Sex, Lies, and Parenting Myths

 Now that my eldest is a teenager, I feel the need to help the human race by dispelling some myths for the current and prospective parents out there. There are so many of them and I worked a whopping five hours today on top of poorly mothering my three kids, so I'm only covering four myths right now.

And you're going to smile and say "thank you for the wisdom, Maven" and quite possibly start a coffee trust for me for when I'm broke because I decide I finally want to try my hand at writing full time. Ok? Ok.

Myth: You make sweet love to have a baby.

Truth: You engage in something that can only be described as a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in which you are not enjoying what you're doing and yet you're doing it naked. "Good. We engaged in sexual intercourse for the fifth time today. You have spread your seed within me. Get off me now. No, I mean it. Hey! HEY! Stop trying to hug me! You'll jostle the mother load! Don't-- Listen, I'm serious! DO NOT TOUCH ME, ASSHOLE! I'M TRYING TO MAKE SURE YOUR SWIMMERS GREET MY FUCKING EGG SO WE CAN CREATE FUCKING LIFE, OK!? ... Can you give me my laptop so I can input our copulation schedule into this website? Oh, and prop my ass up with some pillows, will you? Thanks, darling."

Myth: You'll settle quickly into parenthood and you'll just know when it's time to have another baby.

Reality: Mother Nature hates you and wants to laugh at you, so she'll make you think you're ready for another baby when you're too overwhelmed to notice that your life really, really sucks now. "Oh, he's so perfect, honey. Isn't he perfect? Look at those perfect little toes on those perfect little feet. He's a perfectly perfect mix of our genetics. It just makes my uterus blossom with happy rainbows! Let's have seven more right now. No, I mean now. Let's get crazy! I'll just feed him, burp him, slap some diaper cream on him, try to put him down without him waking up, crawl out of the room backwards on my hands and knees so I don't creak the floorboards, change my nursing pads, take my basal body temperature, throw a towel over the spit up on the couch, and we can make spontaneous love just like we used to! Don't you just love being a parent? It's magical."

Myth:  Your parenting is reflected in your child.

Reality: Don't kid yourself, Bertha. Your shelf of Dr. Sears books is only part of the puzzle. If you have well-behaved, sweet kids that everyone secretly resents you for, you obviously haven't had enough of them. You haven't had The One yet. The One is an egg of evilness that lives within you (or in someone else, if you're adopting - The One does not discriminate) that instinctively knows parenting "experts" are conspiring with Mother Nature to increase the birth rate in the Western World. The One will find you, eventually, and will hand you your false sense of control on a skewer. The One will make you cry, make you question your decisions, make you wonder why Dr. Phil won't answer your emails because doesn't he know how bad it is at your place? I think everyone needs at least one of The One. I have several. I fancy myself a bit of a collector.

Myth: Your child is super smart. Smarter than all the other kids.

Reality: All children are super smart, sort of. I mean, maybe yours can do long division at three and mine can't, but mine shares toys at playgroup and that's a serious life skill. (Actually, that was just an example. None of mine shared toys at playgroup at three, nor could they do long division. Not shining stars on any level when you look at it that way, but I digress...) But when you hear things like, "Timothy has a 4.0 GPA at his Montessori, and can do complex equations with his fridge magnets, and learned to ride a two wheel bike at 8 months old, blindfolded, as he recited Shakespeare sonnets" it's bound to make you feel a little inadequate. Well, Timothy might very well bite the heads off gerbils when he's not doing the baby babbling equivalent of "Look, ma! No hands!" The universe always strikes some kind of a balance. So don't feel bad and go hug your mediocre kid who will probably grow up making you at least moderately proud. And really, what more do you want? If it's a toss up between beheaded rodents or a thrice married professional gambler, I'll take the latter.

So there you go. Myths debunked. You're very welcome.

There, there. Don't cry. Everyone eventually comes to realize that 80's TV sitcoms lied to us. You'll get over it.

How to be as High on Yourself as I am: a Self-Esteem Primer

An amazing self-portrait, I know.


I drew this myself on my new tablet-mousy-thingy. They call this particular type a "Bamboo," but I honestly don't know why. It's not green or long or a renewable resource. I see no pandas attaching themselves to it. But whatever. Call it what you like, but it's fun to draw my feelings instead of just typing them all the time.

I need the kids to go back to school, like, last Thursday.

This is why I'm at work 90 minutes early today. It's not because I'm trying to get ahead on my to-do list. It's not because I was attempting to beat traffic. It's not because I'm trying to look good to my boss (my boss is my Facebook friend and follows me on Twitter - there's no way I can hide my crazy from her). It's because I get an extra 90 minutes to sit - get this - quietly and uninterrupted while I drink my coffee and write a blog post.

