Now I'm one of THOSE Moms (Part 2)

Handle With Care

It took me a week to write this post. I'd apologize, but I don't need to. I have children. That's all the excuse I need right there. If you require further explanation as to why this would interfere with my blogging, it's probably because you don't have kids. Some days I might understand your ignorance. Other days I might just want to shoot spitballs at the back of your head for having all that free time.

Anyway, last week I wrote about a most terrible day and ended it with a promise to write a little about a talk I went to through our local school board. Well, I wrote a lot more. You're getting both quality and quantity. It's like Christmas for you.

The talk was given by a psychologist by the name of Eva de Gosztonyi, who is credited by yours truly as the person responsible for shifting our parenting in a very positive direction. I was so impressed by last year's talk (which was, like this year's, primarily based on the book Hold on to Your Kids by Dr. Gordon Neufeld) that I had to go up and thank her like a creepy fan. And, like a weird stalker person, I told her that she should speak to parents full-time because she has mad workshop skills and a good message that cuts through the thick fog of parental overload.

Not that I, the mother of three perfect little darlings, would know a thing about parental overload.

Parenting is a lot like a garden, we were told. We tend to our children's needs and they grow. Some kids are more like dandelions or daisies: pretty resilient to changes in routine, various types of discipline, and what have you. Our kids? Well, as parents on the school board's Special Needs committee, our kids were likely more the orchid type. And orchids, if you aren't aware, are far more delicate flowers. As I was contemplating the blooms in my own family, I couldn't help but think that Gutsy is sometimes more like a bonsai tree that we're forever carefully tending.

(Next, I will learn to catch flies with my chopsticks.)

Like most parents, I'm always being given advice by well-meaning friends and family. I hear a lot of the same things over and over. I know they're trying to help, but they must think we're living in a box in the middle of the desert with no library or TV or internet connection, because these are some of the regular suggestions I get:

"Maybe you should just try being more firm with him." Really? Gosh, I never thought of that before. I've only been parenting for fourteen years, so I guess the idea of being in charge hadn't crossed my mind until just now.

"Have you tried putting him in his room when he misbehaves?" That's genius! Why have I never thought of that before? Is it a new technique? How up-and-coming.

"Try taking away something he likes. Every child has his currency." Nice use of the word "currency." You obviously watch Dr. Phil. Me, too, and guess what? I've given that same advice to other parents using the same trendy word, all the while thinking it just has to eventually work with my kids because Dr. Phil says so. (Please try putting cameras up in my house, Dr. Phil. You'll need to write a whole new parenting book after this one)

Gutsy is not your typical child, so typical parenting doesn't work with him. Believe me, we've tried - consistently. It might work alright with Intrepid (daisy) and somewhat with Spawnling (rose bush), but not at all with the middle gremlin (bonsai-orchid hybrid).

We have an entire shelf dedicated to parenting books. I'm sick of reading them and beating my head against the doorframe when their advice doesn't work. With a special needs child - whatever that special need (or needs) may be - many general parenting techniques go out the window.  In Gutsy's case, we have anxiety, hearing loss, and poor sleep. And yes, poor sleep can be a huge factor in behaviour, as I'll explain in a bit. But parents of spectrum kids, delayed kids - all kinds of atypical kids - know that behavioural challenges can be a huge part of the package. And there are kids with no other challenges besides extreme behaviour, but in my opinion that's a special need in itself. Don't kid yourself; it impacts the entire family, it can break apart marriages, and it has far reaching consequences for the child and his or her family.  What I'm learning is that if trendy, widely-used discipline methods aren't working, it's not my fault. I am not a bad parent, just a mom who needs to change the playbook.

Our children - the ones who march to a different beat - are orchids, roses and bonsai trees. The sooner everyone realizes that parenting needs to be as individual as the child being parented, the better.

(Now I'm one of those moms who's ranting. I'll hop off the soap box and get on with what I learned at the presentation.)

As is probably obvious by now, I am very skeptical of anyone wanting to give me suggestions on how to parent more effectively. I never used to be that way, but hundreds of failed attempts at controlling the situation have left me raw and jaded. So, when I first sat down to hear Ms. de Gosztonyi speak, I was only just desperate enough to stay seated. I figured I would just hear more of the same stuff we'd been trying all along: If a child is misbehaving, put your food down - harder - and eventually they'll give in. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was sold after last year's presentation on how to cope with tantrums. I was even more excited about this year's talk: Discipline that Does Not Divide.

Eva spoke of attachment: how it's formed in the early years between children and parents, how it grows, and how it can waiver with use of current discipline tactics. She showed the brain, its development, and how current science supports the attachment principle. And if you know anything about The Maven (other than the fact that I'm gorgeous and talented and really like coffee), you know that I'm a big fan of fact-based practices. Science, if done properly, can provide reason to theory. For example, we're seeing this in the endless studies supporting breastfeeding as the optimal food for infants. And now we're seeing it in terms of discipline, too.  This is especially good for those of us with a tricky garden to tend. Read on.

First of all, if we want kids to grow, they need to feel safe. Kids living in a state of fear or worry all the time will take a lot longer to mature because they go into self-preservation mode rather than development mode. So, if I continuously put the smackdown on Gutsy for things I want him to change, he won't change very quickly. What I need to do instead is be gentler, kinder and more patient. I can't change who he is and I can't make him more mature on my schedule. Nature will take care of that part; we just have to provide the right conditions. So there's a certain level of acceptance that needs to happen: He is who he is. We just need to help him be the best him he can be.  And how can we do that? Through attachment.

I can't possibly get into the level of detail Eva went into, so I'll sum it the best I can: Strong attachment to parents helps kids feel safe and vulnerable, which in turn helps them mature at their optimal rate.

