Now I'm one of THOSE moms (Part 1)

(That's me in the short-shorts)

Raising an anxious, explosive child is a lot like running a marathon:

- you signed up for it before knowing exactly what it would entail
- other people make it look easy
- halfway through it you realize you still have a very long way to go
- you wonder how anyone finishes it alive
- you find yourself wishing that maybe you had taken up squash instead

This morning was one of those full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful mornings of resistance that came on the heels of yesterday morning's full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful morning of resistance. Two days of not wanting to go to school. Two days of Gutsy insisting that the problem is that school starts too early, not that he stays up too late. Two days of his dad and I snapping at each other under the strain, of his brothers avoiding World War III at all costs, of Spawnling covering his ears and crying while Intrepid leads him into the living room to distract him.  Two days of dropping Gutsy off well after the bell, filling out a late slip, and feeling like the worst parent ever. Because after doing this for so long, shouldn't I have figured out how to make it work?

On mornings like this, I'm often left dumbfounded as to how we manage to stay sane. Then I remember that thinking I'm sane probably means I'm not, so that explains a few things. I likely went crazy a long time ago, thus throwing up a shield of denial so thick that it is near impenetrable. I'm so smart.

I can't begin to describe how depleted I am after running this proverbial marathon. We do this dance nearly every day, arriving at school with blood pressure so high it would fail a drug test, with resentment unjustly placed upon a poor little boy who can't help himself. He's not trying to be difficult. He's not trying to make everyone's morning chaotic. He's doing the best he can in his limited capacity to deal with the stress he feels about walking through those elementary school doors.

But that doesn't mean it's easy to deal with.

I can normally keep it together, but today wasn't one of those days. I had done everything right: talked to him about the things bothering him at school (including being picked on by some boys in his class), came up with an action plan, did some yoga and meditation with him before bed in hopes of helping him be more rested,  picked out his clothes with him before lights out, and got him up half an hour earlier in anticipation of it taking a long time for him to get ready.

It took two full hours for him to get dressed, eat, put on his hearing aids, and get to school. And those two hours were absolute hell. He fought tooth and nail as I did everything from staying completely calm to eventually yelling (I'd like to pat myself on the back because it took over an hour of him refusing to get out of bed before I even raised my voice, but it doesn't feel all that commendable). So, as hour two approached, I sat at my kitchen table and cried - hard.  It was one of those defeated, exhausted, chest rattling sobs. Gutsy kept apologizing and saying that he'd try harder tomorrow. Talk about a guilt trip. Poor kid.

Oh, but it gets worse. The Maven doesn't go home until she goes big.

Off to Gutsy's school we went, he in a happier mood, Spawnling still in his pyjamas with winter boots and coat, I with puffy eyes, no makeup, and hair that rivalled Medusa's. After signing his late slip and sending him off to class, I started explaining to the receptionists (whom I've known for years) that we were really, really trying to get him to school on time and that I didn't want them to think that we're delinquent parents who don't care.

And then I started crying again. And one of them gave me a hug. And the whole time I'm thinking that I look like a complete idiot - an unkept one at that - standing here in the middle of the school office with tears in my eyes and a child with pyjama pants on beside me.

It was official: I had become that mother. The unstable one. The one with "problems". Lovely.

They were very quick to reassure me that nobody thinks we're bad parents, and that they know we're doing our best. And it was even said in that sincere, we're-not-just-saying-that-to-get-you-out-of-here way. That was nice, but now I'm a good parent who's doing her best and who cries in the school office. Oh goody!

On my way out, I ran into another wonderful support staff who offered up more hugs as Spawnling impatiently waited at the front door for me (I had promised him Tim Hortons after we dropped off his brother and he was making sure I knew how to keep a deal). So I cried some more and gave her the rundown, while Spawnling said he'd wait for me outside. As I was thanking her for being so wonderful, I looked outside and saw that Spawnling was defiantly standing on the edge of the road, glaring at me.

Now, not only am I the disheveled drama queen mother, but I'm the disheveled drama queen mother who can't keep track of her kids because she's too busy crying.

There are entire reality shows dedicated to people like me.

Despite my embarrassment, I ran to the road feeling a little better. My son goes to a great school with people who really care about him. They understand that we're under a lot of stress and that we do our best. So I don't need to feel like a terrible parent, and I can drop my child off in the morning - sometimes late - knowing that he's in good hands. To parents of special needs kids, this is like striking gold.

