There's a warp in the space time continuum

Update: I've never been happier to be out-geeked! Warf is actually spelled 'Worf' and he's 100% Klingon, according to Astarte and Wikipedia (two sources I trust). So I guess his 'internal struggles about race' had more to do with being raised as a human and still getting in touch with his alien side. Thanks Astarte! I'll take you through a dungeon in honour of your insight and knowledge, as well as in celebration that I'm not nearly as much of a nerd as I thought I was. Horray! Coffee and cute pictures coming up post-Astarte-home-illness.

Were you eagerly awaiting to find out whether or not I got the one thing I really wanted for Christmas? Of course you were. I can tell by the overwhelming response to my last post that mass amounts of SAHMayhem fans were quivering with anticipation. Well, I shall keep you in suspense no longer: The first present I opened on the morning of the 25th was Stadium Arcadium from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Angels were singing everywhere at the news of this most holy of gifts.

Getting three children (two on a chocolate high), a dog and her accessories, a suitcase filled with clothes, three gift baskets and a large bag of presents into a van on Christmas day is no small feat. Driving three hours to the in-laws' house afterwards was surprisingly easy. That's because of my wonderful friend, Mr. On Board DVD player. If you've recently purchased a vehicle for your young family and opted not to get one of these little gems, please email me with your address so I can send you a sympathy card and a recording of the noise in our family vehicle before and after leasing a van with an entertainment system.

Before: fighting/crying children, lots of 'are we there yet?' type questions, sounds of frustration coming out of the mouths of parental units as we try to come up with yet another road trip game or find yet another book to read or snack to throw into the back seat for the gremlins to squabble over.

After: Quiet conversation between parental units, Coldplay drifting out of the front speakers, and the occasional guffaw from children who are enjoying Lilo and Stitch with wireless headphones and a screen far too small to be enjoyable in any other environment.

The critics like to say that on-board DVD systems are ruining the family road trip by discouraging conversation and distracting children from the beautiful scenery.

I say that if "ruining conversation" means not having to hear 'HE STOLE MY APPLE JUICE!!' one more time and the "beautiful scenery" is me saying 'Look, guys! More....cows...again.', then paint me yellow and blue and call me Blockbuster. Movies during long trips are where it's at.

So anyway, the trip itself went very well. The gremlins' cousins came over (the gremlinettes) and I managed to get my girl child fix. We talked about clothes and dolls and pretended to drink tea. That should do me for another few weeks. Then I might have to steal Jobthingy's daughter for a couple of hours so we can go browse the sales at Sears. I love having three boys because I'm more of a knights and Lego and console game kinda gal anyway, but every now and then it's great to have some estrogen bonding time. There's nothing like brushing a My Little Pony's mane to melt away the stress.

Last night I took Spawnling to visit The Sister and The Madre. My poor mother has now had seven of the ten iron transfusions she needs to battle her anemia. She's looking a lot less like Corpse Bride these days and much more like her old self. Spawnling gave her an unlimited amount of smiles as she lectured me on how hungry my baby was, how he was tired, needed to burp and 'it's ok baby, grandma knows what you want'. It's a good thing I have my mother around or my children surely would starve, stay awake for days on end and possibly have their stomachs implode.

I was telling my female family members about how hilarious the guy at our local video store is. He's black (can I say 'black'? Do I have to say African-Canadian? A person of colour?) and said he would love to marry a white girl (Caucasian? A person of um, very little colour? Wonderbread?) because he loves the look of children who have a mix of both races.

My mom says 'Oh! Like Worf.'

'Um... Worf?' I ask.

'Yeah. Worf.'

'What?'

'Worf! That guy, right there.'

'Mom, this is C.S.I...' I'm starting to wonder if the hospital can put a rush on the rest of those iron transfusions.

'I know. The guy right there. That's Worf.'

'Uh, mom. That's not Worf. Worf is the Klingon on Star Trek: The Next Generation.'

'No. That guy is called Worf, isn't he?'

(This goes on for several minutes until my sister jumps on the computer and looks up CSI character names.)

The Sister says 'No, mom. His name is Warrick.'

I think we laughed for about ten minutes straight. Then, about fifteen minutes later I nearly fell over laughing again.

The Madre is awesome. She's so funny in that special, iron-deficient way.

In her defence, Worf was born a Klingon and raised on plant earth.: Many of the episodes focusing on his character had a lot to do with the internal turmoil he felt by trying to honour both ancestries.

Now I must go polish my pocket protector before I head off to the roleplay convention. When I come back maybe we can swap comic books.

