Anything

On Monday night, Gutsy shrieked, begged and protested for a full 75 minutes over having his hair washed. After a long weekend of chocolates, day trips, rich meals and late bedtimes, he was completely out of sorts. He absolutely lost it at the thought of his hair being wet. 

This came on the heels of a 20 minute freakout in the van on the way home from the in-laws' on Saturday night because he spilled apple juice on his pyjamas. We had to pull over, take his brothers out of the van, and get him calm enough to change his clothes and switch seats. 

Yesterday, the power was knocked out at Gutsy's school during a wind storm. The stress of the hallways being dark was so heavy that he came home and burst into tears because our power was out as well and he couldn't watch t.v. Schedule off, things not as they should: panic.

Welcome to life with a child who likely has a full-blown sensory processing disorder. 

You may recall that a few months ago, Gutsy, my mom and I braved one hell of a storm to go see a Montreal psychologist who specializes in hearing impaired kids. Not too long ago, we received her final report. It was simultaneously a huge relief and a rusty knife to the heart. 

The Reader's Digest version of her findings:

1. Gutsy is quite bright, with many academic testing scores in the above-average range.

2. He is very typical - or average - in many respects, which is fantastic.

3. When processing new information, the middle gremlin scored "borderline clinical" at 7% of the average, which likely indicates a learning disability. Coupled with an extreme sense of perfectionism, this is a perfect storm for anxiety surrounding school (which, if you've been following my blog like a good little sheep, you'll know is a recurrent theme.)

4. Gutsy's more difficult behaviours are almost exclusively reserved for home, which is great for the teacher and bad for us. It either means he has more triggers at home, or that he feels more comfortable "sharing" them here.

5. Gutsy's rigidity, defiance, emotional explosions and panic attacks at home scored in the "clinical" range, meaning they are quite serious and atypical for his age.

6. As it stands, he could be mildly on the autism spectrum, he could have generalized anxiety, or he could have sensory issues - or a combination of any of these. We all feel that a sensory processing disorder is most likely, so we will have him seen by an occupational therapist as a first measure. Sensory problems are more common in children who deaf or hard-of-hearing, so this would fit.

7. The psychologist felt that there are far more questions than answers right now. She recommends further testing in a multitude of areas.

8. I'm whiny and emotional. so I felt I should add in an extra number on the list to complain about it.

The big brown envelope with all these details sat on my desk untouched for far too long. We had already spoken at length to the psychologist over the phone and had asked a great many questions, but for some reason I couldn't open the report when it came in the mail. It was a crafty little game I played with myself; I felt that if I opened the report, it would become real all of a sudden, And that nice little bubble of "if we don't name it, it doesn't exist, so let's all skip through the field and pick some fucking flowers" could stay intact. I would pick up the stupid envelope every so often. Then, losing my resolve, I'd place it back on my desk, unopened. It took me about three days to finally get up enough nerve to read it.

Then, the past few days happened, with so much sensory stuff going on that it just tore up his dad and I. This is affecting our entire family. Not only is Gutsy having a challenging time as of late, but his brothers are having to deal with less attention, more chaos and a life of walking on egg shells around their brother. It takes an emotional toll on all of us. Geekster and I get so stressed out that we can't even say a word to each other for a good while after one of Gutsy's meltdowns for risk of snapping at each other. At other times, we glance at each other just long enough to see the sadness in each others' eyes, then look away. What is there to say? Nothing we tell each other seems to make it any better. 

Needless to say, it hasn't been a great week.

And yet we all love each other so much. We all love Gutsy so much. We're trying hard to make this a peaceful, happy and safe place for our boys to grow up. Some days are better than others. I hope to see far more better days in the future.

Watching Gutsy in that kind of overwhelmed, panicked state is one of the most helpless, gut-wrenching things I have ever had to do - and if you know me and you know my life story, then you also know that this statement speaks volumes. It's tortuous to see him locked in his own head, unable to escape the place where things are too bright, too loud, too wet, too dry, too itchy, too tight. What happened to that sweet little boy that got us to this heartbreaking place? Why can't I help him? What am I doing wrong? It tugs on a mother's heartstrings like little else can.

