Fear, Writer's Block, and some four-year-old Therapy

I'm a writer. And, like all writers I know, I sometimes suffer from writer's block. This can be exacerbated by the following things:

1. Sprained shoulder (check)
2. Colds that turn into bacterial bronchitis (check)
3. Sprained shoulders promptly followed by bronchitis (double check)
4. Convenient excuses (like injuries and illness, for example - some mad check-age going on, yo.)
5. Riding on said convenient excuses for 3 weeks (check times infinity)

The truth is, I'm lacking in confidence when it comes to writing anything lately. I feel like this is what I want to do for a living - what I should be doing, and what I'm good at doing -  and yet I haven't quite managed to attain that.

And I can use many excuses spanning a long way back - three babies, being home for fourteen years, exhaustion due to the aforementioned two items - but I know people who've achieved more with a lot more on their plates (Look at the awesome Laurie, for example, who is a published author, a mom, and a cancer survivor). What I'm missing is motivation, and that motivation is missing because I'm afraid I'll never make it. And, since I'm afraid of failure, I simply haven't tried.

So how do you get over being afraid of something?

I'm now I'm in my mid-thirties, and having what I think might be considered a mid-life crisis, whereby I'm examining the last thirty-four years of my life and wondering if I've wasted any hope of ever "making it" by not trying hard enough. And the longer I feel bad about, the less time I'm going to have to do it.

Thankfully, I've managed to line up a therapist, and he's helping me work through my issues.  He's very up-and-coming in his behaviour modification techniques. Here is an excerpt from our morning session:

A couple of things to note:

1. He's an exceptionally good therapist for a four-year-old.
2. His monster analogy could be put into a book. Brilliant stuff. Like, when he says: "I'll stab it in the back with my BBQ sword while dad distracts it" he's really saying: "With help from those you trust, you can gain the courage to conquer any fear." See? Pure genius.
3. I realized about two minutes after taping this that the "BBQ sword" is a not a "spear," but a "skewer." However, before you pass judgment, please note that this was a pre-morning-coffee session.

I don't know if this post constitutes "writing," but at least I got something posted. My therapist will be quite pleased.

Coming Down with a Case of Bitchface

It really didn't seem like a big deal to be in a sling at first. Really, it didn't. After I epically threw myself down the stairs earlier this week in an attempt to be right (my ego knows no bounds) and sprained my shoulder, I tried to look on the bright side: It's not broken. It doesn't need a cast, nor does it need surgery. A week in a sling is no big deal.

Besides, when you're The Maven and your body is a gluten-free health hive where immunity makes the most delicious honey, you don't worry about this stuff as much. I rarely get sick, and I will undoubtedly heal quickly because I. Kick. Ass. A week? More like two days and I'll be flinging my arm around, whipping up a morning latte and throwing together lunches. Flinging, I tell you! Flinging!

Three days in, I have changed my tune - just a little bit.

First of all, I'm not getting better nearly as quickly as I'd like. Secondly, most of that is probably my fault. This limited mobility thing is seriously suckish when you have three kids and a job and a blog. It's hard to type with one hand, especially when it's not your dominant one. So I generally type with two and regret it later. And as much as my incredible husband does around the house, there's still more than he can manage alone. Spawnling still needs help with those buttons when it's just he and I, and I'm still chief operating officer of Mom's Preschool-to-Puberty Limousine Service.

Go ahead, shake your finger at me (but not on your right hand or I'll get a little jealous). Roll your eyes at me. Tsk-tsk at me. Get angry and tell me I should be taking it easy. You're absolutely right. I berate myself regularly for not resting more. But that doesn't change reality. I'm not trying to play martyr here, people. I am a mother: If you don't want me to use my arm at all for an entire week, you'd better sew it into my side, because otherwise it's going to get used. There's no way around it.

But worse than the need to do things, is the eerie desire to do them. Yes, it's true: even when nobody needs a thing and I have a couch and a TV at my disposal, I have a hard time sitting still for long. I've been a stay-at-home-parent for over a decade; the need to putter about, tidy up, sort something, plan a meal, or generally just check up on everything has been assimilated into my DNA. It's the most frustrating thing to make myself sit down when I know the table has a juice spill large enough to become the ant orgy-equivalent of a Roman bath house. Can Geekster clean it? Would Gutsy happily take care of it if I asked him? Absolutely. But that's not the point. It feels lazy and wrong and downright sinful to watch a romantic comedy while the bathroom sink is smeared with toothpaste. Must. Clean. The. Toothpaste.

The problem, of course, is that if I don't take it easy, this sling ain't coming off any time soon. I'll be stuck wearing it or some other restrictive torture device for longer than a week. And then my bitchface will be permanent.

Yes, I said "bitchface," as in "the face made by a bitch," or "The Maven has a giant bitchface going on right now." Boredom coupled with chronic pain will do that to a chick, ok?

What's that? You don't think it's possible that I - the sweet and wonderful human being I am - could look bitchy. Yes, I am generally full of amazingness, but even the mighty falter at times. Observe:

Day 2.
Bitchface setting in. Note symptomatic eyes.
Also note pretty sparkly scarf used as sling.
Vanity for the win.