I am not the world's best mom. I mess up from time to time. I lose my shit, I cry in inappropriate places, I'm far too hard on myself. But I'm not a robot, and my emotions are what keep me in the race. If I couldn't hurt deeply, I couldn't love deeply, and thus wouldn't have the motivation to run this marathon for him. For him.

I would do anything for him.

Tomorrow's another day, right? And tomorrow - or the next day, if that's when I have time - I will blog about an amazing parenting workshop I went to. Despite the events of the last couple of days, the advice I received about discipline has been helping a great deal.

The Case of the Bad Teenage Moustache Flashbacks

Something terrible happened yesterday. Something that came out of left field, tripped me while I was eating my ice cream cone, and laughed as I cried into my strawberry-stained pigtails.

My son - my teenage son - shaved for the very first time.

He had a moustache, but not a full one, exactly. It was a bad teenage moustache, with dark little hairs hanging unceremoniously above his lips, forewarning everyone that he will soon be nine feet tall and eat three lasagna trays for dinner. The pimples, the moodiness, the sudden interest in girls that doesn't just involve grossing them out - all signs of impending adulthood. But I was able to overlook those because they didn't bug me. That moustache bugged me. Why?

High school: 1990

I was a fourteen-year-old with curvy hips and curly hair. And, while I wasn't the prettiest girl around by far, I had those ever -important markers horny boys look for: insecure with obvious daddy issues. I might as well have had a target drawn on my forehead that said "Please come on to me. I'm looking for love in all the wrong places, and, while I won't necessarily enjoy your attention or even be attracted to you, I'll appreciate that you notice me. Thanks."

I remember a lot of things about the boys who took an interest in me. I remember they were mostly denim-wearing rockers with mullets rivalling any Def Leppard video. Most of them played guitar - or at least tried to - and were in bands that had any combination of the following words: "death", "hate", "mega", "motor", "dark", "slash", and "beer".  All their bands were going somewhere, of course, and you could be that special girl who gets a ride to the top with them - in more ways than one.

But there was one thing I remember more than anything else about these guys: the bad teenage moustache. As they tried to grope me over my well-worn Motley Crue shirt, their annoying little moustaches would tickle my cheek or my neck, making me shudder (they probably thought I was shivering with excitement - sorry, boys). And, when I would finally tell him that he needed to simmer down a little and take things slower, the creepy caterpillar on his pimpled face would curl as he scowled.

The realization that being able to play five power chords on your dad's electric guitar doesn't mean you're going to get laid is a tough pill to swallow.

Anyway, if there's one thing I associate with horny boys who want to dry hump you through their acid wash jeans while "Sweet Child of Mine" plays on the ghetto blaster, it's a dark patch of sparse hair sitting north of the upper lip. It screams "I have hormones! Lots of hormones! Girls to do every girl I see!"

Intrepid's furry little friend started coming in a few months ago. At first it looked cute. You could catch a glance here and there if the light was just right. But by last month, it was growing in a lot darker and was noticeable from across a room. It kind of reminded me of when Joseph on King of the Hill hit puberty. Visions of tassled suede boots and boy makeup swam through my mind. I wondered if other mothers had shared the bad teenage moustache stories with their own daughters. Would they be wary of the fuzz?

Since my son was taking an interest in the opposite gender, I felt it best to give him an edge only a clean-shaven young man can have. It was time to send him upstairs with his dad for a lesson with the electric razor.

He came down after a few minutes looking much better and rather proud of himself. I am relieved for girls everywhere - or at least in his junior high.

My own traumatic horny pubescent boy experiences aside, I have a responsibility to my son to teach him how to look his best. He is fourteen, and if he wants to start dating in the near future, he needs to know what girls find attractive. He doesn't have to change who he is, but using what he has - including a handsome, clean-shaven face - is what's going to score him the ladies.

Or the lady, who he'll meet after he's finished his PhD at 26, and will marry and lose his virginity to on his wedding night, and who he'll live nearby with so I can see my grandchildren every day.

*ahem*. A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, my baby boy now has enough facial hair that he needs to groom it. For some reason, I wasn't quite ready for this. I'm thirty-four, for goodness sake. It is not right that I have a child who shaves.

I'm feeling positively ancient. Maybe I'll have a midlife and go be a groupie for a while. I seemed to be pretty good at it twenty years ago. Has anyone seen my Motley Crue shirt and push up bra?

The Ruler of the Universe turns Eight

Baby Gutsy and aunt Katie, 2003

Gutsy turned the big 0-8 on Saturday.

