The Love Triangle: a Poem by The Maven

Writing's not something I've done much of late,

And as to why there is no debate,

I see Creativity in my backseat,

Making out with Free Time - (voyeurism is neat!)

Neither of them even bothers with me,

While I'm too stressed to think and too busy to pee,

My trust in their friendships has been violated,

Our relationship status? "It's Complicated"

Tae Kwon Do, Cross Country, run this way and that,

Here! Grab your schoolbag! Please wear a hat!

It's not that I don't want to sit down and write,

But herding my gremlins is always a fight

Wee demons throw wrenches into my down time,

They're loud and they're needy and boy can they whine!

And just as I sit on my fanny to post,

They scream from the kitchen "Mom, make me some toast?"

Imagine: them wanting some food on a plate,

Blogging or cooking: Where's the debate?

But mothering guilt starts to seep from within,

Taking time to myself is like living in sin

I truly thought when I had no more babies,

I'd stop running around like a chipmunk with rabies,

But it seems to get crazier most every week,

So much coffee gets guzzled that I start to tweak

"Where's the new post?" asked in an earnest attempt,

To get me to write before you feel verklempt,

And I know that you wait and keep clicking "reload",

Hoping my blog oats will finally be sowed

So here is a poem 'cuz I throw these off easy,

They're so quick and dirty I feel a bit sleazy,

Which suits as I jump in the back with Free Time,

And Creatively finish this up with a rhyme

The Summer I Almost Gave Up Blogging

Oh, hello there. Are you still visiting this dusty old place?  Remember me? I used to post here fairly often before I was struck by the soul-crippling days of summer. And then vacation hit, the gremlins scuttled off their respective busses, and I was quickly buried by my seasonal responsibilities.

...What responsibilities? Did you seriously just ask me that? Do you read my posts?

Stay-at-home-moms work their aprons off when Summer hits. There is no time for bonbons. There is no time for daytime trash TV. We put on full protective gear and cute matching camo outfits and run into the fray for 2.5 months.

The tasks assigned to me over the summer included (but were not limited to): chambermaid, professional organizer, short order cook, event coordinator, life coach, lifeguard, personal shopper, personal assistant, complimentary shuttle van driver, payroll manager, and overworked referee --very overworked referee. And I did all of this for the low, low cost of my sanity.

By mid-August, I had completely lost the will to live my ability to blog. Being able to write involves having time to sit down and think about stuff. It involves not having to get up every two minutes to break up a fight, get someone a snack, or help someone figure out how to not be bored.

I seriously contemplated giving up blogging altogether. I really did. I thought that perhaps my time to share the crazy in my life with the world was coming to the end of its natural life. That maybe I should shut the whole operation down and turn this subprime piece of internet real estate into a mail order bride outlet: "Canadian Wives: We Got Your Beaver Right Here."

Why are you laughing? That part wasn't funny.  I was talking about closing my blog down. It's a sad thought that is undoubtedly reducing you to big, wet tears, right? Right?

I was at a very low point in my creative life: feeling burned out, overwhelmed, with no hope in sight.

And then, yesterday, just as I had given up all hope of ever being awesome again, this little yellow dot appeared on the horizon.

Was it a canary?

A loud banana?

The Man with the Yellow Hat?

Nay, friends.  It was the school bus. The wonderful school bus, packed to the brim with wonderful children going to wonderful school!

And just like that, I felt fucking wonderful again!

So, here I am, writing a blog post on day 2 of many, many glorious days of public education. Am I subpar parent for the joy I felt when I could hand two of my children over to the system five days a week? Probably. Do I feel guilty about it? Not really, no. I'm over feeling guilty about parenting stuff. I could find things to feel guilty about every single day. Do I want to be depressed my entire life? Do I want to feel like a failure 365 days a year? No. So I turn the guilt dial way, way down.

Then, I drown the rest of my conscience out with coffee. It's better for everyone that way.

And, with my guilt dial being held down with a popsicle stick and half a roll of duct tape, I did another great thing: I enrolled Spawnling in a pre-kindergarten program 2 days a week. That's six hours on Monday and six hours on Wednesday for a grand total of 12 hours each week, or 48 hours every month. If I do the math - and believe me, I have - that will be about 480 hours this school year that are entirely dedicated to The Maven and her craft. Minus sick days, of course.