Mondays with presents are good Mondays

Nursing, almost asleep baby in arms.

Presents placed under the tree for three little wee ones. .

Gift baskets (poorly) wrapped. Some already distributed.

Chaos of two family gatherings over. Two more to go.

Gremlins fed, watered and even smell kind of nice.

Mass amounts of baking completed by Geekster. Yes, he bakes, cooks, cleans and no, you can't have him. One day when he pisses me off I'll list off his faults. There aren't many but I'm quite good at making things up.

Mass amounts of dishes cleaned by The Maven. See? There's a fault! Talented but messy. The nerve.

Mass amounts of moody infant sprinkled in for good measure. Thus, mass amounts of tasks done with one hand miraculously completed.

Three hour drive coming up tomorrow. Snacks are packed because I am an excellent mother. Okay, maybe not 'excellent', but I packed them some cookies, which I feel make up for any parental shortcomings.

A certain Maven's gifts are taunting her under the tree. One looks suspiciously CD-like in size. Please-oh-please let it be the new RHCP CD, put together by the Jolly One's pointy-eared slave labour force. Will make for very happy me. I dropped many strong hints. "Geekster, I might like some new music. There's that little store under the bridge downtown. Their music is cheap; they practically give it away now. Hey-o, listen what I say-o: there will be no more Californication until I get some bloody Chili Peppers, ok?!. '

Peace on earth and hydrogen cars would be nice, too. But I'm trying not to ask for too much. Don't want to be greedy, you know.

Good friends, wonderful family and love everywhere. Merry Christmas to all of you. I should have bought and/or made more things for you to make up for having to put up with me the rest of the year. But if I were that nice I wouldn't need to give you any presents at all, because just being around me would be enough of a gift.

Note to self: being nicer could make for a cheaper Christmas in 2007.

On second thought, having to be that nice all the time sounds like too much work. I think I'll take Buying People's Love for $300, Alex.

Have a wonderful holiday, everyone!

My gremlins clean up well

Here's a preview of what's going in our Christmas cards this year:


Oh! Oops... No. That's not the right one. That's what the Wailings gave Geekster and I for Christmas. Isn't that sweet?

If you've seen the commercial, you'll get the joke. A guy gives his new girlfriend a box with a bottle of perfume called 'Genital Herpes' while the announcer explains how a previous relationship can give unwanted gifts to your new love.

STDs in general: not funny at all.
That particular commercial: freaking hilarious.

I told Mrs. Wailing that I wanted a bottle like that for Christmas. What The Maven wants, apparently The Maven gets. I laughed so hard I almost dropped the Spawnling. Those Wailings are just too much!

So anyway, here's what's going in the Christmas cards this year:



At the risk of sounding like I'm bragging (which, of course, I never do): they're pretty darn sweet when they want to be, eh? I'd even say they're downright cute.

It only took about 10 shots to get one where they were all smiling. I love my little gremlins.

Get a load of this little beauty!

Can you believe this? I visited the lovely Astarte last night and not only does she give me delicious, homemade, chocolate chip cookies (my favourite snack in the world), but she also hands me a pile of Steve Irwin valentines! Who the hell has Steve Irwin valentines on their person?

Astarte, apparently.

Anyway, she figured since I wanted Chemgineer to get drunk enough to use the late Croc Hunter's expressions, I would get a kick out of them in boxed love note form. I heart me that Astarte. She's kooky, but thoughtful. And like I've said before: anyone who can tolerate me as a friend for several years deserves a medal. And a latte, which I provided (I buy people off with designer coffee. It's my way of making sure my social life maintains a pulse, however weak it may get at times).

There are a whole whack of these valentines. She kept half and gave me the other half. I'm thinking these will be great collector's items in a few years. How cool are they?



A long time ago, I decided that Gutsy was, in fact, Steve Irwin's love child. He had to be; they look so much alike! I don't know exactly how, when or, frankly, why I would sleep with the Croc Hunter, but I guess it was those fly shorts he used to wear - even in Antartica. That's my kind of man! I had a split screen picture of the two of them up on a website once and people couldn't get over the resemblance. I'll see if I can dig it up someday when I have nothing to do (in about 18 years, I guess).


Today was Gutsy's Christmas party. It was also Intrepid's, so we did the overscheduled North American family shuffle: I went to one party and Geekster to the other. I saw the video footage of Intrepid's class' skit and it made a mother proud. In contrast, my sweet Gutsy had no interest in singing in front of all these strangers with cameras, so he popped in and out of the recital to hang out with me in the audience. He did, however, have great fun decorating the tree. He also jumped back into the action when they were given instruments to play while they sang. He also picked his nose. Now at least a dozen people have my son on camera sticking a finger up his nostril while shaking a tambourine with the other hand. That's my boy!


