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...)

Sometimes, it's all about the shoes.

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.

Cosset

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.

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.

You are my Candy Girl

Yeah. So, like, I cut my refined sugar intake way back the last few days, and today it's catching up with me. My brain is mush. Then again, my waistline is mush and my heart will turn to mush soon if I don't start taking better care of myself. Thus, less sugar and a detoxing Maven have we.

I've tried doing this before, but always to an extreme. No sugar. Ever. At all. The end. It was doomed to epic failure right from the start. I'm not doing things differently this time and incorporating a neat little idea called 'in moderation'. And not in the way I used to incorporate it, by implying that if I only eat one chocolate bar a day that's 'in moderation'. I'm good at many things, including lying to myself. It's a curse. Getting real about this little sugar problem was a slow process, but I feel like I'm there now. I want to eat better. I want to feel better. I want those things more than cupcakes. This is a very positive thing.

I've taken my family on the journey with me, explaining to the boys the benefits of eating more whole foods. Despite sounding like an after school special, the little chit chat went rather well. Intrepid was interested in sugar's ability to weaken the immune system, and found it ironic that, after two days of binging on Halloween candy, he came down with H1N1. I was going to state that it could just be coincidence, but his enthusiasm was intoxicating and I didn't want to ruin the moment.

Gutsy was all for it, until after dinner. Then, he asked what we were having for desert. I said we weren't having desert. He glared at me. After about an hour of persistence, we settled on some graham crackers. We either both won or both lost that fight. I'm not sure which.

Spawnling is a big reason why we decided that sugar needs to take a backseat in our lives. He is completely and utterly addicted to the stuff.

No clue where he gets it from.

He's a typical addict. He craves, he binges, he gets high, and he crashes. When he crashes he's the moodiest little demon on two hooves. He tips chairs, throws things, randomly slaps people, and then realizes the monster he's become and sobs apologetically. Dr. Phil would beg me for video footage of these tantrums. Given our current debt, I wouldn't say no. Give him a bag of cookies and watch the money magic happen.

I think this will be a good change for everyone. We'll likely all feel like complete ass for a few days as we adjust to eating less refined crap, but by the end of the week we'll hopefully see less chair tipping and, I hope, a little more room in my jeans. I love chocolate, but I love my kids significantly more, and I want to be around for them for a long, long time. I need to marry my health and only have the occasional tryst with mistress sugar.

It's been a good run, baby, but we just can't do long term. It's not you, it's me, and all those other things we say when we're trying to delicately end a relationship.

Now shut up and pass the sunflower seeds.

Monday Doesn't Like Me

Ah, Monday. It's the day of peeling one's eyes open as the alarm goes off, only to realize the alarm has been going off for half an hour and you have exactly fifteen minutes to get your sluggish six-year-old onto the bus.

Obviously, you don't get him on the bus. And, with no pomp or circumstance, you throw a waffle at him as he's getting dressed, grab some of his clothes that don't match but you hope are clean, and make your husband drive him to school because he's bald and thus won't have to suffer the embarrassment of frizzy, unwashed hair in the front office.

Monday is snickering at you.

You invite a friend over for coffee, because that's what you do when the day isn't going according to plan. Coffee dates keep you centered. They keep you mellow. Mellow is good for handling unfortunate situations, like when you realize a few minutes after your coffee date arrives that your eldest son forgot his lunch in the front hall and you'll have to bring it to him. That is quite unfortunate, you think to yourself, as the coffee is brewing. Monday likes seeing you waste good coffee. The good news? It's a ten minute drive to the school, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa.

Take that, Monday.

Packing up your two-year-old and your overly-accommodating friend (thank you, friend!) you put the pedal to the metal and break away for the big, scary junior high school only to find out that they won't page your son out of class because it's against school policy. They won't tell him his lunch is there unless he asks. That's nice of them. Monday must have whispered in the secretary's ear that you were coming. It is obviously harboring an unhealthy resentment toward you. You leave the lunch at the front desk and hope he thinks of looking there before starving all day in the way only a preteen boy can.