But who's counting?

Don't look at me like that. He's ready, you know. He's been begging me to go to school for two years. And besides, after well over a decade of raising kids full-time, I could use a little scheduled breathing room. I deserve this. I've earned it. Been there, done that, have the after hours comfort food binge rolls to prove it.  Stop judging me! I don't need your repressive eyes upon my person.

... Oops. I think someone moved the popsicle stick. Anyone see the tape?

Coming Out of the (Writer's) Closet

I'm just going to come out and say it.

I feel an enormous amount of pressure to put out -- good posts, that is. Because I'm a writer by trade (I love being able to say that), I'm always trying to outdo myself, raise the bar, make the next one better than the last. And what does that result in? A serious lack of posting, heartbroken readers, and a frustrated Maven, that's what.

I pondered this over my afternoon coffee today, and then tried to come up with solutions. I managed to think of three:

1. Shut down my blog so I don't have to worry about it anymore (not really an option, as the world would be reporting a surge in attempted suicides shortly thereafter)

2. Keep stressing out about coming up with The Ultimate Post (not really an option either because my stress quota is pretty full as it is, thank you very much)

3. Quit worrying about it and write what I love, even if not everyone loves it as much as I do -- like those owners of really ugly purebred dogs who think they're the cutest things in the world

Maybe this blog is my greyhound. Maybe it's not to everyone's taste and will never be a wildly successful online parenting pagoda, but as long as I smile when I see it, that's all that really matters, right?

When I first started posting, I wrote about our day-to-day lives. I had gremlin #3 growing inside of me, the first two scuttling around me daily, and a home daycare to boot. I needed a place to vent, to bitch, to whine, to look at things in ridiculous and highly inappropriate ways. It was a great release, which is why 2006 is filled with many entries. I felt free to write whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I made a fatal mistake: I tried to categorize myself.

Much like the boy who sat next to me in grade 10 art class, I felt confused. What kind of blog was I trying to write? What message was I attempting to convey? Should I stay completely anonymous or let people know who I am? Should I use profanity or keep it G-rated? Should I be funny all the time or allow for some self-pity posts?

The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. But, unlike my grade 10 art buddy, there are no support groups for this kind of thing. There are no stickers on the back of other people's cars letting me know that I'm not the only who's ever questioned her bloguality.

Yeah, I like that word, too. That's why I made it up.

Today, as I sat in front of a blank post screen yet again, wondering what on earth I could write about that would be fun, thought-provoking and rich in quality, an idea came to me:

Screw this noise and get back to your roots, Maven.

As per usual, the inside voices are right. And to think the doctor said I should quiet them down with medication. Besides, who else would tell me when I need to wear my tinfoil hat?

First of all, there is absolutely no way I can categorize this blog. I'm a walking oxymoron; I'm a mom to three gremlins (mommy blog), addict (recovery blog), writer (professional blog), postpartum doula (breastfeeding blog) who has two kids with hearing loss and sensory issues (special needs blog). How on earth do you fit that all into one category?

Secondly, I can't write posts to please other people -- unless they pay me to do it, in which case I'll write whatever they want. Email me; I will be your whore. (Sorry, that's the freelance writer in me coming out) It's just not humanly possibly to please everybody all the time, even for someone as extraordinary as myself.

Finally, The Maven needs to stop worrying about what everyone else wants, and start writing for herself again. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what a self-centered, egotistical bitch I am. Where's the fun in thinking of others? That's for chumps and people named Oprah. This is the one spot in the entire world - in my entire child-filled life - where I can plant a flag firmly in the ground (hopefully not spearing my foot in the process) and make this my own territory. It's time to step out of the closet again and breathe the fresh air of narcissistic exhibitionism.

It's quite invigorating.

So what, exactly, does my readership get out of this deal? Simple:

1. You'll get more posts because I'll be drawing from my inner fabulousness instead of trying to find it externally all the time, and,

2. You'll get inside my very scary head and even scarier life as I recount the day-to-day goings on with three gremlins and a house full of chaos

Sounds great, right?

...Wait! Where are you all going?

Don't you want to see three-year-old Spawnling's (Jack's) first attempt at writing his own name?

