The Summer I Almost Gave Up Blogging

Oh, hello there. Are you still visiting this dusty old place?  Remember me? I used to post here fairly often before I was struck by the soul-crippling days of summer. And then vacation hit, the gremlins scuttled off their respective busses, and I was quickly buried by my seasonal responsibilities.

...What responsibilities? Did you seriously just ask me that? Do you read my posts?

Stay-at-home-moms work their aprons off when Summer hits. There is no time for bonbons. There is no time for daytime trash TV. We put on full protective gear and cute matching camo outfits and run into the fray for 2.5 months.

The tasks assigned to me over the summer included (but were not limited to): chambermaid, professional organizer, short order cook, event coordinator, life coach, lifeguard, personal shopper, personal assistant, complimentary shuttle van driver, payroll manager, and overworked referee --very overworked referee. And I did all of this for the low, low cost of my sanity.

By mid-August, I had completely lost the will to live my ability to blog. Being able to write involves having time to sit down and think about stuff. It involves not having to get up every two minutes to break up a fight, get someone a snack, or help someone figure out how to not be bored.

I seriously contemplated giving up blogging altogether. I really did. I thought that perhaps my time to share the crazy in my life with the world was coming to the end of its natural life. That maybe I should shut the whole operation down and turn this subprime piece of internet real estate into a mail order bride outlet: "Canadian Wives: We Got Your Beaver Right Here."

Why are you laughing? That part wasn't funny.  I was talking about closing my blog down. It's a sad thought that is undoubtedly reducing you to big, wet tears, right? Right?

I was at a very low point in my creative life: feeling burned out, overwhelmed, with no hope in sight.

And then, yesterday, just as I had given up all hope of ever being awesome again, this little yellow dot appeared on the horizon.

Was it a canary?

A loud banana?

The Man with the Yellow Hat?

Nay, friends.  It was the school bus. The wonderful school bus, packed to the brim with wonderful children going to wonderful school!

And just like that, I felt fucking wonderful again!

So, here I am, writing a blog post on day 2 of many, many glorious days of public education. Am I subpar parent for the joy I felt when I could hand two of my children over to the system five days a week? Probably. Do I feel guilty about it? Not really, no. I'm over feeling guilty about parenting stuff. I could find things to feel guilty about every single day. Do I want to be depressed my entire life? Do I want to feel like a failure 365 days a year? No. So I turn the guilt dial way, way down.

Then, I drown the rest of my conscience out with coffee. It's better for everyone that way.

And, with my guilt dial being held down with a popsicle stick and half a roll of duct tape, I did another great thing: I enrolled Spawnling in a pre-kindergarten program 2 days a week. That's six hours on Monday and six hours on Wednesday for a grand total of 12 hours each week, or 48 hours every month. If I do the math - and believe me, I have - that will be about 480 hours this school year that are entirely dedicated to The Maven and her craft. Minus sick days, of course.

But who's counting?

Don't look at me like that. He's ready, you know. He's been begging me to go to school for two years. And besides, after well over a decade of raising kids full-time, I could use a little scheduled breathing room. I deserve this. I've earned it. Been there, done that, have the after hours comfort food binge rolls to prove it.  Stop judging me! I don't need your repressive eyes upon my person.

... Oops. I think someone moved the popsicle stick. Anyone see the tape?

One Year Later

I can't believe it's been an entire year.

A year since my son got frighteningly sick with what was at first a mystery illness for several days. A year since he suddenly spiked a fever of 104f that wouldn't come down, and slept all day and all night with only brief periods where he would wake up and drink something.

Nearly a year since I rushed him into the hospital with sores all over his mouth, where I was told he could be dying; since I signed consent forms and we waited - for results, for answers, for some sign that he was going to be okay; since I walked around in a daze and prayed to an entity I don't fully believe in to please make this a bad dream and please - please - just wake me up.

Only a few days short of a year since I watched his eyes turn red, saw his swollen insides on an ultrasound screen, his blistered lips caked with scabs, his peeling hands and feet. Since we counted the symptoms: 1, 2, 3, 4 and a stubborn high fever, and realized this couldn't be anything but Kawasaki Disease, thank the Powers that Be, because the alternatives were far scarier and deadlier.  We treated that night, and waited. It was the longest night of my life.

