The Secret to Why We Have Kids

Today, Spawnling "graduated" from his preschool program. I put that word in quotes because he'll be back for another year in the fall; this time for four days each week instead of two (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou Gods of Maternal Alone Time! All those slaughtered goats and virgins have finally made you pay attention to me.)

Attitude? Spawnling? Never.

  
The graduate and his biggest brother


I got a little teary for a couple of minutes when they were singing their cute little songs and standing in their cute little rows with their cute little certificates. We only have one more year of having a preschooler. It's going to be hard to say goodbye to this stage of life, forever. If I could bottle up his four-year-old-ness and keep it for always, I most definitely would. Today, he told his teachers he wants to be a beekeeper/cop. Not just a beekeeper and not just a cop. He also told me that the woman who turned the corner was a "very stupid person" because she didn't use her "orange flashing lights" to tell us she was turning. At least he has the cop thing down. I admire his sense of justice.

Know what I don't admire? His tantrums. His outbursts. His unwavering attitude every time he gets tired and his filters become penetrable. Tonight, as we were finishing up some swimming pool mooching (my favourite summer sport), he decided to call his buddy "the stupidest friend ever," refuse to apologize, tell me he hates me, and then run outside, crying.

I'm contemplating chloroform and some ropes next time we go out. It would certainly make "it's time to leave" much simpler.

Anyway, since I'm still just a little bit mortified about McScreamy's departing monologue this evening, I need to remind myself why we have kids in the first place. Why we build these little yell-bots inside our bodies and let them rampage around for eighteen years under our watch.

This post is going to help.

And if it doesn't, there's always chocolate.

Found in Spawnling's backpack this week. Freaking adorable.

One of my favourite things about little kids is their artwork. Spawnling has always loved to draw, but his drawings were more like scribbles until about six months ago. Suddenly, the mess of colour became somewhat decipherable and meaningful. Here are some of his recent works:

A very scary monster (or me in the morning. Not sure which.)


Self-portrait complete with pig snout, Wolverine claws and a bad toupee

Spawnling with ebola-stricken mom and dad who are obviously bleeding from the eyes

Gutsy is more of a gadget guy; a creator of sorts. One day, his friend R was here with his sister, E. I guess Gutsy and R were trying to come up with the ultimate weapon against poor E. They went into his room and plotted. I found this in there after R & E had gone home:

All her base are belong to boobs.

But this morning - oh, this morning - I received a picture to my iPhone that had me sitting in my van on the side of the road and laughing until most of my makeup had run off my face. My friend's son, a kindergartener, brought a picture home that he had drawn. In it, he's hugging what looks to be an elephant.

I'm pretty sure this kind of hugging is illegal in most countries.

... Or, at least, he's spending some sort of, uh, quality time with the elephant. And the pachyderm seems to be enjoying it quite a bit, too, by the looks of that tongue. What a happy mammal and a very outgoing boy.

I need to, once again, thank said friend of allowing me not only the pleasure of seeing this picture, but for suggesting I blog about it. You can't make this shit up, people. You just can't. This is true, raw, somewhat suggestive art at its finest.

I would have paid any amount of money to be a fly on the wall when the teacher saw that drawing for the first time. Any. Amount. No joke.

And there you have it: This is why we have kids, and probably why teachers teach.

If I'm a Bad Parent, So Are You.

"Bad parenting" is easily noticed at parks. (Watch for it.) 


Maybe it started because I was a young mom.

There's something about being nineteen and poor and unwed and pregnant that can give a girl a bit of a complex. As much as I didn't want to admit it, the idea of falling into the stereotypical representation of my demographic terrified me. And when I held little Intrepid in my arms for the first time - all 10lbs, 6oz of him - I had two main thoughts run through my head:

1. He's absolutely perfect.
2. Don't fuck this up, Maven.

And so I spent the next several years trying to prove something to everyone and anyone I thought might care: I am a good parent.

It started off pretty well. I was a shining example of a new mom. For example, despite his colic, I didn't shake him even once. Gold star for me. And when the internet exploded and special interest parenting pockets sprung up everywhere, I quickly identified with the "attachment parent" mentality: Breastfeeding? Co-sleeping? Baby-wearing? All the boxes were neatly checked off. Now I wasn't only a good parent, but a trendy good parent. Awesome sauce.

Unfortunately, things got a little more complicated as he got older. There was that whole "having a mind of his own" thing that cropped up more than once. No idea where that came from. He found this annoying little word - "NO!" - and started using it all the time, rather loudly, and particularly in busy restaurants or in line at the grocery store. And he decided he would do stuff that I always insisted in my childless years that my kid would never do because I would be a great mom. He would whack me in the face at Christmas dinner in front of a gasping family audience, and pull my hair on the bus, and kick other children at the book store...Fun times.

And then we got this ridiculous idea to "grow our family" and decided we should have two more of these little scream balls. The cycle continues.

I just don't understand why these kids think it's okay to think for themselves, like they're little people, or something. Don't they see that their desire to be independent makes me do things like raise my voice and say stupid things and do totally immature stuff like lock myself in the bedroom and scream into my pillow and write vent-y blog posts?

Why my kids couldn't just be the perfect little automatons is beyond me. 

Anyway, by the time our third gremlin hatched, I had thrown in the towel and gave up on earning any type of parenting award. Obviously I had done something horribly wrong. From where I was sitting, other parents were doing a fantastic job. I would see a happy family going for a walk, or a child listening to mom or dad at the beach. It must be like this for them all the time, I decided. And therefore I was a complete and utter failure who should hang up her parenting apron - or whatever parents wear; maybe a puke guard or a goalie mask or whatever.