Day 3.
Full-on case of Bitchvisio Maximus.
Boring grey sling with better support. Boo.

I keep telling myself I'm going to get scowl lines. Being a somewhat vain individual, this may be just the thing to cure me. That or chocolate-covered almonds, which have not materialized in my world recently. I may have to treat myself tomorrow - you know, for medicinal reasons - in the name of curing the bitchface.

I vow to rest my arm now and go watch the hot dudes in Supernatural. They're not chocolate-covered almonds, but they sure are yummy.

I am the Greatest Mom Alive (now with busted up shoulder)

Stairs and I are working through our issues.
Mostly trust issues.
On my end.

Yesterday I got in a really big argument with Gutsy over wearing protective gear while inline skating. He kept insisting that he "never falls" and therefore doesn't need to wear anything but a helmet. I told him that it only takes one fall to hurt oneself badly. We eventually settled on a helmet and wrist guards, at the very least. And the whole process only took about an hour of intense negotiation - which, if you know how stubborn eight-year-olds with behavioural issues can be, is pretty damn good.

But here's my secret weapon: I'm even more stubborn than he is. I am the stubbornest. Epically stubborn. Stubborner than thou. Supreme Ruler of Stubburnia. Not only that, but I have learned that in order to teach children a lesson, one must traumatize the shit out of them.

So, to show Gutsy how quickly people can hurt themselves, I threw myself down the stairs last night.

Okay, maybe it didn't quite happen like that.

It was about 9 p.m. and I had finally convinced Spawnling that bed was a good thing. I tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, and tsk-tsked about how messy his room was (because stressing kids out by showing dissatisfaction at bedtime is a great way to make sure they go to sleep; Maven parenting tip #164.) I told him we would clean his room in the morning, turned to leave - and then, in a moment of near-OCD coupled with the desire to set a good example, I picked up the littlest gremlin's clothes off the floor and carried them in a heap down the stairs.

Did I use a basket? No. Did I carry more than I could safely manage? Probably. But whatever. I was being a good mom and getting a head start on what was bound to take a fair bit of time the next day.

I felt pretty good about the whole thing, right up until an article of soiled preschooler clothing fell right in front of me. And I stepped on it, and, of course, I slipped. And this resulted a rather dignified tumble down the stairs.

I figured my ass had taken the brunt of the impact - which is good, because it's quite a sizeable ass with ample shock-absorbing ability. What I failed to realize in that moment was that I had put out my right hand to brace myself, and had thus absorbed a great deal of my fall that way. More on that later.

The first thing I yelled when I hit the bottom of the stairs was "It's okay, it's just me!" in an attempt to reassure everyone that it was no big deal, it's just mom, and mom's invincible, and there's no need to be panicked. I picked myself up, smiled reassuringly to the family members who came running from all directions, and even laughed as I collected the fallen laundry. See? No big deal, everyone. Just a little fall. Mommy's perfectly happy and not at all broken! Now, goodnight!

And then the shock slowly left my body, and my reassuring smile turned into a creepy grimace of pain. But I kept it up like some sort of deranged funhouse painting. I'm pretty sure that was more traumatizing than the fact that mom was hurt, and if any of the gremlins wind up with a fear of Bubbles the Clown, I'll take full responsibility.

This morning, I woke up in a fair bit of pain, and far too early for Mother's Day, I might add. I winced through my shower, winced through getting dressed, had to have Geekster help me do two-handed things like fastening my bra and putting on my coat. I was getting ready for a family brunch, but it had become apparent my shoulder was going to require some medical attention. Priorities first, however. Mother's Day brunch (AKA bacon-fest), then doctor. B (bacon brunch) comes before D (doctor), so we could also argue alphabetical sequencing.

At brunch, my mom decided that it would be very motherly of her to take me to the hospital to get x-rays, so that's exactly what she did. Her love for me may or may not have been amplified by the gift I gave her, which is quite possibly the funniest parody book I've ever seen (and probably one of only a handful of parody books I've ever seen, but that in no way diminishes its hilariousness.) We had a great mother-daughter bonding experience, and she only once asked me to turn the music down while we were driving. What better way to spend Mother's Day than with my own mom who is mothering me? It was pretty much perfect-- well, minus the germy hospital and the pain and stuff.

As it turns out, I have a sprained shoulder. I need to keep my arm in a sling and the Advil a-flowin' for the week, but I should be just fine. Not that the Advil is making much of a dent at the moment, mind you.

My husband is a superhero of a man who cleaned the house (including Spawnling's tornado debris of a room), did the groceries, did and put away all the laundry, watched the kids, and cooked me a fantastic dinner. After eighteen years together, he has figured out that doing the dishes is the ultimate foreplay.

(Too bad about the constant pain in my shoulder. You win some, you postpone some.)

But fear not, fiends. I'm taking this whole thing pretty well. Yes, I'm fairly uncomfortable and pretty frustrated with my current limitations, but at least I made sure I couldn't lift a finger this Mother's Day. Maven: 1, Domestic Duties: 0.

The moral of the story: Never argue with your mom about safety rules or she'll fall down the stairs just to prove you wrong. Never, ever, underestimate your mother, little boy. She is epic winning incarnate.

Happy Mother's Day.