Why Surgery is My Dream Come True

Mmmmmorphine.

 I had originally mentioned that my surgery was June 21st. That was a big giant fib told to me by some mean lady at the hospital, who then told me something else (actually she was quite nice and apologetic, but that doesn't sound nearly as dramatic). In fact, it is tomorrow, the 23rd.

Tomorrow morning I head into a lovely country hospital about 45 minutes from here, will be put under, sliced open, meshed shut, and will spend the next three days or so in bed before I'm able to come home.

I can't wait. This is sounding more and more exciting to me by the hour.

Tonight, as I was chasing Gutsy and Spawnling through a parking lot, then through the aisles at a grocery store whilst having my arms unceremoniously packed two feet high with various forms of high-fructose corn syrup (operation Buy Their Love complete), a list of reasons why this surgery is not only required, but needed, started running through my head. Here's what I've come up with:

Time to Myself
I've been a mom for fourteen years, and have had maybe four nights away from my children in that time. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm willing to get my gut cut open and barbaric things done to my insides in the name of some time off. Desperate times call for desperate measures. To celebrate my alone-ness, I have packed two books, a few magazines, my iPhone and headphones and am praying they still offer me free cable. Nothing says "I have nothing better to do" than watching The View.

Say Yes to Drugs
Unless you're living under a rock, you probably know I'm in recovery. That means I'm stone cold sober at all times: No drinking, no drugs, not ever, in just over twenty years. The exception to this rule, of course, is if they're administered at a hospital under strict control for the purpose of pain management. I am not-so-secretly hoping to get stoned out of my everlovin' mind for a couple of days. I'll be happy as can be, it'll pass the time, I'll sleep a lot, and I'll probably engage in some serious Stonedbooking and Tweeting while I'm at it to amuse the masses. You're welcome.

Not cleaning
I don't even think I need to elaborate here. Mothers everywhere are breathing heavily at the enticing thought of not having to lift a finger for days, if not weeks. I think I'll enjoy it at first and then will be dying to clean something - anything - before I'm given the green light to do so. But until the twitches start up, I'm going to enjoy every unproductive minute.

Quiet
I know hospitals aren't quiet, but they're a hell of a lot quieter than Casa Maven. There are not three unbridled boys running through the joint, knocking, misplacing, breaking, manipulating, and disorganizing everything. I know I'll miss my Gremlins Three. I really will. And I'll likely sleep better once I'm drifting off to the sounds of their tirades and tantrums again. But in the meantime, I'll just up the morphine drip and listen to the soothing beeps of the monitors.


Staying in Bed
"Mom? Moooom? MOOOOM?? MOOOOOOOOOOOM??!! ... Can I have some cereal?"
"It's 6:15 on a Sunday, and you know how to pour your own cereal."
"But I can't open the baaaaag. And the milk is emptyyyy."
There will be none of that.
All. Weekend. Long.

Booyeah.



Room Service
"Nurse? Nuuuurse? NUUUUURSE!? NUUUUUUUUUUUUURSE?!?"
"You have a call button beside you bed, Maven."
"I know, but it's more fun to yell for you. Anyway, can you get me a coffee?"
"...Again? Didn't you just have one?"
"But, but, I should really make good use of this provincially-funded catheter, and I'm an invalid with a stapled wound, trapped in a bed, and life is hard. And come on now, do you really want to see my sad face? Look how pretty I am with this mascara on. This hotness can't be redone with swollen red eyes, girlfriend."
"*sigh* Fine."
"Thanks, toots. Two cream, k?"
Oh hellz, yeah.

See you on the flip side. And don't worry, I'll be back. I'm speaking at BOLO two weeks post-op, so I'll be sure to get plenty of rest, blog from bed, and get better - fast.

The Secret to Why We Have Kids

Today, Spawnling "graduated" from his preschool program. I put that word in quotes because he'll be back for another year in the fall; this time for four days each week instead of two (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou Gods of Maternal Alone Time! All those slaughtered goats and virgins have finally made you pay attention to me.)

Attitude? Spawnling? Never.