The next morning, he woke up from his listless state and looked at me. He ate some Doritoes - his first meal in days. He was pale, shaky, one of his eyes wasn't working properly. His heart was slightly enlarged from the disease and that made his prognosis worse, even with treatment. It would still be weeks before Kawasaki ran its full course and did any possible permanent damage. But he was okay: alive, breathing, here with us. And that meant I was okay, too.

Except I wasn't, and I wouldn't be for a long time. Spawnling's illness was the start of a downward slope for me that I didn't fully grasp until recently. It was a bumpy year to follow, which meant I didn't have time to fully process what had happened. I had to be strong, I had to try and keep it together for the things that were happening now: Gutsy's emotional state was deteriorating, our income dropped, a crazy (now ex-)friend faked cancer. So it sat in me and it festered for months. I didn't deal with it, I just pushed it back. Be strong, be happy, just be grateful he's here, I told myself.

But when I don't process stuff - go through the motions, have a few good cries, talk about it, maybe see a professional - I don't get better.  There were signs, little and big. For one, I haven't blogged in nearly three weeks. I dare you to find another time in my blogging history when I went that long between posts. In the last couple of months, I started sleeping more, eating less (not necessarily a bad thing in my case, to be honest), avoiding people and situations because I just felt too overwhelmed to deal with life. And bam! just like that: depression.

Yep, it's true: Just as things are getting a lot better around here, I was getting worse. It's as if I was finally giving myself permission to deal with my own shit because I'm not dealing with everyone else's. I was feeling down, crying over nothing, finding little joy in watching my healthy kids run and play and do childhood things that should warm my heart as a mother.

Depression. Why didn't I see it sooner?

Last week, I hit my bottom. I felt completely crippled by the darkness. Once upon a time, I had postpartum depression. This felt similar. So, I did what my therapist at the time taught me to do: I talked to Geekster and a handful of friends and I admitted that I just wasn't okay. The support I was received was stellar, and I instantly started to feel a little better.

Then, Saturday morning, I packed a bag and jumped in a car with my sister and a friend and we took off to upstate New York for a shopping extravaganza. The timing couldn't have been better. For two whole days I had no parental responsibilities, a sizeable shopping budget (we had been saving all year) and a whole lot of belly laughs. The weekend was perfect from start to finish. It refreshed me, reset me, centered me.  It was exactly what I needed.

More importantly, I bought a Coach purse. Now I'm trendy and centered.

When I got home, Spawnling ran up and threw his arms around me. He kissed me and stroked my hair, saying "I really missed you, Mommy." Frankly, I missed me, too. I missed the happy-go-lucky me. I missed enjoying life and the three little boys in it who need me to be in good form emotionally, mentally and physically.  I feel like maybe I can start to give them that again. They deserve it.

Last year sucked - there's no way around that. August will probably be a challenging month for a while to come. But I won't let the darkness creep up on me again. I'll recognize it and do what I need to do to make it disappear. Next time, I'll beat it to death with my new purse.

They're guaranteed for life, you know.

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.

A post about illness, sex, and chocolate cake

I spent a great deal of Friday catching up with friends I don't see nearly as often as I'd like. When you're as insanely popular as I am, you can't possibly see everyone all the time. It's just not feasible, people.

But if I could just hang up my popularity pompoms alongside my ego for a moment, something else happened on Friday that really hit me that I need to write about: I caught those same people up on what had been going on over the last few months, including the tale of Spawnling vs. the sudden scary illness. I was asked for definition, details, diagnosis. I talked about how he slept for an entire week, stumped the doctors for several days, recovered miraculously despite the very real concern he may have something far more sinister than what it thankfully turned out to be.

And I realized, quite suddenly, that what so many other parents have told me was right: You never "get over it." That, while seven months have gone by since a rare autoimmune illness called Kawasaki Disease befell my then two-year-old baby boy, the trauma is not gone, the wound is not healed, the very real fear that I can lose someone so special and so important is still present and accounted for. Telling the tale brought up a lot of emotions I thought were gone. I'm not over it and I probably never will be.

But unlike those dark days so many months ago, there's a more positive quality to the memories now.

