Life: 1 Maven: 1

I get knocked down, but I get up again. You're never going to keep me down!

I'm not pissing the night away like the blokes who recorded that lovely tune, however. On the other hand, if I wasn't a recovering lush I might delve into Wineland tonight as a deserving reward for my crap day.

Yes, it was a crap day in Mavenville (which severed ties with Wineland many years ago as the purple feet in our shopping malls was really aggravating). One of those I'm-so-bored-I-could-cry-so-life-decided-to-give-me-something-to-really-cry-about -put-that-in-your-pity-pipe-and-smoke-it days.

Why do financial issues seem to crop up at the worst possible times? Oh, I know why: because if it wasn't a bad time, it wouldn't be a financial issue, now would it? Still, there's nothing quite like being a pregnant SAHM who just, just, just stopped working and was just, just, just about to submit her first proposal letter who gets bad financial news. Ok, it's not horrible, but it was enough. Enough that Geekster was not a happy camper and I was an anxiety-ridden bouncy ball of stress all afternoon. That whole pregnant/not working/feeling very vulnerable and at the mercy of everyone else type thing was what did me in.

Things aren't resolved, but they'll be ok. Life will go on. I will not complain about being bored for a very, very long time.

However, this gave me more time before writing the proposal letter to Reader's Digest. I did more research and decided I would contact Mothering Magazine with an idea first. It's one I can easily write and hopefully will get my foot in the 'published-authors-only' door. So I wrote my letter. I did. And I'm silently freaking out about it, too. It's both exciting and incredibly scary! What's really frightening is that someone like me might actually get paid to write. You may shudder at the thought now. Or perish at the thought, but not before leaving me a goodbye comment.

It also gave me time to avoid all phone calls. I do so apologize to my friends who tried to call today, but - and get ready for this, because it's a doozy - I didn't want to talk to anyone. I know, I know. It's shocking. The Maven did not want to bitch to people on the phone. I wanted to sit in my dark little well of despair for a while, ok? I can only be positive 99% of the time. When that 1% hits, I'm worse than Eyeore at a bachelor party. I'll be better tomorrow and I'll want the company. I promise to return the calls, whether you want me to or not.

Know what makes me feel better on days like today? Watching House. That guy is so bitchy all the time that he makes me look like Shirley Temple on Ecstacy.

My copy of O Magazine is waiting for me next to the bathtub. I think I might go soak my worries and pick on my only child who's awake - InUtero Boy, future kickboxing champion. I'll go poke him a few times and see how he likes it, the little bugger.

The day The Maven sells her soul

Monday mornings aren't as bad for me as they used to be when I was doing daycare. Back then, I knew I had to get up to take in other people's grumpy, tired children. Now I only have to deal with my own grumpy, tired children. Most importantly, my grumpy, tired children aren't beating up on their grumpy, tired children. Nothing like making $30/day attempting to save another parent's little treasure from certain doom. It does not make Mondays very pleasant. Especially knowing that there are four more of those days awaiting me at the end of that exhaustive one.

Today, I write a proposal letter to Reader's Digest. You know, Canada's most read, most trusted magazine? The one read by several demographics and found in homes and offices all over the country? Yeah, that's the one.

Nervous? Don't be a silly gooze. Why would I be? I'm only an unpublished author who has yet to write a proposal letter to anyone, let alone a major publication. I have no experience outside of one writing course I took in this pregnancy's first trimester. Ah, the good ol' days, when I was busy puking and hating life. When Creativity had taken a vacation and had rented the condo inside my body to the Hormone family. They had a lot of fun in there, throwing parties and such. They kept inviting my brain in for drinks and that just complicated matters for me. Needless to say, I handed everything in on an extension at the very last minute and ended up with a lower grade than I would have liked. However, my professor left me a little note saying 'Procrastinators can make the best writers! Trust me. I am one!'

Um.... Thanks? I'm still trying to figure that out.