Then Santa came and tried to eat Gutsy.

No, seriously. That picture is the reason phobias ever see the light of day. Is that not bloody terrifying?!



Spawnling was none too phased when it came to Satan Claws. That's because in this picture he's about two minutes away from defiling his Christmas outfit in an explosive episode down below. I ran to the bathroom at the first sign of impending leakage, but it was too late. The little green and grey stripped pants now had large yellow splotches on the back. Classy.

And, in true 'This could only happen to The Maven' fashion, it came to light that the only outfit I had in the diaper bag was his Hallowe'en sleeper. The one with all the bright orange pumpkins on it? Yeah, that one. The one that is so two months ago. Way to go, me. I couldn't even have a neutral outfit. I had to go all themes today. So my child wore a pumpkin outfit at a Christmas party. I'm an unintentional trend setter, that's all.

When we got to the party, I was reminded by the teachers that the items I ordered from the preschool's fundraiser had come in and not to forget them on my way out.

We left at 12:30.

I got home, changed into some track pants and a huge, white t-shirt, took off my socks, put my feet up, brewed some coffee...

At 2:12pm I suddenly realized that I had left all the gifts there. That thing I wasn't supposed to do? And now the school was shut down for Christmas and wouldn't open again until January 8th.

I subsequently let out the longest string of cursewords to ever come out of my mouth as I frantically flipped through the phone book and found the school's number. Luckily, the teachers were just getting their coats on and agreed to wait for me.

I didn't know I could get myself, a two-month-old and a four-year-old out of the house in full winter gear that fast. I wish I could have had Guiness time it.

Screw that. I wish someone from Guiness could have picked up my items for me instead. It would have saved me the hassle. But, they're hear, they're wrapped and ready to go. Horray!

Now I have to go fill my child's belly with faux-banana-scented antibiotics. Why, oh why, do they give it that neon yellow colour anyway? Do they not realize that it always reaches the clothing despite our best efforts?

Needless to say, the Spawn is still in his pumpkin outfit. I may be forgetful, but stupid I ain't.

Crikey! Look at the size of that line!

'Twas a week before Christmas
And all through the mall
Old people were shopping
With walkers and all

With Spawn in his stroller
And I quite deranged
We travelled with Gutsy
To do an exchange

I could continue, but wouldn't that be boring? I only write good poetry in the wee hours of the morning with my eyes half shut. True talent works when the brain doesn't.

Come to think of it, if that statement were true I'd be very, very talented all of the time.

We did go to the Old People Maul to do an exchange, though. It's a Christmas story worthy of its own made-for-television movie: The Maven's Holly Jolly Suicide Run, perhaps.

Apparently my life isn't chaotic enough, so I have to come up with new ways to drive myself to an early grave. Not only have I eaten a great deal of holiday treats intended as gifts to people I either forgot or can't be bothered to buy a gift for (editor's note: please disregard statement if you receive holiday treats for Christmas. You're not like the others. They were made with love just for you.), but I also make random trips to the mall with two children in the middle of one of the busiest shopping weeks of the year.

I was so proud of The Sister's Boyfriend's gift. It was, in my opinion, the best gift of the litter (are there litters of gifts?) and I was looking forward to giving it to him. Chemgineer was to receive a Snakes and Ladders drinking game. I very much intended to live vicariously through him as he downed shooters every time he landed on a snake. I was also hoping he'd eventually get intoxicated enough that I could convince him to say 'Crikey!' when he did, too (In Maven's world, there's nothing funnier than making really smart, future chemical engineers do stupid things while drunk. This is the theory anyway. I haven't had the pleasure just yet.)

Unfortunately, The Sister informed me that he may already have that gift. No living vicariously through the non-alcoholics in my life. No cheap imitations of prematurely deceased, Australian animal enthusiasts, either.

Not only were my hopes dashed, but the huge I-can't-believe-I'm-finally-done-shopping grin was instantly wiped from my face. On Saturday night I had returned home with a blissfully sleeping Spawnling and $277 worth of last minute gifts and stocking stuffers (I wish I could say that's all we spent this year, but I'd be lying the way people lie when they say they only spent $10 at the casino all night.) I nearly collapsed on the bed out of sheer relief and exhaustion. No more malls. No more gifts to buy. No more people at the bank laughing at me. No more Geekster frowning at me. Thinking the Christmas shopping marathon had come to an end was great for the two days it lasted.

