Intrepid Turns 13, part I

I promised a significantly better post than yesterday's, and I shan't disappoint. I even used a spiffy word like "shan't," so you know there's something good coming.

In just a few short hours, my firstborn, my darling Intrepid, will turn thirteen.

Thir-freaking-teen.

That's, like, a teenager. An official teen boy will be living in our house, complete with the large appetite, odd smells, and soon-to-be-cracking voice that goes with the territory. I'm feeling oddly sentimental. I used to think I'd dread this moment, and instead I'm so gosh darn proud of the kid that I need to get my write on and tell everyone about how instrumental he's been in shaping our lives.

Of course, every boy in our batch of gremlins has brought with him drastic changes and lots of chaos, anxiety, stress, pure unbridled joy. But there's something really special about the first.

I don't love him any more than the others, just differently. It's hard to describe exactly, but I'll try: Remember your first love? And I don't mean the guy who dry humped you on his parents' corduroy couch, or the girl who made you tingly in your happy places but purposely gave you the wrong phone number after the dance. I mean the first one who really loved you, and who you loved back. The one you remember years later because it just felt so gosh darn good to be together, experiencing love for the first time. Everything he or she did was new and exciting and fresh. You couldn't wait to see him or her again. You could go on and on about how incredible the person is, or how needlessly long this paragraph is becoming because people obviously get the point by now and you should move on.

Now, add in a dash of whatever you felt when you realized what the stars and planets were, what it meant to have them there, and how amazed you were by the thought of an entire universe of wonders out there.

Now, fold those two ingredients together and mix in the immense pride and sense of accomplishment you had when you taught your puppy to "sit", and you have some kind of an idea.

Love + Wonder + Pride = Firstborn.

The greatest thing about firstborns is that the older the get, the more they impress you. Sure, walking was cool, and that first word - or whatever you convinced yourself sounded like a first word - was neat-o, but seeing your child perform a piano solo or win a spelling bee? That takes the sugar-free cake.

But with Intrepid, there's a little something extra: What sets him apart from a lot of other kids is that he's defied nearly every expectation of who he would become. I'm going to brag in two parts, starting now and concluding tomorrow, on his birthday. Prepare to roll your eyes a great deal as I take a trip down memory lane.

Hey, it's my blog and I'll brag if I want to. Want to stroke your own ego in a purely exhibitionist fashion? Write your own damn blog. This one's mine and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

We just barely escaped the stigma of teen parenting. I was nineteen, and Geekster and I had been together for just over two years when we realized that, despite the bleak picture painted by a doctor about my fertility, not using condoms could result in a pregnancy. Oops.

There was never a time when we didn't want the baby. The ultrasound tech dating my pregnancy asked that very personal question, and when I said we were happy to become parents, she zoomed in on my six week old embryo's heartbeat. I was blown away, completely smitten, and I walked out a mother.

I've had countless people say things like 'There's no way I could have been a mother at twenty.' Actually, you could have.

Unless you're a dude.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend motherhood at that age for most people, but it's definitely doable. I'm going to step out of my usual grandiose skin for a minute and say, quite honestly, that there was nothing spectacular or unique about me.

Could you at least pretend to be shocked by this news? Thank you.

I was just a girl who loved a boy and made a baby with him. Then, we made a choice to have that baby (and I don't judge those who chose not to, just for the record). And then, we did everything we could to make it a good choice. It really was that simple.

In short, I wasn't born awesome: Motherhood made me awesome.

Were we scared? Of course. The Maven may be many things, but an idiot she is not. Geekster and I were poor, had very little education, no car or license, and had both only very recently quit smoking (like, maybe a week before conception). And folic acid? What on earth was that? I only started taking prenatal vitamins after my first doctor's visit at five weeks. "Scared" didn't even begin to describe it. But we were excited, too. And eager and happy to become parents, too. We felt ready emotionally and ready to grow our family. We would make it work, we said to each other.

There were several people who kindly informed us that having a baby at that time would be the end of our relationship, our aspirations to climb above the poverty line, and any chance at a life that wasn't straight out of an episode of Cops. Our baby would have only limited resources to become a well-adjusted, well-educated, productive member of society.

Supportive, positive people are wonderful, aren't they?

