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

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...)

The Maven of Christmas Past

Spawnling and Gutsy: So cute with their claws retracted

Greetings from the other side of the fray.

It was a wonderful, crazy, stressful, harried, mostly enjoyable Christmas. The gremlins were spoiled, of course. We had a large family dinner, then went out of town on the 27th for another family dinner. Gutsy came home with some adorable African dwarf frogs, which I promise to get a picture of soon. They're named Bubbles and Squishee, and I pray every day that they're both males who will never figure out how to impregnate each other. Gutsy is quite smitten with them, and when he's not fighting with his brothers or telling us how bored he is, he sits contentedly in his room and watches them swim around. I must admit, they're rather captivating. Soothing, even. I've sat on his bed and stared at them myself when no one's around. They're my little amphibi-friends.

My husband and I are tired from the crazy, and are sometimes at the point of barely speaking after a long day of refereeing loud arguments and enduring even louder cooperative games, but we're managing. We still love each other, we just love each other from different rooms. It's like this every year.  Nerves run raw and we all walk on eggshells. After nearly a decade-and-a-half of parenting, I've learned that you just. get. through. it. And when you get to the other side, you can safely remove the cyanide pill you've been hiding under your tongue for emergencies and enjoy some back-to-school quiet.

I had my first ever gluten-free Christmas, which was not only manageable but surprisingly delicious. The husband I barely speak to some days went out of his way to make a Maven-friendly version of my dad's tortiere (which, for the non-french, is the most amazing meat pie on the face of the planet). It was so good and much appreciated. Christmas isn't Christmas unless there's half a tortiere in my belly.

I ate everything and anything I could safely manage, stuffing my waist full of artery-ravaging cholesterol and loving every mouthful. I did have to pass on a lot of homemade goodies that made their way to our place, but I expected that. My aunt brought over freshly baked bread, and I stayed away from that, too, as difficult as it was. Instead, I ate some shitty store-bought cheese bread and wished I had taken the time to bake something at home. 

And I would feel sorry for myself for having to pass all that up, except I've lost... oh, about ten pounds.

That's right, kittens: TEN POUNDS in as many weeks. I'm a freaking toothpick! Well, if there were size 18 toothpicks. I guess I'm more of a redwood cedar trunk, but not one you can drive a car through anymore. It's progress.

But how on earth did I lose weight? What did I do? Nothing, actually. I still eat chocolate, chips and the gluten-free varieties of my favourite breads and pastas (albeit fewer servings as they get expensive and some of them just aren't palatable). Still, I'm not exactly training for my next triathlon or anything - unless I can strap wheels and a speedo on the couch. My body just likes that I'm not poisoning it, I guess. Imagine that. 

It's motivating, refreshing, totally awesome. I feel like I'm going into the new year with a healthier mind and body. My energy levels are incredible. In fact, I've even cut my coffee consumption down by about two-thirds. Yep, you heard right. There are paddles to the right if you need to start your heart up again. I figure if I add some exercise in I'll be on my way to some kind of serious hotness. It's hard to believe that exercise might actually result in a decent amount of weight loss now, but my body doesn't seem to be holding on to fat for dear life anymore, so I'm going to tentatively try to nudge it along a little faster.

In short, I'm even more amazing than I used to be. And to think scientists always assumed it was impossible to reach this level of greatness. But I suppose breaking down barriers is what The Maven is all about. I'll be smacking 2011 with a big bag of rice flour and making it my bitch. I will own it, and it will buy me smaller pants because it is afraid to anger me. 

I like where this is going.  I might just get myself a fur-lined trench coat and a cane. Word up.

17 years later, my husband figures it out

It's a mellow Monday morning. Intrepid and Gutsy are at school. Spawnling slept like ass and is splayed across my queen size bed like he was most of the night. Of course, this means coffee has already been brewed, poured and partially ingested into his tired parents' bodies. It also means I probably won't over-think a blog post and can possibly write something funny. I've been lacking in the creativity department lately. Stress is a cruel mistress.

Not that I don't always have stress. Remember the whole "three boys" part of my life? That's stress in excess right there, my friends. Yesterday, when said three boys invited two more over to play, I tried to sneak out and do groceries. It was then when I heard the very worst sentence come from my spouse's mouth:

"I might like to do groceries today, Maven."

Children were running around wildly, throwing themselves into walls in some kind of faux superhero battle. A foam sword whizzed past my ear. My jaw dropped to the floor along with the bags (grocery bags, not body bags - they weren't being that loud).

Did he... did he just steal my sunshine? Did the man I graciously allowed to spend his life with me just take my highly coveted supermarket time away?

We have a well-established routine in this house: I wait until it gets really loud and I could use a break. Then, I say I have to go to the grocery store to pick up some "things" (I'm never incredibly specific on account of running out of justifiable reasons to go). I follow that up with apologizing for leaving him in chaos in the name of feeding our children. I follow that line up with something about how busy the store is going to be and how stressful running errands is, and how it's just part of my job and I'm glad to do it for my family.

