." I'm a simple woman, but even simple women have needs, yo. 

What I'm not ready for, I've realized, is full-time work. I think that would be a huge shock to my system and to my family after being home for so long. I want to ease back in slowly, and wait until all three gremlins are in school full-time before I explore that option. The contracts that found me are perfect; And they have found me, which is the really cool thing. 

I'm not a God person (no offence, God people), but I do believe that when I put energy into the universe, it often listens. Between the moment I had the realization that I was ready to move from casual work into something more regular and the time when I was about to start telling people I was looking for just that, these contracts found me. Both were from amazing people who I admire and respect. Both are very suited to yours truly. Both are exactly what I was looking for right now, and what I need to get my professional groove back. I've been out of the game a long time, folks. This is some scary stuff.

I have worries about being able to balance it all. Can I really add more stuff on to my already full buffet plate? Can I still maintain my mothering mediocrity and pay some bills at the same time? Having worked out logistics with my husband and talked it over with the Gremlins Three, I've come to the conclusion that I can. I'm The freaking Maven, Mr. Bigglesworth. I can juggle a machete and a couple of vials of tiger's blood, no problem. I can figure this out.  I'll still see my kids off to school, I'll see them after school, I'll spend time with Spawnling on days when he's home. But I'll also be making room for something I want to personally, professionally, and financially. 

So what if my plate is already full? Life is a buffet: a delicious, Chinese buffet. And my plate is full of yummy, MSG-filled food, but it's missing something: chicken balls. 

You can't go to a Chinese buffet and not eat chicken balls, because that's like reading Playboy for the articles. Nobody does that, even if they say they do. 

I've realized through a lot of soul-searching that, my serving of chicken balls is important to me. It's the missing side dish on my plate of life. It's not that I don't enjoy my family beef and broccoli, or friends shanghai noodles, it's just that I didn't have work chicken balls on my last four plates of food and I need to have some before I leave. So I'm going to cram them onto this plate. Eventually, the rest of the food will settle around the chicken balls, and everything will be as it should. And I will be happy, because I will have a decent work-life balance balls in my mouth.

Life analogies are awesome, aren't they?

So give me some love and support while I make this terrifying/awesome/overwhelming/exciting trip to the Chinese buffet, ok? I promise to save you some balls.

Free

This is my "get out of writing free" card. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.

I had a day so busy I couldn't possibly explain it 2 minutes before midnight, and I chose to go hang out with the girls tonight instead of blogging.

But I'll do a great one tomorrow, so don't hate me.

And quit judging. It makes your palms hairy.

Attitude

ATTITUDE noun


A settled way of thinking or feeling about something.
If attitude came in sandbags, Spawnling would have enough to stop a category 5 hurricane.

I do not have meek nor mild children. They did not come softly into the night, but instead had me labouring a combined 89 hours, and weighed a combined total of 30lbs 12oz at birth (that's over 10lbs each, in case you didn't know). They nursed like fiends, wailed fiercely, and had no issues letting us know what they needed from us. You might say they have a fair bit of attitude.

As their mother, I would put it more delicately, and say they are somewhat tact-impaired.

When I brought Spawnling to his first well-baby checkup, the doctor - a mother to four - told me that, as third in line, my innocent little baby would likely be very easy going until he wanted something, and then would proclaim it loudly, without apology. I thought this was an unfair generalization. And I, Queen Know-It-All of Everythingland, smiled politely and brushed her off as I cradled my sweet little bundle of perfection.

If you've read my blog over the last four years, you know how quickly I was dethroned. Our doctor was absolutely right: Spawnling is chock full of attitude differently-abled tact-impairement whenever things aren't exactly the way he wants them. He's a diva without a tiara; I should probably see if I can find my old crown somewhere. It would suit him.

