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.

Gutsy the 8yr. old Vs. The Maven, round 3,592

If you lived here, you'd be Gutsy's mom. Photo credit: http://mistressofthemoonlight.wordpress.com/

He wouldn't get out of bed this morning; the lump of an eight-year-old curled up in his blankets, unwilling, unmotivated, and unnecessarily unkind.

He moaned and groaned and hesitated. He whined and flopped and complained. I coaxed, encouraged, and enticed with promises of breakfast and hugs. Nothing worked.

After 25 minutes, I left his room, snapping "Get up and get dressed, now. I have to make your lunch." My patience had been properly trampled. "And whatever you do, don't start yelling for me. Just get up, put your clothes on and come and see me for breakfast."

He yelled back "Mommy! Mooommmyyyy!" in the whiniest, loudest most grating voice he could conjure up. Truly, the child has mastered the exact pitch that will push all my buttons at once. But I breathed through it, and walked into the kitchen over his protests. I knew what he wanted: he wanted me to keep coaxing, to keep playing the wake-up game. I refused. Maven don't play that anymore.

I ushered him into the van as he protested - rather loudly, I might add. The neighbours walking by had a front row seat as he blamed me for absolutely everything. Everything was my fault: it's my job to get him out of bed on time to eat breakfast, it's my job to get make sure he's happy, it's my job not to send him to school when he's this upset. "It's all your fault, mommy!"

As we drove the two minutes to school, he told me through tears how he's going to take a whole bunch of stuff from people he hates and use it to buy a mansion (I'm thinking he must hate a lot of people - or at least a decent amount of rich people). And he's going to move in his best friends, and maybe his brothers and his dad, but not me. Oh, no, definitely not his mean ol' mom. He's going to buy me a smaller house and make me live there.

I'm being punished via square footage. Extra points for creativity.

We got to school at exactly eight (which is when it starts), he in tears, me close to it, my blood pressure likely high enough to harness as fuel and light a small city. I let him calm down in the van and eat his granola bar - which he was righteously pissed off about getting for breakfast, as he wanted cereal and I told him there wasn't enough time. We got in as the late slips were about to be given out, and I got him off to class just in time. By the skin of our teeth, with resentment still in his eyes.

So, like, it's been a really lovely day so far.

*~*~*~*

I've come to the point where I've accepted that this is what some of our mornings are going to be like. This is Gutsy, and this is the way he behaves when he's tired or stressed. I can't change his core personality. I can only my best to work with it. If he doesn't feel motivated then he doesn't want to get up, period. Sometimes the promise of meeting a friend at recess is enough, or the fact that the teacher lets him turn on the computers if he gets there early enough, or the dollar we've started dropping into a jar every time he gets out the door on time.

But sometimes none of that is enough, and we're stuck with a child who seemingly has an overactive anger gland.*

The last time he did this, which was about a week ago, I literally picked him up and put him in the van as he screamed at me. It was much worse than this time, and the hurtful things spewing from his mouth were epic. Everything, of course, was my fault. It was like a scene from the exorcist, except his head wasn't spinning around all that much.

When he got home in a cheery mood that afternoon, I said "Gutsy, I think we need to talk about what happened this morning."

He put his school bag on the ground and walked toward me with open arms, saying, "It's okay, Mom. I know you were just trying to get me to school on time."  There it was: after a few hours of reflection, he had realized he was wrong. My usually sensible and loving child had used his giant brain and figure things out. A light had gone on. He was a changed person.

He wrapped his arms tightly around me.  "I forgive you," he whispered gently.

I took a very deep breath and fell into his hug. Sometimes you just have to let it go.

I look forward to his interpretation of this morning's screamfest. Truly, I do.

*There is no scientific proof of an anger gland, but I'm quite sure one exists. Or, in Gutsy's case, quite possibly two.

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.

Mistress Chaos Likes me Too Much

Hello. My name is The Maven and I'm addicted to mayhem (hence the blog name). Or, perhaps, mistress Mayhem is addicted to me. For, try as I might to make life as smooth a ride as possible for my home of little hatchlings, we seem to be hitting a lot of potholes lately.

This year alone, we barely kept afloat with Geekster's reduced work hours and salary, my three-year-old was struck by a rare auto-immune disease, we had a dryer fire (say that three times fast - it sounds cool: dryer fire, dryer fire, dryer fire!), our middle gremlin struggled through some serious anxiety and depression, and - oh, yes - my van caught on fire.

