Whipping it Out Everywhere

Know what really pushes my buttons? Uptight people.

Know what pushes my buttons even more? Ignorant uptight people.

The two are generally synonymous, but when it's blatantly obvious that someone is going for the title of Douche of the Universe, it makes my entire wall of buttons get all pushy-like.

Tonight I will discuss a topic that not only pushes my buttons, but twiddles my knobs, too. And I mean that in the least perverse manner possible.

You'd have to be living under a rock - nay, living at the bottom of a chasm in the deepest part of the ocean under a very heavy and unmovable rock - to not know breastfeeding is the golden standard for infant nutrition. It's not even an arguable point, as it has countless studies to back it up. This post isn't about whether or not babies should be nursed. I mean, I'm a postpartum doula with a background rich in breastfeeding courses: it should be apparent where I stand on that issue.

Gone are the days where I try to tell people how they should feed their child. The information is out there and you can decide for yourself, like I did. Heck, I have a few friends who didn't nurse and I still think they're cool chicks. Sometimes, we sit around the fire and sing Kumbaya while holding hands. It's a beautiful thing, our ability to accept each other.

Today, I saw a re-tweet (Twitter talk for a tweet - or post - from a person that is then rebroadcast by others) with a link to a post on born.in.japan. The blog itself is a good read, so I'll be putting it on my blogroll. However, the first picture in this particular post angered me as much as it did the author. You can visit the blog to see it for yourself, but essentially it's an posted ad from the site Chicago Now, which states:

Breastfeeding in public is tacky!
Seriously, how hard is it to find a bathroom, mommies?

Ouch.

Now, later on, the ad is replaced by another, nursing-friendly one. And when I checked out Chicago Now's site, I found this very supportive article about public breastfeeding. The poster was obviously a provocative attempt to incite web visits. I get it, but I don't like it.

***

I'm going to admit something here, not only because I'm trying to make a point, but because I hope it'll help someone else out if they stumble across my lowly little blog:

I used to be a bathroom stall breastfeeder.

There, I said it. It's a hard thing to admit, being the knowledgeable lactivist I am today. But it's because of those awful experiences of sitting on the toilet with my newborn that I'm able to encourage women to proudly nurse their babies wherever they are.

It didn't take me long to figure out that I was going to give breastfeeding an honest try. Even in 1996, the literature spoke loud and clear in favour of breastmilk, and I was so enchanted with my new son that I wanted to give him the very best start in life. At the same time, however, I was a mere twenty years old, was suffering from then-undiagnosed postpartum depression, had very few friends with kids and none who were nursing, and had not grown up with a lot of breastfeeding around me. This left me in a bit of a quandary: I wanted to exclusively nurse, I sucked large at pumping or hand-expressing, and yet I was very insecure and worried about what people would say if I were to let my baby eat in public.

What if someone saw my breast? What if someone was rude to me? What if the few friends we had left didn't want to hang out with us anymore because I made them uncomfortable?

See? I was a very different Maven back then. I was still in the caterpillar stage and not the soaring, glorious bitch of a butterfly I am today. It takes time to mould oneself into such a state of perfection, you know.

So I took it to the stalls. The smelly, disgusting stalls. There were no nursing rooms in Ottawa back then. There were no comfortable chairs just inside the bathrooms, even. So, to avoid mean looks and unwanted comments, I would put down the toilet seat and latch my baby on while I read the graffiti adorning the stall walls.

It didn't take me long to realize that I would rather deal with the douchery of others than subject my child to the bacteria-infested public washrooms. I clearly remember the day I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, got ready to nurse, said 'screw this' and walked back out again.

And then, I nursed everywhere. Everywhere. On the bus, on benches in the middle of Ottawa's largest and busiest malls, at people's houses without asking if I should leave the room, on our front porch, at the park, every-freaking-where. Was I discreet? As much as I wanted to be. If I covered up, it was for Intrepid's comfort or mine, and not for those around us.

And I dared someone to come up and say something to me, or look at me the wrong way. When I breastfed in public, I wouldn't sit with downcast eyes; I would look around at the faces of others to let them know that I wasn't ashamed of what I was doing. I was damn proud of it. And I would smile, and sometimes I would even say 'Hello' - I saved verbal greetings for the people who looked the most shocked/uncomfortable. I felt good about what I was doing: not only was I giving my baby the best, but I was making doing so a normal sight again - like it was two generations ago, or like it is in so many other, less uptight countries. I knew even back then that I was making it easier for the next generation of moms.

