What I'll do for a Coffee

Yesterday, after the arrival but of not one, but two coffees at my doorstep, I obviously bragged all over Facebook and on my blog. "Look at me!" I declared with only slightly more tact. "I have a coffee! That someone brought me! In a snowstorm!" Followed an hour or so later by, "Neener, neener! Another coffee just for The Maven! It's great to be me!"

Naturally, people asked how this could happen. What do I, The Maven of Mayhem, do to deserve such gifts? And, honestly, I had to give it some thought, too. I'm so grateful to my wonderful friends, but what on earth makes people want to do nice things for me?

Is it because I'm generous? Not exactly.

Kind? Um, I guess. Sometimes. When I feel like it.

Thoughtful? Only when I have time to be because I'm not dealing with kids in crisis - which is, like, never.

Insightful? The only sight I'm full of is the mess in my kitchen. I'm not exactly a wise guru on a mountain (unless that mountain consists of laundry).

I couldn't come up with an obvious answer, which made me realize that others probably can't, either. So, I need to dispel a possible conclusion before it turns into rumours:

I am not a hooker. Let's just get that out of the way, ok? I do not have sex with people for material gain. It's not that I'm anti-escorting per say, it's just that it's not my chosen career path. I'm already plenty busy. I'm a writer and editor and doula, after all. It would be hard to fit another job description on my business card:

The Maven

Writer/Editor/Postpartum Doula/Call Girl

It doesn't flow very well. And besides, if I were going to put out, I would be charging a lot more than coffee. Just sayin'.

So now that we all know I don't have a secret stash of fishnet stockings I'm willing to don in the name of caffeine, there's really only one viable reason people might be so nice to me:

Animal magnetism.

That has to be it. If I'm not particularly generous, kind, thoughtful or insightful, then what else could it be? I must be a sexy beast of epic proportions (well, I'm only a size 18 - not exactly epic, but significant). For whatever reason, people are drawn to my hotness and feel the need to show me by giving me hot things, like a steamy cup of java. They probably don't realize it themselves; it's just something they have to do.

(... What do you mean, I'm wrong? I can't be wrong! There's no other good reason! Well, other than the giant squid. I mean, that fine piece of art could potentially evoke feelings in others they may not know they even have. Regardless, I'm going to ignore you and go with my original theory of sheer hotness.)

Not only have my friends been kind, but Karma herself decided to treat me extra gently the last couple of days. Gutsy, determined to get caught up in school, has been on time two days in a row. He also did 45 minutes of homework and cursive writing practice with me last night. He's definitely struggling with cursive, but I think it's because he's afraid of not doing it perfectly. Nevertheless, he stayed calm and did everything I asked him to do.

I could throw a damn parade, I'm so happy. I very nearly cried tears of joy this morning after I dropped him off at school. It's funny how we can take small things for granted, sometimes; a reminder to celebrate the little things with my gremlins three. Geekster and I have been showering the boy with praise every time he works hard. The glow in his face is a beautiful thing.

And, not to forget the other two horned ones, I should mention that Spawnling is learning to sound out words and read a little bit: cat, hat, mat, fat, sat, lion, truck, plane. He's since called me "fat" and/or "fatty" a few times when angry. I've created a monster. Pleasant. Where's the "undo" option? Maybe I should teach him how to spell R-U-D-E.

Intrepid was one of 12 kids in his school asked to participate in a city-wide week at university in May. The courses he's chosen are all in biotechnology, medicine and psychology. He'll hopefully get one of his top picks, but it depends on availability. You know, I'm just happy to have a fourteen-year-old who isn't expelled and drinking every day, which was what I was doing at his age. The university thing is icing on the cake. We're beyond proud of that big boy of ours. I look back at the naysayers who thought us fools for having him as young and unexpectedly as we did, and I secretly hope they read my blog. And, while I did worry myself sick sometimes wondering if we had doomed him to a life of demographic hardship, he's proven to us that awesome genes do traverse generations. Way to go, Intrepid. We're fiercely proud of you!

And, finally, stay-at-home-mayhem has its own Facebook page! It's about time, right? Since I'm an admitted Facebook addict, I'm on there a lot and will be updating regularly. So have a look, click the "LIKE" button, and join in the fun. It hasn't even been up 24 hours yet and there's a fair bit of fandom going on. I promise not to let it go to my head - much.

Must run. This sexy animal and her spawn need to head out for a coffee date.

