Not Feeling So New Year's

It's January 5th. It's the last day of holidays before two-thirds of the Gremlins Three make their way back into the public education system. It's been several days since New Year's, and even longer since I last blogged.

I've been feeling a little stuck; writer's block, if you will. It's something that happens to writers for various reasons, including being completely mentally and emotionally drained - due, say, to the great doses of fatigue and chaos that happen when you have little horned ones underfoot for two weeks. But there's more than that. I've been trying to come up with some resolutions for 2011 and having a hell of a time doing so. Every time I think about writing them out here, I come up with absolute butkus.

I had the best Christmas in a very, very long time. I enjoyed every minute with my boys, had good family and friends over, and I swear I did not squeal like a little girl when I opened season 1 of Glee (thanks, honey).

It was just a really nice time. I loved it, I felt it, and I embraced the season as the proud agnostic I am. Jesus and I get along just fine over Christmas. When we can, we like to have brunch with Santa and Buddha on Boxing Day. Planning the whole thing over TweetUp works best, because Santa gets the notification on his Blackberry no matter where he is.

But then New Year's came. I mean, it was suddenly just there. I didn't feel it coming on like I did Christmas. There was no major preparation other than a bit of a grocery shop. We planned nothing, we had nobody over. The youngest two were asleep by 10:30 and Intrepid was upstairs chatting with other bored teens on Facebook. We decided to play some World of Warcraft, because what the hell else were we going to do? No excitement means no interest in watching the ball drop as we shove h'ors d'oeuvres down our gullets and reminisce over the year gone by. My blood elf paladin could use some company as the clock struck midnight, anyway.

I guess maybe our lack of excitement was due to a difficult year that followed an even more challenging one. They were a little sucktastic, those two. We had fires, financial issues, a stressed child, a sick child - and, eventually, a sick me. For a lot of 2010, we gritted our teeth and braved a storm. It could have been worse, but it could have been a heck of a lot better, too. So, one would think that perhaps we'd be excited to see a shiny new year, but that wasn't the case, either. I can't speak for Geekster, but I walked into it kind of indifferent. No feeling of new promise, new hope. No feeling of ominous scary stuff either, mind you. Just... indifference.

It took me a few days to figure it out, but now I know why: I already feel like I had my New Year. In October, when I changed my diet, I changed everything. Finally, I'm losing weight I've been trying to take off for years. Finally, I have the calmness and clarity to handle situations that I was too anxious to deal with before (like fighting children - all day every day). Finally, I have the energy to keep my house clean(ish - three boys, remember?) and de-cluttered. Finally, I have clarity of thought to write and not be tripping all over my words. As a writer, that's kind of important.

Finally. I have my life back. Changing calendars couldn't possibly top that. And I have no plans to change my life any further than I have in the last little while, because there's no need. Everything is starting to fall into place on its own. I'll eventually add in some exercise, I'll likely cut back on sugar, but those are progressions of the path I'm already on.

So, it's not like I'm unhappy about 2011. It's not as if I'm not excited to be starting fresh. It's just that the timing was about two months late. The Maven, as always, is a trendsetter.

At 11:45, Intrepid came downstairs and asked if we could watch the ball drop. The three of us sat on the couch and had a look at the controlled chaos in Times Square. And I felt happy to be with them - as I always am on New Year's Eve - and that's good enough.

Buddha sent me a text wishing me a happy 2011. So nice of him, but Jesus sent an edible gift basket, so he might want to step up his game if he wants to pick the brunch venue next year.

The Maven of Christmas Past

Spawnling and Gutsy: So cute with their claws retracted

Greetings from the other side of the fray.

It was a wonderful, crazy, stressful, harried, mostly enjoyable Christmas. The gremlins were spoiled, of course. We had a large family dinner, then went out of town on the 27th for another family dinner. Gutsy came home with some adorable African dwarf frogs, which I promise to get a picture of soon. They're named Bubbles and Squishee, and I pray every day that they're both males who will never figure out how to impregnate each other. Gutsy is quite smitten with them, and when he's not fighting with his brothers or telling us how bored he is, he sits contentedly in his room and watches them swim around. I must admit, they're rather captivating. Soothing, even. I've sat on his bed and stared at them myself when no one's around. They're my little amphibi-friends.