I'm sad. Sad and worried and angry. I'm having one of those "this isn't what I signed up for" kind of weeks. And I know that's ridiculous, because as parents we sign up for whatever gets thrown at us. Nobody is guaranteed a smooth ride. Parenting is always bumpy - there are just some bumps that are bigger than others, that's all. It's my job to deal with that. I'm trying, believe me. It's just been more of a challenge to keep my emotions in check lately.

If one good thing has come out of the last few days, it's the reminder that my husband can be absolutely incredible. When Gutsy was in his bad place for those 75 minutes on Monday, Geekster took the helm and worked him through it. He sat in that loud, echo-filled bathroom, being repeatedly screamed at not two feet away by a distraught and overwhelmed child with quite possibly the loudest, most ear-piercing yell ever - and miraculously got him through that hair wash. He is an amazing father. I don't know many human beings who could have done that, and it made me fall in love with him more deeply than I already was. He is a hero to me, and Gutsy and his brothers are so lucky to have him. I am extremely fortunate to have had a family with someone who is so dedicated to his kids. I was reminded of that this week.

What will parents do in the name of their children? Absolutely anything. Anything and everything, and all the rest in between. We will never stop trying, helping, supporting, learning, empathizing, loving. We will never stop, Gutsy, because you mean the world to us. And you are perfectly you, just as you are.  

I guess I'm done for now. This isn't one of my usual cheery posts, and I apologize for that. But sometimes I need this space to vent, to cry, to just be. It helps me to write, being a writer and all. I hope that it helps somebody else who stumbles upon it, too. If that happens, then that will be another good thing to come out of this otherwise sad week. 

Why My New Job is Insanely Great (with pictures)

I've come to know that I'm good at a few things.

Well, more than a few things. Let's be honest here, The Maven is a domestic goddess of epic proportions - I mean, unless we're talking about cleaning, budgeting, organizing or parenting. Otherwise, I'm pretty much great at everything home-related.

What I wasn't sure I'd be so good at after all these years? Office work. And then, suddenly, I was doing it twice a week: dressing up, commuting, carrying around a fancy organizer, and using my brain for things other than grocery lists and new discipline strategies. I'd like to smugly admit how wrong I was and say that I totally rock the job world, but I'm not exactly sure just yet. Right now I'm happy with at least being mediocre at it. What I do know is that my boss rocks at being a boss and my job is spiffy cool. This has made the transition far less painful than I had anticipated, and, dare I say, rather fun at times. Even the filing.

Don't believe me? Allow me to demonstrate:

First of all, this is the area I work in. It's a hip and happening part of Ottawa called Westboro. This particular shot isn't so great, but it was taken in a hurry a few days ago as I was on my way into Bridgehead to get a coffee. The neighbourhood is actually way nicer than this, but this will have to do until I have time to take more pictures. Coffee first, artsy pictures second. The Maven has priorities.

I always wanted to live in Westboro, but I would have had to pawn my arms and legs to buy even the smallest house there. It's a trendy little urban hot spot of a place. I live across the river with the less trendy folk, but I get to be uncool in my four-bedroom house on a half-acre property that we can afford, so I think I'll get over it. Now I do the next best thing and work in lovely Westboro - and it's a great place to work, indeed. For, not only do I get to walk around and look at all the adorable little shops and drink fabulous fairly-traded coffee, but I get paid to be there. That's right, folks: I get paid to be there. Sure, I'm going to end up spending all my paycheques on all the pretty shiny things I see during lunchtime, but this is okay as long as nobody tells my husband (I can easily disguise that type of spending as "groceries" - domestic superpowers, remember? Shhh.)

Pretty shiny things that I want to own.
(Just have to sell the children first.)

So maybe I can't afford a $700 bicycle just yet (the green one with the peacock designs on it just about made me cry tears of joy and run into the store with my credit card - resistance was nearly futile), but I have been enjoying spending a bit of money on yours truly. It's become apparent that I'm totally worth it - how did I not see this blatant fact before?

Look what I bought when I took the kids clothes shopping this weekend at a secondhand store? (I tell the kids we're "recycling" by hitting the consignment stores before looking at new clothes. Cheap ass budgeting carefully disguised as environmentalism - another one of my superpowers)

"A" is for "Amanda" and for "awesome."
And also for "asshole,"
but we'll overlook that little coincidence.

