Re-elect Mayor Maven in Choasville

GAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!

Ok, that's better.

Just had to get that out.

I have a sick four-year-old, a sick six-week-old, a messy house (with some odd smell I can't seem to track down) and I had a horrible weekend. Well, Friday was good, but the rest of it sucked. It was the worst weekend I've had in a while and I had no pick-me-up in my friend, Caffeine. Imagine the horror.

Gutsy has a cold that has mutated into a virus squatting triumphantly in his sinuses. I don't know when it's going to go away because the poor boy has inherited the family title of 'asthmatic', which has been passed through the generations on my side like a nasty, old wedding dress. Except I don't think Gutsy would want my wedding dress.

But if he did, that would be ok, too. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm an open-minded parent (read: at least I'm doing something right)

Happily, I seem to have a much milder version of Gutsy's cold, despite my asthma. I say 'happily' because mommy being sick equals a large number of antibodies which are showing up in my breastmilk. So, while the Spawnster is grumpier and sleeping more than usual, he's also only mildly stuffy and barely coughing. Thank you, breasts. For while you would probably need $8000 of cosmetic surgery to look anything like you did ten years ago, you deserve some poetry and perhaps a statue in your honour for saving what little sanity I have left.

Incidentally, I would like Angelina Jolie's breasts to sub in for mine when the casting is made for said statue. And I only write passable poetry at 5:30am, apparently. I'll have to remember that the next time I'm feeling creative and Bravo's showing a repeat of 'Without a Trace'.

Big drumroll, please...The Maven is going back to school! Not in the fully traditional sense, mind you. Rather, I'll basking in the technological sunshine of today's online universities. The time has come for me to get a degree of some kind so I have a shiny piece of paper that proves my worth. I know I'm worthy. Obviously you know I'm worthy or you wouldn't be reading this (or maybe you're reading to laugh at me, which is what I'd be doing if it wasn't such an assault on my self-esteem). But could you imagine?

Education and previous experience: please see http://stay-at-home-mayhem.blogspot.com for more information on how I kick ass at life without wasting all that time and money like you probably did.

I don't know... I'm not sure if it's the trend-setting statement I had in mind. Prospective employers may not have the same appreciation of my wit as I do.

So, the next question is: what am I going to take? There are so many options. I've toyed with several already and haven't completely made up my mind. They're all in the 'mental health professional' field, anyway. Psychologist and social worker top the list. Scary, I know. The last thing I need to be doing is trying to help people. I'm the first to admit that people like me help best by staying far, far away. Most likely this would only be the start of my full-out lactation consultant status. I'm on my way there already, but I still have a long way to go. I require a degree, a brush-up on my previous courses and something like 2500 hours of working in the lactation field before I can qualify to sit for the board exam.

Yeah, I know. That's why I thought I might want to get started like, NOW.

You're probably thinking 'Um, Maven? I, like thousands of others, am an avid reader of your amazingly well-written blog and am wondering what happened to your idea of becoming a freelance writer. Could you explain?'

Surely, my pet. I'm still planning on writing while I get a degree and a career in what I do best and what I love the most (Butthead: huhuh, she said she likes boobs the most.) and while I raise three children full-time.

...

I didn't say this was a rational decision, ok? You're thinking like you, not like me.

Anyway, that's the scoop. We'll see how I feel in February when I'm dealing with the chaos soup that is my life as well as attemping to be smart. You can laugh at me then. Yes, you can laugh. But we'll see who's laughing when I'm trying to help people.

Come to think of it, probably my lawyers.

Oh and I did it again. I can't help it. Shame on me.

I was given 'The Tone'

Yes, it's true. I've stooped to a whole new low by creating a YouTube account and uploading videos of my children. Yet another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats for people to look at and think 'Oh boy. Another mom posting yet more videos of her rugrats'.

I've never claimed originality, forsight or empathy. Ever.



