Warning: don't feed The Maven!

See this? This is every parent's perfect moment.

Oh sure, on the surface it looks innocent enough: a boy named Gutsy celebrating his 4th birthday at a hokey, Western-themed restaurant with a giant moose hat on. How cute. How innocent-looking. How memorable.

By memorable I mean we'll be able to pull this picture out in ten or so years when he gives us attitude in front of friends, when he won't do as he's told and his girlfriend is coming to dinner, on his wedding day and a treasure trove of other occasions I'm highly anticipating. It's future payback in blackmail material. Let's see who doesn't shovel the driveway now. Hah!

Gutsy's birthday weekend was great, as I've mentioned before. There are several pictures of him, Intrepid and wee Spawnling on my Flickr page. We even ran into some family members we haven't seen in ages at the restaurant, including an adorable little baby. Nothing says 'Hi, haven't seen you in a while! How are you?', like your child standing on a bench with moose antlers on his head. Even my kids are attention whores. Apparently it's genetic.

This no caffeine thing is cruel and unusual punishment in New Mother World. Just wanted to share that. When I don't get enough sleep at night I actually feel tired during the day. That's so wrong I don't even know where to start.

Speaking of wrong, have I mentioned I think I'm developing a peanut allergy? I guess my body figured raw onions were a wussy, easily avoidable allergy, so it had to throw in peanuts. So not only am I a caffeine-free Maven, but now I'm also processed in a peanut-free factory. I may still contain nuts or traces of nuts, however - it's only been a few days of peanut avoidance.

This pathetically hilarious development came about last week when I was hanging out at The Madre's house eating peanut butter cookies. After having a couple, my bottom lip started to itch and burn. Then I got these itchy bumps that looked suspiciously like hives on my chin; two of them that disappeared about twenty minutes later. Since this was the second time it happened - well, the lip part anyway, the hives were brand new - I decided I shouldn't touch another peanut until I see an allergist.

There are a handful of people on the planet (and I'm probably underestimating) that don't like me for whatever reason. I wronged them somehow, hurt their feelings, walked through their garden instead of using the cobblestone path, or whathaveyou. I take full ownership of my bitchiness and other shortcomings, so they needn't think I deny their accusations. Have you read my blog? I'm walking, talking idiocy. Hence, if the news reaches them that I need to boycott two of my favourite things - caffeine and peanuts - it should put a nice, vindicative smile on their faces. Smile on, Anti-Mavens, smile on. I really do deserve life's little bitchslaps. It keeps me humble. Sort of.

I'm absolutely wiped. I just came back from a board meeting for Aerik's music academy. More specifically, the non-profit organization that is linked to the academy. Surprisingly, I received thanks for making the meeting despite Spawnling's recent earthside arrival, then shock when I explained that I'm on two other committees as well and that this is baby gremlin's third board meeting.

I shrugged off the 'You're amazing comments' with a smile and a laugh. Silly mortals. They obviously don't understand. Board meetings are a break. I get to sit at a table with other adults who gladly offer to take my baby when he isn't sleeping peacefully in his chair to begin with. I get to leave my louder children at home, discuss adult things, drink coffee (decaf *pout*) and not smell like a cow in the desert because I showered before going.

Board meetings are bliss. They're like Disney to me right now: the most magical place on earth.

Now I must get my tired self upstairs and get some sleep. We resume speech therapy tomorrow. The vacay's been nice, but now I get the joy of herding three children into a tiny waiting room.

With no coffee. Good lord.

Someone pass me the peanuts.

Growing up and spitting up

A shout-out and big thanks to Lushgurl, Devilteen and Jobthingy for a very fun Friday night. Because, while anything can be deemed "fun" in the eyes of a bored, new mother, Friday was actually quie enjoyable even by pre-Spawnling standards. Rock on, crazies!

Yikes! I can't believe I haven't posted since Thursday. It's been so hectic around here lately. This whole "new baby" thing is taking me away from the important task of blogging more than is deemed acceptable by several complaining readers. They call me to gripe on that object I vaguely remember using more of before the Spawnling made his debut: the... telephone, is it? I rarely call anyone these days, as their voice would probably be drowned out by the sonic boom that is my house. I call it a symphony of pull-my-hair-out proportions.