But that's me, right? That's full-throttle Maven mode. Unfortunately, I've counseled women much older than I was, who are new moms in a new decade where breastfeeding has once again become the norm, who are still terrified of publicly feeding their babies lest they be judged by others.

It makes me shake my head full of beautiful curls, it does.

So, let's see: We are feeding our babies in the normal, expected way with milk that is scientifically proven to be hugely beneficial to both mother and child - and produces absolutely no waste, I might add - and this is frowned upon? We're asked to cover up, pump into a bottle, or find a "quieter spot"?

And people think this is okay? Like I said: ignorant, uptight people really piss me off.

Sorry. I think I said they push my buttons. I was trying to be nice. Now I'm feeling less nice because I'm all angry-like.

The thing about Chicago Now's "advertisement" is that, while the blog seems to support public breastfeeding (as it should, really), seeing that statement on a sign with no further explanation could potentially cause a nervous mom to make a beeline for the nearest restroom. Worse still, opinions spouted off by ignoramuses, no matter where they are found, could make a pregnant woman decide not to breastfeed at all because she can't handle the comments. That's completely unacceptable to me, so it should be to you, too.

I'm always right, after all.

In short, I just don't want to see someone feel like they have to hide what their body is supposed to do. We're meant to make milk and our babies are meant to drink it. It's as simple as that. Anthropology 101. If you have a problem with a suckling baby, don't look. In fact, if it's really bothering you that much, I can direct you to the nearest bathroom stall. It's nice and private in there.

Rock on, nursing moms. This one was for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am Not a Good Mom (and other nonsense)

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Er, never mind.

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

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

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

Falling Off the Over-The-Counter Wagon

Ladies and gentlemen, my humblest of apologies.

The earth opened up and swallowed me whole last week and I only had my smartphone on me. Have you ever tried to write a blog post on a touch screen? Only if you're a desperate blogging loser. And The Maven, while many things, is not one of those.

Ok, fine. So I am one of those, but I'm far too lazy to type on a touch screen. Especially when I'm busy being popular, doing home renos and entertaining the mischeivious trio. Thus, no blog post. Better?

I'm still running, and my foot injury has completely left the building. I suppose if it hadn't I might feel badly about nearly having to sell a kidney for my running shoes. Who needs two kidneys anyway? What a huge waste of body real estate. With it gone, I could fill that cavity with nuts for the winter or some dirty magazines. I could also keep food warm until guests arrive without using the oven. Having all your organs is so overrated.

Other than that, I've been managing a freak show. Namely: The Maven and the Incredible Shrinking Boobies. Come one, come all! See how quickly milk-filled breasts can shrivel up into walnuts!

Do bras cry? I think mine are. They can't find their fleshy friends who are now floating freely inside a couple of air pockets. These bras used to be a perfect fit. And they're cute! Where's the justice in this?

But there's good news to be had about weaning: I've been experimenting with drugs.

Yes sirree. Now that my body is mine again for the first time in over seven years, I've decided to start taking drugs to deal with my problems. For example, last night I took an antihistamine to deal with an allergic reaction. As a general rule, antihistamines are contraindicated for breastfeeding mothers. Meaning they might not want to take them. Why? For no other reason than they have some theoretical potential to reduce milk supply. It's not even a proven link as far as I know and is based only on anecdotal reports. Still, I had exactly one half of a pill in the entire seven year period I was making milk and/or growing gremlins.

My mom gave me the drugs the other day. She handed me these hot pink pills (my favourite colour - that's how they get you roped in) and said 'Try a couple of these and see if they help'. Typical pusher behaviour, isn't it? Disgusting. And I was about to tell her I couldn't because I'm high on life, but figured that sounded lame. Without my usual breastfeeding excuse I took the pills and walked back to my van with a little skip in my step.

They could make a Dateline episode about people like me: Strung Out Minivan Moms or something like that.

