My Kid is Way More Awesome than Me

My young padawan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very emo. Extra points for dramatic flair.

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

Yelling-punk-rebel pose. I highly approve.

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

Ego points:
Luke: 1
Obi: 0

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



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

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

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

Fear, Writer's Block, and some four-year-old Therapy

I'm a writer. And, like all writers I know, I sometimes suffer from writer's block. This can be exacerbated by the following things:

1. Sprained shoulder (check)
2. Colds that turn into bacterial bronchitis (check)
3. Sprained shoulders promptly followed by bronchitis (double check)
4. Convenient excuses (like injuries and illness, for example - some mad check-age going on, yo.)
5. Riding on said convenient excuses for 3 weeks (check times infinity)

The truth is, I'm lacking in confidence when it comes to writing anything lately. I feel like this is what I want to do for a living - what I should be doing, and what I'm good at doing -  and yet I haven't quite managed to attain that.

And I can use many excuses spanning a long way back - three babies, being home for fourteen years, exhaustion due to the aforementioned two items - but I know people who've achieved more with a lot more on their plates (Look at the awesome Laurie, for example, who is a published author, a mom, and a cancer survivor). What I'm missing is motivation, and that motivation is missing because I'm afraid I'll never make it. And, since I'm afraid of failure, I simply haven't tried.

So how do you get over being afraid of something?

I'm now I'm in my mid-thirties, and having what I think might be considered a mid-life crisis, whereby I'm examining the last thirty-four years of my life and wondering if I've wasted any hope of ever "making it" by not trying hard enough. And the longer I feel bad about, the less time I'm going to have to do it.

Thankfully, I've managed to line up a therapist, and he's helping me work through my issues.  He's very up-and-coming in his behaviour modification techniques. Here is an excerpt from our morning session:

A couple of things to note:

1. He's an exceptionally good therapist for a four-year-old.
2. His monster analogy could be put into a book. Brilliant stuff. Like, when he says: "I'll stab it in the back with my BBQ sword while dad distracts it" he's really saying: "With help from those you trust, you can gain the courage to conquer any fear." See? Pure genius.
3. I realized about two minutes after taping this that the "BBQ sword" is a not a "spear," but a "skewer." However, before you pass judgment, please note that this was a pre-morning-coffee session.

I don't know if this post constitutes "writing," but at least I got something posted. My therapist will be quite pleased.

What Love Looks Like

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

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

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

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

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

Try saying that three times fast. I dare you.

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

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

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

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

What love looks like

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

What love looks like a few months later

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

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

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

Attitude

ATTITUDE noun


A settled way of thinking or feeling about something.
If attitude came in sandbags, Spawnling would have enough to stop a category 5 hurricane.

I do not have meek nor mild children. They did not come softly into the night, but instead had me labouring a combined 89 hours, and weighed a combined total of 30lbs 12oz at birth (that's over 10lbs each, in case you didn't know). They nursed like fiends, wailed fiercely, and had no issues letting us know what they needed from us. You might say they have a fair bit of attitude.

As their mother, I would put it more delicately, and say they are somewhat tact-impaired.

When I brought Spawnling to his first well-baby checkup, the doctor - a mother to four - told me that, as third in line, my innocent little baby would likely be very easy going until he wanted something, and then would proclaim it loudly, without apology. I thought this was an unfair generalization. And I, Queen Know-It-All of Everythingland, smiled politely and brushed her off as I cradled my sweet little bundle of perfection.

If you've read my blog over the last four years, you know how quickly I was dethroned. Our doctor was absolutely right: Spawnling is chock full of attitude differently-abled tact-impairement whenever things aren't exactly the way he wants them. He's a diva without a tiara; I should probably see if I can find my old crown somewhere. It would suit him.

With my recent discovery that I'm gluten intolerant, I've been paying much closer attention to the gremlins' diets. These things have a genetic disposition, and so it's quite possible that at least one of them will meet the same fate as I at some point in his lifetime. My gut instinct tells me that Spawnling is also gluten intolerant or has celiac disease. At first I wasn't sure, but as he goes through periods of next to no gluten followed by normal quantities of it, the symptoms are becoming grossly apparent: tummy aches, bowel issues, runny nose, high anxiety, and he's quick to anger. Several of his teeth decayed two years ago with no apparent cause, which can be another big sign of celiac disease. Finally, he was hit with the unexplained and rare Kawasaki Disease in 2009, which is an autoimmune disease. Having poured through medical journals, I've learned that autoimmune diseases/disorders tend to run in tandem - meaning that there is often more than one present. These two particular diseases are linked, so there's very good reason to believe my hunch is correct.

I'm so damn smart - and far too well informed.