Then, when my van turns the corner, I crank up the cheesiest pop music imaginable, sing at the top of my lungs, whip into the parking lot, grab the bags out of the trunk and waltz into the store like I own the place.

I get some space, a breather, a few minutes to switch gears and get immersed in a different kind of stress; for while there's definitely some crazy involved in aisles blocked by old ladies tut-tutting over the price of tuna, I don't have my gremlins crawling all over the cart, which means I can patiently wait - it makes the trip longer, anyway. And when I hear children howling at the checkout, my empathetic look is quickly hijacked by a grin that says: Psst. Check out my childless cart. Isn't it amazingly quiet?

I come home refreshed and ready to get slapped by the wall of chaos at the front door: The screaming, the tears, the frustrated faces. But it's okay because I had my little break.

Who needs an affair? Way too complicated. I just go fondle produce for an hour.

And then, out of the blue, my husband offers to go tickle the tomatoes instead? What right does he have? Those are my grapes to grope, Geekster. You have your office job with your, well, office, and desk, and lunch breaks, and bosses who don't scream and you and throw things and tip over chairs (we hope). And I have my damn grocery store. That's my lunch break, ok?

But I let him walk out that door holding my bags, strolling to his car, while behind me in the living room the noise grew louder.

After seventeen years, he's figured me out.

Oh, did I mention that we celebrated our seventeenth date-a-versary on Saturday? On May 1st, 1993, I met this cute boy at a party and talked his ear off for three hours. Even after that, he couldn't wait to see me the next day. And now he's been seeing me every day for nearly two decades. Poor sop. No wonder he needs a grocery store outing.

Our amazing friends graciously took all three gremlins on Saturday afternoon and kept them until after dinner. Other than the fact that I think my friend may have attempted to remove her own uterus after six hours with my boys, it was a good day. Geekster and I were able to spend time in our own house without any children around for the first time in years.

Years.

We've gone out, we've even stayed out overnight a handful of times, but there's something really nice about being in your own home together without any responsibilities. I can't tell you what happened in the first hour after we got home whatsoever - a gas leak, crack in the space/time continuum, alien abduction, who knows? - but after that hour was over, we had coffee, stirfry, cake, watched really soothing nature programs on television, and snuggled a lot. It was bliss.

By the time we picked the kids up, Geekster and I were rejuvenated, happy, calm. That feeling stayed for most of yesterday, which is why I didn't try to hit him with a rubber boot as he walked out the door and headed to my favourite getaway. I then redirected the busy boys to the great outdoors, threw some food at them to keep them quiet, then went into the kitchen and made pasta, bagels and cookies from scratch.

Damn, I'm amazing.

And where is my wonderful husband today? At stupid, wonderful work. 'See you at six!' he said this morning, then kissed me sweetly and walked out the door.

I almost knocked him out with a folded umbrella and stole his keys and building pass, but then realized I couldn't write a line of code to save my life. Not to mention I'm anything but bald or skinny or male, so passing as him probably wouldn't work very well.

He can have his coffee breaks and lunches. I'll have bagels and cookies. On this particular rainy Monday morning, I totally win.

Five Things I'm Grateful For (Other than my Awesomeness)

Last night I had a dream that Geekster was made captain of one of seven space shuttles, all of which were taking off simultaneously on some cosmic mission. I remember feeling so incredibly proud of him and, of course, bragging my ass off to everyone who could hear me.

Then I woke up and felt kind of bad for the bragging.

This dream taught me two things:

1. I've been watching far too many space movies lately (can't help it - Captain Kirk and Han Solo are dreamy dudes) and,

2. After sixteen years, I still think a great deal of my husband

Let's face it: Life has been shit on toast the last few months. The Maven family has had a series of unfortunate events that, while not exactly book or movie worthy, have thrown us for a loop or two. We faced a minor health crisis, a serious money crunch, some fluctuations in our social circle, a small fire, and a whole bucket load of 'Why is this all happening at once?!' This has undoubtedly been our worst year in at least a decade.

But he's been there, that man of mine. A shining example of this was how, when we couldn't afford anything for each other on Valentine's Day, he woke up early and made pink pancakes for the entire family. I married an amazing guy.

He's been solid footing when life feels almost treacherous; a warm campfire when the path is dark and cold. I could come up with many other cheesy metaphors - I'm quite good at them, you know - but I think the point has been made without making you gag on my sappiness. While stress has certainly not passed my darling husband by, he's been the incredible best friend to me that he always is, and for that I'm very grateful.

In fact, I'm feeling a whole crapload of gratitude lately. Back when I was quitting the sauce, I was taught by the wise recovery gurus that gratitude and optimism are sometimes all a girl's got to hitch her sanity to in times of extreme sucktitude, lest she go out for a pint or ten. I've carried that knowledge all these years within my soul.

Uh, I mean my fat cells, which is clearly why I carry the extra weight around. It all makes sense now, doesn't it? Someone pass the bag of chips; It's for a good cause.

So, in lieu of writing yet another depressing post about how we had to spend our grocery money to fix my windshield and Geekster's birthday money on groceries, I'm going to take a few moments to mention the good things in my life.