My friend The Guilt Goddess and I have talked a fair bit about hospital promises. They're a lot like pillow talk; honest in the moment, but quick to fade into something more realistic in time. See, after sex, emotions run deep and we're quick to say just about anything. However, the "I love you"s of Saturday night turn into the "So, like, I'll call you sometime"s of Sunday morning. The "Yes, baby! Oh yes! You can have a Lexus!" post-date-night becomes "Is a used Volvo okay?" over before-work cappuccinos.

Hospital promises are similar, in that they're made during a time of high emotional involvement. I only got a taste of the type of things we'll swear off of or onto when our children are very ill. Spawnling was in a hospital bed for a few days, while The Guilt Goddess' Jacob was there for months. I tip my hat to her keeping her sanity (mostly) intact after seeing her son fight a brain tumour with everything he's got. (I say she's 'mostly' sane because she ended up befriending me shortly thereafter, so we know not all her solar panels are facing south, if you know what I mean.)

Anyway, hospital promises, in my limited experience, are also a lot like new year resolutions. They're made with gusto and a lot of willpower. You really don't think you're ever going to have chocolate cake again, but actually you will - just maybe a little less of it. Here are some of the things I promised during those scary days at Spawnling's bedside:

If my child gets better:

- I will never yell at him again
- I will never argue with his father again
- We'll start taking vacations
- We'll spend lots and lots of time together
- I will never complain about the little things again
- I'll never take him or his brothers for granted again, ever

Don't they sound wonderful? They're so full of positivity and determination, aren't they?

Ahem.

Now, let's fast-forward a few months down the road. Spawnling is, by all accounts, very healthy and has made a full recovery. We know his first two echocardiograms were good, so the chance of a potentially lethal aneurysm hiding in his ticker is unlikely, although he will continue to be monitored every so often for he rest of his life. Still, this mother's fear has lessened, the adrenaline has left, the depression and worry have lifted. Let's take a look at The Maven's revamped list of hospital promises, shall we?

Now that my child is better:

- I will never yell at him again except when I do
- I will never argue with his father again except when he deserves it or I'm PMSing and just need to bitch about something
- We'll start taking vacations when the magical money tree suddenly sprouts from the ground in our backyard (still waiting)
- We'll spend lots and lots of time together but I'll sometimes wish we spent just a little less time together, especially when all you want to do is talk about Star Wars or call me stupid
- I will never complain about the little things again except when they don't seem so little, which is actually quite often
- I'll never take him or his brothers for granted again, ever -- and I don't. Ever. Still.

See, that's the difference. I was always grateful for them. But as much as they drive me completely insane sometimes, I'm even more appreciative, more amazed by them, more captivated by the things they do, say, think, feel. Why? Because sometimes Spawnling will run into the room and say 'Mom! Check this out! It's my lightsaver, a green one, but maybe a double-sided red one because those are cool and chop off hands better' and I'll get a flash of him lying helpless in that big white hospital bed with tubes and monitors around him, and I'll remember how fortunate we are to have dodged a proverbial bullet and have him home safely.

I still remember that; I won't ever forget it.

And then I think about how any of my little gremlins, at any time, could suddenly not be here tomorrow. But instead of being deathly afraid like I could be, I choose something better: I choose to appreciate that they're here, today, and celebrate that.

Except when I'm getting punched in the arm. That's not so celebratory-like. I take a break from my happy place when that happens.

I've learned that it's okay for things to normalize and for some of that hospital pillow talk to become more realistic again. It means I'm not afraid and sad and angry every day anymore. I'm a mom who will never get over what happened to her son, but maybe in a better way than I thought. And that's a good thing, because I'm awesome like that.

Finally, the Guilt Goddess said it was okay for me to write about her as long as I say how much she curses me every day for getting her hooked on shows about hoarders. I'm guessing any promises made about The Maven probably involve voodoo dolls and a lot of swearing. No Lexus for me.

Five Things I'm Grateful For (Other than my Awesomeness)

Last night I had a dream that Geekster was made captain of one of seven space shuttles, all of which were taking off simultaneously on some cosmic mission. I remember feeling so incredibly proud of him and, of course, bragging my ass off to everyone who could hear me.

Then I woke up and felt kind of bad for the bragging.