With my recent discovery that I'm gluten intolerant, I've been paying much closer attention to the gremlins' diets. These things have a genetic disposition, and so it's quite possible that at least one of them will meet the same fate as I at some point in his lifetime. My gut instinct tells me that Spawnling is also gluten intolerant or has celiac disease. At first I wasn't sure, but as he goes through periods of next to no gluten followed by normal quantities of it, the symptoms are becoming grossly apparent: tummy aches, bowel issues, runny nose, high anxiety, and he's quick to anger. Several of his teeth decayed two years ago with no apparent cause, which can be another big sign of celiac disease. Finally, he was hit with the unexplained and rare Kawasaki Disease in 2009, which is an autoimmune disease. Having poured through medical journals, I've learned that autoimmune diseases/disorders tend to run in tandem - meaning that there is often more than one present. These two particular diseases are linked, so there's very good reason to believe my hunch is correct.

I'm so damn smart - and far too well informed.

We see the doctor for checkups on Thursday, and I'm going to bring up to her that I'd like all three boys screened for celiac. Once the blood is drawn, I'm going to take Spawnling off gluten. If the blood test comes back positive, I'm going to consider that a firm diagnosis. Normally a biopsy of the small intestine is necessary to confirm, but with my issues I don't think we'd need it; genetics are powerful. Even if the test is negative for celiac, he can still be gluten intolerant, so we're going to do a good year gluten-free and see how he is physically and mentally after that. I know that six months has done me a world of good already.

Still, I don't think this is going to eliminate his attitude altogether. Spawn is a lion, not a lamb. That isn't going to change, nor would we want it to. With his attitude comes an amazing humour (no idea where he'd get that combination from). A couple of days ago, after seeing the movie Megamind, he asked me to quote a line. Like any good mom, I grabbed my camera:

Nope. We have no desire to change a damn thing. Like his mother, Spawnling is a beacon of awesome shining over a sea of mediocrity. Like I said, genetics are powerful.

Suspension (with pics)

SUSPENSION noun


the act of hanging: the state of being hung : the means by which something is suspended
In Casa Maven, reality enjoys permanent suspension.

Spawnling walked up to where I was escaping my noisy reality chatting on Facebook this evening and pulled up a chair. He looked at me seriously for a moment and waited until my eyes apprehensively left my laptop's screen and rested on his. I could tell this was important.

"Mom," he declared, "I think I've figured out how Gutsy caught The Angers."

The Angers, in case my readers are not aware, is a disease coined by my youngest gremlin. Spawnling insists it's infectious.  Every time he and Gutsy get in an argument (which, at the moment, is about 75% Spawnling-induced) he accuses his big brother of having The Angers. This, of course, leads to loads of laughter from Gutsy and anyone else around, which makes Spawnling catch his own ailment and stomp out of the room yelling, "Stupid head!" or some such.

My four-year-old hatchling has never elaborated on exactly how people catch The Angers, so I turned my chair toward his and asked for his theory. This is what he told me, word for word:

"Remember a long time ago when Gutsy had that ice cap? Well, maybe it went into his body and created a second heart that is full of angry faces, and they created a power source that shooted a bunch of angers out that included a bunch of angry sources that went all over his body. So, he got The Angers."

Well, that makes perfect sense.

And yes, it did take everything I had not to:

• Laugh hysterically
• Look at my screen while I quickly typed out everything he told me so I wouldn't forget it (thankfully I'm quite good at typing without looking - years of being a geek have served me well)
• Compliment him on his ever-expanding vocabulary
• Correct his poorly conjugated verb (the inner editor cringed a little)

Four-year-olds are so cool. I was commiserating with another mom this morning as we walked our preschoolers to class. We both agreed that if we could bottle up their innocence, humour, and imagination at this age, we could live happily ever after. Suspending our tedious adult lives for a little while and enjoying the beauty of a young child's world is what having kids is all about.

Well, that and cleaning up puke in the middle of the night at least three times a year, but I digress.

I downloaded some pics off my camera tonight and found a few gems I had completely forgotten about. But I need to explain something: currently, Gutsy sleeps in a tent. We set it up in his room not too long ago, and he loved it so much that he wanted to take his bunk bed out.