Yesterday involved many good things. The house was cleaned. A barbeque was had. Company was enjoyed (not on the barbeque - that's called 'cannibalism' and we don't do that here). Pants were purchased that do not fall down everytime I take a couple of steps. Truly, are there better things in life? I think not.

Frankly, I don't know if today can compete. Other than a proposal letter, I have nothing going on but a run to the grocery store.

I used to have a bunch of stay-at-home-mom friends. I now have two. Thac0 is one of them, but lives thirteen hours away and in another country, so we don't hang out much. Mrs. Wailing spends her days at home and has boy children who mesh well with my boy children. She also enjoys the simple pleasures in life, such as trips to Fourbucks and letting wild children run around in open spaces. Still, we can only get together so much. I try to limit people's exposure to the gremlins. Fewer things get broken and friendships stay intact that way.

Oh, and I hang out with my mom. She laughs at me about this, by the way. You'd think she'd be happy that her grown daughter wants to spend so much time with her. Instead she blatantly snickers and reminds me about my severe lack of a life, then suggests various ways for me to meet other moms. Hmph. You know, mom, as soon as my social calendar gets filled, I might cut down our visits by as much as twice a week. That'll learn ya.

One said suggestion was to take the gremlins to swimming lessons.

Problem: Swimming pools are loud because they're filled with other children. My children can't hear well at all, but especially in echo-heavy spaces (like gyms and swimming pools) where they can't wear their hearing aids. The scenario my mom undoubtedly has in her mind is that I will sit blissfully by the side of the pool, enjoying a latte with the other moms and waving to my children who are happily learning their backstroke.

Here's what would really happen: The instructors would be trying to get my children's attention in a pool full of other screaming kids. My children, unable to hear them, would be looking at me for cues. Picture The Maven, yelling to her children and making wild hand gestures signalling that they must stop what they're doing (ie, sinking in the pool for the most part, I'd assume) and pay attention to the instructor. Of course, unless my three-year-old is an expert lip reader, he won't understand what's being said and will go back to doing his own thing. Now, picture the other moms looking at each other quizzically and thinking to themselves 'What a control freak! And her kids don't listen to boot.'

Frustration for all involved: 100%
Friends made: 1 (the crazy woman who hangs out by the pool and talks to her imaginary swimming cat)
Playdates invited on: 0 (unless you include the cat)

I think we'll skip the pool for now. When Reader's Digest pays me enough to rent out the entire pool for an hour, I'll get on those lessons.

There's incentive for you. Off to write my proposal letter!

3 to the 2 to the 1 to the 3

I'm listening to Eminem's 'Shake That Ass'. I'm hopelessly addicted to virtually every song with a good beat, regardless of how ridiculous the lyrics are. I even bought the damn thing off iTunes for a buck. That brings me to a whole new level of loser.

Speaking of loser, I spent part of the evening playing Neverwinter Nights. Geekster was out for sushi (ick, puke, gag) and came home shortly after nine. He wanted to know if I wanted to watch the last three episodes of Dead Like Me. Of course, I was playing my game at the time. You could see the bind I was in. I said 'Don't you have any email to check, first?' trying to stall so I could finish buying equipment for my ranger.

Of course, this reminded me of the video my friend Sprockett (touch my monkey!) sent me the link to yesterday. I am these guys, minus the geeky charm and the boy parts.

So I went shopping with The Madre today. We hit a thrift store in search of used baby items. I found nothing but two adorable pairs of newborn shoes. I couldn't pick, so I bought both. Don't roll your eyes at me. It was a thrift store! Any money growing on the tree in the back yard goes directly in my minivan payments. But I do love me my van. If it were a person, I'd have an affair with it. Instead, I do what most married people do to those they're having an affair with: I turn it on, take it for a ride and leave it lonely and full of my crap. It's a beautiful love we share. I'll come spend time with you soon, baby, I promise.

