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

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

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

Baby Intrepid and a very young Maven 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Happy 4th Birthday, Spawnling!

Is it just me, or has four years gone by way, way too fast?

It seems like just yesterday when a gate to the Netherworld opened up from within my womb, spilling forth the horned wonder child we now call Spawnling. With his birth came chaos and fury, noise and mayhem.

Truly, we couldn't be more proud.

It's hard to believe that our littlest gremlin is now four years old. One day, I'm staring at a faint line on a pregnancy test in my kitchen, quietly freaking out at the prospect of a third child and the thought of breaking the news to my husband, and the next thing I know he's telling me he's too big to watch preschool TV because he's four now.

It's not that we didn't want another baby, necessarily. I mean, at one point we wanted another one, but then two got pretty comfortable - and busy. But you know, a third wouldn't be so bad.  I mean, it's not like it would be another boy anyway, right? This one was definitely a girl. I knew it to the core, and moms are never wrong about this stuff.

Our "daughter"

Okay, so we found out at around 20 weeks' gestation that our daughter had a penis, and I had to give up the idea that getting enough pink clothes together to do a load of laundry in under two weeks' time. On the night of October 12, 2006, I became ridiculously outnumbered.

Right before he was born, I told myself that maybe he would have the blonde curls I had when I was a baby. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't look so much like his brothers and dad, and instead would take after me a little bit. Because frankly, these gorgeous looks of mine have been going to waste due to my husband's stronger genes.

Maury says: Geekster, you ARE the father!

Yep. Wrong again. He looks about as much like me as I look like North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Jong-Il.

We're like twins!

Do not take candy from this man

So basically, not at all. Remind me that the next guy who knocks me up three times needs to have weaker genetics, ok?

So he may have been unplanned, have a penis, and look nothing like me, but there is something really wonderful about our not-so-baby-anymore gremlin. He's charming, funny, engaging, mischievous, loving, and terribly cute (despite not looking like me - who knew there was another way to be attractive?) He is the perfect final notch in our fertility belt. The grand finale in our trilogy of awesome spawns. The best possible reason not to wear a condom that month. And today, he is four.

So happy birthday, my darling boy. I hope you enjoyed running amuck in the Museum of Nature today with our friends, the endless train of carb-carrying cargo that entered your mouth tunnel, and the presents your brothers not-so-lovingly wrapped for you as they yelled at each other over who should do what.

What love looks like (watch the claws)

My heart grew tenfold when I held you for the first time, for I had no idea what completion was until I met you, our littlest family member.

Steve Martin Hates My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I'm thirty-four. That's nearly three-and-a-half decades of awesome under my belt.

Hmmm... No wonder my belt is so big.

So, what does it mean to be this old? I have absolutely no idea. So far, it means I had to renew my license and treat myself to a coffee. Next, I have to check my Facebook birthday greetings. Well, if I have any. Steve Martin doesn't think so.

See, I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I lived in an apartment building and Steve Martin was my landlord. I mean, he was still Steve Martin, but he had retired from acting and entered the glamourous world of property management.

I spent a lot of my time trying to make Imaginary Steve Martin like me. Maybe because I'm a fame whore. Maybe because he's the guy I was paying rent to. Maybe because I still have a lingering 1980's "All of Me" crush on him lingering in my subconsciousness twenty-something years later. Whatever the case, he was always doing stuff around the building - watering the plants, painting the hallways - and I was desperately trying to have a friendly conversation at every opportunity, to no avail. He was curt and a little snobby; not what I pictured him to be.

Then, one fine midday, I walked out of the building to see him supervising the installation of a privacy fence. He said "Hey, Maven! Happy birthday!"

"Thanks, Mr. Martin!" I smiled happily. What a jolly good bloke. He wasn't a bastard after all! Maybe we could be Facebook friends. I would find his personal account and add him. He would accept my friend request - probably. Most likely. Maybe if I got him drunk first.

Steve started flipping through papers on a clip board like all important people do. "I hope you get some Facebook wall posts today."

What an odd thing to say, I thought to myself.  Of course I would get a lot of wall posts. Hello? I'm The Maven?

I gave him an odd smile. "Thanks."

Not taking his eyes off the clipboard, he replied "Because as of right now, you don't have any. And it's already noon."

Never mind that a highly successful comedic movie star was now my hardhat-wearing landlord. Never mind that he somehow had access to, or knowledge of, my supposedly private social networking page. At that moment, neither of those things were relevant to me. All that mattered as I made my way back inside the building and toward my apartment, is that it was midday on September 1st and not a single person had wished me a happy birthday. No one? Not even my own mom? Was the internet broken? Yes, surely the internet was broken. That was the only logical explanation.