Yesterday, I took all three gremlins and my camera to speech therapy. Spawnling wore his new Christmas outfit, which I think suits him perfectly. He was also exactly six weeks old, which warranted a few more pictures, including this one, in which, according to Astarte, he resembles a mafia Don.

Here's where I try to win favours with the Don by being the big hoochie I am. Meanwhile, Gutsy acted like, well, Gutsy, and even managed to give me the cheesiest fake smile he's ever given.

Intrepid reminded me of how old I'm getting. He's going to be ten in less than a week and it shows. He's looking all older-kid-like. Yikes.

We had a busy day yesterday, complete with a visit to Mrs. Wailing's house, where my children made a big to-do about destroying her backyard. The gremz have a rule:

If you're not sure if you're supposed to do it, do it anyway and see if someone notices.

They live by that rule, especially in situations where it's bound to be embarrassing and/or cost us money to repair. Aren't they sweet? So while they were fairly well-behaved in the house, they did all sorts of neat things outside like climbing the side of a fence, throwing things at frozen plants and making sure that virtually no sand remained in Wailing Jr's sandbox (guess what I'm bringing over the spring? Hint: it rhymes with 'hand' and is thankfully cheap).

I'm thankful that my friends are patient with the gremlins. A handful they can be (even Intrepid, when he's energetic enough) but they do have their charms. Sometimes I have to look hard to find them, though. Really, really hard. Like yesterday.

We then went to speech, where I made the comment that will haunt me for many nights to come.

While Intrepid and Gutsy were both dying to tell me about their sessions...

While Spawnling was fussing because he was tired...

While I was holding a pacifier in his mouth to keep him quiet...

While I was writing a cheque one-handed to the therapist...

While I was encouraging the older boys to get their things on and 'Please help him with his boots, Intrepid, please... I know he's being a pain but try to get him dressed for me, ok? Mom is really busy...'

While I got my own things on, ushered the two older boys out into the hall, put the still-crying baby in his snowsuit, grabbed the diaper bag, my purse, their speech homework, the blanket...

I jokingly said to the woman I'd been sharing the waiting room with 'I know this is going to get easier. At least, that's what I tell myself every day to keep my sanity'.

As she watched her child playing on the floor, she smiled politely and replied 'You're lucky. You have three.'

Uh-oh. I know that tone. I've used that tone. Anyone who's struggled with their fertility knows the polite way to say 'Shut up, you ungrateful wench and enjoy what you have because it's not as easy for some of us and I would do anything to be in your shoes right now, ok?'

My heart caught in my throat when she said it. What was I to say? What I really wanted to say was 'I used to have only one child and we tried for five years and went through hell and back and lost a baby in the process and finally had another one and that's why they're six years apart and no we weren't trying for the baby but we weren't preventing either and it still took three years which is not how long it takes fertility goddesses to conceive and yes we were beyond shocked and I have polycystic ovarian syndrome and I should have guessed by your body shape that you also have a hormonal imbalance and I am really grateful for my kids and I'm really, really sorry.'

Instead I just said 'Thank you. I really love them,' and left quickly and quietly with a huge amount of guilt. Heaven forbid she read my blog, where I refer to my children as gremlins and name them things like Gutsy and - gack! - Spawnling. I'd have to wear a clever disguise everytime we go to speech.

Bad, bad Maven. You should know better. You've been there. Have you forgotten so soon? Three kids and you're all that, eh?

No, I haven't forgotten. I'm simply screwing up the myth I used to buy into. For while not a day goes by that I don't take time to appreciate what I have, I also know I've earned that right to feel tired and overwhelmed and even bitchy (shocking, I know), just as she's earned the right to use 'the tone'.

It may have taken a decade to have these three, but three I now have and only the truly clueless - infertile or not - would be too blind to see what a handful juggling all their needs at the same time can be. As much of a contradiction as it may seem to some, feeling stressed out can indeed coincide with loving one's children tremendously. I'm living proof of that and other oddities, such as liking jam and old (sharp) cheddar on toast. Don't knock it 'til you try it.