You come home and plan on finally chatting with your friend. Coffee makes it all better. But Monday is waiting for you. It informs your toddler that playing independently is for suckers. It shows him the Rescue Heroes bin and points at your friend. Suddenly, you can't have a conversation because the situation is being monopolized by a two-year-old waving Billy Blazes in your friend's face. Nice.

But Monday has made a fatal mistake in choosing this particular friend: She would be more than happy to play Rescue Heroes for a few minutes. In fact, you even find some time to - get this - clean your house. A visitor, mother's helper and coffee date all rolled into one? Monday's powers are weakening.

Oh, sure. There are a few other annoying little things awaiting you today. It's raining and all your toddler wants to do is go to the park so you have to hear about it incessantly, your dog has found a favourite pee spot in the basement (it's a good thing they don't make sausages out of dogs or you might sell him for some pocket money), the children have forgotten how to use their indoor voices, and the dirty laundry pile is large enough that it should be declared its own sovereign nation. You just have to fasten a flag to the top and call the UN to make it official.

Monday is getting its jollies.

Still, the day will end with everyone sleeping and an episode of your very favourite narcissistic doctor; House is on at eight, and there are cookies in the cupboard.

Monday just got kicked square in the junk and is off in a corner whimpering. Another epic win for you, The Maven.

Brace Yourselves: It's an "All About Me"

I thought it would be good to start this week with an 'About Me', considering it's been over three years of blogging and I don't have one. Considering my 'Followers' list is growing exponentially every day - alright, so it's not. But it is growing and if I want to throw a smart-sounding word after it I should be allowed - I figure this is as good a time as any to introduce myself properly to all the newbies. I know you're all dying to get to know me. And who could blame you, really?

So, without further ado, I bring you a lot of useless knowledge about yours truly:

My name is The Maven. Well, actually it's Amanda. And I have a last name as well, but since I've already been stalked online I'm not going to write it here. I'm pretty much a blogging sensation - a celebrity, even - and I don't want anyone breaking into my house and stealing my undies. Especially the pink ones because I really like those.

I'm a bit egotistical. Just a little bit.

I live in the Ottawa area. Ottawa is the capital of Canada with an overall population of about 1 million. I am the most important resident other than perhaps the Prime Minister. Although he doesn't blog, so that's highly debatable. Contrary to popular belief, Canada does not always have snow; there are at least three weeks a year where we can see the permafrost on the ground and the ice roads start to melt.

I have a thriving parka business. I met my husband, Geekster, at an outerwear conference in 1993. He was selling caribou fur boots and they matched my Fall taupe line perfectly. When he showed me how wolf teeth could be used as ice grippers on the soles, it was love at first sight.

I made up one of the last three paragraphs and at least half of another one. Try and figure it out: it's tricky!

(All the Canadians are laughing right now. If they're not they have no sense of humour and should not read my blog, or they really do sell caribou boots on the side of northern ice roads, in which case sincerely I apologize for making fun of your lifestyle.)

Geekster and I have been together since the Triassic Period and have three boys: Intrepid (November '96), Gutsy (November '02) and Spawnling (October '06). Having children who are all so close in age is a real challenge!

Both Intrepid and Gutsy were born with a moderate sensorineural bilateral hearing loss. It's genetic in nature, but before we knew that I just told myself I listened to too much crappy top 40 while pregnant with them. There's only so much Britney Spears a fetus can take. Neither Geekser nor I have hearing loss, so either it's a recessive gene or I had an unmemorable affair with a deaf guy. The boys wear hearing aids and we mostly forget they have any kind of 'special need'. They're kind of awesome in school, actually, and read well beyond their grade levels and are bright little cookies. They may have inherited bad ear genes, but they also have smart people genes (from their dad, although I'll tell you it's from me).

Spawnling, not wanting to be left out of the 'weird things that happen to The Maven's kids' club, decided to acquire Kawasaki Disease in August of 2009. Go big or go home, Spawn. I give him a solid 10.0 for rarity and effort. If you're searching the web for firsthand accounts of Kawasaki Disease, you'll find some on my blog.