My husband and I are tired from the crazy, and are sometimes at the point of barely speaking after a long day of refereeing loud arguments and enduring even louder cooperative games, but we're managing. We still love each other, we just love each other from different rooms. It's like this every year.  Nerves run raw and we all walk on eggshells. After nearly a decade-and-a-half of parenting, I've learned that you just. get. through. it. And when you get to the other side, you can safely remove the cyanide pill you've been hiding under your tongue for emergencies and enjoy some back-to-school quiet.

I had my first ever gluten-free Christmas, which was not only manageable but surprisingly delicious. The husband I barely speak to some days went out of his way to make a Maven-friendly version of my dad's tortiere (which, for the non-french, is the most amazing meat pie on the face of the planet). It was so good and much appreciated. Christmas isn't Christmas unless there's half a tortiere in my belly.

I ate everything and anything I could safely manage, stuffing my waist full of artery-ravaging cholesterol and loving every mouthful. I did have to pass on a lot of homemade goodies that made their way to our place, but I expected that. My aunt brought over freshly baked bread, and I stayed away from that, too, as difficult as it was. Instead, I ate some shitty store-bought cheese bread and wished I had taken the time to bake something at home. 

And I would feel sorry for myself for having to pass all that up, except I've lost... oh, about ten pounds.

That's right, kittens: TEN POUNDS in as many weeks. I'm a freaking toothpick! Well, if there were size 18 toothpicks. I guess I'm more of a redwood cedar trunk, but not one you can drive a car through anymore. It's progress.

But how on earth did I lose weight? What did I do? Nothing, actually. I still eat chocolate, chips and the gluten-free varieties of my favourite breads and pastas (albeit fewer servings as they get expensive and some of them just aren't palatable). Still, I'm not exactly training for my next triathlon or anything - unless I can strap wheels and a speedo on the couch. My body just likes that I'm not poisoning it, I guess. Imagine that. 

It's motivating, refreshing, totally awesome. I feel like I'm going into the new year with a healthier mind and body. My energy levels are incredible. In fact, I've even cut my coffee consumption down by about two-thirds. Yep, you heard right. There are paddles to the right if you need to start your heart up again. I figure if I add some exercise in I'll be on my way to some kind of serious hotness. It's hard to believe that exercise might actually result in a decent amount of weight loss now, but my body doesn't seem to be holding on to fat for dear life anymore, so I'm going to tentatively try to nudge it along a little faster.

In short, I'm even more amazing than I used to be. And to think scientists always assumed it was impossible to reach this level of greatness. But I suppose breaking down barriers is what The Maven is all about. I'll be smacking 2011 with a big bag of rice flour and making it my bitch. I will own it, and it will buy me smaller pants because it is afraid to anger me. 

I like where this is going.  I might just get myself a fur-lined trench coat and a cane. Word up.

Why I'm the Worst Halloween Mom EVER

Here lies any hope of me ever excelling as a mom on October 31st

Halloween showcases what a terrible mother I am. 

Every year, I say to myself, "Self, it's going to be different this time You're going to brainstorm early, shop for all necessities in September, and execute the perfect costumes. They will be sitting in their closets weeks in advance, awaiting the accolades of the masses. The boys will be thrilled with what you've accomplished, and awesomesauce will be smothered upon thee.  Finally, you will feel like the incredible parent you know you are."

Every year, I promise this. Every single year.

And every year, I run out four days before Halloween, find whatever is left on the shelves, and hope to candy hell that it comes together well enough that the boys don't cry and ruin the shoddy makeup job I will undoubtedly do on their disappointed little faces. 

I love Halloween, but I am not a Halloween mom. I wish I was. I want to be one of those moms. I've strived to be one for the last thirteen years. They lovingly piece together homemade costumes as easily as a peanut butter sandwich, humming as they take measurements, sew materials, iron on sequins. Their children strut down the road like they would a runway, showing off the latest fashions straight out mom's craft room.  The rest of us smile politely and say, "What a great costume!" while shoving our inadequacies deep, deep down with a few calories from the candy bowl.  We try not to meet our own children's gazes. Gazes that ask: why don't you love me as much as Sally's mom loves her?

If I can't be that mom - ruler of all things black and orange - then I'd at least like to be the Acceptably Adequate Mom, or AAM for short. The AAM somehow figured out a long time ago that she either doesn't have time, or just doesn't want to put that amount of effort into a costume that will be worn for a whopping two hours. Best of all, she's okay with that. Instead, she will take out a second mortgage and go buy a really nice outfit for her child. Or, if she's frugal, she'll order it on eBay three months early and only have to sell her car. She may not have the artistic savvy of those moms, but she still comes out ahead of me. 