And, for that, you are most welcome.

Last week, I blogged about how being fat and miserable keeps us fat and miserable. And what I mean by that is simple: love your fatty self, because taking care of the body you love is a lot easier than hurting the body you hate by stupid shit like fad dieting. This post, of course, meant my inbox filled up with questions about how someone learns to love themselves as much as I love myself.

To be honest, I likely suffer from a deep-seated narcissism. So you probably don't want to love yourself quite as much as The Maven does. When you start to refer to yourself in the third person and not even question it, you know you have a problem. But I digress...

As I've explained many a time, The Maven wasn't always a big fan of The Maven. (See what I'm talking about?) I am a never-ending work in progress, much like the construction site down the road from you that never seems to produce much of anything despite all the guys standing around there each and every day. One day, they say, there will be condos there. And every once in a while you see a bit of digging, a bit of framing, and think to yourself that they better damn well put a Starbucks on the main floor to make up for all the noise you've endured.

Well, I will also have a Starbucks on my main level when I'm done, and I will make the most delicious lattes. But I'm not quite there yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I have a lot of work to do. But here's what I do know: There are concrete things I've done - and still do - that have helped me get this far. So I'm going to share them with you, what with me being such a self-help expert and all. (Please stop laughing.)

1. Let's look at this rationally.
We have one life to live. One. (Unless you believe in reincarnation. But then you might be born a toad or or a mushroom or something, so that doesn't really count anyway.) Do you really want to waste it feeling like shit all the time? What purpose is that serving? And believe me: It is serving some kind of purpose, so you need to figure out what that is.

Are you keeping yourself down because you're afraid of taking any steps to fix it? Is it comfortable doing what you're doing, even if it's not pleasant? Do you get some kind of attention from it? (AKA, having other people feed your ego by saying "Don't say that about yourself! It's not true!" That's not self-esteem, and it's not going to make you feel better about yourself. Like a junkie, you'll always be looking for the next compliment fix. Been there, done that.) Are you afraid of succeeding? Are you afraid of becoming ridiculously arrogant if you're not meek and mild all the time?

News flash: Being ridiculously arrogant is my job, not yours. You can't have it, so you'll have to settle for feeling confident. I know that sucks, but that's how it's gonna go down.

Anyway, figure out what's keeping you down. If it's fear, work through it. If it's depression, open up and talk to someone. If it's traumatic childhood issues, watch a few episodes of Hoarders and realize that pretty much everyone has traumatic childhood issues, but we need to work on letting them go and live for today, or face a lifetime of garbage collection and dead, buried cats.

2. Get over yourself, you big, whiny baby.
Having figured out what's keeping you down, it's time to let that go. Have a good cry if you need to. Say goodbye to the pity party, eat your last self-hatred sandwich. You are not a victim today. You are awesome. You are stuffed full of amazing (and maybe that self-hatred sandwich you just ate. But don't worry, you'll digest it soon). You are capable of great things if you'll just let yourself do them.

3. Come up with something you like about yourself every day. Yes, EVERY DAY.
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or whatever. That sounded like a good spot to throw in a Chinese proverb (my apologies to the Chinese if this saying doesn't belong to you. It just sounds like something your wise people would say. It's a compliment, ok?).

Anyway, the thing is, we all have stuff we don't particularly like about ourselves - even me. And now I'm asking you to compliment yourself every day. But start small: if your problem is that you don't like your weight, don't look in the mirror and say "My inner thighs look great today" because you'll probably just start crying while you say it, and that just defeats the whole purpose. Likewise, if your problem is that you're missing an arm from an unfortunate zoo accident, don't say "The lion left a really nice nub at the end of my shoulder" because that will likely have the same result. You can't start with the big stuff. If you could, you'd already have good self-esteem and not need to read this stupid primer.

My issue has mostly been my weight and how ugly I thought I looked because of it. I did not start with that. I started with non-physical things I appreciate in myself. I would look in the mirror and say - out loud, like a crazy woman - "I'm a pretty good writer" or "I'm very involved in my kids' lives and that makes me a good mom" or "I can arrange a beautiful wild flower bouquet." Anything at all that is positive about me. One thing each day, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. No exceptions. 

Why do I do this? Because I'm slowly building up my army of good to defend against the army of darkness (not the movie) that is occupying my head. Every time I plant a positive thought in my brain, it's like planting one troop in a hot zone. Every day the army grows. If it helps you to envision some yummy, sweaty, young infantry guy, go for it. I won't judge. Just do it.

