The Maven of Mayhem

Back in the Saddle

2012-01-23T16:00:00.000-05:00

YEEEEEEHAWWW! (I've had 2 americanos today.)

It's been a while, hasn't it? My last post was over four months ago. I can't believe it's been that long. I got swallowed up in a sea of birthdays and Christmas, then spit out on the shores of unemployment and family crises. If there was ever a time in my life to put my blog aside while I regroup, this was the time.

I did manage to start a food blog. I think I have a grand total of three posts, but I'm planning on jumping back into both blogs this week. Yay for you! (I mean, if you have kids or like food, I guess.)

I'm no longer working part-time outside the home. It's a long story and not a terribly interesting one, so I won't get into the deets. Suffice it to say that it suddenly became clear to me who I am and what I should be doing at this point in my life, and office administration isn't it. I'm a writer, and I should be writing. I have a spouse who makes enough that, if we're careful, we can live on one salary while I slowly stir my wordsmith brew into something magical and rewarding. I have a home I love and young gremlins I love even more who require lots of care and feeding. (I seem to have lost the instruction manual a while back, mind you. They do come with instructions, right?)

Last week, just as I was getting into the flow of working-from-couch and developing a nice ass groove in the right hand corner, we had another major anxiety flare up with Gutsy. It's been a rough few days with many outbursts and tears (both his and mine), lots of talking and stategizing, and an emergency therapy assessment. As stressful as it's been - and believe me, it's been hella stressful in ways I won't even get into right now because it'll just stress me out all over again- it solidified in me the belief that one of us needs to be here, manning the lighthouse, to guide him through the storms.

I can - and will - build a great career as a writer, but my first priority is being Gutsy's - and Interpid's, and Spawnling's - mom. Raising kids is hard; raising special needs kids is exponentially harder; believe me, I do both. I need to focus my attention where it matters most, and that's here, at home. I spent a couple of "woe is me/this isn't what I signed up for" days digging into a jumbo bag of chips. That's therapeutic for a time, but unhealthy long term.

Of course I signed up for this; I just didn't take the time to read the fine print, that's all. When we choose to become parents, we sign up for just about anything life can throw at us. Each little individual that exits my womb and is placed in my arms has unique DNA: a unique set of personality traits, needs, and emotions. That's how it works, and it's my job to figure out how best to love that little person, how to best help him grow into the amazing adult I know he will be.

So yes, I can feel sorry for myself for a bit because it's damn challenging some days, but I also need to accept life on life's terms. Whining time for The Maven is over for now. These boys I have? They're incredible. And I have to muster up the incredible in me again so I can parent them most excellently. Sitting under a raincloud isn't going to help me find my super suit.

I stopped blogging for longer than I've ever stopped blogging before. You probably thought I was kidnapped by a drug cartel (Obviously the first thing that would come to mind.) The funny thing is, I couldn't find the words to write for a long time before this perfect storm of job-shifting, re-prioritizing and special-needs-parenting thundered in. This was happening long before life blew up two weeks ago. I had already fallen off the writing pier and was swept away in the current of the every day. (Holy damn, I'm using a lot of water analogies today. What's up with that?)

I've been drowning in stress and tiredness and busy and crazy and messy for a long time. I've been feeling like I'm not honouring who I am and what I am and where I want to go in life, either. But the gift of the last little while is the big light bulb moment I had: What's the point of life if we don't truly live? It's time to come home to myself, to who I am and what I'm meant to do. I don't want to look back on my life and feel like I let those precious years with the boys fly by without truly appreciating how magical this time is, or that I never followed my dreams because I was too scared or unsure of myself.

Not me, not anymore. It's time to shine.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go scrub the toilet and make some dinner.

(Nobody said it was a glamorous life, but it is my life. My wonky, unpredictable, sometimes disgusting life. Ah, fuck. Anybody see that bag of chips?)

Why I Probably Should Have Only Had One Child

2011-10-18T21:44:00.002-04:00

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

2011-10-13T22:09:00.000-04:00

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

2011-10-11T22:45:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-10-04T09:07:00.000-04:00

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"

2011-10-01T09:18:00.002-04:00

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.

In Which I Spill Coffee all over my Boss' Birthday Gift

2011-09-25T14:10:00.004-04:00

Part of being a mom and a part-time worker bee is that I have to juggle a lot of stuff. Take last Wednesday, for example: hubby was out of town visiting his grandma in the hospital, and I had to get all three gremlins off to three different schools and myself to work by 9 a.m.

Oh, and I had to buy my boss a birthday gift.

She would argue that I didn't have to, but I had to. I mean, she's my boss. And she's also a dear friend, a mentor and someone who just generally rocks.

No, ladies and gents, this was not optional in my mind. And even though I had scarcely enough time to breathe with all the chaos afoot, making sure the Boss Lady had something nice on her desk that day was top priority.

Besides, this would all work out. I was doing okay for time. In fact, I was better than okay. I was a whole five minutes ahead of schedule.

Five minutes!

And if you don't think that's impressive then you're obviously childless (and a part of me is somewhat envious, but only a small part - the part that doesn't get quite as much sleep as I'd like). The marathon was almost at an end. It was 8:45 and that meant I had just enough time to pop into Boss Lady's favourite tea establishment just down the street from the office, pick up something she'd hopefully love enough to excuse any slacking off I might do that day, and get my sizeable bottom to work for 9 a.m.

Problem: The tea place didn't open until 9 a.m.

What place that serves caffeine-laced beverages opens at 9?!

Okay, I figured, no problem. BL wasn't going to be in the office right at nine anyway. And, while that's technically my start time, I was fairly confident my tardiness could get excused with "But I had to get you a birthday present." (That and "I had to save some orphans from a fire" are both right up there on the list of reasons why you're boss probably won't mind if you're late for work.)

I waited around the tea store until nine and ran in as soon as the door was unlocked. I carefully picked out something awesome so that every time she gazed upon it she would think "Why, this is awesome, just like my employee."

I had the store clerk gift wrap it in the cutest little turquoise bag with white tissue. Then I strutted back to my car and drove to the office.

Problem: I had an open coffee.

Okay, so this isn't a huge deal in itself; I often walk around with open coffees. But I don't often walk up a flight of stairs with an open coffee while carrying the following things:

My purse
My lunch
My keys
My work bag
My cell phone
My boss' beautifully-wrapped birthday gift

And I carried all this up the flight of stairs in a new pair of heeled boots. As a former stay-at-home-mom, I'm not terribly accustomed to heels. So, while I was busy humming and fiddling with the office door keys and imagining how much Boss Lady was going to like her new gift, I wasn't paying attention to the fact that I was spilling my coffee all over the damn gift bag, and inside the gift bag, and all over the gifts.

Problem: You can't give your boss a gift with coffee all over it.

You can give your boss a gift, you can give your boss a coffee. Those are two things I know for sure. But I'm fairly confident that you can't give your boss a gift with coffee stains all over it. I think that might be considered a bad idea.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!" was about all that escaped my mouth. Thankfully there are no other employees in our office or I might have lost my Employee of the Month status. How on earth was I going to fix this little problem? I wiped down the gifts, but Boss Lady would be in shortly and I had to make sure I had some kind of wrapping.

Problem: I do not work at a gift store.

The only wrapping paper I could find was sparkly red and had candy canes on it, so I knew I had to employ some serious problem-solving skills. That's when I noticed the takeout sushi bags.

I hastily grabbed one and stuffed the gifts into it.

Problem: The gift was not sushi.

No worries. I took care of that:

Finally, I hastily scrawled her a note.

And I think she was rather happy with the whole thing, really.

And, most importantly, I lived to see another day with the highly-coveted Favourite Employee status.

"If a hooker comes by, just say no."

2011-09-18T22:50:00.001-04:00

I'm so grumpy tonight I might make a baby cry just by looking at it. That's a bad kind of grumpy.

I'm trying to make it better with a latte and some rice pudding, but so far it's not working. Maybe blogging will help. Well, that and loud music in my ears on some headphones with skulls plastered on them. Done and done.

Guess what? I had to buy a car this weekend.

Well, "had to" may be a tad strong. Probably more like "decided it would be best to." I've been thinking about trading in Vanzilla for awhile now. She's a good bucket of bolts, but she's showing her age. Things just keep going wrong, and some of those things are scary. Fires brought on by the brakes seizing, for example (that was a fun day). Or the fact that we were all stranded an hour outside of town Friday evening - that would be Geekster and me with three worried kids and two dogs on our way to see Geekster's ailing grandma for the weekend.

That little kerfuffle resulted in me having to call a friend to come and get the kids, dogs and I and bring us home while Geekster spent the night with the van at one of scuzziest motels I've ever seen.

Oh, wait - hang on. Geekster didn't spend the night with the van at the motel. Ew, gross. Get your twisted mind out of the gutter. He's not weird like you, sicko. He's not automobile-sex-fetish weird, I can assure you. Last I checked, I had some junk in my trunk but I have yet to make the cover of Auto Trader.

Anyway, that motel was the kind of place bachelors go to die. No lie, dudes. Guys in stained wife beater shirts and days' worth of stubble hibachi-ing the shit out dinner with Achey Breaky Heart blasting from the pick-up truck out front and a string of laundry hanging unceremoniously from the room windows. Beer cans stacked outside, a little bit of yelling... I half expected the cast of Cops to show up.

As such, I gave Geekster two rules:

1. Don't get murdered, please, and,
2. If a hooker comes by, just say no. (In truth, this was primarily based on budgetary issues: no happy endings with the van needing repairs in the morning, ok?)

The long and short of this story is that by the time Geekster came home on Saturday, I had decided I needed a new ride. So we went out and found me one. Instant gratification: that's how I roll.

I bought one of these babies. Yes, the Olympic model - the one the athletes and people who get rich off of the athletes were given to drive around the Olympic village in Vancouver last year. Sexy, right? I figure that I'll probably get skinny through osmosis just being behind the wheel. And it's a hybrid, which makes me instantly eco-friendly. Cyclists will give me a thumbs up as they come up beside my car. Birds will flutter around me and tweet merrily before shitting on the Escalade behind me. Roadkill will rise from the dead just to bow as I quietly drive past. People everywhere will say "There goes that Maven - she's so hot right now."

Or something like that.

Anyway, I'm waiting for the paperwork to go through, making it all official and stuff. This is a huge step down from my van in some ways - space-wise and seating-wise - but it's a dead sexy car with room for all of us and some decent fuel savings. And it's new. And, most importantly, I'm pretty sure the brakes won't catch on fire anytime soon. Besides which, I have six years of bumper-to-bumper warranty and an anti-rust thingy being put in. I may get buried in this car.

In truth, this what is known as a "mild hybrid," meaning that it uses its battery pack less than some other hybrid cars. But I like to measure all environmental efforts on a scale of 0 to 10 rabbit deaths. To demonstrate, I show you this exquisitely drawn example:

So if, for example, a Hummer's fuel emissions are the equivalent slaughtering ten baby bunnies as it drives by, and my old van is the equivalent of around 5, and an electric car quietly rolls over 1 as the driver sheds a tear into her organically fair traded coffee, I'd like to imagine I'm only snapping 2 baby bunny necks with my new car. And that makes me feel like I can sleep better at night.

