The Ruler of the Universe turns Eight

Baby Gutsy and aunt Katie, 2003

Gutsy turned the big 0-8 on Saturday.

I threw in the zero because I realized that two digits sounds more powerful; more omnipotent. Since Gutsy informs me he wants to be ruler of the universe (he'll have to fight me for it), he deserves a more impressive announcement of his most recent age change.

We rang in his birthday with an iPod Touch (Did you know you could buy them used from the online Apple store? They come with a pretty package and a one year warrantee, and the price is far more reasonable than a new one. This works well, considering I tell my kids that Dad and I aren't made of money. In fact, we're usually made of overdraft. I don't think they get the joke. Frankly, I hope they never do.)

A couple of months ago, I asked Gutsy if he'd like a party and some small gifts, or no party and a nicer gift. He immediately squealed, "Like an iPod Touch?!" to which I replied, "Maybe something like that."

I made a real point of telling him that if we got him a big gift, there would be no party. It would be a pretty typical day with something shiny to play with. He seemed completely fine with that.

Gutsy was perfectly happy to get an iPod and iTunes gift card. We were to follow that up with a quiet dinner out as a family at one of the few restaurants that can cater to my gluten-free self: Swiss Chalet. Apparently, the quarter chicken and baked potato are a pretty safe option. You're welcome, vast quantities of gluten-free lifestyle Canadians who read my blog. I'm sure all 2.7 of you will want to know that.

What ended up transpiring was one of the very best birthdays he's had.

It turns out that our friends decided to throw a rather impressive birthday for their son who turned 9 on Friday. On Saturday, they had a party at their house, complete with cake, hot dogs, hyper children and a reptile zoo. Gutsy and their son are friends, so off we went to take part in the festivities. Gutsy was impressed that, not only only did he get a nice gift, but he he also went to a party on his actual birthday. He didn't care a smidgen that it wasn't for him. Who cares when you get to hold a scorpion and pet an alligator?

After the party, we decided to go chill out at home before heading out for dinner. However, by the time we were going to leave, we had a total of nine people in the house. Gutsy's friend Jacob, Intrepid's friend Aidan, my mom and brother had all come by. We decided to just fedd everyone take-out Swiss Chalet, and jokingly referred to it as the "After Party".  Gutsy grinned the entire time. As it turns out, would-be Ruler of the Universe attended two parties on the birthday that wasn't supposed to have even one.

It took me most of Sunday to recover from Saturday.  We had a great time, but there isn't enough coffee in the world to keep up that pace for 14 hours straight. We are such unintentionally awesome parents, aren't we? Let's hope Gutsy remembers that when the iPod honeymoon period wears off.  I hope they're happy together for a long time. A really, really long time, because he sure as hell isn't getting a DS for Christmas.

I spent an entire year waiting for reason to kick in. Kids start to reason at seven, you know. It's when their cute little brains start registering that the universe doesn't revolve around their every whim, and that maybe they should start taking notes about how it actually works. "I do this and this happens. I don't do this and that happens." Neat-o concept, isn't it?

Frankly, I don't think Gutsy ever got the memo. Seven wasn't an easy year for him by any means. In fact, I'd say it was probably his worst. His anxiety peaked, we had to do an emergency class change in the spring, he had bullying issues, had a hard time making friends, we were in therapy all Summer and are waiting for a psychology referral to go through now. We had more tears, more panic attacks, more fury, more worry and more heartbreaking moments than ever. Geekster and I spent many hours talking about what we could do to make his life easier, and how we need to help him manage this stress before he gets into the teenage years. With a brilliant mind that never stops running and a propensity toward anxiety, this is a kid who needs special attention now. Put simply, last year was a really hands-on time, an exhausting time, but hopefully it will pay off later.

Between you and me and the internet, I'm happy to say goodbye to seven.

Too cool for school, 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

Eight is great, or at least it should be because it rhymes. You don't rhyme something with "great" unless you expect it to deliver, right?

Come to think of it, "seven" rhymes with "heaven" Shit. There goes that theory.

Okay, so seven might have been a bad year, but I believe we made a lot of headway.

I sound like a CEO during a bad quarterly report, don't I?

Put a different way, after some maturation on his part and work on all our parts, Gutsy's outbursts (which are usually panic attacks regrettably disguised as tantrums) are becoming less frequent and often less severe. We gave him his own room,  which means he now has a quiet place to go to think and calm down. He relies heavily on schedules to keep his life routine, so we make sure those are in place as much as possible. He tires easily after a day at school, so we've left homework open-ended this year.

And truly, I can't say enough about his teacher. She has been nothing short of phenomenal. Patient, understanding, supportive, and seems to genuinely understand who our son is. The two Teachers Assistants have been really amazing, too. Thanks to them, he's doing well both academically and socially so far. I don't worry about him at school. Now if only they could bottle up that essence and send it home...

This year, we're focusing on making life less stressful in Casa Maven. Geekster and I have realized that we're all wound up incredibly tight, like snakes ready to pounce.

Strike. I mean strike. Why can't snakes pounce, anyway? Do you need feet to pounce?

It stands to reason that, after hundreds of explosions in the house, everyone is going to have their guard up, waiting for the next one. Unfortunately, anxiety breeds more anxiety, and before long we have ourselves a perfect storm. We need to stay calm. Easier said than done, but we're trying. I've even cut back a little on caffeine.

Only a little. I'm already alcohol-free, drug-free, smoke-free and now gluten-free. Caffeine-free is not on my list of priorities. Do I look like someone who wants to suffer every day?