So anyway, I might have found more thrift store treasures but instead had to steer my mother away from frightening clothing choices. She's a lovely woman and normally a spiffy dresser when she buys new, but there's something about her and second hand clothing that creates a toxic chemical reaction. It's almost like if it costs less than $5, she can overlook a few issues the item might have. Therefore, I've put together a few shopping tips for when I can't be there to steer her clear of major fashion suicide:

1. Checkered patterns of any kind are not good on anything. Especially pants. No checkers are 'classy' unless you lived in the 1920s.
2. Pants with boot cuts are your friend. I promise they won't swallow your feet.
3. Any pants with stirrups are to be put back immediately, regardless of brand name, material or any other endearing quality. They are not even to be tried on, but instead to be placed back on the rack immediately. Stirrups = flipped hair and too much hairspray. Stirrups = Flashdance soundtrack. Stirrups = NEVER.
4. Just because it's purple - and even that lovely 'regal purple' or whatever you call it, does not make it nice. Remember: Barney is purple. Grimace is purple. There's a purple Teletubby that beats all the other teletubbies up for a purse. He's even that regal purple. Did I mention he also likes to wear tutus?

That being said, the scariest part of the entire trip was the maternity section. I will have nightmares for a very, very long time. We saw some stuff that should never have been mass produced. I did manage to find two shirts, but they were the ONLY half-decent things there. I only bought them because I felt sorry for them. I didn't want two presentable tops to be left there with all the ugly ones. It's like sticking the cheerleaders on a school band trip. They might have all the power at the high school, but get them on the band's tour bus and they're going to get their asses kicked by the tuba girl with the braces and her saxophone playing posse. I feel like I did those shirts a very big favour. There's a special place in heaven for people like me.

So after this weekend I need to start propositioning editors. "Hey baby, what does a girl have to do to get an article published around here? *wink*"

Okay, but seriously. I have to start shopping around for a place to write an article. Or five. Do you know how intimidating that is? I have no ins in the writing world. Heck, I'm an uneducated stay-at-home-mom who writes in a damn blog every day. Not the most likely person to get her work in print. But I've sort of promised myself that I will have a thriving career in freelance writing. Then Uma and I can tell people how every working woman is a superwoman while we ask the nannies to go grab our children from school. Oh, and could they fix us some dinner, too? It's hard work doing interviews.

Anyway, I appreciate all the feedback I get on here. I know I call you all losers for reading, but I actually do like the fact that people bother to check in and read what I have to say. It shows me that even self-absorbed exhibitionists have friends. Or at the very least, they have people who read about them for the sole purpose of turning off the monitor afterwards and thanking their lucky stars that they're not nearly as screwed up as that girl.

Must go to bed. I have my morning Tims run (Mama Chaos, you really do need a Tims nearby so you too can cake up your heart valves with baked goodness and creamy coffee), some cleaning up to do and a grocery store run. I think I'll wear something purple with stirrups. And maybe a tutu.

Blurry-eyed Saturdays

I figured I should post this morning on the off chance that my connection decides to boycott Blogspot again at some point today. I don't want to drown the blog in posts, but I've also committed to at least one a day. It helps keep my writing fresh and *cough* interesting. I'm desperately trying to pass it off as interesting, here. Work with me.

Black Knight Intrepid rolled out of bed 10 minutes ago. I can already hear an explosion of anger from Gutsy, Duke of Bitchingham. I don't know why he has to be so moody. Must take after his dad...

... yeah.

I went to sleep somewhere between 1:30 and 2am last night. I don't think the Fourbucks coffee I had was a decaf. My order was simple: 'Hi. I'd like a grande soy vanilla latte, half sweet and decaf, please'. I merely stated quantity, type of latte, changed the base, requested a lower sweetness level and made it decaf. Is that so hard? Ok, I know it is. High maitenance, thy name is Maven.

Despite going to bed at such an ungodly hour, I woke up at 8:30. If left to my own devices, I almost always wake up at 8:30. That's my version of 'sleeping in'. I normally wake up because either Gutsy comes into my side of the bed and snuggles me, or InUtero Boy starts using my bladder as a punching bag for his morning cardio. Still, seven hours isn't bad. I can deal with that. I woke up feeling pretty good and waltzed off to Tim Hortons for a morning half-decaf.