I threw in the zero because I realized that two digits sounds more powerful; more omnipotent. Since Gutsy informs me he wants to be ruler of the universe (he'll have to fight me for it), he deserves a more impressive announcement of his most recent age change.

We rang in his birthday with an iPod Touch (Did you know you could buy them used from the online Apple store? They come with a pretty package and a one year warrantee, and the price is far more reasonable than a new one. This works well, considering I tell my kids that Dad and I aren't made of money. In fact, we're usually made of overdraft. I don't think they get the joke. Frankly, I hope they never do.)

A couple of months ago, I asked Gutsy if he'd like a party and some small gifts, or no party and a nicer gift. He immediately squealed, "Like an iPod Touch?!" to which I replied, "Maybe something like that."

I made a real point of telling him that if we got him a big gift, there would be no party. It would be a pretty typical day with something shiny to play with. He seemed completely fine with that.

Gutsy was perfectly happy to get an iPod and iTunes gift card. We were to follow that up with a quiet dinner out as a family at one of the few restaurants that can cater to my gluten-free self: Swiss Chalet. Apparently, the quarter chicken and baked potato are a pretty safe option. You're welcome, vast quantities of gluten-free lifestyle Canadians who read my blog. I'm sure all 2.7 of you will want to know that.

What ended up transpiring was one of the very best birthdays he's had.

It turns out that our friends decided to throw a rather impressive birthday for their son who turned 9 on Friday. On Saturday, they had a party at their house, complete with cake, hot dogs, hyper children and a reptile zoo. Gutsy and their son are friends, so off we went to take part in the festivities. Gutsy was impressed that, not only only did he get a nice gift, but he he also went to a party on his actual birthday. He didn't care a smidgen that it wasn't for him. Who cares when you get to hold a scorpion and pet an alligator?

After the party, we decided to go chill out at home before heading out for dinner. However, by the time we were going to leave, we had a total of nine people in the house. Gutsy's friend Jacob, Intrepid's friend Aidan, my mom and brother had all come by. We decided to just fedd everyone take-out Swiss Chalet, and jokingly referred to it as the "After Party".  Gutsy grinned the entire time. As it turns out, would-be Ruler of the Universe attended two parties on the birthday that wasn't supposed to have even one.

It took me most of Sunday to recover from Saturday.  We had a great time, but there isn't enough coffee in the world to keep up that pace for 14 hours straight. We are such unintentionally awesome parents, aren't we? Let's hope Gutsy remembers that when the iPod honeymoon period wears off.  I hope they're happy together for a long time. A really, really long time, because he sure as hell isn't getting a DS for Christmas.

I spent an entire year waiting for reason to kick in. Kids start to reason at seven, you know. It's when their cute little brains start registering that the universe doesn't revolve around their every whim, and that maybe they should start taking notes about how it actually works. "I do this and this happens. I don't do this and that happens." Neat-o concept, isn't it?

Frankly, I don't think Gutsy ever got the memo. Seven wasn't an easy year for him by any means. In fact, I'd say it was probably his worst. His anxiety peaked, we had to do an emergency class change in the spring, he had bullying issues, had a hard time making friends, we were in therapy all Summer and are waiting for a psychology referral to go through now. We had more tears, more panic attacks, more fury, more worry and more heartbreaking moments than ever. Geekster and I spent many hours talking about what we could do to make his life easier, and how we need to help him manage this stress before he gets into the teenage years. With a brilliant mind that never stops running and a propensity toward anxiety, this is a kid who needs special attention now. Put simply, last year was a really hands-on time, an exhausting time, but hopefully it will pay off later.

Between you and me and the internet, I'm happy to say goodbye to seven.

Too cool for school, 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

Eight is great, or at least it should be because it rhymes. You don't rhyme something with "great" unless you expect it to deliver, right?

Come to think of it, "seven" rhymes with "heaven" Shit. There goes that theory.

Okay, so seven might have been a bad year, but I believe we made a lot of headway.

I sound like a CEO during a bad quarterly report, don't I?

Put a different way, after some maturation on his part and work on all our parts, Gutsy's outbursts (which are usually panic attacks regrettably disguised as tantrums) are becoming less frequent and often less severe. We gave him his own room,  which means he now has a quiet place to go to think and calm down. He relies heavily on schedules to keep his life routine, so we make sure those are in place as much as possible. He tires easily after a day at school, so we've left homework open-ended this year.

And truly, I can't say enough about his teacher. She has been nothing short of phenomenal. Patient, understanding, supportive, and seems to genuinely understand who our son is. The two Teachers Assistants have been really amazing, too. Thanks to them, he's doing well both academically and socially so far. I don't worry about him at school. Now if only they could bottle up that essence and send it home...