We see the doctor for checkups on Thursday, and I'm going to bring up to her that I'd like all three boys screened for celiac. Once the blood is drawn, I'm going to take Spawnling off gluten. If the blood test comes back positive, I'm going to consider that a firm diagnosis. Normally a biopsy of the small intestine is necessary to confirm, but with my issues I don't think we'd need it; genetics are powerful. Even if the test is negative for celiac, he can still be gluten intolerant, so we're going to do a good year gluten-free and see how he is physically and mentally after that. I know that six months has done me a world of good already.

Still, I don't think this is going to eliminate his attitude altogether. Spawn is a lion, not a lamb. That isn't going to change, nor would we want it to. With his attitude comes an amazing humour (no idea where he'd get that combination from). A couple of days ago, after seeing the movie Megamind, he asked me to quote a line. Like any good mom, I grabbed my camera:

Nope. We have no desire to change a damn thing. Like his mother, Spawnling is a beacon of awesome shining over a sea of mediocrity. Like I said, genetics are powerful.

What my Children do When I'm Not Looking (a video)

If a picture says a thousand words, then this video is a dictionary on steroids.

I regularly gripe about the drudgery of parenting the Gremlins Three. I whine about the fights, the messes, the meltdowns, the leftover grilled cheese crusts found stuffed between the couch cushions. How I find the energy to complain that I have no energy is truly beyond me. They wear me out, day after day, after hectic, unpredictable day.

Some days - especially ones where my husband has gone out of town and I'm breaking up multiple epic battles in the living room - I'll bribe the horned wonders with something neat-o, like a program on my Macbook. Like Photo Booth. I'll show them how to use it, and before long they're snapping pictures and adding in affects like genius children.

(Which, obviously, they are, as they contain half my genetics in their awesome little bodies.)

And some mornings - especially ones when I'm exhausted from the previous night's arguments - I like to sleep in, and will mumble "Why don't you go use that cool little program on my computer for a bit and let Mommy sleep so she's not a grouchy witch all day?" And they do. And I don't get out of bed until nine, when I'm finally asked to pry a juice box out of the cupboard for Spawnling.

And some evenings - especially ones where I'm hiding in the office while they make pretend weapons and run around and throw them, cackling like maniacs and screaming anime-type things at each other, and I'm wondering how single parents do this all the freaking time - I find videos like this of Gutsy and Spawnling, taken this morning while I was sleeping peacefully in bed. And then I laugh and laugh, and can't breathe, and cry, and laugh some more:

And then, I remember that I have the most kick ass, funny, amazing little creatures living in my home.

My kids rock.

Another Spawnling video (because you know you love them)

I was feeling pretty burned out today. Too burned out to talk about it and certainly too burned out to write about it, as much as I'm sure that would help to some extent. This mom stuff is hard. Sometimes, I think being a stay-at-home-mom for over thirteen years is a lot like crossing a desert - a loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming desert - with no oasis in sight.

And then, one of the gremlins scuttles into the kitchen and starts weaving a marvelous story involving Star Wars, bank robberies and things he did seven years from now, and it reminds a girl how lucky she is to be in this loud, messy, smelly, overwhelming place.

When you realize one of your kids has figured out time travel, it makes this full-time mom stuff so worthwhile. I mean, once he patents whatever he uses to visit the future, my retirement fund will be plentiful and I will build my own oasis in the desert - shirtless pool boys and all.



He's so awesome, isn't he? I mean, when he's not calling people stupid boys. (Everyone is a stupid boy when he gets pissed off, even if they are female and/or reached the age of maturity years ago.)

Anyway, now that I have your attention, anyone want three kids overnight? First come, first serve! Hurry up, because we're likely to get swamped with offers! We've only had three nights off in thirteen years and you don't want me to go so crazy I can't write at all, do you? As an added incentive, I'll bring you a coffee when we get back... unless I drink it first.

I'll probably drink it first.

He Likes Big Butts (and I caught it on video)

It appears my dear Spawnling has taken a liking to large behinds.

He enjoys sizable fannies.

He has a new found appreciation for the pronounced tush. Observe this morning's footage:



I know Sir Mix-A-Lot's song is used in cartoons nowadays, like in Shrek and, as Spawnling mentioned, in Shark Tale. However, there's an important difference: They stop after the first verse because parents would likely not appreciate their young child hearing the rest of the words.

...And that's where big brothers happily come in to fill in the blanks by finding the song online and listening to it with impressionable younger brothers. Thanks, guys.

There's something rather unsettling - and yet damn funny - about hearing your three-year-old say the word 'sprung' -- and not be referring to seasonal changes. Just sayin'. So I had to get it on video, okay? I had to. I couldn't help myself.

Considering that Spawnling sings everywhere - and I mean everywhere - regardless of where we are or who's around, outings are going to be very interesting for a while. Move over Star Wars theme, because papa's got a brand new bag - or butt - to croon about.