It's impressive how quickly the other two gremlins have incorporated their newest member into the frey. Brother bonding at its finest. Having three children is like juggling: there's one in each hand and one flailing loudly in the air, spitting, crying or drawing on the window with a permanent marker.

Sir Gutsy is officially a four-year-old today. Four years ago, after 27 hours of labour, I gave birth to a beautiful little boy who simply would not come out without some surgical assistance. Stubborn? Not my Gutsy. He's a brand new, mutated form of stubborn that goes way beyond the original. It's a superpower deserving of its own X-Men character.

I got a little teary today when I looked at my big boy walking into his preschool. He was the product of five years of secondary infertility, a miscarriage and a lot of hard work. Not just the usual hard work, pervert, but a lot of battling with PCOS, AKA the mystery bitch, my diet, exercise and a whack of other things. But he's here now and we love him to bits. It's also made Intrepid and Spawnling seem even more miraculous. How we managed to have three beautiful boys is beyond me. Gratitude flows heavily today.

The newly crowned four-year-old had a family party on Saturday and was spoiled rotten. He received a lot of great gifts including some PJs from my grandma and slippers from The Madre and co. that he basically wears 24/7 unless he has to go somewhere. Unfortunately, we decorated the house to match his Sponge-Bob cake. There are yellow streamers and balloons everywhere. Basically, the diningroom looks like an obese canary and my eyes water whenever I go in there. It's not good for the new-mother psyche.

Gutsy's hugely into Rescue Heroes right now, too. We have a large bin of them from Intrepid's preschoolhood (read: back when he was a spoiled, only child). This conversation happened yesteday while Gutsy and his daddy were playing with them on the floor:

'This guy has a really big hose, dad'

'Oh, does he?'

'Well, no. Actually it's small.'

'*snicker* But people think it's big, right?'

'Yeah, they all think it's really big, but it's actually small'.

It's incredible how immature two parents in their thirties can be. That poor Rescue Hero had no idea we were making fun of his small hose. And besides, it's not the size of the hose, it's the water pressure in it. That's what all my firemen boyfriends tell me, anyway.

A big reason why I haven't been online much is because Spawnling has the pukes. Not just the pukes, but what I think might be a half-decent case of reflux. What do I mean by half-decent? Severe enough to be reflux, but not severe enough to be threatening to his health, thank goodness. It's painful for him and somewhat time-consuming and annoying for me, though. I'm forever taking off the baby weight by pacing around the house with a fussy baby. I change my spit-up saturated shirts at least three times daily (Yes, I know about those nifty things called 'receiving blankets'. Yes, I use them. They receive their fair share of baby yak, that's for sure).

So I've done something very noble and, dare I say, brave. Something that will shock and awe people who know me well. After doing some research, I, The Maven, have eliminated caffeine from my diet.

Breathe. Just breathe. It's ok. Look around you. See? The world didn't end.

Are you ok now? Alright, I'll continue.

It appears that caffeine in mom's diet can aggravate reflux in a big way. We're on day two of no caffeine and, while I fought off a nasty withdrawl headache yesterday, he seems to be doing a lot better. Still pukey and fussy, but not nearly as much as before. I've also cut way back on dairy and have upped my soy intake.

While this potential reflux thing is not the most comfortable for either of us, he's showing no signs of it being a serious issue. I'm going to bring it up with the doctor, but I think she'll just suggest I keep doing what I'm doing. It's times like this when my lactation training really pays off, though. I'm not panicked like I might be if I didn't have my ejumakation.

If I may brag for a moment (shocking that I would do such a thing!), Spawnling can now roll over, has full head and neck control and - my favourite part - has just started smiling! On the night of the 11th, while I was playing with him on the bed, he broke out in a huge grin followed by a couple more. He gave me two or three more yesterday and another one this morning. It makes smelling like a curdled carton of milk slightly more appealing.

It's amazing how infant development works. I've decided that the reason they start smiling within a few weeks of their birth is to reward their mothers. Being the self-centered creatures we are, we require some kind of payback for the sleepless nights (or caffeine deprivation, as is the case), the fussiness and the all-consuming black hole that is caring for an infant. Smiles melt frustration like fat off a Jenny Craig spokeswoman. Even smiles with puke on them are ok. I speak from experience.