I'm also working on rebuilding my relationship with Gutsy. We're butting heads less, laughing more, and enjoying each others' company again. I hate to say that I all but shut down around him for a while, but I did. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to that as well as a bit of unreasonable resentment for the stress we all felt. That couldn't have helped him whatsoever, and it certainly didn't help me. And it royally sucked, because this is a child we tried to bring into the world for five long, frustrating, sad years. This was a very wanted, anticipated little boy. Words can't describe how amazing it is to hold a baby you've wanted for so long and thought you'd never have. It was truly one of the best feelings in the world.

I always said that it needed to be one stubborn little egg to lay anchor in the unfriendly waters of my PCOS-riddled uterus, and Gutsy most certainly fits that bill. He needed to be who he is in order to be here today. At least, that's what I tell myself. And yes, it does make it easier, so don't burst my bubble. Stubborn egg, stubborn sperm, got it?

Despite any issues we've had, we're so happy to have him here. He is loving, thoughtful, kind and gentle - when he's not throwing chairs or launching ottomans. I love him even on the most challenging mornings. I love him when he strokes my cheek and smiles, or tells me that I'm beautiful. I love him when he buys his little brother a donut with his own money, just because he loves him so much. I love him when I'm trying to follow what he's telling me about cabling and networking and movie editing software, and it's going right over my clueless head. I love him when he tells me the funny things he and his friends do at school. I love him in the evening when he tells me he loves me, half asleep.

I especially love him when he's sleeping. Just sayin'.

I love him, and because of that, I'm going to do everything I can to make eight better than seven. Happy birthday, my sweet little boy. Just try keep the claws retracted and the horns tucked away a little more this year, ok?

Gutsy and Spawnling, Fall 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

PS: Many of the great pictures on my site are via Trinque Photography. My sister is one talented chick who does everything from family shoots to weddings.

I Think My Bread Hates Me

An Array of Maven Haters

I was catching up with a friend by phone this afternoon - and by "catching up," I mean stealthily sneaking into Gutsy's room in a (quickly foiled) attempt to get away from my sugar-spun gremlins so I could actually hear said friend on the phone.

Anyone who says sugar doesn't make kids hyper has never been to my house after a family party involving heartily-iced cupcakes.

"I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to talk lately," said I to my friend, and proceeded to list off my regular excuses of too many responsibilities and not enough birth control. "It's not you, I swear. I ignore everybody the same."

"It's okay, Maven. I get it," She said reassuringly. "You're an equal opportunity hater."

At last, someone really gets me.

It's true, I do hate on - or at least simply can't find the time to get in touch with - the vast majority of people in my life. I have a lot of patient and understanding homeys in my posse. Thank goodness, or I'd have lost so many Facebook connections my friends list would be in the negatives.

I've been busy, true. That's a given. But worse than that, I was feeling so run down and very, very stupid - like more than usual. I was forgetting names of people, things, events.  I couldn't read an entire article without getting antsy and distracted. I felt gross and bloated and and gassy and anxious and miserable nearly all the time. It took every ounce of strength I had to get up in the morning and get through the day without falling asleep. I wanted to exercise, but couldn't bring myself to go for even a short walk. I wanted to play outside with the kids, but didn't even have the patience or energy to play on the floor with them. My menstrual cycles were wonky, my acne was getting worse, and when I got a virus of any kind, it was kicking my ass. And let's not forget the unexplained mystery rash on both my hands and my strangely pitted, ridged fingernails.  The Maven was a not-so-hot mess, and it was getting worse, month by month.

Something was wrong. I wasn't just a hater anymore; I was an unwell hater.  The worst kind; We can't even enjoy hating on everyone.

And then, one day, when I was feeling particularly shitty, I was on Twitter. I'm not a regular Tweeter, as I find it far too distracting while I'm trying to do paid work on my computer (which is quite often the only time I'm online these days). But when I do go on, I grab a little bit of info here and there from those people or organizations I follow. Sometimes, it's just about who slept with who on what hospital equipment on last night's Grey's Anatomy, but other times it's something important.

And just once, it's been something life-changing - possibly even life-saving.

@EarthCafe - makers of vegan cakes I only wish they sold in Canada - tweeted something along the lines of "If you have symptoms a, b, c, x, y and z, you could have a gluten intolerance."

Interesting.  I had all of those symptoms. And when I checked out the link they provided, I realized I had not only the main symptoms, but practically the entire alphabet.

Gluten intolerance is the baby brother to big, bad Celiac - an auto-immune disease that afflicts about 1 in 133 people, including my mother-in-law, one of my best friends and her mom, too. It means that foods containing gluten act like toxins in the body, killing the villi in the small intestine and potentially causing everything from serious vitamin and mineral deficiencies to cancer. And now I could have this lovely disease, too. Or maybe just a gluten intolerance, which isn't as bad. Or maybe neither - I just don't know. The only way to know for sure is to have a piece of my small intestine biopsied, which is not high on my to-do list. Thankfully, there's a somewhat less-conclusive blood-test that checks for gluten antibodies and is often good enough for a diagnosis. When I see my doctor in the spring, we'll order the test.

In the meantime, this Maven is strictly gluten-free.

The first week sucked. Do you have any idea how many things contain gluten? It's the stuff found in wheat, barley and rye, so you can imagine the joy I felt at avoiding those and the vast amount of products that contain them. It's enough to make my frail thread of sanity unravel far faster than anyone in the "When is The Maven going to finally lose her shit?" pool could have anticipated (I bet on July 12, 2011).