Don't you want to hear about how I cleverly distracted the littlest beast for an entire day last week by taking him to the newly improved (and absolutely beautiful -- definitely go see it if you can!) Canadian Museum of Nature? I told him if he didn't listen I would let the dinosaurs eat him. The horned wonder informed me that dinosaurs died a long time ago and these are just fossils, stupidhead.

Little know-it-all.

Anyway, I'm going to try and shrug off this writer's block with a good amount of coffee and some personal freedom to just write whatever, whenever. My inner critic can critique something other than my blog posts. Heck, if she judged the state of my house half as much, the place would be spotless.

Conversations with Spawnling, May Edition

Forgive me for not blogging much over the last couple of weeks, but I've been playing with this new concept of - get this - writing for money. Did you know you can actually get paid to write blog posts and articles? I also learned you can put other people's numbers into a spreadsheet, and that action gets translated into currency in your pocket. Seriously. I'm not even making this stuff up. All it takes is working full-time as a mom while simultaneously working part-time as a writer, trying to write sensible sentences while being screamed at for more apple juice, and subsisting on lots of coffee and an average of five hours of sleep every night.

You, too, can have this dream life!

Making a living with my mad skillages is nice and all, but there's nothing like a good freebie of a blog post to really let loose. This is why I don't have advertisers, giveaways, or anything else on here. I get to be me, without interruption, and without being owned by The Man, whoever he is. This is freedom money can't buy, baby.

For example, advertisers may not want to show off their parenting wares on a site where the mom parents poorly half the time, and Spawn-isms are commonly displayed for all to gasp at and chuckle about.

You know what Spawn-isms are, right? All good Stay-at-Home-Maven readers know that Spawnling comes up with the most inappropriate hilarities. Offensive to some, knee-slappingly funny to others, this is a three-year-old I'm simultaneously proud and mortified to call my son.

Today was no exception. We went out for lunch with Jobthingy, who had a day off from that work stuff she usually neglects me for. (Why we're still friends after what she puts me through , I'm not quite sure. ) We ordered our food and sat a perfectly acceptable length of time waiting for it, while we drank our drinks and chitchatted and did our best to keep a three-year-old entertained. Meanwhile, Spawnling would let out a whiny "I'm hungryyyyyyyyy!" or an "I'm staaaaaaaarving!" or a "When is my food going to be heeeeeeeeere?" every so often.

Spawn's food arrived not 15 minutes after ordering. The waiter put the plate down and started to walk away. He wasn't halfway through the restaurant when my dear child let out a loud sigh and followed it up with an even louder "FINALLY." The waiter turned around, wide-eyed, looked at me turning beat red, and started to laugh.

He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to bring the grownup food and said "It's a good thing I brought his food out early, eh?"

Say it with me now: MOR-TI-FIED. That is my child, who came from my womb, who has this sense of entitlement built right into him. I don't know who, exactly, decided he was King of the Universe, but we'll be hard pressed to ever take that crown away now.

*~*~*~*

We get back home. Spawn is happily playing on my bed. I lie down beside him for a minute (see above mention of lack of sleep) and he comes in for a snuggle. I get sentimental for a moment - always a fatal mistake - and say to him "Please don't ever grow up, ok? I like three-year-old you."

"Even when I'm four, I'll still love you, Mommy" says he, and smiles.

If there was a sound for my heart melting, I would put it in here.

"When I'm four," continues Spawn, "Will I be bigger?"

"Yes, you will be," I answer.

"Will I have this?" he whacks my stomach and makes it jiggle.

"No, I don't think so."

"Will I have boobies?" he asks as he smacks my breast.

"Um, nope. That's a girl thing." I reply, warily. I can see where this is going.

He looks at me with that rotten little twinkle in his eye. "Will I have one of... Uh... what's that called again? That thing you got? Oh, yeah: a buhgina?" He giggles. "Will I have a BUH-GIIIIIIIINA?"

"No, honey. You'll still be a boy."

"So I'll have a PENIS! And you'll keep your BUUUUUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA!"

"I'm going to go get you a snack now and sit you in front of a movie now, ok? Mommy needs to get work done."

"Okay, Mommy. Mommy's buhgina. Heehee!"

Welcome to my life.

How to sully your reputation, by The Maven

It's been a very good week, despite the puke.