And then something really neat happened. One day, I ever-so-carefully lifted the delicate veil of denial I had been wearing and saw things for what they really are. And what I realized is, you're not any better at this parenting crap than I am. I don't know why I hadn't seen it before, but it was so obvious once I paid attention.

Nobody is that ideal parent.

Not a single one of you.

And that makes me feel damn good.

Last night I took Spawnling and Gutsy to the park to meet up with a friend. She's a seasoned pro like I am. We both have three boys under our belts and a whole lot of chaos running wildly through our homes. We have both used empty threats, such as "I'm leaving now, and there's no one else here! So if you're not coming with me you're going to be all alone. Ok, bye!"

You know those empty threats. You make them too.

Our goal last night was simple: Take the kids out just before bedtime and let them run wild. Parenting rule #22: Wear them out, hard.

The park was full of other children; a veritable cesspool of dirty knees and tangled hair and sweaty foreheads. My boys were running wildly, stopping only for brief sips of water before taking off again. They kicked their shoes off despite my objection, and, on more than one occasion, strayed well off the sand and pavement to explore rocky terrain and unidentified ground plants at the risk of injury and/or some kind of skin disease. Gutsy brought a toy gun. I had asked him not to and he had insisted, so I told him to leave it in the van. Half an hour in, I noticed him running in between bushes, pretending to fire it at bad guys with the younger, more impressionable kids in tow.

I wondered what the other parents would think.

And then I stopped wondering about 2.8 seconds later.

See, I remembered that I don't care anymore. I'm not out to prove anything to any of you at this point, other than I can manage to keep my gremlins breathing, fed, clothed and tremendously loved. It is my hope that I will raise them to be upstanding, incredible adults. But there's really no way to ensure that, and there's certainly no need to try and put on a show for any of you in the meantime.

My boys have no shoes on and could cut their feet open, and they're playing with pretend weapons. They're hot and moody and not listening to me terribly well. But guess what? You probably don't care all that much, because you're too busy dealing with your hot, moody child who isn't listening to you very well right now, either. And maybe has left his or her sandals under the swings next to my child's, and is chasing after him trying to get that gun.

And as my friend and I started mingling with other parents, we got on the topic of toy weapons and defiance and all those other things we said our kids would never do/play with/be like. There was a great deal of laughter. One mom was relieved to hear that it was not bad parenting that had suddenly turned her preschooler into a little demon, but the stage I lovingly refer to as "the fucking fours."

I walked away an hour later, corralling my kids into the minivan as one screamed and the other whined, and felt damn good about things. It seems experience in berating myself for my own would-be poor parenting is paying off through sharing the big secret to being a perfect parent: there are no perfect parents. 

Moral of the story as you take your own kids to the park today: Don't be too hard on yourself. We're all in this together.

What I'll do for a Coffee

Yesterday, after the arrival but of not one, but two coffees at my doorstep, I obviously bragged all over Facebook and on my blog. "Look at me!" I declared with only slightly more tact. "I have a coffee! That someone brought me! In a snowstorm!" Followed an hour or so later by, "Neener, neener! Another coffee just for The Maven! It's great to be me!"

Naturally, people asked how this could happen. What do I, The Maven of Mayhem, do to deserve such gifts? And, honestly, I had to give it some thought, too. I'm so grateful to my wonderful friends, but what on earth makes people want to do nice things for me?

Is it because I'm generous? Not exactly.

Kind? Um, I guess. Sometimes. When I feel like it.

Thoughtful? Only when I have time to be because I'm not dealing with kids in crisis - which is, like, never.

Insightful? The only sight I'm full of is the mess in my kitchen. I'm not exactly a wise guru on a mountain (unless that mountain consists of laundry).

I couldn't come up with an obvious answer, which made me realize that others probably can't, either. So, I need to dispel a possible conclusion before it turns into rumours:

I am not a hooker. Let's just get that out of the way, ok? I do not have sex with people for material gain. It's not that I'm anti-escorting per say, it's just that it's not my chosen career path. I'm already plenty busy. I'm a writer and editor and doula, after all. It would be hard to fit another job description on my business card:

The Maven
Writer/Editor/Postpartum Doula/Call Girl

It doesn't flow very well. And besides, if I were going to put out, I would be charging a lot more than coffee. Just sayin'.

So now that we all know I don't have a secret stash of fishnet stockings I'm willing to don in the name of caffeine, there's really only one viable reason people might be so nice to me:

Animal magnetism.

That has to be it. If I'm not particularly generous, kind, thoughtful or insightful, then what else could it be? I must be a sexy beast of epic proportions (well, I'm only a size 18 - not exactly epic, but significant). For whatever reason, people are drawn to my hotness and feel the need to show me by giving me hot things, like a steamy cup of java. They probably don't realize it themselves; it's just something they have to do.

(... What do you mean, I'm wrong? I can't be wrong! There's no other good reason! Well, other than the giant squid. I mean, that fine piece of art could potentially evoke feelings in others they may not know they even have. Regardless, I'm going to ignore you and go with my original theory of sheer hotness.)

Not only have my friends been kind, but Karma herself decided to treat me extra gently the last couple of days. Gutsy, determined to get caught up in school, has been on time two days in a row. He also did 45 minutes of homework and cursive writing practice with me last night. He's definitely struggling with cursive, but I think it's because he's afraid of not doing it perfectly. Nevertheless, he stayed calm and did everything I asked him to do.

I could throw a damn parade, I'm so happy. I very nearly cried tears of joy this morning after I dropped him off at school. It's funny how we can take small things for granted, sometimes; a reminder to celebrate the little things with my gremlins three. Geekster and I have been showering the boy with praise every time he works hard. The glow in his face is a beautiful thing.