One more mall trip, I told myself. Just one more. After I picked up Gutsy from preschool we made our way into my treasured mall of senior citizens and fellow moms. I didn't expect any smiles or niceness, being Christmas. That would be like expecting Britney Spears to grow some talent or Justin Timberlake to come out of the closet: not very likely.

Well, JT may just dump Cameron for a wedding planner and Ms. Spears might actually write her own single yet, because I found friendly people a week before Christmas! I knew I had to go into a kitchen store with aisles too small for a stroller and breakable stuff stacked atop stacks of boxes containing other breakable stuff, so I opted to just carry Spawnling and very carefully guide Gutsy throught the maze of stoneware and martini glasses. The middle gremlin was incredibly well-behaved. By that I mean when I said 'Gutsy, please don't touch', he would put it back and go touch something else. 'Don't touch anything' was lost on him amid the pretty, shiny things calling to him at eye level. I don't blame him; I can't stop touching things in that store either and I'm 26 years older than he is.

After a few 'Please, honey... no... don't... AAH! Ok, that almost broke! For the love of all that is... Ack! Come stand over here, ok?' type statements, a gentleman in front of me in line said 'Ma'am, you can go ahead of me. Please. I don't mind.'

Then the woman ahead of him said 'You have your hands full. Please go ahead of me, too.' She smiled and waved me on with her free hand.

The woman ahead of her said 'You can go ahead of me, too. Here you go.' and moved aside. I was now at the front of the line.

Ah, Christmas spirit. I found it in the Old People Mall! How kind. How generous. How...

'Oh, um. Do you want to do an exchange? It's just that... Well, I don't know if I can right now. It's, like, two pages to fill out and there's a really long line right now...Are you sure you don't mind coming back? Sorry about that.'

Rats. Ruined by the overwhelmed kitchenwares sales associate and a chain store's user unfriendly exhange policy. Bah, humbug.

I left with the snakes and ladders game in hand and headed back to the van.

Oh well. That pales in comparison to the fact that people were actually nice in such a hectic, stressful environment. It's amazing that such a small gesture can have such an impact. It's the domino effect; just as one lone driver in rush hour traffic honking impatiently can inspire others to be as moronic, so it is proven that one lone man with his arms full of last minute gifts can inspire others to let a mom and two little gremlins jump ahead in a line.

I should have invited them all over for a game of snakes and ladders. Instead I wrapped up some homemade goodies for my pregnant neighbour and her spouse. This kindness thing is infectious. Like ringworm.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I found my keys four days after they fell out of Intrepid's pocket? They were next to the sidewalk across the street in the grass. And for some reason the parts the dealership ordered to replace the locks and lost fob (grand estimated total: $350+tax) didn't come in on Thursday as planned. The next morning, the snow had melted and I found my keys.

The next time someone says 'Jesus loves you' I'm going to reply with 'Damn straight! He let me cut the line in Stokes and found my keys.'

I wonder if I might get my ass kicked for that.

Someone loves me, that's for sure. Jesus, Santa, my mom, the creepy guy down the road who's always going for walks with his equally creepy wife and grins at me in that weird way... I'll take what I can get, ok?

I deserved a latte this week

What do you get when you cross a newborn with two older, school-age brothers?

Disease. Delicious, infectious disease oozing from the nostrils of older siblings and making the environment ripe for transmission. It's the reason I haven't updated the blog for a few days. I've been knee-deep in baby bodily fluids, so to speak. The funny thing is, I'm not nearly as stressed about his illness as everyone else is.

I remember when Intrepid had his first cold. He was five months old and was sniffly. I rushed him to the pharmacy post-haste and demanded to know what could make my sickly baby better. I woke up several times a night (in between nursing sessions, even) to watch his breathing and check his forehead. I took his temperature at the slightest indication of warmth.

Fast-forward to this week. Gutsy gets sick and starts to get that crackly cough known to us as pneumonia. As mentioned in a previous post, the middle gremlin's chest x-ray looked good, so he was sent home and his fever broke the next day.

A couple of days later, Spawnling develops the same cough. He's sleeping a lot, he's grumpy and I have to carry him around all day. I don't think too much of it, though. A cold is a cold, and this one goes straight into the lungs like a teenage boy's tongue on a date. Besides, I think, we have an appointment on Thursday for the Spawn's two month exorcism, er, doctor's appointment, so we'll just deal with it then.

On Wednesday night he starts to feel a bit warm. So I do what every sensible mother would do: I take him shopping.