Attachment = Vulnerability = Maturation. That's the formula. That's the key.

Some ways to hurt attachment are:

• Using the relationship you have with your child against the child. For example: making your child separate from you every time he or she does something you deem inappropriate (timeout). What that tells the immature brain of a child is "my parent doesn't love me when I'm bad."
• Using what children care about against them. This is the "currency" method. Taking things away that are important to the child when he or she is "bad". I tell you, if my husband cut my internet access for a week because I wasn't unloading the dishwasher every night, that wouldn't go over so well. I would resent him and quite possibly fear him. I might unload the dishwasher for fear that he'd do it again, but I'm not going to like him, nor am I going to feel very safe around him. It feels that way for a child, too. It's an immediate fix that can backfire when you consider the bigger picture.
• Trying to make headway in the incident. I am so guilty of this I should get a life sentence. Trying to reason and rationalize with a child who is not reasonable or rational at the moment is the biggest waste of time ever. Besides, I'm likely not that reasonable or rational, myself. I'm probably pissed off and frustrated. This is not a teaching moment. Let the incident pass, let everyone calm down, and then talk about it.

Safe discipline involves connecting with the child. For example, if I want to get teenage Intrepid to the dinner table on time, I might try not yelling from another room (I'm guilty of this, too) and instead try this: sitting down on the couch next to him, asking him if he's enjoying his video game, and having him meet my eyes. Eye contact is important here, if possible. It means you've made a connection, and then it's easier to get results. At that point, I could let him know that dinner is ready. He's far more likely to come with me? Why? Because I "collected" him. Meaning, I collected his attention - his attachment - before asking him to do my bidding. You get more bees with honey, and all that. This is why Gutsy throws a fit in the morning when we're rushed. We're too busy trying to get him to move, move, move, and for what? We're not engaging him, we're not collecting him. What's he getting out of it besides stress? What's his incentive? No wonder he freaks out and hates mornings. Collect before you direct. Great advice.

Another good idea: Backing out of incidents and into the relationship. If you're angry, put yourself in a timeout before you say something hurtful. Cool down before you start yelling. (Again, the jury finds me guilty on all counts - I'm only human, your honour.) Try to do no harm during a tantrum or stand-off rather than attempting to control your child. Instead, let them know that you still love them. Say something like "We'll get through this. I still love you." Because, while that might sound ridiculously obvious, a child doesn't always realize how unconditional our love is for them. This can sometimes be enough to bring on tears from your child, thus ending the tantrum. Tears are good, as was explained in the last talk Eva gave. They signal that the child has moved out of the tantrum/anger cycle and into being able to accept and deal with whatever they're unhappy about.

Impose order primarily through structure and ritual rather than bossing your child around. This works very well with Gutsy, actually. He has a set bedtime routine that is working wonders. Bedtime snack and pyjamas at 8, followed by melatonin (yes, to help him sleep - he was tossing and turning through the night and waking up exhausted and moody) and teeth brushing at 8:30. He gets to watch TV until 9:30 at the latest - and he's usually asleep before then, happy and comfortable. No meltdowns because he knows what to expect. It took a couple of weeks to get the routine down, but it's made life so. much. easier. Mornings this week have been parade-worthy. I'm so proud of him and of us for following this advice. There is huge improvement.

Aim first to change a mind rather than a behaviour. How so? Let's look at hitting. Spawnling still does his fair share of this. At four, he sees only black and white. There is no reason in his cute little brain yet. There is only one thought process at a time. When he's playing with his brothers, he loves them. When they tick him off, he hates them and thus he hits. He doesn't feel bad about it until he loves them again. That's just the way his mind works at this age. So, if I ask him in the heat of the moment if he wants to stop hitting his brother, of course he's going to proclaim "no!" and we can go no further. But if I take him out of the room and calm him down, he'll eventually remember that he likes that big annoying kid and wishes he could take it back. That's when we can set realistic goals when it comes to his frustration. Maybe he can't work it out on his own yet, but he can come and get me when he's angry instead of hitting. And I can remind him that I know he doesn't want to hit his brother, and that he'll keep trying hard. And he can tell me that he gets very angry when Intrepid doesn't let him have a turn on the Wii, but that he loves him. This way, I'm not demanding change and growth, just helping it along. Then he walks away to give an apology, and I walk away feeling like Super Mom. It's win/win.

The most important thing I took away was this: We need to keep the relationship as free as possible from experiences of separation, shame and alarm. 

Guilty, guilty, guilty. What this means is that it's time for us to throw out any and all attempts at timeouts, removing "currency", and yelling. They don't work around here, anyway. We just do them because we've been told we should. Calmness, understanding, patience. This is what we're aiming for. And while it may sound like we're handing over control to our kids at this point, Eva did stress that it's important to be the one in charge. She says we need to be both the wall of futility (AKA the person who says "I'm sorry, but you can't do that") and the angel of comfort. We can and should say no, but we can also be there to hug them when the tears come from that. And often the tears come after a tantrum. That's just par for the course. 

That being said, if the teenager keeps getting speeding tickets, it might be time to take away the car keys for their safety. And if grades are low, it's okay to insist there's a little less TV and a little more studying done. That's part of parenting. Generally speaking, kids want to do well and they want to make us happy. They just need some guidance and support.

Finally, it was stressed that if what we're currently doing works and doesn't seem to be negatively impacting our children, then by all means keep doing it. Like Eva said, some kids are more resilient and do well with that type of discipline. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, and stuff. But it wasn't working here until we started making changes. Now, finally, things are starting to improve - most days. 

