What Love Looks Like

I didn't realize how antsy I was feeling as of late until I started heading into the office part-time. Now that I have something else to focus on for a few hours each week, the desire to perform a self-lobotomy while at home has lessened quite a bit.

I think I was feeling burned out. Days at home with a four-year-old were looking mundane rather than relaxed, and our activities were simply time-fillers rather than the exciting adventures they used to be. With a couple of days of work to shake things up a little, I'm jumping into my Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays with a lot more gusto.

Or, it could just be the new espresso machine. Either way, something's working.

As we were sitting in the living room this afternoon - Spawnling with a drinkable yogurt and me with my period-week chocolate-covered almonds, I realized just how much fun I was having hanging out with my littlest gremlin. We had just gone to pick up a movie and some snacks at his request, had no particular schedule, and were just enjoying each others' company. It felt good, happy, perfect. So, I snapped this picture:

After fourteen years, this part of my life will soon be over. This beautiful, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, magical, runny-nose-filled part of my life. I'm slowly phasing it out and heading into something new. In September, Spawnling will be going to junior kindergarten four days a week. I'll be using that time to grow my business. Just like that, my stay-at-home-mom days will be finished - with the exception of Friday. I will have hatched and raised three gremlins full-time, at home, until they went to school. That's one heck of an accomplishment. But it's especially special with Spawnling.

Try saying that three times fast. I dare you.

If you've been reading long enough, you know that Spawnling was not exactly a planned pregnancy. We had "not been careful" for a couple of years after Gutsy's birth, knowing full well that my body was more infertile than fertile and thus would not produce a third offspring easily - especially since I nursed the middle gremlin until the age of three. 

Once we found out that Gutsy also had hearing loss at two-and-a-half, we made a firm and final decision not to have more children. We were at peace with that choice. I started looking forward to doing something else: going back to work, watching my two boys grow up, being able to stay in our smaller home and drive smaller vehicles. I thought of the money we'd save, the trips we could go on, and how life is designed for a family of four. Planning is so fun, isn't it?

And two weeks later, the pregnancy test had two lines. The world shifted. I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry. Geekster and I walked around the house for several days feeling stunned. It took a little while to get happy and even longer to get excited. I put my dreams of a career on the back burner, and focused on being a new mom again.

Then, suddenly, he was here, and he looked at me with his big, beautiful eyes. And I knew he was meant to be here, that our lives were about to get even better because of him.

What love looks like

He grew some more, became even more beautiful, and I started to wonder if he was just trying to show off.

What love looks like a few months later

And now he's four. Four! Where did the time go? How did we go from a shocked moment staring at a pregnancy test to having long conversations about how the solar system works while simultaneously building lego rocket ships? 

Today, Spawnling told me "Mom, I love you more than pizza. So that's, like, a lot."

I love you more than pizza too, little buddy. Even the pepperoni variety. I win.

Buffet (of life)

MmmmMmmMmMmm. I miss you, buffet.

BUFFET noun

A meal at which guests serve themselves from various dishes displayed on a table or sideboard.

The Maven wishes there was a local gluten-free buffet, because she misses them. 

There is so much going on right now that I don't even know how I'm finding the time to blog. I must adore you all immensely to whore out what little energy I have left unto you and your reading pleasure. You're welcome. You can pay me back in coffee.

There are big things afoot for The Maven. Monetary things. Job-like things. I have a fairly large contract I'm working on right now, plus another one looming (and not official until I sign on the dotted line in virgin blood, of course). And I use "looming" in the most positive way possible, because I'm actually quite excited about the whole thing. I like the idea of working part-time because it keeps my mind busy. 

The Maven's mind is a very scary place, indeed.

I also like the money. I like being able to pay bills without feeling sick to my stomach. I like not always having to say "no" to my kids when they ask for something. Turning my children into spoiled brats who get everything they want is an important part of being a Generation Now parent.  I especially like not having to tell myself "no" all the time. I want to say "Yes, Maven, you may have that beautiful pair of boots," and "Yes, Maven, you can buy a latte at Fourbucks today and not shed a single tear of guilt as you enjoy it." I'm a simple woman, but even simple women have needs, yo. 