Those feelings that accompany infertility (or secondary infertility, in my case) have left me messed up in ways only others who've gone through the joy of a body that continuously lets you down could understand. I still shudder at the thought of using a contraceptive method to - gasp! - avoid getting pregnant again. The word 'vasectomy' still makes me jump a little. I still don't always understand when people say they don't want another baby. In my eyes, the best thing in the world is another baby! The only reason I'm not having another is because of the potential health risks to myself and my baby if I have another (and that convincing Geekster might require drugging his gingerale at this point). And don't even get me started on people who don't want kids at all. That's like people who don't like chocolate - so completely different from me that I don't think I can wrap my brain around their ideas.

The number one thing never to say to someone who's infertile (and it's been said to me many times):

I wish I had a hard time getting pregnant. All I have to do is look at a man and I get knocked up!

Makes my comment at speech therapy look rather tame, doesn't it? I can't possibly comprehend what a woman figures she's gaining from saying something like that to a person struggling to get pregnant. Do you expect the infertile woman to say 'Gee, I never really though of it that way, Alice! I feel a lot better now. Thanks!' and give her a big hug?

My infertility scars will probably remain with me the rest of my life. But you know something? I think I've earned that right to look at the more fertile lot with a quirky stare. Just as I've earned the right to post pointless videos and pictures of my beautiful children on the interweb for all to see (and wonder why I post them at all).

Squarely in the middle and looking rather foolish. That's where The Maven belongs.

My blog is a small amount better than average

I'm very slowly getting used to this juggling three kids thing. Some people just pick up the ball (or new baby) and run with it, but I'm more of a stumble-and-fall-and-nearly-drop-the-baby kind of person before I start my dash to the other side of the field. It takes me a while to catch on to new ideas and sports have never been my thing.

Around noon I showered, dressed, put on some make-up on and threw some de-frizzer in my locks before heading out the door to Intrepid's parent-teacher interview. Spawnling came with, of course, and slept the entire time because he loves being all snuggly warm in his snowsuit. When Spawnling and I were waiting outside the classroom we were bombarded with teachers who came by to say hello. I was told I look 'too beautiful to be a new mother.'

... Um, how, exactly? What makes me look great? Is it the grey hair protruding from my months-old highlight job? Or perhaps my double chin matches Spawnlings just perfectly? Teachers are loco, man. Apparently all you have to do is slap some lipstick on to look 'beautiful' or 'radiant' after a child. I'm going to write a book about it and make millions. I might even get to go on Oprah, which is every stay-at-home-mom's dream, right? I hear she has free bon-bons in the green room.

Anyway, back to the parent-teacher lovefest. The very best way to tell if your child is doing well in school prior to the meeting is to check the time slot. If it's a 15 minute time slot, you're fine. If it's 30 minutes, you have problems. Intrepid's kindergarten and grade 1 conferences were 30 minutes in length. By grade 1 I was sweating more than a middle-aged man at an Eagles concert.

Then the magic happened: Grade 2, the hearing loss diagnosis and the first full year with hearing aids. I was beyond thrilled to receive our time slot of 2:30-2:45pm. Fifteen minutes! All good news, no bad news and happy Maven walked out with a huge grin on her face. Grade 3 was more of the same.

The lovefest this time went well, too. He has the same teacher as last year and she happens to adore him. However, she used the awful g-word on three separate occasions. I don't know if my wincing was apparent, but she did talk to me about IQ tests ('I'd love to see how high he would score') and when I said I try to teach Intrepid that everyone is smart in their own way and he's no different than anyone else in that respect, she said 'But he *is* different. You do realize that, right?'

*sigh*

Yes. Yes I get that. But I also hate labels and don't want to stick any on my child. Why do that anyway? He does really well in school, is kept plenty busy by some enrichment she throws at him when he's bored (and it's in his IEP along with the hearing loss, so every teacher from here on out is legally required to provide said enrichment anyway), he has no social issues, loves school and is truly thriving in every respect. How is calling him 'gifted' going to do anything for him? I think it could hurt him at this point more than anything.