You know how dreams go. I spent what seemed like an eternity trying to get to my computer. Absolutely every hurdle imaginable was thrown my way to slow me down: a broken elevator, a closed hallway, very chatty neighbours... but I finally got to my laptop and was in the process of logging into my Facebook account when-- my alarm went off. And it was the first day of school. And Gutsy was standing next to me with a big smile on his face, and I had to get up and make toast. Dammit!

I could picture that arrogant moustached ex-comedian snickering into his clipboard because I would never know now, would I? And, worse, I actually cared about my stupid Facebook wall enough to have a dream about it.

At noon today, as I was wrapping up a kick ass morning of breakfast and bookstore with my very cute three-year-old birthday date, I checked in on Facebook to see if, you know, people like me.

I learned a few important things:

1. I need therapy, because apparently my self-worth partially depends upon whether or not people say hello to me on a virtual wall, and,
2. People like me, a lot. Oh, and,
3. Imaginary Steve Martin can bite me

My Late Night Pharmacy 'Aha!' Moment

Yesterday was not only Geekster's birthday, but the day I got a wicked migraine that wouldn't go away. It started just after lunch and carried through until this morning. It was annoying and intrusive upon my day, much like the summer those Jehovah's Witnesses kept coming by with pamphlets during nap time.

Mr. Migraine lingered through my mandatory last-minute dash to the grocery store, the nearly catastrophic layered cake experiment, my thirty minute workout, and homemade pizza-making. He stuck around and poked at the left side of my head when we sang happy birthday to my darling husband, when we cut the cake, when I cleared the dishes. He throbbed at my temple during Obama's State of the Union address, and throbbed even more as I snorted with laughter at the Republican's Response ("Best healthcare system in the world"? Can Republicans read? Ever see the multitude of studies done on US health care cost and overall life expectancy?)

Finally, around 10:30, I just couldn't take it anymore. I had tried Advil twice during the day and it had done absolutely nothing to stop the pounding bass drum in my forehead. I peeled myself off the couch and made my way to the 24hr pharmacy, hoping something a wee bit stronger would kick the it for good.

I asked to see the pharmacist, and started describing the pain. I told him what I had taken, and that it hadn't worked like it usually does. 'Is there something stronger I could take?' I asked, rubbing my head.

It was then I realized where I was: an urban pharmacy in the middle of the night, asking about stronger painkillers. I wondered if I looked like those pill-popping housewives Oprah has on every other month. Maybe if I twitched a little and got a desperate look in my eye, I could really freak some people out...

At thirty-three, I still like to rebel a little.

Disappointingly, I don't behave enough like a junkie to get any kind of uncomfortable look from a pharmacist. He asked me to describe the pain, so I did. When I told him it hurts more when I'm up and doing things, he asked me if I had recently checked my blood pressure.

Well, no, obviously. Because denial is pretty awesome and I liked it there. Why burst my bubble? He pointed me to the blood pressure machine. I took it three times, and the last and lowest reading I got was 141/85.

Not good.

For those readers who are not familiar with blood pressure, that was a really shitty score. It's not a 'run, sobbing, to your nearest heart clinic' score, or a 'time to find a pig with a strong ticker and hope you have the same blood type' score, but it's not exactly great, either. It means my blood pressure is too high, and bad things could eventually happen.

Now, Denial Maven would like to point out the following:

- It had been a busy day
- I was stressed out
- I was in pain
- It was late at night, and I was tired
- Pharmacy blood pressure equipment can be flaky

Thank you, Denial Maven. Now kindly shut up, and let's talk to Realistic Maven. She doesn't come out to play very often, but we still need to include her in the group, ok?

Denial Maven says:

- I am obese
- I am stressed far too often, and stress kills
- This is a wake-up call

It's funny, because I've sort of come full-circle: First, I hated my body because I'm fat. Then, I accepted it for what it is. Next, I began to love it as much as I love other aspects of myself (which is a lot, in case you hadn't noticed). Now, I love myself enough to want to get healthier. I can accept my body, but I can't accept my blood pressure, because that can- and likely will - cause major damage to the body I now love.

The simple fact is that being this overweight is not good for my health. On top of that, the amount of stress I've been under isn't helping, either. it's time for some big lifestyle changes: more exercise, better food, more relaxation techniques, more time for play. I owe it to myself, my kids, my spouse, and of course my countless minions who rely on me to brighten their days with my blog posts. The blood pressure readings I took last night worried me. I've known for a while that I'm heading down a scary path if I don't make some significant changes.