I know: big of me, right? Just flexing my well-used optimism muscle, that's all.

I've already mentioned my husband. He gets top billing. Then there are these beautiful little guys. Here they are this afternoon, smiling widely and loving life:



You're right: I'm full of it. They were totally fighting when I took those.

I'm also grateful for Spawnling's drawings. Like all good artists, his work is able to invoke several emotions simultaneously. When I see his work, I'm first proud that he's drawing sensible shapes.

"Snowmans"

"Daddy playing guitar" (Guitar added in by daddy upon request)

Then I'm somewhat confused because they look like potatoes with toothpicks, or drunken amoeba.

"Daddy hugging me."


"Daddy and me, but I drew Daddy with hair, and he doesn't really have hair, so... oops."

Then I'm a little annoyed that every single one of them is either Spawnling and daddy, Daddy being a rock star, or some inanimate object. You'd think having given birth to the ten pound turkey, I might get my own cracked-out single-celled organism look-alike, but apparently not.

And finally I laugh a little, because they're gosh darn cute, just like their maker. And their maker's maker, obviously.

I'm grateful for the family members who have stepped up and helped out with babysitting so Geekster and I can preserve our sanity and our coupledom, bought outerwear for the kids so we don't have to worry about clothing three gremlins for next year's winter season, given us a hand up financially until things get better, and just been generally supportive and understanding.

I'm grateful for the friends who text just to tell me they care, tow away the gremlins to make our house less chaotic for a little while, take me out for breakfast, drop by with coffee, and listen to my incessant complaints about Murphy and his damn law.

It's really hard to be depressed around you guys. You give me little opportunity to drown my sorrows in melted chocolate. Thank you.

Husband, gremlins, creepy/adorable pictures, family, friends. That's five, right? Counting is hard this evening. I went skating with Gutsy's grade 1 class and accompanying grade 6 class today. After tying that many skates and watching a kit throw up in a garbage can a few times, my brain is a little fuzzy.

Oh! And finally, I'm grateful it wasn't my kid throwing up in the garbage can. That's six.

My Late Night Pharmacy 'Aha!' Moment

Yesterday was not only Geekster's birthday, but the day I got a wicked migraine that wouldn't go away. It started just after lunch and carried through until this morning. It was annoying and intrusive upon my day, much like the summer those Jehovah's Witnesses kept coming by with pamphlets during nap time.

Mr. Migraine lingered through my mandatory last-minute dash to the grocery store, the nearly catastrophic layered cake experiment, my thirty minute workout, and homemade pizza-making. He stuck around and poked at the left side of my head when we sang happy birthday to my darling husband, when we cut the cake, when I cleared the dishes. He throbbed at my temple during Obama's State of the Union address, and throbbed even more as I snorted with laughter at the Republican's Response ("Best healthcare system in the world"? Can Republicans read? Ever see the multitude of studies done on US health care cost and overall life expectancy?)

Finally, around 10:30, I just couldn't take it anymore. I had tried Advil twice during the day and it had done absolutely nothing to stop the pounding bass drum in my forehead. I peeled myself off the couch and made my way to the 24hr pharmacy, hoping something a wee bit stronger would kick the it for good.

I asked to see the pharmacist, and started describing the pain. I told him what I had taken, and that it hadn't worked like it usually does. 'Is there something stronger I could take?' I asked, rubbing my head.

It was then I realized where I was: an urban pharmacy in the middle of the night, asking about stronger painkillers. I wondered if I looked like those pill-popping housewives Oprah has on every other month. Maybe if I twitched a little and got a desperate look in my eye, I could really freak some people out...

At thirty-three, I still like to rebel a little.

Disappointingly, I don't behave enough like a junkie to get any kind of uncomfortable look from a pharmacist. He asked me to describe the pain, so I did. When I told him it hurts more when I'm up and doing things, he asked me if I had recently checked my blood pressure.

Well, no, obviously. Because denial is pretty awesome and I liked it there. Why burst my bubble? He pointed me to the blood pressure machine. I took it three times, and the last and lowest reading I got was 141/85.

Not good.

For those readers who are not familiar with blood pressure, that was a really shitty score. It's not a 'run, sobbing, to your nearest heart clinic' score, or a 'time to find a pig with a strong ticker and hope you have the same blood type' score, but it's not exactly great, either. It means my blood pressure is too high, and bad things could eventually happen.

Now, Denial Maven would like to point out the following:

- It had been a busy day
- I was stressed out
- I was in pain
- It was late at night, and I was tired
- Pharmacy blood pressure equipment can be flaky

Thank you, Denial Maven. Now kindly shut up, and let's talk to Realistic Maven. She doesn't come out to play very often, but we still need to include her in the group, ok?

Denial Maven says:

- I am obese
- I am stressed far too often, and stress kills
- This is a wake-up call

It's funny, because I've sort of come full-circle: First, I hated my body because I'm fat. Then, I accepted it for what it is. Next, I began to love it as much as I love other aspects of myself (which is a lot, in case you hadn't noticed). Now, I love myself enough to want to get healthier. I can accept my body, but I can't accept my blood pressure, because that can- and likely will - cause major damage to the body I now love.