What I'm not ready for, I've realized, is full-time work. I think that would be a huge shock to my system and to my family after being home for so long. I want to ease back in slowly, and wait until all three gremlins are in school full-time before I explore that option. The contracts that found me are perfect; And they have found me, which is the really cool thing. 

I'm not a God person (no offence, God people), but I do believe that when I put energy into the universe, it often listens. Between the moment I had the realization that I was ready to move from casual work into something more regular and the time when I was about to start telling people I was looking for just that, these contracts found me. Both were from amazing people who I admire and respect. Both are very suited to yours truly. Both are exactly what I was looking for right now, and what I need to get my professional groove back. I've been out of the game a long time, folks. This is some scary stuff.

I have worries about being able to balance it all. Can I really add more stuff on to my already full buffet plate? Can I still maintain my mothering mediocrity and pay some bills at the same time? Having worked out logistics with my husband and talked it over with the Gremlins Three, I've come to the conclusion that I can. I'm The freaking Maven, Mr. Bigglesworth. I can juggle a machete and a couple of vials of tiger's blood, no problem. I can figure this out.  I'll still see my kids off to school, I'll see them after school, I'll spend time with Spawnling on days when he's home. But I'll also be making room for something I want to personally, professionally, and financially. 

So what if my plate is already full? Life is a buffet: a delicious, Chinese buffet. And my plate is full of yummy, MSG-filled food, but it's missing something: chicken balls. 

You can't go to a Chinese buffet and not eat chicken balls, because that's like reading Playboy for the articles. Nobody does that, even if they say they do. 

I've realized through a lot of soul-searching that, my serving of chicken balls is important to me. It's the missing side dish on my plate of life. It's not that I don't enjoy my family beef and broccoli, or friends shanghai noodles, it's just that I didn't have work chicken balls on my last four plates of food and I need to have some before I leave. So I'm going to cram them onto this plate. Eventually, the rest of the food will settle around the chicken balls, and everything will be as it should. And I will be happy, because I will have a decent work-life balance balls in my mouth.

Life analogies are awesome, aren't they?

So give me some love and support while I make this terrifying/awesome/overwhelming/exciting trip to the Chinese buffet, ok? I promise to save you some balls.

Groove

I am so on it.

It's Monday, there's a snowstorm outside and the gremlins are home for March Break (which also started early because technically it's still February, so really I'm just going along with things.) I have an extra child here for the day, and his mom insisted that he bring his Justin Beiber music with him because she knows how much I love it!

Please try not to drown in the sarcasm. It's thick and heavy this morning as I gasp for air filled with canned pop lyrics. She will pay dearly.

With ample eye twitches and a decent amount of caffeine in my veins, I have decided that it's the perfect time to jump on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon again - to save my blog.

In case you didn't know, NaBloPoMo is short for National Blog Posting Month. The concept is simple: you sign up on the site and commit to one post a day for the entire month. I've participated all of one time, in November 2009. That's me, always the go-getter. I was feeling in a slump when it came to writing - which is much like I'm feeling now - and I needed some motivation. So, I decided to take the plunge and post my face off, even if I didn't have much to say. It worked. Let's hope it works again.

It's come to this: I need to rekindle my love of humourous, narcissistic, attention-seeking writing, or abandon the blog altogether. Either I find my groove or I pack it up and let the dust settle on stay-at-home-mayhem for the last time. In the end, I don't need to post every day, but it should flow out of me far easier than it has been. I've been spinning my wheels of creativity for a while now, and it's time to do stinky things or get out of the bathroom.

Oh, dry your tears, already. Now you have to reapply all that mascara - what a waste. What's your boss going to say?

