Indubitable

INDUBITABLE

 adj.

that cannot be doubted : patently evident or certain : unquestionable.

The fact that I need a coffee right now is indubitable.

I was scanning through the long list of suggested words from my Facebook group this evening, and none were jumping out at me. It's not that there aren't a ton of impressive suggestions, it's just that I'm feeling rather uninspired right now. 

If I had picked my own word to write about on this dreary Saturday, it would have been "meh." That pretty much sums it up.

I was still on a high most of the day from the unexpected break my friend Liliane gave me when took Gutsy out of the equation yesterday. Everyone felt renewed this morning - except Gutsy. He came home from the Justin Beiber movie energized and inspired, and stayed up until eleven wondering how he could become the next big pop senstation. No big deal, though. He could just sleep in.

Or not. He was up at 7 AM, ready to take on the world - or at least his little brother. Like just about everyone on the planet, when Gutsy is tired, he has a short fuse and little tact. And I was okay with the fighting for the morning - I really was. Then my neighbour called and invited the middle Gremlin to her place for part of the afternoon, which felt like winning the freaking sweepstakes. I sent him over, let the house fall into relative silence as everyone took some downtime, then barricaded myself in the bedroom with a coffee while I watched two episodes of Damages - my new favourite obsession. I then headed over to my neighbour's place with two more coffees and lots of gratitude. 

But by late this afternoon, as I was pulling my freshly baked bread out of the machine and tripling my favourite gluten-free pizza crust recipe, the shine started wearing off. There's only so much brotherly brawling a Maven can handle in a single day, okay? Add to that nearly a full week of noise and chaos and refereeing, and it's no wonder my happy breaker is tripping more easily these days. 

My friend Deb suggested the I write about the word "indubitable". Frankly, I could have used it in so many ways after the last few hours: 

The fact that March Break needs to be over, like, now, is indubitable.

It's indubitable that the first thing I'd purchase with any lottery winnings would be a nanny service.

Indubitably, The Maven is close to losing her ever-loving shit. 

And so on.

But, surprisingly, those aren't the first uses that crossed my mind. My initial use of the word was: I indubitably love my kids. Followed closely by: The Maven's awesomeness is indubitable, but whatever. At least the narcissism came second; My therapist says this is progress.

I really do love my gremlins. Sometimes I whine about the loudness and dream of a job that involves a fair bit of travel, but I do adore each little horn on their furry skulls. They are the string on my homemade macaroni necklace; the duct tape binding our love story; the crazy glue on my cracked vase of life. 

I love them, indubitably. Even on hectic/domestic March Break.

And I also love myself for being awesome enough to remember that. But only secondly.

And speaking of awesome, you should really check out  my friend Liliane's - yes, the one who saved my sanity yesterday - letter in today's Ottawa Citizen. In it, she thanks a local restaurant for going above and beyond to make her son Jacob's birthday extra special. Jacob is a good friend of Gutsy's, and one of the bravest people I know. He spent months in the hospital battling brain cancer and is currently in remission. Indubitably, he is my family's hero. When you read his mom's letter, please make sure to have some tissues ready: you're going to need them.

His Best Friend. (I think.)

We have a bit of a problem. To explain it, I need to tell the following story:

Gutsy has a friend named Madison. She is effectively the female version of him, which is both good and bad. When she's not furious at him for not following her rules, or when he's not stomping his feet demanding to go home because she won't precisely do his bidding, they get along famously. Her parents commiserate with us about having such diva-esque children. We've quite literally bonded over this experience. It's a special, you-totally-get-why-my-hair-is-already-going-grey kind of bond.

Anyway, Gutsy came home on Wednesday, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Mom!" he declares proudly. "Madison and I had the best day at school! Some girls were trying to hit us, so we ran around hiding from them! Isn't that great?"

He flopped down in a chair and sighed. "She's my best friend!"

Ignoring the fact that little girls were trying to hit them for some reason, the story is pretty cute. I like that he and Madison have each other to fight play with.

At around 7PM, I get a text from the Guilt Goddess: Her little guy, Jacob, was on the local news at six. Naturally, being an excellent mother who was too busy furthering the education of her children by doing homework with them, we had missed it. She sent me the link of the online broadcast, and I called the kids over to see it.