Even at Tim Hortons, I mess with variables. I can't have a regular coffee or a decaf coffee. No, no. I have to have a half-decaf. Next thing anyone knows, I'll be demanding that none of the things on my dinner plate be touching.

Before leaving, I had to dress Second Tummy. Have I introduced her on the blog yet? Probably not. Second tummy is actually the fat from my original tummy that has made way for Baby Tummy. So Baby Tummy is that cute, round lump where InUtero Boy lives, and Second Tummy is that jiggly thing below it that hangs way further down than any stomach should.

Dressing Second Tummy is always interesting. It involves longer maternity tops and pregnancy underwear that give it a little 'lift'. With the right technique, the tummies morph together seamlessly like something off of SuperKabuMegaTransformers. Without said techniques, it looks like I have a watermelon with the bottom half having been beaten to a pulp by a bat. I had to change shirts twice this morning to find the proper fit for Second Tummy. It's a chore, but with my maternity pants attempting to fall off of me at every opportunity, I at least have to feel that I look half-decent. Otherwise, my self-esteem won't survive the next few weeks.

The Black Knight and the Duke of Bitchingham have now turned into elephants and are running around the house scraughing. It's a combo of screaming and laughing that only children can pull off. Hearing impaired kids are especially good at it. They add extra scream to the mix.


Anyway, I should go tidy up. We're having company over for a bbq tomorrow. There's not much to clean around here, but I have some grimy walls I want to wash. I contemplated having bleach thrown on them, but I think that might discolour the paint a little bit. An easy solution with grim consequences: sort of like no-bake cookies.

Technically not a Friday post

Nope. It's not Friday anymore. It's now Saturday! Which means that I didn't post anything in over twenty-four hours. Thankfully, I received no panicked calls from The Madre or any of my other regular blog readers (who are, frighteningly enough, growing in numbers weekly).

I would have posted something earlier, but the very pricey commercial internet connection we have decided that it didn't like Blogspot and would deny me access to anything but the main page for several hours. I tried just about everyting before figuring out that it was beyond my control: purging my cache, tossing my cookies, spewing out my temporary internet files, vomitting up a restart or two... Nothing worked. So, I had to do, like, other things. You know, spend time with my children and clean my house. It was a traumatic experience I hope not to relive in the near future.

After the antics of the gremlins on Wednesday and Thursday, I decided I would keep them in on Friday. We would do home stuff, like read, making crafts, play outside, build forts and other fun, constructive things I read about in parenting books. I could be the Betty Crocker of moms, finding all sorts of ways to feed their young minds and encourage family bonding time.

Instead, we ended up with several unstoppable fights. Time-outs did nothing. Idle threats from a bitchy pregnant lady (that would be me) did nothing. I could have plowed through every dust-ridden parenting book on the shelf and I swear nothing would have worked. They were hell bent on seeing who could cause the other to lose even more hearing and taking their near-insane-at-this-point mother along for the ride. If I was Betty Crocker of parenting for even an instant, I was now standing, dumbfounded, in the kitchen holding burned cookies with my apron on fire.

So, I did what any good mother would do: I threw them in the van with the Spongebob movie, some wireless headphones and happy meals. I got the pleasure of listening to cheesy pop music and a greasy burger and fries for the second day in a row that I could barely stomach due to this lovely third trimester friend named Indigestion. However, I also had the priviledge of going to a drive-through Fourbucks and found the acidity of the coffee rather soothing. It breaks down the fat, you know. And the nice thing about Fourbucks is that even the decaf tastes like getting a boxing glove in the face. Nice and bold - just the way I like my men. Er, my coffee.

I was terribly sad to leave the boys with Geekster tonight so I could go to my 12 step meeting. I cried all the way there.