What? I haven't told the van on fire story yet? That's because it only happened two days ago. I've been trying to write it out for the last 24 hours but my horned wonders have been too busy butting heads for me to compose more than one interrupted paragraph at a time. Still, it's story worth telling in all its chaotic glory. Come sit next to me on my pity potty and I'll tell you all about it.

Sunday night, Spawnling was running around the house wildly, launching projectiles at his older brothers and laughing evilly in the process. I don't know who helped him sneak into the food dye factory, but the kid was hyper. It was apparent he would not get to sleep without some kind of intervention. After chasing him down with a toothbrush, wrestling some pyjamas on him, and trying to read him stories in bed as he giggled and did somersaults beside me, I decided an evening drive was an absolute necessity. I do this more often than I'd like to admit. But to be honest, grabbing a coffee at the drive-thru and cruising around town for a few minutes with Coldplay to keep us company isn't such a bad deal. It's way better than being kicked by a flaying foot as I'm tucking him in.

The drive started nice enough, and Spawnling drifted off to sleep within ten minutes. I was just turning onto a highway onramp when I smelled something funky - brakes, perhaps? Meh. Must have been the dude behind me. My van just had brake work done three weeks ago. The Maven takes care of her metal baby.

I had managed to get maybe a kilometre down the road before I realized I couldn't get above 80. And that smell got worse, and I was just thinking I might want to pull over and check things out when a truck that had been behind me merges into the lane beside me and starts flagging me over, honking his horn and flashing his lights.

I pull over. He pulls in behind me, runs over and says "You need to get out of your vehicle right now. Your back wheel is on fire."

Say what, now?

I feel the shock wash over me. Sadly, when my body gets flooded with adrenaline, I get stone cold dumb. Like in a bad dream, everything feels like it's going in slow motion. Taking a sleeping Spawnling out of the van probably took seconds, but it felt like minutes. Meanwhile, all I can hear is good samaritan behind me saying "Do you have a fire extinguisher? You don't? I don't, either. Damn. Do you have water?" Not even coffee, I tell him like that's a complete irregularity. I hadn't had a chance to pick one up yet. Probably a good thing, since it would have met its untimely end being splashed on the driver's side rear wheel.

It doesn't get more tragic than that.

"Stand way, way back and call 911," says the good samaritan. "The fire is near the gas tank. You don't want to be close right now."

So I run back several feet and call 911. First, I talk to someone from the national 911 dispatch. I tell her I'm in Gatineau, but she transfers me to Ottawa emergency services, likely because my cell's area code falls on the Ottawa side. Fine. I tell them I have a car fire in Gatineau and they transfer me to - *drumroll* - Ottawa fire dispatch. Because that makes sense! Meanwhile the flames are getting bigger and the good samaritan is trying to find something in his truck to put it out with. I tell Ottawa fire what's going on and they say they'll relay the information to Gatineau. Swell. Nothing like a middleman to speed things up. In the time it took me to talk to all these people, I probably could have run across the field and adjesent Wal-Mart to the fire station behind it and just knocked on the bloody glass myself.

Watching the fire and smoke from a relatively safe distance, holding a now sobbing and terrified three-year-old, I imagined what life would be like without my van. I've never been one to get emotionally attached to material things (exclusions: our house, my grandma's antique china, and anything that has an apple on it and begins with the letter 'i'), but a very real fear hit me that the van I had lovingly handpicked all shiny and new off the lot five years ago might go up in flames at any minute.

Mistress Mayhem strikes again.

The samaritan who's name I regret never asking dug two water bottles out of the back of his truck and splashed my tire. "The fire looks like it's out," he said to me. "I really have to get going, but wait for the firetruck and do NOT drive this van. It's not safe until you've had it looked at, ok?"

No duh. Like, as if I'm getting within 50 feet of that thing until getting the mechanical "all clear." The Maven may be gorgeous, but not at the exclusion of brains. I like breathing.

He left, two more people stopped to make sure we were okay, the rest of the cars whizzed passed us at 100km/hr as Spawnling cried and I waited for a vehicular explosion. The firetruck did eventually come and confirmed that the flames were out. The biggest tragedy of this event was that I had spent most of the day makeup-less in a pool and looked like absolute ass with my sunburn, chlorine-fried hair food-stained shirt in front of three gorgeous firemen.