And, not to forget the other two horned ones, I should mention that Spawnling is learning to sound out words and read a little bit: cat, hat, mat, fat, sat, lion, truck, plane. He's since called me "fat" and/or "fatty" a few times when angry. I've created a monster. Pleasant. Where's the "undo" option? Maybe I should teach him how to spell R-U-D-E.

Intrepid was one of 12 kids in his school asked to participate in a city-wide week at university in May. The courses he's chosen are all in biotechnology, medicine and psychology. He'll hopefully get one of his top picks, but it depends on availability. You know, I'm just happy to have a fourteen-year-old who isn't expelled and drinking every day, which was what I was doing at his age. The university thing is icing on the cake. We're beyond proud of that big boy of ours. I look back at the naysayers who thought us fools for having him as young and unexpectedly as we did, and I secretly hope they read my blog. And, while I did worry myself sick sometimes wondering if we had doomed him to a life of demographic hardship, he's proven to us that awesome genes do traverse generations. Way to go, Intrepid. We're fiercely proud of you!

And, finally, stay-at-home-mayhem has its own Facebook page! It's about time, right? Since I'm an admitted Facebook addict, I'm on there a lot and will be updating regularly. So have a look, click the "LIKE" button, and join in the fun. It hasn't even been up 24 hours yet and there's a fair bit of fandom going on. I promise not to let it go to my head - much.

Must run. This sexy animal and her spawn need to head out for a coffee date.

Now I'm one of THOSE Moms (Part 2)

Handle With Care

It took me a week to write this post. I'd apologize, but I don't need to. I have children. That's all the excuse I need right there. If you require further explanation as to why this would interfere with my blogging, it's probably because you don't have kids. Some days I might understand your ignorance. Other days I might just want to shoot spitballs at the back of your head for having all that free time.

Anyway, last week I wrote about a most terrible day and ended it with a promise to write a little about a talk I went to through our local school board. Well, I wrote a lot more. You're getting both quality and quantity. It's like Christmas for you.

The talk was given by a psychologist by the name of Eva de Gosztonyi, who is credited by yours truly as the person responsible for shifting our parenting in a very positive direction. I was so impressed by last year's talk (which was, like this year's, primarily based on the book Hold on to Your Kids by Dr. Gordon Neufeld) that I had to go up and thank her like a creepy fan. And, like a weird stalker person, I told her that she should speak to parents full-time because she has mad workshop skills and a good message that cuts through the thick fog of parental overload.

Not that I, the mother of three perfect little darlings, would know a thing about parental overload.

Parenting is a lot like a garden, we were told. We tend to our children's needs and they grow. Some kids are more like dandelions or daisies: pretty resilient to changes in routine, various types of discipline, and what have you. Our kids? Well, as parents on the school board's Special Needs committee, our kids were likely more the orchid type. And orchids, if you aren't aware, are far more delicate flowers. As I was contemplating the blooms in my own family, I couldn't help but think that Gutsy is sometimes more like a bonsai tree that we're forever carefully tending.

(Next, I will learn to catch flies with my chopsticks.)

Like most parents, I'm always being given advice by well-meaning friends and family. I hear a lot of the same things over and over. I know they're trying to help, but they must think we're living in a box in the middle of the desert with no library or TV or internet connection, because these are some of the regular suggestions I get:

"Maybe you should just try being more firm with him." Really? Gosh, I never thought of that before. I've only been parenting for fourteen years, so I guess the idea of being in charge hadn't crossed my mind until just now.

"Have you tried putting him in his room when he misbehaves?" That's genius! Why have I never thought of that before? Is it a new technique? How up-and-coming.

"Try taking away something he likes. Every child has his currency." Nice use of the word "currency." You obviously watch Dr. Phil. Me, too, and guess what? I've given that same advice to other parents using the same trendy word, all the while thinking it just has to eventually work with my kids because Dr. Phil says so. (Please try putting cameras up in my house, Dr. Phil. You'll need to write a whole new parenting book after this one)

Gutsy is not your typical child, so typical parenting doesn't work with him. Believe me, we've tried - consistently. It might work alright with Intrepid (daisy) and somewhat with Spawnling (rose bush), but not at all with the middle gremlin (bonsai-orchid hybrid).

We have an entire shelf dedicated to parenting books. I'm sick of reading them and beating my head against the doorframe when their advice doesn't work. With a special needs child - whatever that special need (or needs) may be - many general parenting techniques go out the window.  In Gutsy's case, we have anxiety, hearing loss, and poor sleep. And yes, poor sleep can be a huge factor in behaviour, as I'll explain in a bit. But parents of spectrum kids, delayed kids - all kinds of atypical kids - know that behavioural challenges can be a huge part of the package. And there are kids with no other challenges besides extreme behaviour, but in my opinion that's a special need in itself. Don't kid yourself; it impacts the entire family, it can break apart marriages, and it has far reaching consequences for the child and his or her family.  What I'm learning is that if trendy, widely-used discipline methods aren't working, it's not my fault. I am not a bad parent, just a mom who needs to change the playbook.

Our children - the ones who march to a different beat - are orchids, roses and bonsai trees. The sooner everyone realizes that parenting needs to be as individual as the child being parented, the better.

(Now I'm one of those moms who's ranting. I'll hop off the soap box and get on with what I learned at the presentation.)

