A story for the bullied: It really does get better

It seems like bullying is in the news a lot these days. Just last month, Intrepid's school had a serious incident. After a lot of pressure from parents, students and the media, the school did the right thing and came down hard on the aggressors. I went to bed after that news with a warm heart. Finally, some vindication for the the victimized. Now my son's friend can walk the halls without living in fear. That's the way it should be at school.

I've always hesitated going into detail about my own bullying history on my blog. I've told a little here and there, but never an in-depth look. In part, it's because this is generally my place to write with wit and humour. There's nothing terribly funny about that time in my life. Also, there's still some shame associated with what happened to me.  I don't know why, exactly. I suppose it's because these things never really leave you. The two biggest reminders of being bullied in my adult life are my sizeable gut and serious fear of rejection.  And part of me has always been afraid that if I share all of this, you'll think less of me.

People laugh when I say I worry about being unloveable. "But you're The Maven!" they exclaim, like that's the coup de grace that will end all my fears. "You're one of the coolest, most awesome, intelligent, funny, vivacious and popular people I know!"

... Alright. They don't say all of that in one sentence. That would be ridiculous.

It's usually broken up into at least two.

Alright, it's true. My life today is pretty wonderful. But given all the high school-aged suicides lately, I think I need to open up and spill it. I don't know if many teens read my blog because it's about babies and poop and breastfeeding, but maybe you'll stumble upon it one day or your annoying mom will make you read it.

I'm going to echo what so many survivors have said to date: It gets better. So much better. They're not trying to fool you. Life after high school is unbelievably better for the bullied. But in order to prove it to you, I'm going to need to do some compare and contrast. This is where I warn everyone that there's some heavy shit about to be said, so if you don't want to know this about me now is the time to wander over to one of my lighter posts and leave this one alone. You've been warned.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Grade 7 Maven was a different girl altogether.  Curvier than most girls her age, untamed hair and pimples a plenty. Come to think of it, I pretty much still look like that at thirty-four, but I and those around me today have accepted that I am not - and never will be- a supermodel. It's a wonderful thing, this acceptance stuff.

But what was markedly different back then was my attitude, or lack thereof. After years of being teased, rejected and beat up at school, I had simply shut down. I had stopped trying to get help. I had stopped trying to make new friends. My eyes were permanently locked in a downward stare at the hallway floors as I tried to get from class to class as quickly and painlessly as possible, so that I could get through the day as quickly and painlessly as possible and I could go home to my room, listen to loud music and forget everything.

I lived in fear each day that I would be tormented. Most days I was simply ignored or only verbally prodded a little. Sometimes, however, a carefully orchestrated event would occur. Yes, it's true: even back then, I was important enough to make plans for. These wonderful "events" had been steadily growing in number since the earlier grades, and had been getting crueler each time. My two favourite memories of grade 7?

1. I had a crush on a boy named Marty. Someone told him. He decided it would be hilarious to get half the school together to watch him ask me out. It was a big joke, asking Teen Maven on a date. Obviously I didn't say yes. I just tried to ignore him (and the dozens of people circled around us, laughing hysterically). It didn't work. After that, I was painfully shy around boys.

2. I was set on fire. These two girls hairsprayed my back and threw matches at me until I lit (it was their second attempt, but the first on school grounds). Pretty epic, right? I mean, if you're going to be bullied, why not have a sensational story to tell? The only problem is that, had I not stopped, dropped and rolled, I probably wouldn't be here to talk about it. That was pretty much it for that high school. My parents pulled me out faster than a boy on prom night without a condom. I was sent to another school where I was tortured slightly less. I think the girls were kicked out, too, but we didn't stick around to find out.

I had started drinking heavily and, more noticeably at the time, had started cutting. For those who don't know what that means, I salute your blissful ignorance but shall explain nonetheless. It's when a person (usually a young girl) makes cuts on her body to deal with emotional pain. I don't recommend it for many reasons, the least of which is that it really fucking hurts. Some of my friends (I did have a few, and they were wonderful people) tried to help me when they noticed. I thanked them for their concern, told them I was fine, and started moving the cuts to less noticeable places.

It wasn't long before the cutting got a little deeper, and then a little deeper. And before long, it didn't seem so farfetched to just cut deep enough that I would never wake up, if you catch my drift. One of my friends must have had spidey senses because she started to talk to me about her boyfriend, Ken, who was a couple of years older and had been where I was. She asked if he could call me sometime. I played nice and said sure, but I wasn't really interested. I'd be long gone before he ever picked up the phone. If he even did at all.