You'll have to forgive me. My body has been a hatchery and feeding station for a very long time. I'm still in utter (or is that 'udder'?) disbelief that I can abuse myself again without fear of it impacting another life. It entices moments of panic intertwined with complete elation. What an exciting time to be me!

... Then again, are there any times when it's not exciting to be me?

Last night I opened up the package and placed a pretty pink pill in my mouth. This is it, I thought to myself. There's no going back now, Maven. You're officially a bad girl again.

I proudly strutted into my room and declared to Geekster 'Honey, I just took drugs.'

He looked up from his Harry Potter book. 'Uh, what?'

'Drugs. I took drugs. An antihistamine pill.'

'Okay...'

I went on. 'Yep. I real antihistamine. Not one of those crunchy granola ones with buckwheat extract or whatever that never saw the inside of a lab. An honest to goodness, clog-your-liver-with-toxins antihistamine.'

'Great. I hope you feel better!' Thinking the conversation was over, he went back to his book.

'Yep. This puppy is the real deal,' I bragged as I sat down on the bed. 'Causes drowsiness and everything. So I might not hear Spawn if he wakes up before seven. I might, like, keep sleeping. Like a stoned person? Like one of those people who takes sleep aids or something.'

'Uh-huh. Okay, that's fine.' He glanced back at the page he was reading.

'So, yeah. You'll have to wake up and get him, and get his drink and stuff. You know, if I don't hear him because I'm, like, on drugs.'

I saw the slightest you-are-such-an-idiot look cross his face, but it was gone in a flash. 'Alrighty, no problem. Um, can I read my book now?'

'Sure thing. I'm going to try to read, but I'll probably get too drowsy. You know, because of the drug I just took?'

'Goodnight, Maven.'

Spawnling awoke just after seven and I heard him. But I did have some really funky dreams last night. You know, because of the antihistamine.

I'm so incredibly badass.

The Great Weaning

There comes a time in every woman's life when she must reclaim what is hers. When she must gather strength to honour herself and the path she sees before her. When she need not fear the repercussions of her decisions, but plant her feet firmly in the ground and hold on as the winds of change whip violently at her fortitude and dignity.

In this case it was a toddler jamming his dirty little toddler hands into my cleavage, but I thought the above sounded a more tasteful.

Spawnling and I have been talking at length about his upcoming birthday in October. I had big plans for his third birthday, and I don't mean a trip to the zoo. Using a little method I call lying the art of persuasion, I explained to Spawn that being three means he'll be a big boy pretty much overnight. And guess what big boys don't do? They don't have mommy's milk and they don't use diapers.

He seemed very keen on becoming a big boy. So keen, in fact, that he announced quite suddenly on Thursday that he was not going to have mommy's milk anymore (no mention of the diapers. Damn it!) I was skeptical and tried not to get too excited. After all, this was sounding too good to be true. Spawnling practicing self-led weaning? About as likely as Amy Winehouse getting sober without an intervention.

We have to backtrack a little to get the full scope of my incredulous reaction. I never wanted to breastfeed before Intrepid was born. When he was in my belly I figured I might try it, but I said it like I was thinking about making a Bundt cake. "I've never made a Bundt cake before, but I hear they're decent. Maybe a little better than a regular cake. How about I try to make one, but if it doesn't work out I'll just go buy some eclairs? That sounds reasonable." It was a lot like that.

I was nineteen, and breastfeeding wasn't cool like it is today, kids, nor was the information readily available on the internets like it is for all you spoiled brats. We had to go to the store or the library and acquire fancy books on the subject - and there were far fewer of those, too.

But when Intrepid was placed in my arms and my milk started leaking to the sounds of his cries, I knew I didn't want to feed him any other way. We had a very difficult go of it and he ended up weaning to a bottle at eight months, but it was a good run overall. Not as long as I had wanted, however, and I vowed to make it last longer the second time: no introduction of bottles, no comments from the peanut gallery about how or for how long I should feed my child. It was going to be me with my baby at the breast for as long as we both wanted (which would be no more than a year to eighteen months, just so we're clear. Any longer than that would be disgusting and perverted and take too much time away from other things I wanted in my life, don't you know.)

I nursed Gutsy for 3 1/2 years.