This year, we're focusing on making life less stressful in Casa Maven. Geekster and I have realized that we're all wound up incredibly tight, like snakes ready to pounce.

Strike. I mean strike. Why can't snakes pounce, anyway? Do you need feet to pounce?

It stands to reason that, after hundreds of explosions in the house, everyone is going to have their guard up, waiting for the next one. Unfortunately, anxiety breeds more anxiety, and before long we have ourselves a perfect storm. We need to stay calm. Easier said than done, but we're trying. I've even cut back a little on caffeine.

Only a little. I'm already alcohol-free, drug-free, smoke-free and now gluten-free. Caffeine-free is not on my list of priorities. Do I look like someone who wants to suffer every day?

I'm also working on rebuilding my relationship with Gutsy. We're butting heads less, laughing more, and enjoying each others' company again. I hate to say that I all but shut down around him for a while, but I did. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to that as well as a bit of unreasonable resentment for the stress we all felt. That couldn't have helped him whatsoever, and it certainly didn't help me. And it royally sucked, because this is a child we tried to bring into the world for five long, frustrating, sad years. This was a very wanted, anticipated little boy. Words can't describe how amazing it is to hold a baby you've wanted for so long and thought you'd never have. It was truly one of the best feelings in the world.

I always said that it needed to be one stubborn little egg to lay anchor in the unfriendly waters of my PCOS-riddled uterus, and Gutsy most certainly fits that bill. He needed to be who he is in order to be here today. At least, that's what I tell myself. And yes, it does make it easier, so don't burst my bubble. Stubborn egg, stubborn sperm, got it?

Despite any issues we've had, we're so happy to have him here. He is loving, thoughtful, kind and gentle - when he's not throwing chairs or launching ottomans. I love him even on the most challenging mornings. I love him when he strokes my cheek and smiles, or tells me that I'm beautiful. I love him when he buys his little brother a donut with his own money, just because he loves him so much. I love him when I'm trying to follow what he's telling me about cabling and networking and movie editing software, and it's going right over my clueless head. I love him when he tells me the funny things he and his friends do at school. I love him in the evening when he tells me he loves me, half asleep.

I especially love him when he's sleeping. Just sayin'.

I love him, and because of that, I'm going to do everything I can to make eight better than seven. Happy birthday, my sweet little boy. Just try keep the claws retracted and the horns tucked away a little more this year, ok?

Gutsy and Spawnling, Fall 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

PS: Many of the great pictures on my site are via Trinque Photography. My sister is one talented chick who does everything from family shoots to weddings.

Life With an Anxious Child Explained

A few nights ago, when I was out at a party, a had a conversation with a few people about going to the gym. I explained that one of my major reasons for not going was because I like being married and would rather not get divorced over leaving the house several times a week at bedtime.  And I laughed, of course, but in that ha-ha-serious kind of way.

This is when a guy I had just met piped up and said that he would be incredibly supportive if his wife was going to the gym that often.

I glanced over at my husband sitting at another table enjoying one of the few evenings out we manage to squeeze in as a couple. He had just sat back down after leaving the room for a minute to deal with a call from a distraught seven-year-old who missed us and didn't think he could go to sleep until we got home. He knew that could be one of many phone, and we hadn't even had dinner yet. We almost left because we knew what kind of night was going on at home.

By the time we got home, teenage built-in babysitter extraordinaire Intrepid was at the end of his rope, frustrated because Gutsy just wouldn't go to bed as easily as his three-year-old brother. It wasn't a great night him or Gutsy.  Some go off without a hitch, some are bad. It's a roll of the dice.

*~*~*

This morning, Gutsy was ten minutes late because he wanted to wear shorts on a cold, rainy day in late September. He didn't want to wear one of the three different pairs of pants he could choose from. He was stressed to the point that he locked up: he couldn't get out of bed, kept glancing at the clock knowing he was going to be late for school, crying because his toast was getting cold in the kitchen. Once he did get dressed - which by now had taken 45 minutes - and had eaten his breakfast, he didn't want to wear the appropriate rain gear, which then had to be shoved into his school bag so he could wear his shoes and sweater.

And then, of course, he complained about his heavy bag. But Geekster and I took a collective deep breath and kept silent.

Why? Because we pick our battles, that's why. Doing this made him only 10 minutes late for school instead of 40 or 50.  It saved Gutsy from feeling even worse about how he behaved this morning, becaus we know he can't help it. It saved his dad and I getting stressed to the point of snapping at each other. It saved Spawnling from waking up to a house filled with the screams of his seven-year-old brother.

