Why I Probably Should Have Only Had One Child

My boss has one kid. A really great kid, actually.

Sometimes I see her kid, or talk to her kid, or watch her interact with her kid, or hear stories from other friends with only one kid, and I realize something.

I have totally screwed up my kids by having more kids.

Once upon a time, I only had one kid. It wasn't by choice. I wanted more, but my husband didn't. Something to do with me bleeding out in the delivery room and maybe some colic and postpartum depression and other unimportant shit that scars men emotionally or some such. He was very happy with one kid. Totally and completely fulfilled, he said.

I, on the other hand, had a uterus that sucker punched my intestines every time I saw a newborn. I had ovaries that rang like festive little jingle bells every time I walked by the baby section in Sears. I had breasts that would drip a drop of motherly love every so often to remind me that there was no baby to suck up the perfect food my body can create; a milky tear of mourning, enticing me back into sleepless nights and mustard-coloured poop.

But then my body rebelled against me, too. It sided with my husband, throwing my hormones out of whack and nearly dashing my wild hopes of reproduction. "Secondary Infertility due to Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome," they called it. I now call it an early warning detection system. My physical self knew what my brain did not yet know: having another baby would be dangerous for my sanity and any sense of household cleanliness.

I could have thrown in the towel, but that would have been rather defeatist of me. And we all know I'm not one for defeat. My couch - recently peed upon by gremlin #3 and still rather smelly - is paying the price for my reproductive drive. With a lot of work with a naturopath, I turned my body into a not-so-lean, mean baby-making machine. And voila, there was Gutsy.

Oh, and Spawnling.

And there went my sanity and any hope of being a decent mother.

Look, just like there's a gay scale and there's an autism spectrum scale, there is a motherhood scale. Science may not have clued into this yet, but I'm living proof. When I had one child, I was a super mom: we went to parks every day, took long walks, went to museums and galleries galore. We did crafts, sang songs, read tons of books, played toys on the floor. I was an incredible parent. Truly. I totally rocked at it. I deserved an entire observatory for the attention I gave to the one and only star in my sky. I was a solid 9 on the scale (it goes to 10, by the way.)

When Gutsy arrived I probably sank to about a 7, straddling the "decent" line.

By the time Spawnling arrived, I had my nails clinging onto 5 and was holding on for dear life. I've managed to stay here, more or less, but I waffle between a 3 1/2 and a 6. When I cook from scratch while calmly sorting out their endless disagreements over the PS3, I'm having a good day. When I'm crying in my room so I don't hear them screaming while I simultaneously dial the pizza man, I'm definitely far below par.

Having more kids has left me overwhelmed. And when I see the easy and calm interactions between other parents and their singular kids (or hear about their fabulous trips we could never afford to take, which I heard about over the weekend), I wonder just how amazing a life Intrepid would have been had I pepper-sprayed Mother Nature in the face when she came calling those many years ago. Would he have more attention? Less stress? More opportunities? A mother who doesn't yell as much?

I don't regret having the Gremlins Three. While they've certainly divided my attention and whipped up the chaos level to frenzied amounts, there is no denying that there is three times the unconditional love to make up for all of it; three times the hugs, three times the laughter, three times the sweetness, three times to mess-- oh, wait. I'm listing positives, sorry.

There are three boys in this house with three distinct and (generally) endearing personalities who are going to grow up and help shape the world in their unique ways. Three kids to be proud of, three to experience all those firsts with - from first smiles to first loves and jobs and babies. It makes my heart happy just thinking about it.

But what I worry about on days like today - when I'm tired and overwhelmed and over-scheduled and feel like there aren't enough hours in the day - is that I'm somehow failing someone by not being enough. I just realized that one of Gutsy's teeth is grey - when did that happen? How long have I missed this? And when was the last time I asked Intrepid about upcoming projects or about girls that he likes? Will I ever have time to read Spawnling a bedtime story more than two nights in a row? And this is when I start to feel really mediocre and not on top of my game like I used to be.

So yes, sometimes I do think life would have been a lot simpler with one, or even two. Sometimes I wish I could give that kind of attention to all three of them. I can only hope that any long term damage my children incur will be offset by strong bonds with their siblings (once they're old enough not to be fighting over Lego anymore) and hopefully a knowledge that mom and dad, while not the greatest jugglers, did their very best and loved them tremendously while dropping the more important balls from time to time.