And, in the end, isn't life all about how well I sleep at night? Your day, my day, all geared toward my emotional well being, just the way it should be.

For the next couple of days until my new baby is ready I am pretty much vehicle-less, which is an impressive 0 on my heartwarming eco-scale. No rabbits were harmed in me staying home and watching reruns of Glee. But I'm still a moody biatch because - get this for timing - Geekster's grandma was admitted to the hospital the same night the van broke down. His parents are out of town and family friends are visiting with her right now, but it's beyond frustrating that we can't be there like we had planned. Hopefully my ride will make her driveway debut by Tuesday, and as soon as she's here Geekster will be driving to Peterborough to see his Nana. He has his own car that can make the trip, but we need to make sure I can get the kids to school and myself to work while he's gone. Like I said, the Universe has remarkable timing sometimes.

So I should be over-the-moon excited and instead I'm just kind of worried and feeling guilty, which sucks. Writing it out helped a little, and I think I've realized there isn't a whole lot I can do right now. Life is what it is.

Technically, according to the mechanic who looked at it, I can drive my van if absolutely necessary, but not above 80km/h. This is not only because the caliper is partially seized on the back brake, but also because my car will time travel and I will end up having to help my dysfunctional parents fall in love at the Under the Sea dance by playing guitar before my arm disappears.

And if my arm disappears I'll be really grumpy.

PS: I'm trying to come up with a great name for my car. She's sexy, so give me your best exotic dancer name. That's right: I'm going to name her after a stripper. My friend's car is already named Candy and I'm not going to Single White Female her ride, so let's come up with something different. Then I'm only partially a copycat. Here's a picture. Picture her with tassels on the headlights:

Some people panic; I bake disturbing things.

2011-09-06T13:45:00.005-04:00

Today marked a special occasion: For the first time in our family history, all three gremlins scuttled off to school and both parental units hit the office. Normally there is at least one of us home during the day, but today the house is empty. (Don't get any ideas about breaking in. We have an alarm and two dogs who will lick you to death. Plus, you could get knocked out by a mystery smell from the compost under the sink as you search for the very few valuables ~~Visa~~ ~~MasterCard~~ we own.)

It's the end of an era. No longer am I a stay-at-home-mom. With Spawnling in school four days each week (beginning today) and I at the office for at least two of them, we are a family who hustles out the door with backpacks and jackets and hastily-brewed coffees in fancy travel mugs.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic as I remember holding a wee gremlin's hand as we wished his older brother a happy first day of school. I miss signing up for playgroup and meeting new people who will undoubtedly become my groupies. I miss hanging out with my friends Maury and Oprah and Phil, and learning about the important things, like what makeup style is in this fall, or why I look fat in these jeans, or who Latisha's baby daddy is (or isn't). The good ol' days of very little scheduling, lots of parks, the blissful quiet of naptime.

I love that I stayed home with my boys. It's been a wonderful experience. I'm bottling up the good feelings from those times and storing them in the recesses of my cobwebbed mind so I can draw on them when I'm about to go batshit crazy over how busy life is going to get. And make no mistake: it's going to get all kinds crazy.

Some people panic when responsibilities are looming. I can see why. After a couple of months of sleeping in most days, drinking a leisurely coffee on the deck, and only half-assedly parenting, we are now getting three sleepy boys out the door before 8 a.m. four days a week - and thankfully only two out on Fridays.

Intrepid pretty much gets himself ready as long as you wake him up, but like most teens, we still need to remind him to bring his lunch, his backpack and his brain to school. Gutsy is a bit of a landmine - he's unpredictable as he's definitely not a morning person: I wake him up before anyone else so that he has time to eat cereal in bed, watch a show, get dressed, and slowly meander out the door for 7:45. He may or may not blow up in the process, but the likelihood increases as the week drags on. Spawnling will go back to sleep if I don't check up on him repeatedly. He's usually happy, but sloth-like. Since cattle prods are illegal to use on children (no idea why), I tend to entice him downstairs with promises of food. It's far more humane but involves me actually having to make him something. Dammit.

Now, with having my own schedule to keep that does not always allow for the wearing of yoga pants and scrunchies, I feel a little like a domestic air traffic controller. Thankfully, I only work two days a week right now and have a helpful husband. Still, I could see how this schedule could induce panic.

But I do not panic. Oh, no, I do not. Instead, I reach deep within, grab hold of my inner Virgo, and do what Virgos do best: organize, organize, organize.

As of 8:30 p.m. yesterday, I had the following tasks completed:

Backpacks ready by the front door
Spawnling's school supplies ready for his first day
Gluten-free apple crisp cooling on the stove
Gluten-free homemade crackers put into lunches
All the lunches made and in the fridge
Bacon cooking on the stove for breakfast

Boo-freaking-yeah, bitches. By the looks of things I have my shit together, don't I? There are undoubtedly tears of envy flowing down your cheeks as you wonder why you can't just get your life together like The Maven can. It's dark in my shadow.

Well, before your call your employee therapy hotline, can I just point out a couple of things?

Let's talk about those crackers for a minute. I made them from scratch, and they're yummy. I even made them autumn-themed. Check it out:

I should call myself "The Martha"

Cute, right?

Want to be even more impressed? I wrote everyone's names on some of them. (Please ignore the fact that I was tired of cutting out shapes and just smushed them down with my hands. Sort of takes away from the cutesy-ness a little bit.)

I even made one for my boss (not shown here)

But Martha I am not. A true sign of my crazy came through when I got a little tired of making happy faces on the pumpkin and apple-shaped crackers.


My favourite one is obviously the bottom left. I made lots like him.

After snack time today, the teachers are going to flag my children as coming from a troubled home-- or at least a troubled womb.

Does that make you feel better? It should. And if it doesn't, you can smile gleefully as I mention that, despite planning everything down to the minutest detail in my control-freakish way - getting everyone off to school on time with wholesome lunches, and even picking up a coffee in the process - I couldn't control just how much traffic was on the road and was 10 minutes late for work.

You're very welcome.

Maven, out.

Not Just a Mommy Blogger (NOT that there's anything wrong with that)

2011-09-01T23:05:00.000-04:00

Did you miss me? Hell yes, you did. And I missed you, too.

No, really, I did. I'm not playing you, boo. I'm not a drunk middle-aged guy at a bar feeling up your leg over those skinny jeans. (PS: most people old enough to go to a bar can't pull off skinny jeans anymore. I thought you should know so that you can reconsider your wardrobe choices. This public service announcement has been brought to you by me, The Maven.)

I've been so caught up in real life crap that I haven't given my baby any attention. I'm a neglectful blog mother. I wish I could say I was doing something made-for-TV-movie-worthy, like working as a high class prostitute while supporting my painkiller habit and go-nowhere acting career, but it hasn't been nearly that interesting. I'm more of the rock back and forth in the corner while twitching and mumbling under my breath because the real life kids are fighting way too much kind of blog mother.

Hard to get enough quality script material out of cowering in a puddle of my own tears. Now, if I had a crack pipe in my pocket we'd at least have a shot at getting on Intervention.

But I digress.

The kids are back at school and today is my birthday. It's like I won the lottery, but instead the gremlins aren't clawing at my pant legs anymore (not skinny jeans, for the record) and my husband bought me a Kitchen Aid mixer (yes, the kind I've been fantasizing about for years) and now we're broke. So not really like the lottery at all, unless it's the sanity/baking lottery.

I actually like the sound of that lottery.

Owning this is the domestic equivalent of street cred.

I'm 35, and I've been waiting for this birthday for a long, long time. Why? Because this is going to be my year. Why? Because my late grandmother told me it would be, that's why.

Once upon a time, when I was about 23 and going through a hard time, my grandma held my hand and told me that I was going to be beautiful in every way at 35. I would be confident, assertive, and have a clear vision of what I want in my life. Basically it was a grandma-to-granddaughter pep talk, but I took it very literally. I decided a long time ago that this would be the year to start doing great things; to come into my own; to fucking shine.

And that starts today.

And, oddly enough, it's starting with a blog overhaul.

I've been posting on stay-at-home-mayhem for over four years now. I love this blog. But lately I've been feeling like I need something new and fresh. I was feeling blocked, and almost shut the blog down. True story.

I love writing about my little ankle-biters, but with all of them in school most of the week, I'm finding I have less to say on parenting and more to say on other things. So, instead of giving the blog up altogether, I decided a name change was in order. Same blog address (you're welcome), a broader range of content.

See, at my ripe old age of 35 and no longer suffocated by dirty diapers and blinded by scream-induced migraines, I've had an epiphany: There is more to me than simply being a mom.

I know, I know. Let that sink in for a minute. Try not to drop the baby while in shock.

I have a lot to say, and not all of it is about parenting. I've always tried to write about whatever is on my mind, but I felt kind of stifled by being deemed a "mommy blogger." I felt guilty writing about other stuff, like I was somehow straying too far from the theme.

Not that there's anything wrong with being a mommy blogger. Don't hate me, mommy bloggers. Don't throw all-natural bamboo toys at my gorgeous face. I'm not putting you down, I'm just branching out. In case you've forgotten, I have three boys. I'm not just a mommy, I'm a momzilla. So don't get all up in my grill lest I stomp the hell out of your proverbial Tokyo.

Anyway, this is a birthday present to myself. Happy birthday, me. I deserve this change. I deserve to love writing again, and it's been awhile since I've felt that way.

Must go cuddle on the couch with that handsome Geekster of mine. Not only did he buy me a mixer, but he's also making me popcorn and watching a show I like. And did I mention he's handsome? And that he bought me a fancy mixer?

Welcome, 35. We are so going to own this year. Maven, out.

How to be as High on Yourself as I am: a Self-Esteem Primer

2011-08-10T10:32:00.000-04:00

An amazing self-portrait, I know.

I drew this myself on my new tablet-mousy-thingy. They call this particular type a "Bamboo," but I honestly don't know why. It's not green or long or a renewable resource. I see no pandas attaching themselves to it. But whatever. Call it what you like, but it's fun to draw my feelings instead of just typing them all the time.

I need the kids to go back to school, like, last Thursday.

This is why I'm at work 90 minutes early today. It's not because I'm trying to get ahead on my to-do list. It's not because I was attempting to beat traffic. It's not because I'm trying to look good to my boss (my boss is my Facebook friend and follows me on Twitter - there's no way I can hide my crazy from her). It's because I get an extra 90 minutes to sit - get this - quietly and uninterrupted while I drink my coffee and write a blog post.

And, for that, you are most welcome.

Last week, I blogged about how being fat and miserable keeps us fat and miserable. And what I mean by that is simple: love your fatty self, because taking care of the body you love is a lot easier than hurting the body you hate by stupid shit like fad dieting. This post, of course, meant my inbox filled up with questions about how someone learns to love themselves as much as I love myself.

To be honest, I likely suffer from a deep-seated narcissism. So you probably don't want to love yourself quite as much as The Maven does. When you start to refer to yourself in the third person and not even question it, you know you have a problem. But I digress...