Intrepid may have barfed down the side of the playroom couch and been home for the last two days, but the rest of mid-to-late-February has been pretty awesome.

Let's start with the reason I haven't blogged in a week: I was applying for writing contracts, and then I got one.

I got one!

Just like that, someone decided to hire me - and this was after I directed them to my blog. I'm not too sure what that means, and sadly I forgot to ask. Either they liked my writing style or they thought that any woman crazy energetic enough to raise three boys full-time can pull off pretty much anything.

It was like a dream job in so many ways. It looked like something I could easily do, be creative with, and actually learn something new in the process.

However, the odds were clearly against me: I applied for it on a site where I had yet to be hired by anyone, had no feedback scores from previous clients (that would require having previous clients on said site), and had a big fat $0 in my 'total earnings' box. Basically, I looked like a complete newbie in Bigwig Freelancer Land, and it was a long shot.

But I won it, likely because my awesomeness transcended even my newbieness, and it became clear to the clients that hiring me was the only logical choice.

...Or maybe it was the blog.

Nah, it was totally my awesomeness.

Anyway, I had a phone call with the project manager on Monday to discuss the work. Right before it ended, he asked me how I got into this freelance writing thing.

Wouldn't you know it? Normally witty Maven went off on a business tangent about how I've been writing for a while, and I have a background in IT but this suits my lifestyle better, and I've done a fair bit of local work, etc. I was trying to act all professional-like, and tripping all over myself in the process.

Lame, and oh-so-boring.

Hindsight is, of course, always 20/20. The minute the call ended I came up with many other, far better answers to the question, like:

"The orthodontist made me do it."

"It was either this or I go back to the meth lab, you know?"

"I used to sell black market babies, but with the economy the way it is people are skipping the middleman these days..."

"I used to be a rodeo clown, but PETA's been looking for me."

"Actually, I just find the contracts- I make my kids do the writing. You don't mind a few typos, do you?"

"Well, it sure beats hooking!"

It's probably best I didn't use any of those...

In the end, I did a good job, was finished early, and the customer was happy. I got paid, and the now Intrepid's undoubtedly starving orthodontist can buy some groceries for his family. I'm feeling all professional and full of myself.

And if anyone said "When do you not feel full of yourself?" I'm going to lock you up in the meth lab. Don't think I won't do it.

Tomorrow -- if I'm not puking (so far so good) -- I'll write about an amazing seminar I went to on Monday night that dealt with tantrums, which was the other highlight this week. I'm pleased to say that since then, when Gutsy or Spawnling start throwing a fit, I have far less desire to repeatedly run myself into the patio doors until I black out. This is a good thing.

In Which The Maven Calls 911 and Dreams of Whips

It started like any other weekend, but better. Finally, we're in a place once more where I can afford a decent cup of coffee and not lose sleep over it. Remortgaging earlier this month left us with fewer bills to pay with Geekster's reduced salary.

The husband and I discussed how we still need to be careful; With only a small amount in our emergency savings account, we could face monetary challenges should something break. In a few months, we'll have more saved up, and we could probably be a little less vigilant at that point. But for now, we should stick mostly to necessities.

... But that's so boring, you know? And there's a world of lattes out there just begging for me to taste them. So I had a couple. Sue me.

And Old Navy had a sale on denim. The boys needed new jeans. Hey, it's not my fault the gremlins go through knees faster than I go through a bag of peanut butter cups.

Yet, I was proud of myself; I didn't go crazy. I would say I was rather responsible in my spending. But I should have put at least half that money away instead of throwing caution to the wind and breathing the air of those who can afford a few extras. Silly, naive little Maven.

As the old adage goes:

It's all fun and games until someone loses both a windshield and a dryer on the same weekend.

My windshield has had a pock in it for about two years. It was filled, and I was told it shouldn't get any bigger. Well, it cracked. It was an icy cold Canadian winter day, and I blew hot air on a cold piece of glass that was already stressed, and it split faster than Drew Barrymore and Tom Green.

No worries. We have a little bit in savings - enough to cover a new windshield. We could claim it on our insurance, but we've had two such claims in the last three years - one for a cracked windshield, and one for the back window of Geekster's car that was smashed in by rowdy youth last summer. Any more claims right now and we'll be looking at a premium increase. Gag me.