 

 

The graduate and his biggest brother

I got a little teary for a couple of minutes when they were singing their cute little songs and standing in their cute little rows with their cute little certificates. We only have one more year of having a preschooler. It's going to be hard to say goodbye to this stage of life, forever. If I could bottle up his four-year-old-ness and keep it for always, I most definitely would. Today, he told his teachers he wants to be a beekeeper/cop. Not just a beekeeper and not just a cop. He also told me that the woman who turned the corner was a "very stupid person" because she didn't use her "orange flashing lights" to tell us she was turning. At least he has the cop thing down. I admire his sense of justice.

Know what I don't admire? His tantrums. His outbursts. His unwavering attitude every time he gets tired and his filters become penetrable. Tonight, as we were finishing up some swimming pool mooching (my favourite summer sport), he decided to call his buddy "the stupidest friend ever," refuse to apologize, tell me he hates me, and then run outside, crying.

I'm contemplating chloroform and some ropes next time we go out. It would certainly make "it's time to leave" much simpler.

Anyway, since I'm still just a little bit mortified about McScreamy's departing monologue this evening, I need to remind myself why we have kids in the first place. Why we build these little yell-bots inside our bodies and let them rampage around for eighteen years under our watch.

This post is going to help.

And if it doesn't, there's always chocolate.

Found in Spawnling's backpack this week. Freaking adorable.

One of my favourite things about little kids is their artwork. Spawnling has always loved to draw, but his drawings were more like scribbles until about six months ago. Suddenly, the mess of colour became somewhat decipherable and meaningful. Here are some of his recent works:

A very scary monster (or me in the morning. Not sure which.)

Self-portrait complete with pig snout, Wolverine claws and a bad toupee

Spawnling with ebola-stricken mom and dad who are obviously bleeding from the eyes

Gutsy is more of a gadget guy; a creator of sorts. One day, his friend R was here with his sister, E. I guess Gutsy and R were trying to come up with the ultimate weapon against poor E. They went into his room and plotted. I found this in there after R & E had gone home:

All her base are belong to boobs.

But this morning - oh, this morning - I received a picture to my iPhone that had me sitting in my van on the side of the road and laughing until most of my makeup had run off my face. My friend's son, a kindergartener, brought a picture home that he had drawn. In it, he's hugging what looks to be an elephant.

I'm pretty sure this kind of hugging is illegal in most countries.

... Or, at least, he's spending some sort of, uh, quality time with the elephant. And the pachyderm seems to be enjoying it quite a bit, too, by the looks of that tongue. What a happy mammal and a very outgoing boy.

I need to, once again, thank said friend of allowing me not only the pleasure of seeing this picture, but for suggesting I blog about it. You can't make this shit up, people. You just can't. This is true, raw, somewhat suggestive art at its finest.

I would have paid any amount of money to be a fly on the wall when the teacher saw that drawing for the first time. Any. Amount. No joke.

And there you have it: This is why we have kids, and probably why teachers teach.

What 20 Years Sober Looks Like

On June 13th, 2011, I will have been clean and sober 20 years.

20 years. Twenty. Two decades.

Some people might ask why I'm even writing about this, publicly, on my blog. Isn't this a private matter, Maven? Shouldn't this be a little more hush-hush? To them, I say the following:

1. Um, hello? Have you read anything I've written? Am I ever hush-hush about anything, including my addictive personality? You are obviously not a real fan if you haven't yet figured out that I'm anything but reserved.

2. Is diabetes private? Is M.S. private? Is cancer private? Those are diseases. I also have a disease; it's called alcoholism. There is a stigma attached to it, but I talk about it anyway because I'm a rebel. But don't worry; I also have a disease called egoism, and I freely show that off every time I discuss how amazing I am, too. (Which is pretty much daily).

3. If recovering addicts don't ever discuss their addictions, how on earth would anyone know they can reach out to us if they need help? This is my outreach. Maybe someone will read this and think, "Wow, if that overwhelmed mother to three unbelievably busy children can get and stay sober, maybe I can, too." I'm a public service announcement wrapped up in great hair, bitches.

Anyway, I've been trying to figure out how, exactly, I can giftwrap what two decades of sobriety feels like and pass it on; what it means to me to have been given this second chance at life. I don't know if I can. That's right: I'm a writer, and I don't know if I can.