I'm the fat lady, and I'm not singing just yet. What you're hearing is the Beiber Fever oozing out of my living room walls. It's an honest mistake; he kind of sounds like a chick. I'm not willing to give up on a nearly five-year-old project that easily. This blog is older than my youngest child; it's a collection of our life stories over the last few years. It documents the ups, the downs, the scary, the wonderful, and the funny - especially the funny. It's so important to me that it practically has its own social insurance number. I don't want to let it go, but I don't want to do a poor job at capturing all my family's awesome in word form, either.

Some big things have happened in the last few months. Some of it I've blogged about, some of it I probably never will because I'm such a private person (yes, you may laugh now). But let it be known that I am a fundamentally changed woman: Maven 2.0, if you will. This new Maven is stronger, more capable, more interesting, and is faster than a train.

Oh, and while I'm at it, she has great abs and perky breasts. True story.

I'm no longer a full-time stay-at-home-mom, sort of. I regularly take writing and editing contracts, and there are two days every week - barring the occasional preschool plague - when all three gremlins scuttle off to school, leaving our home a quiet place. My entire diet has changed thanks to my good friend Mr. Gluten Intolerance. I've lost a fair bit of weight and am down nearly two dress sizes. My relationships have grown and evolved, my determination to live a happy life is more paramount than ever. Life is morphing, and I along with it.

I need to find a new groove: hence the word I've chosen for this post.

Every day for the month of March, I'm going to pick a word and write about it. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to post them as a comment here or anywhere on the blog's Facebook page. Go ahead, just throw them out there. I need to come up with 31 of them and am begging you to give me ideas.

And, if you haven't already figured it out, I'm an attention whore.  I love when you whisper sweet little nothings in my comment field. While you're at it, why don't you feel up my sidebar and become a fan or "like" me. Yeah, baby. That's like getting to third base in the blog world.

I might even respect you in the morning.

Penis Envy. It's a woman issue.

I sometimes struggle with inadequacy as a stay-at-home-mom, as if I'm somehow not doing enough. Never enough.

I watch my working mom friends cook, clean, do homework and all the other things I do in a day, all while balancing a career precariously on a gorgeous pair of stilettos. On top of that, they often have the financial means to do things we only dream of, like take vacations, save a reasonable amount for retirement, and not want to puke from the stress of Christmas shopping on a tight budget. I don't know how you do it, ladies, but hats off to you. You could see how, if we were comparing penises, I might feel a wee bit embarrassed by mine. From here, it looks like yours is bigger and can do more things.

But this morning, as I read a brand new blog a friend of mine started called Sprung Onto the Spectrum, I was taken back to a time when what I do today sounded not only overwhelming, but next to impossible. Her most recent post talks about how she felt when her son was diagnosed with PDD-NOS a few months ago, and how far she's come since that initial feeling of complete devastation. Reading that post gave me a quick kick in the ass. It's exactly what I needed to get out of Eeyore mode.

(You know, Eeyore mode? Where a little back raincloud follows you around as you eat thistles and talk in an emo voice about how bad things are? If you need a demonstration, come by right after one of the vehicles breaks down and we need to figure out how to pay for it. I put on a good show.)

The truth is, I'm my biggest enemy. I undervalue myself far more than I should by insisting I could always be doing more: more one-on-one parenting, more educating, more housework, more baking and cooking, more family outings, more budgeting, more writing contracts, and more coffee drinking so I can maybe jump high enough to reach the impossibly high bar I've set for myself. Then, hopefully, I'll hit my head on said bar and pass out so I can stop acting like such a douche.

The Maven can act surprisingly douchey. I suppose it helps balance out my awesome.

I have two kids with hearing loss. That involves a heck of a lot more than just slapping some hearing aids on and sending them off to school. Over the years, we've had a team of support that involves the likes of teachers, in-class aides, ENTs, audiologists, audioprostheticists (try saying that three times fast), psychologists, speech therapists and integration specialists. I end up running around the national capital region more than a call girl on government pay day.

I have one child who not only has hearing loss, but anxiety. He has massive panic attacks that manifest as meltdowns. He has additional appointments to learn the skills to deal with it, and we spend a lot of time calming him down and reassuring him that he's safe. Then, we spend more time helping the other kids understand and deal with his outbursts. It's a jolly good time.