When I was alone, I would rub my belly and tell Embryo-trepid that it (we didn't know the gender) would be okay. Daddy and I wouldn't let anything bad happen. That together, we would shatter those stereotypes. After all, this child was from my womb, and therefore it was genetically impossible to suck.

And then, one day, at my routine 39 week checkup, I was told my blood pressure was suddenly sky high and I needed to get induced, like, now, because my baby and I were in danger. Young, first-time mothers are at a higher risk for preeclampsia. That was one stereotype my body was kind enough to honour, the bitch.

I'll spare you the gory details of a traumatic birth experience. Suffice to say that, fourty-eight hours later, what I knew about love and the meaning of life was instantly transformed with a cry.

My son entered my world, and that world shifted.

***

Continued tomorrow...




Oh, wait. I guess I should probably do some kind of cartoon thing, like this:

Will The Maven and Geekster feel they made a grave mistake?

Will their relationship fall apart?

Will baby Intrepid join a gang?

Will parenthood drive The Maven to drink (again?)

Stay tuned for another excited episode of As The Maven NaBloPoMos!

Happy 3rd Birthday, Spawnling!

Sometimes it's hard to believe that Spawnling originated from two lines on a pee stick. What humble beginnings.

(Actually, he originated from something else, but Captain Killjoy Geekster said we couldn't post pictures of that event.)

Like most women today, the first official confirmation I received that I was going to be a mother to my teeny little gremlyos was a home pregnancy test. My reaction to Spawnling's impending arrival, however, was a little different than how I reacted the first two times. I wasn't immediately... thrilled. Delighted. Overjoyed.

In fact, I may have been a teeny bit apprehensive.

We had decided, for so many reasons, that two was enough. When Gutsy was three we decided we weren't going to try to have more children, nor were we going to throw caution to the wind any longer and 'just see what happens'. We began wrapping the willy; putting a lid on the mayo jar; caging the monkey; enabling the cloaking device. And words escaped our lips that had never been said before. Things like: 'complete family' and 'the next phase in our lives' and 'permanent birth control'.

The universe, however, had other plans. Because, just before we started shrink wrapping the leftovers again, I got pregnant. And as I scrutinized those two blue lines under every available light source in my home, I realized something: I was pregnant. Without trying. And it was a girl!

...And our girl had a penis, the ultrasound technician told us a few weeks later, trying so hard not to laugh.

But Geekster and I laughed, because of course it couldn't be a girl. That would disrupt the comfortable cycle of chaos in our family brought on by an abundance of testosterone.

But a thought occurred to me, although I wouldn't admit it at the time: Would a third boy be that, well, interesting? We had two already. Been there, done that, got the pee on the t-shirt while trying to change newborn baby boy diapers. He'd have to be pretty gosh darn spectacular to stand out. A girl would just have to be a girl, really. Dresses, pink things, dolls that are used as dolls and not beheaded zombies. I rubbed my Spawnling-stretched belly and wondered what kind of boy child he would be.

And then we got this:


I would never, ever trade him for a girl. Ever.

He talks to pumpkins when he's sad. He helps his friend Diego the cat muddle through a gender identity crisis. He sings 'Danger Zone' every time he makes two things have a race.

When he calls someone stupid, even an old lady who says "hi" when he's having a bad day, he says it in such a way that even she tries to stifle a laugh as I stifle mine and make him apologize.

He has names for all his shoes and is very insistent on which ones he's going to wear on a particular day. One must have footwear that matches ones' outfit, you know. Cars Shoes will not go with khakis; that's best left to Big, Big, Green Shoes.

He loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe Dad, and even more than me now that he's no longer enjoying 'Mommy's Milk'.

Traitor.

Ok, maybe not more than me. He's just forming stronger relationships with others now that I don't have the nutritional advantage. The successful and mutual weaning process about six months ago put an end to the baby years in this house. We're now onto the big kid stuff.

Well, except potty training, which is supposed to start happening today, right after his first in-theater movie: Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. Let's see if he stays still once the popcorn is all gone. These 'first' experiences are always unpredictable in that this-could-be-a-wasted-$60 kind of way.

It's funny how, once I held Intrepid in my arms, I couldn't imagine loving anyone else that much. Then, once Gutsy was born, my heart grew to twice the size. When Spawnling came along and threw what we thought was our perfect little world upside down, my heart grew so big that I thought they were going to have to remove ribs like they do to some of the top runway models.