4. Now come up with something harder you like about yourself - every day.
This step comes when you're ready. Step 3 can be done for a very long time or a very short time before implementing step 4. You'll know when it's time. You'll know because you'll test the waters by saying something like "I have very beautiful eyes" and you won't burst into fits of laughter or roll those very beautiful eyes after you say it. You'll believe it. 

Since physical appearance has been my Achilles heel when it comes to self-esteem, being able to slip in some compliments about the way I look was a good indicator that my army of light was growing in numbers. It took me a long time to really like my hair (I know, right? As if! I have great hair.) It took me a long time to like my smile. It took a very, very long time to be able to tell myself I looked pretty in what I was wearing, or to find myself worthy of - and rather stunning in - a beautiful dress in a size 18.

But I got there, slowly.

If you're frustrated by how long it takes to get good at step 4, just remember: At least you're making progress, which is a hell of a lot better than when you were crying into a bag of Oreos before step 1. Progress, not perfection. Baby steps. Enjoy the process, because, when you think about it, we never really reach a destination. We just travel more happily, and the scenery gets a lot nicer.

5. Beat negativity to death with a stick.
Steps 3, 4 and 5 can and should be done daily - when you get there. The thing about our society is that it thrives on negativity. We're fed all these messages every day through the media that we're not good enough unless we look a certain way, reach a certain income level, and own certain things. We're expected to be fountains of youth with fat bank accounts and huge, eerily white smiles plastered on our faces. That's how selling stuff works. Marketing 101; I didn't even have to get a degree to understand that basic concept.

The army of darkness (not the movie) will always be present and waiting for your forces to weaken. You need to replenish your troops regularly with compliments and recognition, surround yourself with positive, loving people, and shun the negative.  It is so easy to pick ourselves apart when we're bombarded with messages telling us to do exactly that. Make your world as safe and healthy as possible.

Despite my best efforts, I find that I sometimes still put myself down. I might have had a bad day, or I'm hormonal, or there's another area of my life not going the way I wish it would and I'm in full-on attack mode on myself. The difference is that I recognize when it's happening now and I fight back against it. If I think to myself "Look at those fat rolls. I'm digusting!" I quickly follow that up with "Maven. you've had a bad day, but you're still beautiful no matter what size you are. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's going to be okay." Blammo! Troops are parachuting into enemy territory. It really works - especially if you do this regularly.

And if you're struggling, just come on down and sit in my Starbucks for a bit. I'll make you a latte and tell you how awesome you are. Promise.

Buckets of Joyfulness, and other crap I've realized.



Epiphanies suck because they happen just when you're all busy crying and feeling sorry for yourself and shit. 

So we all know it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. Did I mention the giant hematoma in my stomach? The constant bleeding for four weeks? The multiple trips to the hospital to see the surgeon, the ultrasound, the constant changing of sterile pads and gauze that now make my period look like a pleasant walk in the park? "Have a happy period"? Oh, I will. I will because a period in no way resembles the bleeding that might occur when one is stabbed in the stomach - which is pretty much what I lived with for several weeks.

Then there's the fact that all three gremlins are home for the summer, my family was wound up to the point of busting a spring or twelve, the house looked like it had been hit with a weapon of mass destruction by the time I could start cleaning it again, and I have a part-time job to go to; we can see where a serious lack of creativity may have occurred.

Have I been a little depressed? Anxious? Unhappy? Downright fucking miserable? Perhaps. Not only does this lend poorly to writing, but to living in general. It is really hard to want to do much of anything when you're chronically unhappy, and I've had many reasons to feel that way.

But what I gained from this experience - this fairly unpleasant, stressful experience - is that it helped me hit some kind of emotional bottom. I hit these every so often; a low point in which I have to reassess exactly what I want in life, where I want to direct my limited energy, and what I need to do to achieve those things. Naturally the exhibitionist attention whore in me has made a to-do list, in no particular order, Maven-style (you may want to take notes):

Fall in love with my partner all over again - without making three more babies together (emphasis on the NO MORE BABIES part, thank you).
Some wise person once said that marriage is like a garden, and that it can get overcrowded with weeds if you don't tend it, and those weeds get huge and overbearing and get little spikes on them and end up choking the life out of the pretty little flowers of love and affection, and then the dandelions turn into fluffy things that get caught in your nose when your partner blows on them, which sends you into a frenzy of resentment because why couldn't he blow that shit the other way, and you end up sneezing your way to divorce court.