Sometimes, I forget that we have all these extra appointments and situations and that so much of the time I think I'm supposed to have is eaten up by them. I blame human adaptability. Life since these diagnoses has become our new normal; so much so that I forget how much I do in a day to keep this family going. Like my friend, I morphed from the devastated, heartbroken, sick with worry parent into a mom who accepts and loves her kids for who they are (most of the time).

Unfortunately, I seem to have gone the extra mile and am now beating myself up for not doing more with my life. See? I'm so douchey that if they named a Disney Princess after me, they would call her Doucherella.

And I'm not the only one with this self-destructive problem. This seems to be pervasive in the mothering community as a whole. It's a rare woman who is completely confident that what she does is more than enough. The rest of us seem to wade through this mess of inadequacy and self-doubt.  Then we wonder why we eat our feelings.

Oh, wait. That's just me.

I think taking personal inventory of our lives every so often can be healthy. When we take the time to look at where we are, how far we've come, and all we've done to accomplish these things, it's rejuvenating. This morning, I was reminded that I do my fair share in this society of ours. I don't need to do more, and in fact I probably could stand to do a little less. This is true of a lot of women I know, whether they work at home or in an office, whether they have one child or five, special needs kids or not. Single, married, broke or comfortable. We all need to give ourselves a pat on the back.

In short, I think we should all pull the balled up socks out of our crotches and stop comparing.

Today, just repeat this motto: My proverbial penis is bountiful, my proverbial penis is bountiful, my proverbial penis is bountiful.

You're welcome.

Another Spawnling video (because you know you love them)

I was feeling pretty burned out today. Too burned out to talk about it and certainly too burned out to write about it, as much as I'm sure that would help to some extent. This mom stuff is hard. Sometimes, I think being a stay-at-home-mom for over thirteen years is a lot like crossing a desert - a loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming desert - with no oasis in sight.

And then, one of the gremlins scuttles into the kitchen and starts weaving a marvelous story involving Star Wars, bank robberies and things he did seven years from now, and it reminds a girl how lucky she is to be in this loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming place.

When you realize one of your kids has figured out time travel, it makes this full-time mom stuff so worthwhile. I mean, once he patents whatever he uses to visit the future, my retirement fund will be plentiful and I will build my own oasis in the desert - shirtless pool boys and all.



He's so awesome, isn't he? I mean, when he's not calling people stupid boys. (Everyone is a stupid boy when he gets pissed off, even if they are female and/or reached the age of maturity years ago.)

Anyway, now that I have your attention, anyone want three kids overnight? First come, first serve! Hurry up, because we're likely to get swamped with offers! We've only had three nights off in thirteen years and you don't want me to go so crazy I can't write at all, do you? As an added incentive, I'll bring you a coffee when we get back... unless I drink it first.

I'll probably drink it first.

Quiz Time: Should You Stay Home to Raise Your Kids?

A friend of mine who's expecting her first child wrote to me the other day asking my thoughts on staying home. She's trying to get a balanced picture; the pros and cons; the ups and downs; the good, the bad and the tired (there's a LOT of tired). I commend her for really thinking this through. It's not a black and white issue, that's for sure.

I gave her a very honest view of my life as a stay-at-home-mom with over thirteen years under my belt. I have many war wounds from the field, but also many medals.

Ok, I lied: I have no medals whatsoever. In fact, I don't even have a damn pay stub - probably the most significant drawback of the whole "unpaid work" thing. And the only war wounds I have are in the form of cellulite amassed from having too many "popcorn and a movie" afternoons with the gremlins. It's a risky job, but someone's gotta do it.

The thing about staying home is that it's not suited to everyone. Surely there are personality types that should probably avoid it altogether. So, what I should have done for my friend and others who question their parenting future, was use my wealth of experience to create a quiz for the potential stay-at-home-parent.

So, I am. Like, right now.