Yes, we really did let him do this. He has a matress on the floor of the tent, a monitor, keyboard and mouse at the opening to watch streaming video, and he is in absolute heaven. We're either the best or worst parents on the planet, but I don't care which. You're only young once, right? This is a picture of him from tonight:

What 8-year-old boys'
dreams are made of.

These are the hidden gems from the pre-tent stage. He figured out how to hang a hammock of sorts from his bunk bed. It was tied so well that he, both his brothers (including the huge teenage one) and our cocker spaniel could sit in it without falling to the floor - or the bottom bunk. I did a little photo shoot of him in it and got a few great shots of him in suspension. It looks like Dr. Spawn misdiagnosed his brother: There's no way this kid has a case of The Angers.

Frustration

Tik tok on the clock
But the party don't stop.

FRUSTRATION noun

the feeling of being upset or annoyed as a result of being unable to change or achieve something:

The Maven and Gutsy are both feeling a great deal of frustration this evening.

When it's 11:30 and your eight-year-old went to bed at 8:30 and is still awake for some reason, frustration oozes thickly throughout the home.

The boy takes melatonin lately to help him get to sleep at a reasonable hour. Otherwise, he lies there awake, tossing and turning, unable to stop thinking long enough to pass out.

Tonight, he refused his melatonin and happily proclaimed he didn't need it.

He just took it 10 minutes ago.

We're all pretty frustrated. He was crying, I was consoling him and trying not to sound annoyed (and probably failing) and Geekster is now cuddling him to sleep.

Still, that kid is gosh darn cute and was angelic this evening - no complaints here, really. I just want to stop tucking him in every half hour and have time to, you know, blog or something.

That's about all you're going to get tonight, folks. I'm heading to bed. Spawnling and Intrepid are back to being institutionalized tomorrow morning (thankfully, Gutsy has one more PD day before he goes back to school). Must get my beauty sleep so that I can whisk them off, grab a coffee, and muster up the emotional strength to deal with Mr. Exhausted tomorrow. Should be a good time; I'd try to reserve your seats early. Popcorn is $2.50.

Indubitable

INDUBITABLE

 adj.

that cannot be doubted : patently evident or certain : unquestionable.

The fact that I need a coffee right now is indubitable.

I was scanning through the long list of suggested words from my Facebook group this evening, and none were jumping out at me. It's not that there aren't a ton of impressive suggestions, it's just that I'm feeling rather uninspired right now. 

If I had picked my own word to write about on this dreary Saturday, it would have been "meh." That pretty much sums it up.

I was still on a high most of the day from the unexpected break my friend Liliane gave me when took Gutsy out of the equation yesterday. Everyone felt renewed this morning - except Gutsy. He came home from the Justin Beiber movie energized and inspired, and stayed up until eleven wondering how he could become the next big pop senstation. No big deal, though. He could just sleep in.

Or not. He was up at 7 AM, ready to take on the world - or at least his little brother. Like just about everyone on the planet, when Gutsy is tired, he has a short fuse and little tact. And I was okay with the fighting for the morning - I really was. Then my neighbour called and invited the middle Gremlin to her place for part of the afternoon, which felt like winning the freaking sweepstakes. I sent him over, let the house fall into relative silence as everyone took some downtime, then barricaded myself in the bedroom with a coffee while I watched two episodes of Damages - my new favourite obsession. I then headed over to my neighbour's place with two more coffees and lots of gratitude. 

But by late this afternoon, as I was pulling my freshly baked bread out of the machine and tripling my favourite gluten-free pizza crust recipe, the shine started wearing off. There's only so much brotherly brawling a Maven can handle in a single day, okay? Add to that nearly a full week of noise and chaos and refereeing, and it's no wonder my happy breaker is tripping more easily these days. 

My friend Deb suggested the I write about the word "indubitable". Frankly, I could have used it in so many ways after the last few hours: 

The fact that March Break needs to be over, like, now, is indubitable.

It's indubitable that the first thing I'd purchase with any lottery winnings would be a nanny service.