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.

There's a Serial Killer in my House

I have a serial killer in my house. Oh sure, she hasn't hacked us to pieces yet, but it's only a matter of time.

See, I met her on the internet. And, as we all know, everybody online as an internet axe murderer. It's been shown countless times on news stations: If you meet somebody from the world wide web, they will inevitably stab you through the eyeball, as they laughing maniacally. 

I must have a death wish or I wouldn't have invited this demoness of the dark to Ottawa for a week. I would have continued our friendship through email, Facebook and other safe venues. I would have reminded myself that just because I've known her - or whatever persona she projects online to mask her evil - for about half my life, it's not safe to have her in my home, because she will eventually start keeping my body parts in my own fridge (talk about adding insult to injury).

Look, if CNN tells me I should worry, I obviously should. I'm a fool for ignoring their bright red warnings of the murder du jour flashing across my screen. Don't I know to look for the signs? They're so obvious:

1. She's from the internet. As was stated above, everyone from the internet (except me and people I know in real life) is aching to go on a murder spree.

2. She used to play online fantasy RPG games. She was obviously escaping into a world where murder was okay. If you're a Level 18 thief holding a knife with +2 backstabbing capabilities, think of the virtual guts you can spill. The psycho chick was undoubtedly getting off on the thrill. And aren't those Dungeons and Dragons people all  devil worshippers anyway?  I mean, except me.

3. She's met some mutual friends in person, but those people are also from the internets, so they're probably all in on this together, the murderous bastards they are. 

4. She's an IT professional. You know what those people are like. Fucking creepy is what. She probably perfects her terrifying sociopathic grin in the light of her work monitor, cackling as she codes in languages only the too-smart-to-be-stable understand. 

5. Her current hobby is being a reenactor. You know, those people who dress up in fake old clothes and run around pretending to kill the enemy for the delight of onlookers? Now, if you're going to have a hankering for butchery, what better way to get your jollies? There are swords, muskets, canons and other weapons of destruction at your fingertips, and you could probably get away with bringing them with you just about anywhere under the guise of reenacting. Nobody would even blink; it's genius! But my house psycho needs just a little more to get off. She plays a surgeon, with actual 18th century surgical tools.  My family is so done for. 

6. We took Spawnling to Build-A-Bear yesterday and she got him a stuffed animal because he didn't get to go camping with his brothers and dad this week. She's obviously trying to get me to let my guard down enough that she can slice my scalp off; Easier to do right now since a good portion of the Maven family is an hour away in a tent. Vulnerability is something serial killers feed on.

7. She met my mom and sister last night. This is a brilliant way of fooling those closest to me. That way, when my body is discovered in a quarry, my family will throw the popo off her trail by saying things like "It couldn't have been the houseguest. Not her. She was so nice!"

8. Have I mentioned she has an internet presence? 

Anyway, the whole thing is surely a big mistake. I don't even know if my will is up to date, and we certainly don't have a lot of life insurance on me. I probably should have taken care of my affairs before having knife-crazed 'netter into our home. Hindsight is always 20/20. Ironically, this is also the name of the program that a picture of my bloated corpse will show up on. 

Before I get axed - and not in the figurative, recessional way - I should update you on Spawnling. He has an ear infection which is now being treated with antibiotics. So not quite "just a fever" but definitely not something scary. Phew! Thanks for all the well wishes.

Anyone want to guest post on my blog while I'm getting strangled? 

I'm a loser baby, so why don't you hear me?

Last night was the 2nd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa, or BOLO for short. It was put together by the lovely and talented Lynn of Turtlehead. She had asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to read at this year's event. I had never been to BOLO before, but it didn't scare me. I mean, I've done public speaking in front of much bigger audiences. Besides, I'm The freaking Maven. What's there to be scared of?

In my mind, I was picturing a quiet evening with a handful of pasty-skinned, blurry-eyed people looking over their laptops at each other. When my turn came, I would simply stand up, read a post, get a few golf claps and sit my sizeable ass back down. The end.

I had so many misconceptions about BOLO and Ottawa bloggers in general that I feel the need to confess what I've learned in a post. So here is the point format version in all its embarrassing glory:

1. First of all, BOLO is not some teeny tiny event that takes place around a table. This is a fairly large gathering of local bloggers. There were many tables, and all of them were full. And what was at the very back of the pub? Was that a... a stage? A fucking stage?! With a microphone and speakers and, and... Oh my wordsmith. I had to get up a stage. I don't believe I got that memo or I would have taken off from the blogosphere at a dead run, leaving several half-finished posts in my wake.