Or something like that.

Underneath the years of baby-making and child rearing and financial stressors and all-nighters and tantrums and exhaustion, there are two people who love each other and miss spending time together. When you're buried in babies, it's easy to forget that this person is the reason you have those beautiful little beastlies in the first place. Reconnecting with Geekster has become a big priority in my life, every day. We're talking more, working together more, laughing more, going out together more, and putting in the effort to make our relationship the heart of our family. It's awesome. I feel like I have my best friend back. Eighteen years together is a long time, and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen.

Spend more quality time with The Gremlins Three without going bat shit crazy.
This pretty much goes without saying, but the horned wonders are the little moons that circle my planet - or, at times, the meteors that crash into it. They either control the tides or render large creatures extinct - both important roles in planetary evolution, really.

The boys need more of my positive attention so that maybe they can stop seeking so much of my - ahem - negative attention. Now that I'm able to move around and drive again, we've been hitting up museums and parks with more frequency. I've been putting my fear of epic meltdowns aside and realizing that if someone starts screaming, we can always leave; it doesn't mean we shouldn't go in the first place. Yes, we have a four-year-old who challenges everything right now and an eight-year-old with special needs who can get very defiant, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out and live - intelligently, of course.

This weekend, we attended a family-friendly BBQ. We stayed just over three hours, then packed up after dinner and said our goodbyes. Everyone was calm and playing nicely, so why did we leave just then? Because Geekster and I knew that we had hit the sweet spot: The kids had played enough and were just tired enough that they would likely leave happily. If we stayed much longer, we'd have to take off quickly with someone screaming and kicking while in the fireman's hold over my husband's shoulder. So the trick is to go out and experience life as a typical family, but also know when it's time to head back home for some decompression time. At any rate, the boys seem a lot happier lately, and as such we are all a lot happier. And this is saying something, considering it's summer: the cosmic joke on stay-at-home-moms.

Extended family: yes, I really do have some.
I'm fortunate enough that my parents and siblings and grandma all live in the same town as I do. And yet I don't see them nearly as much as I'd like. This is a damn shame, because they're all awesome people (it's genetic) and we should see a lot more of each other. So another priority for me is to connect more with them. I feel a little sorry for them that they don't get a Maven fix as much as they should, so we can call this an outreach program. You're welcome, family unit.

Friends - those great people you wish were family because they know exactly what to get you for your birthday.
This shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone, but I'm really popular. This became even more apparent over the last few weeks, as people regularly checked up on me post-op, and did everything from drop off a coffee and a hug to clean the house and cook us a meal. My friends deserve a standing ovation for being so wonderful (I just need to finish my coffee first, ok?)

The thing about friendships is that they are relationships, and as such require their own bit of emotional landscaping. I've given a lot of thought recently to what makes a good friend, and how I can be a better one. What I've concluded is this: Good friends leave a conversation feeling mutually enriched, fulfilled and positive. This is how I want to feel when I interact with my friends and, just as importantly, this is what I want to give back to them. No head games, no passive-aggressiveness, no manipulation, no drama. Just good stuff, love, laughs, support, hugs. I think I'm a good friend most of the time, but having given it a lot of thought, I see room for improvement. I know this is shocking, being as I'm so fabulous and all, but it's true. So I'm going to focus on bringing joy to my friends' lives, which will only serve in bringing me joy as well. And then we'll all have buckets of joyfulness, and I'll likely get a Nobel Peace Prize for discovering said buckets and ending all wars.

Attitude. Oh, do I ever have some.
What I've been reminded of recently is that happiness is a state of mind. It's a choice. It's not something that is created or taken away from outside influences. Yes, there are big catastrophic situations that can suffocate a person's happy for a time. But, overall, most of how we see life is based on how we choose to see it. I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy for a good while. But you know what? I've had plenty of reasons to be happy, too. I've just overlooked those in favour of focusing on the negative stuff.

As such, I'm making a conscious effort each day to look for the good stuff in my life and celebrate it. There may be plenty of suck, but there will always be plenty of suck. There will also be many things that are plenty of great. I'll deal with the suck, but I'll also invite in the great. And thus, I will be even more kick ass than I already am, if that's even possible.

Buckets of Joyfulness, Batman! You've hit on something big! (See? It's already happening - my buckets are being mainstreamed into the English language)

What's big on your priority list? (Other than reading my blog, of course...)

Why Surgery is My Dream Come True

Mmmmmorphine.

