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.

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 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.

The Tantrum: an illustrated primer for new parents

Got tantrums?

We do. As Gutsy screeched his everlovin' lungs out on the kitchen floor yesterday afternoon over my insistence that he say "please" when demanding asking for something, I tried to think about how many times I've witnessed a tantrum in my thirteen years of parenting.

The answer: hundreds.

I have seen hundreds of them from my gremlins alone. I've encountered hundreds more from other children at playgroup, the store, the park, and anywhere else kids have lungs. I would say that makes me an expert. And what do experts do? Well, other than feel incredibly self-important in our superior knowledge, we try to teach the masses what we know. So, if I'm going to fancy myself a leading authority on the study of childhood explosions, I should probably be teaching you poor peons all about them.

Who can benefit this lesson? New parents, for one. You have absolutely no idea what you just got yourself into, do you? Suckers.

Then there are the parents who's children never throw tantrums, either because they're too darn perfect or always stoned on tranquilizers. You might want to know what other people deal with. And whether it's your perfect genetics or complete lack of conscience that makes your kids so well behaved, I hate you. So there.

Finally, every prospective parent should study this primer. There's still time to change your mind, folks.

The Maven introduces: How to Spot a Tantrum

Now, my research has shown that there are 5 very distinct levels leading up to a full-scale tantrum. To make these easier to spot, I've taken the time to draw some handy dandy illustrations. Yes, The Maven is not only an incredible writer, but an incredible artist, too.  My talent has no boundaries.

STAGE 1: THE TYPICAL MOOD

We can't say "normal" anymore, can we? A friend and I were talking about that the other day. It's just not a PC enough term in this diagnosis-happy world. Therefore, this is a typical child in a typical mood. I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible, but let's be honest: it looks like a little dude. And, while I tried to use a neutral skin tone, there really isn't one, is there? We're fantastically multicultural in this day and age. I made this one look like my kids, I guess. Let's call him something like Little Billy. That's pretty generic.

STAGE 2: THE WARNING

Oops. You said or did something un-okay. You know how a rattlesnake shakes its tail before striking? This is what your child is doing, but in the form of an unimpressed look. It's a lot like the look you give the jerk who just stole your parking spot. This is a warning to cease and desist any and all activity that is not pleasing, lest Little Billy get all up in your grill. There is still time to turn this thing around if you just let him do whatever he wants and bow to his every whim and desire.

Oh, wait. You can't, because that's shitty parenting. Sorry about your luck.

STAGE 3: THE TIPPING POINT

We've come to this. The point of no return. You didn't back down, did you? You crossed that line and you're about to pay for it, big time. Look at the shock in Little Billy's eyes. He's so surprised and put off by you. How could you put your foot down like that? Why couldn't you have given him that fifth cookie before dinner? What's so wrong with throwing butter knives at his sister's head? And doesn't the couch look better with knitting needles sticking out of it?  Why, you're worst parent, ever! He's disgusted with you! He can't believe you just did that! And now you have it coming.

STAGE 4: THE TRANSFORMATION

This is where things are about to get ugly. You may want to move any sensitive viewers out of the room.

Little Billy is pissed. He's out for blood. At this point, you might as well find a door frame or table to brace yourself under, because the scream will be so strong it will shake the foundations of your very soul. If you pray, now is the time to do it.

This lifelike representation of a tantrum, stage 4, shows the subtle details often overlooked in its identification: budding horns, flaming hair, red eyes and excessive tooth growth are sometimes only seen if the explosion is recorded and played back in slow motion. But they're there. Oh yes, they're there.

STAGE 5: THE EPIC CLIMAX

Sometimes, hair loss occurs at this stage because all blood vessels in the scalp have rerouted to feed the needs of the devil horns.

This is a good time to grab those knitting needles out of the couch and start making something, because it's going to be a while. Tantrums can last a very long time. If the fit is happening in chillier months, maybe you could crochet a little hat for Billy's demonic tongue. Just don't stare too long into the hypno-eyes. You may find yourself giving into this monster, thus making it stronger next time.

Tantrums. They suck, I know. Thank you for your time.

THE END

Oh... Were you looking for advice to stop tantrums? I'm still trying to figure that out, too. What do you think I am? Some kind of expert?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My entrepreneurialship knows no bounds.

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 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.

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.)

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.