I like to refer to the boys as The Gremlins. Why? Because they are very much like destructive little gremlins. Duh. Besides, feeding them after midnight is not a good thing. Crumbs in the bed and such.

I am many things - depends on who you ask - but primarily I am a stay-at-home-mom and freelance writer. That's right, folks: This awesomeness is for hire. It took a while for me to take the plunge into paid writing, but turning my passion into a career I can do in my pajamas is too good to pass up. Surprisingly, parenting isn't the only thing I can write about. I do, like, know about other stuff, too. I work hard and I drink a lot of coffee until the job gets done. Send me an email at mavenmayhem@gmail.com if you're interested. And you know you are.

There's another love in my life and its name is Lactation. I am a postpartum doula who is slowly working her way toward becoming a Certified Lactation Consultant. I have a boatload of courses and workshops under my belt - now all I need is some more time in the field and they might take me seriously enough to let me write the board exam. I've done a lot of things, but nursing the gremlins for a combined total of seven years something I'm incredibly proud of. I love working with new families and helping them achieve their goals, too.

Wow. That was really sappy. Let's keep going before I get so sweet I start to rot. Onward!

I am a huge fan of coffee and drink it daily. There's a simple reason for that: I don't drink alcohol. That's right, folks: I do not drink at all. Why? Because I used to drink too much of it. Way too much of it. I've been clean and sober since spring of 1991, and smoke-free since 1996. No drugs, no booze and no smokes and yet I'm a writer. A walking contradiction, I am.

Speaking of contradictions, I'm a blogger who has a thriving social life. How did this happen? Am I really that awesome? Not really, no. The secret is in telling everyone I am. A lot of people I know read my blog, and in it I talk about how cool of a human being I am and how great it is to be me or, at the very least, hang around with me. The result: I have created a fake coolness that people have fallen for. If I had known popularity could be so easily created I would have been head of the cheerleading squad in high school. Well, other than the chubby thighs and my serious lack of symmetrical body rhythm.

I am a fat jogger. The human oxymoron strikes again! Perhaps if I didn't eat so much chocolate I might get skinnier. But that would suck, so I will not.

I was a vegetarian for an entire year. Now I also eat fish, so that makes me a pescatarian. I'm sorry, fishies. Blame the delicious salmon that was calling to me.

My favourite shows are House, Glee, The Tudors, How I Met Your Mother, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice. Basically, anything that has laughs, sex and/or aliens. Yes. I said aliens. The inner loser emerges.

I read a lot. I will not list all my favourite books because that would take way too long and I would lose readership. My very fave is Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, followed closely by Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere.

One day, Coldplay's Chris Martin will realize how incredible I am and we will run away to a vegetarian island with a piano and live happily ever after. Just sayin'.

And there you go. A whole lot of things you didn't want to know about me and had no interest in asking. You're welcome.

B is for "Babies". Your babies, that is.

You make really cute babies, you know. You have great genetics. Motherhood looks good on you. You have a beautiful baby belly - can I touch it? Wow! You're positively glowing. Are you going to have more? I just love your babies.

Your babies. Not mine. I don't have anymore babies.

Yes. That's a grin on my face.

It's been just shy of a year since Geekster had The Big V and ended our baby making spree that spanned more than a decade. (If you can call three births in ten years a 'spree', that is). He did so with no reservations, as he had been ready for a very long time. The Geek felt like he was done having kids after the first gremlin hatched, but knew my seemingly insatiable desire to procreate was as strong, if not stronger, than his will to live. Smart man that he is, he didn't stand in my way of having more.

And he is still breathing.

Over the last few months I've been putting myself through rigorous tests to see if I still feel as "done" as I did last summer. I'm not quite sure why I do this to myself, because my husband has made it abundantly clear that there is no going back. There will be no vasectomy reversal happening any time ever. Not that I've asked him, but he has reminded me now and then; perhaps it's some kind of maintenance program.