She may not have known it, but that night was the night. I had planned it out. My parents had no idea. I was all alone in the basement, listening to music, candles lit, working out a letter to write. Razors were beside me, alcohol in hand. I was sick of it all and I was going to end it. I wasn't scared, just determined. No going back now. No one would laugh at me again. No one would hurt me ever again. I would have the last laugh this time.

Beside me on the floor, the phone rang. I considered it for a few rings. To this day, I have no idea why I chose to answer it. It was Ken. And he quite literally saved my life.

I let Ken talk to me. While I don't remember his exact words, I remember him telling me that it will get better. It will be okay and things will get better. And for some reason, I believed him. He made me feel hope for the first time in ages. I put away the razors that night and never touched them again.

Ken and I became good friends. He was like a big brother to me. School sucked and my home life was chaotic, but with Ken there was peace and acceptance. He really got me. He was my soft place to fall.

When his family moved away a few months later, I felt more lost and alone than ever. My drinking and drugging picked up and I wished for death many times. But never again did I try to take my life because I knew Ken would call and check up on me, and I wanted to be around to answer that call.

A few months after Ken left, I hit bottom and went off to a six-month treatment centre. It was a blessing in disguise, as life improved drastically. At fifteen, when I went back to school, I made new friends and greeted the halls with a confident stare and a smile. My physical scars healed and most of my emotional ones did, too. I was lively and chatty and the bullies stayed very far away. My love of life was impenetrable.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Ken and I lost touch for many years, but reconnected on Facebook not so long ago. What did I say to the boy who once upon a time saved my life? Thank you, for one. But it doesn't seem nearly enough. You can't exactly pay that back.

However, you can pay it forward. I think I've done that in a lot of ways. For one, I'm not only alive, but living. I married a great man and have an enviable support system of friends and family. I have three incredible boys, one who is now the same age I was when I tried to take my life. We're so similar, he and I, but he possesses a confidence I only wish I had had at his age. I made a real point of instilling strength and self-esteem in the Gremlins Three. Never do I want them to be in that dark, scary place and feel there's no way out.

I smile and laugh a lot. Like, a lot. I also try to make people smile and laugh a lot, too. I've learned that happiness isn't found, it's created. I create it in my home, with those I love, and I try to spread it around on the internet through my blog. No medicine cures what ails you like a good belly laugh.

Although admittedly, this isn't exactly a funny post. Sorry about that. I'm kinda busy paying it forward right now, so could you cut me a bit of slack?

Anyway, the point of this post is that I survived high school, and my life is totally awesome now. I'm here because someone reached out. I'm alive to finish the story properly. And now I'm telling whoever's out there in the big, wide internet, that it will get better for you, too. Just hang in there.

Thank you again, Ken. Thank you for saving the life of a lonely little girl. This post is dedicated to you.

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.

Beverly Hills, that's where I (don't) want to be

Addictions and artistry often go hand in hand.

When people jokingly ask me why, as a fabulously talented writer, I'm am not sitting next to a full ashtray and smelling like a week's worth of gin, I'll usually chuckle politely and say 'You should have seen me a few years ago. Actually, be glad you didn't. I smell a lot better now.'

For those who don't know me beyond the beautiful children I raise and write about, I'm also a recovering addict. I tell people because it's not a secret and it's nothing to be ashamed about. Alcohol was my drug of choice, but I would use just about anything my teenage self could get her hands on. By the age of fourteen I had been expelled from school, was drinking every day, using drugs whenever they were available, was suicidal, self-injured regularly (the polite way of saying 'I cut myself to deal with my pain') and wanted to die.

I so very badly wanted to die.

It took six months in rehab, countless therapy sessions and step-based meetings to get me where I am today. I am now 18 years clean and sober with no desire to ever go to back to that life. I'm a wife, mother to three, live in a four bedroom house in the 'burbs and drive a minivan. I lead a disgustingly normal and, in the global scheme of things, incredibly privileged life. There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not grateful for what I have -- because I know damn well I could easily lose it all if I make the wrong choices.

How do I manage to stay away from the glug-glugging? Simple: I take things one day at a time. Later today, when Gutsy is throwing his Wii controller on the floor and the back flies open and a battery rolls under the couch and then he screams even louder and makes Spawnling cry who then comes running to me clinging to my leg while Intrepid starts yelling at Gutsy for making Spawnling upset, a little voice inside my head will say 'I will not drink today. Instead, I will go make a tea and sit in the kitchen and look at the pictures in a National Geographic magazine because I can't possibly focus on any articles but if I stare hard enough I might think I'm actually in the rain forest and not at my kitchen table listening to this crazy shit.'

And there you go. It's as simple as that.

