The new things in my life
What to write... What to write... How long has it been? Over a month. I've broken my own record when it comes to time between posts. Go big or go home, I always say.
But comments keep dribbling in, and people have even been asking me on Facebook if all is well, since I haven't written much here as of late. Things have been alright, folks. I mean, not wonderful, not great, but alright. It's been so busy that the thought of typing it all out just sounded like an overwhelming pile of work. Since I'm a professional bon-bon eater, I find work rather appalling. That's why I had kids. That was the theory, anyway. So far I've been the only one scrubbing floors.
Cinderella left me with high hopes.
Anyway, let's start with some long-overdue news: I am finished English 211. I wrote a three-hour exam last Thursday after braving traffic in a snowstorm for over an hour for the privilege of paying someone $40 to supervise the writing of it. At first I told myself that I was done if I passed. After a week of not having to analyze every word in every sentence of every piece of writing I read, I honestly don't care if I pass or fail anymore. I. Am. Done. Passing is a bonus. That was 10 months of my life I'll never get back.
Meawhile, Gutsy turned five on November 13th. The miracle baby who arrived after five years of secondary infertility celebrated with pizza, friends and family. It was a great time. I have pictures, but uploading them requires work that I don't feel like doing right now. They shall stay on my camera for the time being. I have coffee to drink and blog entries to write. The Maven is a busy girl.
I'm doing daycare. I know, I know. This is something I swore I'd never do again. But before you get your proverbial panties in a bunch (I hope, for your sake, that they're cute panties with very little fabric, for less discomfort while bunching), it is
A) Temporary,
B) For a friend, and
C) Very, very part-time
I signed up for five half-days (mornings), two of which I did this week. The victim is an adorable three-year-old girl who loves to hold my hand and make crafts and read books. She's sweet and quiet and eats anything I put in front of her. She gets along with everybody and is very non-threatening to even Gutsy, the anti-daycare child. While he used to pummel every unfortunate kid who showed up for the day, he is now smitten with this new estrogen-filled entity. She is foreign in that she likes to play with things instead of break them. She wants to play games with him and finds him fascinating. In return, he lets her play with highly coveted toys like his Webkinz and build forts on his bunkbed.
I believe this is love.
I have her for three more days and I do think I will miss her when she's gone. I would normally stuff my face to cope with loss, but I don't think I'll be doing that anymore because....
*drumroll*
I am in therapy.
Not just 12 steppin' anymore, peeps. I'm actually paying someone to spend time with me (my friends are now asking themselves why I don't pay them. You never asked, that's why). She's a a doctor of psychology and she listens to me talk for 50 minutes. You know how sometimes a therapist really has to push someone to open up? I'm the exact opposite. I think she's going to have to push me to shut the hell up.
All day I do things for people. I make lunches, I wipe bums, I fold laundry, I drop gremlins off, I pick gremlins up, I do dishes, I volunteer at schools, I listen to people complain about how they do too much for other people, I buy gifts for kids I barely know who's party someone is attending, I run after gremlins with facecloths, I frown when Intrepid won't touch his vegetables and scare him with the evils of scuuuurvy. Yar.
Once every week, I now get to leave the house, go into the Tim Hortons and get a coffee and not have to go through the drive-through because I have a sleeping Spawnling in the van or a grumpy Gutsy who has a high flip-out potential, walk into an office wearing clothes that aren't sporting sick toddler snot and sit and read a magazine. There are only grownups around. Sure, they're messed up grownups, but they're not messed-up, loud grownups. You know that old addage 'it's always the quiet ones?' I think that has been proven to me now.
Then, someone in nice clothes with more years of education under her belt than... well, I don't even own a belt... comes to get me. She smiles, she walks me into a beautiful office with big windows that has never seen a person under the age of 14. She grabs a pen and sits opposite me. For 50 minutes - 50 incredibly selfish, satisfying minutes - we talk about me.
Me. The Maven. ME.
I get to tell her about my life. She asks me questions. She frowns. She smiles. She laughs. She gives me that 'go on' look.
Having a therapist is so much better than having an affair. I mean, I wouldn't know that firsthand, but it must be. For one, it's way cheaper. Sure, it's an expensive hour, but insurance covers it and I don't have to take her out to dinner. Also, I never have to tell her that I'll call her later and that she's really special, even if I won't break up my marriage for her. It's a great time.
I also started on THE PILL. You know - THE PILL. That thing that makes you not have babies. I'd like to say that I started taking it because we don't plan on having any more babies, but that's only a happy side-effect. The real reason is because I have PCOS, and this particular pill has been known to kick, or at least partially kick, PCOS' ass. I've only been on it for just over a week, but I'm already feeling less bloated and have a lot more energy. I am not caffeine's bitch anymore. I use it when I want to, not the other way around, and it feels damn good.
In January, Geekster and I go to the doc's to discuss his acquisition of the big V. That will mean no more babies. I do believe three is enough. He also believes this. We believe together. That shows strength in our marriage. Great. One less thing to complain about during my weekly bitchfests with my Theramistress.
Finally, I have not been able to see my grandma yet. I hope to next week. She's doing okay right now, but for a while she didn't want any company. I had lined up babysitters, had healthy children who hadn't passed on germs that I could pass on to her, everything was set... But I had to respect her wishes. Now, I hear, she would like to see me. So see me she shall. I can't wait to hug her.
Oh, wait. This isn't therapy. This is my blog! Blogapy? That's a stupid word.
I'll update more soon. Probably tomorrow, as it will be Intrepid's 11th birthday. Yikes.
Also, I've been tagged and I must adhere to the rules of the game. Plus, it will give me something to write about and maybe I'll get back into this blogging thing. For now, however, coffee awaits. Peace out.