When you do the math, it goes a little something like this: I have been pregnant and/or breastfeeding since Spring of 2002. That's over seven years of continuous maternal hormones. Seven years of dedicating my body to the feeding and care of gremlins.

Seven. Freaking. Years. And that's not even counting the gestation and milk provision of Intrepid.

Despite being a postpartum doula and unabashed lactivist, I feel so, so ready to be done. I reclaimed my uterus for the last time 33 months ago and eagerly anticipated having my breasts join the 'welcome home' party.

Don't get me wrong: I've never been in a big hurry, nor did I ever want to be forceful about it. I did have a goal of between two and three years this time, but I was gently working towards that goal without being a bully about it. Breastfeeding, like most parenting endeavors, is not an exact science. However, if I could wave a magic wand, I would not only make all lattes calorie-free, but would also have a mutually agreed upon weaning time in place with no tears from either of party.

When Spawnling announced he was done having mommy's milk, I went into a state of shock. When I put him to bed without unclasping the sleep inducer, I grinned in that excited and bewildered way. This was going to be great! Finally, something was happening according to The Plan of Maven. Finally, the universe was unfolding as it should and granting me a little peace and tranquility.

5 AM was absolutely horrible. I mean, tantrums are bad, but tantrums before it's even light out? Brutal. I was kicked, screamed at and clawed at. It's a good thing I had the foresight to wear a sports bra and tight t-shirt tucked into my pajama pants or we both would have weakened in our tired states. I was also crafty enough to offer up some bribery before bedtime: if Spawnling didn't nurse overnight, I would buy him some little Cars figurines in the morning.

It took about twenty minutes to convince him that Lightning McQueen was worth taking a sippy cup, but it worked. That morning he was rewarded with ridiculously pricey toys that almost never leave his side. That night he only screamed for two minutes. The night after, he whined and groped me for thirty seconds.

Sounds good, right? Absolutely! Until I mention that I barely slept all weekend. In fact, Saturday night - after hosting a surprise "back to work" party for Pixie - I managed three hours of couch sleep followed by three hours of broken sleep in my bed. It was broken because Spawnling, who had not mastered the 'going back to sleep without nursing' trick just yet, sat in my bed and used my body as a racetrack for his new toys. When he wanted me to get him a third morning snack and I didn't budge, he stuck his fingers up my nose and giggled. He poked my ears, stuck twigs in my hair and smacked my bum.

I'm so glad I quit nursing. See how easy this has made my life?

Yesterday Spawnling jumped up and said 'Look at me, Mom! I grew! I a big boy now because I all done having mommy's milk!' He then proceeded to run around to everyone in the house and tell them about his sudden growth spurt.

He's also found new ways to get close to me. Yesterday he grabbed both my cheeks, pulled my face in and gave me a big, wet toddler kiss. 'I love you, mommy. I love you so much.'

That totally made up for the nose picking incident.

Last night, Spawnling slept straight through and woke up smiling. He hugged me good morning, asked for a cup of soy milk and a granola bar, and played with his Cars toys.

Other than acting like a Tasmanian devil on the first night he's done fairly well. Like a mama bird, all I had to do was encourage what was already there. I knew he could fly, I just had to nudge him out of the nest a bit and block when he tried to kick my ribs in.

Am I sad? Not in the slightest. I've nearly spent a combined seven years nursing my three gremlins. For all my faults, this is something I feel damn good about. I think I should buy myself a terribly baby-unfriendly bra in honour of my awesomeness. Something with scary under wire and ridiculous amounts of lace.

Also, if I could find some prescription medication I'm not supposed to take while nursing I might wolf that down, too. Not because I need it, but because I can. Anyone have some strong antihistamines?

Long live the free range mounds of Maven. May they rest peacefully upon my reclaimed body, and not shrivel up into tiny raisins.

The S.S. Uterus has sailed for the last time

So the Spawnling is sick again. Fever again. Cough again. Pulling at his ear again. The cold itself is pretty mild other than the Niagra Falls nose, but the rest of it makes me wonder if we're going to have to spend another lovely afternoon at the emergency clinic tomorrow.

Don't get me wrong: I love sharing space with people ill enough to want to share space in an emergency room with me. Who doesn't enjoy the germ melting pot? I also like to count how many times I visit the complimentary Purell dispenser. I get an addictive sting when the alcohol solution enters the cracked skin on my hands. I chant my mantra over and over: This is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than...