 I had originally mentioned that my surgery was June 21st. That was a big giant fib told to me by some mean lady at the hospital, who then told me something else (actually she was quite nice and apologetic, but that doesn't sound nearly as dramatic). In fact, it is tomorrow, the 23rd.

Tomorrow morning I head into a lovely country hospital about 45 minutes from here, will be put under, sliced open, meshed shut, and will spend the next three days or so in bed before I'm able to come home.

I can't wait. This is sounding more and more exciting to me by the hour.

Tonight, as I was chasing Gutsy and Spawnling through a parking lot, then through the aisles at a grocery store whilst having my arms unceremoniously packed two feet high with various forms of high-fructose corn syrup (operation Buy Their Love complete), a list of reasons why this surgery is not only required, but needed, started running through my head. Here's what I've come up with:

Time to Myself
I've been a mom for fourteen years, and have had maybe four nights away from my children in that time. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm willing to get my gut cut open and barbaric things done to my insides in the name of some time off. Desperate times call for desperate measures. To celebrate my alone-ness, I have packed two books, a few magazines, my iPhone and headphones and am praying they still offer me free cable. Nothing says "I have nothing better to do" than watching The View.

Say Yes to Drugs
Unless you're living under a rock, you probably know I'm in recovery. That means I'm stone cold sober at all times: No drinking, no drugs, not ever, in just over twenty years. The exception to this rule, of course, is if they're administered at a hospital under strict control for the purpose of pain management. I am not-so-secretly hoping to get stoned out of my everlovin' mind for a couple of days. I'll be happy as can be, it'll pass the time, I'll sleep a lot, and I'll probably engage in some serious Stonedbooking and Tweeting while I'm at it to amuse the masses. You're welcome.

Not cleaning
I don't even think I need to elaborate here. Mothers everywhere are breathing heavily at the enticing thought of not having to lift a finger for days, if not weeks. I think I'll enjoy it at first and then will be dying to clean something - anything - before I'm given the green light to do so. But until the twitches start up, I'm going to enjoy every unproductive minute.

Quiet
I know hospitals aren't quiet, but they're a hell of a lot quieter than Casa Maven. There are not three unbridled boys running through the joint, knocking, misplacing, breaking, manipulating, and disorganizing everything. I know I'll miss my Gremlins Three. I really will. And I'll likely sleep better once I'm drifting off to the sounds of their tirades and tantrums again. But in the meantime, I'll just up the morphine drip and listen to the soothing beeps of the monitors.


Staying in Bed
"Mom? Moooom? MOOOOM?? MOOOOOOOOOOOM??!! ... Can I have some cereal?"
"It's 6:15 on a Sunday, and you know how to pour your own cereal."
"But I can't open the baaaaag. And the milk is emptyyyy."
There will be none of that.
All. Weekend. Long.

Booyeah.



Room Service
"Nurse? Nuuuurse? NUUUUURSE!? NUUUUUUUUUUUUURSE?!?"
"You have a call button beside you bed, Maven."
"I know, but it's more fun to yell for you. Anyway, can you get me a coffee?"
"...Again? Didn't you just have one?"
"But, but, I should really make good use of this provincially-funded catheter, and I'm an invalid with a stapled wound, trapped in a bed, and life is hard. And come on now, do you really want to see my sad face? Look how pretty I am with this mascara on. This hotness can't be redone with swollen red eyes, girlfriend."
"*sigh* Fine."
"Thanks, toots. Two cream, k?"
Oh hellz, yeah.

See you on the flip side. And don't worry, I'll be back. I'm speaking at BOLO two weeks post-op, so I'll be sure to get plenty of rest, blog from bed, and get better - fast.

How to be a Good Mom on a Bad Day

We all have them: those low points in our lives where we wish we could just go crawl into bed and watch nothing but Grey's Anatomy reruns with a box of tissues and a big bowl of eat-my-feelings chocolate-covered almonds. Those times when shutting out the world and forgetting we know anyone but those crazy, half-toothed guests on trashy talk shows would be the best self-help a girl could get.

Sadly, shutting out the world is generally reserved for the woman who has not, in the last 18 years, pushed a screaming watermelon out of her hooha. I was reminded of this yesterday when I was having one of those gallon-of-ice-cream-down-the-cry-hole days and Spawnling wanted to... play. The very last thing I wanted to do in the world was play. The very first thing was I wanted to do was scream, followed by cry, followed by maybe some good ol' fashioned moping. But I had no such luxury. Having had unprotected sex five years ago, my ability to lock myself away in my room was severely impeded.