Me and top runway models: We're similar in so many ways.

I honestly can't picture life without him. And, two months ago, when he was in that hospital bed with a then mystery illness that had everyone very concerned, I remembered the pregnancy test and how I wasn't immediately thrilled. I remember selfishly hoping for a girl and feeling concerned he might not thrill me in the same way. And, touching his sickly little body, I remembered how wrong I had been, and that life had only changed for the better with him in our lives. He is the glossy finish that coats our family and makes it shiny and strong and beautiful. He solidified what we already had before he came along. He made it complete.

Actually, he's kind of like the MSG in our over-processed take-out food, except he doesn't give anyone headaches or scare pregnant women.

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and it's also Spawnling's third birthday. We have so much to be grateful for. We don't even have to try hard to find the good stuff this year. He's our little, rambunctious cheat sheet.

Happy birthday, my sweet little guy. Words can't possibly express how much I love you.



(And if you make this potty training thing easy on me, I'll love you and give you jelly beans. Just sayin'.)

Has it Really Been a Month?

After mooching coffee, lunch and childcare off my parental units, I spent the later part of this afternoon sorting through clothing in the kids' rooms. How ridiculously emotional I become over this simple task never ceases to amaze me. I take a moment to consider every stitch of clothing: I recall where we acquired it, how many gremlins wore it (a few lucky items make it through all three, and they are cut from the fabric legends are made of), how cute it looked while being worn, and a whole bunch of other sappy crap.

With some items I become nearly rebotic as I place them in the 'donation' or 'put away for the next gremlin in line' pile, but those are few and far between. Most of the time my heart aches as I stuff a t-shirt into a bag destined for a thrift store, and even those going into the basement for a couple of years. Sometimes I get a little teary. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to say, I give the sweater or pair of jeans a little kiss as a final farewell before it goes away.

There. I said it. I kiss it. Not in a sexual way, or that might go from laughable to creepy. However, there may be a whole new form of mental illness lurking inside yours truly. Who on earth has that much attachment to their children's clothing? Not normal people, that's for sure.

***

To understand where my sickness stems from, we must travel back through time - please wipe your feet on the time machine's 'welcome' mat - to 1998, in the late Cretaceous period. Other than the last few dinosaurs, you'll meet myself, Geekster and toddler Intrepid. (I can't meet myself because it disrupts the space-time continuum or something or other. That's what Spock says, anyway. Just tell her I said 'hi' and that she's going to get a little skinnier in the future. Just a little, not a lot. She still likes chocolate too much.)

Within our cave you'll also find an assortment of basal body temperature thermometers, charts and a well-worn copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility. We're trying to get pregnant again, and things aren't going very well. In fact, things aren't going at all: I'm not ovulating and I'm having a period about every three months. Also, I was just diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Not exactly a positive baby-making environment.

And I'm sad. Oh, so sad. For, while I'm over-the-moon-in-love with my beautiful/tantruming/otherwise pretty awesome Intrepid, I'm blue that we can't seem to give him a brother or sister. At twenty-three I should be a fountain of fertility. Instead, my body is failing me and I don't know why.

For four years I watch my son growing up without knowing whether or not we'll be able to have another. After the first couple of years, I start to give the clothing away instead of holding on to it, figuring there is no point in hording something for a baby that may never come. After suffering a miscarriage in 2001 I pick up the pace and get rid of virtually all our baby stuff; keeping what we have is becoming unhealthy for me and this obsession to have another child has to stop. I have reached the unfortunate conclusion that growing our family may not be part of the agenda.

Still, my heart hurts a little every time Intrepid outgrows his coat, his shoes, his shorts. Every time I pack something up in a box and give it to a mom with a younger boy than mine I remind myself that I'm not allowed to fall apart. That I have to remember how lucky I am to have one amazing kid to love.

And I am lucky. I just want to be luckier.

***

Alright. That's enough depression for one day. Let's put down the razor blades and head back to the time machine. I need a fresh coffee, anyway.

Obviously, that story has a happy ending. As we all know, The Maven ends up getting her heart's desire in the form of two fresh little gremlins to love and hold and file down their claws. She gets to dress them up in cute little outfits again and again and really doesn't mind shopping for new things. In fact, she loves shopping for kids' clothes and making her boys all adorable and stuff. Dressing them in the right attire is a great way of hiding their forked tails fluffy angel wings.