There, in Scotiabank Place, was little Jacob watching our local NHL team, the Senators, at a practice. He was meeting them and their lovely wives. (Why are hockey wives always so damn beautiful? Oh, right: because they can afford to be. Hook me up with a trainer and an esthetician and see how gorgeous I get. Sort of.) Jacob was as sweet as ever, doing an interview about the experience like it was no big deal.

Suddenly, I hear Gutsy behind me. "So that's why Jacob wasn't in class today. He was meeting the Ottawa Senators!" His eyes grew wider in amazement and - was that pride? "Look at that; my best friend is on the news!"

"Gutsy, I thought Madison was your best friend," I reminded him.

The boy shrugged nonchalantly. "Second."

It's official: My six-year-old is a fame whore.

Yesterday, in the Supermarket

I was in the grocery store aisle, staring at all the school snacks in their enviro-rape packaging. My eyes quickly gravitated toward the Bear Paws. Just then, a very beautiful, very young and very thin woman parked her cart behind mine and came over to make her selections.

How on earth are people so thin? I thought to myself. She probably breathes in the steam from a bag of microwave popcorn and considers it a meal.

'I know, right? What on earth do you pick?' I casually asked. If I were a guy and picking up girls, I would have no problems striking up a conversation. The gift of gab is something I can work with. The spare tire and ridiculous outbursts of laughter would likely not score me a phone number, however.

'I'm thinking Bear Paws because they're on sale,' she contemplated. 'But which ones?'

Bear Paws? I know Bear Paws! My kids eat far too many of those! We've tried every flavour! I'm going to show off my wisdom so the pretty girl will want to be my friend, which make this shopping trip the anti-schoolyard of my life.

'Well,' I began with an air of confidence. 'My kids love the ones with chocolate chips.'

'Oh. Um,' she replied apprehensively. 'I'm trying to keep the kids away from chocolate for the most part.'

Oh, no! Red alert! Abort! Abort! She's one of those people. Act quick, Maven, or she'll make you look really bad!

'Yeah, me too. We're trying to gravitate away from all that stuff, too... I mean, more than usual.'

There! Good one. You just made it look so casual. You're so smooth you practically exhale silk.

She nodded her head. 'Exactly! I mean, they still have Easter chocolate so it's not like they need anything else. Right?'

Do not let your jaw drop. Do not let yourself ask how on earth the pod mother manages to maintain a store of springtime chocolate for her alien tentacle children when it's freaking October. Obviously they're feeding on the brains of innocent victims - likely prostitutes or the homeless because they would go practically unnoticed - and therefore, unlike you, they don't need chocolate to survive. Just let it go and walk away before she sticks her forked tongue through your eye socket.

But I just couldn't let it go. At the risk of losing my cerebellum, I watched her take the molasses flavoured Bear Paws off the store shelf and, just before she could put them in her cart, asked: 'Have you checked the sugar level of those? I think it's quite high.'

She flipped the box over and had a look at the side panel. Throwing me a sideways glance, she then grabbed a couple of other flavours and looked them over, too.

'You may find,' I casually mentioned 'that the "baked apple" variety has the lowest sugar content, but that "chocolate chip" isn't that much worse. In fact, it's better than most.'

'Interesting. Thank you!' she said.

She took the baked apple and not the chocolate chip. But you know what? I'm pretty great.

I then spent the next few minutes burying the junk food purchased from the following aisle underneath the fresh produce and whole grain cereals in my cart. Can't let the skinny otherworldly entity see that I just bought my kids a bag of M&Ms. She could consider me a lost cause and give me a lobotomy in the parking lot.

Can't be too careful.

(This post is dedicated to Liliane, AKA the Guilt Goddess, who is always good at poking a little fun at others with. Yesterday, her and Jason received the news that their dear little Jacob is CANCER-FREE! Congratulations, you guys!)

In Which The Maven Meets Cooler People Than Her

Now, I don't know if this is a noticeable trait of mine or not, but I apparently have a bit of an ego.

It's obviously a small glitch in my otherwise perfect personality, so it's nothing to get all huffy about. Awesome doesn't mean perfect. In fact, seemingly perfect people are never awesome. They downright suck because they're better than me. My (iddy biddy) ego doesn't like that very much.

