The Secret to Why We Have Kids

Today, Spawnling "graduated" from his preschool program. I put that word in quotes because he'll be back for another year in the fall; this time for four days each week instead of two (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou Gods of Maternal Alone Time! All those slaughtered goats and virgins have finally made you pay attention to me.)

Attitude? Spawnling? Never.

The graduate and his biggest brother

I got a little teary for a couple of minutes when they were singing their cute little songs and standing in their cute little rows with their cute little certificates. We only have one more year of having a preschooler. It's going to be hard to say goodbye to this stage of life, forever. If I could bottle up his four-year-old-ness and keep it for always, I most definitely would. Today, he told his teachers he wants to be a beekeeper/cop. Not just a beekeeper and not just a cop. He also told me that the woman who turned the corner was a "very stupid person" because she didn't use her "orange flashing lights" to tell us she was turning. At least he has the cop thing down. I admire his sense of justice.

Know what I don't admire? His tantrums. His outbursts. His unwavering attitude every time he gets tired and his filters become penetrable. Tonight, as we were finishing up some swimming pool mooching (my favourite summer sport), he decided to call his buddy "the stupidest friend ever," refuse to apologize, tell me he hates me, and then run outside, crying.

I'm contemplating chloroform and some ropes next time we go out. It would certainly make "it's time to leave" much simpler.

Anyway, since I'm still just a little bit mortified about McScreamy's departing monologue this evening, I need to remind myself why we have kids in the first place. Why we build these little yell-bots inside our bodies and let them rampage around for eighteen years under our watch.

This post is going to help.

And if it doesn't, there's always chocolate.

Found in Spawnling's backpack this week. Freaking adorable.

One of my favourite things about little kids is their artwork. Spawnling has always loved to draw, but his drawings were more like scribbles until about six months ago. Suddenly, the mess of colour became somewhat decipherable and meaningful. Here are some of his recent works:

A very scary monster (or me in the morning. Not sure which.)

Self-portrait complete with pig snout, Wolverine claws and a bad toupee

Spawnling with ebola-stricken mom and dad who are obviously bleeding from the eyes

Gutsy is more of a gadget guy; a creator of sorts. One day, his friend R was here with his sister, E. I guess Gutsy and R were trying to come up with the ultimate weapon against poor E. They went into his room and plotted. I found this in there after R & E had gone home:

All her base are belong to boobs.

But this morning - oh, this morning - I received a picture to my iPhone that had me sitting in my van on the side of the road and laughing until most of my makeup had run off my face. My friend's son, a kindergartener, brought a picture home that he had drawn. In it, he's hugging what looks to be an elephant.

I'm pretty sure this kind of hugging is illegal in most countries.

... Or, at least, he's spending some sort of, uh, quality time with the elephant. And the pachyderm seems to be enjoying it quite a bit, too, by the looks of that tongue. What a happy mammal and a very outgoing boy.

I need to, once again, thank said friend of allowing me not only the pleasure of seeing this picture, but for suggesting I blog about it. You can't make this shit up, people. You just can't. This is true, raw, somewhat suggestive art at its finest.

I would have paid any amount of money to be a fly on the wall when the teacher saw that drawing for the first time. Any. Amount. No joke.

And there you have it: This is why we have kids, and probably why teachers teach.

My Kid is Way More Awesome than Me

My young padawan

It's widely assumed that I'm the funny one in this family (not to be confused with the funny-looking one, although I think there's a bit of truth to that, too.) After all, I'm the one with the blog in which I record life in a generally humourous way.

It's also assumed that I have the biggest ego in this household neighbourhood hemisphere. I can see where people might get that impression: I'm forever going on about how awesome I am, and I take more than enough pictures of myself. But in my defense, I'm my own best art subject when I want to mess with filters (I'm always around and I don't have to beg myself to stand still for two seconds for once in your life, please oh please, for the love of God). And being this awesome is worthy of regular discussion. I consider it community outreach; maybe, by sharing a little bit of me, I can teach the under-awesomed a thing or two, you know?

There was a time when I was the most self-centered, self-assured person in my family. It was a good ride, but it came to an end four-and-a-half years ago. The minute Spawnling hatched, he reached his clawed little hand up and pulled the tiara and matching sash from my person so as to claim them for his own.