Maybe I'm overreacting a bit. Ok, I know I am. Is this at all surprising to anyone who knows me or reads my frenzied blog posts? Proabably not.

Yesterday, Jobthingy posted about cheerleaders, or more specifically, social status in school (sorry boys - not that kind of post). I was a tremendous loser all throughout school. I was smart, friendly, cute in my own right (until the mess that was puberty. Ick.), certainly wouldn't hurt a fly and had a large 'DOORMAT - PLACE FOOT HERE' tatooed across my forehead. School was a terrible place, for while I scored A's in virtually all subjects, I was teased more than the bangs of an 80's metal singer. There was no icky g-word floating through our school system at the time, but if there was I probably would have had it stamped just above my other forehead tatoo. I have no doubt social homicide would have soon followed.

I realize things have changed between then and now. Geeks are in and nobody's sharing a pair of boots with their brother so they can walk uphill both ways through ten feet of snow to get to their one room schoolhouse. Those were the days.

Still, I guess I'm of the philosphy that if something isn't broken then there's no need to fix it. Thus, there is no need to place labels on a child who's happy and doing well. I think the term itself is unecessary. Let's use 'quirky' or something. Heck, I didn't mind her and the french teacher saying 'He's a very neat kid'. I agree! Let's stick with 'neat', shall we? Nobody gets beat up or made to feel different because they're 'neat'.

Intrepid had to write out his own report card as if he were a teacher evaluating him. Here's what he put down under 'This describes me as a student':

I am Intrepid, a good student and who's work is pretty well done for a grade 4. I do all my work when I need to but sometimes I slack off or day-dream But I always learn something new at school.

I have a natural talent for writing, reading and math; my I.Q. is a small amount higher than average and I know almost any equation.

Example: (gives multiplication and answer, which is incidentally wrong).

Can you see why a label would be bad for this child? He already thinks quite highly of himself. His teacher calls it 'confidence'. That's a nice way of putting it. I like people who can turn anything into a quality.

No idea where he gets that ego from. No idea at all.

Can't talk. Need sugar fix.

I've placed my order for a Mr. Big bar on Geekster and Intrepid's way home from piano lessons and band practice. It's been one of those days.

I'm wearing the fifth shirt of the day. That's right: my fifth. Number five. Numéro cinq. Número cinco (had to throw that one in for The Madre). Since I stopped drinking caffeinated coffee, Spawnling's pukefest has calmed down quite a bit and he's a lot happier. However, he's still a spitter-upper and I find my shoulder quite wet and full of icky-smelling, curdled goodness. That is, if I either forget to wear the receiving blanket or he decides to miss it, the latter being the most common scenario. Little bugger.

I still maintain that having no real coffee sucks. But you know what sucks more? When you're on your way home from visiting the in-laws and you're an hour into your three hour trip and you stop for lunch and the Tim Hortons server from Podunk, Ontario keeps repeating your order back to you wrong so you eventually let one little thing go and accept a regular coffee instead of a decaf and you get home and feed your baby and your baby screams and vomits profusely for the next six hours.

That, my friends, sucks more than...Oh wait. I can't say the rude thing I wanted to because my mommy reads my blog. She thinks I'm perfect, you know. Let's just say it had something to do with dead goat appendages. Enough said.

Know what else sucks? When your mom is too sick to Christmas shop with you. Do you hear that, mom? Your illness is ruining my fun. This is unacceptable. Sure, some people might think that you have some serious health issues keeping you from working or going shopping with your daughter, but I suspect you just like the attention.

(Ok, she's actually chronically sick and it really does suck worse than a baby screaming because of Satan disguised as an eldery Tim Hortons lady in Hicksville, but you have to find the humour in it somewhere, right?)