2. There are a lot of really gorgeous bloggers. I don't know what I was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't a large gathering of hotties, that's for sure. How on earth are people who sit in front of computer screens and regularly molest the social networking sites so damn beautiful? Apparently, I can no longer use my geeky hobbies as an excuse for cellulite-laden thighs. Damn you all.

3. I'm not nearly as confident as I thought I was. Once I realized I was firmly out of my element, I let the incredible Nat flutter around like the social butterfly she is and sat nervously at our table right in front of the big scary stage, sipping my Diet Coke and unceremoniously shoving fries into my mouth. I did see some familiar faces, like Pauline and XUP, but overall, I was a total BOLO loser. Thankfully, I had a couple of fabulous friends groupies come hold my hand and stop me from crawling out the back door when no one was looking. It's a good thing I brought some of my popularity with me or I might have started crying right there, at my table, into my drink.

4. There are some incredible local bloggers out there. I was completely blown away by the talent we have right here in Ottawa. As one of the last readers, I started panicking about halfway through the night, wondering how on earth I was ever going to top everything from Facebook as an abusive relationship to the great wasp nest fiasco to some truly fried rice to some epic bra flashing. And there were more, but I would be writing all day. Seriously, how on earth could I follow those up with my mediocre writing? And, more importantly, how was I going to duck the beer bottles being thrown at me with that annoying spotlight in my face? Reading alongside these funny, witty, provocative writers was probably a big mistake. I panicked. What was I thinking? I'm not a good writer! After tonight I'll be hitchhiking down the road of spammy SEO content articles at $2 a pop. This is the day I go down in flames. Better order up another Diet Coke and get my nerve up.

5. Too much Diet Coke can lead to a mild hangover-like state in the morning. Ouch.

6. I can make up the steps of a stage and over to a microphone even when my heart is about to explode out of my chest. And, more importantly, I can read something once I'm up there. And make people laugh. And surprisingly enjoy myself very, very much. And, I believe, connect with my audience. I had no idea I had that in me, and it feels good.

7. Was I the best of the night? Absolutely not. Far from from it, actually. But I did hold my own, and I won't lie: I loved every second up on that stage (after my heart started beating again). I felt like an upper class gal in a Prada store. Oh, sure, I still felt like a lost little girl in the loser corner of the schoolyard when I sat back down (ah, memories!), but that's okay. I had my three minutes of fame and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Long live The Maven's ego!

8. Twitter is way more fun when you've met a bunch of the local people you're now following. I foresee myself getting a wee bit addicted. Somebody break out the methadone.

I had an amazing time last night. What a rush! Thanks to everyone who organized the event, who came out to speak and/or to listen, and to those who came and introduced themselves to me afterwards. You made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Or maybe that was the Diet Coke. Next time, if someone could cut me off after the first glass and steer me toward the pot of decaf, that would be great.

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.

Embracing my Inner Loser

I had a conversation today with my good friend The Guilt Goddess. We were on her front porch and I was getting ready to leave after brightening her day with my presence. It went something like this:

Me: [blah blah blah something or other leading up to]... me being so popular and everything.

Her: You mention your popularity a lot.

Me, shrugging: Probably. I am rather proud of it.

Her: But you don't have to, you know. You can be popular without announcing it all the time.

Me: ... But what's the fun in that? Besides, you're probably more popular than I am, or at least as popular. Maybe. So it's not like I'm bragging.

Her: Sure, but I don't have to tell people.

Me: You just did.

Her, trying hard not to throw something at me.

Me: I'm not that bad. I mean, I kid around, but I'm pretty humble, really.

Her: Oh my God. Did you just say you're --

Me: In fact, I think I'm probably the humblest person I know.

Her, rolling her eyes.

Me, having an epiphany: ... I bet that's what makes me so popular. My incredible humility...

Her, laughing because she can't control how much she adores me: Get out of here!

She loves me, that one.

***

Popularity. I throw the word around a lot, but frankly I've never looked up the definition. Let's see what the dictionary says, shall we?

pop·u·lar·i·ty

n.

The quality or state of being popular, especially the state of being widely admired, accepted, or sought after.

Interesting stuff. Let's break this down and see if I, Humblest Woman Alive, fits the bill and can grab herself a head cheerleader outfit.