The simple fact is that being this overweight is not good for my health. On top of that, the amount of stress I've been under isn't helping, either. it's time for some big lifestyle changes: more exercise, better food, more relaxation techniques, more time for play. I owe it to myself, my kids, my spouse, and of course my countless minions who rely on me to brighten their days with my blog posts. The blood pressure readings I took last night worried me. I've known for a while that I'm heading down a scary path if I don't make some significant changes.

It's time.

Wow. The determination in that last sentence was so badass! I'm going to try it again, but with more emphasis on the last word:

It's time.

I just got all tingly. I might have just turned myself on.

For his birthday - the sixteenth we've celebrated as a couple - my husband got a homemade cake, homemade pizza, and a pretty decent gift he'd been eying for a while. On his next birthday, I hope he has a wife who is a lot healthier. He loves me, and I know wants me to stick around for a while. Not only do I put out, but I make great pizza crust.

So This Was Christmas, and I Sure Did Get Spun

I know, I know. It's been over a week since I last graced the Blogosphere with one of my incredible posts. I was wrapped up in the whole spirit of giving thing (although the receiving wasn't so bad, either - just sayin'.)

But fear not, my weepy little lambs, because I am back with a vengeance. For, even though we did nearly $300 worth of groceries yesterday and came home without coffee cream (I should have my Coffee Lovers license revoked for that major infringement), my lovely Coffee Fairy brought me not one, but two extra-large coffees this morning. Oh, and some creamers for any additional coffee I might want to have after the consumption of the first two.

Not only am I going to be in fine creative shape for this post, but I can already hear the snap of my brittle bones breaking as the calcium is leeched from them. I understand there are good drugs for premature osteoporosis. Thank the gods.

I hope everyone's Kwistmakkah was enjoyable. (Incidentally, I don't personally know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa. But The Brain on Arthur does and he's a cool dude, so it got smushed into my politically correct holiday address.) I hope the love was so deep you could drown in it, and that the gifts were bountiful, but not to the point of feeling like a commercialized whore.

I do have a way with words, don't I? Like little petals strung delicately together, they are.

We had a great Christmas, of course. I'm The Maven, after all. I have a great everything. Geekster took a couple of weeks off so as to provide tactical backup spend quality time with his family while everyone is home for the holidays. I thought his idea was a mix of sweetness and responsibility, with a thick coat of crazy. I said 'Look, I have to be here because I'm a stay-at-home-mom. That's my job. But you could take vacation any time. Why do it when you're not going to get any rest at all?!'

His coating of crazy is especially thick, because he has yet to lose his shit on anyone. I am obviously the sane one, as I've had at least two or three good yells at the boys over the last week. at one point, I even contemplated a lobotomy with Geekster's cordless drill, but the damn Christmas tree was using up all the wall sockets. Instead, I chose to break my sugar-free stretch and escape into the world of chocolate. It's been nice, but I'll be revving up the detox engines again soon. My waistline - or the spot formerly known as my waistline - will thank me.

On the 23rd, we took the kids to the Museum of Nature and over to the Elgin Street Diner for poutine. Lunch cost $65. Welcome to the reality of a family of five. The good news? The poutine was delish, and after a couple of hours of dinosaur-gawking, we needed the calories (or so I tell myself).


According to Gutsy, dinos are huge. I love the expression of wonder on his face. It's significantly more pleasant than his expression of anger, and much quieter than his expression of screaming.

The 24th was a day spent out and about with The Sister. The two smallest gremlins ran into Santa at her office. Spawnling wouldn't go near the dude in the red suit, but Gutsy was all over him. That charming little gremlin was just making sure the big guy remembered his face before he set out with a sack full of toys that night (it worked).




(Note how Spawn is sooooo not impressed.)

Then, we spent the afternoon at Rideau Centre, Ottawa's largest shopping maul (yes, I misspelled that on purpose - we were there on Christmas Eve, after all). I was finished shopping, but went along with The Sister to attempt to finish hers. Gutsy had a blast listening to some tracks at a music store.


(Santa and headphone pics courtesy of The Sister. There's a reason why she calls herself Photo Lush)

It sounds crazy, right? Dragging two small children through a maul a few hours before the stores close. It's something I never would have considered after my first - or even my second - child. But there's a method to my madness. From years of experience, I can tell you what the alternative would have been had we stayed at home all day:

When is Santa coming? Are we going to make cookies? Should we draw him a picture? How does Santa get around the world in one night, anyway? And does he come through the wood stove chimney or the furnace chimney? And what if it's hot? And can we open one gift before we go to bed? Please oh please oh please? Is it bedtime yet? No? What about now? No? What about now? Good, because I can't sleep anyway! And what about the gingerbread house? Can we eat that? Can I have the roof? NO! I WANTED THE ROOF! I SAID IT FIRST! MOOOOOOM!!! MY BROTHER IS TRYING TO HIT ME BECAUSE I SAID I WANTED THE ROOF AND I TOLD HIM HE'LL BE ON THE NAUGHTY LIST IF HE DOES THAT AND NOW HE'S CRYYYYIIIIING!