I went through what could best be described as withdrawal. It was so weird that I Googled it - and you know how I hate Googling medical stuff. As a former hypochondriac, any kind of health inquiry is best not typed into a search engine. Whether you have yellow fingernails or stink eye, all symptoms to the possibility of death. I learned that the hard way.

But search I did as my bones and joints ached for three straight days, and I expected I'd get the flu at any moment but found nothing but a strong craving for french baguette. This is common, apparently. What the body craves is often bad for it, and I was paying a most uncomfortable price for depriving it. Moreover, gluten can have an opiate affect in sensitive people, which could explain my carb addiction and how hard I was "coming down" off the junk.

Since I decided to put Gutsy on the gluten-free train as well to see if it would help his anxiety, I gave away over $100 worth of groceries and replaced them with a multitude of expensive, pre-packaged health foods and wheat-less flours. I put aside the old recipes and have figured out how to make pizza crust, cupcakes and bread.

Bread. Can we talk about that for a minute? Gluten-free bread is a bitch. The first one tasted like sawdust and the second looked like someone shat in my bread machine. I was about ready to cry because a nice slice of toast is really all I want in life sometimes. But I sucked it up, put my big girl panties on and tried it a third time. It was delicious, and I suddenly felt a little more hopeful.

My friend with Celiac had me over last week and loaded me up with supplies from her pantry. She gave me a lot of advice on what to buy, what to avoid, and how it's not the end of the world (so no need to contemplate a bridge dive? Good. The water and spiky rocks are really cold in October). She also listened to my list of symptoms and basically told me that she's suspected I have issues with gluten for a long time, but didn't want to say anything.

Funny; my mother-in-law basically said the same thing. But they know me well enough to understand that I had to come to this on my own terms. Denial courses amply through this addict's veins.

Anyway, I feel so much better. I can't even put into words how much more awake, alive and alert I've felt since those aches and pains stopped. I feel like myself again. The cravings are gone, the rash on my hands is gone, the anxiety has lessened dramatically. I no longer feel bloated and sickly. I can go a whole day without needing to lie down, and I have a lot more patience and focus to deal with unruly little gremlins.

Gutsy, however, is far less unruly in the last week. In fact, this is the best few days we've had in ages with him. I'm hoping it's not just coincidence, and that maybe his body just needed to detox along with mine. It sucks not eating wheat, but it sucks more to feel out-of-control.

We'll get tested, but in the meantime I will be 100% gluten-free, Gutsy will be about 95%, and the rest of them will eat primarily gluten-free, even though it would be rather amusing to watch me run around making two separate meals at at once.

It's a good thing, too, because that would definitely drive up my full-fledged insanity date to mid-winter and none of us would win the pool.

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.

Life With an Anxious Child Explained

A few nights ago, when I was out at a party, a had a conversation with a few people about going to the gym. I explained that one of my major reasons for not going was because I like being married and would rather not get divorced over leaving the house several times a week at bedtime.  And I laughed, of course, but in that ha-ha-serious kind of way.

This is when a guy I had just met piped up and said that he would be incredibly supportive if his wife was going to the gym that often.

I glanced over at my husband sitting at another table enjoying one of the few evenings out we manage to squeeze in as a couple. He had just sat back down after leaving the room for a minute to deal with a call from a distraught seven-year-old who missed us and didn't think he could go to sleep until we got home. He knew that could be one of many phone, and we hadn't even had dinner yet. We almost left because we knew what kind of night was going on at home.

By the time we got home, teenage built-in babysitter extraordinaire Intrepid was at the end of his rope, frustrated because Gutsy just wouldn't go to bed as easily as his three-year-old brother. It wasn't a great night him or Gutsy.  Some go off without a hitch, some are bad. It's a roll of the dice.

*~*~*

This morning, Gutsy was ten minutes late because he wanted to wear shorts on a cold, rainy day in late September. He didn't want to wear one of the three different pairs of pants he could choose from. He was stressed to the point that he locked up: he couldn't get out of bed, kept glancing at the clock knowing he was going to be late for school, crying because his toast was getting cold in the kitchen. Once he did get dressed - which by now had taken 45 minutes - and had eaten his breakfast, he didn't want to wear the appropriate rain gear, which then had to be shoved into his school bag so he could wear his shoes and sweater.

And then, of course, he complained about his heavy bag. But Geekster and I took a collective deep breath and kept silent.

Why? Because we pick our battles, that's why. Doing this made him only 10 minutes late for school instead of 40 or 50.  It saved Gutsy from feeling even worse about how he behaved this morning, becaus we know he can't help it. It saved his dad and I getting stressed to the point of snapping at each other. It saved Spawnling from waking up to a house filled with the screams of his seven-year-old brother.

Basically, it saved our morning from going from bad to completely shitteous.

This is life with an anxious child. Stressful, overwhelming, heartbreaking.

*~*~*

Like a lot of kids with special needs of various types, Gutsy has good days and bad days. I watch him a lot on those good days as he smiles and laughs and flows through the day like a typical child would, wanting to bottle up his essence and save it for the harder days. Because when those days hit - oh, when those dark, unpredictable, incredible sad days hit - I wish I had some happiness and peace of mind to give him. I hug him and tell him it's okay, that we love him and always will, that I'm sorry he's having a hard day. Geekster does more of the same. He can calm him down much faster than I can. I'm still learning how to be a better mom to Gutsy.

Late at night, Geekster and I talk about the hard things:

"How do we help him?"

"Is he going to be able to overcome this?"

"What are we doing wrong? What can we do better?"

"How will he function as an adult with such crippling anxiety?"