That's right. Shopping. I figured he could either try and sleep while the other gremlins scream at each other and run around the house, or pass out quickly in the van and keep right on snoozing in his stroller as we make our way through the dull drone of Christmas music and overwhelmed shoppers. Like I said: sensible. We buy some gifts, pick up some Tempra and head home. I give him his first taste of anything not Made in Mom and we get some sleep.

At the doctor's office the following afternoon, baby Spawnling was about the same as he had been the last couple of days. The doc unceremoniously stuck a thermometer up his wazoo and got a reading of 38.2c (which is (100.7f, for the non-converts). Not terribly high, but enough that it warrants a chest x-ray. We skip my part of the visit (a pap and a weigh-in, shucks darn) and head off to the hospital.

Half an hour later I was inducted into a very elite group of moms. How many can say they've had two children pumped full of radioactive goodness in a single week? I suppose it isn't too surprising, given that one is an asthmatic and the other is nine weeks old. Still, it's one of those stories I'll be telling my two-headed grandchildren.

Anyway, while the x-ray didn't find any obvious signs of pneumonia, the doctors felt it best to prescribe some antibiotics just in case. I'm not a big fan of giving children unecessary medication, nor do I like the blatant overuse of antibiotics that has run rampant through the Western world. Still, pneumonia in a two-month-old is not something to be trifled with. On the other hand, thrush really, really sucks, and that's what happens when the big, bad drugs slay the innocent little florae hanging out in the gut. Thrush makes breastfeeding mommies cry. We're not too keen on it.

I decided it would be in his best interest to give him the drugs, despite my apprehension and my undoubted disgust for bacteria-filled yoghurt by next week. After three doses, my little guy was back to his happy, smiley self. Drugs are good.

No, no, wait. My children might read this one day. Kids, what I mean is, some drugs are good. Only drugs given to you by doctors. Um, hang on... Not people who call themselves doctors, though. If a guy called Dr. Dre offers you drugs, say no. He just calls himself that so he can get poor white guys high, give them a record deal and watch them make an ass out of themselves on awards shows.

All this to say that baby Spawnling is doing a lot better no thanks to me. What happened to me? I went from being an uberparanoid parent to someone who is frighteningly relaxed. Throughout the entire ordeal I never worried once. I think it's because we've had three bouts of pnemonia between the first two. It's getting old now, you know? We've also had rosacea, chicken pox, hand foot and mouth disease... The list goes on. It takes some of the sting out of medical visits. I might, however, break a bit of a sweat at the word 'ebola'.

People have been saying 'Oh my God! Pnemonia! He's so little! It's so terrible! I like making obvious statements! The sky is blue! It's fun to make The Maven use a lot of exclamation points in her posts!'

It's not that bad, really. He's doing well. I'll only start worrying if he takes a turn for the worse, not before. In fact, I've been far more focused on the fact that there are children out there who don't have access to the $13 medication that potentially saved my child's life. I'm both grateful and upset at the same. My New Year's resolution is to get more involved in world issues. If I'm this great at bitching about them, imagine the potential if I pooled all that bitchiness into action?

I might actually be useful. I might make an impact on the world through means other than making beautiful children, being a stylish trend-setter and writing intellectually stimulating blog entries.

Maybe I can come up with a line of organic, shade-grown, fair-traded bonbons.

Everyone says that the first child is a guinea pig. While true, I bet the mortality rate is higher for third children. My 'been there, done that' mentality is anything but baby-friendly. I've heard two stories now of people leaving their third or fourth infant at home because they forgot them. Forgot them! I'm not quite there yet, but I dare not have a fourth.

I might forget to name it.

Celebrate good times, come on!

Yesterday may have sucked more than... Well that's just going to end in a very raunchy way, isn't it?

But despite all the chaos of lost keys, desperate searches in frigid temperatures, sick children and numerous tantrums, one good thing did happen: Spawnling celebrated his two month birthday! Look at him jumping for joy! That, or he's trying to jump out of my arms in an attempt to escape my un-showered, new mommy stench.

He may have been planning an escape from Momcatraz yesterday, but let me assure you that he's since decided being an inmate has its perks. The Drooling Wonder hasn't left my arms all day. His first cold has made him just a wee bit grumpy. By 'a wee bit', I mean the only time I've been able to have my hands free is when I'm changing his diaper. Which basically means that I never have my hands free except when I'm wiping someone's ass. Not much of a break by most people's standards, but I'll take what I can get.

So far I've loaded the dishwasher, done a load of laundry, made two meals for Gutsy and myself, ate both my meals, talked to an upset friend and have had two cups of coffee - all with a baby in my arms. I should charge admission to my freak show.