Am I widely admired? Tough call. If by "widely" we mean on a global scale, like Ghandi, then no. If, however, "widely" implies the two little gremlins who thought I was Queen of Bosstown because I made them some peppermint-scented playdough this afternoon, then yes. In the wide open space of my kitchen, I am admired. Check.

Accepted. Well, that depends on who you're talking to. There are some people who don't accept me. In fact, they downright don't like me. But I tend not to like them, either, and I learned in math class that two negatives cancel each other out and become a positive. Therefore, they don't count. And, when I eventually take over the world by being really fabulous, I'll probably decree anyone who doesn't think I'm a splendid human being a mutant, and send them to live in the badlands where their opinions won't matter. They can eat raw meat and build huts out of shunned fashion items, like pleather and legwarmers (those should have stayed in the 80's as they have no place in this millennium) Therefore, whether I'm accepted at face value or because I strike potential fear into the heart of naysayers, I think we have this part covered. Check.

Am I sought after? Hell yes I am! People seek after me all the time: they want spare change, or would like me to pay my cellphone bill, or come find me to say that my child is screaming because I accidentally left him in the other aisle at the grocery store and he's terrified... And speaking of children, my (still three, because I haven't lost any at the store yet) gremlins are forever seeking after me so I can make them food and settle arguments and the like.

Very, very check.

I guess that settles that, then.

***

I was never a popular girl, and it only grew worse with every passing grade. For example, I had the opportunity - nay, the privilege - in grade 7 of being the biggest loser in my high school. The year started off with me being gifted the nickname of "Zenji" due to:

A) Having a lot of acne, and
B) Being "dog ugly" like Benji the dog, who was actually pretty cute if you ask me

As you can imagine, walking down the hallways was a very pleasant experience. That may be why I started keeping liquor in my locker. It made going to and from class a little more tolerable. Being slightly buzzed Zenji was better than being un-liquored-Zenji.

At least, until Zenji ended up in rehab a year or so later, but I digress.

That fantastic year ended with having hairspray sprayed upon the back of my sweater, followed by a fun game of "Let's see who's match will light Zenji on fire." Someone won, but forgive me for not remembering which of the two girls it was. I was busy stopping, dropping and rolling. Thankfully there was no scarring, unless you count the emotional kind.

Anyway, the point of that unpleasant walk down memory lane is to provide enough background so as the reader understands my unhealthy lifelong desire for popularity. I always figured that, if I were simply a really cool chick that everyone liked, then life would be good. I would get what I want, I would be instantly happy, and the world would be my oyster.

I never did care much for pearls, though...

***

So, Zenji grew up, and eventually, through a series of important transformations brought on by that icky thing called "maturation," became The Maven. And, as we've established, The Maven is a fantastically popular gal. However, I need to state a few things about life today that are markedly different than what I thought they'd be:

For one, life is not perfect. Apparently, popularity does not stop your children from getting very sick, or prevent unexpected car repairs. It doesn't lower the cost of your satellite package either, which is a real bitch. Oh, and another thing? It doesn't do your laundry. That's probably the worst part. It's hard to be the glamorous woman people expect when I'm all sweaty from hanging out the clothes on the line. Popularity should totally come with a housekeeper.

Another thing: popularity doesn't end insecurity. What on earth is that all about? It was supposed to make me more sure of myself. Isn't that how the in-crowd works? Everyone relies on everyone else to give them that air of superiority, and then we collectively look down on the peons from our high horses, right? Apparently, that's a big, fat lie. I don't even have a high horse on which to look down at people from. It hasn't made me feel grandiose or special. I still get my feelings hurt, I still cry, I still wonder what's wrong with me - especially during PMS week. I find fault with myself regularly, and I have not become a natural blond with a small waistline and great teeth. Someone didn't get the memo.

Also, I haven't let go of the past, and use that annoying empathy thing frequently. My inner Zenji often runs around and checks to make sure that people feel happy and included. Inside this cold, Maven exterior, loyal Zenji has a big heart. Figures, her being an acne-riddled dog and all.

Finally, I've learned that, while knowing a lot of people is not a bad thing, my tried and true method of having a few close friends is by far the most important aspect of my social circle. I love my girls; the ones I can truly be myself with, call when I'm having a really bad day, rant to, cry to, laugh with and relax with. The ones that read my crazy blog posts and yet still respect me in the morning. The ones that have been there through the though times - and there have been a lot of those lately - and celebrate the good times. The ones who know how jam-packed full of mayhem my life is and wait patiently until the dust clears, or show up with coffee in hand during the eye of the storm.