This week has been incredibly busy. My friend/client, or Frient, has had many ups and downs while attempting to successfully breastfeed her second child. Frayed nerves and plenty of coffee have been my companions as we've battled an iffy latch, jaundice, near hospitalization due to an infection in the cesarean wound, and in-laws who loathe the idea of breastfeeding and wish my Flient would just give up and bottle feed, already.

But you know what? She's still nursing. 9 days and counting! And the best part for yours truly (in the end it always comes down to yours truly)? I'm over my fourth baby fetish. Yep. Stick a fork in the tofu roast, people. I'm done. I personally thanked my Frient for this glorious turn of events. She said I was welcome.

It was a fun little pipe dream to birth a beautiful (quiet) baby (girl), but there just aren't enough positives to outweigh the vast chasm of negatives, be they potential risks or stark reality. The main one being that The Maven might want to have, oh, you know, semi-regular Maven time at some point in the next decade.

I've been re-living the baby thing on an average of every five years. What this means is that just as I'm starting to realize that people can shower every day, have hobbies, and enjoy sex for reasons other than procreation, I end up procreating. Mother nature greets me with a positive pregnancy test the impending smell of curdled spit up and a huge "gotcha again" grin on her face. Not this time, girlfriend.

There are advantages to letting my children grow up. For example: if I don't deal with the underlying issues surrounding my desire to pop out more and more babies and instead just let the boys get bigger and leave home, I can begin hoarding to fill up my empty nest like the lady on Oprah just recently. Then I can get my house decluttered and completely remodelled and score tickets to Chicago to tell millions to show off my new home. Maybe I can also meet Nate Burkus and convince him that he's not really gay and that he wants to run away with me. We could make beautiful rooms together.

Or, I can become unhealthily enmeshed in my adult children's lives, tying double knots on the apron strings and suffocating their desire to grow as individuals. Then, when they get married, I can one of those awful, overbearing mother-in-laws we all hear so much about. Eventually my son and his wife will bring me to Dr. Phil so he can tell me how wrong I am. Free trip to Los Angeles, nice hotel and all I have to do is be psychotic. I'm halfway there already!

Ok, seriously though. I'm done. For really real here. The Sister keeps laughing at me because she says I talk about it so much that I simply can't be done. That's not true. Sometimes I talk a lot about a book or a movie that I finished, but that doesn't mean I haven't finished it, right? Right.

I win. Neener neener.

In truth, there are some eerie things afoot in my life right now and I think they might be related to my decision not to spawn again:

1. I'm beginning to experience mornings where I'm able to open my eyes and not immediately dive for the coffee grinder and carafe. I believe this may be linked to a rare infliction in my life known as "uninterrupted sleep". It's not happening every night so I'm not freaking out just yet. I'm simply keeping an eye on it to see if it gets in the way of my exhaustion on a long-term basis.
2. Sometimes, during the day, I find myself with enough time to clean some of my house. And, if that's not strange enough, there are even times when I can sit down and watch a half-hour show without needing to get up. I know what you're thinking: how is this possible? What is this 'daytime television' and how can she claim to see any of it? It may have something to do with the gremlins... entertaining each other... and themselves... without my help. Did get that last part? Without my help.
   
3. I've gone out two nights in a row without my cell phone. Last night was to get coffee with a friend and tonight was my weekly shopping trip with my sister. Nothing out of the ordinary except that my cell phone was dead and Geekster couldn't call me if there was a problem. This would normally send me running for the charger but instead I... I... left it. Yeah. I left my cell phone at home. There was no need to bring it because he doesn't need me to be here. My husband can manage all three of them without me. I used to inevitably get calls from a hubby with a screaming, hungry nurseling and would have to promptly dash home. Not anymore. I might have to actually enjoy myself when I go out now. I don't know if I can handle that.

So, in short, I believe I may be able to get used to this strange and beautiful new existence. What will I miss about babies? A lot of things. What won't I miss? A lot of things. But I'm pretty damn lucky to have three healthy boys with a PCOS-inflicted body. And have you seen the price of groceries lately? I might have to have a fourth child just to work the fields.