No. Thank. You. The chaos of busy stores filled with frantic last-minute shoppers has nothing on Christmas Eve at Casa Maven.

And Christmas came, bright and early (but not too early - 7:30 is an acceptable wake-the-parents time), and it was magical. Spawnling had crawled into our bed and whispered 'Merry Christmas' to me as he gently stroked my face, followed closely by 'See? I told you I was going to "merry" you someday."

That's the sound of my heart melting. Who knew it would make a sound?

And what did we do on Christmas day? Ready for this?

Absolutely nothing.

Yep, that's right. We did nothing. The gremlins three stayed in their pajamas and played with their new toys all day. We all ate copious amounts of fattening food. We did not clean the house. We watched movies and played video games as wrappings lay all over the floor. No stress, no fighting, no rush. It was a well-deserved break after a very long and stressful year. Watching Spawnling tear open his gifts was a sobering reminder that he was in a hospital not too long ago for one very terrifying week, and spent weeks building back up to the boy we know. Now healthy and happy again, he got the one thing he really, really wanted for Christmas: a Wall-E Laptop.


I breathed in every second of his joy, and I'm sure Geekster did, too. Our little Christmas miracle is he.

On the 26th, Spawnling once again woke me up with a 'Merry Christmas!', followed by 'Wait, is it still Christmas?'

'Sort of,' I replied. 'It's Boxing Day.'

Confused and worried, Spawnling said 'Boxing day?! Uh, can I just go bowling instead?'

I made that kid. I really did. He came out of me.

We headed to Peterborough, Ontario, for a visit with the in-laws. We had a fantastic time, minus the fact that four of us had colds and mine was at its peak. Just a minor bug, but not when you're driving four hours in bad weather and catching up with family you only see once or twice a year. That takes some serious energy. Thank goodness for coffee and diet colas.

We all got some really nice, thoughtful things this year, but I have to say my favourite was the donation to Plan Canada in my name for 10 home birthing kits, thus ensuring a safer delivery for 10 little ones and their mothers in developing countries. That did my heart some good. Geekster's parents symbolically adopted an emperor penguin in his name.

(We recently watched Happy Feet, and as soon as the boys discover the fuzzy little bird which came with that WWF kit, there will be fights, I assure you. It won't be pretty.)

The good news? I just got an adorable new camera to capture said fights in clear detail. Its frame rate will ensure that even the fastest flying fists can be captured clearly and easily on video.

Oh, and it's hot pink. Merry ho ho to me and only me, because nobody else will touch it on account of it being a "girl colour."

Well... I might have to keep an eye on Gutsy.

So that's the rundown 'round these parts. Now that the chaos is mostly behind us, I should have more time to post again. That is, after the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Cleanup, who will wave an ethereal hand and re-organize my home in the blink of an eye.

You know, the fifth ghost? There was the Ghost of Christmas Past, then Present, then Future, then that Death guy, then Cleanup, right?

I swear it's in the book. I'm going to sit here and keep waiting.

Thoughts on the "Childless by Choice" movement

I received a request from a friend of mine to blog about the Childless by Choice movement that is becoming a bit of a trend in some of the wealthier countries. Because I like to know what I'm dealing with, I decided to do a bit of digging, and came across this and several other similar sites that tout the benefits of not raising a family.

Now, my readers should take into consideration that I've been writing this on a day when Gutsy is home "sick" (he is so going to school tomorrow) which means the boys have been fighting almost non-stop, and Spawnling managed to throw a 45-minute-long tantrum over not getting any candy. My mommy morale is low, and no amount of caffeine seems to be able to give it a pep talk.

Living childless by choice: It's an interesting concept to me, as I was always of the mind that I wanted my own little band of gremlins to tame. I came from a larger family - there were four of us - and it shaped my perception of what "family" means: kids, chaos, and calamity. And, as a stay-at-home-mom to three boys, I'm living the dream, baby. My house is full of all of those things and more. It's loud, it's unpredictable, and the place is nearly always messy. There are days when it's downright condemnable, or at the very least, looks like a runner-up for an episode of Hoarders (I admit I watch the show just so I can feel better about my own mess. It borders on pathetic that I need to see something that extreme in order to excuse the disaster in my kitchen.)

Yesterday, I visited good friends of ours who just had their fourth baby. I held that little guy, patted his bottom, kissed his crown of downy dark hair, inhaled his newborn scent and wondered how I might bottle it for resale -- and gladly handed him back so his mom could nurse him. Did my uterus twitch? A tad, sure. He reminds me of my own little creatures before their horns grew long and claws grew sharp. So innocent and sweet.

But I didn't want to rush home and have one. Why? Because I'm done having children and happy about it, thank you very much. Just over two years ago, I drove Geekster to the vasectomy doctor and followed him in doing cartwheels and throwing confetti to mark the special occasion. For, within a few short weeks of that appointment, I knew that sex could be sex again, without the threat of morning sickness and more college tuition to save up for.