Pictures to come in next posting session. No caffeine for the Maven may equal more posts on the blog. Let's hope, anyway.

PS: Special message for Reese. Please, PLEASE email me. I lost your address and I miss you! Thanks :)

Say it isn't so!

I can't believe it.

My baby, my Spawnling, who it seems hatched from his pod only yesterday...

My third and most likely final child, my iddy bitty chubmeister in all his rolls of happy fatness...

Is four weeks old today.

Someone at the Tim Hortons asked me how old he was. I said 'four weeks today.'

She said 'Wow! Already a month old.'

Visions of launching myself over the counter and stuffing her mouth full of fresh, gooey donuts did cross my mind. However, I showed incredible restraint and instead replied 'Not quite. He'll be a month old on the 12th'

And the Oscar for Best 'Way to quibble over semantics, you freaky bitch' look goes to... The Tim Hortons Coffee Wench!

Thankfully, she wasn't there to witness the 'Let's not age him, ok? He's three weeks and six days old' that came out of my mouth more than once at a housewares party last night.

Stop rolling your eyes, reader of stupid blog posts. You don't understand the snowball effects that are likely to occur in this situation. This is my third child and I know how this works now. First, we count sweet little newborn hours, which all too quickly turn into days. Before we know it, days turn into weeks. I'm ok with weeks, because they're still so new and fresh and cuddly.

But then weeks turn into months. It's time to start panicking, because very soon there are too many months to count and we lose track. Then it's years. By then it's all over. By the time you start counting in years, they're learning how to throw tantrums and talk back. Next they're stealing money from your wallet and walking thirty feet ahead of you in the mall, pretending like they don't know that middle-aged loser behind them.

See what I'm talking about here? Years are bad. We're still in weeks and I'm not ready for months yet. Coffee Wench and the rest of you need to let me savour the moment, ok?

And don't give me that crap about how much work this stage is. My baby rocks your beliefs right off the stage. He's cranky, but not uncontrollably so. He pukes, but he eats like a champ. We sleep all night nearly every night and I get to shower most mornings. He sleeps longer stretches during the day, allowing me to clean and cook and spend time with the other boys. Heck, he even slept through the board meeting at Intrepid's school tonight. Two full hours of carseat snoozing.

Spawnling rules! (and also drools, but I digress...)

In all seriousness, I wouldn't change it for the world. I want to enjoy every second with him in all his babyness. There have been four moms in my online due date club who've lost their little ones for various reasons - one preemie, one with serious medical complications who passed away shortly after birth and two stillborn. Four sweet little babies who will never keep their parents up at night or drive them batty with their fussiness. It breaks my heart, but reminds to be very grateful for what I have. I'll take the bad with the good any day.

I'm a lucky Maven.

I must go tend to my four-week-old-but-three-days-shy-of-a-month-so-shut-it-already Spawnling. His feet are kicking my keyboard anyway.

No way, man. NPH wouldn't do that!

Oh, but he did do that.

And incidentally, I've been dying to use that Harold and Kumar quote for a legitimate reason.

Undoubtedly moved by my post about the Wiggles, Neil Patrick Harris, lovingly known to many in my generation as Doogie Howser M.D., has come out of the proverbial closet and announced his sexuality to the world.

Actually, he was "lanced", according to Lance Bass' incredibly hot boyfriend. I love it when someone comes up with a new term like that. Good on you, Reichen.

I bet he feels better. I know I do. I had my suspicions as he generally plays womanizer roles these days, which gets my gaydar a bleepin'. It's like guys who spend hours upon hours with their cars, like the silver Saturn "sports car" neighbour up the street. Or women who aggressively push cosmetics for a living, striving hard to earn enough sales points to get formally invited to the yearly company gala and buying big, puffy, pink outfits for the occasion.

Life would be so much easier (and less Best of Ace of Base would be played loudly by annoying neighbours driving at top speeds up the street) if people could just be themselves from the getgo without fear of retribution from homophobes. With three boys, I think about this often. Spawnling, for example, is two thirds more likely to be gay than if he didn't have two older brothers. Don't believe me? Check out this study. It's done by a Canadian, so it's obviously correct.