And at worst, they can always use the meagre post-secondary education savings we have for them for therapy. A good therapist can make up for a lot. 


(Geekster would like to point out that, while Gutsy does need to go to the dentist, like, yesterday, a story was read to Spawnling tonight while I was out this evening. I feel better. Maybe. But please send chocolate and hugs anyway.)

Sex, Lies, and Parenting Myths

 Now that my eldest is a teenager, I feel the need to help the human race by dispelling some myths for the current and prospective parents out there. There are so many of them and I worked a whopping five hours today on top of poorly mothering my three kids, so I'm only covering four myths right now.

And you're going to smile and say "thank you for the wisdom, Maven" and quite possibly start a coffee trust for me for when I'm broke because I decide I finally want to try my hand at writing full time. Ok? Ok.

Myth: You make sweet love to have a baby.

Truth: You engage in something that can only be described as a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in which you are not enjoying what you're doing and yet you're doing it naked. "Good. We engaged in sexual intercourse for the fifth time today. You have spread your seed within me. Get off me now. No, I mean it. Hey! HEY! Stop trying to hug me! You'll jostle the mother load! Don't-- Listen, I'm serious! DO NOT TOUCH ME, ASSHOLE! I'M TRYING TO MAKE SURE YOUR SWIMMERS GREET MY FUCKING EGG SO WE CAN CREATE FUCKING LIFE, OK!? ... Can you give me my laptop so I can input our copulation schedule into this website? Oh, and prop my ass up with some pillows, will you? Thanks, darling."

Myth: You'll settle quickly into parenthood and you'll just know when it's time to have another baby.

Reality: Mother Nature hates you and wants to laugh at you, so she'll make you think you're ready for another baby when you're too overwhelmed to notice that your life really, really sucks now. "Oh, he's so perfect, honey. Isn't he perfect? Look at those perfect little toes on those perfect little feet. He's a perfectly perfect mix of our genetics. It just makes my uterus blossom with happy rainbows! Let's have seven more right now. No, I mean now. Let's get crazy! I'll just feed him, burp him, slap some diaper cream on him, try to put him down without him waking up, crawl out of the room backwards on my hands and knees so I don't creak the floorboards, change my nursing pads, take my basal body temperature, throw a towel over the spit up on the couch, and we can make spontaneous love just like we used to! Don't you just love being a parent? It's magical."

Myth:  Your parenting is reflected in your child.

Reality: Don't kid yourself, Bertha. Your shelf of Dr. Sears books is only part of the puzzle. If you have well-behaved, sweet kids that everyone secretly resents you for, you obviously haven't had enough of them. You haven't had The One yet. The One is an egg of evilness that lives within you (or in someone else, if you're adopting - The One does not discriminate) that instinctively knows parenting "experts" are conspiring with Mother Nature to increase the birth rate in the Western World. The One will find you, eventually, and will hand you your false sense of control on a skewer. The One will make you cry, make you question your decisions, make you wonder why Dr. Phil won't answer your emails because doesn't he know how bad it is at your place? I think everyone needs at least one of The One. I have several. I fancy myself a bit of a collector.

Myth: Your child is super smart. Smarter than all the other kids.

Reality: All children are super smart, sort of. I mean, maybe yours can do long division at three and mine can't, but mine shares toys at playgroup and that's a serious life skill. (Actually, that was just an example. None of mine shared toys at playgroup at three, nor could they do long division. Not shining stars on any level when you look at it that way, but I digress...) But when you hear things like, "Timothy has a 4.0 GPA at his Montessori, and can do complex equations with his fridge magnets, and learned to ride a two wheel bike at 8 months old, blindfolded, as he recited Shakespeare sonnets" it's bound to make you feel a little inadequate. Well, Timothy might very well bite the heads off gerbils when he's not doing the baby babbling equivalent of "Look, ma! No hands!" The universe always strikes some kind of a balance. So don't feel bad and go hug your mediocre kid who will probably grow up making you at least moderately proud. And really, what more do you want? If it's a toss up between beheaded rodents or a thrice married professional gambler, I'll take the latter.