As is probably obvious by now, I am very skeptical of anyone wanting to give me suggestions on how to parent more effectively. I never used to be that way, but hundreds of failed attempts at controlling the situation have left me raw and jaded. So, when I first sat down to hear Ms. de Gosztonyi speak, I was only just desperate enough to stay seated. I figured I would just hear more of the same stuff we'd been trying all along: If a child is misbehaving, put your food down - harder - and eventually they'll give in. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was sold after last year's presentation on how to cope with tantrums. I was even more excited about this year's talk: Discipline that Does Not Divide.

Eva spoke of attachment: how it's formed in the early years between children and parents, how it grows, and how it can waiver with use of current discipline tactics. She showed the brain, its development, and how current science supports the attachment principle. And if you know anything about The Maven (other than the fact that I'm gorgeous and talented and really like coffee), you know that I'm a big fan of fact-based practices. Science, if done properly, can provide reason to theory. For example, we're seeing this in the endless studies supporting breastfeeding as the optimal food for infants. And now we're seeing it in terms of discipline, too.  This is especially good for those of us with a tricky garden to tend. Read on.

First of all, if we want kids to grow, they need to feel safe. Kids living in a state of fear or worry all the time will take a lot longer to mature because they go into self-preservation mode rather than development mode. So, if I continuously put the smackdown on Gutsy for things I want him to change, he won't change very quickly. What I need to do instead is be gentler, kinder and more patient. I can't change who he is and I can't make him more mature on my schedule. Nature will take care of that part; we just have to provide the right conditions. So there's a certain level of acceptance that needs to happen: He is who he is. We just need to help him be the best him he can be.  And how can we do that? Through attachment.

I can't possibly get into the level of detail Eva went into, so I'll sum it the best I can: Strong attachment to parents helps kids feel safe and vulnerable, which in turn helps them mature at their optimal rate.

Attachment = Vulnerability = Maturation. That's the formula. That's the key.

Some ways to hurt attachment are:

  • Using the relationship you have with your child against the child. For example: making your child separate from you every time he or she does something you deem inappropriate (timeout). What that tells the immature brain of a child is "my parent doesn't love me when I'm bad."
  • Using what children care about against them. This is the "currency" method. Taking things away that are important to the child when he or she is "bad". I tell you, if my husband cut my internet access for a week because I wasn't unloading the dishwasher every night, that wouldn't go over so well. I would resent him and quite possibly fear him. I might unload the dishwasher for fear that he'd do it again, but I'm not going to like him, nor am I going to feel very safe around him. It feels that way for a child, too. It's an immediate fix that can backfire when you consider the bigger picture.
  • Trying to make headway in the incident. I am so guilty of this I should get a life sentence. Trying to reason and rationalize with a child who is not reasonable or rational at the moment is the biggest waste of time ever. Besides, I'm likely not that reasonable or rational, myself. I'm probably pissed off and frustrated. This is not a teaching moment. Let the incident pass, let everyone calm down, and then talk about it.
Safe discipline involves connecting with the child. For example, if I want to get teenage Intrepid to the dinner table on time, I might try not yelling from another room (I'm guilty of this, too) and instead try this: sitting down on the couch next to him, asking him if he's enjoying his video game, and having him meet my eyes. Eye contact is important here, if possible. It means you've made a connection, and then it's easier to get results. At that point, I could let him know that dinner is ready. He's far more likely to come with me? Why? Because I "collected" him. Meaning, I collected his attention - his attachment - before asking him to do my bidding. You get more bees with honey, and all that. This is why Gutsy throws a fit in the morning when we're rushed. We're too busy trying to get him to move, move, move, and for what? We're not engaging him, we're not collecting him. What's he getting out of it besides stress? What's his incentive? No wonder he freaks out and hates mornings. Collect before you direct. Great advice.

Another good idea: Backing out of incidents and into the relationship. If you're angry, put yourself in a timeout before you say something hurtful. Cool down before you start yelling. (Again, the jury finds me guilty on all counts - I'm only human, your honour.) Try to do no harm during a tantrum or stand-off rather than attempting to control your child. Instead, let them know that you still love them. Say something like "We'll get through this. I still love you." Because, while that might sound ridiculously obvious, a child doesn't always realize how unconditional our love is for them. This can sometimes be enough to bring on tears from your child, thus ending the tantrum. Tears are good, as was explained in the last talk Eva gave. They signal that the child has moved out of the tantrum/anger cycle and into being able to accept and deal with whatever they're unhappy about.

Impose order primarily through structure and ritual rather than bossing your child around. This works very well with Gutsy, actually. He has a set bedtime routine that is working wonders. Bedtime snack and pyjamas at 8, followed by melatonin (yes, to help him sleep - he was tossing and turning through the night and waking up exhausted and moody) and teeth brushing at 8:30. He gets to watch TV until 9:30 at the latest - and he's usually asleep before then, happy and comfortable. No meltdowns because he knows what to expect. It took a couple of weeks to get the routine down, but it's made life so. much. easier. Mornings this week have been parade-worthy. I'm so proud of him and of us for following this advice. There is huge improvement.

Aim first to change a mind rather than a behaviour. How so? Let's look at hitting. Spawnling still does his fair share of this. At four, he sees only black and white. There is no reason in his cute little brain yet. There is only one thought process at a time. When he's playing with his brothers, he loves them. When they tick him off, he hates them and thus he hits. He doesn't feel bad about it until he loves them again. That's just the way his mind works at this age. So, if I ask him in the heat of the moment if he wants to stop hitting his brother, of course he's going to proclaim "no!" and we can go no further. But if I take him out of the room and calm him down, he'll eventually remember that he likes that big annoying kid and wishes he could take it back. That's when we can set realistic goals when it comes to his frustration. Maybe he can't work it out on his own yet, but he can come and get me when he's angry instead of hitting. And I can remind him that I know he doesn't want to hit his brother, and that he'll keep trying hard. And he can tell me that he gets very angry when Intrepid doesn't let him have a turn on the Wii, but that he loves him. This way, I'm not demanding change and growth, just helping it along. Then he walks away to give an apology, and I walk away feeling like Super Mom. It's win/win.