Let me try to put this in a context that geeks basement dwelling mama's boys serial virgins the, um, average person will understand. Let's use a Star Wars analogy. See, once upon a time there was a great Jedi named Obi Wan Kenobi. He was this really amazing bad ass dude who owned with a light saber, rocked the robes, and could have totally wooed the bitches if he wasn't so wrapped up in upholding universal balance and junk.

One day, he meets Luke Skywalker. Luke is this kid who comes from out of nowhere and has way nicer eyes than Obi Wan and doesn't insist on sporting a hippie beard, circa 1968. He's like Obi, but without getting all killed by Darth Vader. Sure, he looses his hand, but he gets an amazingly lifelike prosthetic one, raises a spaceship out of a swamp with a little green man yelling at him in broken english, and then kicks Darth's ass.

It's not like Obi Wan wasn't awesome, it's just that his awesome pales in comparison to Luke's. He taught Luke so well that now Luke is epic winning incarnate, and Obi is dead. But it's okay because he's a ghost now.

See, I am Obi, and Spawnling is Luke. Through me, he is making himself into a legendary action figure. Observe.

Today, Spawnling asked if he could borrow my camera. I said "sure!" and went back to gardening. When I plugged in the camera this evening, I found out what he had been doing with it: taking pictures of himself.

I also take pictures of myself, but his are way cooler.

Very emo. Extra points for dramatic flair.

Seriously? A pout pose? That's my signature move. (He does it better.)

Yelling-punk-rebel pose. I highly approve.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. How amazing is this?

Ego points:
Luke: 1
Obi: 0

Now, onto the lesson of awesomeness. I filmed this while Spawnling was supposed to be helping me garden. Apparently "helping" means he's going to pull a picnic table under the tree, blast some music, and dance on it.



I may be awesome, but I can't table dance like that.
Luke: 2
Obi:0

See what I'm saying? the kid is chock full of wonderful. And I, for one, would be honoured to take a light saber in the gut for him any day.

(I draw the line at the beard, though.)

Why My New Job is Insanely Great (with pictures)

I've come to know that I'm good at a few things.

Well, more than a few things. Let's be honest here, The Maven is a domestic goddess of epic proportions - I mean, unless we're talking about cleaning, budgeting, organizing or parenting. Otherwise, I'm pretty much great at everything home-related.

What I wasn't sure I'd be so good at after all these years? Office work. And then, suddenly, I was doing it twice a week: dressing up, commuting, carrying around a fancy organizer, and using my brain for things other than grocery lists and new discipline strategies. I'd like to smugly admit how wrong I was and say that I totally rock the job world, but I'm not exactly sure just yet. Right now I'm happy with at least being mediocre at it. What I do know is that my boss rocks at being a boss and my job is spiffy cool. This has made the transition far less painful than I had anticipated, and, dare I say, rather fun at times. Even the filing.

Don't believe me? Allow me to demonstrate:

First of all, this is the area I work in. It's a hip and happening part of Ottawa called Westboro. This particular shot isn't so great, but it was taken in a hurry a few days ago as I was on my way into Bridgehead to get a coffee. The neighbourhood is actually way nicer than this, but this will have to do until I have time to take more pictures. Coffee first, artsy pictures second. The Maven has priorities.

I always wanted to live in Westboro, but I would have had to pawn my arms and legs to buy even the smallest house there. It's a trendy little urban hot spot of a place. I live across the river with the less trendy folk, but I get to be uncool in my four-bedroom house on a half-acre property that we can afford, so I think I'll get over it. Now I do the next best thing and work in lovely Westboro - and it's a great place to work, indeed. For, not only do I get to walk around and look at all the adorable little shops and drink fabulous fairly-traded coffee, but I get paid to be there. That's right, folks: I get paid to be there. Sure, I'm going to end up spending all my paycheques on all the pretty shiny things I see during lunchtime, but this is okay as long as nobody tells my husband (I can easily disguise that type of spending as "groceries" - domestic superpowers, remember? Shhh.)

Pretty shiny things that I want to own. (Just have to sell the children first.)

So maybe I can't afford a $700 bicycle just yet (the green one with the peacock designs on it just about made me cry tears of joy and run into the store with my credit card - resistance was nearly futile), but I have been enjoying spending a bit of money on yours truly. It's become apparent that I'm totally worth it - how did I not see this blatant fact before?

