A Day for the Record Books

Spawnling, we need to talk.

And yes, it's about our relationship.

We've been seeing each other – every single day without fail - for a little over three years now, right? And don't get me wrong, I love it. I mean, you're an amazing guy. Funny, sensitive, cute, well-dressed. Well, except when you dress yourself, which makes you look a bit like a Hawaiian clown. Still, nothing makes me happier than walking down the street hand-in-hand with you, my darling. I'm proud to call you mine.

Except for days like today, when I have to run away – far away from your now thankfully sleeping self – in an attempt to reclaim some balance and sanity.

Take right now, for example. I'm at my favourite little cafe, drowning myself in some half-decaf blend of fair-traded beans and trying to forget the last 12.5 hours of absolute mayhem. I'm attempting to remind myself that, thankfully, you had this horrendous day after my last contract was over, because trying to balance writing a bunch of articles with today's attitude would have been a feat for even the most powerful mother. And I think you slipped some Kryptonite into my cereal this morning, because I'm feeling like anything but a superhero tonight.

It's not your fault, really. You didn't plan the day trip to Peterborough, Ontario yesterday for your great-grandma's 90^th birthday. You couldn't have anticipated how much sugar and artificial colours I would let you eat for dinner in the name of picking my battles. How were you to know that Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs would be as captivating the 155^th time around, thus keeping you awake the entire ride home? Falling asleep at 10PM wasn't your doing, my love. And waking up at 7:45 this morning because your teen brother desperately needed to shower in the room next to yours? Entirely understandable.

So you started off on the wrong foot today – I get that. I know how these bad starts can snowball into larger, more catastrophic events.

But, Darling... dumping out every single Cranium card onto the living room floor? Mauling our elderly cat's tail as he's sleeping soundly on the bed? Cornering the 10 pound dog into the kitchen cupboards with a chair? Chasing your brothers around with toys intended to make contact with their persons? Calling your aunt a “stupidhead”?

Not exactly my favourite moments of your lifetime.

But if I were asked to pick a lowlight of the day, I'd have a very difficult time. I think I'd have to narrow it down to the following choices:

• This evening, when you ran away from me in the parking lot of the splash park – stark naked and screaming “Don't grab me!”
• This afternoon when you said “I'm sorry” over and over before I even walked into the bathroom (following a bubblegum scent) only to discover the brand new SpongeBob toothpaste smeared across the sink and all over your hands
• At Starbucks, (the only outing I would consider, and only because there was coffee involved) with the constant whining of “I want a cookie! All I want is a cookie! Where's my cookie, Mommy?!” that attracted so much empathy from the barista that she not only gave you your cookie, but handed me a bag and said “And this one is for mommy” with a look of you poor, poor woman.

The minute your horned little head hit the pillow tonight, I about burst out crying in relief and joy. I think Jesus, Buddha, Allah and Mother Earth all got together to pull off that one amazing miracle. Thanks, guys. You are now on my Non-Denominational Commercially-Driven Holiday Season greeting card list.

Anyway, back to our relationship: We need to work a few things out.

First of all, you have to get a full night's sleep so I have a hope in hell of keeping my wits about me tomorrow.

B) The words “Please,” “Thank you” and “Mommy is the most awesome woman alive” had better be in your vocabulary, while “Stupid,” “Stupidhead,” “NO!” and “I'm going to [insert attention-getting, destructive/aggressive action here]” must not be uttered.

3) For the love of all things good and right in the world, please don't ask me for sugar, because you're not getting any. Furthermore, there will be nothing colourful in your diet that isn't grown in a field or orchard. We will not be having a repeat of today, mister.

The good thing about this otherwise dreadful day – by far the worst disobedience day since Gutsy went loco at the family reunion in Toronto three years ago – is that it will be over soon. Also, I took myself out on a well-deserved coffee date with my new friend, Mr. Macbook. Don't be jealous, Spawn. Sure, he may be young, gorgeous, and have the battery life of a God, but it's not like I get to see him when you're awake, anyway. Between the hours of 8AM and 8PM, I am solely your bitch mom.