After years of agonizing over the choice women's lib has granted us, anyone can take The Maven's highly scientific self-test to help guide them down the right path at one of life's biggest forks. Gosh, I'm fabulous, aren't I?

Get your pens ready, kids! Here we go.

Question 1. A stay-at-home-parent is:
a) someone who dedicates themselves to full-time parenting instead of working outside the home
b) an aging parent who stays in your home and watches Matlock reruns while you're at work
c) a type of tropical fruit

Question 2. How do you feel about parenting?
a) becoming a parent has always been a priority for me
b) children are like really cute handbags, except they sometimes poop themselves
c) hey, did you notice 'a parent' sounds like 'apparent', and if you read the first answer out loud it sounds really, really funny? ...Uh, anyone got snacks? I've totally got the munchies...

Question 3. How important is your career to you?
a) I'd be willing to take some time off to be home with my kids
b) important enough that I can't imagine not going to work every day
c) the minute my baby starts making retirement contributions in my name, I'll quit my day job And freak out a little, because that would be really creepy. A baby at a bank? Totally random!

Question 4. How financially secure are you?
a) we pay all our bills and could probably manage on one income if we scaled back on the extras
b) we eat a lot of boxed macaroni and cheese around here
c) no, dude, like seriously. A lot of it. Sometimes with ketchup if we're feeling fancy

Question 5. Kids are really fun:
a) all the time! Kids are awesome, and I love spending my days with them
b) Before 9 and after 5. I might go a little wonky like that Maven chick if I didn't get a break
c) on YouTube. Only on YouTube.

Question 6. My idea of a perfect weekday morning is:
a) drinking a coffee in my jammies while I read a book with a snuggly toddler
b) getting kudos from my team for presenting a kick ass product idea. Go team me!
c) cruisin' for bitches.... Wait, what quiz is this again?

Question 7. A playgroup is:
a) a group of children and caregivers who have scheduled get-togethers so everyone can socialize
b) a synonym for "germ factory." Gross me out.
c) a group that puts on plays. Hence "play" and "group". Duh, stupid.

Question 8. My self-worth is based on:
a) who I am as a person, and very little to do with my career choice
b) how much money I make, or how important I am at my job
c) how many people tell me I look like Paris Hilton on a diet

Question 9. The idea of staying home to raise a family
a) interests me
b) makes me cringe
c) makes me want to tear out my uterus

Question 10. If I am home and looking for something to do, baby and I can visit:
a) a park
b) "baby and me" viewing at the local cinema
c) "baby and me" viewings at the local peep show

Now, add up how many a, b and c answers you have.

If you have primarily a answers, you are definitely a strong candidate for this rewarding yet terribly exhausting job. If you don't like coffee, it will make you like it. But it's also awesome in its own way, like you can eat whatever you want and don't get coworkers asking you to join their Weight Watchers group every Tuesday at lunch. And don't forget to bring a healthy salad! Gag me.

If you have primarily b answers, you could stay at home, but there is a chance you'll end up on Dr. Phil as one of those moms who orders prescription painkillers on the internet to cope with the tantrums. Just sayin'. There are plenty of good reasons not to stay home full-time. I've considered and reconsidered them many times. In the end, I'm still here and I like it, but it's no picnic (unless you're having an actual picnic, which we do quite often, come to think of it...)

If you primarily scored c answers, run - don't walk - to the nearest permanent birth control clinic. Pick up pamphlets on the subject and give it serious consideration. Cruisin' for bitches works a lot better when you don't have a car seat or two in the back of your minivan (trust me).

I hope this highly detailed test helped you sort out one of life's biggest questions.

You are most welcome. I accept payment in comments or coffee. Or both. Both is best.

I am Not a Good Mom (and other nonsense)

See that picture? That is what I served my children mid-week because I was too tired/lazy/busy watching Dr. Phil to cook them anything wholesome. It's a fried egg inside a grilled cheese sandwich with a handful of chips and topped off with what I like to call 'guilt grapes' - you have to serve everything a fruit or vegetable, you know.