Meanwhile, Gutsy has had one enormous tantrum over... *drumroll* ... me wanting him to say 'Mom, can you make me some nachos, please?' Power struggles with four-year-olds are really, really fun. Especially when they're sick, their baby brother is sick and they scream so loudly they wake said brother after you finally get him settled down (by 'down', I mean 'in my arms'. Not really down or I wouldn't have spent all that time writing the last two paragraphs and coming up with original wording, like 'Momcatraz')

It may sound like I'm being very negative in my thinking, but I'm viewing this as something positive. See, if everyone is sick now, then they're more likely to be healthy over Christmas. If things are crappier now than a cow pasture in the springtime, then surely they'll only get better before the holidays. We're in for tranquil waters after the storm. The sun will rise again. God never gives you more than you can handle. I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts.

(I ran out of positive sayings. Although I suppose having a lovely bunch of coconuts isn't a bad thing. Especially on an island where such things are highly valued.)

On the Christmas shopping front, things aren't so bad. I only have a handful of gifts left to buy, including my very favourite thing in the world: stocking stuffers! Who doesn't love them? They're the very best part of Christmas because they generally contain the very best food group: chocolate. In fact, stockings without chocolate are a complete waste. At least 30% of the oversized sock should be filled with it, nothing less. In particular, Terry's Chococolate Oranges are an absolute must. Christmas balls that look like a holiday version of chocolate easter eggs are also important. Throw a mini Toblerone in and I can even forgive the Best of Michael Bolton CD Santa put under the tree. Christmas is all about the well-stocked stocking.

Speaking of gifts, The Sister sent around her Christmas wish list today in a group email. She listed off CDs, DVDs, books, kitchen accessories and even a new kitten named Spenny (to go with her and her boyfriend's existing cat, Leni. Most Canadians will get the joke).

So, being the nice sister that I am, I replied to the entire group with the following:

No wonder you're the favoured child. I can never pick from your humble wishlist. This time it's a toss up between 'scarves for the homeless' and 'two acres of rain forest'. You make us all look so damn selfish *sigh*

(Why do I have a feeling I'm going to get a dead rat for Christmas from you now? haha)

I'm DYING at Leni vs. Spenny. I think I might just get you a cat named Spenny. Or I can rename that scary cat in your basement and just bring her over to your boyfriend's. Problem solved!

Thankfully my sister gets my sense of humour and laughed at me. She may also leave me a dead rat under the tree, but her Scary Basement Cat would have to catch it first.

Scary Basement Cat is only scary because she's disabled, you understand. Disabled = scary when it comes to cats. My parents have a very bad habit of taking on handicapped, er, differently abled animals. Their old dog had only three working legs. What did they name her? Cassidy. Yeah, like hop-a-long Cassidy.

And you thought I was cruel because I choose to be this way. It's all about genetics.

And then, one day my dad gets to work and finds a kitten frozen to the front steps. He takes her to the vet, where she's diagnosed with severe frostbite. I can't remember if it happened on its own or with 'help' from the vet, but the tips of her ears and half her tail came off as a result. She then became a housecat (do you blame her?) and spent her days roaming the three floors of their house. Until my brother, Hefner, got a hold of her.

Hefner, you may recall, is also differently abled. He has Downs Syndrome and he loves animals. Most of all, he loves to play with animals. A few years ago, in Hefner's world, animals liked being carried in a headlock. They liked being put into the drier (when it was off, thankfully). My parents quickly stopped his 'playtime' and taught him how to properly play with house pets, but by that time it was too late. Cassidy remained social, while the cat decided that frostbite plus overfriendly owner was enough to make her hide in the basement until he went to bed.

The dog went to doggy heaven not too long ago and I kind of miss her. However, the cat terrifies me because she now makes her way upstairs and rubs up against my legs when I have my back turned. Then I jump because I forget there's a cat in the house, she jumps because I jumped and she gives me the evil eye before running out the room with her half ears and half tail. Hence: Scary Basement Cat. I think it suits her more than Tigger.

My presence has been requested by a now calm four-year-old for a snuggle on the couch. Must not pass up these wonderful moments. Plus, there's Fourbucks Christmas Blend brewing in the kitchen. Life is good.

Always look on the bright side of life

Bad things I've done lately:

- I've gone through a lot of amber-nearly-red lights when I could have stopped

- I haven't called people back when I've had time because there was an interesting topic on Oprah

- I wasted gas and helped ruin the environment to get the good cookies across the bridge instead of the lousy cookies at our local Tim Hortons

- I didn't share the cookies with my kids because I wanted to eat them all

... Oh, hi there. Sorry about that. I'm just making a list of all my recent misdeeds so that I can somehow figure out how I earned enough bad karma to justify today's hell on earth.