As I've explained many a time, The Maven wasn't always a big fan of The Maven. (See what I'm talking about?) I am a never-ending work in progress, much like the construction site down the road from you that never seems to produce much of anything despite all the guys standing around there each and every day. One day, they say, there will be condos there. And every once in a while you see a bit of digging, a bit of framing, and think to yourself that they better damn well put a Starbucks on the main floor to make up for all the noise you've endured.

Well, I will also have a Starbucks on my main level when I'm done, and I will make the most delicious lattes. But I'm not quite there yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I have a lot of work to do. But here's what I do know: There are concrete things I've done - and still do - that have helped me get this far. So I'm going to share them with you, what with me being such a self-help expert and all. (Please stop laughing.)

1. Let's look at this rationally.
We have one life to live. One. (Unless you believe in reincarnation. But then you might be born a toad or or a mushroom or something, so that doesn't really count anyway.) Do you really want to waste it feeling like shit all the time? What purpose is that serving? And believe me: It is serving some kind of purpose, so you need to figure out what that is.

Are you keeping yourself down because you're afraid of taking any steps to fix it? Is it comfortable doing what you're doing, even if it's not pleasant? Do you get some kind of attention from it? (AKA, having other people feed your ego by saying "Don't say that about yourself! It's not true!" That's not self-esteem, and it's not going to make you feel better about yourself. Like a junkie, you'll always be looking for the next compliment fix. Been there, done that.) Are you afraid of succeeding? Are you afraid of becoming ridiculously arrogant if you're not meek and mild all the time?

News flash: Being ridiculously arrogant is my job, not yours. You can't have it, so you'll have to settle for feeling confident. I know that sucks, but that's how it's gonna go down.

Anyway, figure out what's keeping you down. If it's fear, work through it. If it's depression, open up and talk to someone. If it's traumatic childhood issues, watch a few episodes of Hoarders and realize that pretty much everyone has traumatic childhood issues, but we need to work on letting them go and live for today, or face a lifetime of garbage collection and dead, buried cats.

2. Get over yourself, you big, whiny baby.
Having figured out what's keeping you down, it's time to let that go. Have a good cry if you need to. Say goodbye to the pity party, eat your last self-hatred sandwich. You are not a victim today. You are awesome. You are stuffed full of amazing (and maybe that self-hatred sandwich you just ate. But don't worry, you'll digest it soon). You are capable of great things if you'll just let yourself do them.

3. Come up with something you like about yourself every day. Yes, EVERY DAY.
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or whatever. That sounded like a good spot to throw in a Chinese proverb (my apologies to the Chinese if this saying doesn't belong to you. It just sounds like something your wise people would say. It's a compliment, ok?).

Anyway, the thing is, we all have stuff we don't particularly like about ourselves - even me. And now I'm asking you to compliment yourself every day. But start small: if your problem is that you don't like your weight, don't look in the mirror and say "My inner thighs look great today" because you'll probably just start crying while you say it, and that just defeats the whole purpose. Likewise, if your problem is that you're missing an arm from an unfortunate zoo accident, don't say "The lion left a really nice nub at the end of my shoulder" because that will likely have the same result. You can't start with the big stuff. If you could, you'd already have good self-esteem and not need to read this stupid primer.

My issue has mostly been my weight and how ugly I thought I looked because of it. I did not start with that. I started with non-physical things I appreciate in myself. I would look in the mirror and say - out loud, like a crazy woman - "I'm a pretty good writer" or "I'm very involved in my kids' lives and that makes me a good mom" or "I can arrange a beautiful wild flower bouquet." Anything at all that is positive about me. One thing each day, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No exceptions.

Why do I do this? Because I'm slowly building up my army of good to defend against the army of darkness (not the movie) that is occupying my head. Every time I plant a positive thought in my brain, it's like planting one troop in a hot zone. Every day the army grows. If it helps you to envision some yummy, sweaty, young infantry guy, go for it. I won't judge. Just do it.

4. Now come up with something harder you like about yourself - every day.
This step comes when you're ready. Step 3 can be done for a very long time or a very short time before implementing step 4. You'll know when it's time. You'll know because you'll test the waters by saying something like "I have very beautiful eyes" and you won't burst into fits of laughter or roll those very beautiful eyes after you say it. You'll believe it.

Since physical appearance has been my Achilles heel when it comes to self-esteem, being able to slip in some compliments about the way I look was a good indicator that my army of light was growing in numbers. It took me a long time to really like my hair (I know, right? As if! I have great hair.) It took me a long time to like my smile. It took a very, very long time to be able to tell myself I looked pretty in what I was wearing, or to find myself worthy of - and rather stunning in - a beautiful dress in a size 18.

But I got there, slowly.

If you're frustrated by how long it takes to get good at step 4, just remember: At least you're making progress, which is a hell of a lot better than when you were crying into a bag of Oreos before step 1. Progress, not perfection. Baby steps. Enjoy the process, because, when you think about it, we never really reach a destination. We just travel more happily, and the scenery gets a lot nicer.

5. Beat negativity to death with a stick.
Steps 3, 4 and 5 can and should be done daily - when you get there. The thing about our society is that it thrives on negativity. We're fed all these messages every day through the media that we're not good enough unless we look a certain way, reach a certain income level, and own certain things. We're expected to be fountains of youth with fat bank accounts and huge, eerily white smiles plastered on our faces. That's how selling stuff works. Marketing 101; I didn't even have to get a degree to understand that basic concept.

The army of darkness (not the movie) will always be present and waiting for your forces to weaken. You need to replenish your troops regularly with compliments and recognition, surround yourself with positive, loving people, and shun the negative. It is so easy to pick ourselves apart when we're bombarded with messages telling us to do exactly that. Make your world as safe and healthy as possible.

Despite my best efforts, I find that I sometimes still put myself down. I might have had a bad day, or I'm hormonal, or there's another area of my life not going the way I wish it would and I'm in full-on attack mode on myself. The difference is that I recognize when it's happening now and I fight back against it. If I think to myself "Look at those fat rolls. I'm digusting!" I quickly follow that up with "Maven. you've had a bad day, but you're still beautiful no matter what size you are. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's going to be okay." Blammo! Troops are parachuting into enemy territory. It really works - especially if you do this regularly.

And if you're struggling, just come on down and sit in my Starbucks for a bit. I'll make you a latte and tell you how awesome you are. Promise.

Why Being Fat and Miserable keeps us Fat and Miserable

2011-08-04T22:27:00.000-04:00

What a scary scale. Please never buy me one of these.

This was my status on Facebook this evening: "Day 1 of sugar/simple carb detox. I feel like poop. My body hates me, but it will thank me in the long run. That is all."

Yep, I'm doing a sugar cleanse. And people probably think I'm nuts. But I'm hoping this will do my body some good - and maybe take off a few pounds, too.

I have pretty good self-esteem for a fat chick. Actually, I think I have pretty good self-esteem for any chick. This has taken a tremendous amount of work on my part to talk my psyche down from the ledge on a daily basis as it's continuously bombarded by messages telling me I shouldn't like myself very much at all.

Nothing bothers me more than when a woman is down on herself for not looking like an airbrushed, boobatronic supermodel. I want to slap her, and shake her, and tell her she's beautiful. But then I remember that slapping and shaking a woman doesn't help her self-esteem, either. Well, unless she's into that kind of thing. (And then I would charge. Hey, don't judge: inside this meek and mild exterior is an entrepreneurial spirit.)

I am fat, and generally I am okay with that. It's not that I love being overweight, it's just that the adoration I have for myself does not hang in the balance of what dress size I wear. Like most other humpty-dumpties I know, I do dream of fitting into lawn chairs more comfortably (those cheap plastic sides can really dig in - especially when one is wearing shorts), but I don't lie awake at night wondering if I'll ever be pretty. I'm already pretty, thanks. And I don't walk the streets with my head down, feeling inferior to my smaller-sized counterparts. I'm a worthy biatch who smiles wider than her hips, makes plenty of eye contact, has a firm handshake and expects the same level of respect and kindness that everyone else gets.

Okay, fine: I expect a higher level of respect and kindness because I am The Maven and thus somewhat goddess-like. But I digress.

Nearly everyone I know is trying to lose weight, or talking about losing weight, or at the very least thinking about losing weight. And many people I know - women, especially - are doing it because they "hate" their bodies. Like, cry-in-the-bathroom-mirror-after-a-shower type of hate. This is how I used to feel not too long ago, too. I figured that accepting myself in my current situation would mean I'd be giving in to being a chubby checker, and I would just get bigger and bigger until I had to sew tablecloths together to make summertime patio party moomoos.

But here's what I learned about trying to do something good for yourself when you're busily self-deprecating:

It.

Doesn't.

Work.

Here's an example of my previous way of thinking: I wake up in a good mood and have a shower. When I'm toweling off I have a quick glance in the mirror.

Disgust sets in.

Suddenly I'm thinking about how much I despise the way I look, and why can't I stop being such a slob, and look at my fat ass, and how could anyone find me attractive, and why does Tommy's mom look like she's a size 4 and yet has a fatty latte and a muffin in her hand every time I see her, and why can't I just find the time to exercise, and I suck for being this lazy, and I just totally hate myself and my stupid body and it's not fair.

And then I slap on whatever clothes will cover the parts of me I find the grossest and tell myself that'll do until I have a nice body and can buy nice clothes for it, and I sort of do my hair and I sort of do my makeup, but I don't put a lot of effort in because I'm not going to look good anyway because I'm fat. Belugas with lipstick on are still belugas, right?

By the time I arrive where I'm going, I'm not just fat. I'm fat, un-kept and have a serious case of bitch face because I'm so miserable in my own skin. I've beaten myself up enough that I've made the problem a lot worse.

And yet, in that horrible head space, I will decide I need to eat better and exercise so I can be skinny and happy (note that the two of them are synonymous at this point; more on that later). Here's a newsflash:

That doesn't fucking work, either.

The minute I try to do anything out of negativity it goes awry. If I eat a bunch of carrot sticks I just get angry that I have to eat a bunch of carrot sticks to feed my stupid, sluggish metabolism. I feel deprived. And if I exercise, all I can focus on is how my fat is all jiggly and I probably look like a total idiot in these yoga pants. And when I weigh myself and see I haven't lost, or haven't lost as much as I think I have, it completely negates all the hard work I've been doing and gives my hopes of ever being skinny and happy (See? Those two words again) the beating of a lifetime. Before long, I'm elbow deep in a bag of chips, berating myself for it the next morning, and giving up on exercise because I'm a big, huge failure.

In short, I am my own worst enemy and a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If I don't like myself then I'm not going to want to do good things for myself. Period. Why would you do something for someone you don't like? And if I try to do it for my kids, or my spouse, or whoever else it might be for, I'm going to run out of steam pretty damn quick.

I'm old hat at this. I've played the same games with myself over and over again for years: Either I "don't have time to take care of myself right now" or "I'm so ugly/fat/disgusting/whatever that I have to do something drastic RIGHT NOW." There was very little in-between in my world for many years.

One day, I woke up and I just got really tired of feeling so down all the time. I realized that it wasn't about my weight, it was about my attitude.