Indubitably, The Maven is close to losing her ever-loving shit. 

And so on.

But, surprisingly, those aren't the first uses that crossed my mind. My initial use of the word was: I indubitably love my kids. Followed closely by: The Maven's awesomeness is indubitable, but whatever. At least the narcissism came second; My therapist says this is progress.

I really do love my gremlins. Sometimes I whine about the loudness and dream of a job that involves a fair bit of travel, but I do adore each little horn on their furry skulls. They are the string on my homemade macaroni necklace; the duct tape binding our love story; the crazy glue on my cracked vase of life. 

I love them, indubitably. Even on hectic/domestic March Break.

And I also love myself for being awesome enough to remember that. But only secondly.

And speaking of awesome, you should really check out  my friend Liliane's - yes, the one who saved my sanity yesterday - letter in today's Ottawa Citizen. In it, she thanks a local restaurant for going above and beyond to make her son Jacob's birthday extra special. Jacob is a good friend of Gutsy's, and one of the bravest people I know. He spent months in the hospital battling brain cancer and is currently in remission. Indubitably, he is my family's hero. When you read his mom's letter, please make sure to have some tissues ready: you're going to need them.

Promontory

PROMONTORY noun
A point of high land that juts out into the sea or a large lake; a headland:
The Maven stood on the rocky promontory, threatening to jump if March Break didn't end soon.

What a neat word. Up until last week when it was suggested by a blog reader who's obviously smarter than I am, I had no idea it even existed. Neat-o.

Promontory: A fancy word for "cliff."

If I had written about a promontory yesterday, it probably would have involved me saying how it might be nice to take final flight into an ocean of solitude, leaving behind the screaming and taunting of my wee gremlins who are getting oh-so-bored with our school-induced vacation. I've concluded that the individual who came up with the idea for March Break is either;

1. A sadist
2. A jerk
3. Someone who has ample money to entertain their kids for an entire week
4. A rich, sadistic jerk

But those angry thoughts are gone - poof! - out the window and quickly forgotten. Today I was granted a reprieve. One of my friends decided it would be nice to take Gutsy out mini putting this morning, then took him for lunch, then took him back to her house to play. Then - oh yes, it gets better - she took him to a movie this evening.

I don't know if I can put into words just how much this changed the dynamic in our home, but I'm a writer so it's my duty to at least try.

I've often said that Gutsy would have made a perfect only-child. He's one of those kids who loves attention from his parents, but also needs his space. However, the boy's station in life was to be placed between older and younger brothers. Gutsy is sort of the odd one out. He has different interests, a different stress threshold, and likes things a just so. When all three boys are home for any length of time, tensions start to build. On one hand, Gutsy likes to play with his brothers. On the other, he's quick to anger if they don't play the way he wants them do. And since he's smack dab in the middle age-wise, he plays with both and argues with both. This week there has been a ridiculous amount of arguing.

The last few days have been leading me further and further up the cliff, carefully considering a leap from the proverbial promontory into a blissful pool of insanity. Maybe Mommy Maven wouldn't hear them arguing anymore; arguments might sound like jovial singing in my special crazy place. You never know, right?

And then, a miracle happened: I got a phone call this morning asking if Gutsy would like to go out. This one act of kindness shifted our family's dynamic, throwing us all into a pleasant state of rest. I took Spawnling out for the morning, then dropped him off with Intrepid while I did some groceries - alone, all by myself, just me and my shadow cup of coffee. I can leave the oldest and youngest gremlins alone because they're ten years apart and, as a result, rarely fight. While I was gone, they watched TV, played Lego, and did a few other brotherly bonding activities. I didn't have to worry about answering a call from a sobbing child who was tattling on another sobbing child. It was like winning the lottery - which I then quickly spent at Costco. Yikes. Nobody told me I'd have to actually feed my kids, too. Isn't loving them enough?