Look, parenting is hard. It's not some fun, whimsical journey through Magic Happy Land filled with little gnomes who say 'Will you be my mommy?' and traipse gaily through the tulips along side you as your heart swells with joy. Childbirth brings pain of many kinds, and that's only the beginning. In parenthood there is vomit, poop and pee in copious amounts. There are tantrums, lies and broken teenage hearts to deal with. There is an overwhelming amount of laundry.

No, for real. There's a lot of laundry, dudes.

And no matter what you do - what lengths you go to in order to raise happy, healthy human beings - they will likely resent at least some of what you did. More seriously, there are the concerns over raising a child with special needs - be they physical, mental or emotional, that can take your life in a very different direction than planned. Taking on the role of parent may not be what you think you signed up for in the first place.

Then, there are the parents who probably should have given more thought before signing a birth certificate. There are the obvious people - the drug-addicted, abusive, neglectful types who remind us of the unfortunate reality that you don't need to pass any exams to get this job. But there are also the more subtle bad parenting types - the ones who treat their children like accessories. They have them because they figure they should, for one reason or another, then resent the hell out of their lives for doing so. They're obviously miserable, and try as they might, can't seem to make their offspring a priority. Those kids are the ones who know more about what's on television than what's going on in their parents' lives, regularly get sent to school or daycare when they're obviously too sick to be there, and end up getting into a great deal of trouble later on because they figure nobody cares anyway.

With those things I mind, I'm all in favour of someone deciding they don't want to take on that role. Maybe they don't think they'll make good parents, or maybe their idea of enjoying life does not include pacing back and forth at 3AM with a teething baby. Maybe they want to travel, or throw themselves into a job that isn't conducive to having a family. Whatever their reasons, I give them a giant high five for not only recognizing what will make them happy, but not bending to the pressures of community, religion, or society as a whole. They've just saved a potential child from growing up feeling unwanted.

My tree hugging side also understands the environmental impact of having one less potential human on the planet. Fewer carbon emissions, less waste, one less consumer. We're not exactly an earth-friendly species, and I see nothing wrong with having fewer people to share limited resources.

Furthermore, I understand how exhausting this parenting gig is. I know firsthand how much time it takes and how much commitment is involved in boarding the S.S. Embryo. There is a large chunk of one's social life and relationship that walks the plank the minute that first cry is heard. If you're lucky, you'll find it washed up on shore in a few years and can reclaim what's left of it. But in the meantime, it's an all-encompassing, loud, smelly thrill ride. As someone who has spent thirteen years swabbing the parental decks, I'm happy to know I have some shore leave in my future. It's nice on the beach. Maybe some folks don't want to leave it - can I blame them?

While I'm sympathetic to the choice of the purposely un-knocked-up (or un-knocking-up, depending on one's gender), I would also like to point out some of the potential drawbacks of couples who decide not to combine their genetics. For one, as much as much as they may love each other, it's important to know that the love is conditional. Trust me: it is. Don't kid yourself (pun intended). I love my husband like crazy, but I couldn't possibly compare that love to what I feel for my boys.

What does conditional love mean? Well, it means that, as smoochy-cutesy-wootsy as you might be right now, there's still a half-decent chance you'll find yourselves on opposite sides of a courtroom in the future. Or, one of you may pass away prematurely, leaving the other one quite alone. There's the whole unfortunate aging bit, too - you'd better hope you have enough money to have good care when you're older, and that you have people concerned enough about your well being to make sure nobody is hurting you, or stealing from you.

What? Did The Maven just imply that one should have children for the soul purpose of not being alone later on? No, but I'd be lying if I didn't count that as a distinct advantage. My children don't owe me a thing because I chose to bring them into the world, but I would hope the unconditional love we share will continue throughout the years.

That love; that unconditional, incredible bond one has with a child. That is the gift that minimizes the resentment of any unpleasant parental task. It's indescribable to someone who hasn't held their own baby. But you know it has to be good, because it has been, in large part, what has kept the species going for a very long time.

Well, that and sex feels really good. But I digress.

***

Tonight, after a very long and exhausting day of breaking up fights between Itchy and Scratchy Gutsy and Spawnling, my husband knew I needed a break. He booked the babysitter - that would be Intrepid - and took me out for a late-night dinner on the cheap at a local Italian restaurant. We drank water out of wine glasses and had food that would make our gremlins gag. We laughed and talked and stuffed our bellies full of deliciousness.

Meanwhile, this post was sitting half-finished in one of my many Firefox windows. I brought the topic up with Geekster and we both agreed that, while we love the freedom of nights out like tonight, we wouldn't trade the kids, chaos, and calamity for anything else. Nothing brings us more fulfillment, happiness, and a sense of partnership than raising our boys.

All those things like attending social gatherings, dinners out, vacations, careers - they can all be quite enjoyable. But once you see your child for the first time, everything changes. Those things lose some of their vibrancy, because the new palette of parenting is so much more vivid in comparison. That's the beauty of unconditional love, and the bottom line for me. It's what made my choice to become a mother so damn easy.