It's time.

Wow. The determination in that last sentence was so badass! I'm going to try it again, but with more emphasis on the last word:

It's time.

I just got all tingly. I might have just turned myself on.

For his birthday - the sixteenth we've celebrated as a couple - my husband got a homemade cake, homemade pizza, and a pretty decent gift he'd been eying for a while. On his next birthday, I hope he has a wife who is a lot healthier. He loves me, and I know wants me to stick around for a while. Not only do I put out, but I make great pizza crust.

Birthday Cards from my Kids

I love kid art. Nothing makes me happier than when one of my gremlins scurries over to me, grinning proudly through his fangs as he shows me the latest picture of he and I doing something together.

Sometimes, we're walking hand in hand through a park with the sun overhead and big smiles on our faces. Sometimes, we're riding a bike - or what I'm told is a bike after I casually ask what that grey scribble is beneath my crotch. And sometimes, we're doing one of my favourite quiet time activities: zapping aliens with our radar guns in outer space.

I like my kids' drawings so much, in fact, that I asked them to make something for our neighbour across the street. It was his birthday yesterday, and I had already brought them some chocolates a couple of days before, so I decided to milk the 'I have small children who make cute pictures' cow for as long as possible. I've come to realize that many older people love fridge art, and that this can be a gift in itself.

Or so I tell myself when it's someone's birthday and I'm broke because it's less than a week before Christmas.

Do you have any idea how much money a person can save with some offspring, a box of markers and some printer paper? One child gives you a good seven or eight years worth of artwork. They make cards, snowflakes, paintings, Christmas tree ornaments... The slave labour possibilities are practically endless! And, if you're previously infertile smart like we were, you space the births out over a decade, thus maximizing money saved by not overlapping their cutsey-wootsy talents; Just as one grows out of card-making, another is ready to take on the role.

Brilliant, I tell you. Absolutely brilliant.

Anyway, both Spawnling and Gutsy worked their forked little tails off making something special for our neighbour, Mr. Len. Naturally, I had to take pictures of their, uh, pictures, and share them. After all, everyone needs a good laugh on a Monday:

Before anyone comments on Spawnling's incredible writing skills, I should probably mention he had a little help from me. Now you can comment on my incredible writing skills. Go ahead: my letter forming is rather impressive.

"I'm going to draw some balloons for Mr. Len!" Spawnling declared. I got out my trusty blue marker. A mother just knows that sometimes these displays of artistic talent require a description (note what I wrote at the bottom left). He was quite adamant about using brown for his picture, which I now see is because that colour invokes within him the ability to draw something comprehensible. The brown shape is about the only one resembling an actual balloon. The rest either look like stink lines or are depicting the brown balloon having some type of seizure - I'm not quite sure. He then topped it off with some 'sparkles'. My kid is awesome.

Gutsy is turning into quite the little artist. He's come a long way since stick figures and ovals with legs that are supposed to be one of a dozen different animals. He's now into drawing anime-like characters, in part due to big brother Intrepid, who is pretty much obsessed with the stuff.

The problem is that everyone and everything is made into an anime character. He brought home a picture of he and his teacher, and both of them look like they're straight out of a Pokemon episode. And now, our elderly neighbour has his own special place in Japanese-style cartoon art.

There are a lot of different elements to this picture. For one, there's Mr. Len himself, complete with the standard spiky anime hair ("I'm colouring it grey, because he's old," explained Gutsy.) Mr Lenimon has an expression that says "I'm about to kick someone's ass and love every second of it," all the while giving everyone the finger - which is okay, because he has an abnormally large number of them on that hand, and could probably spare one or two of them.

You know, I once had a friend who was reduced to tears because her son's grade 1 teacher said he wasn't drawing fingers on his people and that this meant he was somehow delayed in that area. My son now has the same grade 1 teacher, and I'm wondering if he'll say Gutsy is gifted because he draws excessive amounts of fingers on his people.

Ok, probably not. But it was a nice thought.

Making Mr. Anime Len even more bad ass is that his age is proudly displayed beside him, with a giant arrow letting you know that he's 78 and still going to beat the crap out of you. And what's going to help him? The balloon-type thing floating next to him, which I can only assume is his trained Pokemon ally.

Dude, I love my kids, and I love their art. Nothing makes my day more than something they've made. I could have a house filled with it.

Oh, wait. I do. That's why I pawn it off on other people.

Intrepid Turns 13, part 2

Well, well, well. Look at who did thirty posts in thirty days. I believe some coffees and surprises were offered if I made it this far. I'm fully expecting the pay-out. I am, more than ever, an awesome human being.