Anyway, it's now evening and we're all relaxed now. Gutsy came home from tonight's Justin Beiber movie determined to find concert tickets and get a set of drums for his bedroom like the Beibz. I'll talk him down from his high tomorrow. He had a great day, and the smile on his face when he came in tonight was priceless. I owe my friend big, big, big.  I shall place her high on the promontory of adoration and shower her with coffees for all eternity.

One more weekend to go. One more, and I'll have time to track down that rich, sadistic jerk I mentioned earlier and kick him square in the junk.

Kerfuffle

KERFUFFLE noun

British Informal

A commotion or fuss, especially one caused by conflicting views;

There was a kerfuffle over just who could yell the loudest while mom was trying to rest.

I got next to no sleep last night. I had coffee far too late in the evening, then stayed up watching lawyer dramas until 1:00 AM. At three in the morning I woke up to a somewhat urgent issue with our sump in the basement, which Geekster and I spent about an hour fixing. I managed to fall back asleep at 5:00, but was woken up at 7:00 by a four-year-old demanding cereal and juice.

Naturally, an unrested mom is cause for a great deal of chaos the following day; it's some kind of sick universal law that plagues me each and every time I don't get enough sleep. Either that, or I take things far too seriously when I can barely keep my eyes open. But I'm pretty sure it's the former. Life is out to get me. I'm attractive, and it hates me for it. 

Thankfully, Life's loathing of yours truly has been decently spread throughout this past week instead of being entirely centred on one day. This was thoughtful of Life, making sure I get a slap or two each day rather than a full-blown, drag-out pummelling on Thursday. And speaking of fights - or kerfuffles - there have been many. When they're tired, bored, anxious, angry or hungry, The Gremlins Three have a propensity for battling it out. They'll seize each and every opportunity to yell, threaten, demand, hurt or take away from another sibling. This sport will surely become olympic-bound at some point, but for now it's regularly practiced and perfected in my very own living room. 

Why they couldn't have picked up a gentler pass time - like hockey, or rugby - is beyond me. 

People don't always understand why I'm not a big fan of March Break. They can't relate to the sheer dread that washes over me when I can no longer ignore the impending black cloud about to descend on my home. I'm quite sure there are Facebook groups and web boards out there with the sole purpose of Maven-bashing. They probably have names like "Click 'like' if you think The Maven is an unfit mother" and "Moms who love their kids and want to do a bit of Maven trashing."

That's fine. You can look down on me if you'd like.  Everyone needs a hobby. But the way I see it, if you don't get where I'm coming from, there are only a few reasons:

1. You have never spent a good deal of time around my children.

2. You have no children, but have this dreamy idea that if you did, you would love to have your perfect little creations at home with you for a week. Dreams are nice, aren't they?

3. You have perfect little creations who never get bored and or start a kerfuffle. I somehow find this hard to believe, but let's assume about 1.7% of people do. Miracles do happen.

4. You've found a legal way to sedate your not-so-perfect creations during school holidays, making March Break nothing more than a long stream of sleeping in and iCarly reruns. I salute you.

5. You don't know about this thing called "winter" that us Canadians face. Early March is not about daffodils and returning songbirds up here, folks. It's about snowstorms and frostbite. We are either homebound or we spend a great deal of money we don't have taking them bowling every freaking day.  

6. You do some really amazing drugs. I can't do drugs for a few reasons, and am therefore slightly envious of your psychological escapism.

7. You think you have children, but they are in fact very real-looking dolls. You are somewhat insane, and push them around in a carriage, cooing softly, and telling everyone on the street how your babies sleep through the night. And I kind of envy your crazy, I really do.

So you keep judging and rocking those "babies". I'll throw on my striped shirt, grab my whistle, and try to break up as much of the kerfuffling going on over here as I can manage.

Incidentally, "kerfuffling" isn't a word, but it really should be. We should have a Facebook group about that.

Traditional

tra·di·tion

noun \trə-ˈdi-shən\

1

a : an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior (as a religious practice or a social custom)

Thanks again to the folks on my Facebook fan page who threw a heck of a lot of words my way when I asked for some writing inspiration. I was happily surprised only about half of them were insults and curses. You sure know how to treat a gal!