Still, giving away clothing is not an easy task for me. I know it's lame and rather disturbing that I have to say goodbye to some fabric and dye made by a person in a third world sweat shop for a ridiculously unfair amount of money, but it is what it is. It's residue from a long time ago when I didn't know how full and amazing my life would become.

So, what brought me out of today's wardrobe heartache, you ask? Remembering that, just one month ago, my current toddler was lying in a hospital with machines hooked up to him and worried doctors and nurses hovering over him. And I, sitting by his bed, holding his limp little hand, was thinking very dark thoughts. Like whether or not I would be strong enough to pack up his stuff and donate it if we lost him to this unknown illness making him so very sick. That, my sheeple, is a thought I don't EVER want to think again, and that I hope you never have to, either. Like, ever.

When I look at how far we've come this month - the newest news being that Spawnling's eye is now starting to move properly again! - I realize that giving away clothes because my children are healthy and strong and growing is not a bad thing. It's a reason to celebrate.

And a reason to buy new clothes.

Which means I have to go to a mall.

And malls have places that sell coffee.

And I like coffee.

Life is good.

The S.S. Uterus has sailed for the last time

So the Spawnling is sick again. Fever again. Cough again. Pulling at his ear again. The cold itself is pretty mild other than the Niagra Falls nose, but the rest of it makes me wonder if we're going to have to spend another lovely afternoon at the emergency clinic tomorrow.

Don't get me wrong: I love sharing space with people ill enough to want to share space in an emergency room with me. Who doesn't enjoy the germ melting pot? I also like to count how many times I visit the complimentary Purell dispenser. I get an addictive sting when the alcohol solution enters the cracked skin on my hands. I chant my mantra over and over: This is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than getting a stomach flu, this is better than...

This week has been incredibly busy. My friend/client, or Frient, has had many ups and downs while attempting to successfully breastfeed her second child. Frayed nerves and plenty of coffee have been my companions as we've battled an iffy latch, jaundice, near hospitalization due to an infection in the cesarean wound, and in-laws who loathe the idea of breastfeeding and wish my Flient would just give up and bottle feed, already.

But you know what? She's still nursing. 9 days and counting! And the best part for yours truly (in the end it always comes down to yours truly)? I'm over my fourth baby fetish. Yep. Stick a fork in the tofu roast, people. I'm done. I personally thanked my Frient for this glorious turn of events. She said I was welcome.

It was a fun little pipe dream to birth a beautiful (quiet) baby (girl), but there just aren't enough positives to outweigh the vast chasm of negatives, be they potential risks or stark reality. The main one being that The Maven might want to have, oh, you know, semi-regular Maven time at some point in the next decade.

I've been re-living the baby thing on an average of every five years. What this means is that just as I'm starting to realize that people can shower every day, have hobbies, and enjoy sex for reasons other than procreation, I end up procreating. Mother nature greets me with a positive pregnancy test the impending smell of curdled spit up and a huge "gotcha again" grin on her face. Not this time, girlfriend.

There are advantages to letting my children grow up. For example: if I don't deal with the underlying issues surrounding my desire to pop out more and more babies and instead just let the boys get bigger and leave home, I can begin hoarding to fill up my empty nest like the lady on Oprah just recently. Then I can get my house decluttered and completely remodelled and score tickets to Chicago to tell millions to show off my new home. Maybe I can also meet Nate Burkus and convince him that he's not really gay and that he wants to run away with me. We could make beautiful rooms together.

Or, I can become unhealthily enmeshed in my adult children's lives, tying double knots on the apron strings and suffocating their desire to grow as individuals. Then, when they get married, I can one of those awful, overbearing mother-in-laws we all hear so much about. Eventually my son and his wife will bring me to Dr. Phil so he can tell me how wrong I am. Free trip to Los Angeles, nice hotel and all I have to do is be psychotic. I'm halfway there already!

Ok, seriously though. I'm done. For really real here. The Sister keeps laughing at me because she says I talk about it so much that I simply can't be done. That's not true. Sometimes I talk a lot about a book or a movie that I finished, but that doesn't mean I haven't finished it, right? Right.

I win. Neener neener.