This dream taught me two things:

1. I've been watching far too many space movies lately (can't help it - Captain Kirk and Han Solo are dreamy dudes) and,

2. After sixteen years, I still think a great deal of my husband

Let's face it: Life has been shit on toast the last few months. The Maven family has had a series of unfortunate events that, while not exactly book or movie worthy, have thrown us for a loop or two. We faced a minor health crisis, a serious money crunch, some fluctuations in our social circle, a small fire, and a whole bucket load of 'Why is this all happening at once?!' This has undoubtedly been our worst year in at least a decade.

But he's been there, that man of mine. A shining example of this was how, when we couldn't afford anything for each other on Valentine's Day, he woke up early and made pink pancakes for the entire family. I married an amazing guy.

He's been solid footing when life feels almost treacherous; a warm campfire when the path is dark and cold. I could come up with many other cheesy metaphors - I'm quite good at them, you know - but I think the point has been made without making you gag on my sappiness. While stress has certainly not passed my darling husband by, he's been the incredible best friend to me that he always is, and for that I'm very grateful.

In fact, I'm feeling a whole crapload of gratitude lately. Back when I was quitting the sauce, I was taught by the wise recovery gurus that gratitude and optimism are sometimes all a girl's got to hitch her sanity to in times of extreme sucktitude, lest she go out for a pint or ten. I've carried that knowledge all these years within my soul.

Uh, I mean my fat cells, which is clearly why I carry the extra weight around. It all makes sense now, doesn't it? Someone pass the bag of chips; It's for a good cause.

So, in lieu of writing yet another depressing post about how we had to spend our grocery money to fix my windshield and Geekster's birthday money on groceries, I'm going to take a few moments to mention the good things in my life.

I know: big of me, right? Just flexing my well-used optimism muscle, that's all.

I've already mentioned my husband. He gets top billing. Then there are these beautiful little guys. Here they are this afternoon, smiling widely and loving life:



You're right: I'm full of it. They were totally fighting when I took those.

I'm also grateful for Spawnling's drawings. Like all good artists, his work is able to invoke several emotions simultaneously. When I see his work, I'm first proud that he's drawing sensible shapes.

"Snowmans"

"Daddy playing guitar" (Guitar added in by daddy upon request)

Then I'm somewhat confused because they look like potatoes with toothpicks, or drunken amoeba.

"Daddy hugging me."


"Daddy and me, but I drew Daddy with hair, and he doesn't really have hair, so... oops."

Then I'm a little annoyed that every single one of them is either Spawnling and daddy, Daddy being a rock star, or some inanimate object. You'd think having given birth to the ten pound turkey, I might get my own cracked-out single-celled organism look-alike, but apparently not.

And finally I laugh a little, because they're gosh darn cute, just like their maker. And their maker's maker, obviously.

I'm grateful for the family members who have stepped up and helped out with babysitting so Geekster and I can preserve our sanity and our coupledom, bought outerwear for the kids so we don't have to worry about clothing three gremlins for next year's winter season, given us a hand up financially until things get better, and just been generally supportive and understanding.

I'm grateful for the friends who text just to tell me they care, tow away the gremlins to make our house less chaotic for a little while, take me out for breakfast, drop by with coffee, and listen to my incessant complaints about Murphy and his damn law.

It's really hard to be depressed around you guys. You give me little opportunity to drown my sorrows in melted chocolate. Thank you.

Husband, gremlins, creepy/adorable pictures, family, friends. That's five, right? Counting is hard this evening. I went skating with Gutsy's grade 1 class and accompanying grade 6 class today. After tying that many skates and watching a kit throw up in a garbage can a few times, my brain is a little fuzzy.

Oh! And finally, I'm grateful it wasn't my kid throwing up in the garbage can. That's six.

It's That Time Again, Folks!

...And I'm not talking Christmas.

I had a coffee with a friend this morning, another coffee with a friend this afternoon, and a quick and efficient shopping trip between those two social events.

My children are all home, safe and healthy, and have only had one major fight in the last 90 minutes (a good afternoon, I'd say)

While I haven't lifted a finger except when it's been gripped around a mug, my house is not filthy; Not spotless, but not filthy.

And I am eating chocolate.