Be nicer tomorrow, k? Love you.

An Open Letter to my Teenage Boy

Dear Intrepid,

Forgive my recent stumbling as your parent, but your sudden leap into the teen years has left me scrambling to catch up and figure out the rules of this new game.

See, when I became illegitimately pregnant with you at the age of 19, perhaps I wasn't thinking things through as clearly as I should have. Looking into the future for your dad and I, all I could see was a snuggly-wuggly little sand bag of joy in my arms, literally sucking the pregnancy weight out of me along with all that breastmilk. You would be perfect in every way, always, and we would be the bestest parents every despite our complete lack of experience and copious immaturity.

After 48 hours of agony beyond words which resulted in me finally being able to push out all ten pounds of your watermelon self you came gently into the world, I remember rocking you softly, peacefully, thinking every so often about what kind of person you would be in a few years. But right then - at that moment - you were my little angel, and the idea of you becoming anything but was so distant it was almost laughable.

And then, suddenly, you're thirteen, you talk back, your hair gets stinky when you don't shower, and I'm still as fat as ever.

And worse still, you seem to think you're some kind of individual. Like you can make up your own mind about things, or something. You have your own likes and dislikes, you have opinions that don't always reflect my own, and not all your choices are made after seeking my approval.

Well, shit. What happened?

Last week, when I got the call from your vice principal about you skipping a class, I nearly dropped the phone in shock. How on earth could my perfect, studious, responsible son not attend advisory? It was obviously a mistake. Surely you got lost, or you hit your head and fell unceremoniously into your locker and was buried in old apple cores and crumpled paper until you regained consciousness an hour later.

Except that wasn't the case, and the next thing I knew you were in detention. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this in the best way possible with no prior experience whatsoever.

Oh, wait a minute. As it turns out, I do have experience! Not in raising a teenager, perhaps, but most certainly in cutting class. And suddenly, a little grin appeared on my face. I had a shower, put my clothes on, and I went to collect you from after-school detention knowing exactly what to do.

See, I was a bit of a high school bad ass. By thirteen I was skipping classes regularly. By fourteen I was expelled.

Some would say I was the cutting class queen.

A cut above your average school delinquent.

That 80's band, Cutting Crew? That's right: Named after your mom. And any chance of getting out of your truancy easily just died in your arms tonight.

Um, I mean last Wednesday.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I won't let you go down the same path I did. No way, no how. You're too good for that. You made a mistake, but it's one that, if not dealt with properly, could lead to more and bigger mistakes. I won't see you mess up your life under my watch, no matter how ill-equipped I may feel about raising a teenager at thirty-three years of age.

So, when you got into the van after detention and I didn't say a word to you, I hope you saw the seriousness of what you did.

When I grounded you for a week, I hope you saw concern beneath the anger.

When I made you tell your dad what you did, I hope you saw worry under his disappointment.

When I said you have to earn our trust back, I hope you believe in yourself enough to know you can, because we believe a lot in you.

When I told you that if you ever do that again I'll go to school with you for an entire day and walk you to every class and cut your sandwiches into little stars in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time, I hope you know me well enough to take me seriously.

And when we tell you how much we love you, I hope you believe it. Because we really do.

We really do.

I know you feel badly about what you did, but you're a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes, my sweet boy. Thankfully, I believe to the core that this is one you're not likely to contemplate again for a very long time. I know some of the people you cut class with didn't even go to detention because they aren't afraid of the school consequences, and at least one of them has a parent who doesn't seem to care enough to discipline him whatsoever. But I hope you can see that the reason we jumped on this so hard is because we do care, and we take our role as your parents seriously.

Love you, big guy. Don't forget it.

The Truancy Officer Mom

PS: Your brothers have promised never to grow up. I'm so relieved I only have to go through this teenager stuff once. Phew!