I just about died laughing when the word "traditional" was suggested. Not because it's a bad word, but because I consider myself anything but.

"Are you serious, Maven?" You ask loudly, nearly spilling your piping hot coffee all over the keyboard as you jump out of your seat. I get where you're coming from, readers. I'm a stay-at-home-mom to three kids in the suburbs. I do a ridiculous amount of baking and cook lots of lovely meals for my family. I married a boy I met when I was in high school. I drive a minivan and volunteer in the classroom. It doesn't get much more traditional than that, does it?

But you need to excavate just a little deeper than that, my dear sheeple. In the words of my idol, Glee's Sue Sylvester, let me break it down for you. Here are five things that will shatter the Holly Housewife impression of yours truly:

1. I moved out on my own at 16.
Not exactly typical for a Canadian teenager, but there you have it. I hope like crazy none of my kids are dumb enough to follow in my footsteps, but that's what I needed to do at the time. I couch-surfed for a little while, spent a couple of memorable nights in stairwells, a few months in halfway houses, and a short but terrifying stint at the downtown YM/YWCA. I did this all while still going to school and maintaining a decent average. It was the best and worst time of my life. I didn't always know where my next meal was going to come from, but I had a deep belief that it wouldn't always be like this. And it hasn't been, thankfully. A few months after moving out, I met the love of my life, and together we built this awesome little family.

2. I've been clean and sober since June 13, 1991.
This is the day I entered a six-month live-in treatment program and my life changed forever. This year will mark my 20th one sober. And yes, that would have made me fourteen. Can you really be an addict at fourteen? Um, yeah, dude. Trust me on that one. I now have a fourteen-year-old. This year it's really hit me just how young I was. To be so broken at that age is unbelievable. This non-traditional experience of mine means that when I say to him "And remember: I can smell alcohol from a mile away" I'm not kidding - and he knows it. Having been the teen my friends' parents hated, I know how being bad works. My poor gremlins are going to have a very difficult time hiding any kind of rebellion from me. I almost feel sorry for them. But it definitely makes me a very aware (and probably far too paranoid) mom.

3. I absolutely love Eminem and other naughty music.
Ever hear me rap along to Jay-Z? That's too bad; you're really missing out. My minivan regularly bumps mad beats as I drive to the school board for a Special Education Advisory Committee meeting. I sort of teeter on trashy, but I'm not quite there just yet. Thank goodness I'm well-spoken. And I refuse to sing/rap any verses with double negatives in them. Sorry, but The Maven has grammatical standards.

4. I'm an agnostic.
Raised Catholic, but now a highly non-commital adult. I don't believe in any religions, I celebrate Santa's birthday, and honestly don't feel my soul needs saving - but thank you very much for trying. My kids aren't baptized and don't go to church. I tried my hand at - and studied - many religions in my lifetime, but ultimately I can't find a single one that is a good fit for me. I believe in something greater than me, but that thing - that higher power - holds no judgement and makes no rules. I'm not quite sure it's even intelligent or has free thought. In the end, I think men and women are equal, gays can make excellent spouses and parents, and that you should be able to do whatever you damn well please as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. So I suppose I'm generically spiritual - not exactly the suburban mom norm. If anyone starts sending me religious pamphlets I promise to make them into pretty origami; just ask the Jehovah's Witnesses that kept coming by last year. Their newsletters make lovely swans.

5. I sit in my bed at 5:30PM and blog instead of making dinner.
Normally, Mommy Maven would be in the kitchen making something hot and nutritious for her children. But right now she doesn't feel like it. I took them out sledding today. I hosted a sleepover last night. They can have grilled cheese and carrots so I can finish my blog post. This is the price you pay for being the child of an in-demand blogger. All five of my readers are counting on me to provide them with quality content.

And there you have it. Things you might not know about me and probably didn't really care to know, anyway. Did I burst your bubble? Are you crushed that I'm not the sweet innocent mommy you thought I was?

Traditionally Yours,
The Heathen The Maven