Best part? I bought the darn thing for $3.99. And sure, monogrammed purses went out of style, like, two years ago, but now I can just say I'm retro and not just a broke mom who had to wait until she found a used one. Saving the earth, one outdated style at a time.

A bit of preface before the next couple of pictures: Boss Lady has an incredible sense of humour and keen observation skills. I'm quite sure she noticed my rapid breathing when we were making a list of stationary supplies. This tech gal loves stationary, and I especially love post-it notes. They almost turn me on. I love them in all colours, all shapes and sizes, all-- there I go, getting aroused again. Post-its are a thing of beauty. You can use them for anything. They have helped tremendously with my filing, note-taking, and with little reminders like "don't forget to turn off the heat before you lock up - and fix your hair, too. This humidity probably makes you look like a harlot."

Anyway, I walked in this morning to find my desk in a state of post-it orgy. They were everywhere, showing themselves to me with - gasp! - to-do lists on them. It doesn't get better than that.

Serious hotness.

I should point out that each and every one of those lovely little things had something important written on it. No trees were unnecessarily slaughtered for my amusement. But I do appreciate that Boss Lady used a medium that would grab my attention. Emails are great, but this got my pulse racing. And wouldn't you know it? I finished every single task listed upon them.

The way to The Maven's productivity is through sticky pieces of paper. Go figure.

But the very best - the absolute best, best, best surprise in the month I've worked in my new job, was what I found on my desk last week.

I'm going to admit something here; In support of my two youngest gremlins who have become obsessed with a certain teen pop sensation as of late, I decided to bite the bullet and give Justin Bieber's music a try.

And, uh, I kind of like it. Quite a lot, actually. He's a talented kid. One could say I adore him - minus any creepy physical attraction to a boy young enough to be my son, of course. I'll leave the dreams of being serenaded and kissed to girls (and a certain percentage of boys) half my age. But I will never say never to his music again. Them's some catchy beats, yo.

Boss Lady loves poking fun at my Bieber Fever. She has absolutely no interest in my oddly preteen musical preferences, but she reminds me of them at every opportunity. This came to light when a much-promised "Bieberizing" of my workspace recently took place. I unlocked the office and walked over to my desk to find a new garbage can filled with stationary (including the highly-coveted post-it notes). If that wasn't enough awesomness for one day, Boss Lady decided to customize my trashcan:

There are no words to express how great this is.

She drew the hearts in herself, and added "Amanda" underneath "Justin Bieber - Favorite Girl." This incredible garbage pail now sits proudly next to my desk.

She is madly in lust with Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. There will be calculated retaliation in this war of idols she started. I will Vedderize her but good. I can't say how just yet, but I will come up with something amazing, being The Maven and all. Stay tuned.

PS: Have I mentioned I love my job?

Sometimes, it's all about the shoes.

Things I could talk about in this post:

1. How disgusting my house is.
No, seriously. It's almost like if A&E's Hoarders had nasty drunken sex with TLC's knock-off show Hoarding Buried Alive and they made a love child and I moved into it. I've been cleaning like crazy and barely making a dent. After I blog, I have to clean my living room. My friend is dropping her child off here in the morning and I don't think she'd like it if he was encapsulated in a sea of Lego or devoured by the mutant dust bunny I'm quite sure lives under the recliner.

I'm not so inclined to talk about the mess in my house. Get it? Damn, I'm punny.

2. My children are fighting too much.
Seriously: this shit has to stop. It's ridiculous and unfair. When you have a house full of boys, you might miss out on some cute things like spring dresses and ballet recitals. The consolation prize, however, is that boys don't have that ear-piercing scream that girls ha-- oh, wait a minute: Yes they do. Spawnling and Gutsy have taken to threatening to throw/hit/smack/launch/ricochet-off-the-other's-forehead various objects of various sizes. One will pick up an item when he's angry and hold it over his head while the other lets out a high-pitched screech and then grabs something even bigger to hold over his own head. Then, threatener #1 will shriek like a pigtailed princess and pick up a larger item to hold menacingly over his head. And this goes on and on and the screaming gets louder and louder and higher and higher until one of them chickens out and runs away. Nobody ever actually throws an item - it's all about the posturing. It reminds me of two male birds on a nature program vying for a female's attention, tweeting loudly and trying to scare the other off. The only problem? No mute button. Reality sucks.