I have to believe this is going to get better. I have to believe that my son who has not only anxiety but hearing loss and very likely giftedness (a word I used to shun but am now taking more seriously for his sake) to contend with, is going to grow into himself as he matures. He has so much on his plate that it's no wonder he struggles.  Frankly, the fact that he has good days is a big step.

He is making steady progress in balancing his moods and dealing with his anxiety. More importantly, he's learned to talk about how he's feeling. He explains to the best of his ability what is going on in his head and his heart. It's hard to hear, but it's important we do. Only when you hear him explain it can you understand why morning and bedtime can be a struggle, why he thrives on routine, why he hates himself for losing his cool the way he does. Underneath the stress and worry, he is sweet and thoughtful and kind. I love my Gutsy so much. I'm so proud to be Gutsy's mom.

*~*~*

I met with his teacher last Friday and gave her an overview of the obstacles he faces. I told her that homework can be a real challenge when he's having an off day, so she has now left that open to doing as much or as little as he can manage without any pressure from her. This will improve our home life more than she will ever know. I'm so glad he has a teacher who gets it.

When the guy at the table said what he said about the gym, I replied by saying that I have everything I need at home: a treadmill, weights, a yoga mat. He asked "Yes, but do you have the motivation?"

"Not right now, no," was all I could muster. What I wanted to say was "No, I'm totally fucking exhausted most of the time just dealing with my day-to-day. But I'll find motivation again soon. And frankly, this is all I have right now, so it will have to be enough."

I don't expect people to get it. I don't expect that they'll understand when I say I can't go out again because I was already out a couple of times this week and it's hard on my family for me to leave like that.  If you have typical kids who don't freak out on a regular basis over small things like changes in routine, then you're going to think my husband is a useless twit who can't do things on his own. What you're not seeing is that handling those tantrums alone with two other kids in the house, is beyond exhausting. And to ask him to potentially do that several times a week is not something I'm prepared to do. For him, for our marriage, for our kids, and ultimately for me, because I love my family.

But it will get better. Gutsy is more aware of himself every day and is making changes. He's resuming therapy in a couple of weeks, and we have excellent support from the school.

It will get better. But you will not see me at the gym anytime soon.

Just a fever (I think)

Thursday night, Spawnling developed a fever. We were in the pool for about three hours with only minimal sunscreen application, so I assumed heat exhaustion and felt tremendously guilty for not being more vigilant.

Over 48 hours later, we're pretty sure it's not heat exhaustion. He still has a high fever, but absolutely no other symptoms. For the first day or so, it wasn't responding well to medication, but we seem to have it mostly under control now if we alternate between Tylenol and Advil. Back and forth, back and forth, like an adulterer on Jerry Springer.

Here's the thing: Spawnling got very sick last year. His first and only persistent symptom? A high fever that responded poorly to medication.  And even though my brain knows that my littlest gremlin is not having a second bout of scary illness, my heart has crawled up into my throat and won't leave until the fever does.

If I'm not mistaken, this is Spawn's first fever since he was blindsided by Kawasaki Disease in August of last year. If he has had others, I don't remember them, so they must have been fairly mild and accompanied by other symptoms that would make me think "Oh, it's just a little virus. Nothing to worry about."

And all I've done for the last three days is sit and watch him, feel his forehead, ask if anything hurts, give him medicine, follow him around, and make sure his lips aren't cracking and his hands aren't peeling and his eyes aren't bloodshot.

No, I beg you: Please try to contain all your envy of my latest hobby. I'm sure you have awesome stuff going on in your life, too.

I admit to being a total spaz. I admit that I'm overreacting and dwelling on the past too much. I don't like it and would do just about anything not to be sitting here fretting about my child's fever which is probably nothing more than a fever. But instead, I ran him into the local children's hospital at six this morning because his temperature was nearly 104f and not coming down fast enough with Advil.

I was running on three hours of sleep after going out with some of my awesome peeps last night for patio drinks (I, of course, got a little risky with not one, but two glasses of Diet Pepsi). Geekster pretty much forced me out when I tentatively asked if he'd mind holding down the fort. He could probably see my crazy starting to bubble up to the surface and figured he'd rather I not implode. I'm glad I went, but I did worry an awful lot while I was out despite the excellent company.  I fell asleep sometime after 2:30 and woke up at 6 when Geekster brought a very hot three-year-old into our bed. So, off to CHEO we went, Spawnling and I, with only a brief stop at a drive-thru for some essential - like, seriously essential and not pretend essential like usual - caffeine.

Diagnosis? Well, there is none, of course. He either has a virus (surprise!) or a reaction to some insect bites. Either way, there's not a whole lot anyone can do other than wait it out.

Oh, and maybe I could chill the fuck out a little in the meantime, too.

I wasn't like this before. Really, I wasn't. I left my paranoid new mother phase in a medical waiting room several years ago and never went back to claim her. I like not flying into a panic at the first touch of a hot forehead. I like scoffing at a sneeze, pshaw-ing a cough, shrugging off a runny nose. I was getting really good at saying "Sure, bad, scary, random things have happened to other kids I know and that's awful. But those are other kids, not my kids. I am so great at not making things all about me!"

Until, you know, it was my kid.

And when it was your kid, your perspective changes. I get that now. I wish I didn't. I wish I could ignorantly roll my eyes at me right now and tell me I'm being too emotional.

My goal over the next little while is to try and make a fever just a fever again. Meaning that I don't let my thoughts run away with me to the dark alley of what-ifs to perform dirty deeds with assumption, the lusty john that he is. I'm going to try and look at a sickly Spawnling as normal and not serious and not dangerous.