So there you go. Myths debunked. You're very welcome.

There, there. Don't cry. Everyone eventually comes to realize that 80's TV sitcoms lied to us. You'll get over it.

An Open Letter to Spawnling on his Fifth Birthday

Dear Spawnling,

So you're five, eh? The big oh-five. Five-orama. The Fivester. One twentieth of a century. Sheesh.

I don't exactly know who told you that it was okay to turn five, but I'm rather displeased by the whole thing. I mean, you're my baby. We have a contractual agreement that I get to dictate when you're allowed to age. I specifically remember this discussion during your second trimester. And while I know we're in union talks with Mother Nature over a few points she deems "biologically impossible" - whatever - I still think you should listen to your mom on this one.

That being said, it's been a rather fabulous five years, hasn't it? A whole lot of your awesome little life has been summed up in this silly blog for the world to see, including the day you hatched from your pod of evil and a birthday post to you from me for the last four years.

As mothers annoyingly do, I've been reminiscing all day about what I want to say to you this year. How can I possibly sum it all up? I suppose, in a nutshell, what I really want to say is "thank you."

Thank you for joining us. Your creation inside my belly was a most welcome surprise (well, after the initial shock of "What do you mean the test is positive?!"). And while I'm at it, thank you for not giving me quite as much morning sickness as Gutsy gave me, but more than Intrepid did. It was just enough to remind me never, ever to get knocked up again, but not quite enough to make me want to throw myself into traffic. Good call on your part.

Thank you for finally coming out of my stomach. Sure it was after your due date and you had to be cut out, but whatevs. In the end, you are perfect and during your pregnancy you only made the hernia I had from Gutsy's cesarean slightly larger instead of grotesquely larger, which was pretty awesome of you.

Thanks for nursing for 2 1/2 years. It gave me a nice even number of 7 years to proudly declare when I tally up all the time I spent lactating. So much better than, say, 6.52 years, or 5.9 years. 7 is a lucky number (as in, I totally loved breastfeeding but I sure count myself lucky to be wearing bras that don't snap open in the front. Believe me, they sound so much kinkier than they really are.)

Thank you for listening to me when I said you needed to not grow up quite as fast as your brothers. I told you not to walk at 9 months like they did. You listened, sort of. You walked at 10 months. The union said that was reasonable since I never put a time clause in there. Stupid me.

Remember that time you spent in the hospital? Thank you. If you were going to get sick with any weird, scary illness, I'm glad you went with Kawasaki Disease, which seems a lot scarier than it actually is  (A+ for creativity, by the way). Those few days where no one knew what was wrong with you and no one could tell me if you were going to be okay were the most terrifying days of my life, bar none. But they were also the most clarifying. I learned how to stay in the moment, appreciate the small things, sit for hours in silence, use our support network, advocate for those I love... but most importantly I saw just how precious life is, and how my world would never be the same without you. Your brothers' world, your dad's world, never again would they shine as brightly. You may be our third boy (and not the girl I was positive you were), but that in no way diminishes your importance, your presence, your significance in our family. As I sat there watching you for any signs of improvement, not knowing what was going to happen to you, I got to see just how strong our bond is, dear Spawn. And when the treatment they gave you worked and I found you awake and looking at me the next morning, I knew gratitude on a whole new level. That was one of the best days of my life, and your dad's, too. So really and truly, thank you.

Thank you for being this amazing little person. One of our friends described you as the poster child for "Kids Say the Darndest Things" and she is absolutely right. You are, by far, the most outrageous, off the wall, crazy kid I've ever met. Personality oozes out of you even when you don't try. Some people spend their whole lives trying to be as witty as you. You blow my mind, child. I have no idea where you came from - alien implantation, obviously. I find your honesty simultaneously hilarious and embarrassing, and I can honestly say I don't know anyone else who fits that bill. You are, like, the coolest person alive. Rock star material. And you grew in my womb, which makes me so damn proud.

Thank you for counting down the sleeps to your birthday, ending with "1 more sleep!" tonight before you headed to bed with a huge grin on your face. This may be the very last time anyone counts down sleeps to a birthday in this house. You're all growing up so fast. I like the fact that your dad and I don't have to wipe bums anymore, but I will miss those little kid moments that make all the bum-wiping worthwhile. I will always remember with great fondness you counting down the sleeps, my darling.