I'm the mom on a tight Halloween budget, with no talent to speak of, who doesn't plan ahead, and has to costume three kids. I am the worst possible combination - the perfect storm of Halloween fuck ups, and the most likely to lead my children straight to a therapist's chair in the future. 

Don't believe me? One year, I decided to make four-year-old Intrepid into a ghost. Yes, a ghost: go ahead and bask in the light of my creativity. I took a white sheet and plonked it over his body with a hole for his head. I drew some chains on it in permanent black marker. Then, I made him a "ghost hat". A hat I had to sew.

It ended up being white and pointy, and had eyeholes in it. 

It took a few houses before it dawned on me that we were parading a little Klu Klux Klan member around. 

We took the hat off and stuffed it way, way into his candy bag. We then proceeded to parade a child with a white moo moo around. It's sad when that's a huge step up. 

This year, the most impressive costume was Gutsy's "bowling league zombie", which involved shredding and dirtying up some old clothes and painting his face. Intrepid used his dad's reaper costume, and Spawnling thankfully decided to be a ninja - which meant he could use Gutsy's costume from last year.

I look like this before coffee, most days

The worst thing about this? I was both relieved and happy that I didn't have to put a lot of effort in. I'm quite sure there is a scary place in hell reserved for serial killers and mothers who don't take Halloween seriously/dress their kids up as murderous racists.

(And what did Geekster do this year? Well, before anyone starts waving fingers and saying something sickeningly politically correct like "This isn't the 1950's and your husband could help out, too", I'll head you off at the pass with pictures of the ever-growing haunted graveyard that he tends to lovingly every year. It's not super elaborate yet, but he and the Gremlins Three are always adding new things. Last night, he added a fog machine and homemade spooky music that he and Gutsy created. At least someone puts the effort in around here.)

Pumpkin brain guts. Nasty, but cool.

Pumpkins and creepy corn stalks

We got our first snow the night before. Skeletor has risen from the dead to kick Mother Nature's ass

I told Spawnling that if he kept yelling Mrs. Spider would wrap him up for a snack

So This Was Christmas, and I Sure Did Get Spun

I know, I know. It's been over a week since I last graced the Blogosphere with one of my incredible posts. I was wrapped up in the whole spirit of giving thing (although the receiving wasn't so bad, either - just sayin'.)

But fear not, my weepy little lambs, because I am back with a vengeance. For, even though we did nearly $300 worth of groceries yesterday and came home without coffee cream (I should have my Coffee Lovers license revoked for that major infringement), my lovely Coffee Fairy brought me not one, but two extra-large coffees this morning. Oh, and some creamers for any additional coffee I might want to have after the consumption of the first two.

Not only am I going to be in fine creative shape for this post, but I can already hear the snap of my brittle bones breaking as the calcium is leeched from them. I understand there are good drugs for premature osteoporosis. Thank the gods.

I hope everyone's Kwistmakkah was enjoyable. (Incidentally, I don't personally know anyone who celebrates Kwanzaa. But The Brain on Arthur does and he's a cool dude, so it got smushed into my politically correct holiday address.) I hope the love was so deep you could drown in it, and that the gifts were bountiful, but not to the point of feeling like a commercialized whore.

I do have a way with words, don't I? Like little petals strung delicately together, they are.

We had a great Christmas, of course. I'm The Maven, after all. I have a great everything. Geekster took a couple of weeks off so as to provide tactical backup spend quality time with his family while everyone is home for the holidays. I thought his idea was a mix of sweetness and responsibility, with a thick coat of crazy. I said 'Look, I have to be here because I'm a stay-at-home-mom. That's my job. But you could take vacation any time. Why do it when you're not going to get any rest at all?!'

His coating of crazy is especially thick, because he has yet to lose his shit on anyone. I am obviously the sane one, as I've had at least two or three good yells at the boys over the last week. at one point, I even contemplated a lobotomy with Geekster's cordless drill, but the damn Christmas tree was using up all the wall sockets. Instead, I chose to break my sugar-free stretch and escape into the world of chocolate. It's been nice, but I'll be revving up the detox engines again soon. My waistline - or the spot formerly known as my waistline - will thank me.

On the 23rd, we took the kids to the Museum of Nature and over to the Elgin Street Diner for poutine. Lunch cost $65. Welcome to the reality of a family of five. The good news? The poutine was delish, and after a couple of hours of dinosaur-gawking, we needed the calories (or so I tell myself).