Then, on Sunday, as we were standing in front of the dryer, discussing how poorly it was drying our clothes as of late, I said "I smell something electrical. Oh my God..."

Within seconds, smoke was billowing out of the dryer, and my husband was running for the fire extinguisher and turning off the breaker. Meanwhile, I was getting the gremlins out of the house and calling 911 - well, after ran around the house freaking out like the proverbial chicken with her head cut off. My body wasn't sure if it felt like fighting or flighting. I chose flighting - across the street with my half-dressed children to our neighbours' house, minutes before the fire trucks pulled up.

There was no damage save to the dryer itself. I don't want to think what would have happened had we not been standing in front of it when it caught fire. Those are thoughts and feelings I do not wish to explore right now, thank you. We were there, we acted quickly, everyone is safe. That's all that matters.

So, we are now without a dryer and I need to get my windshield fixed. That's a lot of cash we don't have. The ironic part? I had just reached a decision to lay off trying to start my own business so as to remain focused on my main priority - being at home with my kids. It was part of my stress-reduction plan. After all, I told Geekster and a few friends, trying to write more than an hour a day with the demon child clawing at my legs does not exactly promote creativity. Had we neglected him a little more, maybe he would have learned not to come to me when he needs things. What where we thinking, giving him all that love and attention? Hindsight, and all that... It won't be long before Spawnling is in school and I find myself with more time than bon-bons and soap operas alone can fill. At that point I can focus on this career-thing people say is so fulfilling or whatever.

Unfortunately, while being at home fulfills me just fine, it doesn't fill the damn bank account. It doesn't pay for car repairs or major appliances. Looks like I'm going to have to find some more contracts. Let's hope I can convince someone that I have some kind of literary talent. Some people are gullible, right?

If things go south in the writing department, I may have to use my old fall-back plan of part-time prostitution. Sure, I may carry that little bit of Monday morning frumpiness with me the entire week, and my body is not as young and tight as it used to be, but I obviously know what I'm doing - I have three kids, after all.

I've never actually tried being a prostitute, but I hear you can skip drug use and even the fishnet stockings (A good thing, as it's cold up here in the Great White North). I've also heard rumours that there are men out there who like their woman curvy and rather plain looking. I do plain very well and have no problems maintaining my curves. Proof, once again, that I am the perfect woman.

The one problem with prostitution? The whole 'having sex with strangers' bit. Also, I don't want to sleep with ugly people, or people with bad breath, or people with bad clothing choices. Nothing would make me say 'keep your hands off my eyelet-embellished pleather mini skirt' faster than someone wearing pinstripes and plaid together.

If I could just find the guys who pay for an hour so they can complain about their wives and jobs, I'd be all for that. I'm a great listener. I'll hear your sob fest, and I won't even wince at the stench of your garlic breath unless you try to get to first base.

On second thought, maybe I could just be a dominatrix; They don't have to put out and they get to whip people. How could this possibly be a bad thing? Also, if I were to time appointments around my cycle, I could charge more one week per month due to uber-bitchiness. Lashings? Oh, I'll give you lashings. Do you know how bloated I feel right now? Did you bring me any chocolate? No?! You're a very *snap!* naughty *snap!* boy! *snap!*

Who says I'm not an entrepreneur at heart? And you thought these smarts were reserved for sock-sorting and fort-building.

Anyway, I'm hunting for a used washer as we speak. Maybe I should also look into a whip and some heels.

Plees Lern Tu Spelle

This piece of paper had been taped to my fridge for the last several months until this morning, when I finally recycled it. It's been a constant reminder to continue to make education a priority in the Maven household.

The paper was initially taped to my son Intrepid's back in grade 6. If I remember correctly, it was an exercise in complimenting and compliment-taking.

See anything interesting?

Other than the obvious - that my child is very bright and talented like his mother - there is an underlying tone of, well, kids who can't write good.

A local friend of mine went to a parent-teacher interview recently, and was told by her daughter's teacher that our school board doesn't really fail anybody. I'm not sure exactly what that means or whether or not the teach was being facetious, but looking at that paper, I think there may be some truth to it.