I've met hot firemen twice this year. The last time, about as close as I got to presentable was that I managed to throw a bra on under my shirt and sport some less-than-sexy yoga pants before leaving my smoke-filled house (yes, the kids were all outside at this point - my vanity takes a backseat to child safety, but not much else, I'm afraid). I always look like I'm stepping out of an episode of "Cops" when I meet the firemen. Just once I'd like to look a little more "meow" and a little less "woof." Just once.

I tried several times to call my husband, but he was outside and couldn't hear the phone. I managed to get him on the fifth or sixth try and he came just as the flatbed tow truck was getting there. We had it towed, we went home, we stressed over what happened and whether or not it would cost us a great deal of money to fix it. Scared little Spawnling fell asleep on the couch holding the fire chief badge hot fireman #1 gave him. I brought him into our bed and held him all night. He still remembers the last fire and is still freaked out by the earthquake we had a couple of weeks ago. He did not need this, too. Poor kiddo.

Mayhem loves me and just won't leave me alone. She runs just slightly ahead of me, upsetting the order of my life and leaving just enough mess for me to begrudgingly clean up once I get there. Thankfully, Mayhem is not an entirely cruel mistress. As far as this year goes, Spawnling is no longer sick, Geekster's full pay is being reinstated, Gutsy is in therapy and much happier, and the drier works just fine after a little cleanup.

What I've learned as the wise woman I am, is that road of life goes on despite the potholes. My van did not go up in flames and is once again drivable. As it turns out, the cause was faulty brake pads. I was ready to drop the words "lawyer" and "it's in your best interest to fix this at no expense to me" and "we could have died leaving my millions of blog readers without new posts" had we needed to, but the garage took full responsibility and had my van back to me a few hours later, free of charge. Like most of the potholes we've hit lately, it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

The good news is that, after much searching of last year's posts, I've finally found something worthy of reading at this year's Blog Out Loud Ottawa. And all it took was potentially getting engulfed in flames while driving on the highway.

I need a coffee.

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.

Did she really just ask me that?

I suffer from eczema.

Worse still, it shows up on my hands.

Even worse still, it appears to be stress-induced. Every time life hands me those bitter little lemons, I try to make lemonade and my damn hands get all busted up.

Last week, after using evil, skin-thinning cortizone cream for far too long to absolutely no avail, I decided to try the healthy, hemp-happy health food store. I am a crunchy girl at heart, after all. I like natural things with ingredients I can pronounce, preferably not tested on angry monkeys.

I made one big mistake: I brought Spawnling with me.

Actually, make that two big mistakes: I brought him right after I fed him a donut full of sugar with sprinkles full of artificial colours.

When we pulled up, I guiltily attempted to wipe the multicoloured evidence off his mischeivous little face, took him out of the car seat and walked into the organic wonderland. I directed him toward the little play area for kids and walked a few steps over to find the naturopath. There, I showed her my hands and we started to talk about how and why this rash was happening.

"Have you had this rash a long time?" She asked me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Spawnling climbing out of the toy area.

"No... Well, yes. I mean, sort of," I replied. Spawnling was now examining the bags of kettle chips and thinking about picking one up. He decided against it and shuffled just out of sight.

She said "Are you asthmatic?"

Spawnling started walking toward us with a jar of honey. "Um, excuse me for just a .... Spawnling, can you put that back, please? Very gently. That's right. Okay, go play with the toys now.... Yes, sorry. Mildly and unmedicated most of the time."

"And do you have trouble sleeping? Anxiety?" she asked. My three-year-old giggled and ran down another aisle.

"Um, a little. Yeah. I mean I sleep okay. Anxiety, yes. I have a history of it."

"Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" Spawnling ran at me with a loofah.

Stress? Really? Did she just ask me that? Lady, I have three kids. One is a teenager, one is a quick-to-anger seven-year-old, and the other is attempting to impale me with a sponge on a stick as we speak. My house is a mess, I have next to no time for myself, I'm always busy but nothing ever seems to get done... and you're asking me if I have a lot of stress?

I took a breath and smiled as I walked The Spawn back to the natural sponge display rack, then back to the toys. "Yes, I think it would probably be safe to assume that. See that little testosterone terror? I have two older versions of him at home."

Her eyes went wide. "THREE BOYS?! Say no more. No wonder you're stressed. I have three girls and that was pretty busy, but I can't imagine three boys! Do you ever get time to breathe with all that energy in your house? Oh my goodness. You need a B-Complex for stress, a probiotic to cleanse your gut, and some topical cream for your hands. And rest, and some extra help if you can get it. Come back and see me if this doesn't help. And good luck." She handed me the goods and gave me a look filled with -- was that respect? Respect because I was still breathing, perhaps, or maybe just because I managed to have a shower and put makeup on that morning.