Corey Haim died today of a drug overdose at the age of 38. He follows a long line of drug-addicted predecessors who graced Hollywood's red carpet: actors, directors, writers, producers. Some of the most talented people on the planet work or have worked in Los Angeles, and many of them are as drawn to drugs and alcohol as a PMSing woman is to the supermarket junk food aisle.

What feeds addictions? Excess and ego, of course; there's nothing like partying it up with the bigwigs and snorting some coke off a stripper's boobs in the bathroom to feel like a god. But what can make life even worse for Hollywood addicts is when the golden studio gates are shut abruptly in their faces and they're given their walking papers:

Thanks for stopping by. We got what we needed and you got your money. Now go watch helplessly as everything you've come to expect disappears. The fairytale's over, kid. Go rent an apartment miles away from the mansion you just lost and pray every day that you don't turn into a pathetic joke.

I used to want to be an actor. My parents even enrolled me in a great local theatre group. I had dreams of Broadway and blockbusters. I wanted to wear the beautiful gown on award night, get my picture taken as I stepped out of a limo, do interviews with big name reporters.

See? Addicts love the high life -- pun intended.

These days I'm glad for normalcy. I like my small little life of no major worldly importance, raising my kids, cleaning my house, writing my blog, drinking my coffee. I recognize how the lifestyle I used to dream of corrupts and corrodes even the best of us, but especially someone like me -- or Corey -- who is only ever an arm's reach away from a drink, a drug, and a life destroyed.

Corey Haim was used up and spit out unceremoniously the minute he stopped being what people wanted. And he couldn't cope with it, so he dove into what he felt would take the pain away. It ultimately took his life, too. Rest in peace, my preteen crush. My heart hurts for you.

When I become a world famous author, I promise not to start drinking just to prove myself a talented one. I'm badass enough without using anything, believe me.

Now to go hug the child who is not in school and remind myself how good it is to be alive. My demons are controlled today. My disease is quiet. I am grateful.

Deep Thoughts, by The Maven

I'm doing okay with this next-to-no-sugar thing. When the cravings come, I want to grab a bag of the white stuff and dry hump it, but otherwise I'm fine. I've been (barely) swallowing tablespoonfuls of unsweetened yogurt throughout the day to destroy the candida metropolis undoubtedly thriving in my body. The sugar mine is closed, little yeasties. Pack up your belongings and move on out.

Spawnling's withdrawls have been more... pronounced. While his mood swings are less intense than they were, the unpredictability of when and what he'll destroy next has been the theme of the day. The sac of cane sugar that broke the mule's back was when he scribbled on my antique chair - correction: my late grandmother's antique chair. We are not amused. Part of this evening will be spent learning how to delicately remove pen from fabric.

My mind is clearer, my mood is more stable and I have more energy. Now as long as I can continue to resist the siren songs of Lady Chocolate, I should be alright. It's a good thing I'm familiar with the philosophy of 12 step programs, because one day hour at a time is about all I can do right now.

***

As I was filling my cart with wholesome foods at the grocery store tonight, a chatty and adorable Spawnling in tow, I realized something.

No, not how awesome I am. That was established a good while ago. Keep up with the news, already!

I realized that, while Spawnling's health scare in August was traumatic enough that I still get teary when I think about it, what it has done to me on a personal level isn't all bad. In fact, I would say that the woman who walked her son through Kawasaki Disease and all the scary potential diagnoses leading up to it, is a better person than she used to be. Someone who sees how beautiful, how precious, and how short life is.

I was given a second chance at living when I got clean and sober at fourteen. I walked into rehab a shell and walked out a new person who wanted more for herself. I was given new breath yet again when I became a mother, and I learned there is a kind of love deeper than any other. It was transformational. And exhausting.

And then, when it looked like I might lose my littlest boy in those dark days of August, something snapped inside me. I remember the exact moment it snapped - you can't forget that feeling.

At first I thought it was a bad something and would require a phone call to my therapist. And maybe some drugs. And Oreos. But as shock and sadness lifted, as he gained his strength back and, finally, as his heart was given the all clear - for the next year, at least - everything looked different, felt different.

It wasn't intentional, but it seems I've given myself a makeover from the inside out. I've re-prioritized what's important to me, who's important to me, and what I'm willing to put time and effort into. I've had no problems cutting ties with people who are unhealthy - passive-aggressive, immature, continuously self-destructive. In fact, there are a few people I spoke to regularly in August that I don't speak to at all anymore. The funny thing is that it's not done out of anger or spite or a sense of superiority; I'm just not willing to put in the effort to keep a one-sided or very unhealthy friendship afloat. If I get sucked into someone else's negativity, then I'm wasting my energy on those things and not putting it into the important stuff.