Ok, I didn't. Not even close, actually. But in all honesty I felt a bit guilty pacing the house for 15 minutes before leaving. Like a caged tiger waiting to be let out into the arena to munch on fresh gladiator, I couldn't wait to get out tonight. After last night's hose fiasco, I feel mostly justified in my desire to go out publicly without their company. Still, I love my kids and I sometimes feel bad for needing personal time. Even I have a conscience, you know.

After the meeting, I was asked to write an article for the community newsletter. Sweet deal! I've been desperately wanting to kickstart my freelance writing career, but I haven't written up a single proposal letter yet. This came out of left field and I couldn't be happier about it.

One little problem though: not only is it free work, but I can't take credit for it. That's right, smartypants, it's a 12 step newsletter. "Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions" and all that rot. Besides which, even if I could take credit for it, I don't know if that would go over very well.

Dear Sir or Madame,

My name is The Maven and I am a published author. You can find my work in the August 2006 edition of XYZ, which is a newletter written by and for alcoholics and drug addicts.

I don't believe my addiction issues with impact my work. Alcoholics are generally very prompt people who tend to take what they do seriously. After all, we're the first ones at the bar and the last ones to leave. This should show the potential of my commitment to your publication.

Sincerely,
The Maven

That right there could win me some major career brownie points. I know all about brownies from some of the wonderful things I've done in my past. I especially know special brownies. The kind aunty Stella makes to celebrate her big winfall at the bingo hall.

Finally, I wrapped up the night having coffee with a friend. We chilled out for two hours and talked about how dysfunctional we both are. I've figured out something really neat: everybody is royally screwed up, whether they know it or not. But the people who know it are the people you want to hang out with. People who think they have it all together are in denial and thus are more prone to unhealthy acts. Why didn't I think of this before? It would have saved me a lot of trouble in the friendship department. Also, it's so much more refreshing to be able to openly say 'Hey! I'm a giant screw up! Neat, huh?'

If anything, my 30s will be filled with honesty. I'm so tired of this 'look at how normal I am' routine I was trying to pull off in my 20s. I have never been, am not and will never be 'normal'. I'm the girl who listens to D12 in her minivan. The one who nicknames her children 'the gremlins' and tries to pass it off as endearing. The one who hated doing daycare so much that she created several blog posts counting down the days until it was over. The one who writes open letters to Hollywood Stars on her no-name blog. The one who knows damn well that people read said blog because they want to know if that spun chick from Canada has finally gone over the edge today.

Together, I am not. A source of amusement, I most certainly am. And the best part? When you read my incredulous posts, remember that there's not even a trace amount of alcohol or drugs coursing through my veins. I'm writing completely sober.

Sanity: 0
The Maven: 1

Booyeah.

Ode to my children

My dearest children,

You know mommy loves you. I really do. But in the last few days I have had to seriously consider just how much social interaction we should have with other people in public places.

Banks are not places where we play hide-and-seek, tag or test fort construction methods with waiting room chairs. Offices in banks are essentially glorified cubicles nowdays. That means the walls can topple over. Therefore, tackling them is not a good idea. Oh, and the glass walls? Banging on those can be fairly catastrophic. Please refrain. Finally, climbing ATMs will not make us any friends and we may not be allowed the priviledge of using them any longer.

Let's discuss parking lots. Parking lots are not parks, even though they start off sounding the same. The best way to tell the difference is to look for a severe lack of grass or playstructures and a large amount of motor vehicles filled with people who aren't paying attention. You run in a park. You walk in a parking lot. You can hide behind tress in a park. You can't hide behind cars in a parking lot. In parking lots, you can get hit by a truck. In parks, the worst thing that'll hit you is an overtired child. Are you starting to see the difference?

All about libraries: They are quiet places. I know you don't get the whole 'quiet' thing, which is sort of ironic given your hearing impairements, but it's important to grasp the concept. We have outside voices and inside voices. We have inside voices and then we have library voices. Library voices are in "hushed tones". That means that we don't have to yell. Yes, it's true: sometimes we don't have to yell. Or even talk loud. It's a beautiful thing. You should both try it sometime. Another thing about libraries: climbing check-out rails and posts is generally discouraged. Oh, and that bell, Intrepid? That's for when there's nobody at the service counter. It's a ring for service bell. You don't need to ring it when there's someone staring at us from the other side of the counter. And when I say 'Don't do that, please', replying with 'Why? It's fun!' is not the smartest thing to say.