Like any good structure, one needs to start from the ground up. A solid foundation is crucial to any success plan. Not too long ago, I started laying that foundation for myself. I stopped doing any exercise I didn't enjoy. I stopped chastising myself for every "unhealthy" thing I put in my mouth. I picked out clothing that compliment the body shape I have today instead of waiting for that magic number on the scale or dress size that would make it okay to look fabulous. I worked hard to remind myself that I am beautiful no matter what they say. Words can't--

Oops. That last part is someone else's mantra. But suffice to say that I tell myself I'm beautiful every day. Having done it for awhile now, I'm starting to believe it. Those old messages can take years to erase, and my worry has always been that if I don't love myself today - for who I am right now - then I'm never going to love myself no matter what size I am. And I refuse to go my entire life disliking the wonderful person I am. That is a life wasted, and I simply won't do it another day.

This has taken a lot of effort and a great deal of time. I've had moments - especially PMS moments - where I feel depleted, tearful, disgusting. But like any kind of cognitive work, I'm slowly reshaping the landscape of my scary little brain; I'm teaching it to filter out all those negative media and social messages so I can focus on one thing: unconditionally loving myself.

Now that I know how much I rock, it's easier to make good choices. I don't like my body feeling sick, so I took out gluten and feel much better. A pleasant side effect is that I dropped a couple of dress sizes, have more energy, less anxiety, far better nails and skin, and my digestive system loves me again.

I didn't like my body feeling sore, so I had my incisional hernia repaired. And now that things are improving - no more hematoma, no more bleeding, staples out - I'll soon be able to exercise again. I'm looking forward to getting my body back into shape so I have more energy. And, of course, the happy side effect to that might be that I lose some weight. And that would be great, but it's no longer an absolute when it comes to feeling good about myself.

Today was my first day cutting out all refined sugar and simple carbs. Why did I decide to do this? For the same reason: health. There's a very good chance that I'll lose weight in the process, and I'm sure this pudgezilla will look ravishing with more of a waistline, but even if I don't lose a pound I'm sure I'll feel better and add years to my life. These seemingly drastic steps are so easy to do when I put myself in a place of honour and respect the hell out of me. I might even slaughter a few goats on my shrine of awesome while I'm at it (goat burgers, anyone?)

Anyway, I guess I just want to see more people think they're as great as I think I am. It's lonely up here with only a handful of celebrities and narcissists to keep me company most of the time. So do me a favour and work on loving you if you don't already, ok? You deserve it. You are deliciously gorgeous right now, just as you are. There is so much more to you than your fat genes - or fat jeans, for that matter. And if a girl like me can look in the mirror and feel great, you can, too. Please don't make me slap you.

Well, at least not until we work out a price. And I might need to go find me a leather outfit or two to really get into the roll. Mistress Maven; I kind of like the sound of that.

Buckets of Joyfulness, and other crap I've realized.

2011-08-02T10:17:00.001-04:00

Epiphanies suck because they happen just when you're all busy crying and feeling sorry for yourself and shit.

So we all know it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. Did I mention the giant hematoma in my stomach? The constant bleeding for four weeks? The multiple trips to the hospital to see the surgeon, the ultrasound, the constant changing of sterile pads and gauze that now make my period look like a pleasant walk in the park? "Have a happy period"? Oh, I will. I will because a period in no way resembles the bleeding that might occur when one is stabbed in the stomach - which is pretty much what I lived with for several weeks.

Then there's the fact that all three gremlins are home for the summer, my family was wound up to the point of busting a spring or twelve, the house looked like it had been hit with a weapon of mass destruction by the time I could start cleaning it again, and I have a part-time job to go to; we can see where a serious lack of creativity may have occurred.

Have I been a little depressed? Anxious? Unhappy? Downright fucking miserable? Perhaps. Not only does this lend poorly to writing, but to living in general. It is really hard to want to do much of anything when you're chronically unhappy, and I've had many reasons to feel that way.

But what I gained from this experience - this fairly unpleasant, stressful experience - is that it helped me hit some kind of emotional bottom. I hit these every so often; a low point in which I have to reassess exactly what I want in life, where I want to direct my limited energy, and what I need to do to achieve those things. Naturally the exhibitionist attention whore in me has made a to-do list, in no particular order, Maven-style (you may want to take notes):

Fall in love with my partner all over again - without making three more babies together (emphasis on the NO MORE BABIES part, thank you).
Some wise person once said that marriage is like a garden, and that it can get overcrowded with weeds if you don't tend it, and those weeds get huge and overbearing and get little spikes on them and end up choking the life out of the pretty little flowers of love and affection, and then the dandelions turn into fluffy things that get caught in your nose when your partner blows on them, which sends you into a frenzy of resentment because why couldn't he blow that shit the other way, and you end up sneezing your way to divorce court.

Or something like that.

Underneath the years of baby-making and child rearing and financial stressors and all-nighters and tantrums and exhaustion, there are two people who love each other and miss spending time together. When you're buried in babies, it's easy to forget that this person is the reason you have those beautiful little beastlies in the first place. Reconnecting with Geekster has become a big priority in my life, every day. We're talking more, working together more, laughing more, going out together more, and putting in the effort to make our relationship the heart of our family. It's awesome. I feel like I have my best friend back. Eighteen years together is a long time, and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen.

Spend more quality time with The Gremlins Three without going bat shit crazy.
This pretty much goes without saying, but the horned wonders are the little moons that circle my planet - or, at times, the meteors that crash into it. They either control the tides or render large creatures extinct - both important roles in planetary evolution, really.

The boys need more of my positive attention so that maybe they can stop seeking so much of my - ahem - negative attention. Now that I'm able to move around and drive again, we've been hitting up museums and parks with more frequency. I've been putting my fear of epic meltdowns aside and realizing that if someone starts screaming, we can always leave; it doesn't mean we shouldn't go in the first place. Yes, we have a four-year-old who challenges everything right now and an eight-year-old with special needs who can get very defiant, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out and live - intelligently, of course.

This weekend, we attended a family-friendly BBQ. We stayed just over three hours, then packed up after dinner and said our goodbyes. Everyone was calm and playing nicely, so why did we leave just then? Because Geekster and I knew that we had hit the sweet spot: The kids had played enough and were just tired enough that they would likely leave happily. If we stayed much longer, we'd have to take off quickly with someone screaming and kicking while in the fireman's hold over my husband's shoulder. So the trick is to go out and experience life as a typical family, but also know when it's time to head back home for some decompression time. At any rate, the boys seem a lot happier lately, and as such we are all a lot happier. And this is saying something, considering it's summer: the cosmic joke on stay-at-home-moms.

Extended family: yes, I really do have some.
I'm fortunate enough that my parents and siblings and grandma all live in the same town as I do. And yet I don't see them nearly as much as I'd like. This is a damn shame, because they're all awesome people (it's genetic) and we should see a lot more of each other. So another priority for me is to connect more with them. I feel a little sorry for them that they don't get a Maven fix as much as they should, so we can call this an outreach program. You're welcome, family unit.

Friends - those great people you wish were family because they know exactly what to get you for your birthday.
This shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone, but I'm really popular. This became even more apparent over the last few weeks, as people regularly checked up on me post-op, and did everything from drop off a coffee and a hug to clean the house and cook us a meal. My friends deserve a standing ovation for being so wonderful (I just need to finish my coffee first, ok?)

The thing about friendships is that they are relationships, and as such require their own bit of emotional landscaping. I've given a lot of thought recently to what makes a good friend, and how I can be a better one. What I've concluded is this: Good friends leave a conversation feeling mutually enriched, fulfilled and positive. This is how I want to feel when I interact with my friends and, just as importantly, this is what I want to give back to them. No head games, no passive-aggressiveness, no manipulation, no drama. Just good stuff, love, laughs, support, hugs. I think I'm a good friend most of the time, but having given it a lot of thought, I see room for improvement. I know this is shocking, being as I'm so fabulous and all, but it's true. So I'm going to focus on bringing joy to my friends' lives, which will only serve in bringing me joy as well. And then we'll all have buckets of joyfulness, and I'll likely get a Nobel Peace Prize for discovering said buckets and ending all wars.

Attitude. Oh, do I ever have some.
What I've been reminded of recently is that happiness is a state of mind. It's a choice. It's not something that is created or taken away from outside influences. Yes, there are big catastrophic situations that can suffocate a person's happy for a time. But, overall, most of how we see life is based on how we choose to see it. I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy for a good while. But you know what? I've had plenty of reasons to be happy, too. I've just overlooked those in favour of focusing on the negative stuff.

As such, I'm making a conscious effort each day to look for the good stuff in my life and celebrate it. There may be plenty of suck, but there will always be plenty of suck. There will also be many things that are plenty of great. I'll deal with the suck, but I'll also invite in the great. And thus, I will be even more kick ass than I already am, if that's even possible.

Buckets of Joyfulness, Batman! You've hit on something big! (See? It's already happening - my buckets are being mainstreamed into the English language)

What's big on your priority list? (Other than reading my blog, of course...)

Methinks Someone's Going a Little Stir Crazy

2011-07-09T13:34:00.000-04:00

I really thought I would be the one to lose it first.

Being so used to having umpteen balls up in the air at once as the domestic goddess/part-time employee/insanely popular woman I am, having to sit around and pretty much do nothing all the time makes me a wee bit twitchy.

If, for some reason, I managed to keep the flood of insanity at bay (trick: sandbags. Lots and lots of mental sandbags stacked impossibly high by the dedicated army reserve troops in my head), then my husband - the man doing all the chores, breaking up the heap of fights, battling the laundry monster, making all the meals - would be the first off to the loony bin.

So far, we're both okay. A little stressed, a little frustrated by my limitations and slower-than-anticipated recovery, but otherwise fine.

It's Spawnling I'm worried about.

I never suspected the four-year-old would be the one to snap. But when I hobbled into the kitchen this morning and was introduced to his latest invention, I quickly realized the boredom of being cooped up at home most of the time has started taking its toll. He's being creative, but a weird kind of creative. Observe.

Meet the Flossing Chair.

Prototype only, patent pending.

"Spawn," I asked. "What's this?"

"It's a flossing chair. Duh." he replied, somewhat annoyed by my ignorance.

"And what does one do on a flossing chair?" I inquired, curiously.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Well, you obviously floss your teeth."

"See," he continued, as if he were talking to a really stupid monkey, "there's some sticky tack holding the floss up on the chair so it's easy to reach. And then there's a magazine you can read while you're sitting there, flossing."

Given the eye rolling and the sighing going on, this really stupid monkey figured she dare not ask how one flosses and flips through a magazine at the same time. Instead, I figured I would turn this into a dental hygiene lesson. "So... Does this mean you're going to start flossing now?"

If he were at all telekinetic, death would have come swiftly for me with that look. "Um, no."

I decided to leave Dr. Doom alone for awhile. Apparently someone pissed in his Crazy Man Wheaties this morning.

I think we need to start getting out more, or it's going to be a very long - albeit impressively creative - summer.

I'm a Bloody Mess (No, really.)

2011-07-07T16:02:00.001-04:00

All it needs to look like my body are some little coffee cups floating around in there.

Hey, know what really sucks? Having abdominal surgery.

Know what really, really sucks? Still bleeding from your incision two weeks later.

I really wish there was a good joke in here, but I can't really come up with one. That's the irony of situations like this. They're only comical later.