Look what I bought when I took the kids clothes shopping this weekend at a secondhand store? (I tell the kids we're "recycling" by hitting the consignment stores before looking at new clothes. Cheap ass budgeting carefully disguised as environmentalism - another one of my superpowers)

"A" is for "Amanda" and for "awesome." And also for "asshole," but we'll overlook that little coincidence.

Best part? I bought the darn thing for $3.99. And sure, monogrammed purses went out of style, like, two years ago, but now I can just say I'm retro and not just a broke mom who had to wait until she found a used one. Saving the earth, one outdated style at a time.

A bit of preface before the next couple of pictures: Boss Lady has an incredible sense of humour and keen observation skills. I'm quite sure she noticed my rapid breathing when we were making a list of stationary supplies. This tech gal loves stationary, and I especially love post-it notes. They almost turn me on. I love them in all colours, all shapes and sizes, all-- there I go, getting aroused again. Post-its are a thing of beauty. You can use them for anything. They have helped tremendously with my filing, note-taking, and with little reminders like "don't forget to turn off the heat before you lock up - and fix your hair, too. This humidity probably makes you look like a harlot."

Anyway, I walked in this morning to find my desk in a state of post-it orgy. They were everywhere, showing themselves to me with - gasp! - to-do lists on them. It doesn't get better than that.

Serious hotness.

I should point out that each and every one of those lovely little things had something important written on it. No trees were unnecessarily slaughtered for my amusement. But I do appreciate that Boss Lady used a medium that would grab my attention. Emails are great, but this got my pulse racing. And wouldn't you know it? I finished every single task listed upon them.

The way to The Maven's productivity is through sticky pieces of paper. Go figure.

But the very best - the absolute best, best, best surprise in the month I've worked in my new job, was what I found on my desk last week.

I'm going to admit something here; In support of my two youngest gremlins who have become obsessed with a certain teen pop sensation as of late, I decided to bite the bullet and give Justin Bieber's music a try.

And, uh, I kind of like it. Quite a lot, actually. He's a talented kid. One could say I adore him - minus any creepy physical attraction to a boy young enough to be my son, of course. I'll leave the dreams of being serenaded and kissed to girls (and a certain percentage of boys) half my age. But I will never say never to his music again. Them's some catchy beats, yo.

Boss Lady loves poking fun at my Bieber Fever. She has absolutely no interest in my oddly preteen musical preferences, but she reminds me of them at every opportunity. This came to light when a much-promised "Bieberizing" of my workspace recently took place. I unlocked the office and walked over to my desk to find a new garbage can filled with stationary (including the highly-coveted post-it notes). If that wasn't enough awesomness for one day, Boss Lady decided to customize my trashcan:

There are no words to express how great this is.

She drew the hearts in herself, and added "Amanda" underneath "Justin Bieber - Favorite Girl." This incredible garbage pail now sits proudly next to my desk.

She is madly in lust with Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. There will be calculated retaliation in this war of idols she started. I will Vedderize her but good. I can't say how just yet, but I will come up with something amazing, being The Maven and all. Stay tuned.

PS: Have I mentioned I love my job?

What Love Looks Like

I didn't realize how antsy I was feeling as of late until I started heading into the office part-time. Now that I have something else to focus on for a few hours each week, the desire to perform a self-lobotomy while at home has lessened quite a bit.

I think I was feeling burned out. Days at home with a four-year-old were looking mundane rather than relaxed, and our activities were simply time-fillers rather than the exciting adventures they used to be. With a couple of days of work to shake things up a little, I'm jumping into my Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays with a lot more gusto.

Or, it could just be the new espresso machine. Either way, something's working.

As we were sitting in the living room this afternoon - Spawnling with a drinkable yogurt and me with my period-week chocolate-covered almonds, I realized just how much fun I was having hanging out with my littlest gremlin. We had just gone to pick up a movie and some snacks at his request, had no particular schedule, and were just enjoying each others' company. It felt good, happy, perfect. So, I snapped this picture:

After fourteen years, this part of my life will soon be over. This beautiful, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, magical, runny-nose-filled part of my life. I'm slowly phasing it out and heading into something new. In September, Spawnling will be going to junior kindergarten four days a week. I'll be using that time to grow my business. Just like that, my stay-at-home-mom days will be finished - with the exception of Friday. I will have hatched and raised three gremlins full-time, at home, until they went to school. That's one heck of an accomplishment. But it's especially special with Spawnling.