My hands are slowly getting better. The B-Complex is helping a great deal, and my tummy feels healthier already. No loofas were injured during the retelling of this tale.

A Day for the Record Books

Spawnling, we need to talk.

And yes, it's about our relationship.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not exactly my favourite moments of your lifetime.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be nicer tomorrow, k? Love you.

Top 10 things I won't miss as my kids get older

A few of my friends are pregnant or have just recently had babies.

Good for them.

Holding those snuggly-wuggly newborns is nice and all, but doesn't do a thing for my maternal instinct. I am done. Finished. There is absolutely no desire to reproduce. This is a good thing, because based on family history, my body will hit menopause a good ten years earlier than the average woman. I'm likely at the start of perimenopause as we speak; and dammit, I'm absolutely fine with that. It means that, even if a rogue sperm should escape the would-be Alcatraz of my husband's vasectomy, it will soon discover a pile of dust that used to be my eggs, and no embryo shall come of it.

However, as the Gremlins Three gradually leave behind their individual "little kid" stages, I'm met with the occasional bit of sadness. I give away Spawnling's too-small clothes knowing that he's growing far too quickly. I put books and toys in a garage sale bin that my children will never use again. I look at paint colours in their rooms and realize we may need to change them soon to suit their maturity levels. I go through baby pictures and get a little teary at the sweet little beings they used to be (before they started coming up with exciting and original ways to torture their parents).

All that aside, I'm so pleased to be done with diapers, night after sleepless night, teething, screaming sick babies who can't tell me what's wrong, and even breastfeeding (a total of seven years, I'll proudly announce to anyone who asks... or who doesn't. Whatever). Yes, it's good to have my body back and my bed (mostly) back. I've earned my stripes, thank you very much.

There are many other things I won't miss, either. Here are the first 10 that come to mind. Can you think of others?

1. Exhaustion

Evening hits me like a Mac truck with a driver who's high on barbiturates. It's not tired I'm feeling; it's a whole new level of fatigue unknown to those who don't serve little masters all day, every day, for thirteen years straight. To those parents who seem to have it all together - clean house, well-behaved children, solid relationship, fruitful career - I ask you: What are you on, and did you get it from the truck driver? More importantly, can I have some?

2. Stress

Is parenting ever not stressful? No no, I mean, when you're not high on barbiturates? What I would give for a full day when I don't have to deal with some kind of child-induced upheaval. The best laid plans are often laid to rest in a matter of minutes and there's nothing I can do about it. Maybe being a control freak with a vision of what our day should look like doesn't help. Yet, I never seem to learn. I just keep hitting my head against the same wall of frustration as I try to reason with a child who is too young to reason, one who is too explosive to reason, and one who is too pubescent to reason. Silly Maven.

3. Bedtime Routines

I use the word "routine" lightly. It's more of a patchwork attempt at salvaging the last of our sanity stores in time to spend at least a couple of hours together without being asked for one more glass of milk, one more slice of cheese, one more story, or one more cuddle. These days, Intrepid brushes his teeth, gets his pajamas on, says goodnight and goes to bed. We've had a piece of this independence pie and can't wait until those are our evenings all the time. I'm looking forward to the days when the only bedtime routine I need to follow is my own.

4. Noise

This could have been grouped with stress but I believe it deserves its own category. With two hearing impaired children and a three-year-old infatuated with the sound of his own voice, this is a loud household. The television is louder, the music is louder, the fights are louder, the singing is louder... Well, you get the idea. And as someone who needs quiet for any shred of creativity to blossom, the near-constant loudness factor makes me all twitchy-like. Twitching doesn't help in the sex appeal department. I feel like my hotness is wasted when my eyelid is fluttering.

5. What's a Vacation?

Oh, you mean that time when two-thirds of my children are not in school? That's not a vacation, people: that's pure chaos. And those rare times we actually get away to somewhere that is not our own city? You got it: foreign chaos. Overwhelmed gremlins who are completely off schedule and don't know what to do with themselves resulting in overwhelmed parents who are trying their best to justify the cost of this would-be stress reducer. No, we don't do vacations very often at all. Twice in thirteen years, to be exact. We're going to wait until Spawnling is at least five or six before attempting a big one. I envy the parents who's children travel well, I really do. You're very lucky. I'm thinking the truck driver may have something to do with your "good luck," though. Just sayin'.