I'm sure people will be up in arms after this post. Last time I wrote about one of these talks, I received several phone calls and emails from people who were defending their parenting methods. You don't need to do that. Nobody's judging you or insisting you change what you're doing. The way I see it, if you're confident in your parenting there's no need to defend it. But you should also be open-minded enough to know that your way isn't the only way. This is another way for those of us who've tried those things and found they didn't work. 

In my opinion, it's also a way for those of us who are looking ahead to do some advance planning. One day, those kids we put in timeout are going to be too big for that. One day, they're going to be taller than us, stronger than us, and they won't just go to their rooms at our insistence. And yet we're still going to have to be in charge. What do you do when you can't threaten anymore? What do you do when you can't take as much away anymore? I've often thought about this with Gutsy, and it terrifies me.  Being a drill sergeant won't work when he's 15. But if he feels safe and attached, maybe we have a chance of still being able to guide him through the scary teenage years when there's the very real worry that he'll find safety and comfort in his peer group to replace what he may not be getting at home. Maybe he'll trust that I have a good reason for saying "no", and respect me enough to listen (after slamming a door or two). This type of parenting helps lay the foundation for the future. 

A good week. A solid week. A week of saying "I'm so proud of you" and "You're doing such a great job!" A week of not yelling, of routine, of better sleep.  I don't think we've seen the end of tantrums or sobbing Mavens at the kitchen table, but at least we've all been able to catch our collective breath over the last few days.  So thank you, Eva, and thank you, Dr. Neufeld. Today feels a little brighter.

Now I'm one of THOSE moms (Part 1)

(That's me in the short-shorts)

Raising an anxious, explosive child is a lot like running a marathon:

- you signed up for it before knowing exactly what it would entail
- other people make it look easy
- halfway through it you realize you still have a very long way to go
- you wonder how anyone finishes it alive
- you find yourself wishing that maybe you had taken up squash instead

This morning was one of those full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful mornings of resistance that came on the heels of yesterday morning's full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful morning of resistance. Two days of not wanting to go to school. Two days of Gutsy insisting that the problem is that school starts too early, not that he stays up too late. Two days of his dad and I snapping at each other under the strain, of his brothers avoiding World War III at all costs, of Spawnling covering his ears and crying while Intrepid leads him into the living room to distract him.  Two days of dropping Gutsy off well after the bell, filling out a late slip, and feeling like the worst parent ever. Because after doing this for so long, shouldn't I have figured out how to make it work?

On mornings like this, I'm often left dumbfounded as to how we manage to stay sane. Then I remember that thinking I'm sane probably means I'm not, so that explains a few things. I likely went crazy a long time ago, thus throwing up a shield of denial so thick that it is near impenetrable. I'm so smart.

I can't begin to describe how depleted I am after running this proverbial marathon. We do this dance nearly every day, arriving at school with blood pressure so high it would fail a drug test, with resentment unjustly placed upon a poor little boy who can't help himself. He's not trying to be difficult. He's not trying to make everyone's morning chaotic. He's doing the best he can in his limited capacity to deal with the stress he feels about walking through those elementary school doors.

But that doesn't mean it's easy to deal with.

I can normally keep it together, but today wasn't one of those days. I had done everything right: talked to him about the things bothering him at school (including being picked on by some boys in his class), came up with an action plan, did some yoga and meditation with him before bed in hopes of helping him be more rested,  picked out his clothes with him before lights out, and got him up half an hour earlier in anticipation of it taking a long time for him to get ready.

It took two full hours for him to get dressed, eat, put on his hearing aids, and get to school. And those two hours were absolute hell. He fought tooth and nail as I did everything from staying completely calm to eventually yelling (I'd like to pat myself on the back because it took over an hour of him refusing to get out of bed before I even raised my voice, but it doesn't feel all that commendable). So, as hour two approached, I sat at my kitchen table and cried - hard.  It was one of those defeated, exhausted, chest rattling sobs. Gutsy kept apologizing and saying that he'd try harder tomorrow. Talk about a guilt trip. Poor kid.

Oh, but it gets worse. The Maven doesn't go home until she goes big.

Off to Gutsy's school we went, he in a happier mood, Spawnling still in his pyjamas with winter boots and coat, I with puffy eyes, no makeup, and hair that rivalled Medusa's. After signing his late slip and sending him off to class, I started explaining to the receptionists (whom I've known for years) that we were really, really trying to get him to school on time and that I didn't want them to think that we're delinquent parents who don't care.

And then I started crying again. And one of them gave me a hug. And the whole time I'm thinking that I look like a complete idiot - an unkept one at that - standing here in the middle of the school office with tears in my eyes and a child with pyjama pants on beside me.

It was official: I had become that mother. The unstable one. The one with "problems". Lovely.

They were very quick to reassure me that nobody thinks we're bad parents, and that they know we're doing our best. And it was even said in that sincere, we're-not-just-saying-that-to-get-you-out-of-here way. That was nice, but now I'm a good parent who's doing her best and who cries in the school office. Oh goody!

On my way out, I ran into another wonderful support staff who offered up more hugs as Spawnling impatiently waited at the front door for me (I had promised him Tim Hortons after we dropped off his brother and he was making sure I knew how to keep a deal). So I cried some more and gave her the rundown, while Spawnling said he'd wait for me outside. As I was thanking her for being so wonderful, I looked outside and saw that Spawnling was defiantly standing on the edge of the road, glaring at me.

Now, not only am I the disheveled drama queen mother, but I'm the disheveled drama queen mother who can't keep track of her kids because she's too busy crying.

There are entire reality shows dedicated to people like me.