Realistically, I don't want to talk about this, either. (Okay, that one's not so funny. My pun quota has been reached.)

3. I have to have surgery next month.
I have an incisional hernia in my stomach. It's a direct result of the emergency c-section I had with Gutsy. I've had the darn thing for eight or so years and it's never been particularly painful. But it's time to go under the knife and get 'er fixed. The more weight I lose, the more uncomfortable it's becoming. I guess the fat created a nice little home for it, keeping it all warm and cozy. Let this be a lesson to all of you: losing weight is bad. The surgery itself is the more invasive kind of hernia repair and I'll be in the hospital for at least three days, followed by a good two or three weeks of recovery time. You can probably see why I don't want to talk about this.

So with that in mind, let's get really girly and materialistic for a moment and talk about my new shoes!

A couple of days ago, I went out with a friend of mine who is positively shoe-obsessed. No, I'm not kidding. I'm not saying she "likes shoes" or "she enjoys shopping." Those are grossly inaccurate statements. She hates all shopping unless it's for footwear. I've been shoe shopping with her once before, and it was like watching an olympic sport: she, the passionate athlete, seeking out not just the gold medal, but all of them. As many as she can buy win, be it made of leather or suede, be it buckled or zipped, high-heeled or flat. She is a puma and the shoes are her little bunny rabbits, unknowingly about to get pounced on with her wild little claws.

I guess I'm back to comparing things to nature shoes - uh, shows.

I don't often buy things for myself, but with my new job I've been forced to invest in a few office-y things like dress pants and shirts and stuff. I went out last week with my stylish sister to acquire those items, but held off on the shoes due to time. I'm glad I did, because there is nobody but this particular friend that I'd rather hit up a BOGO or two with. That type of passion is contagious.

Anyway, I tried on a few pairs and just wasn't feeling it. And, of course, the ones I really liked weren't to be found in my size. I was losing hope. And then, as I walked down the last aisle....

THERE.

THEY.

WERE.

I never believed in love at first site until I saw my husband held my firstborn in my arms saw these shoes staring back at me longingly from the shelf. God, they're beautiful. They're funky. They're versatile. They're comfortable. They have pink butterflies inside them. They have freaking rhinestones on the toes. They feel like a pair of illegal massage parlour girls working their happy endings upon my feet.

Not that I would, uh, actually know what that feels like.

Anyway, I am totally digging my shoes. I'm possibly digging them just a little too much, but escapism is nice sometimes. Maybe I can wear them while cleaning my house, or running away from my screechy little gremlins, or during my surgery.

No. Not during my surgery. If I wake up with blood on them I'm going to be pissed. The surgeon would owe me a new pair. And I don't think he'd would be nearly as fun to shoe shop with.

How to be Popular Even When You're Kind of a Douche

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart, and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." - Unknown.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I wrote about feeling like absolute garbage? Well, you can breathe again: I'm feeling much better. You can probably gather that from my last few posts about my awesome life. It was a blip on the radar screen of life, albeit a decent-sized one. The Maven is back full-force, spreading greatness to all her sheeple.

But surprisingly, this post is not about my greatness. If you're a friend of mine, it's about yours. And if you're not a friend of mine, pretend you are and feel good about yourself for a few minutes. But, like, not in a stalker-ish way because that's creepy.

When I was at my absolute lowest, when I felt quite alone in the world, all I had to do was send out an SOS to a friend, and - ka-pow! - I had a drive to a restaurant, a cup of coffee in my hands, and someone to listen and tell me everything was going to be okay. The friend in question was the first person I reached out to, and she responded without hesitation. I doubt she realizes the impact of her simple act of kindness, but it was immense. I am indebted for a very long time. Good thing she likes coffee.

What I realized - and what is key for me to remember in those yucky times - is that there are many other people I could have reached out to who would have done the same thing in a heartbeat. And with that in mind, it's hard to feel alone.