People have asked me what I would do if one of my sons ended up being gay. One of those 'what if' conversations mothers have with other mothers when they're supposed to be out discussing anything but the kids. It's a ridiculous question to ask if you know me at all. I wouldn't 'do' anything. Nothing changes. I hope he falls in love, I hope he get married and I hope they have kids, if those are things that he wants out of life. I hope he's incredibly happy and is surrounded by people who love and support him, his dad and I being two of those people.

This whole 'OMFG SOMEONE IS GAY CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!??!?!?!?' stuff is becoming a thing of the past. The more Lance Bass' and Neil Patrick Harrises that come out, the less of a big deal it will become. It's like my personal goal to normalize breastfeeding. I nurse everywhere and anywhere because my doing so will hopefully make it easier for the next mother.

And what's up with that, anyway? People still suggest that mothers should nurse in public bathrooms. Um, ew. Once upon a time, when I was a young, easily intimidated thing, I used to sometimes take my baby into the restroom when he got hungry. One day, I realized how disgusted I'd feel if I had to bring my restaurant food in with me into the stall and proceeded to feel like an idiot for feeding my child in there. Funny how such obvious things go right over my head a good deal of the time.

In the last three weeks, I've breastfed pretty much everywhere and anywhere. If I've received any dirty looks or negative comments, I've been completely oblivious to them. Maybe I've been fortunate. Or maybe, just maybe, people are wisening up and becoming more accepting. Less stupid.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm actually 130lbs and a Swedish sex kitten. And while we're dreaming, I live in a really big house and the (sweet but not very attractive, especially to my husband) nanny plays with the children while I get paid to blog for a living.

Wow, that fantasy was almost better than sex.

Speaking of drugs and things you might see on them, my mom, AKA The Madre, is sick once again. The poor woman can never catch a break with those lungs of hers. She's on some pretty heavy-duty narcotics and steroids right now and everything is really, really funny.

Hmm...Come to think of it, that's probably why she likes my blog so much when she's ill. She could probably read something about the declining number of Pacific Salmon and find it hilarious right now.

I took Spawnling over last night to visit with the sick Madre, The Sister and the rest of the crew that made The Maven who she is today (I can't figure out if they deserve thank you notes or death threats. I go back and forth.)

Before we got there, my sister said to my youngest brother (he's 17 and has Down's Syndrome) "Michael! Jackson is coming over!"

To which Michael replied excitedly: "Michael Jackson is coming over?!"

The visit nearly drove The Sister insane. Every time the baby would make a face - any face at all - my mom would demand that my sister look at him. 'Look! Look! Oh my god, you're missing it! He's SLEEPING!' and 'Take a picture! Hurry! He's making a pouty face! Look at those hands. THE HANDS!' and 'He's LOOKING AT YOU and you're IGNORING HIM!'

This happened about thirty times. My poor sister showed incredible retraint. Huge props to her for knowing how to deal with the stoned.

The Madre also spent a good deal of the time holding my baby, burping him and telling me how gassy he was. Thanks, mom. Hadn't noticed. I've only had three kids so I'm kind of new at this parenting thing still.

House was good last night, but sad. Stupid House. Love that show, hate the sadness.

Well, the Spawnmeister just woke up, so I suppose I should go parent. Maybe I'll bring him over to my mom's so she can show me how to change a diaper. 'LOOK! LOOK! Aww, he's peeing on everything. Hurry! Get the camera!'

When cute goes horribly wrong

Er... um...Yikes.

See this picture? I was snapping shots this morning and thought to myself 'wouldn't it be nice to get one of me kissing the baby? Aww, what memories!'

Instead, it looks like I'm sucking his brains out. That's some scary shiznit. There's no cuteness at all. In fact, any adorableness that might be on Spawnling's face now appears to be a dazed, my-brain-is-gone look. And I don't look like an adoring mother. I more resemble a cannibal on a bad hair day.

Nice photography, Maven.