I should be really happy. And I am not.

Why? Because I'm PSMing, that's why. It's making me moody and sleepy and weepy. I'm worried about report cards, I'm concerned about money, and I'm stressed about the fact that I don't have a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Everybody needs a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Life isn't fair, dammit!

I'm feeling fine, body-wise. I don't have the flu like I thought I might. I don't have anything but a consistent feeling of wanting to scream and/or cry into a pillow. And maybe I want to hit some things. And perhaps yell at some people for good measure. Maybe I'll find someone to take this out on, like the people that invented "child safety seals" on caps. Ever seen what a naked crazy-glued toddler looks like? I have. It's not pretty.

Gutsy got his first report card home today and it wasn't so great. He technically failed 1st term French by three points, and scored below class average in practically every subject. This means he passed, but barely.

As I've mentioned previously, this is Gutsy's first year in a French immersion class. We had placed him in the English stream last year because of his hearing loss, but realized over the summer that he would likely need more of a challenge. Now I'm rethinking that.

Except I'm not, really. I know this is a bump in the road and that he's working really hard. By the end of the year, he's going to be a rock star in the immersion world. That pessimistic view is PMS Maven talking, and she is one negative little bitch. She likes to draw unhappy conclusions in life and whisper them in my ear for two or three days every month. I would appreciate it if she left my life entirely, but I haven't figured out how to take her off my Facebook list yet.

Even Mavens have low days, folks. I know it's hard to believe, but all this - *making wild circles with my arms all around my body* - needs a perfection break sometimes. It's scheduled maintenance: every 29 days the production of Awesome comes to a halt while the machinery is oiled with sweet, chocolaty deliciousness, and reset with a 20 minute power nap.

Tonight I have a meeting with Sponsette followed by a coffee with Photo Lush. That technically qualifies as four coffee dates in one day. If that doesn't cheer me up, I don't know what will.

(Damn. I take back what I said earlier. They're having another fight. Must go. Someone pass me a pillow, will you?

To scream/cry in, of course. What did you think I was going to do with it? I'm not the murderous kind of moody. Try to keep things in perspective, ok? You're overreacting. Is it that time of the month? Want some foil eggs?)

Letting Go

I have tried all week to be funny, in between dealing with an annoying cold, many a gremlin fight, and being in a wedding party on the weekend.

I've tried all week to summon up my creativity - because there is quite a lot of it in there - and be the awesome Maven you all know and love. I want to tell you about Spawnling's best friend Mr. Pumpkin, his freak out in the book store yesterday (it topped the library), Gutsy's excellent progress in immersion and the enlightening moments of living with a male preteen.

And yet over a week has gone by with nary a post. Why is that? I've asked myself this question several times. I'm a member of a 12 step program, after all, and self-examination and reflection are pretty much mandatory if you don't want to fall off the sobriety wagon and stagger into Captain Morgan's Tavern.

After thinking about it all day, I've reached a conclusion: I'm angry. And I need to tell you why. I've gone back and forth between wanting to say something and wanting to say nothing at all, but it's time I came clean. After all, this has affected some of you.

So, we're going to take a one day break from my usually hilarious rants and ramblings. Just one day, ok? And then I'll be back to my usually scheduled programming. Sharing this will help me feel better, and since I'm pretty into myself that suits me just fine.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a few months ago about a friend who was sick. Terminally sick with ovarian cancer, actually. Devastating news to hear about a friend, and worse still if you're a relative of that person. I've seen her family go through a great deal of strife over the realization that they were going to lose her some day. I also went through my own emotional hurdles, had my own crying fits, wrote her nice letters and went out of my way to make as much time as I could for her because, hey, we didn't have a lot of time left.

I didn't know what I was going to do without her in my life. I wrote about her in my blog and I read, along with many of you, about her strength and her courage. I watched her video diaries to her kids and wondered how her children would go on without her. It was tragic on so many levels.

Then, another turn, tragic in its own way: we found out, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, that she apparently never had cancer.

Take that in for a minute. I know I needed to. Actually, it took me days to really mull it over and weeks to accept as fact.