And finally, thank you for comparing my girth and softness to cotton candy the other day. I was feeling a little too comfortable in my own skin, so I sure am glad you knocked me down a few pegs.

Happy birthday, little horned wonder. I'm so proud to be your mom. I'm so glad you're five and full of life and fan-freaking-tastic awesomness. (You get that from my side of the family. The non-cotton-candy shaped body you get from your dad's, though.)

Love you tremendously and always, even on screamy days (yours and mine),
Mom

I Drive an Old Man Car. No, Really.

Here's the thing: I love my new ride. It's a 2010 Chevy Malibu (which I understand isn't new - I can do simple math, you know - but it's new to me. So quit getting stuck on semantics and keep reading.) It's a quiet, smooth ride with great sound - much to the dismay of anyone around me, I'm sure. Everything works, the engine light isn't constantly on, the calipers aren't seizing on the rear brakes and causing fires, there are no scary sounds every time I turn right, it's not rusting out from under me... Basically the stuff that dreams are made of.

There's only one, uh, problem. Well, it's not really a problem. It's more like an observation: I have observed that I now drive an old man's car. True story.

You know how you get some new wheels, and you slap your gold grill in your mouth and you wear your hat down low and you cruise around with the phat beats pumping, and you begin noticing everyone else who drives the same car as you?

Well, I've been noticing, and every single one of them so far is male and pushing 85. I wish I was exaggerating.

I went to visit family three hours away over the weekend. While in their town I noticed the same thing: Old man + car = Malibu. Every single time.

So here's the problem observation my ego was struggling with originally: I am thirty-five and female. Did I pick the wrong car? I have nothing against older gentlemen, of course. They generally have great taste in vehicles. It's just that I was busily feeling all fly in my tricked out ride and now I find out that I'm effectively driving the poor man's Cadillac with plenty of room for a cane and oxygen tank and a set of fly bridge-playing bitches in the back seat (and maybe a walker or two - it has great trunk space.) Am I treading on someone's well-established turf? Am I going to get an angry mob of post-midlife men beating down my door with torches and stories about how, back in their day, suspenders were mandatory to get behind the wheel of a midsize Chevrolet?

Well, you know what? Too bad. I have decided that I'm breaking the mould, shattering the stereotype, taking this car back to for masses! No longer will the Malibu be reserved for octogenarians alone. This is a free society, and one where youngins should be able to drive pimp rides without shame, fear or humiliation. I am proud to get behind that wheel and rock the shit out of my new car.

Rocking the shit out of my car. Safely. With a seat belt.

(Her name, by the way, is Tiara Cristal. I think that's a damn fine stripper name, and it's sexy like she is. Makes me think of tassels and glass pumps.)

Still laughing at me? Well, stop. I drive a hybrid and sometimes there's no engine noise so I can totally hear you and it makes me sad. But check out the picture I took about 40 minutes after filling my tank on the way home on Sunday:

(That's 508 miles, Americans.)

So you can snicker or wave your walking sticks my way, but this spring chicken (okay, maybe a summer chicken at this point) is too busy bringing sexy back - and not filling her gas tank - to notice.

Bringing sexy back. Slowly. Right after my nap.

Maven, out.

VLOG: The V isn't for "Vagina"

I tried my hand at V-logging, or VLOGging or V-whatevering last night.

The "v" isn't for "vagina", by the way. I know that might be everyone's first thought: "Oh, you know that Maven, always waving her vagina around..."

No, the V is for "video." And why on earth would I put myself on video? Because I thought it would be easier than writing.

I. Was. Wrong. (And I explain why in the vagina video.)

Anyone who has any idea what a T.A.R.D.I.S. is is now really jealous of my mug. And you should be, because it's damn fabulous. I've wanted one for over a year; and in the magical instant gratification world of the internets, that might as well be my entire life. And now I have one, I'm going to drink coffee out of it every single day. And rejoice a fair bit while I do it, too.

Wow. Sometimes - like when I read my own stuff - it becomes apparent to me just how lame I can be. 

Uh, and by "lame" I mean "incredible". Yeah. Haven't you heard of "lame" being used in that way? It's the new "sick".

True story.

Sorta.