Despite my embarrassment, I ran to the road feeling a little better. My son goes to a great school with people who really care about him. They understand that we're under a lot of stress and that we do our best. So I don't need to feel like a terrible parent, and I can drop my child off in the morning - sometimes late - knowing that he's in good hands. To parents of special needs kids, this is like striking gold.

I am not the world's best mom. I mess up from time to time. I lose my shit, I cry in inappropriate places, I'm far too hard on myself. But I'm not a robot, and my emotions are what keep me in the race. If I couldn't hurt deeply, I couldn't love deeply, and thus wouldn't have the motivation to run this marathon for him. For him.

I would do anything for him.

Tomorrow's another day, right? And tomorrow - or the next day, if that's when I have time - I will blog about an amazing parenting workshop I went to. Despite the events of the last couple of days, the advice I received about discipline has been helping a great deal.

Burn Out

When Intrepid was little, he used to throw some epic fits. It was so bad that we would need to sequester him to his room, or hold his arms and legs until he stopped flailing. They happened daily, and I often wondered if we'd survive it.

We almost didn't make it, to be honest, but a hearing loss diagnosis and the joy of a new baby brother helped immensely. Within months, Intrepid was a new boy - full of the wonder of his new found hearing and a sense of responsibility over having a little person modeling him. The tantrums stopped, a type of peace we hadn't known before came to our house, and we figured we were over the worst of it.

And then there's Gutsy.

By two, we knew Gutsy was hearing impaired. By three, he had his hearing aids and was getting intensive speech therapy. If he could hear and express himself properly, we thought, there would be less frustration in his world and therefore fewer outbursts. Unlike Intrepid, he wouldn't have extreme sensory issues, meaning he wouldn't be experiencing the world with his four "good" senses on full-throttle to compensate for his lack of hearing, and therefore not be on overload all the time with things being too bright, too flashy, too scratchy, too spongy, too abrasive. He would grow up with a little more normality, we thought.

We thought.

We really thought we had done everything we could to make his life easier. We were wrong, and I wish we had figured that out sooner.

I would describe our home life as chaotic, but not in the typical 'we have three kids' way. There are good pockets; times when Gutsy is relaxed and content and where Spawnling isn't doing typical Spawnling things like throwing a boot at someone's head or yelling 'GET ME SOME CANTALOUPE RIGHT NOW!' at the top of his lungs like this will somehow work even though it never has before. I cherish the quiet moments more and more these days, because there seem to be fewer and fewer of them.

When Spawnling was younger and not throwing typical three-year-old tantrums of his own, Gutsy's were more manageable. And when Spawnling didn't egg his brother on to get a reaction out of him, the frequency of outbursts was far less frequent. But right now, a typical day has not only typical brotherly fights, but puts Gutsy in such a mood that every little thing becomes a big thing.

Yesterday, a PD day at school and therefore a day off for all three gremlins, we asked Gutsy to get out from behind the flat screen TV. You know, so that it doesn't tip over and crack and take most of mommy and daddy's at-home 'date nights' with it. He didn't mean anything by it - he was simply trying to find a new hiding spot and that corner looked perfect to a seven-year-old boy.

But what would normally be a simple request of 'please get out from behind there before the TV tips over and breaks' in most households, turned into a 10 minute exchange and subsequent fit in ours. Furthermore, it unleashed a monster that took over the house for an entire day, resulting in multiple tantrums, frustrated siblings and overwhelmed parents. By the end of the day, I went into the bedroom and sobbed. By the end of the day, Geekster locked himself in the office (upon my request, for the record) and played guitar until his fingers hurt, as his entire work-from-home day having been bombarded by loud screaming, things being thrown, and crying, and he really needed some personal time before he exploded.

And this overwhelmed, exhausted feeling happens nearly every day, definitely every weekend, during every holiday, and a heartbreaking number of times throughout the summer. We dread the days when Gutsy is not in school. For whatever reason, home is not a place where he is calm and happy. And therefore, none of us are calm or happy, either. He loves school and does well there, but once he gets home all hell breaks loose.

If this doesn't change soon, our family will not survive this. And I'm not saying that lightly. Geekster and I have been together almost 17 years, but I don't think we'll see 18 if things don't change. Not because we don't love each other, but because we are too emotionally exhausted to put a lot of effort into "us.". We try and we usually succeed - good communication helps - but it's an uphill battle. When Intrepid was throwing huge, scary tantrums, we only had him to contend with. It was still stressful, but more manageable. With Gutsy, we have an older child and a younger who are as overwhelmed as we are. This isn't a normal situation. It needs to change so that we can stay an intact family of five and enjoy what should be a special time in our lives with three beautiful children.

We have tried being soft, firm, removing privileges, making award charts, having lots of heart to hearts, reading books, asking friends, attending seminars, scouring the internet... Nothing has worked yet.

And then, the mother of all fearful tantrums that happened two weekends ago: After about an hour of escalating, solid rage over his Dad not doing a specific project with him (there were many offers to do other projects, mind you) I put him in his room with the door closed, holding the handle because he kept trying to open it, all the while he raging and throwing things at the door, at the walls. I told him I wasn't leaving and that I just needed him to calm down in a safe place so we could talk. He raged more, cried more, begged me to open the door in between outbursts. It was terrifying.

And even more terrifying, he doesn't remember any of it. Not a stitch. He recalls being outside asking his dad to do a project, then coming out of his room after I had gone in and talked to him; nothing in between. We've suspected a couple of other times that he hasn't remembered a tantrum, but weren't sure. He definitely recalls most of them and doesn't seem to disconnect at any other time, but we're confused and very worried.