The funniest thing about popularity? When I stopped looking for it - stopped feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely; stopped wondering what was wrong with me; stopped picking at my flaws and instead embraced who I was and showed it boldly to the world like I had nothing to lose - love and acceptance inundated my life. And it only gets better every year.

My authentic self, the one I display regularly on this silly little blog for the world to laugh at with, is the one people like. And to think I spent years trying to be someone else. Someone "better".

I guess Zenji wasn't so bad after all. She just needed a little Maven to spice her up and help her grow a backbone, that's all.

My Name is The Maven and I'm Addicted to Socializing

If my dedication to NaBloPoMo was ever in question, it will not be again. Folks, I just left a girls' night out so I could come home and blog. That is how much I care about all of you and your eager anticipation for the next post. You mean that much to me.

Well, and the fact that I'm tired, my hubby is tired, and we could really use a good night's sleep. The idea of crawling on top of some memory foam sounds rather appealing right now. But that's only secondary to writing a post. I must honour my craft and my promise first.

We found out today that Intrepid does indeed have the H1N1 virus. The swab test they did at the clinic on Monday came back positive. I suddenly feel trendy, like I just bought a Coach bag or some skinny jeans. After all, we just had the virus of 2009 in our very house! And not simply one of those 'suspected' cases. Just like anyone can walk around with a "Timex" watch purchased from a stall in a Beijing market, anyone can get a cough and call it the swine flu. We have a brand name illness here, people. That earns us extra coolness points. I am working very hard on acting nonchalant about it, though. I'm thinking that if I put my hands in my pockets, lean against a wall and shrug a little when I say 'So, anyway, Intrepid had swine flu. Like, a confirmed case, you know? But whatever, right?', that might pass as humble.

I'm obviously kidding. It's a pandemic, right? Pandemics mean a lot of people have already had it. Talk about beating a fashion statement to death. Having it isn't cool anymore; it's about to go the way of acid wash jeans.

There are two actual reasons why I'm happy we had a doctor who offered to test Intrepid.

First, it's good to know what strain we're dealing with so we can make appropriate decisions concerning the vaccine and any potential treatment should one of us asthmatic types in Casa Maven have symptoms crop up.

Second, most people aren't being tested unless they wind up in the hospital, meaning that the majority of confirmed cases are severe if not deadly. This instills panic and leaves people wondering just how bad this strain is. Testing those who aren't on respirators gives us statistical proof that some people do get a much milder case and recover just fine. Intrepid was knocked off his feet for a few days, but he was able to get through it with a bit of Advil, a lot of sleep, some fluids and, of course, incredible parents.

I never miss an opportunity to pat myself on the back.

So, what does this mean in terms of our previous decision to vaccinate? Not much, really. We still plan on getting the vaccine for every family member who doesn't get sick within the next two or three days. If the rest of us stay healthy - and please, please, please let us stay healthy - we'll go get jabbed early this week. Intrepid, who fears needles like I fear a world without chocolate, is thrilled he won't be waiting in line with us. He has some solid immunity now, and that makes me happy. The fact that he only vomited once and managed to make it to the bathroom first makes me happy, too. Nothing like a puking, feverish child to make the idea of a bridge leap significantly more appealing.

I need a break. A nice, long break from illness. No sick people who are dependent on me to nurse them back to health. We've had a full course of gremlin illnesses for 2 1/2 months: Beginning with Kawasaki Disease, slathered with colds, and hopefully ending with swine flu desert.

I'm just glad we moved a couple of years ago. When we bought this house we specifically looked for one that wasn't of the 'open concept' design. Our last home was, and it was hellish when I had to spend a great deal of time in it for several days in a row. It felt like a loud, smelly, dirty shoebox I couldn't escape. One big room is nice when you're not in it for the majority of your waking hours while caring for sick people or being sick yourself. The stinky shoebox nearly drove me insane. It would have finished the job, but thankfully Spawnling was born. Having that third child drove me over the edge instead! Tag team insanity-building. That's nice.