But your mileage may vary, and once again, I respect that. Even if you don't have kids, we can hang out and stuff. And you can pay, because you likely have a lot more expendable cash than I do.

See? I can be very PC-like and inclusive. Isn't that nice of me?

In Which The Maven Takes a Moment to Say Thank You

It's a sunny morning in Ottawa, and I'm tuning out Diego with an iPod playlist. I would have normally shuddered when Spawn picked that annoying little animal konservation kid from a stack of perfectly acceptable videos, but I suppose he being alert enough to pick and watch a video is the important thing.

I guess.

There are only two things more annoying that Diego: Barney the nasal dinosaur (complete with creepy, overly-animated kids) and that huge-headed Dora. Figures she's Diego's cousin. Please stop yelling questions at the screen. I don't know any child who actually answers you out loud anyway. Also, if you can't figure out where you are, where you're supposed to go, or how to to identify primary colours, you are far too stupid a child to be out in the jungle by yourself. Where are your parents?

...But being in a hospital room for several days isn't getting to me or anything.

Spawnling now has the pleasure of being our most costly offspring. Geekster and I want to sincerely thank the taxpayers of Canada for helping to make our child better. This is where public health care really shines, and why we need to protect it; Spawn's isolation stay costs a few thousand dollars a day. He's also had 72 hours of anti-viral drugs and many tests that are quite costly. Furthermore, his IVIG treatment was at least $3000. Yes, for one dose.

I only know all of this stuff because I asked and I researched out of sheer curiosity. Nobody has bothered me about cost-related stuff because we don't have to directly pay for it. Thank goodness.

I've always been a big proponent of public health care, but now that Spawn has been this sick I'm positively militant about protecting it. The last thing anyone should have to think about when their child is very ill is how much it's going to cost, what their private insurance company will cover, whether or not they'll renew coverage after this is all over... Nursing your baby back to health should be the entire focus. That's stressful enough as it is.

(I would highly suggest you don't try to debate this with me right now. It's not a good time. Just nod and smile and back away politely. Say things like 'Wow, Maven! You're so passionate about this! That's great!' That would be the safer approach. Just sayin'.)

I think I'm done ranting now. It's been kind of stressful around here, in case that's not apparent. And the recovery process for my dear Spawnling (who's real name is Jackson, in case you didn't know and feel strange praying or thinking good thoughts for a kid with such a 'colourful' nickname) has taken its toll on the whole family. The situation has a lot of 'hurry up and wait' elements to it, and that can really wear a person down - even one as amazing as myself.

So here's the scoop on Spawn: He's picking up, but it's very slow. He's awake more often, eating a bit, drinking some, watching movies and cuddling in bed to read books.

But he's irritable. Sooooo irritable. It comes with the Kawasaki disease. He wakes up every time his IV monitor goes off, which is quite frequently because the little bugger moves around a lot (another good sign). He's somewhat combattive which is also positive. And last night, at 3AM, he called me 'stupid'. I was so happy to be belittled I nearly cried!

On Monday the tinniest gremlin has an ECG so we can have our first look at his heart. I'm not terribly worried, but only because I need energy to focus on the right now and not on the 'what ifs'. The heart might not be affected now but could be compromised later. Or maybe not. Why worry about it? We have a long road of aspirin taking and cardiac follow-ups regardless. It could be worse. I mean, he could have potential heart problems and the hospital could face a serious coffee shortage. Now that would be a problematic.

I'll have you know that I was an awesome mother this morning: In an attempt to bribe the boy into taking the four aspirin pills he needs every six hours, I gave him a bag of Doritos to munch on. Don't worry; the aspirin will more than offset any potential Dorito damage. That's my hands-on health-conscious parenting at work.

Everything is by-the-minute right now. As my wonderful new friend Lil said, you take this stuff a moment at a time. That's all we can do.

You people have been amazing. I can't thank you enough. All the comments on the blog have kept me going when I'm feeling scared or overwhelmed. My friends on Facebook have been incredibly supportive, asking how he's doing and how they can help. My cousin apparently got a lot of people at this weekend's pow-wow to pray for Spawn to get well. How cool is that?

Folks have been calling, coming by, bringing coffee, offering hugs. Geekster has been holding the fort down and keeping the older gremlins amused and distracted. Friends and family have been pitching in wherever they can, taking the boys for an outing or cooking meals. And my mom has been a rock for me to lean on more times than I can count. I call her about everything and, sick as she is, she's here, she's babysitting, she's preparing food, she's researching. If I ever needed her it's now, and she knows that. Thanks, Madre. I love you!

Oh hell, I love all of you. Come here and get a hug. I always knew I was fantastically popular, but I didn't know exactly how good my friendships and family relationships were until now. I pick good peeps. Pat yourselves on the back - you deserve it.

Shit. Now I'm crying. Gratitude crying this time. That's good, right? Better than terrified crying or exhausted crying. We're headed in the right direction.

Must go wipe my tears and check the dryer upstairs. It will be nice to have clean clothes that do not smell like ass.

Thank you. I'll update when we know more.