Basically, it saved our morning from going from bad to completely shitteous.

This is life with an anxious child. Stressful, overwhelming, heartbreaking.

*~*~*

Like a lot of kids with special needs of various types, Gutsy has good days and bad days. I watch him a lot on those good days as he smiles and laughs and flows through the day like a typical child would, wanting to bottle up his essence and save it for the harder days. Because when those days hit - oh, when those dark, unpredictable, incredible sad days hit - I wish I had some happiness and peace of mind to give him. I hug him and tell him it's okay, that we love him and always will, that I'm sorry he's having a hard day. Geekster does more of the same. He can calm him down much faster than I can. I'm still learning how to be a better mom to Gutsy.

Late at night, Geekster and I talk about the hard things:

"How do we help him?"

"Is he going to be able to overcome this?"

"What are we doing wrong? What can we do better?"

"How will he function as an adult with such crippling anxiety?"

I have to believe this is going to get better. I have to believe that my son who has not only anxiety but hearing loss and very likely giftedness (a word I used to shun but am now taking more seriously for his sake) to contend with, is going to grow into himself as he matures. He has so much on his plate that it's no wonder he struggles.  Frankly, the fact that he has good days is a big step.

He is making steady progress in balancing his moods and dealing with his anxiety. More importantly, he's learned to talk about how he's feeling. He explains to the best of his ability what is going on in his head and his heart. It's hard to hear, but it's important we do. Only when you hear him explain it can you understand why morning and bedtime can be a struggle, why he thrives on routine, why he hates himself for losing his cool the way he does. Underneath the stress and worry, he is sweet and thoughtful and kind. I love my Gutsy so much. I'm so proud to be Gutsy's mom.

*~*~*

I met with his teacher last Friday and gave her an overview of the obstacles he faces. I told her that homework can be a real challenge when he's having an off day, so she has now left that open to doing as much or as little as he can manage without any pressure from her. This will improve our home life more than she will ever know. I'm so glad he has a teacher who gets it.

When the guy at the table said what he said about the gym, I replied by saying that I have everything I need at home: a treadmill, weights, a yoga mat. He asked "Yes, but do you have the motivation?"

"Not right now, no," was all I could muster. What I wanted to say was "No, I'm totally fucking exhausted most of the time just dealing with my day-to-day. But I'll find motivation again soon. And frankly, this is all I have right now, so it will have to be enough."

I don't expect people to get it. I don't expect that they'll understand when I say I can't go out again because I was already out a couple of times this week and it's hard on my family for me to leave like that.  If you have typical kids who don't freak out on a regular basis over small things like changes in routine, then you're going to think my husband is a useless twit who can't do things on his own. What you're not seeing is that handling those tantrums alone with two other kids in the house, is beyond exhausting. And to ask him to potentially do that several times a week is not something I'm prepared to do. For him, for our marriage, for our kids, and ultimately for me, because I love my family.

But it will get better. Gutsy is more aware of himself every day and is making changes. He's resuming therapy in a couple of weeks, and we have excellent support from the school.

It will get better. But you will not see me at the gym anytime soon.

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!

In which The Maven feels... lonely?

Hello? Anybody home? Maven? Didn't you say you would post more often so your sheeple wouldn't cry and find a new religion to believe in that does not revolve around some thirty-something chubby chick who lists her major turn on as "some dude showing up with a coffee in his hand"?

Forgive my lack of posting. Again. We are all sick, have been sick, or are about to get sick, depending on which member of the Maven family we're discussing. It's not so fun. I was the second victim after Germy the Teenager Wonderboy Intrepid brought home some grade 8 pestilence to share. Want to know what it was like? Think 24-48 hours of Alien meets The Exorcist meets some movie with really graphic toilet humour.

The worst part of the horror-fest was that, at one point on Saturday, I was so week that I couldn't even turn around in bed to grab the remote and change the channel. I spent several hours burning my braincells with terrible TLC reality shows. I used to love cupcakes and fondant. I really did. Now, when I close my eyes, I see annoying people with aprons having annoying conversations with equally annoying people who just happen to be making elaborate pastries. 

I feel victimized. 

Anyway, there have been some good things going on, too. It's not all cold sweats and dry toast.