There are little errors. For example, one girl (and I'm saying "girl" because she wrote in pink and has pretty handwriting - frankly I'm surprised she didn't dot her "i"s with hearts) misspelled "intelligent." It's an honest mistake, and one that most adults would easily make. Heck, I would, too, if I didn't have to type the word every time I describe myself.

But there are other, more disturbing errors hidden in these compliments.

You the coolist: Seriously? You at least eleven years old and you don't know the 'est' rule? Not good.

Your always happy: Apparently Intrepid owns the word 'always' and it is happy.

Good drawen: I can't figure out if the student meant to write 'good drawen' or 'good drawer.' The second would be slightly more acceptable. And I suppose I can't fault the kid for making an 'r' look like an 'n' - it was written on my son's back, after all. It's not a bloody calligraphy contest.

Oh, but my absolute favourite - the one that makes me laugh every single time - is this one:

I remember back in the day when I never know you

Not only is there a tense error so blatant it makes my skin crawl, but I honestly can't find the compliment in this sentence. He should have failed the back writing test, dammit.

Anyway, I think these grade six writings are proof that we need to rethink our touchy-feely approach to education. I am all for preserving the tender self-esteem of our youth whenever possible. However, I do not think we're adequately meeting the needs of our children and community as a whole if we don't hold people up to a higher standard. It's preposterous (I had to spell check that word) to allow these kids to go on to a higher education if they can't formulate a decent sentence.

Do we want our lawyers to make typos in our legal documents? I don't know about you, but I want my doctor and/or pharmacist to be able to do basic equations well enough that she won't get my medication dosage wrong. I like the idea of tomorrow's librarians being able to understand the concepts in books before they share them with my grandchildren at story time. And if the carpenter putting in my new bamboo flooring (a girl can dream, right?) can't figure out the area of each room, I will wedge a rudimentary geometry set where the sun don't shine.

When I hear that a teacher has several kids who are not deemed "special needs," and yet read and write a full three grade levels below where they should, that worries me tremendously. And when she apparently says she can't fail them due to board policy, that worries me even more. I hope we're being misinformed, and that kids do get held back when there's a problem. That would be the sensible thing to do. Sure, some confidence might be shaken for a little while, but a lot less than seeing red pen all over your thesis paper or getting turned down for jobs because you spelled it 'rezumay.'

In the Maven household, there is little worry when it comes to literacy and education as a whole. Geekster and I run a tight ship, which includes instilling a love of reading, sitting with the kids when they do their homework (or at least nearby when Intrepid does his), getting the boys hooked on museums and other fun learning places, and generally being proactive in our gremlins' education. After all, we can't expect the public system to do everything - it is government-run, you know.

I'd send this blog post to the board of education, but I'd likely have to copy it in triplicate and attend 37 different subcommittee meetings to see any action. In the meantime, all that red tape might suffocate me. Instead, I'll probably just ask the principal for clarification.

Taking the easy route is the coolist.

Maven out.

Brace Yourselves: It's an "All About Me"

I thought it would be good to start this week with an 'About Me', considering it's been over three years of blogging and I don't have one. Considering my 'Followers' list is growing exponentially every day - alright, so it's not. But it is growing and if I want to throw a smart-sounding word after it I should be allowed - I figure this is as good a time as any to introduce myself properly to all the newbies. I know you're all dying to get to know me. And who could blame you, really?

So, without further ado, I bring you a lot of useless knowledge about yours truly:

My name is The Maven. Well, actually it's Amanda. And I have a last name as well, but since I've already been stalked online I'm not going to write it here. I'm pretty much a blogging sensation - a celebrity, even - and I don't want anyone breaking into my house and stealing my undies. Especially the pink ones because I really like those.

I'm a bit egotistical. Just a little bit.

I live in the Ottawa area. Ottawa is the capital of Canada with an overall population of about 1 million. I am the most important resident other than perhaps the Prime Minister. Although he doesn't blog, so that's highly debatable. Contrary to popular belief, Canada does not always have snow; there are at least three weeks a year where we can see the permafrost on the ground and the ice roads start to melt.

I have a thriving parka business. I met my husband, Geekster, at an outerwear conference in 1993. He was selling caribou fur boots and they matched my Fall taupe line perfectly. When he showed me how wolf teeth could be used as ice grippers on the soles, it was love at first sight.