However, I did take other, cute pictures. Want to see how fat my baby is? Check out this one. And this one. And this one here. My breastmilk rocks. Also, I'm probably the only one that thinks seeing this many pictures of a newborn is exciting.

Just to further annoy you, here's one of him sleeping and holding my hand. Also, I love this picture of Geekster and the two younger gremlins (I put that one on here just for you, Kate).

Oh, I'm sorry. Were you looking for actual post content? I wrote one last night, ok? Stop being so demanding and enjoy how cute my fat baby is.

Bitchy babies

Greetings, blog readers. It is just slightly after 11pm on Sunday and I have a somewhat bitchy Spawnling on my lap.

What's that? You think it's impossible for a newborn to be bitchy? Come again? You think it's downright rude and unmotherly for me to refer to my child as bitchy? Well, allow me to elaborate: Newborns are little people, are they not? And by 'little people' I don't mean the politically-correct-but-not-really-anymore-but-maybe-still-because-TLC-uses-it term for people born with dwarfism. I mean it in the literal sense (although I suppose both ways are literal...). Babies are little - or small - people. People get bitchy. Thus, why can't a newborn be bitchy? And have you spent any evenings with the Horned Wonder? Bitchy. Have you met his mother (that would be me, in case there's any confusion)? Beet-chay.

I rest my case.

Not only can recently arrived human citizens be bitchy, but near-four-year-olds can have incredily evil and sweet thoughts within moments of each other. Case in point: Gutsy hits his brother in the side of the face with a pretend sword (I would like to mention that I didn't purchase said sword, but that also it wouldn't matter, as young males will turn even cotton balls into weapons if given a chance). We then settle in to view Ghostbusters II - Intrepid's new favourite movie - and watch as Dana Barrett is locked in a cell of sorts, looking on helplessly as her baby is about to become the new spawn of evil (highly unrealistic, as I am the proud mother of the only three spawns of evil). Gutsy turns to Geekster and says 'Dad, someone should buy that lady a present because she misses her baby. It would make her feel better.'

Good on you, Gutsy. Nothing cures a mother's ache for her child, but some bling doesn't hurt. I bet if your future wife is blue because you have to put little Gutsy Jr. in daycare, buying her a new diamond Rolex will make her worry a bit less about how circle time is going.

It's been a busy weekend. Friday night involved my regularly scheduled 12 step meeting, followed by a visit with Lushgurl and Devilchild. They gave me pizza and played with my baby while I did a poor job of explaining how a blog works. But you know, she has one now and she posts to it. Once you read it, you'll understand that all my friends are deranged and that's how we relate to each other so well. It's a beautiful thing.

This sparked a domino effect with frightening consequences. I started a blog out of sheer boredom and in hopes of *snicker* becoming a real live writer who makes real live money one day. Jobthingy, being the amazing and incredibly bored friend that she is, started to read this trash and comment to it. Then Impossible Mom and, eventually, Lushgurl started their own blogs, leaving Jobthingy in an absolute tizzy because she couldn't comment to their blogs because she's not a blogspot member.

Have you ever worked in a call center? Well, I have, but it was way, way before blogs. I only lasted six months. The reason? There were no blogs. I don't know how someone can answer the same stupid questions all day, every day, without mindless junk to read and comment on. Blogs were created for people who work mundane jobs, like I once did and like Jobthingy does now. So while she was thrilled at having two new blogs to read, it drove her batty not to be able to waste yet more time and comment on them.

Thus, Jobthingy started her own blog. Naturally, I'm afraid, but I must read. You must read, too.

Wow, that was a lot of crap to go through just to explain that two of my friends have new blogs. You know you're a new mom with nothing to talk about when...

The bitchiness has subsided. My baby really likes his Neglect-o-Matic (read: Gutsy's old car seat turned bouncy chair), it seems. I only put him in it when I'm trying to type and he gets fussy. That's maybe once a day if we're lucky and it appears to be a special treat because of it. He's watching the screen intently, sucking happily on his pacifier and hugging his blanket. He's way too cute to be mine, you know.

Oh, and last night we slept from - get this - midnight until 8:30am. And he slept happily in the restaurant while we had brunch, then through most of our Walmart trip to get Gutsy some winter boots (not surprisingly, I wait until the first significant snowfall to think about getting my children ready for winter). I love this boy. I shall keep him even though he pukes on me a lot.