(May the last sentence be a warning to all young girls who are sad right now and thinkibg "Maybe if I just had a baby, I'd have someone to love me and wouldn't feel sad anymore!" Uh, no, little emo chick. You'll feel sadder because you'd have stretch marks, and you won't have any time to write your cryptic Facebook statuses and notes with ex-boyfriends tagged in them anymore, because you'll be too busy catering to someone who cries even more than you do. Go talk to someone instead.)

Anyway, I had no choice but to abandon my hopes of curling up in the fetal position, and instead be a responsible mom. Ick.

It got me thinking about how I've managed to muddle through all those other days in my parental past where I've felt like absolute garbage. How have I done it? And, more importantly, what Mavenly wisdom can I pass along to the masses? Naturally, I've made a list. At 5:30 a.m. with a cup of decaf by my side, may I present to you my findings:

1. Keep busy. Very, very busy. If you're anything like me, the most dangerous thing to have on a bad day is time on your hands. When I'm stressed out, my mind can be a scary place with nary an off switch in sight. So, I make lots of plans. Since I had my first actual day off yesterday in at least two weeks (note to self: schedule yourself better so as to avoid future burnouts), I took Spawnling to the museum with some friends. That took up a good chunk of my day and staved off the emotional wrecking ball in my brain for awhile. When we were there, I saw this sign. Being the incredibly self-absorbed human I am, the title made me think it was put there just for me:

True dat.
Awesome! I'm dealing with extreme pressure right now! I thought to myself. And I was going to read it, until I realized it was on the side of a fake submarine. And then I saw the picture of the octopus:

Oh hai, octopus.


And I remembered we were in an ocean exhibit. Different kind of pressure. Just slightly more deadly. Gotcha.

2. Eat your feelings. It's okay to have a day where you shove your emotions down the gullet with some less-healthy options. Don't be a hero, dude. Say "yes" to chocolate! Say "yes" to cupcakes! Say "yes" to that fourth cup of coffee! Yes, you can. Or, if your stomach is too tied in knots to eat much, think about how skinny your going to be if this keeps up. I devoted at least 2 hours of my thought process yesterday to how many pounds I could take off if I felt this awful every day. The idea was almost as delicious as candy.

3. Reach out to someone. I know this sounds impossible with little ones underfoot, but it really can be done. A quick phone call or an email works - with junk food as toddler bribery. A coffee date carefully disguised as a playdate can fool your kids into thinking you did something nice for them when really it was all about you, you, you (suckers). It's incredible how someone else's words and understanding can pull you out of The Dark Place. Last night, I did a lot of talking; deep, heartfelt, gut-wrenching sharing with someone I trust. Then I came home and let my husband pamper me (so nice of me, I know). I watched two episodes of Mad Men - which is not quite Grey's Anatomy in terms of distraction, but definitely juicy enough to keep me entertained. Then I slept like a rock - until Spawnling crawled into our bed at 4:30 and I woke up just enough to start thinking about how I should go back to sleep. Game over.

4. Don't over-think. A friend of mine said this week that our thoughts are like a train, and that we're supposed to sit onside the tracks and watch it go by (I really hope I got that right). But sometimes, when we're over-thinking things, it's easy to grab hold of one of those cars and get violently whisked away from that peaceful place. I'm trying to stay passive in my thought processes and not touch the shiny cars. Hands off, watch them go by. Of course, the next question is "How on earth do you not do that, Maven?" Which leads into,

5. Enjoy the moment. Yesterday, as my head was clouded with a hundred racing train cars, Spawnling walked into my room, hopped up on my bed, and said "You know, Mom. We never used to have computers, or beds, or TVs, or anything! They weren't always here. And in the future, we'll have new things that are really cool" He paused for a moment, thinking, then said "It's like the world is a story that never ends..." Wow. The train came to a halt as I absorbed what my philosophical four-year-old had just said. I blocked the tracks with cattle, dumped out the coal, and breathed in a very special moment. Later, I sat for a few minutes and sang Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" with the littlest gremlin, back and forth, back and forth, listening to his sweet little voice when it was his turn. That boy is so full of wonderful, which leads into,

6. Embrace joy - and I'm not talking about the scowling cafeteria lady downstairs by the same name. It's not always an easy thing to do on bad days, but joy is always there, hiding in the peripherals of our clouded vision. Sometimes it finds us, and all we have to do is let it in. When I was in my not-so-happy place yesterday, the universe thought it a good time to remind me of how lucky I am. Spawnling and I were at the museum with friends, but what we didn't realize is that there was a school trip filled with a bunch of other people we knew who were visiting at the same time. And, believe it or not, that was the second time this week this has happened to us, in different museums and with different schools. I lost track of the people I ran into yesterday, and how many hugs, handshakes and laughs we had. Joy: It's everywhere. I just needed an extra big dose yesterday, and it was delivered right to my front door-- or the museum. But whatever, I'm not picky.