I try to do this in just about every less-than-pleasant thing going on in life. Being the wise person I am, I once made up my very own saying about life. My deep thought follows:

Everyone is dealt a shitty hand in the game of life. It's how you play your cards that matters.

Can you imagine if that saying gets passed down through my family? 'Your great, great grandma Maven used to say...' would be quickly followed by 'Um, she used bad words like that?' and 'What's a 'blog'?' and 'Was she one of those trashy people you talk about with your friends, mommy?'

By typical definition I'm actually quite trashy. I'm uneducated, had my first child out of wedlock and had to go into rehab at the tender age of fourteen (not in that order, mind you). Do you realize I just described about 80% of Maury's guests? Now I just need to go on the set stark raving mad with four different guys and try to convince all of them that they fathered all three of my children. I also need to say that I'm 3000% sure. Because they all say that, being the mathematical geniuses they surely are.

Sounds like a fun Wednesday. Maybe I'll talk to hubby when he gets home and we can try to plan a vacation around it. A free hotel room in NYC and all we'd have to do is swear a lot and spend ten minutes running off the stage screaming and crying. Sounds like a fair trade off to me.

I think trashy is really just a state of mind, though. I know I'm trashy because only trashy people watch Maury (I'm embarrassed to say that I watched nearly every day when Gutsy was a baby). However, I'm able to hide most of my trashiness behind material things. Stay-at-home-moms are great at hiding our imperfections.

And our judgement.

And our occasional feelings of inadequacy.

And the fact that Vicodin makes toddler tantrums more pleasant.

Haven't you watched Oprah? Everyone has something to hide and something that they hide behind. For example, the van makes me look like a soccer mom even though none of my kids are in soccer. The Fourbucks latte in my hand makes me look like I'm a bonified yuppie, even though track pants and puked on shirts are my work attire most days. Using big words in my blog makes me look like I never use a thesaurus.

Because I don't.

I'm just incredibly verbose.

And gifted.

And really hot, too.

Oh, and I still get carded when I go to trendy night clubs.

Which is often because the nanny likes to work weekends. For free.

And she's uglier than I am.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly

"Jelly" is a very nice way to describe the lower half of my body after nine months of pregnancy. We're five weeks postpartum and I'm only able to fit into two pairs of jeans. The other three pairs are mocking me in the dresser. They cackle every time I reach for a t-shirt and yoga pants. Bitches.

I suppose the four or five chocolate chip cookies I've had today aren't helping. I justified them because I made them with organic whole wheat flour and brown sugar. Yeah, big difference there, Mave. I may be incredibly dense in some ways, but I never wore the dunce cap in cooking class. I know my food pyramid. Chocolate chip cookies fall somewhere on the 'occasional' tip, not squarely in the middle as the snack between lunch and dinner.

This is what happens when I'm deprived of caffeine. My addict self goes looking for some new ways to stay alert. Sugar is a poor substitute but I use it frequently and with vast amounts of guilt.


I also write stupid poetry in the wee hours of the morning with a baby on me. I keep trying to find a better use of my time when the rest of the world is sleeping, but blogging and reading other people's blurbs seem to be about all my mushy brain can handle. It's a sad fact these days. I hope to get some of my smarts - the few I had, anyway - out of storage very soon.

Spawnling is upstairs dozing happily on Geekster. I'm blogging with two hands. It's miraculous! I forgot how nice it was to type as quickly as I think up the sentence (which either means I type fast or think slow - you can decide which). I'm going to take this opportunity to check out some of my usual blog buddies and perhaps expand my search a bit. There are so many self-absorbed people out there with their own junk to write about. I bet I'll find some cool sites just by clicking on the links of people who comment on my friends' blogs. Yes, I agree: It's wrong that my friends have friends that I don't know about and who aren't my friends, but I suppose keeping me at a distance is probably safe. Nobody wants to admit they know people as odd as I am. Unless they're having dinner with travelling circus freaks. Then they might invite me so that I can be admired in my best light.

