Conversations with Spawnling, May Edition

Forgive me for not blogging much over the last couple of weeks, but I've been playing with this new concept of - get this - writing for money. Did you know you can actually get paid to write blog posts and articles? I also learned you can put other people's numbers into a spreadsheet, and that action gets translated into currency in your pocket. Seriously. I'm not even making this stuff up. All it takes is working full-time as a mom while simultaneously working part-time as a writer, trying to write sensible sentences while being screamed at for more apple juice, and subsisting on lots of coffee and an average of five hours of sleep every night.

You, too, can have this dream life!

Making a living with my mad skillages is nice and all, but there's nothing like a good freebie of a blog post to really let loose. This is why I don't have advertisers, giveaways, or anything else on here. I get to be me, without interruption, and without being owned by The Man, whoever he is. This is freedom money can't buy, baby.

For example, advertisers may not want to show off their parenting wares on a site where the mom parents poorly half the time, and Spawn-isms are commonly displayed for all to gasp at and chuckle about.

You know what Spawn-isms are, right? All good Stay-at-Home-Maven readers know that Spawnling comes up with the most inappropriate hilarities. Offensive to some, knee-slappingly funny to others, this is a three-year-old I'm simultaneously proud and mortified to call my son.

Today was no exception. We went out for lunch with Jobthingy, who had a day off from that work stuff she usually neglects me for. (Why we're still friends after what she puts me through , I'm not quite sure. ) We ordered our food and sat a perfectly acceptable length of time waiting for it, while we drank our drinks and chitchatted and did our best to keep a three-year-old entertained. Meanwhile, Spawnling would let out a whiny "I'm hungryyyyyyyyy!" or an "I'm staaaaaaaarving!" or a "When is my food going to be heeeeeeeeere?" every so often.

Spawn's food arrived not 15 minutes after ordering. The waiter put the plate down and started to walk away. He wasn't halfway through the restaurant when my dear child let out a loud sigh and followed it up with an even louder "FINALLY." The waiter turned around, wide-eyed, looked at me turning beat red, and started to laugh.

He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to bring the grownup food and said "It's a good thing I brought his food out early, eh?"

Say it with me now: MOR-TI-FIED. That is my child, who came from my womb, who has this sense of entitlement built right into him. I don't know who, exactly, decided he was King of the Universe, but we'll be hard pressed to ever take that crown away now.

*~*~*~*

We get back home. Spawn is happily playing on my bed. I lie down beside him for a minute (see above mention of lack of sleep) and he comes in for a snuggle. I get sentimental for a moment - always a fatal mistake - and say to him "Please don't ever grow up, ok? I like three-year-old you."

"Even when I'm four, I'll still love you, Mommy" says he, and smiles.

If there was a sound for my heart melting, I would put it in here.

"When I'm four," continues Spawn, "Will I be bigger?"

"Yes, you will be," I answer.

"Will I have this?" he whacks my stomach and makes it jiggle.

"No, I don't think so."

"Will I have boobies?" he asks as he smacks my breast.

"Um, nope. That's a girl thing." I reply, warily. I can see where this is going.

He looks at me with that rotten little twinkle in his eye. "Will I have one of... Uh... what's that called again? That thing you got? Oh, yeah: a buhgina?" He giggles. "Will I have a BUH-GIIIIIIIINA?"

"No, honey. You'll still be a boy."

"So I'll have a PENIS! And you'll keep your BUUUUUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA!"

"I'm going to go get you a snack now and sit you in front of a movie now, ok? Mommy needs to get work done."

"Okay, Mommy. Mommy's buhgina. Heehee!"

Welcome to my life.

How to sully your reputation, by The Maven

It's been a very good week, despite the puke.

Intrepid may have barfed down the side of the playroom couch and been home for the last two days, but the rest of mid-to-late-February has been pretty awesome.

Let's start with the reason I haven't blogged in a week: I was applying for writing contracts, and then I got one.

I got one!

Just like that, someone decided to hire me - and this was after I directed them to my blog. I'm not too sure what that means, and sadly I forgot to ask. Either they liked my writing style or they thought that any woman crazy energetic enough to raise three boys full-time can pull off pretty much anything.

It was like a dream job in so many ways. It looked like something I could easily do, be creative with, and actually learn something new in the process.

However, the odds were clearly against me: I applied for it on a site where I had yet to be hired by anyone, had no feedback scores from previous clients (that would require having previous clients on said site), and had a big fat $0 in my 'total earnings' box. Basically, I looked like a complete newbie in Bigwig Freelancer Land, and it was a long shot.

But I won it, likely because my awesomeness transcended even my newbieness, and it became clear to the clients that hiring me was the only logical choice.

...Or maybe it was the blog.

Nah, it was totally my awesomeness.

Anyway, I had a phone call with the project manager on Monday to discuss the work. Right before it ended, he asked me how I got into this freelance writing thing.

Wouldn't you know it? Normally witty Maven went off on a business tangent about how I've been writing for a while, and I have a background in IT but this suits my lifestyle better, and I've done a fair bit of local work, etc. I was trying to act all professional-like, and tripping all over myself in the process.

Lame, and oh-so-boring.

Hindsight is, of course, always 20/20. The minute the call ended I came up with many other, far better answers to the question, like:

"The orthodontist made me do it."

"It was either this or I go back to the meth lab, you know?"

"I used to sell black market babies, but with the economy the way it is people are skipping the middleman these days..."

"I used to be a rodeo clown, but PETA's been looking for me."

"Actually, I just find the contracts- I make my kids do the writing. You don't mind a few typos, do you?"

"Well, it sure beats hooking!"

It's probably best I didn't use any of those...

In the end, I did a good job, was finished early, and the customer was happy. I got paid, and the now Intrepid's undoubtedly starving orthodontist can buy some groceries for his family. I'm feeling all professional and full of myself.

And if anyone said "When do you not feel full of yourself?" I'm going to lock you up in the meth lab. Don't think I won't do it.

Tomorrow -- if I'm not puking (so far so good) -- I'll write about an amazing seminar I went to on Monday night that dealt with tantrums, which was the other highlight this week. I'm pleased to say that since then, when Gutsy or Spawnling start throwing a fit, I have far less desire to repeatedly run myself into the patio doors until I black out. This is a good thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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