I made up one of the last three paragraphs and at least half of another one. Try and figure it out: it's tricky!

(All the Canadians are laughing right now. If they're not they have no sense of humour and should not read my blog, or they really do sell caribou boots on the side of northern ice roads, in which case sincerely I apologize for making fun of your lifestyle.)

Geekster and I have been together since the Triassic Period and have three boys: Intrepid (November '96), Gutsy (November '02) and Spawnling (October '06). Having children who are all so close in age is a real challenge!

Both Intrepid and Gutsy were born with a moderate sensorineural bilateral hearing loss. It's genetic in nature, but before we knew that I just told myself I listened to too much crappy top 40 while pregnant with them. There's only so much Britney Spears a fetus can take. Neither Geekser nor I have hearing loss, so either it's a recessive gene or I had an unmemorable affair with a deaf guy. The boys wear hearing aids and we mostly forget they have any kind of 'special need'. They're kind of awesome in school, actually, and read well beyond their grade levels and are bright little cookies. They may have inherited bad ear genes, but they also have smart people genes (from their dad, although I'll tell you it's from me).

Spawnling, not wanting to be left out of the 'weird things that happen to The Maven's kids' club, decided to acquire Kawasaki Disease in August of 2009. Go big or go home, Spawn. I give him a solid 10.0 for rarity and effort. If you're searching the web for firsthand accounts of Kawasaki Disease, you'll find some on my blog.

I like to refer to the boys as The Gremlins. Why? Because they are very much like destructive little gremlins. Duh. Besides, feeding them after midnight is not a good thing. Crumbs in the bed and such.

I am many things - depends on who you ask - but primarily I am a stay-at-home-mom and freelance writer. That's right, folks: This awesomeness is for hire. It took a while for me to take the plunge into paid writing, but turning my passion into a career I can do in my pajamas is too good to pass up. Surprisingly, parenting isn't the only thing I can write about. I do, like, know about other stuff, too. I work hard and I drink a lot of coffee until the job gets done. Send me an email at mavenmayhem@gmail.com if you're interested. And you know you are.

There's another love in my life and its name is Lactation. I am a postpartum doula who is slowly working her way toward becoming a Certified Lactation Consultant. I have a boatload of courses and workshops under my belt - now all I need is some more time in the field and they might take me seriously enough to let me write the board exam. I've done a lot of things, but nursing the gremlins for a combined total of seven years something I'm incredibly proud of. I love working with new families and helping them achieve their goals, too.

Wow. That was really sappy. Let's keep going before I get so sweet I start to rot. Onward!

I am a huge fan of coffee and drink it daily. There's a simple reason for that: I don't drink alcohol. That's right, folks: I do not drink at all. Why? Because I used to drink too much of it. Way too much of it. I've been clean and sober since spring of 1991, and smoke-free since 1996. No drugs, no booze and no smokes and yet I'm a writer. A walking contradiction, I am.

Speaking of contradictions, I'm a blogger who has a thriving social life. How did this happen? Am I really that awesome? Not really, no. The secret is in telling everyone I am. A lot of people I know read my blog, and in it I talk about how cool of a human being I am and how great it is to be me or, at the very least, hang around with me. The result: I have created a fake coolness that people have fallen for. If I had known popularity could be so easily created I would have been head of the cheerleading squad in high school. Well, other than the chubby thighs and my serious lack of symmetrical body rhythm.

I am a fat jogger. The human oxymoron strikes again! Perhaps if I didn't eat so much chocolate I might get skinnier. But that would suck, so I will not.

I was a vegetarian for an entire year. Now I also eat fish, so that makes me a pescatarian. I'm sorry, fishies. Blame the delicious salmon that was calling to me.

My favourite shows are House, Glee, The Tudors, How I Met Your Mother, Doctor Who, Torchwood, Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice. Basically, anything that has laughs, sex and/or aliens. Yes. I said aliens. The inner loser emerges.

I read a lot. I will not list all my favourite books because that would take way too long and I would lose readership. My very fave is Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, followed closely by Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere.

One day, Coldplay's Chris Martin will realize how incredible I am and we will run away to a vegetarian island with a piano and live happily ever after. Just sayin'.

And there you go. A whole lot of things you didn't want to know about me and had no interest in asking. You're welcome.