How can one summarize what it feels like to know - absolutely know, beyond a doubt - that she won't live to see past her teen years unless she accepts help, because her disease is too strong, too all-consuming, too dangerous? How can one put into words what it's like to feel fear so deep and despair so dark that she eventually accepts the help - the incredible, miraculous help - that's offered to her and leaps with her last bit of strength because there is nothing to lose anymore? How can one truly explain the contrast between that sad, broken little girl and the woman she is today? (Still a little bit broken, not very sad, and in fact grinning ear-to-ear most of the time.)

I had lost almost everything - my friends, my education, my self-esteem, my strength, my hope, my will to live, and nearly my family. I was out of options, I was out of chances, and the path that awaited me if I didn't step into that treatment center would be short and frightening and very lonely. So I did, and I got my life back. And on that now solid foundation, I slowly built up something incredible.

They say most addicts never stay clean. And yet I have, one day at a time, for two decades. This disease is powerful and all-consuming. It's a deep hole to climb out of, and I understand the desire to stay in that hole, or to head back down there when the world gets tough. I don't believe I'm any stronger, more capable, or more insightful than anyone else. I don't know why I've been able to maintain my sobriety. I just know that I have, and that I'm incredibly grateful for that fact every single day. And that now, of all times, I want to shout from the rooftops that it's possible, achievable, incredible.

Heck, if I can do it, anyone can. I am definitely not the poster child for sobriety by any means. I'm far from perfect - just read through my posts over the last few years to get a good idea of my numerous shortcomings and multiple blunders of various types. If I can beat the odds, so can anyone else. No joke. You just have to really, really want it, more than anything else. And you have to be willing to work damn hard for it.

So, if I can't write about what it means to mark this milestone, maybe I can show you. And maybe you can show this to someone else. And maybe they can show this to someone else who is struggling right now. And maybe, just maybe, it will help someone a little bit and I can feel even more awesome than I usually do (if that's even possible).

This is what twenty years of sobriety is to me:

It's me (not drunk)

And him. Oh, him. I love him very much.

And us. We're a really great us, I must say.

Together, we made wonderful him.

And beautiful him.

And very sweet him.

Sobriety is them and the life we have as a family.

It's being here to capture these moments.

And especially these moments.

And absolutely loving these moments.

How have I stayed sober? No substance holds a candle to this amazing, frustrating, beautiful, incredible, overwhelming, insane, adventurous life. I am so blessed to have what I have, and I will fight tooth and nail to keep it. It was statistically improbable that I could have all of this in my life given the disease that nearly swallowed me whole. And now that I have it, there's no way I'll ever let it go for anything. Ever.

Finally, there's an abundance of this in just about every day in the last 7, 304 days:

Coffee. And joy (Same thing, really.)

 This is a rockin' life. I'm so thankful. So very thankful.

My Kid is Way More Awesome than Me

My young padawan

 

It's widely assumed that I'm the funny one in this family (not to be confused with the funny-looking one, although I think there's a bit of truth to that, too.) After all, I'm the one with the blog in which I record life in a generally humourous way.

It's also assumed that I have the biggest ego in this household neighbourhood hemisphere. I can see where people might get that impression: I'm forever going on about how awesome I am, and I take more than enough pictures of myself. But in my defense, I'm my own best art subject when I want to mess with filters (I'm always around and I don't have to beg myself to stand still for two seconds for once in your life, please oh please, for the love of God). And being this awesome is worthy of regular discussion. I consider it community outreach; maybe, by sharing a little bit of me, I can teach the under-awesomed a thing or two, you know?

There was a time when I was the most self-centered, self-assured person in my family. It was a good ride, but it came to an end four-and-a-half years ago. The minute Spawnling hatched, he reached his clawed little hand up and pulled the tiara and matching sash from my person so as to claim them for his own.

Let me try to put this in a context that geeks basement dwelling mama's boys serial virgins the, um, average person will understand. Let's use a Star Wars analogy. See, once upon a time there was a great Jedi named Obi Wan Kenobi. He was this really amazing bad ass dude who owned with a light saber, rocked the robes, and could have totally wooed the bitches if he wasn't so wrapped up in upholding universal balance and junk.