That moment two weeks ago is when Geekster and I knew this was way beyond what we can do alone. We needed to call in the reinforcements and find out what is going on with our otherwise sweet boy. Because, underneath those Mr. Hyde moments, Gutsy is a wonderful kid. He does well in school with no fits, has many friends, loves his parents and brothers tremendously, cracks jokes, invents the coolest forts and gadgets I've ever seen, is by far one of the smartest people I've ever met, and is overall one of those well-rounded children a mother is proud to call her son. We want to fully appreciate that side of him.

More importantly, he needs to feel more comfortable in his own skin. He's told us many times that he hates how he behaves and doesn't know how to stop when he gets that angry - this is beyond his control, too. And the casualties extend to his brothers, who don't get as much attention as a result and have to deal with their family home - what should be a sanctuary from the world - being up in arms every day.

So far, Geekster and I have been on the phone with his teacher and the school's behavior tech. I had a meeting with the principal as well. All are taking this seriously and willing to work with us to see if we can figure out what's going on. I have an appointment lined up with our family doctor in which I will ask for a brain scan and blood work and anything else we need to rule out a physiological issue (like food sensitivities, which have been brought up many times by my wonderful readers and friends). We spoke with our liason at the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf, who has put us in contact with specialized teachers and psychologists who work closely with hearing impaired children (kids who are, incidentally, far more likely to have behaviour issues due to sensory overload and academic/social frustrations). And finally, I put a call into our local public health department and left a message with the intake social worker. When she called back, she spoke with Geekster. She initially scheduled an appointment for the middle of May, but once she got more details, she said she could see him Tuesday on an urgent basis. The help is there and response has been excellent.

We're getting closer to an answer and hopefully closer to figuring out how we can help our son. Yesterday, I spoke with a good friend who's twin sons have autism, and a lot of the behavioral issues are similar to Gutsy's. That makes sense, considering, like many on the autism spectrum, he likely has some heavy sensory issues due to his hearing loss. She gave me some amazing coping strategies and ways to deal with him, which we're going to implement into our arsenal of new tactics. Things like:

- giving him written steps to do a chore so that he doesn't get overwhelmed (like he usually does) with the immensity of it. Getting Gutsy to clean up is like pulling teeth, so I'm looking forward to trying this out

- counting down from 5 instead of up from 1 when we're giving him a warning, so that he can better anticipate the end of the counting (this worked well yesterday when we tried it)

- using different words to say the same thing - words that trigger his outbursts less but still get the point across. Time for this writer to pull out the thesaurus

And I realized something even more important when I spoke to her: I've been forgetting that he does, indeed, have special needs. The effects of his hearing loss may not be apparent in his school work or his speech (anymore), but his behavior - whether it be due to sensory overload, anxiety, or something else - is likely a direct result from being a deaf child in a hearing world. Even with his hearing aids, he doesn't hear like we do; his brain doesn't process sounds like ours. Some are louder, some are quieter, and some don't come in at all. He just does so well in every other way that we're quick to forget, and I treat his outbursts like a discipline issue instead of like a special needs issue. That means I use less compassion and get more frustrated with him. I blame him and I blame me for not being able to help him. It's not a good scene.

When I was pregnant with Intrepid, someone once told me how powerful motherhood is, and how I would find myself willing to do anything to save my child. Right now I feel like he's drowning, and my other two children are slipping under the water with him. And their dad and I keep diving into the waves-- but as much as we try, we can't pull them up. We're treading water and we're so very tired, but we keep trying.

No, this is not something we can do alone anymore. Help is on the way and we're going to receive it with open arms. There's a boat on the horizon, and it has five life preservers on board.

We're ready.

An Open Letter to my Teenage Boy

Dear Intrepid,

Forgive my recent stumbling as your parent, but your sudden leap into the teen years has left me scrambling to catch up and figure out the rules of this new game.

See, when I became illegitimately pregnant with you at the age of 19, perhaps I wasn't thinking things through as clearly as I should have. Looking into the future for your dad and I, all I could see was a snuggly-wuggly little sand bag of joy in my arms, literally sucking the pregnancy weight out of me along with all that breastmilk. You would be perfect in every way, always, and we would be the bestest parents every despite our complete lack of experience and copious immaturity.

After 48 hours of agony beyond words which resulted in me finally being able to push out all ten pounds of your watermelon self you came gently into the world, I remember rocking you softly, peacefully, thinking every so often about what kind of person you would be in a few years. But right then - at that moment - you were my little angel, and the idea of you becoming anything but was so distant it was almost laughable.

And then, suddenly, you're thirteen, you talk back, your hair gets stinky when you don't shower, and I'm still as fat as ever.

And worse still, you seem to think you're some kind of individual. Like you can make up your own mind about things, or something. You have your own likes and dislikes, you have opinions that don't always reflect my own, and not all your choices are made after seeking my approval.

Well, shit. What happened?

Last week, when I got the call from your vice principal about you skipping a class, I nearly dropped the phone in shock. How on earth could my perfect, studious, responsible son not attend advisory? It was obviously a mistake. Surely you got lost, or you hit your head and fell unceremoniously into your locker and was buried in old apple cores and crumpled paper until you regained consciousness an hour later.

Except that wasn't the case, and the next thing I knew you were in detention. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this in the best way possible with no prior experience whatsoever.

Oh, wait a minute. As it turns out, I do have experience! Not in raising a teenager, perhaps, but most certainly in cutting class. And suddenly, a little grin appeared on my face. I had a shower, put my clothes on, and I went to collect you from after-school detention knowing exactly what to do.

See, I was a bit of a high school bad ass. By thirteen I was skipping classes regularly. By fourteen I was expelled.

Some would say I was the cutting class queen.