Two weeks ago, they cut me open. And I had more or less a great recovery for the first week. I came home three days post-op, did a lot of resting, watched a lot of TV, read a lot of trash in novel form. Life was pretty good. And then, on the night of recovery day 6, I got up from reading a book and noshing on popcorn to get dressed in my pajamas: That's when I noticed that I was saturated in blood. Like, totally, from the belly button halfway down my thighs.

It was everywhere - and I mean everywhere. I didn't know what to do. My first thought was that the alien baby they had secretly implanted when they were "fixing my hernia" had quietly clawed its way out while I was licking butter off my fingers. My next thought was that my incision must have opened up despite the clips meant to keep it shut. I yelled for Geekster, shoved a folded up towel under my track pants, and we made our way to the closest emergency room. By the time we arrived, I had soaked through the towel, too.

They took me in right away - probably because I looked a little like a stab victim, and I was sobbing pretty hardcore. (Readers: If you're ever having issues getting through triage and into a room, some red food dye could probably help you out. You might have some explaining to do when you show them a twisted ankle and not a gash in your abdomen, but you can cross that bridge when you get to it. Maven tip #53 to receiving top notch public health care.)

Anyway, the diagnosis from both the ER staff and my own surgeon is that I have a hematoma. Basically, a huge pool of blood is sitting in my belly from the surgery, and is slowly making its way out of my body via the incision site - all day, every day, as soon as I sit or stand up. And that means that the bottom of the incision isn't healing up yet, because it's too busy acting as a drain. "Barf-o-rama, Maven. Thanks for the visual", right? Wrong. Suck it up, princess. It's my blog, and this is what's going on in my world right now, and this is what I'm sharing. It's unpleasant, and somewhat atypical, and annoying - and have I mentioned unpleasant? But this is my reality.

When will the bleeding stop? We have absolutely no idea. It seems to be tapering off, maybe. Sort of. Sometimes. It's more trickle and less "Why hello there, Ellen Ripley."

I'm on a steady regime of iron (for blood loss), vitamin D and zinc (to boost my immune system) and arnica (for bruising). I'm on constant "is this incision getting infected?" watch, but so far, so good. I'm drinking tons of water and getting lots of rest. I have a bag from the hospital that is filled with sterile compresses and adhesive bandages; I go through several each day. And to double up the protection, I'm also using an array of female hygiene products in case there's a breech - and there have been many, believe me.

I see my surgeon next week to assess the situation once again. Hopefully I'll no longer be a fountain of type A negative at that point, but if I am, we're going to have to probably do some tests and see if there's something more ominous going on, like a slow internal bleed, or a rejection of the mesh used to repair my hernia. And those could mean another surgery, so let's pretend I never said that. Denial is sweet.

The thing is, I feel good. Every day, I feel better than the day before. My stomach is shrinking, the top part of my incision is healing up beautifully, I have no signs of infection, and my energy is going up. I'm taking very good care of myself - yes, mom, I really am - and resting a whole lot. So I really do think that this is just part of my somewhat atypical healing process. While the bleeding isn't necessarily abnormal, but the amount and duration is somewhat concerning. I'm taking a wait-and-see approach.

Leave it to me to be a little bit different. I must like the attention.

Anyway, if I sound a little bitter, that's probably because I am. I'm trying hard to stay positive and enjoy the fact that I can't do very much, but it's not always easy to do. I have three kids who are home for the summer. And granted the hubby and boys have been great at cleaning and fetching and doing, but I want to slowly get back into the game, and it's not happening right now. I'm frustrated that I've had this setback, and I'm finding it hard to accept my limitations (there are many).

I had myself a very good cry a couple of days ago and felt a little better after that. There's a certain level of acceptance that's come over me since, but also a determination that I will get better. I'm trying to visualize my own healing, willing myself well, and all that other mind/body connection stuff.

Tonight, I'm stepping out of the house to read at the 3rd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa. Maybe I should just be staying home and resting, but I need emotional healing, too. I need a mental break from these walls, sometimes. I need to do something other than sit at my computer desk, sit on my bed, or sit in the recliner. Now I can sit in a restaurant and steal an extra chair to put my feet up. I need to get out and see people. I need to laugh a little, smile a lot, and enjoy the company of some amazing local writers and photographers. I need this just as much as I need rest right now, if not more. I'm really excited.

Problem? I'm still rockin' the track pants. Oh, that's right. tonight's ensemble will be stretchy. Those on Twitter have been warned that my sexy shall not extend below the waist. I'm a little bummed about it, but I'll make it work. Awesome is exuded everywhere, not only in the choice - or lack thereof - of pants. And we all know I have a ridiculous amount of awesome.

Speaking of awesome, I really need to thank the countless people who have stepped up and done incredible things for us the last several days. Within an hour of being out of recovery, I received the first 2 of many bouquets of flowers given to me over the last 2 weeks. We've been kept happily in coffee deliveries, baked goods, full meals, housekeeping, gardening, babysitting, cheer-up visits and some really great hugs, phone calls, emails and texts. Thank you so much, friends and family. As much as I'm not too happy fighting crime from my couch as the Hemoglobin Heroine these days, I am so, so, so grateful to all of you for being the amazing people you are.

Anyway, I've been feeling very uncreative since coming home. I've tried to blog several times and have always given up by paragraph 2 or 3. I promised myself I'd write something, even if it was whiny and discombobulated and not up to my usual standards. We can blame the blood loss. Oxygen deprivation and all that.

(On the plus side, I'd make a great looking goth queen right now. Maybe I should invest in some black lipstick and start writing some poetry in my own blood. It could work.)

Why Surgery is My Dream Come True

2011-06-22T20:55:00.000-04:00

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

2011-06-15T21:56:00.000-04:00

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

2011-06-12T21:58:00.001-04:00

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

2011-06-05T23:24:00.000-04:00


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

2011-06-05T00:10:00.002-04:00


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.

2011-06-01T09:08:00.000-04:00


"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.

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

2011-05-31T14:44:00.000-04:00

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

2011-05-10T22:03:00.000-04:00

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)

2011-05-08T21:40:00.000-04:00

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.

Anything

2011-04-29T23:50:00.001-04:00

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)

2011-04-27T23:17:00.000-04:00

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.

2011-04-14T22:25:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-11T22:12:00.001-04:00

"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

2011-04-07T21:53:00.001-04:00

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

2011-04-05T09:55:00.000-04:00

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.

Gluten-Free: Six Months Later

2011-03-29T16:14:00.000-04:00

Eight months ago, I looked like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to be a Good Mom on a Bad Day

2011-03-25T07:09:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

True dat.

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

Oh hai, octopus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2011-03-22T09:30:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~*~*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cake of Hate

2011-03-21T13:59:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Self-Esteem

2011-03-11T21:48:00.000-05:00

SELF-ESTEEM noun

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

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

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

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

IDEA

WHAT

SHE'S

TALKING

ABOUT.

The girl is clearly delusional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yourself. You.

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

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

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

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

Buffet (of life)

2011-03-10T22:41:00.001-05:00

MmmmMmmMmMmm.
I miss you, buffet.

BUFFET noun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life analogies are awesome, aren't they?

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

Free

2011-03-09T23:59:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

And quit judging. It makes your palms hairy.

Attitude

2011-03-08T23:32:00.000-05:00

ATTITUDE noun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suspension (with pics)

2011-03-07T21:52:00.001-05:00

SUSPENSION noun

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that makes perfect sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frustration

2011-03-06T23:39:00.000-05:00

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

FRUSTRATION noun

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

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

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

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

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

He just took it 10 minutes ago.

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

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

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

Indubitable

2011-03-05T22:07:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so on.

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

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

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

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

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

Promontory

2011-03-04T22:23:00.000-05:00

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

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

Promontory: A fancy word for "cliff."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kerfuffle

2011-03-03T20:51:00.001-05:00

KERFUFFLE noun

British Informal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditional

2011-03-02T17:35:00.001-05:00

tra·di·tion

noun \trə-ˈdi-shən\

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditionally Yours,
~~The Heathen~~ The Maven

Cosset

2011-03-01T11:41:00.000-05:00

COSSET verb
To treat as a pet : to pamper :
"The Maven's sheeple cosseted her with many, many words to choose."

(The noun form means "pet lamb", but I have far less to write on that unless you want to know about childhood nursery rhymes, or what I hear goes on in the dead of night in some lonely sheep fields; Just rumours, you understand.)

There's a whole lot I can write about cosseting - or pampering. First of all, I'm really good at it. I can cosset with the best of them. I didn't realize I had it in me until my first little gremlin hatched from the fiery pit of my womb, spewing forth a deep love I didn't know was possible - and a placenta. I stared at my hatchling and knew I would do absolutely everything I could to make his life a good one.

I admit to pampering my children just a little too much at times. It's par for the course as a stay-at-home-mom; My strong work ethic carries over into my domestic life. For example, the boys get chocolate milk with mini marshmallows once they come in from outside, and I'll tuck them into blankets and endure far too much Sponge-Bob blaring in the background as they slurp their drinks rather loudly, then leave the cups on the table. And in those moments, do I remind them to pick up after themselves? Why, no! I let them be slobby and ignore the twitches in my body. I crack a smile at my little darlings - the types of which seen predominantly on the criminally insane - and jerkily retreat into the kitchen to do the stack of dishes I've asked no one else to help me with.

Of course, most of the time I insist on a little more independence, but only because I refuse to deal with the accusing glares of their future partners. The gremlins need to know how to pull their own weight in life or risk divorce proceedings and many pink slips.

When my children grow up, I will not own a dog. I know myself too well. If I make the error of getting a dog, it will turn from this:

Awwww! What a cute puppy!

Into this:

Who's mama's little fluffy princess??
Smile for the photographer, baby girl!

I possess a deep desire to nurture everything and anything around me. I could have used that nurturing to become a ~~rich~~ passionate doctor, but instead I became a full-time mom. This is great, except that when the gremlins scurry from the nest in a few years, there is a real danger I will become one of those dog or cat owners. Oh, I laugh at them now, but only because I know just how similar our DNA is.

I figure I might have to do something a little wild as my boys grow up. Instead of caring for others, I should cosset - get ready for it - me. Yes, me, The Maven. She deserves spoiling, does she not? And who better to do it than myself? I had better become a very ~~rich~~ dedicated doctor quickly so that I may afford to get my nails and hair done regularly. They'll know me so well at the spa that a mud treatment will be named after me. Maven Mud: I like the sound of that.

Until then, I'll touch up my own roots in the bathroom and cut the crust off everyone's sandwiches just so.

And I'll patiently wait for the right time to come out of the cosset.

Groove

2011-02-28T11:31:00.000-05:00

I am so on it.

It's Monday, there's a snowstorm outside and the gremlins are home for March Break (which also started early because technically it's still February, so really I'm just going along with things.) I have an extra child here for the day, and his mom insisted that he bring his Justin Beiber music with him because she knows how much I love it!

Please try not to drown in the sarcasm. It's thick and heavy this morning as I gasp for air filled with canned pop lyrics. She will pay dearly.

With ample eye twitches and a decent amount of caffeine in my veins, I have decided that it's the perfect time to jump on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon again - to save my blog.