Logically, I know that everything will very likely be okay. When we do get his temperature under control, he acts completely normal. He has energy, he's chatty, he plays games, he has attitude - all good signs that this is mild, whatever it is. I loathe my inner panic button for not just letting me ride on logic. I never bought tickets to the emotional roller coaster and I do not wish to keep going around the track. Feeling suck. I think sociopaths are on to something. Is there an "off" switch somewhere?

In two days, if Spawnling's fever is not gone, I need to take him back to the hospital for testing. If any other symptoms of infection crop up before then, I need to bring him back sooner. But, of course, he will get better. The fever will break, and I will breathe a sigh of relief that it was, truly, just a fever this time.

Breathe, Maven. Just breathe. Focus on the good stuff, like how your friend is coming tomorrow from the US and you can try and pump her as full of Canadian misconceptions as humanly possible over the next six days. And how your older two are going camping with their dad and you'll only have the sickly Spawn to deal with, who will very likely have made a full recovery by then.

Just breathe. And quit whining. And go have another coffee, because that two hour nap you had earlier today isn't doing much for your mental state, obviously. You freaking basket case, you.

Since this post wasn't terribly funny (sorry, it's kind of hard to make anxiety over your child's health a ha-ha moment), I'll post a link to something I wrote last year about hospital wall art. I read it again recently and it made me laugh.

Take that back! I'm not lame, ok? I'm just that awesome.

Gutsy's Last Day of School - An Update

Is it the last day of school already?!

As of this afternoon at 3:00 - or, more likely, at 12:30 when I leave annual school picnic with Gutsy undoubtedly in tow - I will officially be the full-time caretaker of three gremlin boys once again.

Is there a way to convey anxiety-driven ticks? Because I think if I just write "*tick tick*" people might think I'm imitating a clock and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out how that fits into the context of this post.

Instead of ticking (not like a clock), I put all this nervous energy to good use and cleaned my house up all spotless like.

I did that on Friday.

It's now Wednesday. My house is still clean, even with three boys, 2 dogs and 2 cats living in it.

Throw away the yoga mat, people; I'm living proof that being a neurotic freak can be hugely beneficial to one's life.

Gutsy finishes grade 1 today. It's been one hell of a year for our middle gremlin. He started in french immersion class and ended up in the english stream with large helpings of stress for all during these difficult few months. It's incredible to think that, only a couple of months ago, our entire family was on the verge of collapse under all the daily pressure of his outbursts and, dare I say, depression. Looking back, I can clearly see the signs of overwhelming stress and sadness. I've been depressed, I've felt stuck and alone. That's how Gutsy was feeling. It breaks my heart. I get teary thinking about how hard this year has been for him.

And yet, he went off to school smiling today as he's done nearly every day since joining his new class in April. He comes home beaming and telling me about his day. He feels connected and happy. I see that sparkle in his eyes. I feel like we have Gutsy back again. It's not perfect; he still has outbursts and we still feel overwhelmed when they get bad, but the improvement is huge. With some therapy to teach us all some coping skills, I think we're well on our way to a more harmonious family.

I may be eating those words in August. Start placing bets.

We have learned so much as a family this year. We didn't collapse, we got stronger. We didn't shrink when faced with a challenge, we pulled together as many resources as possible and are using them. We didn't lose Gutsy, we got to know him better.

My only worry about this summer is that it's going to throw Gutsy's groove off. Being an anxious kid, he needs some kind of structure -- but not too much structure, because that's stressful. And it has to be the right kind of structure. Oh! And it it has to suit his brothers, too, who are six years his senior and four years his junior.

But, no pressure or anything.

I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off without losing the rest of my mind. But hey, my house is clean. Have I mentioned how clean my house is? Yes, my house is very, very clean. In fact, I was up until almost 1AM cleaning it because my brain kept shifting between "Tomorrow is the last day of school! YAY!" and "Tomorrow is the last day of school! EEEEEEEEEP!" So I just kept cleaning until the voices went away.

(I think this is the way OCD starts.)

Anyway, I need to go make some bagels. I promised one to the middle gremlin for his picnic lunch, and a smiling Gutsy makes Maven happier than a brooding Gutsy. Then, we'll head to the picnic.

And then I think I'll clean the kitchen until it sparkles.

Some Updates on the Incredible Gutsy

Everyone wants to know about Gutsy.

Gutsy, Gutsy, Gutsy.

It's all about Gutsy. Never mind how The Maven is doing. Never mind about her dumb anniversary or usurped trips to the grocery store. Who cares about that? Let's talk about a child in crisis, like that's somehow more important.

Fine: I'll indulge your disturbing show of empathy for seven-year-olds and tell you about what's going on in the realm of the Middle Gremlin. You may want to put your change and personal belongings in a zipped up pocket and keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times. It's been a couple of weeks and there is some updating to be had.

Things are going very well at school. This isn't a huge change for Gutsy, because school is not a place where he usually has major issues. Since he has my genius brain (and incredible good looks), the kid is destined for success just like me, his millionaire mother.

Oh, right. Never mind. I'm walking proof that perfection doesn't equal success. I guess I'll have to work hard for reasonable earnings my entire life like all those people who are less perfect than I am. Who says life is fair?

Anyway, back to Gutsy: He's now in the English stream and really enjoying it. I think he needed the freedom to be chatty about things without worrying about expressing himself in a new language. He can be a bit of a motormouth - no idea where he gets it from, honest.

Today, he's presenting an "Expert of the Day" project he worked very hard on. He chose the subject "Pro Movie Making" and included a film he made of Intrepid interviewing him about - you guessed it - making movies. He added in a FBI warning, a PG-13 rating, some sound effects, captions and credits. He's had several projects in the French Immersion program, but I practically needed a cattle prod to get him motivated enough to work on them. This motivation is a very positive sign for our little man. It tells me we made the right decision to switch him back to English.