On September 8th, 2010, all three of our baby gremlins went off to school simultaneously: Intrepid in grade 8, Gutsy in grade 2, and little Spawnling for his first day in a junior kindergarten program (which isn't technically JK because we don't have such things in Quebec. It's like glorified private preschool, but in an actual elementary school with recess, gym time and such). I took a picture to commemorate the glorious event.

Gutsy, Intrepid and Spawnling are all off to school for the first. time. ever. OMG.

There they are, smiling happily at a mom smiling happily back at them. Because, finally - after nearly fourteen years of having children at home - I am now eligible for two entire kid-free days all to myself.  How joyful! 

Right after this pic, I hugged Intrepid and sent him off to the teenage hell that the high school bus, whisked Gutsy off to elementary, and brought an excited Spawnling over to his preschool. When we got there, he had his first ever moment of hesitation. 

"Uh, Mom? I'm not so sure about this..." he said to me as we pulled up. 

"Why not, buddy?" I inquired.

His voice cracked, just a little. "Well, you know how I don't like to be alone."

It didn't take much reassuring to get him out of the van. I mean, this is Spawn. The kid is made for school, for socialization, for independence. He was craving this. That's just who he is. So, off he went, waving fondly as he walked up the stairs with his little backpack on. 

And there I was, all by myself. 

All by myself. 

I could do whatever I wanted! Because, suddenly, I had six hours twice a week to do what my temporarily-childless mind could conjure up: work in the garden, write an article, paint the baseboards, run a meth lab... The possibilities were endless! I should be happy! Elated! Over the moon with glee!

Except, well, I'm not quite there yet. He's done two full days of school with only a small cry at the end of first day because he worried about how he was going to get back home. He's thrilled to be going, so I should be thrilled, right? 

The truth is, I kind of miss him. The house feels lonely without him here. It's big and quiet and eerily clean. I can sit for far too long without interruption. I can go for coffee and not have to dig out change for a sprinkle donut. I can have a conversation without hearing "CAN YOU COME WIPE MY BUM NOW, MOMMY?" yelled from the bathroom in the middle of it. 

I miss him.

I'll get used to it, I know.  He loves his time away and I'll learn to love his time away, too. But right now, I miss him. He's my baby boy, and it's dawned on me that he's never going to be all mine again, you know? From now on, I will be sharing him with others.

After I picked him up today, he filled the air between us with details about everything he did at school. How he has a new friend and one of his other friends is being shy, and how the twin girls tried to steal the flowers he picked outside so he stuffed them into his raincoat pocket saying "they're for my mom, but I can pick some for you, too," and how they learned some new songs, and drew apples, and how he really loves school very much even when he misses me.

And I realized then, as he's saying all of this, that I am so grateful. Because, despite the financial bumps, the sometimes monotonous days, the endless cycle of child care and dishes and laundry, I would never trade the at-home years I've had with my boys, ever. I might grieve those early days, but that's because I've been able to experience that precious time; the wonder and the joy beneath the obvious humdrumness; the diamond in the rough. I am so lucky, and I know it. 

Of course there's the fighting and the tantrums and the messes and the stress and the tears and the sorry-we-can't-afford-that-right-nows. Those are all there, too. Hell, after the summer we just had at Casa Maven, those have been at the forefront of my mind -- possibly even ahead of coffee, if that's even possible. It's easy to get caught up in those things, as I often do (and you should thank me for it, because otherwise this blog would be all about the rainbows and puppy dogs of parenting, which is more nauseating than the stomach flu). 

But today? 

Well, today reminded me just how lucky I am to know what I'm going to be missing. 

Then, they came home and they decided to show me exactly what I was missing all day in all their dramatic flair:

What monkeys.

Yep, the gremlins three are growing up. I promise I'll figure out what to do with those two days each week. My womb might even stop aching enough for me to enjoy them. But in the meantime, I'll be not-so-secretly grateful that we still have two more years before Spawnling is in school full-time. I plan to savour every most the occasional the very best moments. 

And write about all the nerve-shattering rest of it for your amusement. You're welcome.

Spawnling the Potty Mouth

"Dad, do you know where my sandals are?" asks a polite Spawnling as we're heading out the door last  night.

"I don't know, buddy" Geekster replies as he begins scanning for them.

Spawnling drops his hands down in an exasperated fashion. "Dammit!"

"Oops," chimes in Intrepid. "That word would be my fault. I'm sorry."

Geekster is behind Spawnling with a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. Intrepid sees it and turns away, also smiling. I give them both the "If you start laughing I'm going to kill you" look.