6. Dirt

Filth. Smears. Stains. Smells. Everywhere. Enough said.

7. The Overgrown Thing I Call a "Lawn"

Somewhere in my front yard there are gardens. Unfortunately, they are being molested by an insane amount of weeds. But it's alright: you can't see the gardens anyway because of the long grass that should have been cut last week but wasn't because we were too busy. The good news? A lot of the toys littering the front yard are buried in said grass. Actually, between hidden toys and gardens, this overgrown lawn thing might not be so bad after all.

8. Playdates

These are such a crap shoot. Let's get two or more kids together and they can play nicely while the moms drink coffee and get a bit of a break. What a good idea! Oh, except when the kids don't play nicely/won't share/push or shove or kick or scratch each other/break things/injure themselves. Then, everyone is more stressed out than when they were before and, tragically, the coffee goes cold. Swell. Know what I want? Coffee without the playdates. Actual conversation not involving several dozen "excuse me for a minute"s. Is that so wrong?

9. Scheduled Date Nights

"Honey, would you like to go out on Saturday night?"
"Sure! Sounds wonderful. Let's do it."
"Okay, we just need to make sure someone can babysit and that the kids are fed and bathed and ready for bed and that the babysitter doesn't cancel at the last minute and that nobody gets really sick right before our big date night so we don't have to cancel. Oh, and we have to be back by 10:30."
"I'm... looking forward to it, I guess."
"Me too, I think."

10. Barf

This had to get a mention. I hate barf. I hate stomach bugs. I especially hate stomach bugs in little kids who can't anticipate and can't aim. Our couch has told me it feels violated.

Must go. It's been chaos for the last 30 minutes. Loud, tantrumy chaos. Thankfully, no barf. One must be grateful for the little things.

Some Updates on the Incredible Gutsy

Everyone wants to know about Gutsy.

Gutsy, Gutsy, Gutsy.

It's all about Gutsy. Never mind how The Maven is doing. Never mind about her dumb anniversary or usurped trips to the grocery store. Who cares about that? Let's talk about a child in crisis, like that's somehow more important.

Fine: I'll indulge your disturbing show of empathy for seven-year-olds and tell you about what's going on in the realm of the Middle Gremlin. You may want to put your change and personal belongings in a zipped up pocket and keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times. It's been a couple of weeks and there is some updating to be had.

Things are going very well at school. This isn't a huge change for Gutsy, because school is not a place where he usually has major issues. Since he has my genius brain (and incredible good looks), the kid is destined for success just like me, his millionaire mother.

Oh, right. Never mind. I'm walking proof that perfection doesn't equal success. I guess I'll have to work hard for reasonable earnings my entire life like all those people who are less perfect than I am. Who says life is fair?

Anyway, back to Gutsy: He's now in the English stream and really enjoying it. I think he needed the freedom to be chatty about things without worrying about expressing himself in a new language. He can be a bit of a motormouth - no idea where he gets it from, honest.

Today, he's presenting an "Expert of the Day" project he worked very hard on. He chose the subject "Pro Movie Making" and included a film he made of Intrepid interviewing him about - you guessed it - making movies. He added in a FBI warning, a PG-13 rating, some sound effects, captions and credits. He's had several projects in the French Immersion program, but I practically needed a cattle prod to get him motivated enough to work on them. This motivation is a very positive sign for our little man. It tells me we made the right decision to switch him back to English.

We have a wonderful behavior tech at the school who is now working with Gutsy daily. They're making comic strips every afternoon to talk about how his day went. She's doing some simple exercises with him to work on his anger and frustration levels. The added bonus is that he can decompress a little with her before coming home. This may add years to my life, and I'm only kind of joking.

The last few days, Gutsy's claws have remained mostly retracted after school, which is a huge change from the hurricane mood swings happening just a handful of weeks ago. He does still have his moments - like when he got in a fight with one of his best friends last Tuesday and erupted in a way that scared the socks off me - but things are improving overall.

This isn't to say that Gutsy isn't still Gutsy. He was born with a personality and we need to work within the confines of it. He's always been an explosive kind of kid and that likely won't go away anytime soon. Transitions are difficult and he has a certain amount of rigidity when it comes to routine, foods, clothes, etc. That's just who he is, and with the right amount of gentle guidance, I see him becoming a creative, meticulous, responsible and reliable adult. Gutsy is the type of kid who will grow up to do great things if we can help his confidence grow. He just needs love, understanding and consistency (and mommy needs copious amounts of coffee.)