Anyway, I've neglected my three-week-old long enough. Time to find some awful Sunday night, made-for-television movie and settle into the recliner for the evening. Tomorrow morning I shall check out everyone's posts from this weekend. Is it sad that I'm looking forward to it?

Wiggle it, just a little bit

9:00am this morning

Intrepid was at school. Geekster was taking Gutsy to preschool. Spawnling and I, who awoke at 6:30am (after 6.5 hours of solid sleep, mind you) were snoozing happily on the couch with the television off and nothing but the hum of the world outside.

Suddenly, I open my eyes to see a man's head outside my livingroom window. This wouldn't be terribly shocking, except that the bottom of our livingroom window is about eight feet off the ground (we live in a bungalow with a half-sunken basement). The man isn't looking inside, but rather facing the street. I can only see the back of his Montreal-hair-band-of-the-80's-mullet. Our dog, Taylor, whom we should have called Spaztik, starts freaking out. It's one thing to be 10 pounds with the mind of a two-year-old (I think that's pushing it when it comes to describing her intelligence) and dealing with average-sized people, but to be presumably guarding the house against a nine foot giant was a bit too much for her. She took off to the bedroom with her tail between her legs.

As it turns out, the nine-foot mullet monster is, in fact, a paver on an asphalt machine. And he would have got away with it, too, if it wasn't for those meddling kids.

After nearly eight years our driveway shall be paved. This is a glorious occasion! Do you know how tiring it is to shovel two feet of snow and gravel into a pile? More importantly, do you know how annoying it is to pick the rocks off the side of the lawn in the Spring and throw them back onto the driveway so the lawnmower doesn't turn into a torpedo-launching machine of death?

Also, we'll finally be able to put the kazillions of pieces of sidewalk chalk to use without worrying about our annoying neighbour in his silver Saturn "sports car" barrelling down the street and hitting one of the kids. He's always thumping the worst music, too. What's with losers who put more money into their cars than their homes and insist that everyone wants to hear The Best of Ace of Base blasting out of their subwoofer? Is your penis that small?

Why aren't you answering?

Oh... gotcha.

Anyway, prior to the pavers showing up, I was entranced by a performance from The Wiggles on Canada AM. I must say, they're a friendly bunch. We don't watch much Wiggles around here, but I did enjoy their interview post-concert. Mind you, I was a bit shocked that some of them appear to be in heterosexual relationships and have actually produced children from their loins. It's just not what I expected, that's all. Is it wrong that I presumed they were... well... gay? Only two of them claim to have kids, though: Anthony and Captain Feathersword. That leaves the other three up for grabs. Oh, and I have questions about the dinosaur, too. I wonder if she enjoys the company of other femalosauruses. After all, she tours with all these strapping young men and I haven't heard anything about them hooking up in the tabloids, have you? Makes you wonder...

Now, before you get all offended and tell me that pirates, dinosaurs and men in coloured turtlenecks are allowed to love whoever they please, you should know that I agree with you. Generally, I really don't care what someone's sexual preference is. It's not at the top of my 'things I need to know about other people' list.

However, when I'm forced to endure a half hour of Wigglemania (a rarity, thankfully), my mind isn't exactly focused on the great music. Fruit Salad, yummy, yummy starts to turn into 'Are they really singing about fruit salad?' which turns into 'Who writes this crap?' which turns into 'Did you see the way Murray looked at Greg? That wasn't just a friendly smile. That was more of a 'Hey, want to go get some tofu pizza back at the hotel after this performance, baby?' kind of smile' which turns into 'But didn't he just smile at Jeff like that during the last song? What a slut!'

You can see how these things happen. You can't expect me to watch something that will turn my brain to mush and not allow it to fight back by doing self-preservating exercising like guessing people's sexuality. It's just not fair.

A few months ago, one of my favourite conversations with other moms would start with this question: If you were on a deserted island with the entire cast and had to pick someone, what Wiggle would you sleep with?

This is usually followed closely by: No, you don't have a vibrator.