According to Gutsy, dinos are huge. I love the expression of wonder on his face. It's significantly more pleasant than his expression of anger, and much quieter than his expression of screaming.

The 24th was a day spent out and about with The Sister. The two smallest gremlins ran into Santa at her office. Spawnling wouldn't go near the dude in the red suit, but Gutsy was all over him. That charming little gremlin was just making sure the big guy remembered his face before he set out with a sack full of toys that night (it worked).




(Note how Spawn is sooooo not impressed.)

Then, we spent the afternoon at Rideau Centre, Ottawa's largest shopping maul (yes, I misspelled that on purpose - we were there on Christmas Eve, after all). I was finished shopping, but went along with The Sister to attempt to finish hers. Gutsy had a blast listening to some tracks at a music store.


(Santa and headphone pics courtesy of The Sister. There's a reason why she calls herself Photo Lush)

It sounds crazy, right? Dragging two small children through a maul a few hours before the stores close. It's something I never would have considered after my first - or even my second - child. But there's a method to my madness. From years of experience, I can tell you what the alternative would have been had we stayed at home all day:

When is Santa coming? Are we going to make cookies? Should we draw him a picture? How does Santa get around the world in one night, anyway? And does he come through the wood stove chimney or the furnace chimney? And what if it's hot? And can we open one gift before we go to bed? Please oh please oh please? Is it bedtime yet? No? What about now? No? What about now? Good, because I can't sleep anyway! And what about the gingerbread house? Can we eat that? Can I have the roof? NO! I WANTED THE ROOF! I SAID IT FIRST! MOOOOOOM!!! MY BROTHER IS TRYING TO HIT ME BECAUSE I SAID I WANTED THE ROOF AND I TOLD HIM HE'LL BE ON THE NAUGHTY LIST IF HE DOES THAT AND NOW HE'S CRYYYYIIIIING!

No. Thank. You. The chaos of busy stores filled with frantic last-minute shoppers has nothing on Christmas Eve at Casa Maven.

And Christmas came, bright and early (but not too early - 7:30 is an acceptable wake-the-parents time), and it was magical. Spawnling had crawled into our bed and whispered 'Merry Christmas' to me as he gently stroked my face, followed closely by 'See? I told you I was going to "merry" you someday."

That's the sound of my heart melting. Who knew it would make a sound?

And what did we do on Christmas day? Ready for this?

Absolutely nothing.

Yep, that's right. We did nothing. The gremlins three stayed in their pajamas and played with their new toys all day. We all ate copious amounts of fattening food. We did not clean the house. We watched movies and played video games as wrappings lay all over the floor. No stress, no fighting, no rush. It was a well-deserved break after a very long and stressful year. Watching Spawnling tear open his gifts was a sobering reminder that he was in a hospital not too long ago for one very terrifying week, and spent weeks building back up to the boy we know. Now healthy and happy again, he got the one thing he really, really wanted for Christmas: a Wall-E Laptop.


I breathed in every second of his joy, and I'm sure Geekster did, too. Our little Christmas miracle is he.

On the 26th, Spawnling once again woke me up with a 'Merry Christmas!', followed by 'Wait, is it still Christmas?'

'Sort of,' I replied. 'It's Boxing Day.'

Confused and worried, Spawnling said 'Boxing day?! Uh, can I just go bowling instead?'

I made that kid. I really did. He came out of me.

We headed to Peterborough, Ontario, for a visit with the in-laws. We had a fantastic time, minus the fact that four of us had colds and mine was at its peak. Just a minor bug, but not when you're driving four hours in bad weather and catching up with family you only see once or twice a year. That takes some serious energy. Thank goodness for coffee and diet colas.

We all got some really nice, thoughtful things this year, but I have to say my favourite was the donation to Plan Canada in my name for 10 home birthing kits, thus ensuring a safer delivery for 10 little ones and their mothers in developing countries. That did my heart some good. Geekster's parents symbolically adopted an emperor penguin in his name.

(We recently watched Happy Feet, and as soon as the boys discover the fuzzy little bird which came with that WWF kit, there will be fights, I assure you. It won't be pretty.)

The good news? I just got an adorable new camera to capture said fights in clear detail. Its frame rate will ensure that even the fastest flying fists can be captured clearly and easily on video.