In case you didn't know, NaBloPoMo is short for National Blog Posting Month. The concept is simple: you sign up on the site and commit to one post a day for the entire month. I've participated all of one time, in November 2009. That's me, always the go-getter. I was feeling in a slump when it came to writing - which is much like I'm feeling now - and I needed some motivation. So, I decided to take the plunge and post my face off, even if I didn't have much to say. It worked. Let's hope it works again.

It's come to this: I need to rekindle my love of humourous, narcissistic, attention-seeking writing, or abandon the blog altogether. Either I find my groove or I pack it up and let the dust settle on stay-at-home-mayhem for the last time. In the end, I don't need to post every day, but it should flow out of me far easier than it has been. I've been spinning my wheels of creativity for a while now, and it's time to do stinky things or get out of the bathroom.

Oh, dry your tears, already. Now you have to reapply all that mascara - what a waste. What's your boss going to say?

I'm the fat lady, and I'm not singing just yet. What you're hearing is the Beiber Fever oozing out of my living room walls. It's an honest mistake; he kind of sounds like a chick. I'm not willing to give up on a nearly five-year-old project that easily. This blog is older than my youngest child; it's a collection of our life stories over the last few years. It documents the ups, the downs, the scary, the wonderful, and the funny - especially the funny. It's so important to me that it practically has its own social insurance number. I don't want to let it go, but I don't want to do a poor job at capturing all my family's awesome in word form, either.

Some big things have happened in the last few months. Some of it I've blogged about, some of it I probably never will because I'm such a private person (yes, you may laugh now). But let it be known that I am a fundamentally changed woman: Maven 2.0, if you will. This new Maven is stronger, more capable, more interesting, and is faster than a train.

Oh, and while I'm at it, she has great abs and perky breasts. True story.

I'm no longer a full-time stay-at-home-mom, sort of. I regularly take writing and editing contracts, and there are two days every week - barring the occasional preschool plague - when all three gremlins scuttle off to school, leaving our home a quiet place. My entire diet has changed thanks to my good friend Mr. Gluten Intolerance. I've lost a fair bit of weight and am down nearly two dress sizes. My relationships have grown and evolved, my determination to live a happy life is more paramount than ever. Life is morphing, and I along with it.

I need to find a new groove: hence the word I've chosen for this post.

Every day for the month of March, I'm going to pick a word and write about it. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to post them as a comment here or anywhere on the blog's Facebook page. Go ahead, just throw them out there. I need to come up with 31 of them and am begging you to give me ideas.

And, if you haven't already figured it out, I'm an attention whore. I love when you whisper sweet little nothings in my comment field. While you're at it, why don't you feel up my sidebar and become a fan or "like" me. Yeah, baby. That's like getting to third base in the blog world.

I might even respect you in the morning.

Let's Talk about Girl Fights

2011-02-23T11:06:00.000-05:00

I need me some of these. So awesome!

Can we talk about girl fights?

I'm not talking about the ones with bikinis and mud/jello/pudding that old dudes load up on Pay Per View on Thursday nights when the wife is at bingo. I'm talking about the games many a girl starts playing in the school yard and keeps playing well into her adult life.

This is already starting to sound like a vaguebook status, isn't it?

"The Maven is annoyed with people who need to grow up. Sighhhhhhhh...."

I can assure my readers it isn't. Maven don't play that. I am not a vaguebooker whatsoever. Being a writer, I'm legally not allowed to use words to attack someone, whether directly or indirectly. My hands are considered deadly weapons and must be used in self-defence only - or for drinking coffee.

This post is about me, about growth, about how damn wise I am - or not.

I don't fight; If you know The Maven in real life, you know she screams "pacifist". I used to think it made me a better person than those drama queens who get all up in each others' grills. My motto has always been "This, too, shall pass." It's a great motto, but not in this context. I avoid the situation, the person, the confrontation. I tell myself I'm being mature and sensible. I tell myself I'm keeping quiet so I don't lose my cool, say the wrong thing, and hurt someone I care about. Then I pat myself on the back for being so great. But really, I'm not being fair to either of us.

Not too long ago, I had a fight with a friend of mine (no jello or hair pulling - sorry guys). We hadn't spoken for a few days and both had our own interpretation of why. Tensions built up, and built up, and finally exploded when we did talk - and it was awful. We had a fight of words, accusations, and assumptions. An argument that grew from a small seed of resentment into a mutated monstrosity of mismanaged anger. Words flew all over the place like wicked little razors, slicing through the tension and cutting us both deeply. When it was over, we both went back to our corners to lick our wounds and wonder what the hell had happened. How did we get to this place?

A lack of balance on both parts, that's how. Not talking, not asking, just being silly girls on the playground.

Now, I talked about finding balance in my previous post in which I questioned being a stay-at-home-mom. But, as I'm discovering, there are a lot of other parts of my life that require a similar tune-up. How is not talking about things any better than yelling at each other? How am I a healthier human being by avoiding the person altogether? Here I am, smug as anything, feeling rather great about myself and how mature I am, and suddenly I'm knocked off my pedestal and falling - fast. The sudden realization that, by not talking, I helped make things worse, was not the least bit enjoyable.

Why is it that, while we may grow up into women, many of us don't stop being girls when it comes to confrontation? Why are we so afraid of talking about things, of asking for clarification, of knowing for sure instead of assuming? How is it that, at thirty-four, I'm guilty of this? You'd think that with my years of therapy, self-help groups and self-reflection, I'd be da bomb at assertiveness and confrontation. But I'm not. I kind of suck at it, actually. If I had been hired in the fact-checking department of a news office, I would have been pink slipped after the first week - or demoted to stamp-licker if I had a good union rep. I over-think instead of finding out. That's just stupid.

*~*~*

The only way to turn a bad situation into a good one is by figuring out the lessons within.

(See? I actually read the self-help books I own sometimes, so quit judging me. Oh, sorry. What I meant was: "I feel as though you're reading a couple of sentences back and judging me. Is that the case?" There, that's better.)

Anyway, I try to look at negative situations and pull something good from the rubble. What I've learned this time is that even though I'm awesome - and insightful and gorgeous and smart and terribly funny - I need to communicate better, more often, more clearly. I need to stop being the hopscotch girl in pigtails and be the woman I am in so many other ways. I need to respect myself and those I care about enough to let them know how I'm feeling, and give them the opportunity to share their side of things. And if we catch it early enough, we can avoid those big, epic battles of words that don't do much but hurt.

My friend and I are okay. We're better than okay, actually. We had a very long, honest talk after that awful argument and cleared the air, and I think our friendship grew as a result. This is good, because otherwise I might be too upset to blog this week and then what would you do with your time? Actually work? Clean the house? Read something intellectual? Ick.

Growth hurts - especially the emotional kind. I'm going to be a better communicator from now on. I'm going to go put my chalk away and find a sensible pair of slacks (in hot pink).

Raise Your Glass

2011-02-17T12:11:00.000-05:00

Some days, I dream about having a job-- nay, a career. (Sounds fancier, doesn't it? And if I stick "path" at the end of it, it raises its trendiness level significantly.)

Some days, I dream about coworker lunches, pats on the back, raises and accolades. I want to hear "Nice job, Maven!" or "You're a real asset to the team, Maven!" And I might even like to see people make "TEAM MAVEN" shirts or sparkly handbags. Frankly, I don't know why this hasn't been done already.

Some days, I want to be able to shop for me without guilt. I wish I had a reason to buy nice clothes or shoes or put highlights in my hair. I dig the red and a I totally rock the locks, but a secondary hair colour and a straightener might be nice things to have if I had a good reason (and the means) to get them.

Some days, I would love to be able to leave the house and all responsibilities therein in the capable hands of another while I drive off to work for eight hours. Or, better yet, I dream of dropping off my little mess-makers at somebody else's house while my home spends eight hours not getting messed up. Coming home to a clean house: that's the equivalent of a domestic orgasm.

Some days, I don't want to say "I'm sorry, but we can't afford that right now" to my kids. I would love to be able to surprise the gremlins with a vacation that involves hats with ears, ridiculously long lines, stupidly expensive food, and-- actually, screw that. I'd take us on a really big boat. The idea of little umbrellas in my virgin drinks on a floating resort definitely beats fighting our way through a sea of tiny tots just to get a picture with a giant mouse.

Some days, I tell you.

There are some days - like last Friday - when I look at my life and feel, well, a little dissatisfied. I feel like I'm spinning my wheels. I feel like I do the same thing day in and day out: Wake up, breakfast, get kids to school, clean, cook, lunch, clean, play, snack, clean, homework, dinner, clean, bedtime, clean, rinse and repeat. Fight to get them to school, fight to get them to bed, fight to get them to do their chores. Break up arguments, solve problems, find missing mittens. And for what? So that I can get yelled at, talked back to, told that my meals look gross with a push of the plate? It's not exactly motivating.

Sometimes, like on a frigid Tuesday night when I have a bit of money in my pocket and I'm off to get groceries for my family -- only to discover the heat in my van isn't working - I panic because I don't know how we're going to afford to fix it and buy food. I think about getting a job to make our money situation easier, only to realize that I've been out of the workforce for years, and jumping into a career at 34 isn't exactly simple. I feel frustrated and want to kick things. Instead, I drink tea and eat chocolate and hope to the Powers that Be that it was a glitch brought on by the extremely cold weather (It was, and it worked on Tuesday morning. Phew.)

Some days, I wonder if I made the wrong choice to dedicate nearly a decade-and-a-half to raising my kids. I worry that I may have given up the opportunity to do something greater, something bigger than my domestic life. Maybe I could have been a great novelist, a doctor, a teacher, a politician. All except that last one are very meaningful careers.

The last few days have been a time of reflection brought on by doing way too much on far too little sleep. I looked at what I've given up: formal education, bigger retirement savings, better financial security, a feeling of personal accomplishment, a life of my own outside my family - and I wondered if I made the right choice. On days like that, it feels like I've spent 14 years helping other people achieve their goals at the expense of my own. Mothering is pretty much all I've ever done in my adult life.

And that's the dark side of being a stay-at-home-mom in the 21st century. Because there are choices available to women these days other than slapping on an apron and procreating (not necessarily at the same time, but whatever floats your boat); because the norm is to live on two incomes, not one; because the question of "what's best for our children?" is a blurry, hot topic in our generation; because it's considered an outdated practice, circa 1952.

Being an at-home parent flies in the face of today's societal norm. There aren't a lot of us around these days. When you think about it, it's kind of badass. Rebelliousness of the stick-it-to-the-man variety.

I'm feeling a little bit rock n' roll right now. Maybe Pink made this song for me.

(I have a bit of a crush on Pink. It's hard not to.)

Yesterday, I kept a coughing Spawnling home from school. We made hot chocolate, sat by a warm fire in the living room and watched Sponge-Bob together. We cuddled under a blanket in our pyjamas, cozy and warm. It occurred to me that I didn't have to worry about missing work, because this is my work. I don't have to worry about using up sick days, or about sending the gremlins to school or daycare hoping that that they're not as sick as they seemed in the morning. We may be stressed about money sometimes, but I'm not stressed out spending time with our little demons. I consciously savoured the moment.

