Quick: If someone brings a vacuum, a sword, a bulldozer, a monster truck and a plastic octopus into a room, what are they planning to do?

Any idea?

That's what my two-year-old just gathered up and dropped at my feet as I was about to start blogging. Then he explained the need to do some 'light cleaning' in my bedroom.

I think he may be saying my room needs a little more than your typical tidy. And he would be right. I spent an entire day not two weeks ago doing everything from windows to floors, and it's already a complete disaster. I don't exactly know how a plastic octopus is going to help The Spawn tackle the clutter, but our little evil genius always seems to have a plan that works out in the end.

Anyway, Spawnling gets a lot of sentences dedicated to him on this blog. It's always Marsha, Marsha, Marsha Spawnling, Spawnling, Spawnling! This isn't a Spawnling post. This one is dedicated to the middle gremlin.

I can't recall if I mentioned this before, but Gutsy took a lunch hour dance program at school this term. We've asked him if he wanted to take drum lessons, go back into gymnastics, join a baseball team, a soccer team or take skating lessons. We've offered him swimming courses, taekwondo classes, even yoga sessions: No interest. He's an active kid but he doesn't like the idea of spending his precious time being run from one activity to the next on top of wreaking havoc at school all day.

We're not activity pushers and believe strongly that free play is far better for the gremlins than running from one structured activity to the next, especially if they're in school full-time. And just because there's some real science to back us up doesn't mean we haven't always felt this way. In fact, I'd like to think we're pioneers in bringing back lazy parenting. By opening the back door and letting them out to explore and use their imaginations, we're not only making more Oprah time but also strengthening their brains and social behaviors and all that crap. And we were doing this form of armchair parenting before it even became trendy again. Before we ever knew there were actual, scientific benefits. We've raised healthy children quite by accident. Sort of like when abstract becomes art.

In January, when we were flat broke from Giftmas, Gutsy bounded home from school and slapped down a piece of paper next to the cutting board I was using. "I've decided. This is what I want to do, Mom."

I picked up the paper. "... Dance? ... Like, as in, dancing?"

He was adamant.

It never occurred to me that Gutsy would enjoy formal dance lessons - well, if you can call anything kindergarteners do "formal". He just didn't seem the type. But then I had to ask myself "What exactly is the type" anyway? Does a boy who joins a dance class have to be flamboyant? Feminine? Be a huge fan of High School Musicals 1 through 38? Know more about fashion than his mother? Was I, champion of equal rights for all, stereotyping my son? Stuffing him quietly into a pigeon hole so as to pass him off as one of those hockey kids?

And, worst of all, was I detecting a little bit of apprehension about putting him in this class? Was I, The Maven, maybe a little worried about people would think? That maybe he would go through childhood as "the boy in that dance class because he wasn't boyish enough to go into something sporty"?

I hate to admit it, but a little part of me was worried. Not the logical, intelligent and terribly good looking part. Just the old tapes telling me that, when I was young, no boy who was in dance was ever accepted and respected by his peers. And those who strutted their stuff usually ended up as a hair stylist or makeup artist, not that there's anything wrong with that.

So I punched those tapes in the junk and threw them out. Because if my boy wanted to cha-cha until his legs gave out, then God dammit, he was going to. And we would be there to cheer him on every step of the way.


Yesterday was recital night. Gutsy picked out his nicest white shirt, making sure the cuffs were done up and the collar was straight. He wore black pants and his awesome white and black plaid hightops to accentuate the outfit. He was calm and collected before his big performance. I, on the other hand, was probably more excited than he was.

When I had my third boy one regret crossed my mind: I guess I'll never go to a dance recital. As Minimaven I had a long term affair with the stage, performing jazz ballet, tap and theatre. Talented? Oh, I think so. And in my mind, I knew I would have a little girl who would also make her mama proud as she dazzled the crowd with her dance moves.

Three penises later, I had lost all hope.

That is, until Gutsy sledgehammered my stereotypes into rubble and dazzled a packed house as he danced with a little girl named Cindy, who he said later was "realy pretty but also kind of mean."

Geekster explained that's usually how it goes with girls. I gave him an elbow to the ribs.

Gutsy made us all so proud. There was a limit of two people allowed to attend per child due to limited seating. We were seven: Geekster and I, The Madre, The Sister, The Brothers and Chemgineer. Rebels, the whole lot.

After the performance I got a tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me," said a friendly voice - and I expected a chair to the face for having made someone stand in the back while my family took up nearly an entire row - "I feel like a total stalker right now, but I just had to say that I read your blog and I love it."

Oh.

My.

God.

Was I just recognized in public? Does that mean I have a fan? Or maybe a groupie? This must be an April Fool's joke. Except she seemed truthful and there wasn't a pack of mean girls behind her waiting to laugh at the pleased look on my face.

As it turns out she knows a couple of people I know and they seem to all like my blog. I have no clue why, but I don't question these things. Instead I dragged her around and showed her off to my family, stating in absolute disbelief that someone actually came up to me they love my work.

Or, well, close to it.

Then I asked her to add me on Facebook, which she did. And now we'll be friends forever.

Hah. Who's the stalker now?

To my new friend: You did well, but I think there's some room for improvement. If you want to be a real stalker and not just someone being nice, might I recommend figuring out where I live and maybe doing something creepy like ringing the doorbell and leaving me a coffee on my doorstep in the morning? Extra large, 2 cream. By doing it every day you'd be creating a ritual and thus upping your game and earning more crazy points.

Please don't poison the coffee though, as I would like to drink it. Also, if you start soon I can get some Roll-up-the-Rim cups. And if I win a car I'll let you drive around in it with me sometimes. Promise. I'm nice like that.


When Gutsy's dance was finished and he left the stage, he came right to me and crawled up on my lap, tired and proud. I kissed the top of his head I don't know how many times and held him tight. In that moment I remembered what a long and painful journey it was getting pregnant with him; the negative tests month after month, the losses, the sadness, the hopelessness, the often faltering determination.

Last night I was able to get another glimpse of the beautiful boy he is and the man he will become. I love him so much. I love them all so much. My heart just swells with gratitude when I think about it.

I mean, what would life had been like had we given up? What on earth would life be like with no Gutsy or Spawnling around?

I mean, other than peaceful.


They have my heart. All of them.