Oh, and it's hot pink. Merry ho ho to me and only me, because nobody else will touch it on account of it being a "girl colour."

Well... I might have to keep an eye on Gutsy.

So that's the rundown 'round these parts. Now that the chaos is mostly behind us, I should have more time to post again. That is, after the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Cleanup, who will wave an ethereal hand and re-organize my home in the blink of an eye.

You know, the fifth ghost? There was the Ghost of Christmas Past, then Present, then Future, then that Death guy, then Cleanup, right?

I swear it's in the book. I'm going to sit here and keep waiting.

Dog Walkers Don't Need Cappucinos

I like Christmastime, I really do. The music, the lights, the warm hearts, family gatherings, and my belly full of seasonal lattes.

I won't lie: the lattes inch further up the list every year. Soon I'll be wishing everyone a merry Gingerbread Spice day.

And I like buying gifts for people. They'll be small this year to match our budget, but thoughtful and wrapped in love, with a pretty little boy of joy.

(I know that was puke-tastic. I wrote it that way on purpose. If Jobthingy can make us gag on her and her boyfriend's love every freaking Saturday, I want to join the party and stamp my blog name on some barf bags. It's good advertising until you get close enough to smell it.)

But something happened this morning that cracked my pretty snow globe and spilled Christmas spirit all over the kitchen floor. I got a flier (I hate fliers, by the way - they make trees cry) from Second Cup, a reputable Canadian coffee house. Excited at first, I opened it up and instantly lost my holly jolly. There were two reasons, and they are:

1. There are no coupons. How dare someone make a flier about coffee and not include a coupon? When I'm Universal President I will demand a law be put into place banning such terrible business practices.

2. There is a list of people one should "remember" to buy gifts for. Surprisingly, this list is my biggest beef; moreso than the lack of coupons. Maybe it's because I'm not a commercial kind of gal. I shudder when, on the morning after Halloween, I find Christmas decorations hanging in the grocery store. I despise hearing Xmas muzac pumped of mall speakers any time before December 1st. So frankly, this list made me want to jingle someone's bells, and I mean that in the least jolly and least perverted sense possible.

There are plenty of occasions to give plenty of people the gift of coffee. Pretty much any time is fine with me (like when the Coffee Fairy did so this morning, which was so good of her). However, there are certain people I do not feel the need to buy caffeine or caffeine-related products for at Christmas time. People like:

Workmates, from the boss to the mailroom boy: Um, seriously? If you're going to bribe your way to the next promotion, at least make it sparkly and diamond shaped like, oh, say, a diamond. And the "mailroom boy"? For reals? I didn't realize we were living in a 1950's comic book.

Personal trainer and yoga instructor: Thank you for showing me how weak and pathetic my body is. Please accept this gift of carb-filled hot chocolate mix, which of course I will not drink because it might make my soul fat.

Nanny and babysitters: Wait. You can have both? At the same time? Why wasn't I aware of this? I don't have either, but if I did I'd be really broke and couldn't afford to get them much anyway. However, speaking from experience as a former daycare provider, if you're going to spoil anyone this year, make it the chick who wipes your kid's butt for (very little) money. She's a gift from the heavens and you should treat her as such.

Hair stylist and esthetician: I tip them every. single. time. Now I have to buy them a Christmas gift, too? I appreciate what they do, but doesn't my monetary gratuity reflect that already? (Incidentally, I don't have a regular hair stylist or esthetician at the moment. But if I did I suppose I'd have the means to buy them gifts)

School bus driver and dog walker: What the hell? Are you lumping the person who walks my canine and the person I trust to get my child safely to and from school in the same category? This is not equal billing. It's like saying "Influential artists, like Beethoven and N*Sync" I don't have a dog walker, but I'm sure they're lovely people. Still, they don't drive a large vehicle full of loud children down busy streets to and from a busy school. That person is a saint and deserves some Christmas cookies. I never forget the bus driver.

Doorman and cleaning people: Aha! Now I'm starting to figure out who this pamphlet is really for. People who live in Manhattan. I've seen enough movies to know that all doormen reside in Manhattan.

Doctor, dentist and veterinarian: Are you kidding me? There have been years when I've indirectly purchased a new game console and half a trip to Maui for my family's medical professionals. They should be buying me Second Cup gifts.

Neighbours and friends: And maybe acquaintances, too? Oh, and that guy who drives past my house in the morning? And the old lady I sometimes see in the produce section of the grocery store on Tuesdays? We are in a recession, people. The money tree I planted hasn't bloomed yet, but as soon as it does I'll start boxing up a little something for all my Twitter followers, too. Promise.