A cut above your average school delinquent.

That 80's band, Cutting Crew? That's right: Named after your mom. And any chance of getting out of your truancy easily just died in your arms tonight.

Um, I mean last Wednesday.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I won't let you go down the same path I did. No way, no how. You're too good for that. You made a mistake, but it's one that, if not dealt with properly, could lead to more and bigger mistakes. I won't see you mess up your life under my watch, no matter how ill-equipped I may feel about raising a teenager at thirty-three years of age.

So, when you got into the van after detention and I didn't say a word to you, I hope you saw the seriousness of what you did.

When I grounded you for a week, I hope you saw concern beneath the anger.

When I made you tell your dad what you did, I hope you saw worry under his disappointment.

When I said you have to earn our trust back, I hope you believe in yourself enough to know you can, because we believe a lot in you.

When I told you that if you ever do that again I'll go to school with you for an entire day and walk you to every class and cut your sandwiches into little stars in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time, I hope you know me well enough to take me seriously.

And when we tell you how much we love you, I hope you believe it. Because we really do.

We really do.

I know you feel badly about what you did, but you're a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes, my sweet boy. Thankfully, I believe to the core that this is one you're not likely to contemplate again for a very long time. I know some of the people you cut class with didn't even go to detention because they aren't afraid of the school consequences, and at least one of them has a parent who doesn't seem to care enough to discipline him whatsoever. But I hope you can see that the reason we jumped on this so hard is because we do care, and we take our role as your parents seriously.

Love you, big guy. Don't forget it.

The Truancy Officer Mom

PS: Your brothers have promised never to grow up. I'm so relieved I only have to go through this teenager stuff once. Phew!

Spawnling Lays Down the Law

I often talk about how much attitude my little Spawnling has. Yesterday, I decided to get it on video.

For the record, I did take away his jellybeans. They're potty training bribery (and it's working - who knew sugar would work?) and he took off at a dead run with them in his hands, cackling the entire time. He wasn't cackling so much when I chased him down and put them back in the cupboard, however. So, he decided to set down the law with me.



Have I mentioned lately how much I love this kid?

Tell it like it is, Spawn.

Spawnling is nothing if not honest.

Unfortunately, at three-and-a-half, he has yet to discover the wonderful world of word filtering. It's a useful tool in all sorts of potentially sticky situations, such as the ones that just occurred at my place of residence this morning. Oh, my.

My good friend Handcuffs - a mom with three crazy hyper chaotic perfect little boys of her own - was over for a visit. The kids were screaming and running around playing ever so quietly with stickers and charm bracelets when some kind of physical incident occurred and Spawnling was hit in the face.

Spawn, my dear little son, did what he now does best in these situations: screamed as loud as he could and let the waterworks flow. You know, I used to loathe when he would hit back, but I almost hate this whole sobbing uncontrollably at the injustice of it all phase even more. Doesn't he see that I'm trying to drink my coffee? There should be a no-wailing rule when mommy has her feet up on the ottoman.

I picked my boy up and asked him what happened. In between gasps for air and sobs, he told me the whole sordid tale: 'Gasp! Riley... he... sob! ... he hit... gasp! snort!.... m-m-meeeeee! ... sob!'

It would have been nice if it had ended there. But no, of course not. He had to keep going about it. '... And I was just ... gasp! ... sitting there and he... sob! ... h-he whacked me just like that, and... sob! ... and he's SUCH A BIG DUMBO!"

Yikes. Nice one, kid. Here's a little trick I've learned over the years: If you're the victim in an altercation and there's some kind of parental intervention, just stay put. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred-dollars. Don't start throwing bad names around; it'll just complicate the situation. Now both of you have to apologize. Do you know how hard it is to make two three-year-olds say sorry to each other without another hit or yell happening in the process? Even seasoned mothers struggle with this.

A little later, when things calmed down again, Spawnling had started drawing a picture. And, like every other picture he draws as of late, it looks like a Mr. Potato Head on hallucinogens: a large (this time yellow) circular body with two circles of different sizes for eyes and four creepy little sticks protruding from its spud-like frame for limbs.

Handcuffs, forgetting who she was talking to, said 'Hey, Spawnling, do you know who that looks like? Sponge-Bob!'

'No. It doesn't.' replied the artistic diva, cooly.

Trying to explain herself, Handcuffs went on: 'See? It has a big yellow body, and little sticks for arms and legs. Just like Sponge-Bob does!'

'No. I don't think so.' I believe he may have rolled his eyes at that point.

'Okay, then,' shrugged Handcuffs, trying to stifle a giggle over Spawn's stubborn refusal to see her point.

He looked over at her and said, so matter-of-factly, 'Ummm, do you know that I don't like you?' And he casually spun around and walked off to do something else.

Just so you know, it is very, very challenging to make your child apologize to a person who is practically falling out of her seat laughing, while you yourself are in stitches, and tears are running down your cheeks.

He may be ballsy, but I really do love that kid.

In Which The Maven Admits to Crossing the Line

A couple of weeks ago I did something I swore I would never, ever do: I spanked one of my children.

I don't think parents who use corporal punishment are bad parents, or that they don't know what they're doing. It's just that I 've always maintained that raising my hand is not how I want to raise my boys, because, as far as I'm concerned, kids can be brought up very well without ever having to physically harm them.

But this isn't the first time I've done something I vowed never to do. That train of misconception started with 'I'll never breasfeed/co-sleep/stay-at-home' and continued along the railway line with memorable quotes like 'we have a strict no toy weapons policy at our house because I believe you can teach your children to be peaceful through example' and 'my child will never behave like that in a grocery store'.