Still, the testing continues, and I've come up with some surprising results:

Looking

Testing begins with looking at babies. I like looking at them because they wear cute outfits and get to be chunky without anyone frowning at them. It's a good life, and for that I envy them. Other than the obvious niceties of infants, they're adorable and squishy and very, very small. On the other hand, they sometimes have puke running down their chins and it pools in the creases of their chubby little necks resulting in a cheese-like substance.

Result: Looking at babies does not make me want have more.

Holding

Holding babies brings out the mother in me. They're so warm I could fall asleep. When they whimper my breasts start to ache in that familiar way. They're so fragile and helpless and yet so incredibly beautiful and.... and... smelly? What is that yellow stuff on the baby's back... and on my thigh? Ah. That whimper wasn't because she was hungry.

Result: Holding babies does not make me want to have more.

Listening

Baby babble is one of the sweetest sounds on the planet. Their brains are building vocabulary at an astounding rate, and I find their learning not only fascinating but downright enjoyable. Then they start to cry because they can't tell me what's wrong by using their words. And then I start to cry because they're crying and I can't make them stop.

Result: Listening to babies does not make me want to have more.

Playing

I like to play with babies, especially when they're learning fun games like peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake - basically all the hyphenated ones. They clap their hands together, smile brightly, put their hands on yours, giggle excitedly, pick up a wooden block and proceed to clock you in the side of the head. Ouch.

Result: Playing with babies does not make me want to have more.

Exploring

Watching infants familiarize themselves with new territory is... Oh, who am I kidding? It's not enjoyable at all. It's a mad dash around the house, picking up every little piece of fluff so it doesn't go into a mouth, blocking outlets, locking cabinets, blockading stairs, and then trying to get the baby interested in something that's actually safe to play with, like a toy. It never works. They always find the mystery dog hair under the recliner and you're back to fishing things out of a a small opening with sharp little teeth.

Result: Exploring babies definitely do not make me want to have more.

Having evaluated myself I have come to the following conclusions:

- I enjoyed my infant gremlins very much, most likely because the secretion of oxytocin into my blood stream during breastfeeding made the stress of raising a baby more on par with deciding between brand name and store brand pizza sauce

- I enjoy not being the primary caregiver of other people's babies so that I may appreciate all the joys and wonder of a little human being and none of the unfortunate side-effects of that joy and wonder

- the day I could leave the diaper bag at home felt very much like the freedom if walking out of prison after serving time (Not that I would know firsthand, mind you. That's pure speculation, but I'm sure it feels similar)

- I enjoy the money I'm saving by not ever having to buy pregnancy tests. I couldn't even begin to guess how much we'd have in our retirement savings right now if I hadn't of bought so many

- so far, I have no inclination to adopt, which is the deal I struck with Geekster before he disabled his little friends: "I want you to promise me that we can consider adoption if at any point a desire for a fourth child makes its appearance." I like the idea of adoption very much, I just can't justify spending the $20,000 when I already have three gremlins. That's a lot of coffee, you know

- I have this new thing called "a life", which is not the same as the life I had before where I brought my baby with me everywhere and my boob was always hanging out. I'm in full support of women being able to bring their babies wherever they go so that they can nurse and have a healthy bond. But I've done that three times now, and with my youngest being 2 1/2, I'm discovering the joys of "date nights" and "movies" and "going out before he goes to sleep because his dad can get him to bed without me" type things... It's like there's this whole world out there for people who don't have spit-up all over their shirts. I never knew... I never knew

So keep having those babies, everyone, and make sure to let your friendly neighbourhood Maven have a cuddle and some pat-a-cake time. I have no problem trying to manipulate you into having more for my own selfish desires. I'm nice like that.

I am done. Really, truly done.

It's weird. Good, but weird.

Mostly good.

(Update on the fundraiser: It went GREAT! I don't know how much we made just yet, but the bake sale table was incredibly busy and the dunk tank was seeing a lot of dunking. I spent money I didn't have on yard sale stuff that went 100% to Jacob's family, and Jacob himself even made an appearance with his little brother, mom and dad. A beautiful day for a beautiful family. Damn it, I'm crying again. I really should do something about all these emotions. Is there an "off" switch?)