That night was but one of many recent reminders that my life is full of amazing human beings. There have been so many more acts of kindness in the last little while. I'd list them all, but you wouldn't believe me. I hardly believe it myself. This weekend alone had me feeling so happy that I almost blew up in a sticky mess gratitude. It would have taken Geekster weeks to clean me off of the upholstery.

All kidding, all ego, all narcissistic tendencies aside for once, I don't know what I do to deserve the quality of friendship in my life. I really don't.  I tell my husband all the time that I must have a social horseshoe placed somewhere in my lower quadrant, because there is no other reasonable explanation. My support circle is forever expanding, improving, and filling to the brim with these loving, supportive, far-more-awesome-than-I-am people. I am humbled by their strength, their wisdom, their courage, their resilience. They are truly what keep me going some days when chaos tries to pull me under. And I have three boys, folks, so believe me: my life is well-acquainted with chaos.

There are days when I spend far too much time trying to figure out how to give back to everyone. I really don't think I give out nearly as much love as what comes in. I am a mooch of epic proportions. I don't keep up with everyone like I wish I could, I don't always promptly return phone calls or emails. I admit to feeling enormously guilty about that. I'm like a bad boyfriend who takes and takes and takes and doesn't even call on our anniversary. No flowers at the door, no declaration of love in the Facebook relationship status. My name should be Chad or Tad or some other heartbreaker jock name that makes you want to cry into your pompoms.

Tonight, while trying to decide what to blog about, I threw the question out into cyberspace via a status update. The suggestions I received ranged from "sibling rivalry" to my obvious Facebook addiction (I'll have you know I can quit any time I want to.) While I was looking over the list, the answer became clear: My friends. I shall write about my friends, and thank them from the bottom of my heart for being wonderful.

I shall dedicate this post to them because, in the end, who cares whether I return phone calls or ask people about their day? If I write one blog post about everyone, that will make it all better. We'll be even Steven. Then I won't look like a douchebag moocher anymore because I'll be thanking everyone, bulk-email style. People love that stuff, right?

Right?

Don't argue with The Maven. I'm drowning in my own popularity. I must be doing something right.

So thank you. Really and truly, thank you. Until I come up with better ways to give back, this will have to do. It goes without saying that every girl needs good people in her corner, and my corner has an entire pyramid of broken-hearted cheerleaders yelling "Why, Chad-Tad? WHY?!?" 

What Love Looks Like

I didn't realize how antsy I was feeling as of late until I started heading into the office part-time. Now that I have something else to focus on for a few hours each week, the desire to perform a self-lobotomy while at home has lessened quite a bit.

I think I was feeling burned out. Days at home with a four-year-old were looking mundane rather than relaxed, and our activities were simply time-fillers rather than the exciting adventures they used to be. With a couple of days of work to shake things up a little, I'm jumping into my Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays with a lot more gusto.

Or, it could just be the new espresso machine. Either way, something's working.

As we were sitting in the living room this afternoon - Spawnling with a drinkable yogurt and me with my period-week chocolate-covered almonds, I realized just how much fun I was having hanging out with my littlest gremlin. We had just gone to pick up a movie and some snacks at his request, had no particular schedule, and were just enjoying each others' company. It felt good, happy, perfect. So, I snapped this picture:

After fourteen years, this part of my life will soon be over. This beautiful, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, magical, runny-nose-filled part of my life. I'm slowly phasing it out and heading into something new. In September, Spawnling will be going to junior kindergarten four days a week. I'll be using that time to grow my business. Just like that, my stay-at-home-mom days will be finished - with the exception of Friday. I will have hatched and raised three gremlins full-time, at home, until they went to school. That's one heck of an accomplishment. But it's especially special with Spawnling.

Try saying that three times fast. I dare you.

If you've been reading long enough, you know that Spawnling was not exactly a planned pregnancy. We had "not been careful" for a couple of years after Gutsy's birth, knowing full well that my body was more infertile than fertile and thus would not produce a third offspring easily - especially since I nursed the middle gremlin until the age of three. 

Once we found out that Gutsy also had hearing loss at two-and-a-half, we made a firm and final decision not to have more children. We were at peace with that choice. I started looking forward to doing something else: going back to work, watching my two boys grow up, being able to stay in our smaller home and drive smaller vehicles. I thought of the money we'd save, the trips we could go on, and how life is designed for a family of four. Planning is so fun, isn't it?