But I held strong to having a spank-free household. It just wasn't something we were going to do, ever. And for twelve-and-a-half years I successfully resisted the occasional urge to put hand to bottom.

Until, one day, Gutsy crossed the line in such a way that I didn't see any other option.

I won't go into gory details because I don't want to lay down a story that will justify what I did. Suffice to say that there was some very serious defiance going on involving screaming, throwing, banging, threatening and physically harming me. An absolutely impressive display of emotion!
As a drama queen myself, I have to appreciate the effort that went into that fit. It was rather lengendary, really, and looking back I would have to give him a score of 9.8: Very strong presentation, good verbalization of his anger, shock value, and interesting use of props. If there were an olympic tantrum competition he would have had a good shot at the gold.

I tried just about everything I could think of, from attempting to talk him down, to giving him a time-out, to taking away priviledges. And all the while it got worse and worse and worse. More and more violent, more and more dangerous for both of us, more and more terrifying for his brothers. Finally, having exhausted anything my stressed-out mind could think of, I put him over my knee.

And it did absolutely nothing to solve the problem. (And please don't waste your time sending me emails and comments about how I didn't do it right. I'm not looking for a how-to or a FAQ on corporal punishment. This was a one-time deal. Great Big Maven's Spanking Outlet Store has permanently closed.)

In the end, what ended the fit was me telling him I was giving up and going outside for a breather. When he followed me into the backyard a few minutes later and found me softly crying, he melted and we both cried together.

That was the beginning of the end of all conventional discipline methods with Gutsy. The straw that broke the camel's back. The spank that broke both our hearts.

(See the drama queen coming out? He comes by it honestly.)

After doing a bit of research while he was busily camping with Intrepid and Geekster, I came across a book called The Explosive Child.

Is there any better way to describe Gutsy the gremlin? I think not. It even has a sad little boy on the cover with a bomb for a head, which is rather morbid and disturbing and yet so very true of how Gutsy feels after an emotional explosion.

What I've read so far has been very enlightening: the parts of the brain that control a child's ability to be flexible in routines and transitions, and to be able to control frustration levels, are in the same location as where issues like OCD and ADHD seem to crop up (I'm not a big fan of labelling children and neither is the author, but he wanted to point out that the brain scans are similar).

The turning point for me was understanding that Gutsy does not act out like this on purpose. He has a strong desire to please (we see this when he's calm) and wants to do better, he just can't. He doesn't know how. His ability to control himself in stressful situations is underdeveloped for his age. The author equates it to having a learning disability of sorts. You can't teach a child like this using time-outs and sticker charts, removing priviledges or, as I've newly discovered, spanking. It's a whole new ballgame.

Once I discovered that Gutsy has no more control over losing his shit than I do over being incredibly awesome, I felt a lot better. I think I might be able to start liking him more again. Oh, sure, I love him tremendously, horns and all, but I don't necessarily like being held hostage by his behaviour.

It's surprising to me that my children aren't perfect. I mean, didn't they come from me? But what surprises me more is the sadness I've been feeling over not being a good mother to Gutsy. I feel like I've failed him in so many ways despite my best efforts. Spanking him when I swore I wouldn't didn't help my mama self-esteem, either.

The rest of the book - the part I haven't read yet - is all about how to retrain the brain and usher it into a new era of self-control. I'm all about self-control; he obviously didn't get that problem from me. I mean, that's why I'm a skinny social drinker.

Damn it!

I hope this works. If it doesn't I may just put on my new running shoes and take off for the hills. Maybe I'll be adopted by a pack of wolves and can hunt with them.... Until they discover I'm a vegetarian wuss and devour me. Do you suppose spanking a wolf woud make it stop biting?

Parenting 101, sorta.

Since I'm such an expert on parenting, I thought it would be in my readership's best interest if I were to ask some questions that could be on the exam in my future parenting classes. It would give all my loyal visitors a head start on the course and they wouldn't have to miss out on any frat parties because they're too busy cramming for exams.

Imagine the travesty of missing the spring kegger. Horrific! (Unless you're me and you avoid keggers altogether for obvious recovery-based reasons...)

So, without further ado, here are some practice questions:

Describe all four phases of how The Maven, parenting diva, would deal with a tantruming six-year-old when they're both exhausted and she's trying to do the fifth manual load of dishes of the day because the stupid dishwasher is stupidly broken.

Phase 1. The Maven tries the calm approach by physically getting down to the child's level and lovingly but firmly telling him he needs to stop. She places a hand on his shoulder and rubs his arm while he screams loudly enough to make her eardrums want to drink cyanide. Like, if they had mouths. She cradles him in her arms and strokes his hair softly while she tells him it's alright, he just needs to calm down.

Phase 2. If he doesn't stop screaming because his previously embryonic self absorbed every ounce of genetic stubbornness from both his parents, she decides she needs some space and tells him that she's going to go to a quiet place so she can breathe and hopes that he'll calm down as well.

Phase 3. If he chases her down, still screaming, she keeps walking as she breathes very deeply and attempts to see any colour but red; preferably mauve with maybe some rainbows and unicorns floating around in the mauveness.

Phase 4. If the six-year-old whacks her on the back of the leg with all his might because he's not getting what he wants, The Maven, mother supreme, stoops to her son's level in a whole new way by screaming louder than he can and threatening to throw his precious laptop (a 10-year-old Apple with some missing keys and a broken hinge) in the garbage if he makes even one more peep. He goes to time-out quietly.

It works. The Maven wins.

(Did everyone get that? It might be a good idea to take some notes.)

Question 2: What would The Maven recommend you do if you had confirmed via email a meeting at the school with a woman coming from out of town to talk about your gremlins' hearing needs?