What made it worse is that she didn't come clean of her own volition. Her family reached out to her, then, when they felt they had no choice, to her loved ones, including me. Eventually, the lies started to unravel. Eventually, she confessed to a select few - I being one of them. Her blog had been deleted months before, and she shut down her Facebook account shortly after it all came to light.

Why am I angry? A few reasons. Like a hurricane, she has left a huge path destruction in her wake. So many people stumbled out of the wreckage of her lies bewildered, overwhelmed and hurt. So many people continue to be hurt as a result of the choices she made. That makes me angry.

She accepted money, gifts and support from strangers and loved ones alike, who only wanted to help her. Who believed her and hurt for her and her family. That makes me angry.

She pretended to have a disease that many people are dealing with. That other people close to me have gone through. That people close to me have died from. Name one person who doesn't have a loved one who's been affected by cancer; who's entire life hasn't changed because of the disease. I see people like Jacob and Laurie and Jen who are truly struggling with a terrifying illness, and I think it's a huge slap in the face to them and others. That makes me angry.

She was my friend. A real life friend. A friend I had a falling out with and who I reached out to nearly three years ago. Who I grew close to again. Who I thought I knew. Who I had many coffees and laughs with. Who I went through mutual pregnancies with. Who I told some of my deepest, darkest secrets to. Someone I cried for, hurt for, felt life isn't fair for. I kick myself for getting involved again. I should have stayed away. I'm upset with myself for not picking up on this sooner. I'm upset that this all came to light not two weeks after Spawnling was discharged from the hospital, and that my already fragile emotional state was driven near the breaking point. It's taken me this long to be able to write it out and admit that yes, I am angry. That this makes me really fucking angry.

Is there some mental illness involved? I'm not a professional so I won't jump to conclusions. I have done some research and I have spoken to professionals to try and gain some insight into what, exactly, happened over the last six years. I'll keep my thoughts to myself. All I know is that, no matter what the reason was, I am angry. And how am I going to let go of it? This is how I'm doing it.

See, part of it is guilt. Guilt for reaching out for support from friends and family when I was struggling with her impending demise - that they were so concerned for her, too. Guilt for dragging my readers into an imaginary world, even if I didn't know it was imaginary. I feel bad that so many of you were worried for her and have asked me about her. I need you to know that I believed it too, and that I feel like a sucker. I need you to know that I am not in contact with her anymore and haven't been since I found out it was all a lie. I still speak to a handful of mutual friends but am very happy to be in another part of the city enjoying the controlled chaos that is my life. Because we all know I barely control the typical chaos as it is. Our friendship will not recover from this. I will not be able to trust her again, no matter what. I have lost my friend, but in a different way than I anticipated, and I do mourn that loss.

So there you have it. I think I can let this go now and move on. Part of getting rid of resentment is refocusing my energy on something positive. So, I send out good vibes to all of you who are struggling with cancer or other serious illnesses, whether directly or indirectly. I've put a lot of this nervous energy into Spawnling's recovery from Kawasaki, his appointments and every day management. And I appreciate all the more the fantastic group of friends I have around me, who have helped me process two very unexpected situations in a ridiculously short amount of time. And to my readers who are always commenting, emailing, following and reminding me that there are good people in the world. Thank you.

And now we are done. And I shall go make dinner.

And tomorrow I shall discuss the transvestite stuffed animal.

No, seriously.

Getting my Groove Back

(Photo credit: Photo Lush, my most excellent sister.)

"What are you doing, mom?" asks an inquisitive Spawnling this afternoon.

Trying to balance a bottle of cleaner in the crook of my arm while tearing off a strip of paper towel, I say "Just cleaning the windows, buddy."

"Are they dirty?"

"Yes. They are."

"... Is that because I touched them without using Purell first?"

It's official: I've turned my youngest child into a germaphobe.

It's not my fault. Let's blame it on the Kawasaki he acquired last month. Throw in a little extra vigilance due to H1N1 and it's a recipe for disaster. What am I supposed to do? I can't go back to to my easygoing ways. I can't just say: "It's okay, Person With a Cold. You can come into my home where I have one child who's on aspirin and can't get a viral infection and another child who's lungs have about a 75% chance of contracting pneumonia every time he gets sick, and a mother who lives down the street who can't fall ill because she's immuno-compromised and resistant to nearly all antibiotics. Come on in! Want to wipe your nose on my sleeve? Maybe lick some cutlery?"