Try saying that three times fast. I dare you.

If you've been reading long enough, you know that Spawnling was not exactly a planned pregnancy. We had "not been careful" for a couple of years after Gutsy's birth, knowing full well that my body was more infertile than fertile and thus would not produce a third offspring easily - especially since I nursed the middle gremlin until the age of three. 

Once we found out that Gutsy also had hearing loss at two-and-a-half, we made a firm and final decision not to have more children. We were at peace with that choice. I started looking forward to doing something else: going back to work, watching my two boys grow up, being able to stay in our smaller home and drive smaller vehicles. I thought of the money we'd save, the trips we could go on, and how life is designed for a family of four. Planning is so fun, isn't it?

And two weeks later, the pregnancy test had two lines. The world shifted. I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry. Geekster and I walked around the house for several days feeling stunned. It took a little while to get happy and even longer to get excited. I put my dreams of a career on the back burner, and focused on being a new mom again.

Then, suddenly, he was here, and he looked at me with his big, beautiful eyes. And I knew he was meant to be here, that our lives were about to get even better because of him.

What love looks like

He grew some more, became even more beautiful, and I started to wonder if he was just trying to show off.

What love looks like a few months later

And now he's four. Four! Where did the time go? How did we go from a shocked moment staring at a pregnancy test to having long conversations about how the solar system works while simultaneously building lego rocket ships? 

Today, Spawnling told me "Mom, I love you more than pizza. So that's, like, a lot."

I love you more than pizza too, little buddy. Even the pepperoni variety. I win.

Gluten-Free: Six Months Later

Eight months ago, I looked like this:

Two months after that was taken, in a desperate attempt to feel anything but sick, I took all gluten - wheat, barley, rye and anything derived from those products - out of my diet. After an uncomfortable week of withdrawals, I started to feel better - a lot better.

Today, about six months later, I look like this:

And yes, I have headphones on. I was listening to the Black Eyed Peas and didn't feel like stopping just to take a picture. I might be vain, but good music takes priority. 

The greatest thing about all of this is that I never did it for the weight loss. Honestly, I was sick of trying to lose weight. Anything I've ever done in the name of shedding pounds has backfired on me. I did this to get my health back, and my body is responding with a slow, but steady "Thank you!" And I am responding to my body responding by grinning every time I look in a mirror. I would say this is a rather pleasant side effect to improving the quality of my life.

I saw my doctor a couple of weeks ago for a physical and told her I had gone gluten-free. She was very supportive, especially after seeing the results on the scale. She does not recommend I get a formal test for Celiac Disease as I'll just cause myself unnecessary pain and sickness going back on the gluten in order to test for antibodies. It's very apparent that my body is allergic to gluten. Duh. As a result, I can never eat it again without getting sick. Ever. When I've accidentally ingested it at a restaurant or through cross-contamination making gremlin sandwiches and the like, I've been sick for two or three days. Yucky, awful, digestive issue sick. My symptoms point to Celiac Disease, and that's what I'm now informally diagnosed with.

I whined a lot in the first little while after being forced to make this lifestyle change. I like whining about new things as I adjust to them. It's my way of processing everything that's happened while simultaneously getting on everyone's nerves: two birds, one stone. I complained at how unfair this is, how hard it is, how tedious it is. The world makes it really easy to feel sorry for ourselves when we have to make a big change. I've quit drinking, smoking, and a few other unmentionables in my life, but gluten has definitely taken the cake - yes, that's a pun -  for most challenging in my day-to-day.

However, there's only so much bellyaching a girl can do before she has to accept what is and move on. I'm there, and looking rather fabulous in my acceptance if I do say so myself. There are some wonderful bonuses to being gluten-free. Allow me to explain:

1. I look hot. Oh, I'm sorry. Have I mentioned that already? My skin, my hair, my nails have all improved, and it's exciting to see what I look like underneath this weight. I love myself no matter what size I am - I had to learn to be kind to myself in that way years ago or risk passing on a lot of self-image crap to my kids - but I'm really enjoying this transformation. When I started, I was a size 20-22. I'm now a size 18, and will very shortly become a 16. I can't tell you the last time I was a 16. I think I might have been, uh, 16.