One day, he meets Luke Skywalker. Luke is this kid who comes from out of nowhere and has way nicer eyes than Obi Wan and doesn't insist on sporting a hippie beard, circa 1968. He's like Obi, but without getting all killed by Darth Vader. Sure, he looses his hand, but he gets an amazingly lifelike prosthetic one, raises a spaceship out of a swamp with a little green man yelling at him in broken english, and then kicks Darth's ass.

It's not like Obi Wan wasn't awesome, it's just that his awesome pales in comparison to Luke's. He taught Luke so well that now Luke is epic winning incarnate, and Obi is dead. But it's okay because he's a ghost now.

See, I am Obi, and Spawnling is Luke. Through me, he is making himself into a legendary action figure. Observe.

Today, Spawnling asked if he could borrow my camera. I said "sure!" and went back to gardening. When I plugged in the camera this evening, I found out what he had been doing with it: taking pictures of himself.

I also take pictures of myself, but his are way cooler.

Very emo. Extra points for dramatic flair.

Seriously? A pout pose? That's my signature move. (He does it better.)

Yelling-punk-rebel pose. I highly approve.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. How amazing is this?

Ego points:
Luke: 1
Obi: 0

Now, onto the lesson of awesomeness. I filmed this while Spawnling was supposed to be helping me garden. Apparently "helping" means he's going to pull a picnic table under the tree, blast some music, and dance on it.



I may be awesome, but I can't table dance like that.
Luke: 2
Obi:0

See what I'm saying? the kid is chock full of wonderful. And I, for one, would be honoured to take a light saber in the gut for him any day.

(I draw the line at the beard, though.)

What Happens When Mom Has to Have Surgery

I hope my complexion looks decent under all those lights...

June 21st.

This is the day I'm going in for surgery. The call came in Friday afternoon, and I had barely had a chance to process it all until tonight because I've been so busy doing awesome things like crashing street parties. (Okay, so it was a block away and we were invited by one of the organizers, but "crashing" sounds so much more bad ass, and befitting of someone who calls herself "The Maven of Mayhem.")

I had a c-section with Gutsy, and at some point in the months that followed, I developed a hernia at the incision site. This type of hernia has the unoriginal name of "incisional hernia." A Pulitzer prize to whoever came up with that one. I've had the darn thing for about eight years and have even carried another baby and had a second cesarean in that time without any complications. I pretty much ignored it for a long time because it didn't hurt and my layers of rotundness covered it up nicely. I've been sitting in that blissful place of denial about the lump in my stomach for a long time now, and I've been very okay with that.

The problem is that I've been losing weight since going gluten-free (okay, that's not much of a "problem" at my size, but let's not start getting all resentful and doing the eye-roll thing, ok?). The more weight I lose, the more noticeable and somewhat uncomfortable the hernia is becoming. It's no longer the quiet roommate who pays its rent on time and does the dishes, but rather the one who stumbles in drunk at 3 a.m. and doesn't clean up its own puke in the morning.

In the spirit of taking better care of my body, it is time for the darn thing to go.

I've been waiting for a surgical date for a few weeks. Not knowing was aggravating, but also kind of nice at the same time because it meant that the surgery wasn't quite real yet. It's not really happening until you put a circle on the calendar. Well, now I have the stupid circle, and the reality of it all is hitting me - hard. In just over two weeks, I will be put under general anesthesia for the first time in my life. I will be cut open from belly button to pubic bone, and I will become the bionic woman with the help of a mesh placed over my abdomen. Then, I'll be sewed back up.

I'll be in the hospital at least three days.

I will be in a significant amount of pain.

I will be at greater risk of infection than other types of hernia repairs because of the large incisional area and mesh.

I will be at greater risk of hernia recurrence (AKA epic surgical failure) because the area is already weakened due to two prior surgeries.

I am not terribly thrilled by any of this and stopping just short of drowning my stress in a bag of chocolate-covered almonds. (Putting on weight right now isn't going to help anything - or so I tell myself.)