Afterwards I'm going to check out eBay for some Ghostbusters stuff. Gutsy is completely obsessed with the movies as of late. I'd love to find some of the cartoons on DVD or some oldskool action figures. I bet they cost a fortune. I shall report back with my findings.

Gutsy, Spawnling and I went out shopping with Jobthingy today. It's her day off from the horrible place that takes her out of my daytime social equation. She's forced me to make new friends, which is just too much work. No thanks to her, I've managed to make a few and rekindle some that had faded into the woodwork. Phew. Social circle remains intact. What would I do if I didn't have friends to hang out with?

Oh, right. I'd blog more.

And probably cry.

And eat more chocolate chip cookies.

That doesn't sound too bad if you factor out the crying part.

Ode to 5:30am

Five-thirty,
I greet you with one open eye,
One wide awake baby,
And house that's a sty

Five thirty,
The diaper is changed with great caution,
As I stumble through tasks,
With abundant exhaustion

Five thirty,
My mistress of high expectation,
You demand all my time,
With little vacation

Five thirty,
Oh surely this is a cruel gag,
As there is no caffeine,
For this tired old hag

Five thirty,
Your presence alone is obscene,
Our relationship,
Makes me feel somewhat unclean

Five thirty,
You're dirty and this is no fun
I'm going to sleep,
Until I see the sun

-- This early morning poetry brought to you by playful babies and blurry-eyed Mavens everywhere. And by support from viewers like you. Thank you.

Welcome to madness

Peekaboo!

Where's Maven?

Here I am, sitting upstairs at my in-laws' house, nursing a contended Spawnling, drinking decaf and surfing the interweeb while chaos reigns supreme below.

I'm hiding from my tired gremlins who are chasing each other up and down the hallway. There are no pitter-patters of stockinged feet around here, folks. These are my children. It's more like THUMP-BUMP-THUMP-TRAMPLE-BUMP-BANG. I don't want to know what the 'BANG' was. I'll let Geekster figure that out. Avoidance is one of the many benefits of breastfeeding. 'Can you check on the kids, hon? I'm nursing'. Yeah.

We left home at 9am, arrived here just before 1pm and have been treated to not only a party for Gutsy and Intrepid's November birthdays, but also a welcome Spawnling shower. The gremz got mad loot and we were all attacked by delicious calories-laden foods.

There are still several family members here, whom I shall go spend more time with momentarily. Gatherings are fun, but tiring. It's so nice that everyone came to greet the new baby and celebrate with the boys, though. I guess they deserve my company again.

Off I go! Will post more later or tomorrow during subsequent nursing sessions.

P.S.: Geekster just came upstairs and rolled his eyes at me for blogging. Hate the game, not the player, Geekster. He just can't comprehend my level of coolness because it's so above him.

How to thoroughly confuse smart people

As Spawnling sleeps in his neglect-o-matic after a good morning jaunt to the maul and the other two gremz are upstairs playing 'Ghostbusters' (really - we own both movies and they love them - them's my boys!), I've been mulling over what a complete joke parenting is. Mama Chaos posted about creating the perfect day as an imperfect family. It really got me thinking.

I've worked high tech jobs, management jobs, have taken courses on writing and counselling, dove into a two year series of breastfeeding courses designed for medical professionals (and passed, just in case you were wondering)... and after all that, nothing, absolutely nothing, has left me as baffled as my primary job: parenting.

There are only a handful of hard and fast rules when it comes to raising children. I think I have most of them down pat:

1. Love your child
2. Keep your child alive (this includes feeding, watering and maintaing half-decent sanitary standards)
3. Make it look like you know what you're doing

I'm pretty good at 1 and 2. Nobody's died yet and I give a good hug. But I'm kind of lost when it comes to 3. Anyone with half a brain can see right through my petty attempts at emanating perfection. The truth is, after ten years of motherhood I could get jumped by a gang of thugs with clue bats and still have no idea what I'm doing.