Finally, let's tackle the great outdoors. When you are provided with a large space to run around in and explore that is complete with a duck pond, beautiful wooden bridges, snails to observe, paths to which to walk and many other fun things, why, oh WHY must you do the ONLY things you're not supposed to do? Mainly: walk right on the edge of the pond and almost topple in, run full-throttle into people on the path because you're not looking and - the highlight of our epic adventures - pull an enormous, gushing, city hose out of the pond so that it sprays absolutely everyone and everything. In fact, it sprays so much that Jobthingy has to run over and try to turn it off, enlisting speedy as her helper while we stare dumbfounded from a bench where I've coralled the two of you for safe keeping. Jobthingy can then get absolutely drenched and full of duck pond scum and poop. Mommy can look at her in a very mortified and apologetic manner, vowing never to take you two out of the house again.

These things eventually make mommy sad. Mommy comes home, puts you to bed and cries while she's in the bath. Grab your invitation, because it's a pity party! Admit one pregnant woman who is hormonal and often helpless in public places due to her enormous belly and ever-growing hernia.
Tomorrow, mommy is keeping you home. You may play in the fenced backyard on your playstructure. Mommy will stick her head in the sandtable and avoid more frustration and embarrassment. Her mantra will be 'Only 11 more weeks. Only 11 more weeks. Only 11 more weeks.' Then I can run and lift again. Thank goodness.

I hope we can try this going out in public thing again soon. I also hope I can start feeling a little more in control and less like a prime candidate for the Worst Mother Ever award. However, if there's money or some kind of domestic help as a prize, it might not be such a bad thing.

Loving you always, despite the havoc,
Mom.

Have coffee, will post

I'll admit it: My life isn't all that exciting. My phone conversations are even less so. Take this afternoon's discussion with Thac0, for example. It could be summed up as so:

Her: I'm really tired.

Me: Me too.

Her: *Yawn*

Me: *Sigh*

Her: Yeah. I think I need a nap. Or maybe I'll have some soda (she's Amurkan, so she says 'soda' and I say 'pop', which of course is the right way of saying it.)

Me: There isn't that much caffeine in POP (I like to teach her the right way to say things).

Her: In Dr. Pepper?

Me: I don't know. *yawn* I'm brewing half-decaf coffee.

Her: Maybe I'll have an iced coffee.

Me: Ew.

...

Her: I'm tired.

Me: Me too.

Her: *Sigh*

Me: *Yawn*

Her: Yeah...

Me: Yeah...

...

...

Me: I think I'll let you go and call you back when the caffeine kicks in.

Her: Yeah, ok.

This action-packed discussion actually took about 20 minutes.

I've often wondered what would happen if someone was forced to listen in on my phone conversations. A wire tap type of thing. I think I might see that someone kick open the back of the spy van and shoot themselves in the head just to get away from the monotony. That, or they'd discreetly throw things at my head at every opportunity. Oh, wait. People already do that.

I was pretty tired until I had a cup of coffee. I feel terrible doing that to my baby, but today involved one of those excrutiatingly busy mornings and no nap opportunities. I tried to type out a post here twice already and was falling asleep in my chair.

Gutsy had an appointment with his speech therapist today that went really well. Meanwhile, Intrepid had his first hearing test in over a year (due to a government shortage of audiologists - gotta love those Quebec tax dollars at work! I think they spend more on St Jean Baptiste parties and separatist movements than health care in this province).

Good news: Intrepid hasn't lost more hearing. He's holding steady since his diagnosis 2.5yrs ago.

Bad News: Gutsy is very bright. This means I now have two children who are smarter than I am.

Good news: They haven't figured this out yet.

Bad news: I decided to take them to the mall afterwards.