We have a wonderful behavior tech at the school who is now working with Gutsy daily. They're making comic strips every afternoon to talk about how his day went. She's doing some simple exercises with him to work on his anger and frustration levels. The added bonus is that he can decompress a little with her before coming home. This may add years to my life, and I'm only kind of joking.

The last few days, Gutsy's claws have remained mostly retracted after school, which is a huge change from the hurricane mood swings happening just a handful of weeks ago. He does still have his moments - like when he got in a fight with one of his best friends last Tuesday and erupted in a way that scared the socks off me - but things are improving overall.

This isn't to say that Gutsy isn't still Gutsy. He was born with a personality and we need to work within the confines of it. He's always been an explosive kind of kid and that likely won't go away anytime soon. Transitions are difficult and he has a certain amount of rigidity when it comes to routine, foods, clothes, etc. That's just who he is, and with the right amount of gentle guidance, I see him becoming a creative, meticulous, responsible and reliable adult. Gutsy is the type of kid who will grow up to do great things if we can help his confidence grow. He just needs love, understanding and consistency (and mommy needs copious amounts of coffee.)


Speaking of which, if I hear one more person suggest that we're not consistent enough/don't show Gutsy who's boss enough/aren't in control enough, I'm going to get all up in their grill. I know they're trying to help, but that type of "help" isn't very helpful. Contrary to popular belief, Geekster and I have watched Super Nanny, too. We realize that letting a child run the house can lead to screaming and tantrums and all sorts of rotten behaviour. We have been doing this for a few years, you know. Heck, parenting is my full-time job. If I let the Gremlins Three run the house, I would have been strung up by my ankles and pelted to death with potatoes a long time ago.

Gutsy's issue is not that his parents are complacent. Geekster and I were laughing about that the other night and saying we wish that were the case; it would be much easier to solve the problem if it were all our fault. However, we have a child who isn't in control of his emotions as much as he probably should be at this age. He's anxious and quick to anger. Watching him snap is not only stressful for everyone, but terribly heartbreaking. He's a good kid with a lot of love, and yet he can turn in an instant when his brain just can't take anymore. This is a biological issue, not a parenting one.

If I don't haul Gutsy off to a corner for a time-out when he's yelling and jumping up and down and stomping his feet, it's not because I'm not in control of the situation. When his dad speaks gently to him when Gutsy is screaming back in anger, it's not because he's weak. What we're doing is helping our son get the words out of his overwhelmed little body so that he can calm down faster without further escalating the situation. The goal is that next time he'll be closer to using his words instead of exploding and feel safe enough to do so. The best part is that this method is working. It's working so much better than showing him who's boss and demanding he stop his retched behaviour right now. A quick fix isn't the solution here. Believe me, staying calm and talking him down is significantly harder than giving a time-out. It takes a lot more effort to extract those feelings from him than removing privileges and making up reward charts. It's positively fucking exhausting, actually. Complacency isn't even in our vocabulary right now.

So please, if you want to make ignorant assumptions feel free to do so but keep them to yourself. Much like any parent of special needs kids, we have enough on our plates without having to explain ourselves to those who are quick to point fingers. We have no time or energy for that right now.

Why yes, I do feel much better after saying that. Thanks for asking.

Another thing we did to simplify our family life is get rid of the playroom. Sounds counterproductive, doesn't it? How did that make things easier? A few ways:

1. We purged about half the toys in our house, making cleanup easier

2. We moved the office into the old playroom

3. We moved Gutsy into the old office and left Spawnling in his existing room, giving all three gremlins their own room

4. Now everyone has a quiet space to get away and go to sleep

5. Because the old-playroom-turned-office is rather large, I was able to move my desk out of the bedroom and join Geekster in here, all professional-like. Booyaka!

Gutsy loves his new room. He goes in there after school to unwind before joining everyone else in the common rooms. There has been far less fighting and far more harmony in the three days since we moved everyone around. And yes, that means the move was done Mother's Day weekend. Believe me, peace in an otherwise chaotic household is a gift that keeps on giving. Who needs flowers?

We now also have a social worker at our local health department who will be coordinating any help we get for Gutsy. They must have fast-tracked him in, because I was told it would likely take a few months. We now start the difficult process of finding a therapist who understands that children with hearing loss often have behavioral issues that mimic ADD/ADHD and other similar disorders. That therapist will likely cost a great deal of money, so I'm thinking I might start that prostitution ring I've been contemplating.

Either that, or write the bestselling novel in my head. Prostitution is probably easier and quicker, but I don't know if I can bring myself to wear faux fur in the coming Summer months. Nobody likes a sweaty hooker.

All this to say that things are slowly getting better but are by no means resolved. There are times when Geekster and I look at each other and wonder how we're going to get through that particular day, when I call someone sobbing because I'm exhausted and don't know if I can take anymore, when I sit by Gutsy's bed at night wondering how we got here and how we can make things better for the boy I love so much. But overall, he's happier, he smiles more, he breaks down less. He has a bit of a twinkle in his eye that I missed so much.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe things are going to be okay. Having hope is definitely progress.

There's your damn update. Now can we talk about me again?

(All pictures by my sister, owner of Trinque Photography. You can find her Facebook fan page here. If you live in the Ottawa, Canada area, this girl is for hire! I keep telling her she needs to do this photography thing full-time but she won't listen to me. Figures.)