Well, if we had fields. And then I'd probably want to work them at least a couple of hours every day just to be away from the yelling and the mess and the poop and everything. Working the fields could be my new hobby.

Must go. Spawnling's awake. Diving for coffee grinder tomorrow? Check.

Fun at The Maven's at 10pm

I.

Am.

So.

Sick.

Of.

Renovations.

Our house is starting to feel more like a house now, though. Goodbye mint green kitchen and hello sage green kitchen. Yes, we went to all the trouble of taping, moving furniture into the middle of the room and keeping intrigued eight-month-old and overzealous "helping" four-year-old gremlin paws out of the paint just to change the hue a little bit.

I admit to being a huge snob when it comes to paint colour. I'm a visual person, much like that guy who tells his girlfriend she needs to lose those five pounds. Except I don't have a girlfriend, and even if I did, I would be incredibly hypocritical if I told her to lay off the donuts. And then she might yell at me, throw my clothes out the window and burn our couple pictures.

Good thing I don't have a girlfriend.

I thought I might do more outdoor-type things and bought some discounted plants. A gardener I am not, but I like to pretend. If plants could grow legs and run, they most certainly would at the sight of me. The problem is simple: plants can't scream. They have no audible way to tell me they need care, and I am far too busy to notice little things like drooping leaves or stalks burned to a crisp from a week in the sun.

Generally, my gardens look fabulous in June and are nearly obliterated by July. Except this year I've fooled Mother Nature in the best way possible: I won't be finished planting until mid-July. Hah! Take that, you crunchy old hag. You won't defeat me this year! I'll have delicious lush gardens until at least the first week in August!

So anyway, now that I'm finished with my tangent... The long and short of this is that I bought plants and bought soil and bought gardening gloves... and it's bloody raining outside.

I think Gutsy must have handed in one of his 'Piss on Mom's Parade' cards he got from Satan for all the time-outs he's been given this week. He has the worst attitude ever. I think Super Nanny would run crying in the other direction after a weekend with this kid. He's eviler than she is. He's as predictable as a tornado and about as destructive. I think the child deserves his own documentary.

He also, just to spite me, I'm sure, woke up with pink eye today.

Don't tell me it's not deliberate; he's the only one with goopey eyes. He obviously befriended the Demon of Lesser Plagues and asked for something funny to pass around to his family members. I've washed my hands so much today they're raw.

Oh! And the best part? He's decided that he's going to be sweet and cuddly today. We've all received more hugs than I can count, with eye goop smearing on our clothes in the process. Normally I'm hard pressed to get one or two hugs in a day, in which I'm doing most of the hugging and he's doing something closely resembling a stiff stand.

Good thing for breastmilk, baby. Liquid gold. It's cured more eye infections than Rosie O'Donnell has pissed off celebrities. I got some drops just in case, but our first line of defense is homemade. I've decided this time not to squirt it directly in his eye as I'm sure saying 'Mommy put her booby in my face' might not go over so well with neighbours or subsequent authority figures. For as much as he's driving me nuts, I'm not quite at the point where I'm considering preschooler relocation options.

I just had to pause a minute because Intrepid came out from the playroom to tell me about *ick* the anime show he's watching.

I really don't like anime very much. Well, not the kind he likes. YOU KNOW: THE KIND WHERE THEY YELL REALLY REALLY LOUD INSTEAD OF TALKING AND MAKE EXAGGERATED FACIAL EXPRESSIONS AND BATTLE EVERYONE AND DEFEAT EVERYTHING AND GAIN LEVELS?!?!?!?!?!

It's very difficult to feign interest when he comes into the kitchen to give me updates on the commercials. I try very hard, I do. I deserve a medal or some chocolate.

Speaking of which, it's time to apply some chocolate brown paint to the accent wall in the livingroom/diningroom.

Trust me. It's going to be terribly sexy. As sexy as me.

No, no... I was kidding. For real sexy, not post-three-children sexy.

Can't talk. Need sugar fix.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And our judgement.

And our occasional feelings of inadequacy.

And the fact that Vicodin makes toddler tantrums more pleasant.

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

Because I don't.

I'm just incredibly verbose.

And gifted.

And really hot, too.

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

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

And she's uglier than I am.