It seems fitting that the last day of NaBloPoMo falls on the birthday of the boy who started it all: Intrepid is thirteen today, officially making me the mother to a teenager.

Thank the Gods that I'm also young, beautiful, talented, and intelligent or I might just be feeling really confused right now. I might be sitting here wondering how, exactly, that darling little baby I held in my arms thirteen years ago is now almost as tall as me and has feet so big that I can slip his shoes on with ease.

I might be wondering how this child of mine went from a baby who had no respect for my previous life, its sleep patterns, un-engorged breasts, and food that was actually prepared rather than microwaved, to a young man who used his some of his birthday money to buy his brothers Christmas presents.

I could be pondering how on earth we got here, with such a great kid who is loved by everyone he meets and who has made entering the teenage years anything but scary. We were painted a very grim picture of who this child would become. He was supposed to have learning disabilities, a severe case of ADHD, major behavioral and social issues, and quite possibly end up a dysfunctional delinquent.

It figures he'd break the mold, that one.

Intrepid's birthday ended exactly the way he wanted it: with a game of Super Mario Bros. Wii with his dad and I. Tomorrow, we visit the orthodontist so he can tell us how much his mouth is going to cost.

I'm so happy we're in the process of remortgaging.

My boy is growing up, and I love him more every year. Happy birthday, my wonderful son. It's amazing how someone so perfect could have come from someone like me. Miracles really do happen.

(photo courtesy of my sister, of course. The picture on the left is of Intrepid holding baby Gutsy for the first time. He then handed him back, ran into the bathroom and puked. Leave it to one of my gremlins to get a stomach flu when I'm birthing his brother.)

Intrepid Turns 13, part I

I promised a significantly better post than yesterday's, and I shan't disappoint. I even used a spiffy word like "shan't," so you know there's something good coming.

In just a few short hours, my firstborn, my darling Intrepid, will turn thirteen.

Thir-freaking-teen.

That's, like, a teenager. An official teen boy will be living in our house, complete with the large appetite, odd smells, and soon-to-be-cracking voice that goes with the territory. I'm feeling oddly sentimental. I used to think I'd dread this moment, and instead I'm so gosh darn proud of the kid that I need to get my write on and tell everyone about how instrumental he's been in shaping our lives.

Of course, every boy in our batch of gremlins has brought with him drastic changes and lots of chaos, anxiety, stress, pure unbridled joy. But there's something really special about the first.

I don't love him any more than the others, just differently. It's hard to describe exactly, but I'll try: Remember your first love? And I don't mean the guy who dry humped you on his parents' corduroy couch, or the girl who made you tingly in your happy places but purposely gave you the wrong phone number after the dance. I mean the first one who really loved you, and who you loved back. The one you remember years later because it just felt so gosh darn good to be together, experiencing love for the first time. Everything he or she did was new and exciting and fresh. You couldn't wait to see him or her again. You could go on and on about how incredible the person is, or how needlessly long this paragraph is becoming because people obviously get the point by now and you should move on.

Now, add in a dash of whatever you felt when you realized what the stars and planets were, what it meant to have them there, and how amazed you were by the thought of an entire universe of wonders out there.

Now, fold those two ingredients together and mix in the immense pride and sense of accomplishment you had when you taught your puppy to "sit", and you have some kind of an idea.

Love + Wonder + Pride = Firstborn.

The greatest thing about firstborns is that the older the get, the more they impress you. Sure, walking was cool, and that first word - or whatever you convinced yourself sounded like a first word - was neat-o, but seeing your child perform a piano solo or win a spelling bee? That takes the sugar-free cake.

But with Intrepid, there's a little something extra: What sets him apart from a lot of other kids is that he's defied nearly every expectation of who he would become. I'm going to brag in two parts, starting now and concluding tomorrow, on his birthday. Prepare to roll your eyes a great deal as I take a trip down memory lane.

Hey, it's my blog and I'll brag if I want to. Want to stroke your own ego in a purely exhibitionist fashion? Write your own damn blog. This one's mine and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

We just barely escaped the stigma of teen parenting. I was nineteen, and Geekster and I had been together for just over two years when we realized that, despite the bleak picture painted by a doctor about my fertility, not using condoms could result in a pregnancy. Oops.

There was never a time when we didn't want the baby. The ultrasound tech dating my pregnancy asked that very personal question, and when I said we were happy to become parents, she zoomed in on my six week old embryo's heartbeat. I was blown away, completely smitten, and I walked out a mother.