Every now and then the universe puts someone in my path to bring me back down to earth. Someone who carries around a giant pin with which to deflate my ego (before I hastily slap some duct tape on it in order to preserve the arrogance required for writing such a self-centered blog).

Today I had the pleasure of meeting four of those people.

You may remember Jacob, the little boy at the gremlins' school battling cancer. If you don't, here's his website and his Facebook group. Jacob is now at home and doing a series of therapies and getting himself ready for the 2009-10 school year. The little guy has been through the ringer since last November, so it's exciting to see his life returning to some kind of normal. Throughout the last few months, I've been reading his mother's updates and, like so many others, cried a great deal - tears of sadness and of joy.

Not to toot my own horn - well, okay, to toot my own horn a little - I am sometimes referred to as a strong individual. I have eighteen years of sobriety under my belt, raise three boys, and have emerged from being a depressed, suicidal loser in my school years to a level of popularity that is practically embarrassing (I secretly like it, but ask me in person and I'll play it down like it's nothing. Popular people shouldn't brag lest they might become less popular.)

Do those things make me a strong person? Maybe. But not in comparison to getting really sick, or watching your child get really sick. And this is what I realized as I read post after post of Jacob's mom's entries on the Facebook group. While I would sit there and sob and eat my feelings, I also walked away from each update with a new understanding and a new appreciation for the situations of others. I had a new level of empathy for Emely, my wonderful friend who is battling cancer while raising three kids of her own. I forged a deeper connection in my heart with my own parents, who have spent the last twenty years raising my most amazing brother with Downs Syndrome, Hefner.

And, overall, I realized that I am pretty much a big wimp. Because, while I may sit lazily in the shade of my own ego as it feeds on the compliments of others, I don't know if I'm cut from the same cloth as Jacob, his parents, my parents, my brother, or my friend. I don't think I'm that kind of strong.

Anyway, like I was going to say before that incredibly long lead-up, today I had the pleasure of meeting Jacob and his family. How did I go about doing it? I stalked them, of course.

No, I mean I really did. I stone cold stalked them. I didn't realize it until afterwards, but the proof is in the pudding. It went a little something like this:

First, I started reading his mom's posts and getting all teary, which made me feel a connection to her in some way: Stalkers often feel they have a connection to their prey.

Second, I volunteered at the bake sale for one of Jacob's fundraisers: Stalkers often try to be where their victims are so they feel as though that connection is strengthening.

Third, I wrote to Jacob's mom, Liliane, (I will have to find a catchy name for her at some point) and told her a story that I hoped would be inspirational: Stalkers often try to relate to their victims so they can weave a false relationship in their minds.

Fourth, I saw Jacob and Liliane at Wal-Mart a couple of weeks ago and was going to go say hi... until I remembered we hadn't actually met yet, so it would probably be weird and creepy: Stalkers often wuss out on meeting their prey for a good while, as they struggle with separating reality from fiction.

Fifth, I saw Jacob's dad at the hardware store and decided to get out of my van and go say hello to him. No, I hadn't met him before, either: Stalkers will often ramp up their efforts as they feel the pretend connection getting stronger and the urge to reach out impossible to resist.

Oh, my. How terribly disturbing.

When you look at all the facts, it's apparent that I'm psycho. The good news is that they seem rather comfortable with psychotic behaviour, because they invited me over to their house this morning. I brought coffee, which softened the blow. I also brought Spawnling so they could focus on him and not on my crazy.

All kidding aside, they are a rockin' family. Jacob stole my heart the minute he said hello, and he even managed to get my toddler terror giggling within a few minutes - no small feat in a new environment. His baby brother is the mushiest marshmallow baby ever, and I almost took off with him until I realized that, as much as I like babies, I'm currently in the celebratory stages of not having any more. As cute as he is, I bet he poops and pukes like normal babies, which would likely cramp my style a bit.

His parents just blew my mind. They are cool and funny and real, exactly like my stalker mind pictured them. The most amazing part - other than the fact that they trusted me to sit in their kitchen - was that the air in their house was thick with love and joy. I left wanting to go home and hug my boys just for being them, and to find the beauty in all the things they do, even if it involves red paint and a beige carpet and some sparkles for added staining.

That scenario and being kicked in the kidney are things I'm still trying to find the beauty in. I'm a work in progress.