And two weeks later, the pregnancy test had two lines. The world shifted. I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry. Geekster and I walked around the house for several days feeling stunned. It took a little while to get happy and even longer to get excited. I put my dreams of a career on the back burner, and focused on being a new mom again.

Then, suddenly, he was here, and he looked at me with his big, beautiful eyes. And I knew he was meant to be here, that our lives were about to get even better because of him.

What love looks like

He grew some more, became even more beautiful, and I started to wonder if he was just trying to show off.

What love looks like a few months later

And now he's four. Four! Where did the time go? How did we go from a shocked moment staring at a pregnancy test to having long conversations about how the solar system works while simultaneously building lego rocket ships? 

Today, Spawnling told me "Mom, I love you more than pizza. So that's, like, a lot."

I love you more than pizza too, little buddy. Even the pepperoni variety. I win.

12 Reasons to go Back to Work after 12 Years

1. You get offered a near-perfect job. The hours fit, the work suits you, the commute is short, and you still get to sit around in your jammies for three weekdays and a weekend if you so choose (and you so choose). You've been working from home doing contracts for a couple of years, but this will get your foot in the office door once again.

2. The heating company is sending you polite reminders to pay your exorbitant oil bill, and any offers made by you to "work it out in trade" have resulted in the threat of sexual harrassment lawsuits.  Prudes.

3. Going somewhere where the furniture isn't covered in peanut butter stains* is a nice change of pace.

4. Being able to think clearly - and not just in between bouts of intense fighting/screaming/threatening/toy-launching - is a really neat trick that you look forward to.

5. Getting organized down to the minutest detail the night before you drive everyone to school and yourself to work brings out your inner OCD Virgo, and she tingles with glee at the thought. Lunches made, clothes laid out, house clean, bags packed-- oh, there we go, getting all excited again...

6. You just happen to work for the coolest boss lady on the planet, and you're not even exaggerating all that much, even though she reads your blog. (Reading your blog, incidentally, just ups her coolness level, anyway). You've known her for awhile, share a mutual love of caffeine and Doctor Who, and she gets what it's like to be a mom who's trying to balance a job, too. I have struck managerial gold, people. May this mine be bountiful.

7. The Boss Lady says you can use the space during off hours to practice with your Justin Bieber interpretive dance troop. (You did say that was okay, right, Nat? I'm pretty sure you also said you wanted to join)

8. After your first day of work, there's a knock on the door, and a flower shop delivery person hands you a big bouquet of these:

Thank you for being my cheerleader, Lil.
It means a lot! xo

9. After over a decade, you get a little giddy saying "I have to go to the office this morning." In fact, any excuse to say it is welcome, and your Facebook statuses are filled with those words to a sickening degree. Thankfully, everyone must sense your excitement, because they're being uber supportive. Thus, when you're CEO of Awesomecorp (I'm a working mom now, folks. It's all about ambition! AMBITION!!) you shall reward them all for their allegiance to your corporate ladder climbing campaign.

10. As a writer, you're going to enjoy coming up with interesting ways to present your administrative assistant tasks during Career Day at your child's school. It takes an enormous amount of talent to make "filing" and "proofreading" sound like "surgical rotation" and "space exploration," but I think I can do it. I look forward to exercising my imagination muscles like most other parents on the planet.

11. Because you finally had an excuse (like you needed an excuse) to buy one of these beautiful things to put in place of worship upon your kitchen counter:

My life is now complete.

12. Your husband hugs you this morning, hands you a coffee, and says "I just want to thank you for everything you do to keep this family running smoothly. You're amazing and beautiful.**" And that small little thing blossoms into a really big thing and makes you get all teary. Dammit. And you realize that all the work you do - both inside and outside the home - is incredibly important to the your little family. That feels so. very. good.

*The jury's still out on whether or not those stains are peanut butter or another brown, organic substance, but I will deny, deny, deny until it can be proven otherwise.

**Okay, maybe he didn't say the "beautiful" part, but that was assumed, even in my nasty pyjama pant getup. It's not a workday, okay? Cut me some slacks.