Later, I received a phone call from one of the support professionals we deal with for Gutsy's and Intrepid's hearing loss. I gave her a rundown of everything going on and the list of all the things we're doing to try and improve the situation. She complimented me on my efforts. I realized then that I could only do everything I'm doing because I have the time to do it. They are my full-time responsibility, and I can do a bang-up job because of it (which is an expression and should not be confused with violent acts toward my children. I don't beat them; I only think about it - sometimes in a great amount of detail.)

Later still, I experimented with some gluten-free baking. I whipped up a pan of peanut butter chocolate blondies that probably cost a whole $2 to make. I would have easily spent $8 or so at the store for a specialty baked item like that. So I may make less, but I also save us a lot of money, too (minus the coffee habit that I can quit any time so why don't you step off about it and back away from my grill?!)

My life isn't perfect, nor are my choices. But the epiphany I had is that there are no perfect choices, and that's okay. There are pros and cons to absolutely everything. I've spent 14 years witnessing first steps and first words, but as a result the gremlins three have witnessed their dad and I stress over paying the bills more than if I were working full-time. I can spend all day cooking, cleaning and ~~eating bon-bons~~ playing with Spawnling, but that stuff doesn't show well on a resume. I can be there when they come home from school, but we often have to say no to after-school activities. I can feel accomplished when I've reorganized the pantry, but no one is going to present me with an achievement award.

Choices, balance, acceptance. This is the path I chose for me, for my family, for us. It means a lot of things both good and bad. It means that I will probably never have a great career unless I forge one for myself as a writer. That's okay, I'm an excellent writer and destined for greatness - or at least some Maven-infused mediocrity. In the meantime, I'm going to stop being so hard on myself, quit questioning my every move, and fully throw myself back into the ~~fray~~ pure joy of full-time parenting without guilt.

And hope beyond hope that one of these contracts I'm bidding on comes my way very soon so I can keep the caffeine mainline going. Just sayin'.

I am the stay-at-home-Maven, after all. Raise your glass.

My Parking Lot Superheroes

2011-02-09T10:27:00.000-05:00

This morning, as I walked the length of the frigid parking lot into our local coffee establishment, I had an epiphany.

Sort of.

I had just dropped Gutsy and Spawnling off at their respective schools. Admittedly, I was not in the greatest of moods. I knew I needed something to make my day a little more caffeinated, so I pulled into the Tim Hortons down the road before heading home. Two twenty-something guys got out of their car in front of me. The minute the passenger door opened, a stream of curses flowed out. As they walked ahead of me, I noticed they weren't particularly well-dressed.

Sort of.

I mean, their clothes could be nice, but they hadn't taken the time to, like, pick appropriate sizes off the rack, or match them all that well. It was sort of a mishmash of fashion, like they had gone to Winners - the Canadian J.C. Penney - and just grabbed whatever had a brand name on it because it had a brand name. The two young gentlemen walked ahead of me.

"And then I was all like, bleep man! What the bleep is her bleeping problem? She's such a bleeping bloop. Motherbleeper. Bleep!" explained the passenger to his friend.

He must just not notice that I'm two feet behind them, I figured.

"Uh-huh" said the other guy. Then, he turned sideways - away from his friend - closed one nostril, and blew snot out the other. I had to sidestep so I wouldn't walk on his what was now his ice Kleenex. Barf. It became increasingly obvious that they didn't know I was there.

I promptly named my new special acquaintances Snotman and Fuckboy.

As we got to the restaurant doors, Snotman walked in first. Fuckboy followed, and then did something that changed my whole view of them: Without looking behind him, he held the door for me.

They knew I was there the entire time.

"Uh, thanks," I said as I walked through.

"No problem," Fuckboy smiled. They even let me go ahead of them to get my coffee. Behind me I heard more swearing and sinus manipulation, but I was deep in contemplative thought. Snotman and Fuckboy had opened my eyes to a new way of living: not giving a crap.

My new superheroes knew I could hear them swearing. They knew snot could have hit my shoe at any moment. They probably know how to pick out clothes that don't make them look like sandbags, too. But the difference between them and me is that I care too much.

I've been feeling pretty overwhelmed the last week or so. Gutsy's having problems at school, Intrepid's having his own set of motivational problems, too. Spawnling had three time-outs at preschool on Monday (he says he only really deserved one - that's mommy's little lawyer). I've had various phone calls with various employees of various schools, all wondering how we can work together to make a particular gremlins's learning experience a better one. I have meetings lined up; email chains longer than my family's grocery list; commitments to various friends, family, clients, organizations and, of course, my children and spouse; a house to clean; a blog to write in; a book to write; gluten-free baking to do... In short, I am one person feeling stretched in many different directions.

I don't want to let anyone down, but I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water most days. I think a lot of parents - especially mothers - feel this way. It's one of the main reasons I don't have a full-time job outside the home; I can't imagine having to do that, too. I'm way too lazy to balance 40 hours of work and a family. I'd rather be broke and able to breathe - most days. Other days I'd like to be living a life where I may not see my kids that much, but we all get to go to Jamaica together every year and forget about all the phone calls and emails for a while.

Anyway, here I was, feeling all stressed out and miserable and non-caffeinated, when along came the Unkept Wonder Duo to give me an entirely new way of looking at things. What if I just didn't care anymore? What if I, like the protagonist in the amazing cult classic movie known as Office Space, suddenly just stopped caring about everything? Maybe I could have a series of operations to remove my responsibility neurons, stress processors and compassion gland.

What do you mean "Those aren't real body parts, Maven"? Are you a doctor? Didn't think so. Doctors don't read my blog. My high level of functional insanity would challenge everything they learned in their pricey medical schools.

Sometimes I really wish I could stop caring, or at the very least gain a bit of perspective. I get so wrapped up in myself and my family and the unique set of problems we deal with that it's easy to get overwhelmed. Sometimes reminding myself that there are worse issues out there makes a difference. Sometimes it doesn't. Just because someone else has it harder doesn't mean it isn't hard here. It doesn't make all the stress go away.

But I'm not willing to throw on some tights and go moping through the streets as Captain Bringdown just yet. I have gratitude, I have laughter, I have season 6 of Grey's Anatomy. I have a husband who lets me rant, friends who give me hugs and coffee, kids who make me smile when they're not making me want to strangle them. Gratitude keeps me going. If I can just reach out and grab hold of one of the many good things that are good in my life, it helps balance me out. Sometimes it takes a couple of days and some gross guys to remind me that there's a happy medium out there.

Gather 'round, kids, so that Mother Maven can explain the moral of the story: Everyone's life has problems, but you don't have to wreck your fucking vocabulary for it, fuck. So, while blowing snot onto a parking lot may sometimes seem like the only option, it isn't. Just remember: There are always good things in life to remind you to breathe, to enjoy, and to smile. And when you're staring at a sales rack, always make good choices.

Love,
Mother Maven

In Which The Maven Admits to Feeling Freaked Out

2011-02-07T13:22:00.000-05:00

Have I ever mentioned I have an onion allergy?

Not that it's ever been confirmed by an allergist, but raw onions (not well-cooked, for some reason) make my tongue and throat go numb, and make it a little harder for me to breathe. I've been known to vomit after accidentally consuming them, too. My doctor has recommended I get tested and carry around an epi pen just in case, but I have yet to do that. You'd think I have more pressing items on my to-do list, like raising three gremlins and meeting all their medical needs. I'll get to it - eventually. Hopefully before I actually need epinephrin.

But the most interesting thing about my allergy - or sensitivity I guess, since we don't know for sure if it's an allergy - is that the smell makes me feel sick. For whatever reason, I get nauseous whenever I'm around a cut up onion. This is why we don't have onions in our house. We don't cook with them. If my husband wants his onion fix, he gets it at work - far away from yours truly. It's been like this pretty much my entire life. The smell is overpowering to my senses and my body goes into revolt. But I can live with that, because my day-to-day isn't terribly affected.

Recently, I've started getting grossed out by the smell of bread. I've been gluten-free now for almost four months. For the first month I missed the stuff terribly. I would breathe in the delicious smell of something I could not longer taste and pathetically pretend I had just had a bite. Gluten-free bread has nothing on its wheat-filled counterpart. The vast majority of it wants to make me scrape off my taste buds. It's heavy, flavourless and dry. I've found a couple of decent recipes, but they still don't come close to a good french loaf.

By a couple of months into this whole no-gluten thing, I started dreading going down the bread aisle at the grocery store. The sweet, yeasty smell of hundreds of loaves made me feel a bit sick. I don't like the smell anymore, but I can manage the aisle with only a slight look of disgust on my face.

But today - oh, today - I was blown away by my body's reaction to, of all things, toast.

I make kid sandwiches (uh, sandwiches for the kids, not made out of kids - I'm not that burned out, people) every night to pack in their lunches the next day. It's part of my Awesome Mom routine, which is to be expected from me. I've got it going on in all the right places, and stuff.

-- Oh, sorry. What were we talking about?

Anyway, while I don't love the smell of bread these days, I can still manage to make sandwiches. I wash my hands after, throw the cutting board in the dishwasher (to avoid cross-contamination) and go on about my life. But this morning, the boys decided to switch up their breakfast menu and ask for toast - something they haven't had much of since I went gluten-free. Generally, we don't use a lot of regular bread in the house (see cross-contamination reference above), but we do have a side of the toaster dedicated to wheat bread, so I popped a couple of slices in and left the room to do my makeup.

When I came back in, Geekster was buttering their toast, and I almost hurled all over the kitchen floor. The smell - that sweet, wheaty smell I used to love more than anything - made me turn around and head to the bathroom.

It's official: my body hates gluten. It onion hates it, even.

I didn't puke, thankfully. But I gagged. And my stomach was in knots for a good half hour after I left the house to drive the gremlins to school. And no, I'm not pregnant. If you read my posts from last week then you know it's not cyclically possible. Besides, my husband got the big V in the Summer of '08 and I am not having a torrid affair with a fertile man (or an infertile man, for the record). But if you've ever been pregnant, then you know the feeling that overcame me. It felt like morning sickness, except I was fine before and am just fine now. That one smell sent my body into chaos.

Geekster was so concerned that he said we should stop toasting wheat bread from now on. I told him that's silly: The kids should be able to have toast, and I'm 34 for crying out loud. I can handle feeling a bit woozy sometimes. It just took me off guard today, that's all. But then again, just about everything about my body since going gluten-free has caught me off guard.

First of all, I still get the occasional flare-up. It's usually a few hours to a day after I've been to a restaurant or wasn't vigilant about washing surfaces and hands in my own kitchen. I'll start to feel run down, sick, bloated, sore, and the digestive issues will kick in. It's like a mini stomach flu or a mini food poisoning that passes in a few hours. I had one this past Friday and had to cancel my plans. I was too sick to do anything but have a hot bath and sit in my jammies with some tea. These flare ups are rare, but when they happen they yank me out of my happy place and into the pity place of "this is so unfair". I've heard they're pretty common in more sensitive gluten-intolerant/celiac people. I was just sort of hoping I was of the less sensitive variety. Dammit.