2. I have now have a healthy relationship with food. Food and I have made peace. I no longer crave carbs (save perhaps two days each month - and you can probably guess which two days), I just eat them when I happen to eat them. I will go without bread/bagels/insert-other-carby-food-here for weeks and not even miss them. I no longer need specific foods in my home or in my belly to feel happy/calm/like I'm taking care of myself. Food is no longer love nor comfort; It's a means to an end. I generally eat nutrient-dense foods that I've prepared myself rather than the processed, pre-packaged junk. The reason is twofold: First, eating out safely is a challenge unless I plan it in advance, and I can't afford to buy most pre-packaged gluten-free foods in the grocery store. Second, now that I don't buy them anymore, I don't really want them, either. My diet consists mostly of whole foods, and that's doing wonders for me in every way. I don't think I could have kicked my food issues as easily without having a disease that made me do it. That makes me very grateful, actually.

3. I'm super awesome. I'm more alert, less anxious, wittier, more creative, and overall a more interesting human being. Scientists didn't think it was possible to improve upon The Maven, but an unclouded mind in a detoxed body has made it so. How wondrous for all who are fortunate enough to know me. You're very welcome.

4. There is no 4, actually, but I figured that wasn't a very long list and I'm trying to impress people.

5. Or a 5, but I wanted to round it off. 5 points are better than 4, even if the fourth wasn't real. 

And there you have it: 3 5 great things that have happened to me since going gluten-free. I can't wait to see what the next 6 months bring.

Suspension (with pics)

SUSPENSION noun


the act of hanging: the state of being hung : the means by which something is suspended
In Casa Maven, reality enjoys permanent suspension.

Spawnling walked up to where I was escaping my noisy reality chatting on Facebook this evening and pulled up a chair. He looked at me seriously for a moment and waited until my eyes apprehensively left my laptop's screen and rested on his. I could tell this was important.

"Mom," he declared, "I think I've figured out how Gutsy caught The Angers."

The Angers, in case my readers are not aware, is a disease coined by my youngest gremlin. Spawnling insists it's infectious.  Every time he and Gutsy get in an argument (which, at the moment, is about 75% Spawnling-induced) he accuses his big brother of having The Angers. This, of course, leads to loads of laughter from Gutsy and anyone else around, which makes Spawnling catch his own ailment and stomp out of the room yelling, "Stupid head!" or some such.

My four-year-old hatchling has never elaborated on exactly how people catch The Angers, so I turned my chair toward his and asked for his theory. This is what he told me, word for word:

"Remember a long time ago when Gutsy had that ice cap? Well, maybe it went into his body and created a second heart that is full of angry faces, and they created a power source that shooted a bunch of angers out that included a bunch of angry sources that went all over his body. So, he got The Angers."

Well, that makes perfect sense.

And yes, it did take everything I had not to:

• Laugh hysterically
• Look at my screen while I quickly typed out everything he told me so I wouldn't forget it (thankfully I'm quite good at typing without looking - years of being a geek have served me well)
• Compliment him on his ever-expanding vocabulary
• Correct his poorly conjugated verb (the inner editor cringed a little)

Four-year-olds are so cool. I was commiserating with another mom this morning as we walked our preschoolers to class. We both agreed that if we could bottle up their innocence, humour, and imagination at this age, we could live happily ever after. Suspending our tedious adult lives for a little while and enjoying the beauty of a young child's world is what having kids is all about.

Well, that and cleaning up puke in the middle of the night at least three times a year, but I digress.

I downloaded some pics off my camera tonight and found a few gems I had completely forgotten about. But I need to explain something: currently, Gutsy sleeps in a tent. We set it up in his room not too long ago, and he loved it so much that he wanted to take his bunk bed out.

Yes, we really did let him do this. He has a matress on the floor of the tent, a monitor, keyboard and mouse at the opening to watch streaming video, and he is in absolute heaven. We're either the best or worst parents on the planet, but I don't care which. You're only young once, right? This is a picture of him from tonight:

What 8-year-old boys' dreams are made of.

These are the hidden gems from the pre-tent stage. He figured out how to hang a hammock of sorts from his bunk bed. It was tied so well that he, both his brothers (including the huge teenage one) and our cocker spaniel could sit in it without falling to the floor - or the bottom bunk. I did a little photo shoot of him in it and got a few great shots of him in suspension. It looks like Dr. Spawn misdiagnosed his brother: There's no way this kid has a case of The Angers.

Why I'm the Worst Halloween Mom EVER

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

Halloween showcases what a terrible mother I am. 