Love Means Killing Yourself Jogging

Guys. Wow. You know, I joke about being popular and loved and everything, but 20 comments about my fat day? I can't possibly thank each and every one of you individually. You're too much. You're awesome. You're incredible.

You may start construction on my statue any time. And while you're working on it, think you could shape my ass to be a wee bit more muscular? If we're going to immortalize me for all time, let's do it in style, okay?

Honestly, I'm feeling the love and I am extremely grateful. My mom's post made me cry (stupid moms and their powerful words of wisdom) as did a couple of others. Some others made me sad because people who are obviously beautiful don't always have the best body image. Why? Why don't you think you're totally hot? You are. Embrace it! When I'm your size I'm going to be checking myself out in every reflective surface. I mean, damn!

At any rate, that day was what I needed to get on track. This week I hiked, I worked in the yard, I did some weights and I avoided buying any junk food. I did sneak in a few chips at a BBQ (mandatory) and some chocolate-covered fruit (a little compromise I came up with when I was in the mood for my once-upon-a-time daily intake of chocolate) but overall I've done well without complete deprivation. I like.

Today I didn't have to do The Denim Dance, which is basically me hopping into my jeans and then wiggling back and forth while sucking in my gut and forcing the button closed. Once that's done the zipper is a piece of cake, but at what cost? The buttons get very loose, and the muffin top needs to be hidden under a shirt with no waist (thank goodness for current fashion). Yet, this morning I slipped into my favourite pair of jeans with no problems whatsoever and just about humped the bedside table in delight.

What? You don't get the urge to hump things? Must be my dominating personality.

I keep checking myself out in the mirror, too. It's ridiculous. I'm noticing the shrinking double chin and, of course, the red hair. My life, at the moment, is all about the red hair. When I find my waist the red hair will step back to play a supporting role.

On Friday, Geekster and I attended a couple study at the University of Ottawa. Why? Because we want to help the next generation of lovebirds. Because we want to increase awareness of how relationships work. Because we want to help scientists figure out how successful couples co-exist.

And mostly because they paid $40 and it was a night out. We ran out the door when we were finished and had a nice dinner. Thank you, science!

The spouse and I spent about two hours answering questionnaires, playing cooperative games and trying to argue about important topics on camera. The result? We realized we're really bad at arguing as our communication skills are quite decent, and we've ironed out most of our differences over the last sixteen years anyway. Also, according to our answers on the questionnaires, we really love each other. Like, a lot.

A few of my friends are in new relationships and are in the cutesy-shmootesy stage. They get and receive dozens of emails, phone calls and texts a day saying how much Lovebug loves Teddybear. They get flowers "just because" and a lot of date nights where they get to find their new-ish partner's second favourite colour and, oh my god, it's the same as their own! It must be a match made in heaven!

After spending half my life with someone, I already know his second favourite colour, or I could at least take a very good guess. I don't find out something new about him every day, and most of our conversations over MSN involve asking if I can put the trash out or if he can pick up some bread on the way home from work. It's the reality of a long term relationship involving the hatching and care of gremlins and the paying of mortgages; the cuteness is replaced by "please pass the cereal box when you're done" or "did you really need to buy that?"

But the upside, of course, is that we've practically grown up together and thus are thicker than thieves. Even if we were terribly different at first, we've now grown into this festering mass of co-dependency. Other than the fact that I have hair and a few extra pounds on me, we're pretty much the exact same person. We like the same shows, we like doing a lot of the same things, we nod in approval to each other's musical tastes. We never argue about what to eat for dinner, whether we should brew decaf or regular coffee, and our parenting styles are practically interchangeable, meaning the kids are going to save at least half of what they could spend on therapy bills; The same issue twice over is way cheaper than two separate traumas.

Yep. When the university team has a look at our answers and recorded interview, they're going to see exactly what the future has in store for them if they continue to swap spit with the same person for many years. Also, they'll hopefully check out a couple of seasons of How I Met Your Mother, which I recommended a few times by looking in the camera. When arguing with your soulmate in the name of science just isn't happening, why not play a quick game of "Remember when they said this? Hilarious! Oh, sorry Camera. Have you watched that show? You really should."

I'm still a sucker for a good love story, however, and have been getting my fix visiting the websites of him and her. They're adorable. Almost sickeningly. In fact, I puke a little in my mouth every time I read of another fantastic/magical/glorious/fairy-dusted weekend (I try to eat something grape-flavoured first. Grape is delish even coming back up). They seem like very normal people, unlike yours truly. I probably scare them being all groupie like, but that's the chance you take when you put your life up on the internets for the world to see. You might end up getting an old married broad sighing over your sweet little nothings to each other.

Disgusting. That's what it is. Absolutely disgusting!

(I hope there's more tomorrow.)

Also, I have to mention that I just ran 1.91 miles. And by "ran" I mean jogged, and by "jogged" I mean about 2/3 of that, while taking walking breaks to gasp for air with my fat-laden, asthmatic lungs.

I'm going to call it "interval training", which sounds significantly better than what I just wrote.

Being a hot bitch is really hard work, you know.