This week I was called a 'good mom' twelve times, give or take. I didn't actually count, obviously. I do have other things to do, like not mopping floors and not putting laundry away. I'm a very busy Maven.

Every single time someone says 'You're such a good mom, Maven!' I laugh. And then they say 'I'm serious! You really are!' and I laugh some more. It's an uncomfortable laugh, like the laugh I give crazies; sort of like if they just told me I'm purple with glorious gold striping.

Some would say I'm a great parent because I've sacrificed a lot in the name of my children. But I don't see it that way. Who needs silly old school or oodles of job seniority anyway? Stability is for suckers and people who plan too much. So what if I've never crossed an ocean? Or been someplace where snow is an impossibility? Do I look like someone who wants to see the eye of a hurricane? I think not. And the debt? Well, that's just a natural part of being on one income, isn't it? We have enough debt right now that it could actually be considered a modest year's anti-salary. Somewhere in the karmic world, a person just managed to get a mortgage because of my decision to stay home for twelve years and herd the gremlins. You're welcome.

Sure, there are things I do which are above and beyond what the typical parent does. There's the extended breastfeeding, for example, which I'm very pleased I did. And other than Gutsy's chronic pneumonia problem and Spawnling's itsy bitsy bout of Kawasaki Disease less than a month after I weaned him, I think that went off without a hitch, don't you? And all that being home with them full-time has really paid off; I only get called 'stupid' by my toddler a handful of times every day: A true sign of the respect he's learned from our days together. And Gutsy waits a whole two weeks into July before letting me know how bored he is and how school is way more fun than I am.

Of course, we also can't forget all those healthy vegetarian meals I cook for them...

...Er, never mind.

Despite my best efforts, I've had to hand in my cape and admit that I am nothing more than a mediocre mom. It's not such a bad thing, really. It's a lot like being a plus-sized girl. You have to get up every morning and say 'Today, I will be the best darn fat chick and/or mediocre parent I can be!' and own it, just like that. Claim the title and strut proudly. Work with what you've got.

However, try as I might, I can't seem to get the general populace to accept my imperfections. They're obviously blinded by my overall greatness as a human being and it's left them confused. I understand it's difficult to view me as anything other than perfect. This is why I posted the incriminating photograph. Now everyone can see for themselves that I am not who they think I am. I mean, just look at that picture.

A super parent would have put way more grapes on that plate.

Summer, this is partly for you...

I'm including pictures taken over the last week. Just a few for the boys and some of our yard and street especially for Summer, who's starting her garden because it's *cough* spring. But you know, with a name like "Summer" I suppose I have to overlook the gardening.






What happens when an exhausted gremlin tamer sleeps for 2.5 hours, waking up at 9:30PM?

She puts a spinach pizza in the oven and honestly believes she'll have no problem staying up until 1AM watching Lost on the west networks.

I also plan on rescuing the batch of crispy crunch bits on the passenger seat of my van so I can stuff my face with sweet after I stuff it with garlicky. Garlicky with vegetables. Spinach, remember? That totally justifies my chocolate intake.

Today I took the day off, sort of. It turns out that my friend with the house for sale didn't need my help today. I wonder if that has something to do with my liberal sharing of ideas concerning her real estate ventures? Teehee. I'm the very best know-it-all.

So, Gutsy and Intrepid went to school and I chilled with Mr. Spawnling. We watched Montel (family secrets revealed!) and he fell asleep (can't say I blame him). I did pilates and drank coffee (not at the same time, although that would be an accomplishment to be proud of). Then, we took off to the expensive grocery store - I've found a cheaper one I go to for most of our stuff - and blew half of next week's food budget on useless items (read: spinach pizza, the health oxymoron of the year).

The boys were quite good after school, and I made egg, ham and cheese sandwiches - minus the ham for Vege-geekster - for dinner. With carrots, of course. We're all about health around here, made obvious by how trim I am.

It was then time for the Spawn to fall asleep. So I crawled into bed to give him a cuddle... and woke up over two hours later. Oops.