In truth, there are some eerie things afoot in my life right now and I think they might be related to my decision not to spawn again:

1. I'm beginning to experience mornings where I'm able to open my eyes and not immediately dive for the coffee grinder and carafe. I believe this may be linked to a rare infliction in my life known as "uninterrupted sleep". It's not happening every night so I'm not freaking out just yet. I'm simply keeping an eye on it to see if it gets in the way of my exhaustion on a long-term basis.
2. Sometimes, during the day, I find myself with enough time to clean some of my house. And, if that's not strange enough, there are even times when I can sit down and watch a half-hour show without needing to get up. I know what you're thinking: how is this possible? What is this 'daytime television' and how can she claim to see any of it? It may have something to do with the gremlins... entertaining each other... and themselves... without my help. Did get that last part? Without my help.
   
3. I've gone out two nights in a row without my cell phone. Last night was to get coffee with a friend and tonight was my weekly shopping trip with my sister. Nothing out of the ordinary except that my cell phone was dead and Geekster couldn't call me if there was a problem. This would normally send me running for the charger but instead I... I... left it. Yeah. I left my cell phone at home. There was no need to bring it because he doesn't need me to be here. My husband can manage all three of them without me. I used to inevitably get calls from a hubby with a screaming, hungry nurseling and would have to promptly dash home. Not anymore. I might have to actually enjoy myself when I go out now. I don't know if I can handle that.

So, in short, I believe I may be able to get used to this strange and beautiful new existence. What will I miss about babies? A lot of things. What won't I miss? A lot of things. But I'm pretty damn lucky to have three healthy boys with a PCOS-inflicted body. And have you seen the price of groceries lately? I might have to have a fourth child just to work the fields.

Well, if we had fields. And then I'd probably want to work them at least a couple of hours every day just to be away from the yelling and the mess and the poop and everything. Working the fields could be my new hobby.

Must go. Spawnling's awake. Diving for coffee grinder tomorrow? Check.

I was given 'The Tone'

Yes, it's true. I've stooped to a whole new low by creating a YouTube account and uploading videos of my children. Yet another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats for people to look at and think 'Oh boy. Another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats'.

I've never claimed originality, forsight or empathy. Ever.



Yesterday, I took all three gremlins and my camera to speech therapy. Spawnling wore his new Christmas outfit, which I think suits him perfectly. He was also exactly six weeks old, which warranted a few more pictures, including this one, in which, according to Astarte, he resembles a mafia Don.

Here's where I try to win favours with the Don by being the big hoochie I am. Meanwhile, Gutsy acted like, well, Gutsy, and even managed to give me the cheesiest fake smile he's ever given.

Intrepid reminded me of how old I'm getting. He's going to be ten in less than a week and it shows. He's looking all older-kid-like. Yikes.

We had a busy day yesterday, complete with a visit to Mrs. Wailing's house, where my children made a big to-do about destroying her backyard. The gremz have a rule:

If you're not sure if you're supposed to do it, do it anyway and see if someone notices.

They live by that rule, especially in situations where it's bound to be embarrassing and/or cost us money to repair. Aren't they sweet? So while they were fairly well-behaved in the house, they did all sorts of neat things outside like climbing the side of a fence, throwing things at frozen plants and making sure that virtually no sand remained in Wailing Jr's sandbox (guess what I'm bringing over the spring? Hint: it rhymes with 'hand' and is thankfully cheap).

I'm thankful that my friends are patient with the gremlins. A handful they can be (even Intrepid, when he's energetic enough) but they do have their charms. Sometimes I have to look hard to find them, though. Really, really hard. Like yesterday.

We then went to speech, where I made the comment that will haunt me for many nights to come.

While Intrepid and Gutsy were both dying to tell me about their sessions...

While Spawnling was fussing because he was tired...

While I was holding a pacifier in his mouth to keep him quiet...

While I was writing a cheque one-handed to the therapist...

While I was encouraging the older boys to get their things on and 'Please help him with his boots, Intrepid, please... I know he's being a pain but try to get him dressed for me, ok? Mom is really busy...'

While I got my own things on, ushered the two older boys out into the hall, put the still-crying baby in his snowsuit, grabbed the diaper bag, my purse, their speech homework, the blanket...

I jokingly said to the woman I'd been sharing the waiting room with 'I know this is going to get easier. At least, that's what I tell myself every day to keep my sanity'.