I'm usually the last person to say that her day sucked. In fact, I'm that cheery person who tries to tell you why your day didn't suck, either. I'm the one you want to punch in the face. The Ned Flanders in your life. Look on the bright side, person that I know. You could be a starving mother in Africa trying to feed your kids, person that I know. A lot of people have it worse than you, person that I know.

But there was no one around to tell me those things today. I had to tell them to myself while I ran through every negative emotion in the Postpartum Hormonal Rut Handbook (The Maven Publishing House, $14.00CDN).

My morning looked like this:

frus·tra·tion (fr-strshn)

n.

1.

a. The act of frustrating or an instance of being frustrated.

b. The state of being frustrated.

2. Something that serves to frustrate.

A good example of frustration would be, say, it taking nearly fourty minutes to leave the house to get to an appointment because one of your children is an infant and thus can do nothing without your help, one is a ten-year-old who does nearly everything by himself but likes to boss around the four-year-old who can do most things for himself but chooses not to because he likes to piss you off. Said four-year-old also decides to throw several tantrums in for good measure both because he's upset that his brother is bossing him around and also because, well, he likes to piss you off.

So, between the time we started getting our outerwear on and the time the van backed out of the driveway, it took fourty minutes. I think the event also took five years off my life.

The afternoon was fairly relaxed, which allowed me just enough time to rest up for the next leg of the race. Intrepid came home on the bus and I asked him to check the mail. We're not gifted with old fashioned, at-your-door service. We have to use one of those boxes on the corner like the rest of the unfortunates. He agreed and wanted to go to Tim Hortons afterwards to get a donut. I had no objections ('Nothing for me, honey, because their cookies are terrible'), so I sent him off.

He took a long time to come back. A very long time. I was starting to get that mommy panicky feeling. I kept thinking of search parties and posters and such. Just as I was about to take the younger, sickly duo out the door to look for him, he came home in tears.

'Bad news. mom. I lost your keys.'

shock ¹ (shk)n.

1.

a. A violent collision or impact; a heavy blow.

b. The effect of such a collision or blow.

2.

a. Something that jars the mind or emotions as if with a violent unexpected blow.

b. The disturbance of function, equilibrium, or mental faculties caused by such a blow; violent agitation.

Ok. Ten-year-old boy child has not been abducted or hit by a jonesing caffeine junkie. Good, good. Temporary relief.

Keys are missing. Bad, bad. House key, mailbox key and van key complete with fob (that thing on the keychain that unlocks the car and, in this case, has an remote car starter button) that will easily identify and make accessible the now $30,000 sitting duck and its contents, along with the home attached to it with all its contents. And it's Christmas, which usually means said home has extra contents and people who find keys on the side of the road may be more likely to want said contents for extra holiday cheer.

pan·ic (pnk)

n.

1. A sudden, overpowering terror, often affecting many people at once. See Synonyms at fear.

2. A sudden widespread alarm concerning finances, often resulting in a rush to sell property: a stock-market panic.

3. Slang One that is uproariously funny.

(Think 1 and 2. I'm 30 and thus far too old to misuse the words 'panic', 'ill' or 'sick'.)

My rush was not to sell property, but to find the missing keys. I bundled up the asthmatic, both ill and ill-behaved (see? I used it properly) preschooler and his equally ill infant sibling and ushered everyone out the door to keep looking, but not before putting in a frantic call to my husband. I just wanted to give him something to think about other than the traffic on his lengthly commute home.

Two trips to Tim Hortons and several walks up and down the road between it, the home and the communal mailbox later, I was at a loss. No keys. Meanwhile, Intrepid is crying hard and telling me how sorry he is. I lectured him on taking responsibility for things and explained that this could wind up costing his dad and I a small fortune. And I didn't just say it nicely like they do on tv. No. I said it in a very worried, upset way that made him feel even worse. Way to go, me. Because him feeling worse is going to help us find the keys, obviously.

I called the police station. No one turned in keys. I called again later. Still no keys, but here's our lost & found number, hinthint nudgenudge takethefreakinghintalready.

Geekster came home and went out not once, but twice with a flashlight. He went back to the Tim Hortons - I'm now convinced they're going to start spitting in my decaf - and still no keys.