Further Musings from an Overwhelmed Mother

When I wrote Saturday's post, I honestly thought nobody would read it, let alone comment on it. Then, you came in droves to support, understand, and send a lot of love our way.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. For, while I really do write these posts for me and my own stress relief/inner exhibitionist satisfaction, knowing people are thinking about me and my family means a great deal to this heart of mine; particularly when it's broken and hurting as much as it has been lately.

I usually try to be funny - okay, let's be honest: downright fucking hysterical - and this type of depressing, helpless post is not my sort of thing. I only let Sad Maven out to play when things get really bad. Well, it really has been that bad. Perhaps I didn't quite realize just how bad until I let it all out in the open for the world to see.

There are some things I don't talk about on my blog because they're too private, or discussing them might open up a big can o' drama I really don't feel like eating. When we realized a couple of weeks ago that Gutsy didn't remember the epic tantrum he had just had, my first thought was that this was really serious. The second was that we shouldn't tell anyone right now. I didn't want anyone judging or labeling him because of it. I wanted to roll the entire ordeal up in bubble wrap and tuck it into a corner, maybe stick a few flowers on it for decoration. "What, that? Oh, that's just a little thing we're getting checked out. Nothing important. But doesn't it smell nice? So lovely... Scone?"

Then, after a couple of very overwhelming weeks, I decided I really did need to say something. To speak the truth - our truth - for me, for my family, for Gutsy. We had already told a handful of key people and yet it still felt so bottled up inside me. I couldn't write, couldn't even contemplate working a contract or doing much of anything other than the absolute life-essential basics. I made or ordered lousy meals, the house was filthy, contact with friends and family limited. There was little on my mind besides what was going on with Gutsy, therefore I didn't feel like talking to much of anyone - what would I talk about? Only The Thing That Shall Not Be Named. More importantly, I was seriously sucking in my roll as Mom, CEO of the household. With my energy stores tapped, the gremlins were suffering the most.

Living a lie, even through omittance, is very, very toxic.

I half-jokingly said to a friend today that writing this weekend's post kind of felt like 'coming out' to the world. But instead of saying 'boys are icky' I'm saying 'my family is in crisis.'

(Dear Johnny Depp,

For the record, I do not think boys are icky. Especially not you. I was simply drawing a comparison. I just wanted to make sure that no potential miscommunication ever comes between our love -- you know, the love that will undoubtedly smack you across the face when you eventually meet me/run away with me to your chateau d'amour in France.

Sincerely, The Maven)

When I threw open the closet door, I felt an immense release. The world got a little lighter, a little friendlier, a little less scary. People were sympathetic and kind. There have been offers of help and support in many different forms. Most importantly, people still think the world of Gutsy and maybe even understand him a little more.

Imagine that: the truth really does set you free.

We have a child who cannot control his anger, frustration or disappointment. His mood swings are extreme and sometimes violent. Some days bring us to the point of tears and leave us wondering if this is the end of the road for any remaining shred of sanity. He screams, throws things, throws himself around, hits himself, slams doors, and is absolutely unable to see any reason until he calms down -- whenever that is; sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. Our home life is far more unpredictable than it should be, even with three little gremlins in it.

And yet, we have a child who is one of the most amazing, thoughtful, beautiful, intelligent people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. When he takes my hand, he lovingly holds it in both of his. When he wishes me goodnight, he often reaches out and gently caresses my cheek. In the summer, he picks me flowers almost every day because he knows how much I love them (even if they do come from the garden). He loves his family intensely, idolizes his dad and big brother and will spend an enormous amount of time teaching his little brother new things. When he's not upset, he is the embodiment of pure love.

We have a child who needs our help, who needs us to swallow any pride and reach out for whatever resources we can find. He needs our help to learn to cope with his emotions. He needs a family that is not struggling to keep its collective head above water, who lives in joy instead of apprehension.

There have been some improvements in the last couple of days. For one, Friday was the worst day of the weekend. Saturday was pretty close and Sunday kind of sucked, too, but I did not sob either of those days. Horray for small victories!

I did cry this morning, however, but not out of frustration. I cried because we're starting to clear through the thorns of Gutsy's emotions and get to some of his biggest triggers. Today, we found one.

Gutsy refused to go to school. He's done this before, but we can generally coax him somehow. He does have a cold, but it's mild and certainly not something absentee-worthy. I decided to try a dialogue we've attempted countless times before. However, all the effort we've put into helping him express his emotions is starting to pay off.

'I don't want to go to school. I'm too tired and too sick. I don't have any energy,' said a solemn Gutsy.

I pulled up a chair. 'Is there something going on at school, honey?'

Gutsy sighed. 'Mom, you've asked me that, like, a million times, and I always say no.'

'I know you do, but something tells me otherwise. We're not going to make you go to school today, but I would very much like it if you told me what's wrong. I'm here to listen and help.'

So he did tell me. He said that he doesn't understand a lot of what is said in his French immersion class these days. He said he gets frustrated and sad because they're learning a lot of new things right now and he can't figure them out. He said he wishes he were in an English class because it would be easier and he would be happier.

On the surface it almost seems laughable. Gutsy has good grades and is reading above his grade level in French. His reading and comprehension in English is even higher. The reason we put him in French immersion was to add a challenge. But I see now that it was too much of one. We put a hearing impaired child in a grade 1 immersion class with kids who had an entire previous year of French. He not only had to catch up to his more experienced peers, but do it with hearing loss to boot. He may have succeeded academically, but at what cost to him?

It made perfect sense. He's depleted at the end of every school day and simply doesn't have it in him to keep his emotions in check. An already explosive child has become even more so because we're asking too much of him.

