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.

I don't need a snow day, I need a damn chocolate day

This is what we woke up to this morning.

Brrr.

(FYI, the big numbers are celsius. This is Canada, eh?)

Lovely, except when you have to go out in it. Not surprisingly, the local school board didn't close the school or ground the buses, even though our neighbours just across the river in Ottawa made sure no big yellows graced the snowy streets (but their schools remained open, too). We don't get snow days over here. Our board directors must be tough as nails and moonlight as plough drivers.

After much deliberation, a team of scientists, psychologists and I have concluded that the board will only consider school closures in one scenario:

I wasted my morning making this. You're welcome.

Yep. I'm pretty certain that if a tsunami were to hit the city, bringing with it a swarm of ravenous giant squid, there is at least a 50% chance of bus cancelation.

Since I transport Sir Spawnling to preschool by way of a two-wheel-drive minivan, I decided we should stay put. I did, however, manage to get Gutsy the four blocks to his school before the roads got nasty.  The bus takes him home, and I'm fairly sure it can make it through the snow (and it's too cold for tsunamis).  Intrepid, of course, bounded off to junior high to see his friends, snow be damned. I did hit the Tim Hortons after drop-off and downed most of an extra large coffee before there was a knock at my door. A very snowy coffee fairy handed me a second one. Then another coffee-gifting friend arrived with a cup at my door, and now I am positively high on caffeine - shockingly high, even. This means that I can type twice as fast as I usually do, thus guaranteeing a blog post in half the time - despite the twitching. I'm feeling intensely motivated!

Yesterday afternoon I did a lot of crying. I got a call from Gutsy's teacher, telling me that he's simply not motivated at school and is falling way behind. Unless someone is sitting there looking over his shoulder, very little work is being done. There are big chunks of his report card that are not yet marked because he's missed too much school and won't catch up. She thinks that maybe he's not quite as advanced as we think he is, although I respectfully disagree (with a great deal of bias, I admit). He just doesn't show her what he's capable of, so I can definitely see where she would be getting that idea. He has a hard time doing a page of basic addition and subtraction for her, but he'll easily do simple multiplication and even algebra with me. This is the kid who teaches himself programming languages, makes movies with elaborate editing using a variety of tools, reads and writes just about anything, and is always coming up with new inventions.

But, for whatever reason, he's not bringing that love of learning into the classroom. He fights tooth and nail about going, comes home exhausted, and isn't trying in between. It's both heartbreaking and frustrating. I guess this fits well with his recent declaration that he hates school, hates learning there, finds it really hard, and that he only goes to see his friends.

Why this news always has to come when I have my period and am an emotional basket case, I have no idea.

So he cried, I cried, we hugged, we talked, and we came up with some ideas.

First of all, I think he should be screened for learning disabilities. Let's find out if he's actually struggling with any subjects, or if he's just unmotivated - or overwhelmed - with the amount of work. Second, Geekster and I went out last night and purchased some curriculum books on subjects he says he finds difficult: math, french and cursive writing. Gutsy has committed to working 30 minutes each day on a subject until he feels more confident. He's been so tired at the end of the school day that we haven't even been pushing homework on him most nights, so this is going to require a little extra effort on his part and a little extra on mine.

But that's okay. It's not like I do anything, anyway. I'm just a stay-at-home-mom. The life of leisure and all that. It might be good for me to be productive sometimes.

There's a real sense of hopelessness when you get a phone call like that from a teacher. I remember feeling this way about Intrepid before we found his hearing loss; a powerlessness, like I was losing the grip on my child and he was about to fall through a crack in the system. We're missing something that could make all the difference for Gutsy, and I'm not sure what it is just yet. But we need to figure it out soon and find a solution.

I will homeschool him if we feel there's no other way to rekindle that love of learning, but I'm kind of hoping it won't come to that. Sure, it's mostly selfish on my part: I'm finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel after being home for fourteen years. In 18 months, all three of the gremlins will be in school, and I will be able to - gasp! - do something with my days besides parenting. I can, like, be a full-time writer and grow my business. I'm so ready for it that I can taste it. I feel really bad for saying this, but if there's any way we can make Gutsy a happy camper at school again, I'll take door #1 rather than the home learning option. Can I buy a vowel, Alex?

But I'll also do anything for my little horned wonders, including stepping out of my educational comfort zone. It would be a big adjustment for me, though. And put a kink in my dreams of being a world-famous writer and supermodel.