I bribed them. I did. Not only did I bribe them, but I did it with promises of sugar. In bulk. We went to The Bulk Barn, which has rows upon rows of candy in bins. Bins! I let them have some fun. And, just because I'm a 'go big or go home' kinda girl, we also had burgers and fries for lunch. So we had saturated fat and refined carbs followed by more refined carbs.

And I wonder why I'm tired...

Intrepid worked his magic with the ladies today. The audiologist who tested him was a lovely woman from Montreal with a very thick French accent. I spoke to her in French (being the linguistic goddess that I am) and then turned over my anglo son to her. She said to him "Will you help me with my English? I'm not very good."

Intrepid replies with "Hehe, yeah. I can see that!"

That's my boy! Work that charm.

Good news: She found him hilarious.

Bad news: We need to put some money away for etiquette classes.

Dear Uma Thurman

Dear Uma Thurman,

Since you and other celebrities must surely check my blog on a regular basis in order to keep up with the goings on of my incredible life and learn from my endless wisdom, I felt this was a good place to write to you regarding this little tidbit found in the Boston Globe, under the heading 'Thurman lauds the working mom'.

[snip]"Like many women, Uma Thurman often feels torn between her family and career. ``I've learned that every working mom is a superwoman," the 36-year-old actress tells Parade magazine in its July 16 issue. ``For most of the world, it's really a necessity. The stay-at-home mom is over not just because of women's liberation but because of men's liberation from wanting to be the breadwinners."[/snip]

First of all, I must say that I tire of celebrities' attempts to judge what is normal in everyday life, especially where parenting is involved. Celebrities who had children after making it big are about as ignorant to the concept of how the average, modern family lives as I am about designer handbags and award ceremonies.

Not everyone can afford a nanny. Not everyone can stipulate in their work contracts that they'd like their children on site when they're working. Not everyone can afford to take weeks or months off with their children between said contracts. So while you may say "I have a great career and two healthy, beautiful, smart and funny children. We're an incredibly tight-knit threesome, and we have so much fun together", you speak from the life of a wealthy actress who had children with a wealthy actor and is among the priviledged few who can afford the very best childcare and demand the most optimal working conditions conducive to raising young children.

As for the 'SAHM being over' and the working mother being a 'superwoman', my only thought is this: If you have to be a superwoman to work - meaning, in my interpretation, that you have to balance career, family and personal time using some astounding mental, physical and emotional prowess - then perhaps trying to have it all at once is overrated. Granted, sometimes it has to be done, but I can certainly see why so many parents are overwhelmed and burned out.

We need to examine why we devalue the role of raising children in our society. Why do we fear judgement and a drop in self-worth if we choose to raise our children in lieu of a paycheck? Why do we value material goods and instant gratification more than our own families? Why has the circle of parents who 'need to both work' grown to such a staggering number? And, at the same time, why are more families than ever going into debt, arguing over money and falling apart at the seams?

It certainly appears that many a superwoman (or, to be fair, the entire super family) has run into a wall of kryptonite by trying to do it all.

So, while I'm glad you have a strong relationship with your children and a good career, I think I'll leave the superhuman powers to you. I'm going to slowly build up a career I can do from home, growing it gently as my children get older and no longer need quite so much of my time. I won't do it so I can buy a third home in Italy or pay my dog walker, but so that I can save for my children's futures. I won't judge the two-parent working family, as I know many amazing ones who love and value their children as much as I do. However, I will continue to keep the stay-at-home-mom movement alive in my own way, by enjoying every minute of the time I'm spending with my children and showing them that women can be strong feminists and full-time mothers, too.

However, please feel free to send me any cast-off designer handbags.

Sincerely,
The Maven in the Mayhem

Houston, we have Tantrums!

Just when I think we're getting over the tantrums, Gutsy likes to throw one in for good measure.

This morning, after much pleading from the Dastardly Duo, I took them to the bank to open their first bank accounts.