So, it's true: people who are more awesome than me actually exist. They may be rare, but when you find them you have to hold on tight and never let go no matter what and make sure you know where they are at all times and what they're doing and who they're with and make them like you damn it!

... Uh, forget I said the last few words.

Jerkfaces Shall not Inherit the Earth!

It's easy to be reminded of what jerkfaces people can be. We get little nudges of idiocy every day. "Oh! Look! Someone smashed in our car window for no apparent reason. What a jerkface." Or "Oh! Hey! Thanks for stealing Pixie's money out of her wallet. She didn't need to feed her children anyway. What a jerkface." Or, "Oh! Look! Someone cut in front of us in line to get coffee because he doesn't realize how closely tied my deep-rooted homicidal tendences and desire for caffeination are. What a jerkface."

Jerkfaces are everywhere. It's enough to make me want to crawl into a bag of chocolate chips and never come out.

(Well, not until the chocolate is all gone. Then I might come out so I can find another bag. Very parasitic, my desire for chocolate is.)

Sometimes, I need to know that there are still good people in the world who aren't completely wrapped up in themselves. Besides, that's my job. We don't need a bunch of Maven clones.

Enter Jacob Randell, a boy I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting, but who has already stolen my heart. Jacob is a little guy in kindergarten at Intrepid and Gutsy's school. In September he started throwing up every morning at 6AM. In November, after the simple diagnosis of acid reflux proved wrong, his parents sought out more answers. The news was devastating to his family: Jacob had a brain tumour.

This brave little guy has been at our local children's hospital ever since, and has received more treatments and surgeries than the majority of us will have in a lifetime. Both his parents have taken the last six months off work to be with their son. His mother just gave birth last weekend to his baby brother, Liam, and the entire family is relocating to another hospital two hours away for the next three months for more treatments, including a stem cell transplant.

Can't imagine it, right? Neither can I. Having close family friends who lost their two-year-old to a brain tumour at the age of two, and having a brother who was very sick in his early years, I have a bit of an idea. But not from a parent perspective. Not like that. It's a whole new level of devastation.

Jerkfaces hear about stuff like this and think "That's too bad. You know what else is too bad? I left my bank card at home and I can't get my latte now. Damn it!" That's the last time it even crosses their mind. Then they go smash some car windows or something.

When I found out about Jacob, I cried. And when I read his mom's updates on the Facebook group I cry more. Pretty much every time, actually. I'm a huge crybaby. In fact, if I cried fat instead of tears I'd probably be a runway model by now. They could cast me in roles where the character has an eating disorder. I'm actually pretty good at keeping it together when it comes to most things, but a boy with cancer? Hard to be stoic about that.

Today we have a fundraiser at the school for brave little Jacob. Jogging for Jacob's Journey is what it's called. The problem? I don't, um, jog very well these days. Something to do with carrying around a few extra pounds that make my bum wobble, thus throwing me off balance and sending me flying backwards into the ground.

Well, the bum-wobbling part is true. Flying backwards sounded like a better reason not to lace up the running shoes, though.

But there's a used book sale as well, and we have a lot of books. So we sent those in. And then there is also a bake sale. I can bake stuff. Too well, actually. Well enough that I eat a lot of my own baking and thus sabotage any future jogging plans. Baking that I have an excuse not to eat? Sign me up! I'll be jogging in no time.

I casually mailed a few friends and asked if they'd like to bake as well. But I didn't hold out a lot of hope. It's not that I think my friends are jerkfaces, but they're all very busy parents with a lot going on. And, if you're like most of us with children in the school system, you're completely burned out on Fundraisers by this time of year. There are only so many bottle drives and chocolate bar sales you can manage.

This is what was in my kitchen by the end of last night:



And there's more coming this morning.

Not only that, but a couple of the girls came by and helped me wrap the goodies until late into the night. The results are so pretty!

I had to take a few pictures to show off what love and hope can do. And, of course, in true Maven fashion, I had to start crying as I took them. Tears of joy and gratitude they may have been, but it still made it hard to focus the damn camera.

My friends are incredible people, aren't they?

But, like, duh. They're my friends. Who else would I pick?

If you'd like to make a donation to Jacob Randell and his family, you can do so on their website. It's only $10, and every little bit helps. Thank you.