For example: Gutsy's been in a 'play with me me me all the time pay attention to me because I have a new sibling and I need to know I'm still important every second of every day me me me' phase. At the same time, Spawnling is in a 'I'm a newborn so you have to hold me me me all the time and never put me down because I need you and I want you and you're warm and soft and have milk' phase.

I'm in the 'I just want a few seconds to myself please oh please god please I'll do your dishes if you'll just give me enough time to shower and change my puked-on clothing and maybe do my own dishes and put something other than a cookie or a stale cracker in my mouth oh please' phase.

The problem is fairly obvious. The solution isn't. Today I had a few minutes to myself after Spawnling and I picked Gutsy up from preschool. I picked up McCrappy Meals to make lunch time a little easier, set Spawnling in his car seat on the livingroom floor, set Gutsy up downstairs to watch a show and unwind with his lunch and *gasp* I watched some adult television (Crossing Jordan, pervert, not real adult television. I'm too cheap to pay for those channels.)

Gutsy wanted to play after lunch. So we played 'Ghostbusters', 'Camping' and I told a wicked ghost story because I rock like that. This was only 15-20 minutes of play time. Then Spawnling woke up and I had to change him (three times in 10 minutes. The moral of the story is to wait until he's finished going), feed him, burp him, play with him and, when he fell asleep a few minutes later, put him back in his chair. Gutsy wanted to play again. At this point I was talking on the phone with Lushgurl and had started making some chocolate chip cookies. I told Gutsy 'not right now' and he was heartbroken.

So, did I do the right thing? The jury would be split on this one, I think.

Some people would say that I had already played with him and should set some boundaries. After all, I'm a mom to three, including a newborn, and I have to carve out some time to myself and to get things done around the house. True, very true.

Others would say that Gutsy has only had five weeks to adjust to not having his mommy all to himself during the day anymore. That he's bored and lonely and sad (he's even said this himself) and that I should be jumping at those opportunities to spend as much one-on-one time with him as possible. After all, they're only young once and we don't want them seeking out a therapist for some hate-on-mom sessions in their 30's. I also have a very helpful husband who is home in the evenings and lets me get some of those things done. Also true.

I compromised. I gave him the bowl with a bit of batter left over and, when I was finished baking, I took a few more minutes (while holding a now awake and somewhat fussy Spawnling) to track down some ghosts. No shower. No time to change my puke stained clothes. If you're reading, be happy I'm not sitting in front of you telling you this because you'd likely want to puke yourself from the smell coming off my shirt. Nast-ay.

There are a lot of grey areas in parenting. Tell your child how proud you are of them, but don't let them become dependent on praise or they'll need it their entire lives. Pick up your baby when he cries, but only until the magical cut-off at six months of age, when baby suddenly figures out how to manipulate you. Don't lie to your child or they wont trust you, but make sure to ask them what they want from Santa. Teach safe sex and offer birth control so you don't become a 35-year-old grandmother, but encourage abstinence, too. Put your child through college, but teach the value of a dollar by having her work for the things she wants.

Confusing? Hell, yes. Us parents are constantly looking for the right answer. The perfect solution. The way to ensure that our children will, in this world of cruelty and injustice, at least have wonderful family memories and close relationship with mom and dad to hold on to. That's how self-proclaimed child experts can make small fortunes selling books and DVDs. That's how Dr. Phil and Oprah pull in the ratings. Our insecurities make money and money makes the world go round. We buy their BMWs. Aren't we nice?

And yet, even though I know all of this, I still tune in. I still browse the 'parenting' section in the book store. I still question a lot of things that I do, every single day. On November 30th I'll have been a parent for 10 years. Not a long time by some people's standards, but that's a whole decade to learn how to trust my instincts and accept my mistakes. I wish it were that easy some days. Even nearly perfect beings like myself still feel incredibly flawed when faced with caring for those we love. I have horrible coordination, so it's to be expected that I can't juggle the task of raising three children very well, either.