Ah, the reality of my current life; where I've had to beef up microbiotic security and shed my previously relaxed stance on germs. No two-year-old should have the word 'Purell' in his vocabulary. No person should shudder every time she's out and hears someone coughing. No mother should sanitize her door handles this much, even with three boys touching them. My laissez faire half snickers at my anal retentive half on a daily basis. I know it sucks, but it is what it is. It's an inner struggle I quell with evening chocolate.

Chocolate makes it all better.

Spawnling has his follow-up echocardiogram on October 20th. At that point we'll find out if his little heart made it through the Kawasaki-induced inflammation unscathed. There's a good chance it did. A very good chance: About 93%. So, I'm trying not to worry too much. I'm trying not to think of the little aneurysms that may be hiding in his artery walls. What aneurysms? I don't see any aneurysms...

Did I mention chocolate makes things better?

It's funny, you know. When I signed up for this parenting thing, nobody ever told me I might have to know what an echocardiogram is, or why a toddler might need one. I expected broken bones and antibiotics and asthma. I even anticipated some pneumonia, given my family's ridiculously bad lung karma (although Gutsy has broken some records, I'm sure). But dealing with extremely rare diseases? Apparently I didn't read the fine print.

The good news is that I'm feeling a little better these days. I've stopped crying when I talk about how traumatic our stay at the hospital was. I don't feel as big a lurch in my stomach every time I think about the few days when he was so sick we thought we might lose him. Every single time he says or does something insanely cute or funny does not fill me with so much emotion that I get teary. I mean, I still think he's awesome and miraculous, but his presence is once again becoming more every day, more commonplace; a good sign of healing if I've ever seen one.

I feel funnier again. I feel stronger. I feel more beautiful (if that's even possible). I'm really getting a grip on life again. I want to write more, and talk more, and be my excellent self more. Every task does not seem so overwhelming these days. I'm not gasping for air while trying to keep up with the every day. The house is looking more like a home and less like a nuclear test site. Meals consist of at least three food groups. School forms are being returned no more than a week after they're due.

Yep. I'm getting my groove back.

I'm trying not to think too much about October 20th or the news we might hear. It's a million miles away, and between here and there is a sea of activity, including Spawnling's third birthday.

You know, I used to worry he would grow up too fast. Then, in August, I worried he would never grow up. And now I'm just grateful to be celebrating his birthday at all. We were lucky and I don't think I'll ever forget that.

Perspective is a good thing. Know what else is good? Mixing peanut butter and chocolate, which I did last night when I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. I am going to go eat one or five of them now.

What's today's motto, everyone? Chocolate makes everything better. That's right! So go have some chocolate and think good thoughts for October 20th, ok? Awesome. Thanks.

Pushing Away the "Ick"

Crapolla. Is it Thursday already? Looks like I decided taking care of my son's medical issues took priority over blogging. I'd better be careful or I'll be kicked out of the Super Nerds Club.

The long and short of the last few days is that Spawnling is doing much better and we are home. He was discharged late Tuesday afternoon and is now resting here while he sheds his sickly exoskeleton and gets back to his more rambunctious, slightly less ornery self. He's making fart and bum jokes, which is always a good sign.

There are two not-so-good things going on right now that have us concerned. One is his heart, which the echo showed has a 'very mild' enlargement of the LAD artery. It's probably not a big deal and he may have had it all along, but since Kawasaki can cause heart damage this news is not sitting well with us. He has a repeat echo in six weeks (and we'll get him sedated right away this time - not like the epic fail two days ago where he lay there sobbing until they gave him drugs and waited 20 minutes).

A few people have said 'Well, at least the risk of heart issues is less now that he's received treatment'. Those few people would be correct: without IVIG treatment, Kawasaki patients have a 20-25% of developing heart issues. With it, the chance is reduced to 5-7%. That's pretty good.

Unless you play paranoid mother, a role I'm quite proficient at.

See, after your child is diagnosed with a rare disease everything changes. Statistics can be comforting one day and completely unimportant the next. On the surface, 7 out of 100 ain't bad. But considering Spawn was one of the fewer than 20 out of 100,000 to get Kawasaki Disease in the first place, that number seems rather high. Add in the fact that he has an enlargement of one of the arteries already and that makes for a very, very worried Maven.