Open Letters to the Gremlins: February Edition

Dear Intrepid;

Showering: It's an essential part of life.

I understand that you're thirteen and you would rather stay up late, watch highly inappropriate cartoons, eat anything you can get your hands on, go to bed, and wake up 20 minutes before school without ever seeing the inside of a bathtub. However, you need make room in your busy schedule to bathe. I shouldn't have to remind you to do this.

You may argue that I was once a teenager and therefore should empathize with what you're going through, but you would be missing one important fact: I was a girl teenager. Most girl teenagers live in the shower. We take great care to do our hair, apply makeup, switch outfits 18 times, and possibly throw a top into our school bag that shows more cleavage than mom or dad would approve of so that we can put it once we get to school. We like to smell good, look good, feel good. It's a whole different universe.

Furthermore, girl teenagers like boy teenagers who smell good, too. Since we're lacking in the stench department, our olfactory system is wide open for stinkiness from outside sources. This will become far more important to you in the coming years. Just sayin'.

Other than that, you're pretty awesome. You're a ray of sunshine, a huge help, and you even remember to take out the garbage sometimes. But please make sure you do your ethics project tonight. I do not want yet another last minute stress-fest tomorrow morning because it's due and you haven't printed it out yet, and the printer isn't working, and your bus comes in four minutes, and...

Love,
Mom



Dear Gutsy,

People like to tell me what a great kid you are. I couldn't agree more. You're funny, creative, bright, sweet, and have all sorts of other wonderful traits, too. I'm pleased as punch to call you my son. A world without Gutsy would be a much less colourful place.

However, I draw the line at statements from people at your school who like to tell me how you're quiet, polite, and a very good listener. You have many amazing qualities, my dear middle child. But those are not among the list of things I say about you (Yes, I keep a list. It's in my head, and I use it show off to other moms when I'm in a bragging sort of mood. We all do it, trust me. It's a mom thing.)

Clearly, they have never witnessed a morning at Casa Maven. I should probably invite them over to be proverbial flies on the wall. They can watch as you take a very long time to get out of bed; insist on a specific type of breakfast even if there's not enough time to make it because you took too long to wake up; refuse to pick out your own clothes yet complain about the ones we bring you, need help getting into absolutely every article of outdoor clothing and whine the entire time; and only actually make it to the end of the driveway before the bus drives by about 75% of the time, usually after stomping around and yelling about how things aren't going your way.

You do all this before I manage to get any coffee into my system. That is so uncool.

Clearly, you have them all fooled. I think you bottle up all the complaining, non-compliance, ear-piercing screaming, stubborn arm-crossing, fridge-door-kicking, and remote-control-throwing, and save it for when you're at home.

While I appreciate the thoughtfulness of this gesture - trying to make school a good place for everyone around you- we may need to discuss a more balanced approach. I could most certainly deal with some behavioural notes coming home in your school bag every now and then if it meant you wouldn't throw your pants at me because you don't like the zipper. I could handle the odd call from your teacher about a discipline issue if you wouldn't try to break our appliances when I say you can't have a snack five minutes before dinner.

Balance. Let's work on that, ok? It could give my heart an extra ten years of ticking time. Think of all the extra birthday and Christmas presents that could buy you! See? I'm not a selfish bitch of a mom. There's something in it for you, too.

Love you lots and lots despite butting heads yet again this morning,
Mom



Dear Spawnling,

Sorry about your hair. Maybe we could try visiting an actual salon without having you jump out of my arms and run screaming at the mere site of a barber chair? Then I wouldn't have to do a hack job at home like I did this morning. Your hairdo makes me think of what would happen if Shaggy got freaky with a paper shredder.

Dammit, Spawnling! I'm a writer, not a hair stylist!

I guess you wouldn't get the Star Trek reference, being three and all...

Hoping you have nice hair and start using the potty soon, please-oh-please my little darling.

Lovingly,
Mom