Then, exhausted, I binge on chocolate. This is a lose/lose situation, obviously.

At the same time. I think I've been more real, more assertive, more kind, more honest. I cherish the people in my life, I love them deeply, I let them know. Spawnling has taught me to embrace every day - except during PMS time, when I get a couple of days to hate everyone's face.

***

So, this sugar thing? This didn't just randomly come about like I thought it had. It was a natural progression. I've been weeding out the negative in my life, and eventually I dug deep enough to hit my diet, that's all. It's very simple. It feels right because it is. I've arrived at a place and time when taking care of myself and my loved ones is the only thing that makes sense. I'm transformed. I don't think I can go back to who I used to be. But then again, I don't think I want to.

And there you have it. My deep thoughts for the day, brought to you by a three-year-old, a grocery store trip, and an experience that maybe I don't want to forget as much as I want to look at in a different light.

Holy crap, I'm awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which The Maven Runs Away

Technically, morning will be here in half an hour. But my morning - the morning of all mornings - starts in about nine.

In nine hours I will wake up anything but well-rested because I will have likely been Spawnling's trampoline and food source from about five in the morning while getting only very broken sleep. But I will wake up anyway, because it's going to be the first day in a long time that is dedicated entirely to me and only me.

Let me say that again. It's all about the most important person in the world: me and only me.

Me, me, me.

Me.

No gremlins, no husband, no pets, no housework. No mundane thoughts like is the load in the dryer ready?, no how many vegetable servings did the kids get today? calculations. Nothing ordinary, nothing selfless, nothing responsible or productive or educational in any way. I will have two days of complete abstinence from the real world in which I will enjoy my happy pink bubble filled with friends and rich foods and too many diet drinks at the bar while I dance my face off.

Spa weekend is here! It's officially happening in a really real way and I will enjoy it to the fullest. I'm starting off the party by heading to the Ottawa Bloggers Brunch and will be bringing my sister Photolush along for the experience of meeting other internet exhibitionists. She will see that her sister is not the only one who puts her life out there for other people to laugh at.

The highlight of the brunch? Other than seeing some of my favourite people, I am beyond excited to be meeting Laurie, who I first blog stalked, then Facebook stalked and am now working my way into an autographed copy of her new book. The poor girl is probably terrified to learn that I'll be there and will undoubtedly hide from me at the other end of the really long table, but I'll flash her some Maven charm and she'll come around eventually. Most people do once they realize I'm the harmless kind of crazy.

Then Photolush and I will meet up with the othe girls at the spa and get very self-indulgent things done to our bodies. I fully intend to burst out of my pants at dinner by commiting caloric suicide at the Italian restaurant before destroying my very first pedicure on the dance floor until I drop from exhaustion and fall blissfully asleep in the hotel room with four other girls in various states of drunkenness.

Obviously I will not be drinking, as I've heard that can be a bad move for a recovering alcoholic. Something about complete abstinence? I'm sure I read that somewhere...

In my seventeen years of clean and sober living I've come to appreciate drunk people in a way I never thought possible. Some would call sobriety boring in that you can't share in the inebriated fun. But that's the human character flaw of instant gratification talking; the real joy of not drinking in a room full of booze is that you can remember the stupid crap people do even when they can't. Then you can remind them of it at your convenience for a very long time. For example:

Friend Who Drinks Too Much Sometimes: You were half an hour late picking me up. You're always late lately. What's the matter with you?

Sober you: Hey, remember that time last year when you puked on the cute guy in the bar that was buying you that drink and then puked on the bartender when he got you a towel and then still asked the cute guy for his number? How gross was that? Did you ever tell your boyfriend? But it was so hilarious! Can I tell him? No? Then shut up and get in the car, perfectionist.

See? There are definite advantages to being a non-drinker, and blackmail is just the tip of the iceberg.

Anyway, I should get some sleep. This has been a very busy, exhausting week; hence the lack of blog posts. You can blame the gremlins for their constant bickering and boredom as it lead me to - ick - having to do things with them. Like, come on! I gave them life and now I have to amuse them, too? That's so not fair.

Goodnight! I'll update on the awesomeness on Sunday. In the meantime let's place bets on how destroyed the house will be upon my return. They have thirty hours without me, give or take. On a scale of 1 to 10, I pick 7. But what do I know? I'm just the mom.

Also, Monday is advice column time! Have something you want to ask me? Write to me at mavenmayhem@gmail.com

If you're too lazy to copy and paste that, you can just touch my monkey on the sidebar, over there ---------->

Gutsy vs. the Bus

Gutsy and Intrepid came through the door this afternoon, both near tears.