It's not my fault! I'm a really busy mom, what with my intricate dinners and elaborate grocery orders and all this blogging. UGH!

It's the hardest job in the world, you know. The hardest. *sigh*

Can't talk. Need sugar fix.

I've placed my order for a Mr. Big bar on Geekster and Intrepid's way home from piano lessons and band practice. It's been one of those days.

I'm wearing the fifth shirt of the day. That's right: my fifth. Number five. Numéro cinq. Número cinco (had to throw that one in for The Madre). Since I stopped drinking caffeinated coffee, Spawnling's pukefest has calmed down quite a bit and he's a lot happier. However, he's still a spitter-upper and I find my shoulder quite wet and full of icky-smelling, curdled goodness. That is, if I either forget to wear the receiving blanket or he decides to miss it, the latter being the most common scenario. Little bugger.

I still maintain that having no real coffee sucks. But you know what sucks more? When you're on your way home from visiting the in-laws and you're an hour into your three hour trip and you stop for lunch and the Tim Hortons server from Podunk, Ontario keeps repeating your order back to you wrong so you eventually let one little thing go and accept a regular coffee instead of a decaf and you get home and feed your baby and your baby screams and vomits profusely for the next six hours.

That, my friends, sucks more than...Oh wait. I can't say the rude thing I wanted to because my mommy reads my blog. She thinks I'm perfect, you know. Let's just say it had something to do with dead goat appendages. Enough said.

Know what else sucks? When your mom is too sick to Christmas shop with you. Do you hear that, mom? Your illness is ruining my fun. This is unacceptable. Sure, some people might think that you have some serious health issues keeping you from working or going shopping with your daughter, but I suspect you just like the attention.

(Ok, she's actually chronically sick and it really does suck worse than a baby screaming because of Satan disguised as an eldery Tim Hortons lady in Hicksville, but you have to find the humour in it somewhere, right?)

I try to do this in just about every less-than-pleasant thing going on in life. Being the wise person I am, I once made up my very own saying about life. My deep thought follows:

Everyone is dealt a shitty hand in the game of life. It's how you play your cards that matters.

Can you imagine if that saying gets passed down through my family? 'Your great, great grandma Maven used to say...' would be quickly followed by 'Um, she used bad words like that?' and 'What's a 'blog'?' and 'Was she one of those trashy people you talk about with your friends, mommy?'

By typical definition I'm actually quite trashy. I'm uneducated, had my first child out of wedlock and had to go into rehab at the tender age of fourteen (not in that order, mind you). Do you realize I just described about 80% of Maury's guests? Now I just need to go on the set stark raving mad with four different guys and try to convince all of them that they fathered all three of my children. I also need to say that I'm 3000% sure. Because they all say that, being the mathematical geniuses they surely are.

Sounds like a fun Wednesday. Maybe I'll talk to hubby when he gets home and we can try to plan a vacation around it. A free hotel room in NYC and all we'd have to do is swear a lot and spend ten minutes running off the stage screaming and crying. Sounds like a fair trade off to me.

I think trashy is really just a state of mind, though. I know I'm trashy because only trashy people watch Maury (I'm embarrassed to say that I watched nearly every day when Gutsy was a baby). However, I'm able to hide most of my trashiness behind material things. Stay-at-home-moms are great at hiding our imperfections.

And our judgement.

And our occasional feelings of inadequacy.

And the fact that Vicodin makes toddler tantrums more pleasant.

Haven't you watched Oprah? Everyone has something to hide and something that they hide behind. For example, the van makes me look like a soccer mom even though none of my kids are in soccer. The Fourbucks latte in my hand makes me look like I'm a bonified yuppie, even though track pants and puked on shirts are my work attire most days. Using big words in my blog makes me look like I never use a thesaurus.

Because I don't.

I'm just incredibly verbose.

And gifted.

And really hot, too.

Oh, and I still get carded when I go to trendy night clubs.

Which is often because the nanny likes to work weekends. For free.

And she's uglier than I am.