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

Every year, I promise this. Every single year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look like this before coffee, most days

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

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

Pumpkin brain guts. Nasty, but cool.

Pumpkins and creepy corn stalks

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

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

Happy 4th Birthday, Spawnling!

Is it just me, or has four years gone by way, way too fast?

It seems like just yesterday when a gate to the Netherworld opened up from within my womb, spilling forth the horned wonder child we now call Spawnling. With his birth came chaos and fury, noise and mayhem.

Truly, we couldn't be more proud.

It's hard to believe that our littlest gremlin is now four years old. One day, I'm staring at a faint line on a pregnancy test in my kitchen, quietly freaking out at the prospect of a third child and the thought of breaking the news to my husband, and the next thing I know he's telling me he's too big to watch preschool TV because he's four now.

It's not that we didn't want another baby, necessarily. I mean, at one point we wanted another one, but then two got pretty comfortable - and busy. But you know, a third wouldn't be so bad.  I mean, it's not like it would be another boy anyway, right? This one was definitely a girl. I knew it to the core, and moms are never wrong about this stuff.

Our "daughter"

Okay, so we found out at around 20 weeks' gestation that our daughter had a penis, and I had to give up the idea that getting enough pink clothes together to do a load of laundry in under two weeks' time. On the night of October 12, 2006, I became ridiculously outnumbered.

Right before he was born, I told myself that maybe he would have the blonde curls I had when I was a baby. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't look so much like his brothers and dad, and instead would take after me a little bit. Because frankly, these gorgeous looks of mine have been going to waste due to my husband's stronger genes.

Maury says: Geekster, you ARE the father!

Yep. Wrong again. He looks about as much like me as I look like North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Jong-Il.

We're like twins!

Do not take candy from this man

So basically, not at all. Remind me that the next guy who knocks me up three times needs to have weaker genetics, ok?

So he may have been unplanned, have a penis, and look nothing like me, but there is something really wonderful about our not-so-baby-anymore gremlin. He's charming, funny, engaging, mischievous, loving, and terribly cute (despite not looking like me - who knew there was another way to be attractive?) He is the perfect final notch in our fertility belt. The grand finale in our trilogy of awesome spawns. The best possible reason not to wear a condom that month. And today, he is four.

So happy birthday, my darling boy. I hope you enjoyed running amuck in the Museum of Nature today with our friends, the endless train of carb-carrying cargo that entered your mouth tunnel, and the presents your brothers not-so-lovingly wrapped for you as they yelled at each other over who should do what.

What love looks like (watch the claws)

My heart grew tenfold when I held you for the first time, for I had no idea what completion was until I met you, our littlest family member.

Do you hear that?

Did you know the clock behind me ticks rather loudly? It's annoyingly loud, really. This is the first time I've noticed the ticking since we acquired the clock about three years ago. It's the first time because, after dropping off the gremlins and kissing Mr. Maven goodbye, I am celebrating the very first weekday where there is nary a testosterone-laden individual in the house.

This is, quite officially, the first day I am all by myself.

And I am quite thrilled about it.

I tried to hide my glee while I was getting everyone ready this morning. I put on my best poker face and stuffed the excitement way, way down into my belly, which made me quite full, so I was able to hold off on eating breakfast. I now know that emotions are great appetite suppressants. Maybe I should try to feel more of them instead of drowning them out, one caffeinated gulp at a time.

Do I look happy? Because I am.

I didn't fool the mighty gremlins, however. Halfway through breakfast, Gutsy was on to me.

No pictures!

It might have something to do with me taking his picture with an enormous "it's like I just won the lottery!" grin on my face.

Meanwhile, Spawnling decided to create a bit of mess in my very clean, freshly-painted kitchen before I loaded him up in the van. How sweet of him. 

What kind of havoc can I wreak in the next four minutes?

And then, as if he knew I needed a little reminder why I should celebrate and not mourn that my babies are all in school twice a week...

Mission accomplished.

Thanks, dude. And you're right: I will not miss that whatsoever for the next six hours. 

Thus today, I am not sad. I am not nervous. I am not wishing the sound of cartoons was blaring from the living room, drowning out not only my creativity process, but that ticking clock. I love the clock. I embrace the clock. I celebrate the damn clock. 

And now I am going out for breakfast. Enjoy a fabulous Monday. I know I am!