I called the dealership, who gave me the grand total to replace the locks, reprogram the fob and replace the lost one: $350 + tax. Intrepid wins the family prize for most expensive trip to the donut store. I start to cry. I try not to do it in front of the kids, but they find me like little magnets Gutsy hugs me. Intrepid hugs me.

I spend a good while with Intrepid, apologizing for my psychotic behaviour earlier. I tell him that I was very worried and scared, but that it was no reason to snap at him and lecture him like I did. And I still love him and I still trust him and that I appreciate how hard he looked for the keys.

'It's ok, mom. I understand' and he gives me a big hug. I have the very best children in the world, even though they sometimes make Disney World seem quiet.

Geekster takes the van in around 8pm and gets the existing fob reprogrammed. The locks won't come in until Thursday. That's ok, because trying to get into the van without the fob will set off the alarm. Besides which, you can only enter through the driver's side, and the man made sure to park his car right up against that side. No way to get in now.

We still have to worry about the front door, but not quite as much. ADT has us covered. Plus, we have 10 pounds of vicious guard dog at our service. She can bite a big toe like I've never seen. She yips really loudly, too. It would scare off any malicious Girl Guide.

sub·due (sb-d, -dy)

tr.v. sub·dued, sub·du·ing, sub·dues

1. To conquer and subjugate; vanquish. See Synonyms at defeat.

2.To quiet or bring under control by physical force or persuasion; make tractable.
3. To make less intense or prominent; tone down: subdued my excitement about the upcoming holiday.

4. To bring (land) under cultivation: Farmers subdued the arid lands of Australia.

(1 and 2 describe my day with Gutsy. 3 is how I'm starting to feel now after watching an excellent House episode and having baby cuddle time. 4 is what I might do if I completely lose my marbles. Australia sounds good right now despite the poisonous everythings they have)

Karma: 1.
The Maven: 0.
Geekster: Tired, but watching Scrubs right now.
Intrepid: Awesome.
Gutsy: Not disobeying because he's now asleep.
Spawnling: Slept through most of it.

I'm an iddly-biddly jealous of the wee one, neighboureeno.

Things will be better tomorrow, right? And if not, you're going to bring me a coffee and a hug, I'm sure. Because it's Christmas and even people who don't share cookies deserve coffee. It's in the rule book. Trust me.

I suck at apologies

So The Madre called today. I haven't spoken to her since our little tiff last week on the phone. We used to argue all the time and go without speaking for weeks or even months. It's been a while, however, and we've both grown up a great deal. Well, she has anyway.

I should have been a big thirty-year-old and called to apolgoize but I didn't because I have this issue with being vulnerable. I'm always afraid that if I put myself out there - bare my soul to the person I upset - that they're going to take said soul, throw it down, smash a rock over it's soul-like head and shove it up one of my crevices, more wounded than ever. There's nothing worse than saying 'I'm sorry' and having someone reply with 'Well you should be, you terrible excuse for a human being.'

(I haven't ever had someone say I'm a terrible excuse for a human being, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's been said out of earshot along with other choice words.)

So instead I avoid the person for as long as possible like the chicken I am. I wait until they get sick of not having the amazing presence of The Maven in their lives and get in touch with me.

Much to my surprise, this doesn't always happen. There are some people who, shockingly enough, manage quite well without me around. In fact, some would say they even... thrive. Thrive! Without me! Suspicious, but possibly true.

I guess.

Sometimes I think about getting in touch with these people to extend the olive branch, so to speak. The holidays and that whole 'good will toward man' crap really gets to me. But I'm afraid that if they don't take the branch I might poke it in their eye. How dare you refuse my tasty olives? Can't you see I grow the best damn olives around? You won't find better from those other trees. You MISS my olives, even if you can't admit it.

Well, at least my mommy missed my olives (edited to say how wrong that sounds now that I've re-read it)That and she knew I'd feel terrible if something happened to her today and I hadn't spoken to her because I'm, well, me. She's having ten - that's right 10 - transfusions over the next couple of weeks, the first being this afternoon. On top of all her other health issues, she's severely anemic and requires some heavy iron doses, hence the transfusions.

I'm far less of a person than my mother, who picks up the phone when she's that sick to make amends while I, who's only sickness lies somewhere between my neck and my hairline, doesn't take that first step.

So today I learned a lesson: Don't hesitate. Pick up the phone. Email. Send out a Christmas card. Take the plunge and fix that broken relationship before it's too late.

And if the person doesn't take the olive branch, don't dispair. Just make sure you sharpened the tip beforehand so you can jab them in the palm. Then you can both feel crappy, but at least you apologized.

I've never said I don't need therapy. But my heart is in the right place.