And then by: No, no sex toys at all. They were lost in the shipwreck, sorry.

And finally, sometimes by an exasperated: Jobthingy, I said NO VIBRATOR. Freaking pervert.

So anyway, the thing is, picking a Wiggle to copulate with is not as easy as it seems. Great questions often take great thought. Can the entire Wiggles cast be taken into consideration, or is it just the original four? When the rules include everyone, I generally go with Captain Feathersword (who has a 21 month old son, by the way, yar!). When it's only the hot boy band itself, I tend to lean toward Anthony, although I suppose Greg would do if he'd seranade me on that guitar of his.

Who says being a stay-at-home-mom doesn't provide you with interesting conversation topics?

Next time: what Jobthingy and I really think of Dora.

Why I love coffee and other obvious ramblings

Is it wrong that I've been calling Spawnling "Pimples McZit" the last few days? I can't help it. The little potato is broken out all over his pretty face and I can't sit idly by without poking some fun at him.

I reserve the right as the incubator and feeder of Spawnling to mock him. It's not like he has candy I can steal and I have to take my cut somewhere. He's currently asleep on my lap as I type this two-handed. I guess he's realized that mommy's other baby is her blog. Horribly pathetic woman, thy name is The Maven.

Last night involved a baby waking up at 3:45am and forcing me to watch some biography on a guy in California who's dubbed the father of surfer music or some such thing. Why we couldn't have woken up wanting to play at 4am is beyond me, as at least then I wouldn't have had to suffer through 15 minutes of egocentric hasbeen docudrama before Without a Trace came on.

Just as Spawnling was settling down into Sleepyville again, Gutsy decided he would wake up and watch preschooler television at 5am. I didn't want to fall asleep until he did, so I was awake until about 5:30. When everyone woke up for the day aroud 8am (Gutsy didn't have preschool this morning and Intrepid took a sick day due to a cold) I peeled the demon spawn and I off the recliner in the livingroom and trudged into the bed, where we slept until 9:30am. Bliss.

This afternoon I packed up the baby and headed over to Lushgurl's house. She has a blog, you know. She just has to add some content. This is a HUGE hint, chicky. Get on that, will you?

Today's saying is: coffee makes mommy clever. I was much more awake and significantly happier after some java. Life looks a lot rosier after some caffeine, friends. For anyone who's ever turned a cold shoulder to this amazing drug of choice, I encourage you to return, open armed and apologetic with a large bouquet of roses. She is a mistress worth spending the big bucks on. I have several favourite lattes and a stroller that holds them to prove it.

My baby is growing so big so very fast and I have to admit I'm a little sad. Even at barely three weeks of age, a small (very small) part of me is yearning to have 'just one more'. That's the addict in me coupled with the very convincing maternal instinct that rears its ugly head on occasion. The same one that makes me want to spend time with my children and stay home with them and other such nonsense.

I've been quizzing all the mothers in my life, asking this important question: How do you know when you're done having children? And, more importantly, how do you accept that you're done? Does that maternal urge to hold little babies ever go away? Do you ever want to stop smelling their newborn scent or kissing their perfect little heads?

Maternal instinct is a bitch, isn't it?

Anyway, I know we're done. Partially because three pregnancies, three ten pound babies and two cesareans are more than enough for this girl. Partially because the almighty Geekster says we are done. He hath spoken, er, spokeneth. And stuffeth.

Three kids is a fairly large family nowdays. Plus, the gremlins are a bit of a handful compared to those alleged "calm children" I sometimes hear about. Plus, as I've said before, deaf children are loud. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I think money would be better served soundproofing the playroom than having more kids to put through college. Don't get me wrong, I love the gremz, but I don't and can't drink alcohol. In order to parent more children and maintain some semblance of sanity, I would have to have ready access to the booze.

So yes: three children it is.

Well, I should go throw on the roast (read: I should take the pre-made roast out of its package and microwave it alongside the pre-made gravy).

Instead of resenting me because this post is rather short, take a look at some of the new blogs I put on the list to the right ---->

A demain!

The Maven: now with added candy hangover!

My philosphy about why people have children: so they can raid their Hallowe'en bags after bedtime.