As she watched her child playing on the floor, she smiled politely and replied 'You're lucky. You have three.'

Uh-oh. I know that tone. I've used that tone. Anyone who's struggled with their fertility knows the polite way to say 'Shut up, you ungrateful wench and enjoy what you have because it's not as easy for some of us and I would do anything to be in your shoes right now, ok?'

My heart caught in my throat when she said it. What was I to say? What I really wanted to say was 'I used to have only one child and we tried for five years and went through hell and back and lost a baby in the process and finally had another one and that's why they're six years apart and no we weren't trying for the baby but we weren't preventing either and it still took three years which is not how long it takes fertility goddesses to conceive and yes we were beyond shocked and I have polycystic ovarian syndrome and I should have guessed by your body shape that you also have a hormonal imbalance and I am really grateful for my kids and I'm really, really sorry.'

Instead I just said 'Thank you. I really love them,' and left quickly and quietly with a huge amount of guilt. Heaven forbid she read my blog, where I refer to my children as gremlins and name them things like Gutsy and - gack! - Spawnling. I'd have to wear a clever disguise everytime we go to speech.

Bad, bad Maven. You should know better. You've been there. Have you forgotten so soon? Three kids and you're all that, eh?

No, I haven't forgotten. I'm simply screwing up the myth I used to buy into. For while not a day goes by that I don't take time to appreciate what I have, I also know I've earned that right to feel tired and overwhelmed and even bitchy (shocking, I know), just as she's earned the right to use 'the tone'.

It may have taken a decade to have these three, but three I now have and only the truly clueless - infertile or not - would be too blind to see what a handful juggling all their needs at the same time can be. As much of a contradiction as it may seem to some, feeling stressed out can indeed coincide with loving one's children tremendously. I'm living proof of that and other oddities, such as liking jam and old (sharp) cheddar on toast. Don't knock it 'til you try it.

Those feelings that accompany infertility (or secondary infertility, in my case) have left me messed up in ways only others who've gone through the joy of a body that continuously lets you down could understand. I still shudder at the thought of using a contraceptive method to - gasp! - avoid getting pregnant again. The word 'vasectomy' still makes me jump a little. I still don't always understand when people say they don't want another baby. In my eyes, the best thing in the world is another baby! The only reason I'm not having another is because of the potential health risks to myself and my baby if I have another (and that convincing Geekster might require drugging his gingerale at this point). And don't even get me started on people who don't want kids at all. That's like people who don't like chocolate - so completely different from me that I don't think I can wrap my brain around their ideas.

The number one thing never to say to someone who's infertile (and it's been said to me many times):

I wish I had a hard time getting pregnant. All I have to do is look at a man and I get knocked up!

Makes my comment at speech therapy look rather tame, doesn't it? I can't possibly comprehend what a woman figures she's gaining from saying something like that to a person struggling to get pregnant. Do you expect the infertile woman to say 'Gee, I never really though of it that way, Alice! I feel a lot better now. Thanks!' and give her a big hug?

My infertility scars will probably remain with me the rest of my life. But you know something? I think I've earned that right to look at the more fertile lot with a quirky stare. Just as I've earned the right to post pointless videos and pictures of my beautiful children on the interweb for all to see (and wonder why I post them at all).

Squarely in the middle and looking rather foolish. That's where The Maven belongs.

Growing up and spitting up

A shout-out and big thanks to Lushgurl, Devilteen and Jobthingy for a very fun Friday night. Because, while anything can be deemed "fun" in the eyes of a bored, new mother, Friday was actually quie enjoyable even by pre-Spawnling standards. Rock on, crazies!

Yikes! I can't believe I haven't posted since Thursday. It's been so hectic around here lately. This whole "new baby" thing is taking me away from the important task of blogging more than is deemed acceptable by several complaining readers. They call me to gripe on that object I vaguely remember using more of before the Spawnling made his debut: the... telephone, is it? I rarely call anyone these days, as their voice would probably be drowned out by the sonic boom that is my house. I call it a symphony of pull-my-hair-out proportions.

It's impressive how quickly the other two gremlins have incorporated their newest member into the frey. Brother bonding at its finest. Having three children is like juggling: there's one in each hand and one flailing loudly in the air, spitting, crying or drawing on the window with a permanent marker.