So that's that. His teacher and I spoke today and both agree he needs to return to the English stream. I think he'll feel more comfortable and be able to express his wonderful self a lot better. His dad and I are sad he won't get fully immersed in a second language, but we know his self-esteem, love of learning, and our family harmony have to come first. I head to the school tomorrow afternoon for a meeting and we'll go from there. I hope the switch happens soon, as I think it will greatly improve things for all of us.

We're still going to follow up with the social worker at our local health unit as well and get us all some coping skills and understanding of how we can best help our Gutsy. We could use some peace in this household, to say the least.

On Saturday, Geekster and I went out for coffee and cake at our favourite little getaway. We're both so emotionally drained with everything going on, but talking about it helps. Some days are worse than others, but we're seeing a light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in a while.

May it not be a bunch of flying monkeys.

Seriously, I could not handle flying monkeys right now. Like we don't have enough problems.

Anxiety makes me anxious

I've been feeling very anxious the last few days, and it has me worried.

I used to suffer from horrible, crippling anxiety after Gutsy was born. It was so bad that I begged my doctor for medication (to no avail), even though it's similar to the stuff I was on for postpartum depression after Intrepid and I hated what it did to me. But I was desperate to change my thinking because I felt out of control. It was like the gas pedal of my mind was pushed down all the way and there was a Diet Coke can lodged under the brake. There was no stopping the thoughts whipping through my noggin from the time I got up until the time I went to sleep.

Every day Geekster went to work, I was sure he'd lose his job. Why? Because he just would, that's why. He would go to work and they'd be downsizing, outsourcing, redirecting, selling off the department, or any other number of things that happen in the corporate world. And he would get a pink slip, and never ever find another job, and we'd be on the street with two children and I'd have to teach them to steal food from market stalls, and train monkeys to dance and grind organs for money.

Every little health concern was deadly. When symptom-checking on the internet, all roads lead to cancer, heart disease, or sudden death, just so you know. Although I was pretty sure I wasn't dying of sudden death on account of probably being too dead to do any research about it.

Every friend who didn't return my calls was obviously rejecting me because I was annoying and abrasive. (Actually, both those things are true at least some of the time, but thankfully most people haven't caught on - yet.) Or, I was simply not good enough, had lost my edge - you know, the "friend edge" I'm sure everyone else is not only aware of, but stresses over having or losing all the time, right? - or I simply was too damn boring. Yes, boring.

And this went on, and on, and on, and my brain got darker and weirder and more twisted. And I found myself wishing I could go sit in a padded room for a little while, completely lose my marbles, and come back home a few days later refreshed, happy, and maybe 30 pounds lighter.

(Actually, I just threw the weight loss thing in at the last minute because if a girl is going to dream, she should dream big - or small, or whatever.)

Basically, there was a mental illness monster taking up residence inside me and I didn't know how to kill it. It took over every minute of every day. My laughs were forced, my writing sucked, my parenting sucked even more. Intimate moments with my spouse were always coupled with a distracting list of all the things that worried me, so date nights were dreadful.

What got me through it? Being really honest about it with my closest friends and relatives. Reading some good books on it, watching shows about it. However, the final death blow for my friend Anxiety was getting pregnant with Spawnling.

For some reason - be it hormones, maternal instinct, a sudden slap of reality, or maybe all three - his pregnancy jolted me into a better place. I felt more centered than I had in years, better equipped to deal with the ups and downs in life, happier, more realistic about each situation, more relaxed than ever. I loved that feeling; I lived that feeling for over three wonderful years.

And then, a few days ago, I felt a very familiar twinge. I don't know what got its heart pumping again, but the beast is back. It's smaller and weaker than it was, but it's definitely here. I want to hit the damn thing with a shovel and throw it down a well.

How do I know this isn't normal anxiety? Because I know what normal anxiety feels like, and this isn't it. When I get anxious about something serious, my brain is demanding me to focus my attention on something pertinent. When that situation is dealt with, I'm no longer stressed out about it. Anxiety can be good.

This anxiety? Well, it's not the good kind. It's the kind that has me wondering everything from 'Why hasn't that person talked to me in so long? Is it because they don't like me? What's wrong with me?' to 'Why isn't anyone commenting on my blog posts? Is it because they've finally figured out what a shitty writer I am?'

Yes, I'm even anxious about comments. But please don't leave one just because I said that. I'm smart enough to know this usually insignificant worry makes absolutely no sense and is just a symptom of my overall insecurity.

The Maven? Insecure? Well, now we know there's a real problem.

I need to kill the monster. Here's my plan:

Step one: Admitting I'm anxious. Hello, I'm anxious. I'm even writing it on my blog so everyone can read it. Now I'm an anxious exhibitionist. Exhibitionism is rather anxiety-producing in itself, I think, so this could be counterproductive, especially with the lack of comments lately (That was a joke)

Step two: Admitting that being stuck at home with two sick kids - one who sounds like he might be getting pneumonia again, and the other who runs around naked hitting people on the head with sticks and laughing evilly - is probably fueling my anxiety just a little bit.

Step three: Understanding that maybe I have some residual stress from the last year that I haven't dealt with. To be honest, I let a lot of things roll off my back that were probably cry or scream or hit-my-head-repeatedly-against-the-wall worthy. Things are actually pretty good right now, so maybe my brain is processing. I just wish I could convince it that processed things aren't good for you; that's what Dr. Oz says, anyway.

Step four: Understanding that this may very well be hormonal and I'll get over it in a few days. That being said, I told myself that for three years last time. Just sayin'.

Step five: Eat chocolate.

The last step solidifies everything. It's a fool-proof plan, I tell you.