The most important thing I took away was this: We need to keep the relationship as free as possible from experiences of separation, shame and alarm. 

Guilty, guilty, guilty. What this means is that it's time for us to throw out any and all attempts at timeouts, removing "currency", and yelling. They don't work around here, anyway. We just do them because we've been told we should. Calmness, understanding, patience. This is what we're aiming for. And while it may sound like we're handing over control to our kids at this point, Eva did stress that it's important to be the one in charge. She says we need to be both the wall of futility (AKA the person who says "I'm sorry, but you can't do that") and the angel of comfort. We can and should say no, but we can also be there to hug them when the tears come from that. And often the tears come after a tantrum. That's just par for the course. 

That being said, if the teenager keeps getting speeding tickets, it might be time to take away the car keys for their safety. And if grades are low, it's okay to insist there's a little less TV and a little more studying done. That's part of parenting. Generally speaking, kids want to do well and they want to make us happy. They just need some guidance and support.

Finally, it was stressed that if what we're currently doing works and doesn't seem to be negatively impacting our children, then by all means keep doing it. Like Eva said, some kids are more resilient and do well with that type of discipline. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, and stuff. But it wasn't working here until we started making changes. Now, finally, things are starting to improve - most days. 

I'm sure people will be up in arms after this post. Last time I wrote about one of these talks, I received several phone calls and emails from people who were defending their parenting methods. You don't need to do that. Nobody's judging you or insisting you change what you're doing. The way I see it, if you're confident in your parenting there's no need to defend it. But you should also be open-minded enough to know that your way isn't the only way. This is another way for those of us who've tried those things and found they didn't work. 

In my opinion, it's also a way for those of us who are looking ahead to do some advance planning. One day, those kids we put in timeout are going to be too big for that. One day, they're going to be taller than us, stronger than us, and they won't just go to their rooms at our insistence. And yet we're still going to have to be in charge. What do you do when you can't threaten anymore? What do you do when you can't take as much away anymore? I've often thought about this with Gutsy, and it terrifies me.  Being a drill sergeant won't work when he's 15. But if he feels safe and attached, maybe we have a chance of still being able to guide him through the scary teenage years when there's the very real worry that he'll find safety and comfort in his peer group to replace what he may not be getting at home. Maybe he'll trust that I have a good reason for saying "no", and respect me enough to listen (after slamming a door or two). This type of parenting helps lay the foundation for the future. 

A good week. A solid week. A week of saying "I'm so proud of you" and "You're doing such a great job!" A week of not yelling, of routine, of better sleep.  I don't think we've seen the end of tantrums or sobbing Mavens at the kitchen table, but at least we've all been able to catch our collective breath over the last few days.  So thank you, Eva, and thank you, Dr. Neufeld. Today feels a little brighter.

The Case of the Bad Teenage Moustache Flashbacks

Something terrible happened yesterday. Something that came out of left field, tripped me while I was eating my ice cream cone, and laughed as I cried into my strawberry-stained pigtails.

My son - my teenage son - shaved for the very first time.

He had a moustache, but not a full one, exactly. It was a bad teenage moustache, with dark little hairs hanging unceremoniously above his lips, forewarning everyone that he will soon be nine feet tall and eat three lasagna trays for dinner. The pimples, the moodiness, the sudden interest in girls that doesn't just involve grossing them out - all signs of impending adulthood. But I was able to overlook those because they didn't bug me. That moustache bugged me. Why?

High school: 1990

I was a fourteen-year-old with curvy hips and curly hair. And, while I wasn't the prettiest girl around by far, I had those ever -important markers horny boys look for: insecure with obvious daddy issues. I might as well have had a target drawn on my forehead that said "Please come on to me. I'm looking for love in all the wrong places, and, while I won't necessarily enjoy your attention or even be attracted to you, I'll appreciate that you notice me. Thanks."

I remember a lot of things about the boys who took an interest in me. I remember they were mostly denim-wearing rockers with mullets rivalling any Def Leppard video. Most of them played guitar - or at least tried to - and were in bands that had any combination of the following words: "death", "hate", "mega", "motor", "dark", "slash", and "beer".  All their bands were going somewhere, of course, and you could be that special girl who gets a ride to the top with them - in more ways than one.

But there was one thing I remember more than anything else about these guys: the bad teenage moustache. As they tried to grope me over my well-worn Motley Crue shirt, their annoying little moustaches would tickle my cheek or my neck, making me shudder (they probably thought I was shivering with excitement - sorry, boys). And, when I would finally tell him that he needed to simmer down a little and take things slower, the creepy caterpillar on his pimpled face would curl as he scowled.

The realization that being able to play five power chords on your dad's electric guitar doesn't mean you're going to get laid is a tough pill to swallow.

Anyway, if there's one thing I associate with horny boys who want to dry hump you through their acid wash jeans while "Sweet Child of Mine" plays on the ghetto blaster, it's a dark patch of sparse hair sitting north of the upper lip. It screams "I have hormones! Lots of hormones! Girls to do every girl I see!"