Fantastic. What a great start to the weekend.

"What's wrong, guys?" I asked.

"Gutsy thought it would be funny to tackle me on the school bus and all the kids said it was disgusting because it looked like we were having S-E-X!" exclaimed a very embarrassed twelve-year-old.

I suppressed the first logical thought: how would they even know what S-E-X looks like when half the bus is still young enough to watch The Backyardigans and the other half still watches it but would never admit it? Did I miss an episode or something? I don't remember Austin and Tasha getting busy.

(Not that I watch that show or anything because I'm way too old. Only babies watch stuff like that.)

I hate school sometimes, with its groups of children old enough to say S-E-X but not old enough to know what it actually looks like, which certainly is not two boys in snowsuits and backpacks on a bus. Stupid know-it-all kids.

Gutsy, meanwhile, was looking very sad and in need of some serious mommy Maven comfort. He fell into me crying and saying 'Nobody likes me on that bus! They think I'm annoying and they hate it when I sit in the back. They don't even want me in the middle. They tell me to sit up in the front! The front!!'

Now, if you know anything about the social hierarchy of school buses, you'll know that the back is where the cool kids are, the middle is for the well-liked kids, and the front is where all the band camp, chess club geeks hang out because they need to stay close to the bus driver lest they get their butts kicked.

... And these kids want my child to sit in the front? My child? The Maven's boy? I think not.

I resisted the urge to do a few things:

- Call the school and make an ass out of myself
- Flag down the bus that was now pulling away so I could step onto it and beat down the nasty kids who dare make my boys upset
- Eat my feelings
- Encourage Gutsy to eat his feelings with me
- Admit to myself that, while I find the middle gremlin to act in an annoying fashion sometimes (well, a lot of times), I do not appreciate other people noticing that quality in him, thankyouverymuch

So I gave the boy a cuddle, a story and a granola bar; all the good mommy things I shine at. Obviously it made everything better, but as anyone who's cuddled me can attest to, that's pretty much a given.

The funny thing is that, while I can be very nonchalant about the things that happened to me as a bully magnet, I'm a raging bitch when it comes to the gremlins' social affairs. I was on the school's governing board a couple of years ago due in large part to my dedication to the anti-bullying policies, which I wanted to make sure were enforced. So, basically, I'm a control freak.

An alcoholic control freak? Who ever heard of such a thing? Madness, I tell you!

Spawnling received a sizable scratch on his cute little face yesterday due to an altercation between he and another male toddler. They were fighting over a seat in front of the princess vanity mirror at playgroup. You can see how this quickly turned ugly. Both tots are the youngest of three brothers, so are quick to unleash rage and fury upon the enemy. It was really neat to watch how fast it escalated, too; within seconds my sweet little Spawnling reached up with both hands and pinched the other boy's cheeks. Not to be outdone, his wrestling opponent went all Wolverine and actually drew blood. Impressive!

The mother was so embarrassed and apologized as we held our crying boys. "I 'cared, Mom!" sobbed my child, which is Spawnling for "I'm scared, Mom!" (he doesn't pronounce 's' very well yet). I didn't feel bad for him, though, and he certainly had his own apologizing to do. If he had been a true princess he would have been courteous enough to take turns in the vanity mirror. This was not a bullying incident but a sharing problem. Next time he'll think twice about wanting to put his tiara on first.

What's been happening with Gutsy on the bus has been a problem since the beginning of the year, however. I have a difficult time not flaring up into Ninja Mama Maven Bear at the slightest thing. Don't these kids know what they're doing? Don't they realize that they're destroying his self-esteem? That he might start hating himself, isolate, drink too much, do some drugs, run away from home and become a shaggy man who rides the rails? Do they truly want to contribute to this tragic outcome for my son?

Deep breath. I tell myself to keep things in perspective. Having been the bullied of the moment at more than one school I could pretty much write a book on crappy things that can happen to you before you're old enough to consider to call it harassment and start threatening lawsuits. This getting teased on the bus thing is maybe a 2.5 out of 10. People have different emotional thresholds, however, and because I turned into a self-loathing, suicidal alcoholic by the age of fourteen, I underestimate Gutsy's ability to handle a bit of teasing without it completely destroying him.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to what it's like to be a dysfunctional human being attempting to raise functional kids. Come see what oddities await you inside the tent!

I could probably make some sweet cashola and retire if I just started charging for a peak inside my tent.

(That is not, by the way, a metaphor for something else, although I could probably make some money at that, too, if I marketted myself effectively. But it's kind of dirty and definitely illegal, which made me finally decide to scratch it off my list of 'ideal work-from-home jobs')