What was supposed to be a handy dandy guilt list checklist has now been picked apart by yours truly. Second Cup, I may have been more forgiving if you had included a $1.00 off coupon or some such. It would have lessened the blow of your blatant faux pas - the one where you insinuate we should buy for absolutely everyone, thus sucking the life out of our bank accounts and destroying the earth simultaneously.

Everyone needs to stop killing Christmas. Besides, I'm sure just knowing me is enough of a gift for most people.

Rant over. Goodnight.

Respect the Elderly

Tonight, when Geekster and I were out shopping for Gutsy's birthday, I pointed out my very favourite slippers and hinted that they'd make a great Christmas gift.

Then, when we went back to the minivan, I took out the hand cream I use religiously on my cracked, eczema riddled hands, and mentioned that some more of said cream would be a great stocking stuffer.

He snickered ever-so-quietly when I mentioned it.

"What?" I asked.

He snickered again. "Nothing, honey."

"WHAT?" I demanded in a definitely unquiet manner.

"Nothing... It's just that, well, hand cream and slippers for Christmas? Are you eighty?"

It dawned on me then that, at the age of 33, I am really fucking old.

I got home, sat down in my favourite armchair (*snicker*), put my feet up on the ottoman (*snicker*) and grabbed the remote to see if I could find a good documentary on Discovery (*snicker* *snort* *snicker*)

I got a text message from my sister asking me if I wanted to go out for coffee. I only hesitantly said yes because, let's face it, I had just sat down for the evening. Having to get back up again sounded like a lot of wasted energy. What got me was the fact that she was high on painkillers. Don't get me wrong: I'm sorry she has a suspected kidney infection and needs something to take the edge off. But if you've ever seen my sister intoxicated on anything whatsoever, you know it's worth the trip out.

Besides, Photo Lush is eight years my junior. Hanging out with someone in their mid-20's would more than compensate for my geriatric Christmas list, right?

I picked her up at 8:45PM. We went to the coffee shop and had herbal tea and paninis. Unfortunately, her narcotic haze was nothing more than a mellow trickle and was barely noticeable. We talked about weddings, trips planned anywhere from six months to three years in advance, bus tours in historic cities, and kids' birthday parties. I dropped her off at 9:30.

My plans for the rest of the evening? Blog, then hot tub, then early bed to read my library book. My sister's plans? Old episodes of Felicity on DVD and planning out what movies we're going to watch when we wrap gifts later this month.

I feel a bit better now. I may be really fucking old, but so is my sister.

NaBloPoMo Day 1, or "I am a giant idiot"

Crap.

I did it.

I joined NaBloPoMo, which means I have to, like, blog every day for a whole month.

Do you know what this means? Do you understand the far-reaching implications of this commitment?

It means I have to sit down every single day and write something.

To make sure we're clear: I have to sit down with a coffee every single day, taking time away from burning things cooking, stuffing things under the couch cleaning, stuffing things in closets sorting, bribing and threatening parenting, and desperately seeking coffee dates being popular -- to blog.

No longer will I have the excuse of my silly little life getting in the way. For at least half an hour every day, sick kids will have to wipe their own noses, dishes will sit stinky in the sink, and I will ignore the sticky mystery substance on the living room carpet. They will all have to wait, because I am a blogger, and I must blog. It is my destiny.

(Or some such junk I'll use as an excuse to not take care of the never-ending list of responsibilities on my plate.)

Of course, I decided to sign up for this just now, as my gremlins scream at each other in the midst of their sugar highs, in the wake of a fun but tiring Halloween, ending with the coup de grace of a daylight savings time change. My timing, as always, is impeccable.

So, I leave you for now with The Maven's 2009 costume, which I proudly sported for most of the day yesterday:



Yes, my pretties. I was Octomom. I'm shameless, and you love it.

Or at least you tolerate it. Either is fine, really.

Diapers, Deodorant and Dictation

What a great Thanksgiving weekend! Spawnling's birthday rocked the house and he actually sat through all but the last five minutes of a 90 minute movie. At that point he got up and looked at me defiantly in that 'I just dare you to try and make me sit'. When I whispered to him that he should sit down, he frowned, whispered 'Stupid!' in my ear and made his way up onto his dad's lap.

I could have taken him out of the theater and given him a time-out.