Intrepid's furry little friend started coming in a few months ago. At first it looked cute. You could catch a glance here and there if the light was just right. But by last month, it was growing in a lot darker and was noticeable from across a room. It kind of reminded me of when Joseph on King of the Hill hit puberty. Visions of tassled suede boots and boy makeup swam through my mind. I wondered if other mothers had shared the bad teenage moustache stories with their own daughters. Would they be wary of the fuzz?

Since my son was taking an interest in the opposite gender, I felt it best to give him an edge only a clean-shaven young man can have. It was time to send him upstairs with his dad for a lesson with the electric razor.

He came down after a few minutes looking much better and rather proud of himself. I am relieved for girls everywhere - or at least in his junior high.

My own traumatic horny pubescent boy experiences aside, I have a responsibility to my son to teach him how to look his best. He is fourteen, and if he wants to start dating in the near future, he needs to know what girls find attractive. He doesn't have to change who he is, but using what he has - including a handsome, clean-shaven face - is what's going to score him the ladies.

Or the lady, who he'll meet after he's finished his PhD at 26, and will marry and lose his virginity to on his wedding night, and who he'll live nearby with so I can see my grandchildren every day.

*ahem*. A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, my baby boy now has enough facial hair that he needs to groom it. For some reason, I wasn't quite ready for this. I'm thirty-four, for goodness sake. It is not right that I have a child who shaves.

I'm feeling positively ancient. Maybe I'll have a midlife and go be a groupie for a while. I seemed to be pretty good at it twenty years ago. Has anyone seen my Motley Crue shirt and push up bra?

It's the Most Horrific Time of the Year





A Spawnling-decorated Christmas tree
It's here.

As the Gremlins Three play some insane fighting game in the other room, screaming things at each other like "Thunderbolt!" and "Shadow!" (which is seriously confusing our cocker spaniel who goes by the same name), a thought has hit me:

As of 90 minutes ago, all my little horned ones are off for two weeks.

Two weeks.

Someone hit me with a snow shovel really, really hard. With any luck, I'll lapse into a coma for the entire duration of the season's cruelest joke: Christmas holidays.

If you're giving me that judging mother look, I suggestion you stop wasting your time. I'm all too familiar with it from playgroup, circa 1999 - I've built up immunities. As you bore your eyes into the screen and hope I'll start to feel guilty for having said I'm not exactly looking forward to two weeks at home with my kids, I'm trying to figure you out, too. If I could guess, I'd say you probably fall into one of the following categories:

A) You have no children and think everyone who has them should appreciate every single second of every single day with them (is there a discount on tickets to Never-Neverland if I get a group rate?)

2) You have one child. One perfect little child who has no one to take toys from and spends her days quietly scribbling in a colouring book while you gaze upon the perfection you created. I've been there. It was nice in some ways.

Third) You have two children and your second is a baby. Like me once upon a time, you think this stage of adoration and idolization between older and younger siblings will last forever. But you are wrong. Very, very wrong. This too shall pass, and it will be mourned greatly by you and those who have the displeasure of hearing the bloodcurdling screams coming out your walls. Coming to terms with the fact that your children will tear at each other with their adorable little nails and teeth is a harsh reality, and I look forward to laughing at you as others once laughed at me.

Eleventeen) You are a grandma and you've completely forgotten how dreadful the snowed-in holidays can be. That's okay; like birthing pains, this is Mother Nature's special gift to women who've survived beyond menopause. I forgive you, and I look forward to forgetting this part, too.

Anyway, you can tsk-tsk and shake your head at me all you want, but this ain't my first rodeo. I'm a veteran stay-at-home-mom now. I have fourteen years of holidays under my belt, and the last eight have involved more than one child trying to occupy a space at the same time.  From the moment Gutsy could toddle we've been dealing with conflict. I have absolutely no doubt that the impending vacation will feel like anything but. Case in point: In the five minutes it took me to write the last paragraph or two, Intrepid accidentally whacked Gutsy's loose tooth, which resulted in a lot of loud accusations being flung around the living room like poo in a septic tank full of monkeys.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that my kids have conflicting personalities. And the older I get, the more I realize that it's not the end of the world.

Sort of.

I've tried different techniques over the years to try and get the boys to play nice. I scoured the internet and shelves full of parenting books, and tried all the "proven" techniques. Let's take a trip through my list of failures:

I used to run in at the first sign of a fight, get everyone's version of what happened, and try to help them resolve the problem. FAIL. Why? Because I kept having to stop what I was doing every 2.4 minutes just to break up an argument that would start up again the minute I left the room. I have a life, you know.

I tried to run in as soon I heard an impending argument, so that I could calm everyone down before the decibel level climbed to the point of making my ears bleed. FAIL. Why? Because going in before it happens means I have to listen to the slightest increase in tone and be prepared to sprint across the house like a chubby gazelle every time it sounds like there could be a fight. There is no coffee pot large enough to dole out the energy needed to do that. Exhausting.

(Just got back from a writing break. And by "break" I mean sprinting into the living room like the chubby gazelle I am because Spawnling was in a rage after "losing a battle" to Intrepid, and started yanking ornaments off the Christmas tree. But I digress...)

I've tried ignoring the fights. I've sat in the kitchen, quietly sipping my tea while scream bombs explode in the war zone behind me. FAIL. They expect me to be their UN ambassador and streamline the peace process, and will insist - loudly - until I do so. Funny, because I feel a lot more like a refugee who needs to duck under the table for safety. If I don't help them resolve their conflict, they load up on ammunition and race back into the fray, ready for more blood. If anyone's winning the war, it sure as hell isn't me.