Well, actually I took them to the bank to get appointments for tomorrow to open their first bank accounts. Why are we making appointments to open accounts now? Child accounts, even? It's not like there's much involved, right? I remember being able to do that at the teller back in the good ol' days. Why, in the good ol' days my brother and I used to walk to the bank in snow so deep that the sled dogs couldn't even make it there! We used to each fit inside the arm of a parka pappy made for us out of roadkill and walked uphill both ways, each with one snowshoe on. Those were the days, boy.

Anyway, we're going tomorrow at 11am with the money they received from their grandparents. They're very excited. Mind you, I don't know how excited they're going to be when they realize their money is locked up safely in the bank and not jingling happily in their pockets all the way to the local coffee shop (I love being able to say we have a local coffee shop now. Humour me, will you? I'm a stay-at-home-mom).

In the five minutes it took to make said appointment, Intrepid and Gutsy had wedged themselves between two chairs in the waiting area, moving them over so they could play hide-and-seek. The quiet bank errupted in the sound of furniture scraping across the floor. I gently asked them not to play back there. Intrepid sat down nicely. Gutsy decided he would try to squeeze behind the chairs, pushing them out about two feet as he did. More scraping, more heads turning.

What, exactly, does a pregnant woman with an abdominal hernia do when her 40lb child is not doing as he should in a public place?

I walked over there, again, and asked him to sit down. He grinned at me and kept doing what he was doing. Thankfully, the woman behind the desk has either raised her own gremlins or is clinically insane and thinks mine were being well-behaved. 'Everything's a play area at that age, eh?' I said to her, feeling somewhat helpless. She smiled warmly and I wanted to hug her and bake her cookies. Thank goodness for the people with patience in the world.

I, however, have little patience lately. Let us continue...

Intrepid wanted to take a walk. My mom-o-meter (the internal device all mothers posess that can measure what their children are able to handle at a particular time) was saying this was a very, very bad idea. Yet, with the van only 10 feet away, I agreed to walk around and check out a couple of stores.

We made it into one store. One.

In said store, the ever attentive Gutsy decided he would jump into absolutely every rack of clothing he could find. He knocked over about ten clothing items in the process. When I stopped to look at baby clothes, he took six off the wall and gave them to me. I then I had to play Baby Clothes Match-up and figure out what belonged where.

Intrepid and I were getting rather annoyed, so I attached a chocolate bar to the end of a skipping rope and lured Gutsy out of the store like a greedy mule.

Okay, I didn't. But now that I think about it, that's a damn fine idea for next time.

Back to the van, where annoyance turned into chaos. Gutsy insisted on sitting in the far back of the van. I told him I couldn't help with his seat belt so he'd have to get his big brother to help. 'NO! I can do it myself!' he said firmly. After several failed attempts, he started to wail.

'Sweety, can you help your little brother with his seat belt again, please?' I asked Intrepid.

Poor guy tried to help and got a sandal squarely in the cheek from Gutsy. Ouch.

After that display of aggression, I told Gutsy he'd have to sit in the middle row where I could help him with his seatbelt. He threw a huge fit; screaming, flailing and hitting. He managed to get me four times. By this point I'm pretty much yelling in a crowded parking lot. Nice. And you know what people are thinking, right? 'Why is she having another one if she can't even control the ones she has?' or 'What a bitch! I'll never be like that when I have kids'.

*sigh* Yeah. I felt pretty badly about yelling, too. But you know what? He was out of control. And he's hearing impaired and had outright refused to wear his hearing aids to the bank. So, I did what I could to be heard over his screams - I raised my voice. In public. The atrocity!

I'm going to a local 12 step meeting tonight that I haven't been to before. Wouldn't it be funny if one of those people had seen me in the parking lot today? They'd probably come over, hand me a coffee and a hug and say 'Was today your first sober day, sweety?'

I don't call the blog Stay-at-Home-Mayhem because it's catchy, you know.

I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a cup of half-decaf coffee now. Maybe I'll sit outside and yell at other people's kids for good measure, too. Go big or go home, right?