I could have.

I probably should have.

But onscreen there were giant food items falling from the sky and crushing buildings. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Thanksgiving dinner/Spawn's birthday supper was excellent. Cake was even excellenter.

Hang on. That's not a word. No clue why, really. I think we should make it one. It's excellenter than a lot of other words.

Yesterday we started potty training. How it went depends on one's definition of success. Like the CEO of a failing internet start-up, I'm going to redefine the meaning of the word 'success' to make all involved parties feel better. Did Spawnling pee in the potty? No. Did he pee once on the living room carpet and once on my duvet instead? Yes. Sure, Geekster and I were freezing last night because we only had a single thin blanket to share, but look on the bright side: Spawnling actually let us take his diaper off without screaming. That's progress, people. And if we could just bottle that progress and sell it, we'd be millionaires!

Or, at the very least, we wouldn't be dreading today's training experiences that will undoubtedly involve a lot more laundry.

I'm not one to rush these things, so obviously we feel he's ready to take the plunge. Gutsy and Intrepid have been eager big brothers, congratulating The Spawn on wearing underwear and on sitting on the potty until the timer goes off. A family of four can potty train a single preschooler, can't they?

Please say they can. Please?

Right now Spawnling is curled up on the couch, bare-bottomed, and refusing to sit on the potty. I'll admit that October in Canada is a frigid time to toilet train a child, but summer was a no-go; he just wasn't ready. Like a Bonsai tree, a preschooler grows slowly over time and should only be sculpted and guided when necessary.

I just compared parenting to an ancient art form. How very zen-like of me.

In other news, Intrepid is a stinky twelve-year-old boy. Why must he need prodding to shower? Why? Does he not understand that greasy hair is not attractive? Does he not get that wearing mustard-stained clothing doesn't help his popularity?

I guess my problem is that, when I was twelve, I liked showers and styling my hair and wearing outfits that match. I very much enjoyed not stinking. Why must boys and girls be so vastly different? There's a chasm that separates the sexes in the teen years. On one side, the girls hold their noses and make other gestures showing how much they disprove of the boys' lack of hygiene. On the other side, the boys take turns whipping deodorant and hair gel across the divide. Two points if you manage to hit one of the girls and four points if she screams and throws it back at you.

One day soon the hormones will hit Intrepid and he will realize he wants to be appealing to the ladies. At that point I will not want him to be appealing to them whatsoever and will likely sabotage any efforts to clean himself up. I have a visual of me pouring gravy in his clean shirt drawer. Yesterday I told him as much and said I didn't want to be a grandmother until at least 45 (that would make him 25, by the way). He said 'Yeah! At least! I'm not stupid, Mom!' That's my boy: full of confidence and mostly void of testosterone just yet. Thank goodness.

If you're a parent, you'll likely recall all those times you said 'I will NEVER do X'. I did a lot of that; in fact, I fancy myself a bit of a former expert in future parenting. Well, I never thought I'd say this, but at sixteen I may just fill his entire stocking with condoms. Santa wants him to be jolly, but safe. Very, very safe.

Gutsy is thankfully a world and several years away from any kind of stinkiness or contraception interventions. He's a hard one to figure out, lately. For those not in the know, we decided to put Gutsy in french immersion this year because, by the end of the summer, he was reading english chapter books at a grade 6 level. As I told the principal, you don't want to see a bored Gutsy: A bored Gutsy is a mischievous Gutsy.

Throwing a child with very little knowledge of a language into a classroom full of it is a lot like dropping a New Yorker into the middle of the rainforest without a map. So how is Gutsy doing? It's hard to say, says his teacher, because Gutsy is so quiet in class.

... I'm sorry. Pardon me? Gutsy is quiet somewhere? I think that might be one of the signs of an impending apocalypse. I'll have to consult the 2009 apocalyptic almanac.

That had me worried, so I started to throw myself into extra homework with Gutsy. You know, being a good mom and all. And guess what? He's absorbing it, retaining and applying it. He reads, he spells, he sings, he writes, and he knows his numbers up to 30. Once he has more confidence he'll start speaking up in class and his teacher will hopefully see that our child is not a mute. In fact, if he's smart, he'll start teaching the class a third language to throw Gutsy off again and regain some serenity.

Good idea, actually. I may just start asking all the kids to speak Cantonese at home.

How long before they figure out I can't speak Cantonese at all? In fact, I'm only trilingual if you count Pig Latin.