On one hand, I'm glad to be having this done. I really should have done it a long time ago and I want to get it over with. On the other hand, I'm not terribly happy to have had a conversation with Dr. Google about the aforementioned statistics and risks. Ignorance probably would have been better on my part. But I'm a research junkie, and sometimes I just can't help myself. (Case in point: instead of simply reading breastfeeding books, I spent a year taking post-graduate-level lactation courses. True story.)

Overall, this is a low-risk procedure with a decent chance of success. The benefits far outweigh the risks, and I'm not questioning having the surgery done. I get that it could be worse, it could be scarier, it could be more life-threatening. I get that I'm probably going to be just fine.

BUT.

(Oh, you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you? Don't look so surprised. If I wasn't so inwardly conflicted I wouldn't have a blog about my crappy parenting and such to begin with.)

If I only had to worry about myself I don't think I'd be terribly concerned. The odds are strongly stacked in my favour. But I have three little gremlins scuttling around the house who need their mom - and one in particular who has a host of sensory and processing issues. For Gutsy, stress is bad, change is bad, derailed routines and schedules are bad. And by bad I mean cataclysmically bad. My surgery is going to wreak havoc on Gutsy's emotional state, and I worry way more about him - and his reaction to everything being thrown up in the air - than I do about me and how I'll fare.

We have put a great deal of time and effort into Gutsy's routines. Without them, his world falls apart. It has taken months to find a morning schedule that works for him at this point in his life, and even longer to find a bedtime schedule that does the same. If done just right in just the right circumstances, we get through the day with no major meltdowns. All of this relies heavily on my participation in things. So by taking me out of the game, the game itself has to change. All balls will be thrown into the air, and my child who struggles to keep things together on the best of days is going to have to figure out how to catch them all - without my help.

Add to this that two days after surgery Gutsy finishes school for the year, and you have a perfect storm for adjustment problems. The spring-to-summer transition is already hard for him without further complications. It's going to be a difficult couple of weeks.

I have not shed a single tear about this surgery until tonight. It wasn't until I had to start thinking about how we're going to help Gutsy manage the stress of all this change that they started to flow. I cried for a good hour. Now my eyes hurt and I'm hungry (I think crying must eat up a lot of calories), but I am feeling a little better.

You might think I'm overreacting. And if you are, then you don't have a kid with special needs. And you are fortunate, and you should count your blessings that you have no idea why I'm going all emo about this.

Having surgery as a mom to a child with special needs amplifies the normal range of stress by piling on a whole bunch of added concerns. Those concerns are often so, well, concerning, that they make any worries about the surgery itself pale in comparison. Potholes in the road of life become sinkholes. There is so much more to plan, to arrange, to manage. It's a juggling act - and I'm a terrible juggler.

The next two weeks will be spent getting the house in order, stocking the cupboards with food, accepting and arranging offers for help post-surgery (there have been several because I have amazing friends and family on account of being an amazing human being who attracts these sorts) and making all the last-minute arrangements before I'm out of commission for awhile.

But the biggest challenge - my largest project - will be slowly trying to prepare my middle child for what's about to happen. It might seem like a few waves in the sea for most people, but this is likely going to be nothing short of stormy waters for Gutsy; a Bermuda Triangle of sorts. I'm hoping we can find a way of making this easier on him - and, in turn, on the rest of us.

And did I mention I'm going to have a big ugly scar on my belly?  Fucking hell.

If I'm a Bad Parent, So Are You.

"Bad parenting" is easily noticed at parks. (Watch for it.)

 

Maybe it started because I was a young mom.

There's something about being nineteen and poor and unwed and pregnant that can give a girl a bit of a complex. As much as I didn't want to admit it, the idea of falling into the stereotypical representation of my demographic terrified me. And when I held little Intrepid in my arms for the first time - all 10lbs, 6oz of him - I had two main thoughts run through my head:

1. He's absolutely perfect.
2. Don't fuck this up, Maven.

And so I spent the next several years trying to prove something to everyone and anyone I thought might care: I am a good parent.

It started off pretty well. I was a shining example of a new mom. For example, despite his colic, I didn't shake him even once. Gold star for me. And when the internet exploded and special interest parenting pockets sprung up everywhere, I quickly identified with the "attachment parent" mentality: Breastfeeding? Co-sleeping? Baby-wearing? All the boxes were neatly checked off. Now I wasn't only a good parent, but a trendy good parent. Awesome sauce.