I've tried completely tuning out the fight by putting my headphones on - the ones that block out all sound if I just turn the Black Eyed Peas up loud enough. EPIC FAIL. It turns into a silent horror movie: Kids running to me, faces red, tears falling to the floor, pointing at each other, mouthing words I can't make out, toys and fists having already been thrown beyond my peripheral vision. Then I need to check for collateral damage: flatscreen TV, grandma's china, bewildered pets. It's only a matter of time before there's a downed bookshelf. One mustn't let it escalate to that point. Hearing is my friend.

So, what do I do? I have no freaking clue. There is no perfect way to resolve constant fights - especially in frigid temperatures when it's harder to shoo them outside for half the day. I've learned keeping as close to regular bedtimes as possible can help, along with crafts and outings and family movies to keep everyone busy. Happy hands aren't fighting hands: let that be your motto.  I keep the junk food as last resort bribery, and the horse tranquilizer gun strapped to my back--

-- forget I said that last thing.

In short, acceptance and humour help the hubby and I breathe our way through the chaos. Like he said to me earlier "I look forward to Christmas vacation and I dread Christmas vacation. Does that make sense?"

More than you know, darling. More than you know.

I have a fourteen-year-old and am thus very old

I saw you, and the world came into focus for the first time. It was like the last twenty years simply didn't matter, because the existence I had before you never contained a love so thick, so heavy, so overpowering, that I took it in with ever breath.

Your birth was hard. I lost blood, you struggled for air. We looked at each other for only a moment as I lay fading on a table, being stitched and fed bags of blood while they took you away. X-rays and invasive tests and supplementation awaited you. The darkness of a sleep as deep as I'd ever known awaited me. We wouldn't see each other again for several hours. But in that moment - in that defining, perfect, beautiful moment - when everything stopped and our eyes met for the first time, I knew my world would never be the same. 

Baby Intrepid and a very young Maven
2007
Mother. It's a word beyond words, with a meaning so deep that it can't be summed up in six letters. The transformation I felt that day - the shift in everything I used to know as truth - was profound in a way that even this writer can't put into words. But if I were to try, it was a feeling of inner completion, when I never knew I wasn't whole to to begin with until then. Miraculous, spellbinding, absolutely blindsiding.

I nursed you, slept beside you, held you while feverish, calmed your cries. I watched your dad shift from boy to man in his new responsibilities, walking you back and forth, making you smile, waking up when we did in the wee hours of the night, just to see if we needed anything. He and I grew stronger, fought less, loved more. You turned us from couple to family. You gave us a purpose, when we had spent the last three years spinning our wheels, not knowing what direction to go in.

You grew, you changed, and soon you didn't need me to stay by the bed as you drifted off, or hold your hand on the way to the park. Soon, you dropped the last syllable in "mommy", and fetched your own cereal in the morning while I slept on. Your Rescue Heroes were packed in a box, and picture books were passed on to your brothers in favour of bigger words and fewer bedtime stories read aloud. 

The first day you went to preschool, I walked around like a lost soul, trying to figure out how to spend a day without you. My shadow, my darling, my sweet little boy. I felt empty without you nearby. You were - and still are - my world. But worlds evolve, and sometimes we need to figure out how to move with them. 

Now you're in grade 8. You like girls, you play guitar, and your voice is changing. Your friends matter a lot, all of a sudden, but you still make time for your family. You talk about world issues, and teach me things you learned at school. I easily slip on your shoes to run outside, because your feet are bigger than mine - your hands, too. The little boy who built Lego robots will outgrow me this year. Soon, I won't be meeting your gaze without looking up.  

It's both exciting and scary, watching you grow up. I love it, I fear it, I grieve who you were, and I celebrate who you're becoming.

All smiles and smirks on his 14th birthday
(no idea where he gets the attitude from)

Happy fourteenth birthday, my Intrepid little wonder. Who would I be had you not come along when you did? You grew my heart, which in turn grew my soul. I am a better woman, a stronger woman, a wiser woman because of you. You're a kind and patient big brother, a good friend to those lucky enough to consider you one, and a wonderful human being. 

But, most importantly, you are my son. And I am so proud to know you. 

Keep being you. Keep shining brightly. And never forget how much we love you. 

Seasonal Sanity-Saving Survival Strategies (SSSSS)

I woke up this morning in a panic. It dawned on me that school is almost over and the summer mayhem will soon commence.

Including today, there are only five - 5, cinq, cinco, - days of school left for Gutsy. Intrepid finished last Friday and has been home playing video games skulking around the house eating everything in sight enjoying his summer ever since. Today, he gets interviewed for a seven week training and work placement. If he gets in, that means he and Gutsy won't have as much time to try and kill each other.

I'm positively buzzing with excitement at the prospect.

... Or maybe that's just the extra large coffee.

Trying to prep a thirteen-year-old boy for an interview is harder than you might think. For one, there's the grooming thing. Because girls are only a passing curiosity and not a full blown obsession just yet, the boy is not really into his appearance. I've effectively had to pick out his clothes for him. He probably would have shown up in his favourite fashion statement: a black patterned t-shirt and navy blue basketball shorts with a stripe down the side. I keep wondering what Stacey and Clinton would say about that. The possibilities are endless.

Then, there are the interview questions. I have no clue what they're going to be asking him, so I don't know what direction to guide him in. Because this is a community program, the questions could go from the very professional to the extremely personal. Rumour has it they tend to favour at-risk kids for this program, so I've given Intrepid full permission to use whatever would make him sound at greater risk for running his life into the ground at a moment's notice. Things like: "My mommy used to drink too much," "My little brother is seeing a social worker for his anger issues," and "My dad's work cut his hours back and now my parents argue over the bills" are all excellent choices.