Well, first of all, don't write it down anywhere, especially on something useful like a calendar. Just make a mental note of it and tell yourself you'll remember because it's obviously too important to forget. Then have a few things break in the interim, like a furnace and dishwasher, and throw in several friends in crisis and in need of your advice and support, and voila: Twenty minutes after you're supposed to be at the school you'll get a phone call saying "Did you forget about me?" and you can stammer and apologize and make excuses and just generally feel really craptastic about the entire thing.

3. What should you do if your children have been cooped up inside the school all day because it's bitterly cold outside, are in foul moods, are throwing tantrums and/or crying about nothing and/or falling off of things and hitting their faces on tables, and you've been rather forgetful?

It's obvious you all need a nice healthy meal. Preferably something homecooked. But the day has sucked for you, the mom, and you know that example of putting your own oxygen mask on before your baby's? It's time to use that card and use it well. The Maven would recommend you throw steamed veggies to the wind and order some extra cheese pizza and pop. That's how we amazing parents roll, yo.

***

Thus concludes our lesson for the day. I thank you all for coming and hope that you will gain some valuable information from this session. It's not every day I impart wisdom of this magnitude, but it's truly my hope that everyone can shine as bright as I do when it comes to raising their children. Step up and be the best parent you can be. And, when all else fails, eat an extra slice of pizza and have a nap on the couch.

The Incredible Mr. Spoon

This is a story that must be told.

As pretty much everyone knows, I don't spank the gremlins. I never have and I never will. I have my reasons and I think they're good ones. Even friends who spank seem to understand and respect why Geekster and I don't. And that's good, because otherwise I would have to use my Crabby Mommy Powers on them. Nobody wants me to use those; just ask the boys.

In turn, I don't judge them for spanking. That's pretty nice of me, really. I mean, I could be judgmental and not include them in the inner circle of coolness (which is the circle surrounding the entourage), and instead I embrace them and accept them, differences in parenting and all.

In fact, I used to shake my finger at the naughty corporal punishment users, sticking my (fairly large) nose up in the air, full of haughtiness and tsk-tsking. I would find out early in the game if someone was an evil spanker and file them in the acquaintances folder. 'Only bad parents spank,' I would declare. 'Their children live in fear and I don't want to be a part of that.'

Rumour has it that, one day, the Spankers Coalition got together and brainstormed over how to get me to be friends with their members. How could they pursuade me to soften to my ways, as I had been known to have the ability to smell bum-smacker from one hundred yards away?

After much deliberating, they trained a small group of special agents to infiltrate the inner circle. They chose nice, friendly parents with big smiles and a good sense of humour and a love of coffee and coffee-related beverages. They chose children who didn't look like they were traumatized plane crash survivors, who didn't wince when their parents' hands entered their personal space bubble. In short, they were nothing like I had imagined Evil Spankers of the Spanker Coalition to be like. So I let them in, thinking they were very much like me in all my parenting perfection.

I was blindsided by their normalcy. And, when the truth came out that they were indeed those-who-shall-not-be-named, I was shocked. They didn't even feel the need to debate their discipline choices with me! Instead, they were sensible and open. They explained why they did what they did, but not to convince me to do the same and not in a condescending way. What amazing training! I had no choice but to amend the inner circle guidelines and let them in.

One such spanker - a good friend, a mom to two boys and a blog stalker of mine - told me a story I just had to share. She did ask, however, that I not use her name, as she does not care to be stoned with insults from the non-spanking crowd. She understands that not everyone's inner circle has been infiltrated by her evil spanking cohorts. She also gets that I've evolved to a new level of non-judgmentalness (emphasis on the "mental" part) a little ahead of the curve because, well, I'm The Maven.

In an attempt to enhance the discipline experience, Friend decided she would draw an angry face on a wooden spoon. She called it, quite originally, Mister Spoon.

Mr. Spoon looked mean. He looked like he could hurt you. He looked like a guy you didn't want to mess around with. She waved Mr. Spoon around in such a way that fear would be instilled in her young boys, as the thought alone of coming into contact with Mr. Spoon would be enough to force good behaviour.

One day she was making soup, stirring the red tomato base with a wooden spoon. Suddenly, she noticed a green trail following in the utensil's wake.

Pulling the spoon out, she saw the faintest remains of a child-drawn face in green marker. Her boys had apparently made Mr. Spoon a friend, and she had drowned it in her now multicoloured soup.

Her children began sneaking off with Mr. Spoon and playing games with him. He turned their duo into a trio, staring in that disapproving marker face as they pretended to be dinosaurs and played with trucks.

They even fought over who got to sleep with Mr. Spoon. On more than one occasion, she found the scary/mean utensil snuggled in someone's arm under the covers.

Obviously, these are traumatized children living in fear. Isn't it obvious how right I was about those spanking families?

Mr. Spoon became a failed experiment, and the idea of wooden kitchen spoons being used to keep the boys in line was abandoned completely.

The moral of this story? No idea. Why do you expect a moral? Are you trying to make me work? Why would you do that? It's Monday, for crying out loud. I'm blogging, isn't that good enough?

Oh, alright fine: The moral of the story is that you shouldn't draw faces on wooden spoons. It's wrong on many levels: it will encourage fighting, your kids will develop unhealthy relationships with other inanimate objects, and they will eventually get in the van with the creepy, angry-faced stranger who looks a lot like their friend, Mr. Spoon.

I have no moral when it comes to spanking. I'm not judging, remember? Stop trying to make this a debate, already. I'm going to see Coldplay in a few hours (!!!!!) and I don't have time to argue. Now I must go and make myself look pretty for Chris Martin.