Speaking of which, if I hear one more person suggest that we're not consistent enough/don't show Gutsy who's boss enough/aren't in control enough, I'm going to get all up in their grill. I know they're trying to help, but that type of "help" isn't very helpful. Contrary to popular belief, Geekster and I have watched Super Nanny, too. We realize that letting a child run the house can lead to screaming and tantrums and all sorts of rotten behaviour. We have been doing this for a few years, you know. Heck, parenting is my full-time job. If I let the Gremlins Three run the house, I would have been strung up by my ankles and pelted to death with potatoes a long time ago.

Gutsy's issue is not that his parents are complacent. Geekster and I were laughing about that the other night and saying we wish that were the case; it would be much easier to solve the problem if it were all our fault. However, we have a child who isn't in control of his emotions as much as he probably should be at this age. He's anxious and quick to anger. Watching him snap is not only stressful for everyone, but terribly heartbreaking. He's a good kid with a lot of love, and yet he can turn in an instant when his brain just can't take anymore. This is a biological issue, not a parenting one.

If I don't haul Gutsy off to a corner for a time-out when he's yelling and jumping up and down and stomping his feet, it's not because I'm not in control of the situation. When his dad speaks gently to him when Gutsy is screaming back in anger, it's not because he's weak. What we're doing is helping our son get the words out of his overwhelmed little body so that he can calm down faster without further escalating the situation. The goal is that next time he'll be closer to using his words instead of exploding and feel safe enough to do so. The best part is that this method is working. It's working so much better than showing him who's boss and demanding he stop his retched behaviour right now. A quick fix isn't the solution here. Believe me, staying calm and talking him down is significantly harder than giving a time-out. It takes a lot more effort to extract those feelings from him than removing privileges and making up reward charts. It's positively fucking exhausting, actually. Complacency isn't even in our vocabulary right now.

So please, if you want to make ignorant assumptions feel free to do so but keep them to yourself. Much like any parent of special needs kids, we have enough on our plates without having to explain ourselves to those who are quick to point fingers. We have no time or energy for that right now.

Why yes, I do feel much better after saying that. Thanks for asking.

Another thing we did to simplify our family life is get rid of the playroom. Sounds counterproductive, doesn't it? How did that make things easier? A few ways:

1. We purged about half the toys in our house, making cleanup easier

2. We moved the office into the old playroom

3. We moved Gutsy into the old office and left Spawnling in his existing room, giving all three gremlins their own room

4. Now everyone has a quiet space to get away and go to sleep

5. Because the old-playroom-turned-office is rather large, I was able to move my desk out of the bedroom and join Geekster in here, all professional-like. Booyaka!

Gutsy loves his new room. He goes in there after school to unwind before joining everyone else in the common rooms. There has been far less fighting and far more harmony in the three days since we moved everyone around. And yes, that means the move was done Mother's Day weekend. Believe me, peace in an otherwise chaotic household is a gift that keeps on giving. Who needs flowers?

We now also have a social worker at our local health department who will be coordinating any help we get for Gutsy. They must have fast-tracked him in, because I was told it would likely take a few months. We now start the difficult process of finding a therapist who understands that children with hearing loss often have behavioral issues that mimic ADD/ADHD and other similar disorders. That therapist will likely cost a great deal of money, so I'm thinking I might start that prostitution ring I've been contemplating.

Either that, or write the bestselling novel in my head. Prostitution is probably easier and quicker, but I don't know if I can bring myself to wear faux fur in the coming Summer months. Nobody likes a sweaty hooker.

All this to say that things are slowly getting better but are by no means resolved. There are times when Geekster and I look at each other and wonder how we're going to get through that particular day, when I call someone sobbing because I'm exhausted and don't know if I can take anymore, when I sit by Gutsy's bed at night wondering how we got here and how we can make things better for the boy I love so much. But overall, he's happier, he smiles more, he breaks down less. He has a bit of a twinkle in his eye that I missed so much.

And for the first time in a long time, I believe things are going to be okay. Having hope is definitely progress.

There's your damn update. Now can we talk about me again?

(All pictures by my sister, owner of Trinque Photography. You can find her Facebook fan page here. If you live in the Ottawa, Canada area, this girl is for hire! I keep telling her she needs to do this photography thing full-time but she won't listen to me. Figures.)