See? Me, me, me. Selfish, selfish, selfish. So sue me. The Maven is about as close as you can get, but no one is perfect, okay?

Anyway, that's a long way off. There are many things we can try before getting to that point. Things are improving with our gentler approach to discipline. Gutsy seems to be feeling safer, because he's opening up to me a lot more about what's troubling him. That's how we're going to get to the bottom of things around here: communication. So, even if this turns out to be a shitty year, we'll have accomplished something big.

Because, more important than a lack of motivation, school woes, or tantrums, is the relationship with a wonderful, beautiful, smart, funny, creative, original little boy in my life named Gutsy. We'll get through this together.

As long as we don't get eaten by giant squids.

The Case of the Bad Teenage Moustache Flashbacks

Something terrible happened yesterday. Something that came out of left field, tripped me while I was eating my ice cream cone, and laughed as I cried into my strawberry-stained pigtails.

My son - my teenage son - shaved for the very first time.

He had a moustache, but not a full one, exactly. It was a bad teenage moustache, with dark little hairs hanging unceremoniously above his lips, forewarning everyone that he will soon be nine feet tall and eat three lasagna trays for dinner. The pimples, the moodiness, the sudden interest in girls that doesn't just involve grossing them out - all signs of impending adulthood. But I was able to overlook those because they didn't bug me. That moustache bugged me. Why?

High school: 1990

I was a fourteen-year-old with curvy hips and curly hair. And, while I wasn't the prettiest girl around by far, I had those ever -important markers horny boys look for: insecure with obvious daddy issues. I might as well have had a target drawn on my forehead that said "Please come on to me. I'm looking for love in all the wrong places, and, while I won't necessarily enjoy your attention or even be attracted to you, I'll appreciate that you notice me. Thanks."

I remember a lot of things about the boys who took an interest in me. I remember they were mostly denim-wearing rockers with mullets rivalling any Def Leppard video. Most of them played guitar - or at least tried to - and were in bands that had any combination of the following words: "death", "hate", "mega", "motor", "dark", "slash", and "beer".  All their bands were going somewhere, of course, and you could be that special girl who gets a ride to the top with them - in more ways than one.

But there was one thing I remember more than anything else about these guys: the bad teenage moustache. As they tried to grope me over my well-worn Motley Crue shirt, their annoying little moustaches would tickle my cheek or my neck, making me shudder (they probably thought I was shivering with excitement - sorry, boys). And, when I would finally tell him that he needed to simmer down a little and take things slower, the creepy caterpillar on his pimpled face would curl as he scowled.

The realization that being able to play five power chords on your dad's electric guitar doesn't mean you're going to get laid is a tough pill to swallow.

Anyway, if there's one thing I associate with horny boys who want to dry hump you through their acid wash jeans while "Sweet Child of Mine" plays on the ghetto blaster, it's a dark patch of sparse hair sitting north of the upper lip. It screams "I have hormones! Lots of hormones! Girls to do every girl I see!"

Intrepid's furry little friend started coming in a few months ago. At first it looked cute. You could catch a glance here and there if the light was just right. But by last month, it was growing in a lot darker and was noticeable from across a room. It kind of reminded me of when Joseph on King of the Hill hit puberty. Visions of tassled suede boots and boy makeup swam through my mind. I wondered if other mothers had shared the bad teenage moustache stories with their own daughters. Would they be wary of the fuzz?

Since my son was taking an interest in the opposite gender, I felt it best to give him an edge only a clean-shaven young man can have. It was time to send him upstairs with his dad for a lesson with the electric razor.

He came down after a few minutes looking much better and rather proud of himself. I am relieved for girls everywhere - or at least in his junior high.

My own traumatic horny pubescent boy experiences aside, I have a responsibility to my son to teach him how to look his best. He is fourteen, and if he wants to start dating in the near future, he needs to know what girls find attractive. He doesn't have to change who he is, but using what he has - including a handsome, clean-shaven face - is what's going to score him the ladies.

Or the lady, who he'll meet after he's finished his PhD at 26, and will marry and lose his virginity to on his wedding night, and who he'll live nearby with so I can see my grandchildren every day.

*ahem*. A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, my baby boy now has enough facial hair that he needs to groom it. For some reason, I wasn't quite ready for this. I'm thirty-four, for goodness sake. It is not right that I have a child who shaves.

I'm feeling positively ancient. Maybe I'll have a midlife and go be a groupie for a while. I seemed to be pretty good at it twenty years ago. Has anyone seen my Motley Crue shirt and push up bra?