Look, you have to use what you have. None of those are lies or even exaggerations, right? Do they mean Intrepid is destined for a life of crime and meth? Probably not, but we can let the program director be the judge. Heck, I fully plan to go in shortly after my grueling morning workout - the one that leaves me looking like complete ass. Nothing says "Mom is jonesing for her prescription pills again" like a little sweating and shaking. Throw in a faint "I need to get to the pharmacy soon" smile and he's as good as in!

All our dysfunction has to pay off somehow, right?

Anyway, back to summer. There are some good things and not so good things on the horizon, coupled with a whole lot of unpredictability. As a stay-at-home-mom, I don't have my kids signed up for camps and daycare and all that other stuff, which means I need to come up with a list of seasonal sanity-saving survival strategies. Intrepid possibly getting that job is one of them, but there are other very important items. For example:

- We have Gutsy's therapy sessions in place. Once per week through the summer. Thank goodness for that. If anything, it'll give me an hour to sit in a waiting room and read a book. I'll make sure to bring a coffee, too.

- I cleaned the master bedroom. If you're like us, your matrimonial bed is lost in a sea of toys, a mix of dirty and clean laundry and anything that needs some place quick to go before company arrives. This may not seem important in the grand scheme of things, but trust me: it's essential. With a clean bedroom, I can give myself a mommy timeout without worrying about tripping over last year's Christmas boxes. And heck, if the rest of the house is in summer disarray, I can just serve tea on my bed when people stop by.

- Great, fantastic, fabulous news: After over 18 months, they're restoring Geekster's full pay. We'll get half of what was lost this summer and it will be fully restored, in steps, by the new year. What does that mean? We might be able to go see The Karate Kid and Toy Story 3 instead of having to pick one and wincing through the cost of it, thus battling the 'We never do anythiiiiiiiiiiiing!' whining -- well, until mid-July, anyway.

- Park dates, park dates, park dates. If you're my friend and you're local, you're going to get a phone call to head to a park at least once or twice over the summer. There, you will be greated by a somewhat unkept and twitchy me with a trio of rambunctious kids. And if you avoid me, I'll find you. I'm a proficient stalker and I'm not afraid to coerce you into spending time with me and the Gremlins Three. You may now make preparations to leave the country if you wish. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Alright, must run. The skulky teen has an interview soon and I need to get my stoner game face on.

19 Years

I decided to write this post in the living room today, so as to be with the Gremlins Three instead of squirrelling away in the (generally) child-free office. After all, I'm a woman with a family, right? Surely I can get a blog post done surrounded by my beautiful children, right?

I don't know what I was thinking. It's been 15 minutes and I've managed to write one lousy paragraph. One. I've broken up two fights, comforted a sobbing child, managed to get a dog to stop barking with excitement as Spawnling taunted her with a very loud squeaky toy, and threatened to take the highly anticipated chocolate store trip away if everyone didn't give mommy some freaking quiet time to write her gosh darn blog post (Yes, I managed not to swear. It took more effort than I could possibly convey in writing).

The threat is working -- for now. I'll write quickly. Please excuse any grammatical errors or accidental cursing that may happen during the making of this post.

Wait a minute. My husband just came in and started talking my ear off. Does he not understand the mental zen I need to achieve to write such masterpieces? He so owes me coffee.

There. I just read him the first three paragraphs and he took the hint. Smart man. Onward, shall we?

Today marks my nineteenth year of sobriety. No drugs or alcohol for nearly two decades. It's unbelievable, really, that someone as infatuated with escape could go this long without. And yet, here I am. Thank goodness for sugar and caffeine to get me through the rough patches.

... Hey, nobody said I was perfect. Near perfect, maybe, but not perfect.

Nineteen years ago, I was a fourteen-year-old addict who drank every day, got high whenever she could manage to score, was terribly depressed, cut herself to release the pain, had pushed away any friends I had left, had been expelled from school, and wanted to die more than anything in the world. I was a lost soul with no future in sight.

By all accounts, I shouldn't be here today. By all accounts, I should be dead.

It took some persistent parents, six months in rehab, countless self-help meetings, lots of therapy, and a willingness to change that I had no idea I even possessed, but here I am, at 33, alive and sane enough to tell the tale.

"We have a good life," Geekster said to me this morning as we sat outside and had our morning coffee. The littlest gremlins were running around with their new water guns, the sun shining down on their bare shoulders. Their laughs infectious, I smiled wide.

We really do have a good life. Nineteen years later, I have a fantastic husband, three great kids, a home I love, the most incredible friends, and I fall asleep every night feeling grateful for all of it. Even the ugly, frustrating days. Even the overwhelmingly sad days. I'm just grateful that I'm here to experience it, and that I have more than I imagined I would. When you figure you'll be dead before you hit twenty years of age, anything and everything feels like a miracle.

On Friday, Intrepid accepted an honour roll award and made his mama very proud. When I looked at him up there accepting his certificate, I thought of what I was like at thirteen, in grade 7. I was in a completely different place; a darker place. And yet, wonders of wonders, I managed to have a son who is racing into his teen years with a smile on his face and a good head on his shoulders. It's amazing.

Intrepid says it's because he sapped me of my awesome stores while in the womb. He's probably right. It's a good thing they replenish so quickly. I'm an evolved form of awesome, you see.

Thus concludes my sappy moment in the Blogosphere. Thank you for indulging me. It's just that, sometimes, I can't believe I'm here, in this place, so damn happy most of the time. It's cause for making people puke a little in their mouths, it is. Breath mint?
My family members did stop interrupting me for a few minutes. We're still go for the chocolate store trip.

Thank god. I think that would have hurt me more than them.