Secondly, I am losing weight. And, while I'm happy about it, I'm also a little freaked out. Anyone who's lost weight after being heavy for a long time (in my case that would be my entire adult life) knows what I'm talking about: It's fucking scary. It's exciting, but terrifying. The Fat Activists are going to hate me for this comment, but I don't know what I look like under my fat suit. My cellulite-filled self is changing by the day. The jeans I got two weeks ago are already far less snug than when I tried them on, and not because my M&Ms-filled belly is stretching them (it really is full of M&Ms of the peanut variety right now. Mmmm, candy lunch.)

For the first time in a long while, I'm not trying to lose weight. I still eat chocolate and chips when I feel like it. I still unflinchingly put butter on my air-popped corn. I eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm satisfied, as I always have. I do a minimal amount of exercise - nothing like I used to when I was trying to shed pounds - and yet I'm watching my waistline shrink every week. I've discovered that I do have cheekbones after all; they were just taking an extended vacation in Blubberville, USA. My chin is a little lonely now that there's only one of her, but she's seeking a bit of comfort in her long-distance relationship with this thing called a "neck" that we found hiding under my head.

In short, I have no idea who this person is that's emerging from the archeological dig that is my body's weight purge. I have no clue if she's pretty, what her bone structure is like, what size her hips will eventually be. Thankfully it's a slow process, so we're getting to know each other without a lot of pressure. I have always identified myself as overweight; it's become part of who I am. My weight, as much as I have loathed it and worried about its repercussions over time, has been a shield of comfort, of protection from the world. And now it's leaving. After all the times I tried to get rid of it, how often I cried over it, I didn't realize I might actually miss it.

And if you didn't think I was crazy before, I've now written an entire post to convince you otherwise. The Maven has a psychosomatic gag reaction to onions and toast, and is mourning her fat. I may be nuts enough to warrant my own psychology study. Please send money to the following address. Thank you.

What I'll do for a Coffee

2011-02-03T09:47:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, after the arrival but of not one, but two coffees at my doorstep, I obviously bragged all over Facebook and on my blog. "Look at me!" I declared with only slightly more tact. "I have a coffee! That someone brought me! In a snowstorm!" Followed an hour or so later by, "Neener, neener! Another coffee just for The Maven! It's great to be me!"

Naturally, people asked how this could happen. What do I, The Maven of Mayhem, do to deserve such gifts? And, honestly, I had to give it some thought, too. I'm so grateful to my wonderful friends, but what on earth makes people want to do nice things for me?

Is it because I'm generous? Not exactly.

Kind? Um, I guess. Sometimes. When I feel like it.

Thoughtful? Only when I have time to be because I'm not dealing with kids in crisis - which is, like, never.

Insightful? The only sight I'm full of is the mess in my kitchen. I'm not exactly a wise guru on a mountain (unless that mountain consists of laundry).

I couldn't come up with an obvious answer, which made me realize that others probably can't, either. So, I need to dispel a possible conclusion before it turns into rumours:

I am not a hooker. Let's just get that out of the way, ok? I do not have sex with people for material gain. It's not that I'm anti-escorting per say, it's just that it's not my chosen career path. I'm already plenty busy. I'm a writer and editor and doula, after all. It would be hard to fit another job description on my business card:

The Maven

Writer/Editor/Postpartum Doula/Call Girl

It doesn't flow very well. And besides, if I were going to put out, I would be charging a lot more than coffee. Just sayin'.

So now that we all know I don't have a secret stash of fishnet stockings I'm willing to don in the name of caffeine, there's really only one viable reason people might be so nice to me:

Animal magnetism.

That has to be it. If I'm not particularly generous, kind, thoughtful or insightful, then what else could it be? I must be a sexy beast of epic proportions (well, I'm only a size 18 - not exactly epic, but significant). For whatever reason, people are drawn to my hotness and feel the need to show me by giving me hot things, like a steamy cup of java. They probably don't realize it themselves; it's just something they have to do.

(... What do you mean, I'm wrong? I can't be wrong! There's no other good reason! Well, other than the giant squid. I mean, that fine piece of art could potentially evoke feelings in others they may not know they even have. Regardless, I'm going to ignore you and go with my original theory of sheer hotness.)

Not only have my friends been kind, but Karma herself decided to treat me extra gently the last couple of days. Gutsy, determined to get caught up in school, has been on time two days in a row. He also did 45 minutes of homework and cursive writing practice with me last night. He's definitely struggling with cursive, but I think it's because he's afraid of not doing it perfectly. Nevertheless, he stayed calm and did everything I asked him to do.

I could throw a damn parade, I'm so happy. I very nearly cried tears of joy this morning after I dropped him off at school. It's funny how we can take small things for granted, sometimes; a reminder to celebrate the little things with my gremlins three. Geekster and I have been showering the boy with praise every time he works hard. The glow in his face is a beautiful thing.

And, not to forget the other two horned ones, I should mention that Spawnling is learning to sound out words and read a little bit: cat, hat, mat, fat, sat, lion, truck, plane. He's since called me "fat" and/or "fatty" a few times when angry. I've created a monster. Pleasant. Where's the "undo" option? Maybe I should teach him how to spell R-U-D-E.

Intrepid was one of 12 kids in his school asked to participate in a city-wide week at university in May. The courses he's chosen are all in biotechnology, medicine and psychology. He'll hopefully get one of his top picks, but it depends on availability. You know, I'm just happy to have a fourteen-year-old who isn't expelled and drinking every day, which was what I was doing at his age. The university thing is icing on the cake. We're beyond proud of that big boy of ours. I look back at the naysayers who thought us fools for having him as young and unexpectedly as we did, and I secretly hope they read my blog. And, while I did worry myself sick sometimes wondering if we had doomed him to a life of demographic hardship, he's proven to us that awesome genes do traverse generations. Way to go, Intrepid. We're fiercely proud of you!

And, finally, stay-at-home-mayhem has its own Facebook page! It's about time, right? Since I'm an admitted Facebook addict, I'm on there a lot and will be updating regularly. So have a look, click the "LIKE" button, and join in the fun. It hasn't even been up 24 hours yet and there's a fair bit of fandom going on. I promise not to let it go to my head - much.

Must run. This sexy animal and her spawn need to head out for a coffee date.

I don't need a snow day, I need a damn chocolate day

2011-02-02T12:09:00.001-05:00

This is what we woke up to this morning.

Brrr.

(FYI, the big numbers are celsius. This is Canada, eh?)

Lovely, except when you have to go out in it. Not surprisingly, the local school board didn't close the school or ground the buses, even though our neighbours just across the river in Ottawa made sure no big yellows graced the snowy streets (but their schools remained open, too). We don't get snow days over here. Our board directors must be tough as nails and moonlight as plough drivers.

After much deliberation, a team of scientists, psychologists and I have concluded that the board will only consider school closures in one scenario:

I wasted my morning making this. You're welcome.

Yep. I'm pretty certain that if a tsunami were to hit the city, bringing with it a swarm of ravenous giant squid, there is at least a 50% chance of bus cancelation.

Since I transport Sir Spawnling to preschool by way of a two-wheel-drive minivan, I decided we should stay put. I did, however, manage to get Gutsy the four blocks to his school before the roads got nasty. The bus takes him home, and I'm fairly sure it can make it through the snow (and it's too cold for tsunamis). Intrepid, of course, bounded off to junior high to see his friends, snow be damned. I did hit the Tim Hortons after drop-off and downed most of an extra large coffee before there was a knock at my door. A very snowy coffee fairy handed me a second one. Then another coffee-gifting friend arrived with a cup at my door, and now I am positively high on caffeine - shockingly high, even. This means that I can type twice as fast as I usually do, thus guaranteeing a blog post in half the time - despite the twitching. I'm feeling intensely motivated!

Yesterday afternoon I did a lot of crying. I got a call from Gutsy's teacher, telling me that he's simply not motivated at school and is falling way behind. Unless someone is sitting there looking over his shoulder, very little work is being done. There are big chunks of his report card that are not yet marked because he's missed too much school and won't catch up. She thinks that maybe he's not quite as advanced as we think he is, although I respectfully disagree (with a great deal of bias, I admit). He just doesn't show her what he's capable of, so I can definitely see where she would be getting that idea. He has a hard time doing a page of basic addition and subtraction for her, but he'll easily do simple multiplication and even algebra with me. This is the kid who teaches himself programming languages, makes movies with elaborate editing using a variety of tools, reads and writes just about anything, and is always coming up with new inventions.

But, for whatever reason, he's not bringing that love of learning into the classroom. He fights tooth and nail about going, comes home exhausted, and isn't trying in between. It's both heartbreaking and frustrating. I guess this fits well with his recent declaration that he hates school, hates learning there, finds it really hard, and that he only goes to see his friends.

Why this news always has to come when I have my period and am an emotional basket case, I have no idea.

So he cried, I cried, we hugged, we talked, and we came up with some ideas.

First of all, I think he should be screened for learning disabilities. Let's find out if he's actually struggling with any subjects, or if he's just unmotivated - or overwhelmed - with the amount of work. Second, Geekster and I went out last night and purchased some curriculum books on subjects he says he finds difficult: math, french and cursive writing. Gutsy has committed to working 30 minutes each day on a subject until he feels more confident. He's been so tired at the end of the school day that we haven't even been pushing homework on him most nights, so this is going to require a little extra effort on his part and a little extra on mine.

But that's okay. It's not like I do anything, anyway. I'm just a stay-at-home-mom. The life of leisure and all that. It might be good for me to be productive sometimes.

There's a real sense of hopelessness when you get a phone call like that from a teacher. I remember feeling this way about Intrepid before we found his hearing loss; a powerlessness, like I was losing the grip on my child and he was about to fall through a crack in the system. We're missing something that could make all the difference for Gutsy, and I'm not sure what it is just yet. But we need to figure it out soon and find a solution.

I will homeschool him if we feel there's no other way to rekindle that love of learning, but I'm kind of hoping it won't come to that. Sure, it's mostly selfish on my part: I'm finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel after being home for fourteen years. In 18 months, all three of the gremlins will be in school, and I will be able to - gasp! - do something with my days besides parenting. I can, like, be a full-time writer and grow my business. I'm so ready for it that I can taste it. I feel really bad for saying this, but if there's any way we can make Gutsy a happy camper at school again, I'll take door #1 rather than the home learning option. Can I buy a vowel, Alex?

But I'll also do anything for my little horned wonders, including stepping out of my educational comfort zone. It would be a big adjustment for me, though. And put a kink in my dreams of being a world-famous writer and supermodel.

See? Me, me, me. Selfish, selfish, selfish. So sue me. The Maven is about as close as you can get, but no one is perfect, okay?

Anyway, that's a long way off. There are many things we can try before getting to that point. Things are improving with our gentler approach to discipline. Gutsy seems to be feeling safer, because he's opening up to me a lot more about what's troubling him. That's how we're going to get to the bottom of things around here: communication. So, even if this turns out to be a shitty year, we'll have accomplished something big.

Because, more important than a lack of motivation, school woes, or tantrums, is the relationship with a wonderful, beautiful, smart, funny, creative, original little boy in my life named Gutsy. We'll get through this together.

As long as we don't get eaten by giant squids.