Unfortunately, things got a little more complicated as he got older. There was that whole "having a mind of his own" thing that cropped up more than once. No idea where that came from. He found this annoying little word - "NO!" - and started using it all the time, rather loudly, and particularly in busy restaurants or in line at the grocery store. And he decided he would do stuff that I always insisted in my childless years that my kid would never do because I would be a great mom. He would whack me in the face at Christmas dinner in front of a gasping family audience, and pull my hair on the bus, and kick other children at the book store...Fun times.

And then we got this ridiculous idea to "grow our family" and decided we should have two more of these little scream balls. The cycle continues.

I just don't understand why these kids think it's okay to think for themselves, like they're little people, or something. Don't they see that their desire to be independent makes me do things like raise my voice and say stupid things and do totally immature stuff like lock myself in the bedroom and scream into my pillow and write vent-y blog posts?

Why my kids couldn't just be the perfect little automatons is beyond me. 

Anyway, by the time our third gremlin hatched, I had thrown in the towel and gave up on earning any type of parenting award. Obviously I had done something horribly wrong. From where I was sitting, other parents were doing a fantastic job. I would see a happy family going for a walk, or a child listening to mom or dad at the beach. It must be like this for them all the time, I decided. And therefore I was a complete and utter failure who should hang up her parenting apron - or whatever parents wear; maybe a puke guard or a goalie mask or whatever.

And then something really neat happened. One day, I ever-so-carefully lifted the delicate veil of denial I had been wearing and saw things for what they really are. And what I realized is, you're not any better at this parenting crap than I am. I don't know why I hadn't seen it before, but it was so obvious once I paid attention.

Nobody is that ideal parent.

Not a single one of you.

And that makes me feel damn good.

Last night I took Spawnling and Gutsy to the park to meet up with a friend. She's a seasoned pro like I am. We both have three boys under our belts and a whole lot of chaos running wildly through our homes. We have both used empty threats, such as "I'm leaving now, and there's no one else here! So if you're not coming with me you're going to be all alone. Ok, bye!"

You know those empty threats. You make them too.

Our goal last night was simple: Take the kids out just before bedtime and let them run wild. Parenting rule #22: Wear them out, hard.

The park was full of other children; a veritable cesspool of dirty knees and tangled hair and sweaty foreheads. My boys were running wildly, stopping only for brief sips of water before taking off again. They kicked their shoes off despite my objection, and, on more than one occasion, strayed well off the sand and pavement to explore rocky terrain and unidentified ground plants at the risk of injury and/or some kind of skin disease. Gutsy brought a toy gun. I had asked him not to and he had insisted, so I told him to leave it in the van. Half an hour in, I noticed him running in between bushes, pretending to fire it at bad guys with the younger, more impressionable kids in tow.

I wondered what the other parents would think.

And then I stopped wondering about 2.8 seconds later.

See, I remembered that I don't care anymore. I'm not out to prove anything to any of you at this point, other than I can manage to keep my gremlins breathing, fed, clothed and tremendously loved. It is my hope that I will raise them to be upstanding, incredible adults. But there's really no way to ensure that, and there's certainly no need to try and put on a show for any of you in the meantime.

My boys have no shoes on and could cut their feet open, and they're playing with pretend weapons. They're hot and moody and not listening to me terribly well. But guess what? You probably don't care all that much, because you're too busy dealing with your hot, moody child who isn't listening to you very well right now, either. And maybe has left his or her sandals under the swings next to my child's, and is chasing after him trying to get that gun.

And as my friend and I started mingling with other parents, we got on the topic of toy weapons and defiance and all those other things we said our kids would never do/play with/be like. There was a great deal of laughter. One mom was relieved to hear that it was not bad parenting that had suddenly turned her preschooler into a little demon, but the stage I lovingly refer to as "the fucking fours."

I walked away an hour later, corralling my kids into the minivan as one screamed and the other whined, and felt damn good about things. It seems experience in berating myself for my own would-be poor parenting is paying off through sharing the big secret to being a perfect parent: there are no perfect parents. 

Moral of the story as you take your own kids to the park today: Don't be too hard on yourself. We're all in this together.