I woke up ridiculously early this morning, but I'm feeling a lot better. Yesterday was tough. Those are days I sometimes wish I didn't have, but they're ones I wouldn't trade for the world, either: growth days, reminder days, days that make me grateful for the less painful ones. I threw my grappling hook up and caught the side of the pit, and pulled myself up - with a little help.

And I did it all with a four-year-old on my back. Good job, me. The Maven, as always, rocks on.

What do you do on a bad day? Any advice to impart? Do share.

3 Things that Drive me Crazy

1. THE UNKNOWN

To me, the great unknown is the emotional equivalent to having bamboo shoots hammered up my fingernails. Put another way, sitting in limbo is the poop raining down upon my happy parade, making all the clowns cry and the tuba player wishing the opening of his instrument wasn't quite so basket-like. It's my nemesis, and I've had to spend a lot of time with it the last couple of days. Spawnling's ECG was yesterday morning. We were to sit in the waiting room and the nurse was to come out after speaking with the technician to tell us how the little gremlin's heart is doing. Problem? The nurse was busy, so they sent us home to wait for her phone call. Do you have any idea how long it takes for medical professionals to get around to calling people back? I suspect we may have answers by the time Spawnling starts collecting a pension. And yes, I was one of those moms and called to let them know we were still waiting on answers. Guess what? That was about as effective as Sarah Palin teaching a sex ed class.

2.  THE SIX-DAY WEEKEND

Who do I strangle at the school board for deciding to lump three PD days together and stick them before the already long Thanksgiving weekend? Now I get to listen to the cheery sounds of my children trying to kill each other for the equivalent of three back-to-back weekends. School board genius, I haven't even recovered from summer vacation yet. The twitches have stopped but the nightmares still come in droves. What were you thinking? Do you hate stay-at-home-parents? Do you envy our bonbon-eating, Ellen-watching, pyjama-wearing ways? Why must you do this? The exhaustion is already setting in after only a single day of uncooperative, un-sharing, unbridled chaos. When the turkey's tryptophan kicks in on Monday I'll probably lapse into a coma. How on earth am I supposed to experience an "a-ha moment" with Oprah in a coma?!

3. THE CLUELESS MARKETER

A) Are you serious? This is a different woman altogether.

B) There's this neat program called Photoshop that lets you edit things like skin tone. If you used it, maybe you could convince us that Miss Pasty Whitey Universe 2010 up top is the same person as Fake-Boob SprayTan below.

C) Apparently when you get skinny, you start buying bikinis with flashy stripper tassels. Good to know. I'll start saving up.

D) Oh, and another thing? Ms. Before isn't fat. She's PREGNANT. Did you also know girls have vaginas? That's where the babies come out. I'm concerned that you couldn't recognize an obvious sign of human reproduction. But take heart, my internet marketer virgin: you might still be able to have sex one day if you pay someone.

E) Your Easy Rule for losing weight? I tried it three times and it didn't work. Well, I mean, I lost weight when the baby came out (of my vagina, incidentally) but apparently sitting with your colicky baby and eating a bag of Oreos while sobbing uncontrollably doesn't make you look like a supermodel. Go figure.

There's a Serial Killer in my House


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8. Have I mentioned she has an internet presence? 

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

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

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

The Kool-Aid Jammers Fiasco and Other Lowlights of the Week

What a week! I'm as exhausted as an extra in a Tae-Bo DVD. But I want to blog and I know that is so not going to happen tomorrow. We have a birthday party and I have to finish up a contract for that money stuff we spend way too much of.

The nice thing about night blogging is that I don't really think about what I'm writing. It just flows... Sometimes like a roaring river, sometimes like a sticky sewer line. Either way, I don't have to destroy any brain cells in the process. They're in short supply these days.

I know the highlight of the week was most definitely BOLO night, (here's a pic of me blogging out loud! Thanks jhscrapmom!) but the lowlight has a fair number of contenders. Let's take a look at the contestants, shall we?

Well, the van caught on fire and could have killed Spawnling and me. That was a double dose of unpleasantries right there. It doesn't get much lower than that... Or does it?