But there's nothing we can do right now other than give him his daily aspirin dose and hope for the best. The next few weeks are when any heart issues will arise. They tend to form in the later stage of the disease.

The other issue that cropped up is vision-related: Spawn can't look right with his right eye. It stares straight ahead when he tries. It could be a couple of things, and one could resolve spontaneously as his health improves. But there is a good chance he will need some long term care to make his eye work properly again. Why is this happening? We don't know. He did have some weak eye muscles at birth which quickly strengthened and required no follow-up, and they could have relapsed when he got sick. He also had very swollen eyes for a few days and it might have damaged the nerves or muscles temporarily or permanently. We see the opthalmologist again in three weeks.

Maybe this time he won't scare one away with his Kawasaki screaming and draw blood on the other one's arms with his sharp little claws. 'Ooh! Look at those scratches. Impressive!' she declared yesterday after he let her know how unhappy he was.

'Please don't sue us' I half-joked.

She grinned. 'Usually it works the other way around'. She officially made my Awesome People List with that joke.

***

I know I don't tend to get serious very often and try to keep this blog light-hearted, but sometimes I just can't. I'm sad right now, and that makes funny hard.

I am so grateful that my baby boys is doing better. There isn't an hour that goes by when I haven't thought of him when we first brought him into the hospital; when I honestly thought I was going home without him. I hug him all the time and thank the powers that be that he's alive and mostly well. I try to take his moodiness in stride; it's something that will pass, after all, and every day we see a little more Spawnling and a little less Kawasaki.

But in some ways he's not the boy I knew less than two weeks ago. He's weak and shaky. He's nowhere near being back to his old, energetic self. Add to it that he can't see well and you have the makings for a frustrated, unsure child who wants to run around and play but is afraid of falling over. And when he does fall, he cries for a long time. Seeing him struggling with his own limitations kills me inside.

I try not to worry about his heart, but I do. I wonder what's going on in his chest despite our best efforts. Will he drop dead of a heart attack at four? At six? At twelve? Will I ever feel comfortable not watching him like a hawk? Will I worry every time he's out of breath? Every time we go to the park? Will I be that parent who begs for follow-up cardiology appointments even when they give us the all clear? Will they say 'Uh oh. Here comes that crazy Maven again. Alert security. Tell them if they launch a latte out the main doors she is very likely to follow it.'

In 12 step recovery programs we're taught to take things 'one day at a time'. With eighteen years of sobriety behind me you'd think I'd have that well entrenched in my psyche. I'm trying, because all this worrying isn't doing us any good.

But this experience has fundamentally changed me in ways I haven't completely figured out. I now know how quickly life can change and how little control I have over the whole thing. Apparently I'm not queen of the universe after all. I am keenly aware of how precious life really is, and not in some cliche, saw-it-in-a-movie kind of way. I also have more empathy for anyone who's had a very sick child, and a deeper respect for the strength it takes to have one who is chronically ill - a club I hope we never have to join, but if we do we'll be in good company.

Also, I hear they have cookies.

I'm sad a lot lately, and not much fun to talk to. When we were at the hospital it was all go, go, go, and the constant adrenaline rush helped me get all the things done that needed doing. I cared for Spawn, met with doctors, interacted with nurses, researched everything going (to the point where a few people thought I had a medical background - I told them I just have a giant brain), updated people and took care of myself. But now that we're home and I've had time to fully appreciate what has happened, my emotions are running amuck. This is why I've been so quiet. I just don't have a lot to give right now. I hope that gets better.

I know it will get better.

The wound is fresh, but some time will heal it. I'm well aware that things could have been a lot worse. I'm also aware of how awesome I am, and how I will bounce back as Spawnling does. Geekster, Intrepid and Gutsy will, too. We're all feeling a little low, but we'll be okay. We'll schedule in some quiet coffee visits with friends and family, get ready for back-to-bliss school, go to Spawn's appointments and take it from there, a day at a time.

It will be okay. Also, the next post I have lined up is significantly more lighthearted than this one. I just needed to purge the yucky stuff first.