I've had countless people say things like 'There's no way I could have been a mother at twenty.' Actually, you could have.

Unless you're a dude.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend motherhood at that age for most people, but it's definitely doable. I'm going to step out of my usual grandiose skin for a minute and say, quite honestly, that there was nothing spectacular or unique about me.

Could you at least pretend to be shocked by this news? Thank you.

I was just a girl who loved a boy and made a baby with him. Then, we made a choice to have that baby (and I don't judge those who chose not to, just for the record). And then, we did everything we could to make it a good choice. It really was that simple.

In short, I wasn't born awesome: Motherhood made me awesome.

Were we scared? Of course. The Maven may be many things, but an idiot she is not. Geekster and I were poor, had very little education, no car or license, and had both only very recently quit smoking (like, maybe a week before conception). And folic acid? What on earth was that? I only started taking prenatal vitamins after my first doctor's visit at five weeks. "Scared" didn't even begin to describe it. But we were excited, too. And eager and happy to become parents, too. We felt ready emotionally and ready to grow our family. We would make it work, we said to each other.

There were several people who kindly informed us that having a baby at that time would be the end of our relationship, our aspirations to climb above the poverty line, and any chance at a life that wasn't straight out of an episode of Cops. Our baby would have only limited resources to become a well-adjusted, well-educated, productive member of society.

Supportive, positive people are wonderful, aren't they?

When I was alone, I would rub my belly and tell Embryo-trepid that it (we didn't know the gender) would be okay. Daddy and I wouldn't let anything bad happen. That together, we would shatter those stereotypes. After all, this child was from my womb, and therefore it was genetically impossible to suck.

And then, one day, at my routine 39 week checkup, I was told my blood pressure was suddenly sky high and I needed to get induced, like, now, because my baby and I were in danger. Young, first-time mothers are at a higher risk for preeclampsia. That was one stereotype my body was kind enough to honour, the bitch.

I'll spare you the gory details of a traumatic birth experience. Suffice to say that, fourty-eight hours later, what I knew about love and the meaning of life was instantly transformed with a cry.

My son entered my world, and that world shifted.

***

Continued tomorrow...




Oh, wait. I guess I should probably do some kind of cartoon thing, like this:

Will The Maven and Geekster feel they made a grave mistake?

Will their relationship fall apart?

Will baby Intrepid join a gang?

Will parenthood drive The Maven to drink (again?)

Stay tuned for another excited episode of As The Maven NaBloPoMos!

The Incredible Irony

I was dying for Gutsy to turn seven. Eager. Excited. Stoked.

As the legends go, seven is the magical age of reasoning. Children are struck by the almighty hand of common sense, thus propelling them into a new behaviour where they - get this - stop and think about what they're about to do. They call to memory previous situations and make an educated guess as to what might happen should they choose door number 1 or door number 2.

For example, Gutsy may, upon careful consideration, not scream at the top of his lungs at one of his his brothers if he sees no reason behind doing so, because it never got him anywhere before. He may choose not to throw himself on the floor as soon as the word "no" parts from my lips, because it is not reasonable to do so.

See where I'm going with this?

Anyway, in the last few weeks we've noticed a change in our normally quick-to-react middle gremlin. He yells less, and his claws only come halfway out most of the time. He has this new ability to retract them before it gets nasty. It's a beautiful sight.

So, you can see why I'm not terribly upset that he's getting older. I mean, I still think it's all happening too fast, but the selfish side of The Maven likes that things are beginning to calm down with the Gutster. Intrepid, who was by far our most aggressive unpredictable downright terrifying spirited little pod-dweller, really calmed down around the age of seven. He became the child everyone tells me they envy: Empathetic, funny, outgoing, creative, intelligent - all the things his mother is. In fact, he is such an amazing kid that I am not as afraid of his fast-approaching teen years as I thought I would be.

Yes, seven is a good age. A magical age. The well-deserved eye in the proverbial parental hurricane. I traipsed around the living room last night, delivering joy and chips and pizza to all the other seven-ish-year-olds at Gutsy's party, and quietly celebrating my own personal victory of surviving the first seven years.

Then, today, Spawnling threw a tantrum like I had never seen him throw. He body surfed on the floor, turned 11 shades of red and purple while screaming at us, randomly slapped Gutsy upside the head, called me stupid about 30 times, had three consecutive time-outs, and launched a toy guitar across the kitchen. I finally calmed him down with two library books - one being about underwear. Nothing gets him giggling like underwear.

Spawnling just turned three. We could very well see four more years of this.

Four.

More.

Years.

Are there enough library books in the world for four more years of this?

Irony, I so hate your face.