Today, my inner extrovert - is that an oxymoron? - was able to come out and play a little bit. First, the Coffee Fairy fluttered by with an extra large coffee, some donut holes and chocolate milk for the two gremz who were still scuttling about the homestead. I love her terribly, that Coffee Fairy of mine. I am so glad she takes pity on me, even though she and her two little ones are getting over H1N1 themselves. I've brought her coffee once and she's hit me two or three times in a week. Our relationship isn't terribly equal, but I do give her blog props; that has to count for something.

Then, at lunchtime, That (incredibly beautiful, witty, and ego-boosting) Script Chick came by with - you guessed it - another coffee! I made sure to disinfect pretty much everything her and her son might tough so she could feel comfortable staying. Pretty nice of me, right? Definitely. Way to go, Maven. *pat pat*

Finally, I ended this spectacularly social spectacle of a day with an evening out at K-War's house. Her children were asleep, the air in the home smelled of cleaning products, the company was great (I think there were 10-12 of us - I was too busy basking in my social glory to count), and the artery-choking food was to die for.

A good day, overall. Tomorrow we have the Ottawa Blogger's Breakfast. XUP has threatened to give me a table all to myself, even though I do not and have never had the stupid swine flu. Therefore, I have secretly decided to lick her utensils when she's not looking. And I don't mean that in a dirty way, either. I mean actual utensils. Take that, XUP.

Monday Doesn't Like Me

Ah, Monday. It's the day of peeling one's eyes open as the alarm goes off, only to realize the alarm has been going off for half an hour and you have exactly fifteen minutes to get your sluggish six-year-old onto the bus.

Obviously, you don't get him on the bus. And, with no pomp or circumstance, you throw a waffle at him as he's getting dressed, grab some of his clothes that don't match but you hope are clean, and make your husband drive him to school because he's bald and thus won't have to suffer the embarrassment of frizzy, unwashed hair in the front office.

Monday is snickering at you.

You invite a friend over for coffee, because that's what you do when the day isn't going according to plan. Coffee dates keep you centered. They keep you mellow. Mellow is good for handling unfortunate situations, like when you realize a few minutes after your coffee date arrives that your eldest son forgot his lunch in the front hall and you'll have to bring it to him. That is quite unfortunate, you think to yourself, as the coffee is brewing. Monday likes seeing you waste good coffee. The good news? It's a ten minute drive to the school, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa.

Take that, Monday.

Packing up your two-year-old and your overly-accommodating friend (thank you, friend!) you put the pedal to the metal and break away for the big, scary junior high school only to find out that they won't page your son out of class because it's against school policy. They won't tell him his lunch is there unless he asks. That's nice of them. Monday must have whispered in the secretary's ear that you were coming. It is obviously harboring an unhealthy resentment toward you. You leave the lunch at the front desk and hope he thinks of looking there before starving all day in the way only a preteen boy can.

You come home and plan on finally chatting with your friend. Coffee makes it all better. But Monday is waiting for you. It informs your toddler that playing independently is for suckers. It shows him the Rescue Heroes bin and points at your friend. Suddenly, you can't have a conversation because the situation is being monopolized by a two-year-old waving Billy Blazes in your friend's face. Nice.

But Monday has made a fatal mistake in choosing this particular friend: She would be more than happy to play Rescue Heroes for a few minutes. In fact, you even find some time to - get this - clean your house. A visitor, mother's helper and coffee date all rolled into one? Monday's powers are weakening.

Oh, sure. There are a few other annoying little things awaiting you today. It's raining and all your toddler wants to do is go to the park so you have to hear about it incessantly, your dog has found a favourite pee spot in the basement (it's a good thing they don't make sausages out of dogs or you might sell him for some pocket money), the children have forgotten how to use their indoor voices, and the dirty laundry pile is large enough that it should be declared its own sovereign nation. You just have to fasten a flag to the top and call the UN to make it official.

Monday is getting its jollies.

Still, the day will end with everyone sleeping and an episode of your very favourite narcissistic doctor; House is on at eight, and there are cookies in the cupboard.

Monday just got kicked square in the junk and is off in a corner whimpering. Another epic win for you, The Maven.

In Which The Maven Takes a Moment to Say Thank You

It's a sunny morning in Ottawa, and I'm tuning out Diego with an iPod playlist. I would have normally shuddered when Spawn picked that annoying little animal konservation kid from a stack of perfectly acceptable videos, but I suppose he being alert enough to pick and watch a video is the important thing.

I guess.