Oh, it does. All my children are home. Did that register? ALL MY CHILDREN ARE HOME. They are not at school. They are not in somebody else's care. They are in my home, fighting. They fight so much that if Super Nanny was here she would be rocking back and forth in a corner at the end of the day, sobbing and considering a career shift into something soothing, like pottery.

Also, all my children are... Wait. I said that already. Well, screw it. It deserves at least two paragraphs points. This is serious stuff right here, yo.

Not only are they fighting, but they're ganging up on me and bringing their friends along for the fun. On the way home from a perfectly lovely morning - a morning that I put off working and going to the passport office for so my kids could frolic at a splash park and play with their buddies - I had four children giggling and yelling "WE WANT SOMETHING! WE WANT SOMETHING! WE WANT SOMETHING!" all the way through the drive-thru. I couldn't hear a word the magic Tim Hortons speaker was asking me. I winged it and repeated the order twice, said "yes" a few times and "thank you" once. I have absolutely no idea how she even heard me or got the order correctly with all that racket in the background, but she's obviously a seasoned pro at handling unruly minivan mobs. And no, my friend Tracey and I did not get anything for the hollering horned ones in the backseat. We've been around the park a few times by now. I pulled my usual stunt of turning on Mr. Radio and turning him up just enough to drown out most of the protesting. It mostly worked until Spawnling threw a fit because he remembered I promised he could sit in the far back on the way home and was furious that I had completely forgotten. Never mind that he also forgot. Naturally, it's my fault. Sadly, the music doesn't go high enough to drown out three-year-old wailing.

Speaking of Spawnling, another fun time we had was yesterday, when I mistakenly allowed him to have not one, but two Kool-Aid Jammers. Or, as I like to call them, Food Dye in a Bag. I never buy the junk, but Gutsy begged and he was so good when we were out getting my passport photo. I temporarily lifted the ban on those evil things and allowed them into the house. Well, if I ever had any suspicions that my preschooler reacts poorly to artificial food colouring, they were confirmed yesterday afternoon. Once the Sugary Claws of Satan dug themselves into Spawnling, not even an exorcism would have helped. The boy was running in circles, screeching, flailing his arms and whacking anyone who got in the way. My friend Robyn had come over with her children and likely regretted it the minute she set foot in the kitchen. I'd like to say Spawnling took great pleasure in tormenting her three-year-old daughter, but that wouldn't be fair. I don't think he had any clue what he was doing or how to control it. Robyn and I spent a good hour waiting for his head to start spinning. Needless to say, Kool-Aid Jammers are now completely banned from Casa Maven until further notice.

(Incidentally, Maven, when you decide to remove food dye from your preschooler's diet for a few weeks, do not let your seven-year-old buy one of those fake fruit rolls and eat it in front of him. Bribing Spawnling with popcorn, chips, and anything else with a natural hue to it becomes an impossibility. Then, especially after a long day of van tantrums, you'll probably cave and give him a very small piece, which will be just enough to see him go all Mr. Hyde in a busy mall on Friday evening. However, I suppose you don't need brains if you have all that beauty, right Maven? You twit.)

Finally, nestled snuggly between the Van Wailin' concert and boarding the Hyperactivity Express at Carlingwood Mall was my trip to the passport office. See, I've never had a passport. When you become a mom at 20 and choose to live on one income so you can be a stay-at-home-mom and eat bonbons all day, there is truly no need for passports until the USA - the only place you can feasibly afford to visit from time to time - makes travel impossible without one. Since I'm going for an overnight to Syracuse, NY in a few weeks, I decided I should probably get on the whole passport thing. The problem is, I'm a bit of a spaz in government offices. My anxiety levels shoot up as I wonder if I filled my forms out correctly; if they'll accept my tattered birth certificate that's seen a lot of abuse since it was issued in '93; or if they'll call my guarantor and ask impossible questions to prove my identity, like what I take on a baked potato.

The office was fairly quiet and the whole process took less than 30 minutes, but in that time I envisioned everything from them revoking my ID to giving me a full cavity search (and not the cute guy behind counter #5, but Hilda the snaggle-toothed shaman behind #8). And the more I thought about how nervous I was, the more I wondered just how nervous I looked, which made me even more nervous, and ... Well, you get the idea. In the end, my orifices were left unsullied and the only thing they did was tell me I need a new birth certificate for the next time I apply for any government documentation. I should get my passport within two weeks.

Yep, it's been a very interesting week. Let's hope the next one is far less interesting. On the plus side, if I ever want to make some quick cash I now know all it will take is a pit, a case of Kool-Aid and a couple of thirsty toddlers. Let's get ready to rumble!

My entrepreneurialship knows no bounds.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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