Sir Gutsy is officially a four-year-old today. Four years ago, after 27 hours of labour, I gave birth to a beautiful little boy who simply would not come out without some surgical assistance. Stubborn? Not my Gutsy. He's a brand new, mutated form of stubborn that goes way beyond the original. It's a superpower deserving of its own X-Men character.

I got a little teary today when I looked at my big boy walking into his preschool. He was the product of five years of secondary infertility, a miscarriage and a lot of hard work. Not just the usual hard work, pervert, but a lot of battling with PCOS, AKA the mystery bitch, my diet, exercise and a whack of other things. But he's here now and we love him to bits. It's also made Intrepid and Spawnling seem even more miraculous. How we managed to have three beautiful boys is beyond me. Gratitude flows heavily today.

The newly crowned four-year-old had a family party on Saturday and was spoiled rotten. He received a lot of great gifts including some PJs from my grandma and slippers from The Madre and co. that he basically wears 24/7 unless he has to go somewhere. Unfortunately, we decorated the house to match his Sponge-Bob cake. There are yellow streamers and balloons everywhere. Basically, the diningroom looks like an obese canary and my eyes water whenever I go in there. It's not good for the new-mother psyche.

Gutsy's hugely into Rescue Heroes right now, too. We have a large bin of them from Intrepid's preschoolhood (read: back when he was a spoiled, only child). This conversation happened yesteday while Gutsy and his daddy were playing with them on the floor:

'This guy has a really big hose, dad'

'Oh, does he?'

'Well, no. Actually it's small.'

'*snicker* But people think it's big, right?'

'Yeah, they all think it's really big, but it's actually small'.

It's incredible how immature two parents in their thirties can be. That poor Rescue Hero had no idea we were making fun of his small hose. And besides, it's not the size of the hose, it's the water pressure in it. That's what all my firemen boyfriends tell me, anyway.

A big reason why I haven't been online much is because Spawnling has the pukes. Not just the pukes, but what I think might be a half-decent case of reflux. What do I mean by half-decent? Severe enough to be reflux, but not severe enough to be threatening to his health, thank goodness. It's painful for him and somewhat time-consuming and annoying for me, though. I'm forever taking off the baby weight by pacing around the house with a fussy baby. I change my spit-up saturated shirts at least three times daily (Yes, I know about those nifty things called 'receiving blankets'. Yes, I use them. They receive their fair share of baby yak, that's for sure).

So I've done something very noble and, dare I say, brave. Something that will shock and awe people who know me well. After doing some research, I, The Maven, have eliminated caffeine from my diet.

Breathe. Just breathe. It's ok. Look around you. See? The world didn't end.

Are you ok now? Alright, I'll continue.

It appears that caffeine in mom's diet can aggravate reflux in a big way. We're on day two of no caffeine and, while I fought off a nasty withdrawl headache yesterday, he seems to be doing a lot better. Still pukey and fussy, but not nearly as much as before. I've also cut way back on dairy and have upped my soy intake.

While this potential reflux thing is not the most comfortable for either of us, he's showing no signs of it being a serious issue. I'm going to bring it up with the doctor, but I think she'll just suggest I keep doing what I'm doing. It's times like this when my lactation training really pays off, though. I'm not panicked like I might be if I didn't have my ejumakation.

If I may brag for a moment (shocking that I would do such a thing!), Spawnling can now roll over, has full head and neck control and - my favourite part - has just started smiling! On the night of the 11th, while I was playing with him on the bed, he broke out in a huge grin followed by a couple more. He gave me two or three more yesterday and another one this morning. It makes smelling like a curdled carton of milk slightly more appealing.

It's amazing how infant development works. I've decided that the reason they start smiling within a few weeks of their birth is to reward their mothers. Being the self-centered creatures we are, we require some kind of payback for the sleepless nights (or caffeine deprivation, as is the case), the fussiness and the all-consuming black hole that is caring for an infant. Smiles melt frustration like fat off a Jenny Craig spokeswoman. Even smiles with puke on them are ok. I speak from experience.

Pictures to come in next posting session. No caffeine for the Maven may equal more posts on the blog. Let's hope, anyway.

PS: Special message for Reese. Please, PLEASE email me. I lost your address and I miss you! Thanks :)