We're going to be so popular the park this year, don't you think?

Here's what I want to know: What is the most embarrassing thing your child has ever said or done in public? As I enjoy hearing about other people's impending sense of social doom and not just sharing my own, I beg you to dish.

Spawnling Lays Down the Law

I often talk about how much attitude my little Spawnling has. Yesterday, I decided to get it on video.

For the record, I did take away his jellybeans. They're potty training bribery (and it's working - who knew sugar would work?) and he took off at a dead run with them in his hands, cackling the entire time. He wasn't cackling so much when I chased him down and put them back in the cupboard, however. So, he decided to set down the law with me.



Have I mentioned lately how much I love this kid?

Epic "Quiet Floor Play" Fail

You know those mornings when you're feeling kind of blah and in need of a little pick-me-up? And it's post-holidays, and the place is a mess, and everyone is itching to get back to some kind of normal - if your life can even remotely be described as 'normal' even on the best of days - and the Christmas tree needs to come down, and you had to tear up the bathroom a few days ago because your makeup met the inside of the toilet bowl and caused some major problems, and everything just seems a little bleak?

That's when some people might think to themselves: "Gosh, if it weren't for all that unprotected sex over the last decade, I would probably have a cleaner house. Why? Because my childless-by-choice spouse and I would be somewhere tropical for the holidays, getting young tanned cabana boys to serve us non-alcoholic drinks with little umbrellas in them."

Some people might think that, but not me. No way, Jose (or whatever my Cabana boy's name might be). I'm far too dedicated a parent to have succumbed to the feeling that having three kids in a messy house for two weeks with a semi-broken bathroom to boot might be overwhelming and/or depressing. No way. Not me.

Okay, maybe once, but only for a second. Because, before I knew it, Spawnling burst into the kitchen and disrupted my overcast thought process with "Hey, Mom! Look what I can do!"



And just like that, I remembered why having kids is so awesome. My littlest ray of light chased away any negative thoughts. That kid gets cuter by the day. Shortly after that, he stacked a bunch of cups precariously on the table and confidently declared "See? No problem at all. Pizza cake!"

Later on, I decided to put a temporary ban on game consoles and the Nick channel so we could do some "creative play." And believe me, it gets very creative around here. Spawnling amassed a nice collection of Littlest Pet Shop toys over the holidays, so I yanked those out, dumped them on the living room floor, and started pretending.

It took me back to the My Little Pony days of old, where I would brush their pretty manes and send them out to prance around in the field/shag carpet. We would have a good time, those ponies and I; Together, we would work out complicated social situations and navigate the immature waters of schoolyard crushes through imaginary play, all the while beautifying our pony stables with pink furniture borrowed from Barbie.

So, when Spawnling took an interest in Littlest Pet Shop animals and their accessories, I knew this was an activity I would shine at. I would show him the ropes of quiet floor play, and draw my boy into the wondrous world of make-believe that had a whole lot of interior decorating and a serious lack of fight scenes. With three boys in the house, we see enough fight scenes, thank you.

... And then the seven-year-old and thirteen-year-old gremlins came over to ask what we were doing. We were at the museum, I explained to them. Would they like to grab a Pet Shop friend and play with us? I knew I had them: With no computer or console games to entertain them, what were they going to do? They had exhausted drawing and various board and card games, so they had little choice. It was visit the makeshift museum I had made, or be bored to tears.

They picked up a character to play with.

"But, you know..." thought Intrepid aloud. "We could always build Spawnling's Pets an entire city."

"With Lego and stuff!" Gutsy jumped in excitedly.

This was going to be great! My boys would make a cute little town for their brother's toys, and they would all play happily with something outside their comfort zone.

Retrain the brain, Maven. Show those boys a new way to play! Better start patting that back of yours, because you are an awesome freaking parent.

Before long, the city took shape. Of course, there was the museum designed by yours truly. This would obviously be the standard for all the other smiley-happy-friendly spots in the town. While the gremlins continued their creations, I went into the kitchen to make some coffee.



When I came back with a cuppa, there was a park, complete with slide and merry-go-round. Very cute.



Oh, and look! A zoo with the Madagascar crew in it! A little strange that animals would go visit other animals in a zoo, but Arthur the aardvark has a dog, so why not? And sure, there appeared to be a UFO in a palm tree, but isn't that part of the 12 Days of Christmas song? I think it is. Gutsy was simply squeezing out the last bit of holly jolly in his system, that's all.



But, um... What was this last thing?



"It's a haunted house, Mom!" explained Gutsy. "And look: The skeleton scares all the animals that go inside, and the knight chops them up!"

Intrepid cried "Cool! Let me try!"

"Me first!" squealed Spawnling in delight, as he rushed over to the knight's gleaming axe with a wide-eyed hedgehog.

I give up.