Okay, it is kind of funny, I know. There's nothing like an innocent little mouth saying a big rotten swear word to make me giggle. And normally I would be wanting to laugh, too. Except that, in less than a week, Spawnling goes to school. He just can't drop his glue stick and say "Dammit!" during craft time. He can't flex his extensive vocabulary of faux pas fun words. These include:

Stupid, as in "You're stuuuuuuuupid!"

Stupidhead, as in "Stupidhead!" He made this one up. I suppose I should be celebrating his creativity.

Shut up, as in "Shut up!" I probably didn't need to explain this one.

Shut your mouth! As in "Shut your mouth, Guuuuuutsy!" For some reason, this is far ruder to me than "shut up."

I realize this is a sign of our family's foul mouthedness. We take full responsibility. With two older brothers, a dad who mutters under his breath, and a mom who stubs her toe on absolutely everything, can you really blame him for picking stuff up? The only redeeming factor in this scenario is that he hasn't been dropping F-bombs; a sign of at least a pathetic attempt to censor ourselves.

The bigger problem is that we're still getting used to having a hearing child in our home. Even with their hearing aids on, Intrepid and Gutsy often don't pick up quiet speech, like, say, me muttering something about how I'm tired of all the damn fighting. Super Ears, on the other hand, will yell out "Stop all the damn fighting!" a few hours later, and then I'm left kicking myself for not being used to this non-hearing-impaired kid in our midst after nearly four years.

Now, with my little angel starting school, I'm left with my stomach in knots at the prospect that he's going to open his mouth and spew forth a plague of nastiness the first time little Tommy takes a toy out of his hands. I can hope he won't, but I worry. Oh, do I worry.

I pulled him aside this morning and told him we needed to have a talk about bad words. I told him he can't call his new friends or teachers any names, even when he's very upset. I explained that he can get in very big trouble using those words, and that I was quite sure his teachers would give him a big time out.

"But what can I say when I'm fur-russ-ter-rated if I can't say 'dammit'?" asked Gutsy.

"You can say 'darn it'. How's that?"

"Okay, that's fine." As he walked down the hallway, I heard him say "Darn it! I can't find the flashlight!"

I love that kid's ability to quickly assimilate.

There's a delicate balance to strike here: On one hand, he needs to know there are consequences for his actions at school, just like at home. On the other hand, school needs to be painted as a fun place where he needn't be terrified to go.

Because I need these two days off to become a most excellent writer, dammit!

Uh, I mean darn it.

Gutsy's Last Day of School - An Update

Is it the last day of school already?!

As of this afternoon at 3:00 - or, more likely, at 12:30 when I leave annual school picnic with Gutsy undoubtedly in tow - I will officially be the full-time caretaker of three gremlin boys once again.

Is there a way to convey anxiety-driven ticks? Because I think if I just write "*tick tick*" people might think I'm imitating a clock and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out how that fits into the context of this post.

Instead of ticking (not like a clock), I put all this nervous energy to good use and cleaned my house up all spotless like.

I did that on Friday.

It's now Wednesday. My house is still clean, even with three boys, 2 dogs and 2 cats living in it.

Throw away the yoga mat, people; I'm living proof that being a neurotic freak can be hugely beneficial to one's life.

Gutsy finishes grade 1 today. It's been one hell of a year for our middle gremlin. He started in french immersion class and ended up in the english stream with large helpings of stress for all during these difficult few months. It's incredible to think that, only a couple of months ago, our entire family was on the verge of collapse under all the daily pressure of his outbursts and, dare I say, depression. Looking back, I can clearly see the signs of overwhelming stress and sadness. I've been depressed, I've felt stuck and alone. That's how Gutsy was feeling. It breaks my heart. I get teary thinking about how hard this year has been for him.

And yet, he went off to school smiling today as he's done nearly every day since joining his new class in April. He comes home beaming and telling me about his day. He feels connected and happy. I see that sparkle in his eyes. I feel like we have Gutsy back again. It's not perfect; he still has outbursts and we still feel overwhelmed when they get bad, but the improvement is huge. With some therapy to teach us all some coping skills, I think we're well on our way to a more harmonious family.

I may be eating those words in August. Start placing bets.

We have learned so much as a family this year. We didn't collapse, we got stronger. We didn't shrink when faced with a challenge, we pulled together as many resources as possible and are using them. We didn't lose Gutsy, we got to know him better.

My only worry about this summer is that it's going to throw Gutsy's groove off. Being an anxious kid, he needs some kind of structure -- but not too much structure, because that's stressful. And it has to be the right kind of structure. Oh! And it it has to suit his brothers, too, who are six years his senior and four years his junior.