Where am I now? At the computer, holding a sleeping-but-not-really Spawnling. I asked Intrepid to make dinner for he and Gutsy: reheated pizza, apples, yoghurt and baby carrots. At least it's balanced and I didn't have to make yet another one-handed meal. On the other hand, I just had my ten-year-old do something I feel is my responsibility as the parent in the home at the time.

Stupid parenting. Bah, humbug! At least I went Friday morning shopping today. Not as good as Monday morning, but we did get mom conversations and old lady admiration. I tried to pawn a pukey Spawnling off on one of the old ladies, but she only wanted to look at him, not take him home. What's up with that? Maybe I should start charging admission. Then I could buy those Sketchers winter boots I was looking at today. $114. Surprisingly, Geekster says I should buy them for myself in a couple of weeks when some money magically appears in our budget for such things. I'm not going to argue about getting my shop on, yo.

I may be unshowered, overwhelmed and puked on, but at least I'll look sexy from the calves down.

It's beginning to look a lot like shopping!

Lushgurl's most recent post reminded me that my favourite winter sport is about to commence: holiday shopping!

Before you ask, I think it's already been established that I border on clinically insane. I have three boys and I stay home with them on purpose. There is no further proof required.

However, there is a method to my madness. Some potent tequila in my half-empty glass. Fertilizer in the grass on my side of the fence, if you will (most likely dog poop). The nice thing about being a stay-at-home-mom is that I get to shop when the mauls are nearly empty. So empty that I could almost spell the word regularly instead of butchering it like I normally do.

I call it a 'maul' because that's exactly what it is - at least during peak hours. I fight for a parking space of epic proportions to accomodate my van, which usually leaves me somewhere near the back of the parking lot. I then pack up my now three gremlins and head toward the doors. Nobody holds the door for a mom of three with a stroller of course. That would be thoughtful, and people are too tired and stressed to have much thought at all these days. We then make our way into the loud, overcrowded, consumer-driven metropolis of wasteful things. We play a game of chicken with other moms with strollers to find out who's going to make that final, sudden swerve and spill her latte all over the cup holder (since I love my latte, it's almost never me. She only wins if she's bigger than I am). We stand in line in grotesquely understaffed stores to pay excessive dollar amounts for things we probably can't afford anyway. We then go back to the van, exhausted, and get honked at for nearly backing into one of the three other vehicles waiting to take our parking space.

Hence, 'mall' becomes 'maul', and it sticks. Even on Monday mornings.

Monday mornings are the best possible time to shop. Everyone's busy on Mondays. Either they have to do that icky paying job thing, have a doctor's appointment or are making a mad dash to the license bureau before someone notices their plates expired on Friday. Most (sane) people who have the opportunity to be home during the day have no desire to get up, get dressed and go out on purpose. That's reserved for idiots like me. But the idiot gets the uh... worm.. or the quiet shopping times, anyway.

The only people out on Mondays are other socially-deprived moms and little old ladies. The Monday moms are friendly and not in a rush. They stop and talk, or at the very least smile. They sit on the same bench and nurse their babies alongside you, admiring your baby and appreciating that you're admiring theirs, too. The little old ladies always have time to stop and talk to your children, even when said children are not talking back and instead sticking their tongues out at the elderly. Or making monster noises. Or other mortifyingly embarrassing things that recently-turned-four-year-olds-who-shall-remain-nameless have done in the past.

Yes, indeed. If there was a show called 'Pimp My Holiday Shopping Experience' and I was its not incredibly hot or talented or urban host, I would first take the poor little flower out on Monday mornings.

This is most def' the season to get my charge on. Gutsy's birthday has just passed, Intrepid's is in less than two weeks, my brother Michael's is five days later and then we have the big C not three weeks after that. By then I will be thorougly sick of the maul and most likely be suffering from a spending hangover.

Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Ho ho ho, yo.