There are only two things more annoying that Diego: Barney the nasal dinosaur (complete with creepy, overly-animated kids) and that huge-headed Dora. Figures she's Diego's cousin. Please stop yelling questions at the screen. I don't know any child who actually answers you out loud anyway. Also, if you can't figure out where you are, where you're supposed to go, or how to to identify primary colours, you are far too stupid a child to be out in the jungle by yourself. Where are your parents?

...But being in a hospital room for several days isn't getting to me or anything.

Spawnling now has the pleasure of being our most costly offspring. Geekster and I want to sincerely thank the taxpayers of Canada for helping to make our child better. This is where public health care really shines, and why we need to protect it; Spawn's isolation stay costs a few thousand dollars a day. He's also had 72 hours of anti-viral drugs and many tests that are quite costly. Furthermore, his IVIG treatment was at least $3000. Yes, for one dose.

I only know all of this stuff because I asked and I researched out of sheer curiosity. Nobody has bothered me about cost-related stuff because we don't have to directly pay for it. Thank goodness.

I've always been a big proponent of public health care, but now that Spawn has been this sick I'm positively militant about protecting it. The last thing anyone should have to think about when their child is very ill is how much it's going to cost, what their private insurance company will cover, whether or not they'll renew coverage after this is all over... Nursing your baby back to health should be the entire focus. That's stressful enough as it is.

(I would highly suggest you don't try to debate this with me right now. It's not a good time. Just nod and smile and back away politely. Say things like 'Wow, Maven! You're so passionate about this! That's great!' That would be the safer approach. Just sayin'.)

I think I'm done ranting now. It's been kind of stressful around here, in case that's not apparent. And the recovery process for my dear Spawnling (who's real name is Jackson, in case you didn't know and feel strange praying or thinking good thoughts for a kid with such a 'colourful' nickname) has taken its toll on the whole family. The situation has a lot of 'hurry up and wait' elements to it, and that can really wear a person down - even one as amazing as myself.

So here's the scoop on Spawn: He's picking up, but it's very slow. He's awake more often, eating a bit, drinking some, watching movies and cuddling in bed to read books.

But he's irritable. Sooooo irritable. It comes with the Kawasaki disease. He wakes up every time his IV monitor goes off, which is quite frequently because the little bugger moves around a lot (another good sign). He's somewhat combattive which is also positive. And last night, at 3AM, he called me 'stupid'. I was so happy to be belittled I nearly cried!

On Monday the tinniest gremlin has an ECG so we can have our first look at his heart. I'm not terribly worried, but only because I need energy to focus on the right now and not on the 'what ifs'. The heart might not be affected now but could be compromised later. Or maybe not. Why worry about it? We have a long road of aspirin taking and cardiac follow-ups regardless. It could be worse. I mean, he could have potential heart problems and the hospital could face a serious coffee shortage. Now that would be a problematic.

I'll have you know that I was an awesome mother this morning: In an attempt to bribe the boy into taking the four aspirin pills he needs every six hours, I gave him a bag of Doritos to munch on. Don't worry; the aspirin will more than offset any potential Dorito damage. That's my hands-on health-conscious parenting at work.

Everything is by-the-minute right now. As my wonderful new friend Lil said, you take this stuff a moment at a time. That's all we can do.

You people have been amazing. I can't thank you enough. All the comments on the blog have kept me going when I'm feeling scared or overwhelmed. My friends on Facebook have been incredibly supportive, asking how he's doing and how they can help. My cousin apparently got a lot of people at this weekend's pow-wow to pray for Spawn to get well. How cool is that?

Folks have been calling, coming by, bringing coffee, offering hugs. Geekster has been holding the fort down and keeping the older gremlins amused and distracted. Friends and family have been pitching in wherever they can, taking the boys for an outing or cooking meals. And my mom has been a rock for me to lean on more times than I can count. I call her about everything and, sick as she is, she's here, she's babysitting, she's preparing food, she's researching. If I ever needed her it's now, and she knows that. Thanks, Madre. I love you!

Oh hell, I love all of you. Come here and get a hug. I always knew I was fantastically popular, but I didn't know exactly how good my friendships and family relationships were until now. I pick good peeps. Pat yourselves on the back - you deserve it.

Shit. Now I'm crying. Gratitude crying this time. That's good, right? Better than terrified crying or exhausted crying. We're headed in the right direction.

Must go wipe my tears and check the dryer upstairs. It will be nice to have clean clothes that do not smell like ass.

Thank you. I'll update when we know more.