But, no pressure or anything.

I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off without losing the rest of my mind. But hey, my house is clean. Have I mentioned how clean my house is? Yes, my house is very, very clean. In fact, I was up until almost 1AM cleaning it because my brain kept shifting between "Tomorrow is the last day of school! YAY!" and "Tomorrow is the last day of school! EEEEEEEEEP!" So I just kept cleaning until the voices went away.

(I think this is the way OCD starts.)

Anyway, I need to go make some bagels. I promised one to the middle gremlin for his picnic lunch, and a smiling Gutsy makes Maven happier than a brooding Gutsy. Then, we'll head to the picnic.

And then I think I'll clean the kitchen until it sparkles.

A list of things I've learned in the last 24 hours

1. Gutsy responds very well to lists. We took the two most stressful, meltdown-inducing times in his day - before school and bedtime - and had him write out a numbered to-do he could follow of all the steps needed to accomplish those tasks. It's been about three days and we've had no tantrums during those times. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Ergo, in honour of the almighty Greek goddess of lists (her name is Listerine, if I remember correctly) I have decided to write this post out as a list. Okay, so it's not in any particular order, but I promise not to throw myself on the floor screaming because of it. Scout's honour.

2. I was a never a Scout. Not even a Girl Guide. Not that I just realized this in the last 24 hours, but I figured it needed its own number since it's in a new paragraph. Shouldn't every paragraph be numbered? How do these things work? Maybe I should ask Gutsy. This list stuff is stressing me out a little.

3. When it started playing in my iTunes playlist a few minutes ago, I initially thought Peter Gabriel's Games Without Frontiers would be a good song to blog to. You know, nice quiet background music. I was wrong. I just had to take four minutes out of my life to figure out what kid is playing with who. Who knew socializing was so complicated? How can I possibly blog when all this drama is happening? And when he sings 'She's so popular' who is he referring to? Brit? Suki? Rita? I'm feeling overwhelmed. This might call for something greater than a list. Perhaps a flow chart.

4. Speaking of Gutsy, he has a few days off to make lists for me. I had a meeting at the school on Tuesday afternoon with the teacher and principal to talk about immediately pulling Gutsy out of grade 1 immersion and into the English stream. It was unsure whether there would be enough room in the class but the principal was going to look into it. If that wasn't an option, we would homeschool until the end of the year and put him in English in September. I walked away from the meeting feeling like everyone had his best interests at heart and we would get this sorted out one way or another.

5. Yesterday, we got a call saying he could start in English on Monday. I have to admit that, given the amount of fighting I've seen between Gutsy and Spawnling this morning, I'm a bit relieved not to be homeschooling. Sheesh.

6. Gutsy is a good planner. Like, for example, he caught his little brother's cold this week and now he has pneumonia again. And hey, if you're going to get pneumonia, why not get it when you're already home for another reason? Brilliant, I tell you.

7. We caught the pneumonia early. However, considering he's had it enough times that I've lost count (7? 8?) we're now able to recognize the very early symptoms. Six hours in the ER and a chest x-ray later, he's on antibiotics. It's moments like this that I hate being right all the time.

8. And speaking of Gutsy being brilliant, I feel the need to brag about him since I've given him so much bad press with all the recent tantrum posts. On Tuesday he also had an EVT - or Expressive Vocabulary Test - courtesy of our liason from the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf. They do a few different language tests on our two older gremlins due to their hearing loss. At 7 years old, Gutsy scored in the 95th percentile, age equivalent: 10 years, grade equivalent: 4.4. Why does this matter? Because it reminds me that just because he can't be fully immersed in a second language it doesn't mean he's not a smart little guy.

9. And with all that genius in his little brain I'm expecting a huge pay off for all the work we've put into parenting him. He'll obviously develop an amazing biofuel that will save the planet and fund our retirement home in whatever place is considered tropical after all this climate change.

10. Speaking of which, happy Earth Day. Go save the planet and quit reading my blog. It's not like I ever have anything interesting to say and I'm usually too frazzled to even try replying to all the comments (as much as I appreciate them, just so you know).

11. Wait, that wasn't something I just realized, either. I've always known April 22nd is Earth Day and that I'm a lazy blogger. I'm really sucking at this list business. Maybe I'll go stomp my feet and throw some stuff.

12. But before I go, I just need to mention that not an hour ago, Spawnling was holding a football to his crotch and singing a song about his 'giant penis.' I think there might have been a mix-up at the hospital and I got somebody else's very strange, genital-obsessed child.