Yes, it's true. I've stooped to a whole new low by creating a YouTube account and uploading videos of my children. Yet another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats for people to look at and think 'Oh boy. Another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats'.

I've never claimed originality, forsight or empathy. Ever.



Yesterday, I took all three gremlins and my camera to speech therapy. Spawnling wore his new Christmas outfit, which I think suits him perfectly. He was also exactly six weeks old, which warranted a few more pictures, including this one, in which, according to Astarte, he resembles a mafia Don.

Here's where I try to win favours with the Don by being the big hoochie I am. Meanwhile, Gutsy acted like, well, Gutsy, and even managed to give me the cheesiest fake smile he's ever given.

Intrepid reminded me of how old I'm getting. He's going to be ten in less than a week and it shows. He's looking all older-kid-like. Yikes.

We had a busy day yesterday, complete with a visit to Mrs. Wailing's house, where my children made a big to-do about destroying her backyard. The gremz have a rule:

If you're not sure if you're supposed to do it, do it anyway and see if someone notices.

They live by that rule, especially in situations where it's bound to be embarrassing and/or cost us money to repair. Aren't they sweet? So while they were fairly well-behaved in the house, they did all sorts of neat things outside like climbing the side of a fence, throwing things at frozen plants and making sure that virtually no sand remained in Wailing Jr's sandbox (guess what I'm bringing over the spring? Hint: it rhymes with 'hand' and is thankfully cheap).

I'm thankful that my friends are patient with the gremlins. A handful they can be (even Intrepid, when he's energetic enough) but they do have their charms. Sometimes I have to look hard to find them, though. Really, really hard. Like yesterday.

We then went to speech, where I made the comment that will haunt me for many nights to come.

While Intrepid and Gutsy were both dying to tell me about their sessions...

While Spawnling was fussing because he was tired...

While I was holding a pacifier in his mouth to keep him quiet...

While I was writing a cheque one-handed to the therapist...

While I was encouraging the older boys to get their things on and 'Please help him with his boots, Intrepid, please... I know he's being a pain but try to get him dressed for me, ok? Mom is really busy...'

While I got my own things on, ushered the two older boys out into the hall, put the still-crying baby in his snowsuit, grabbed the diaper bag, my purse, their speech homework, the blanket...

I jokingly said to the woman I'd been sharing the waiting room with 'I know this is going to get easier. At least, that's what I tell myself every day to keep my sanity'.

As she watched her child playing on the floor, she smiled politely and replied 'You're lucky. You have three.'

Uh-oh. I know that tone. I've used that tone. Anyone who's struggled with their fertility knows the polite way to say 'Shut up, you ungrateful wench and enjoy what you have because it's not as easy for some of us and I would do anything to be in your shoes right now, ok?'

My heart caught in my throat when she said it. What was I to say? What I really wanted to say was 'I used to have only one child and we tried for five years and went through hell and back and lost a baby in the process and finally had another one and that's why they're six years apart and no we weren't trying for the baby but we weren't preventing either and it still took three years which is not how long it takes fertility goddesses to conceive and yes we were beyond shocked and I have polycystic ovarian syndrome and I should have guessed by your body shape that you also have a hormonal imbalance and I am really grateful for my kids and I'm really, really sorry.'

Instead I just said 'Thank you. I really love them,' and left quickly and quietly with a huge amount of guilt. Heaven forbid she read my blog, where I refer to my children as gremlins and name them things like Gutsy and - gack! - Spawnling. I'd have to wear a clever disguise everytime we go to speech.

Bad, bad Maven. You should know better. You've been there. Have you forgotten so soon? Three kids and you're all that, eh?

No, I haven't forgotten. I'm simply screwing up the myth I used to buy into. For while not a day goes by that I don't take time to appreciate what I have, I also know I've earned that right to feel tired and overwhelmed and even bitchy (shocking, I know), just as she's earned the right to use 'the tone'.

It may have taken a decade to have these three, but three I now have and only the truly clueless - infertile or not - would be too blind to see what a handful juggling all their needs at the same time can be. As much of a contradiction as it may seem to some, feeling stressed out can indeed coincide with loving one's children tremendously. I'm living proof of that and other oddities, such as liking jam and old (sharp) cheddar on toast. Don't knock it 'til you try it.

Those feelings that accompany infertility (or secondary infertility, in my case) have left me messed up in ways only others who've gone through the joy of a body that continuously lets you down could understand. I still shudder at the thought of using a contraceptive method to - gasp! - avoid getting pregnant again. The word 'vasectomy' still makes me jump a little. I still don't always understand when people say they don't want another baby. In my eyes, the best thing in the world is another baby! The only reason I'm not having another is because of the potential health risks to myself and my baby if I have another (and that convincing Geekster might require drugging his gingerale at this point). And don't even get me started on people who don't want kids at all. That's like people who don't like chocolate - so completely different from me that I don't think I can wrap my brain around their ideas.

The number one thing never to say to someone who's infertile (and it's been said to me many times):

I wish I had a hard time getting pregnant. All I have to do is look at a man and I get knocked up!

Makes my comment at speech therapy look rather tame, doesn't it? I can't possibly comprehend what a woman figures she's gaining from saying something like that to a person struggling to get pregnant. Do you expect the infertile woman to say 'Gee, I never really though of it that way, Alice! I feel a lot better now. Thanks!' and give her a big hug?

My infertility scars will probably remain with me the rest of my life. But you know something? I think I've earned that right to look at the more fertile lot with a quirky stare. Just as I've earned the right to post pointless videos and pictures of my beautiful children on the interweb for all to see (and wonder why I post them at all).

Squarely in the middle and looking rather foolish. That's where The Maven belongs.