Don't lie. I know you do it. And if you're one of those people who doesn't, you either have a halo prominently displayed above your noggin or you're frightfully insane. Who wouldn't steal candy from their kids? It's your right as their parent. Did you not shell out for the costume? Heck, do you not give them food, shelter and the almighty XBox? Did you painstakingly blow up 5,000 balloons for little Ashley's birthday party last year at the germ-infested petting zoo?

I've had thirty pounds of children - that's worth at least as much in chocolate, damnit. Geekster and I indulged in all things sweet and crunchy and gooey while the gremlins slept on after their busy night out. It was a new episode of House, after all, and artery-destroying snacks are mandatory. Who eats carrot sticks on Hallowe'en night anyway? Do I look like a horse?

Don't answer that.

What this means is that I've tacked on at least another month of my extra six M&Ms, er, pounds of baby weight. Must I say that it was worth every minute? It was. Thanks for coming out.

Spawnling is doing a rare thing right now: sleeping without me holding him. *sigh* It appears my little demon is sprouting his horns at nearly three weeks postpartum. He's doing this whole grumpy thing that makes mommy a little insane (and if you add that to the amount of insanity I already have banked up, you can only guess where this is going). I think it's his tummy, but I haven't yet figured out why. I tried eliminating dairy in my diet and it did nothing. I've been diligent at making sure we don't have a lactose overload issue, which I know was a factor in his early days (funny how he can have 'early days' at three weeks of age).

Maybe he's just pissy like his mother: "He doesn't look like me, but he did inherit my crotchety gene".

I was watching a horrible depiction of attachment parenting this morning after following a link from Mothering (there's also a part 2 you should check out if you're interested). I must say how impressed I am at the sensational, negative spin they have going on. They obviously picked the most opinionated, crunchy families out there so they could lump us all into the same category. The 'crazy' category. Because while I didn't find most of what they do to be completely bonkers, I think most mainstream parents would, and that, I believe, is the whole point of that segment.

My favourite part was the american woman walking through what looked like a Babies R' Us, giving new names to old baby items. She stole my favourite one for crib, though. I've always jokingly called it a "baby jail", but only to get a laugh out of people. She was serious and it really took the fun out of it. However, she also had a fancy new term for the bouncy seat. I'm pleased to say that Spawnling is currently snoozing in his "Neglect-o-Matic" as I type this. I'm neglecting my baby to blog for my readers. It's all your fault.

Hehe... "Neglect-o-Matic". Brilliant! It really makes me want to use it more so I can tell people where he is.

Why didn't they interview me? I'm a good balance of the crunchy and the mainstream. Instead of full out granola, I'm more of a soft, warm oatmeal. Comforting, yet palatable to the masses. I breastfeed longterm, but all my newborns have had pacifiers. We co-sleep, but I also *gasp* put my children down in a bassinet or on a bed during the day sometimes so I can, you know, have my body to myself sometimes and do things that are more easily done without a child on me. I own and use two slings and a Snugli, but also love the stroller (with its amazing cup holders which fit a latte just perfectly). We use cloth diapers and we also use disposables when we go out for the day as well as through the night, because the little stinker will sleep through if he has some absorbancy. We eat organic food, but I also raid my children's candy and buy them Happy Meals sometimes. I believe homeschooling is amazing, but I have one in public school and one in a private preschool because they wanted to go and they enjoy it. We don't spank, but I do a great job at yelling sometimes. It's good for my lungs.

I don't feel bad for being a mediocre crunchy mama. Truth be told, I'm a huge slacker. Being entirely crunchy would take way too much effort, while being entirely mainstream just goes against my instincts as a parent. It's like being a decent hockey player: you'll never make the hall of fame, but you will get a great salary. I'm just doing my best to score some goals in the great game of parenting without showing off, that's all.

Speaking of which, I bet some people would like to know where the Hallowe'en pictures are from last night. Funny story, really. It involves me being too busy to get the camera out, thus missing great photo opportunities and - oh, yes - Spawling's first Hallowe'en. One of those memory thingies we'll never get back and will forget because we didn't get pictures of it. Booyeah, Maven. Good on you.

There shall be no mothering awards hanging upon my household walls, I'm afraid.