But comments keep dribbling in, and people have even been asking me on Facebook if all is well, since I haven't written much here as of late. Things have been alright, folks. I mean, not wonderful, not great, but alright. It's been so busy that the thought of typing it all out just sounded like an overwhelming pile of work. Since I'm a professional bon-bon eater, I find work rather appalling. That's why I had kids. That was the theory, anyway. So far I've been the only one scrubbing floors.
Cinderella left me with high hopes.
Anyway, let's start with some long-overdue news: I am finished English 211. I wrote a three-hour exam last Thursday after braving traffic in a snowstorm for over an hour for the privilege of paying someone $40 to supervise the writing of it. At first I told myself that I was done if I passed. After a week of not having to analyze every word in every sentence of every piece of writing I read, I honestly don't care if I pass or fail anymore. I. Am. Done. Passing is a bonus. That was 10 months of my life I'll never get back.
Meawhile, Gutsy turned five on November 13th. The miracle baby who arrived after five years of secondary infertility celebrated with pizza, friends and family. It was a great time. I have pictures, but uploading them requires work that I don't feel like doing right now. They shall stay on my camera for the time being. I have coffee to drink and blog entries to write. The Maven is a busy girl.
I'm doing daycare. I know, I know. This is something I swore I'd never do again. But before you get your proverbial panties in a bunch (I hope, for your sake, that they're cute panties with very little fabric, for less discomfort while bunching), it is
A) Temporary,
B) For a friend, and
C) Very, very part-time
I signed up for five half-days (mornings), two of which I did this week. The victim is an adorable three-year-old girl who loves to hold my hand and make crafts and read books. She's sweet and quiet and eats anything I put in front of her. She gets along with everybody and is very non-threatening to even Gutsy, the anti-daycare child. While he used to pummel every unfortunate kid who showed up for the day, he is now smitten with this new estrogen-filled entity. She is foreign in that she likes to play with things instead of break them. She wants to play games with him and finds him fascinating. In return, he lets her play with highly coveted toys like his Webkinz and build forts on his bunkbed.
I believe this is love.
I have her for three more days and I do think I will miss her when she's gone. I would normally stuff my face to cope with loss, but I don't think I'll be doing that anymore because....
*drumroll*
I am in therapy.
Not just 12 steppin' anymore, peeps. I'm actually paying someone to spend time with me (my friends are now asking themselves why I don't pay them. You never asked, that's why). She's a a doctor of psychology and she listens to me talk for 50 minutes. You know how sometimes a therapist really has to push someone to open up? I'm the exact opposite. I think she's going to have to push me to shut the hell up.
All day I do things for people. I make lunches, I wipe bums, I fold laundry, I drop gremlins off, I pick gremlins up, I do dishes, I volunteer at schools, I listen to people complain about how they do too much for other people, I buy gifts for kids I barely know who's party someone is attending, I run after gremlins with facecloths, I frown when Intrepid won't touch his vegetables and scare him with the evils of scuuuurvy. Yar.
Once every week, I now get to leave the house, go into the Tim Hortons and get a coffee and not have to go through the drive-through because I have a sleeping Spawnling in the van or a grumpy Gutsy who has a high flip-out potential, walk into an office wearing clothes that aren't sporting sick toddler snot and sit and read a magazine. There are only grownups around. Sure, they're messed up grownups, but they're not messed-up, loud grownups. You know that old addage 'it's always the quiet ones?' I think that has been proven to me now.
Then, someone in nice clothes with more years of education under her belt than... well, I don't even own a belt... comes to get me. She smiles, she walks me into a beautiful office with big windows that has never seen a person under the age of 14. She grabs a pen and sits opposite me. For 50 minutes - 50 incredibly selfish, satisfying minutes - we talk about me.
Me. The Maven. ME.
I get to tell her about my life. She asks me questions. She frowns. She smiles. She laughs. She gives me that 'go on' look.
Having a therapist is so much better than having an affair. I mean, I wouldn't know that firsthand, but it must be. For one, it's way cheaper. Sure, it's an expensive hour, but insurance covers it and I don't have to take her out to dinner. Also, I never have to tell her that I'll call her later and that she's really special, even if I won't break up my marriage for her. It's a great time.
I also started on THE PILL. You know - THE PILL. That thing that makes you not have babies. I'd like to say that I started taking it because we don't plan on having any more babies, but that's only a happy side-effect. The real reason is because I have PCOS, and this particular pill has been known to kick, or at least partially kick, PCOS' ass. I've only been on it for just over a week, but I'm already feeling less bloated and have a lot more energy. I am not caffeine's bitch anymore. I use it when I want to, not the other way around, and it feels damn good.
In January, Geekster and I go to the doc's to discuss his acquisition of the big V. That will mean no more babies. I do believe three is enough. He also believes this. We believe together. That shows strength in our marriage. Great. One less thing to complain about during my weekly bitchfests with my Theramistress.
Finally, I have not been able to see my grandma yet. I hope to next week. She's doing okay right now, but for a while she didn't want any company. I had lined up babysitters, had healthy children who hadn't passed on germs that I could pass on to her, everything was set... But I had to respect her wishes. Now, I hear, she would like to see me. So see me she shall. I can't wait to hug her.
Oh, wait. This isn't therapy. This is my blog! Blogapy? That's a stupid word.
I'll update more soon. Probably tomorrow, as it will be Intrepid's 11th birthday. Yikes.
Also, I've been tagged and I must adhere to the rules of the game. Plus, it will give me something to write about and maybe I'll get back into this blogging thing. For now, however, coffee awaits. Peace out.