Happy unbirthday, Spawnling!

"Smile Spawnling! You're three months old today and your subjects are awaiting your gorgeous self!"

"Quiet, food source! I'm far too attractive to be photographed with the likes of you. I shall look serious and perhaps even embarrassed to be sharing pixels with you."

I just sat down to begin the long, tedious process of typing a blog entry. Gutsy is at school for another hour or so, but this will probably take longer than that. After I pick him up we'll be grabbing a quick bite to eat (read: something nasty involving not having to remove one's sizeable ass and one's tired children from one's minivan), pick up Intrepid two hours early from school, get some gas, and head off to speech therapy.

After speech we'll be making another drive-through drive-by and coming home for some C&S, which is short for 'cleanin' and screamin'', which pretty much sums up what happens when I try to do anything domesticated in nature while the gremlins attempt cooperative play.

Speech has been so wonderful for them. We happened upon a great private practice with four therapists. We have the second in command, as far as I can tell. She's the only one besides the owner who has her own office. The other two therapists have to share one, which means either they both work part time or they like to make out in there with the door closed. I don't ask.

Our therapist, McWordy, I plan on befriending when my children no longer require her services. She's really nice, funny and loves to work with children. My children. She tells me all the time how sweet they are, how intelligent they are and how quickly they pick up new things.

I'd like to believe her without a trace of doubt in my mind. Maybe the gremlins really are sweet and intelligent and learn things quickly. Maybe they're her star clients. Maybe they rock at this pronunciation thing after all.

Maybe we don't pay her $80/half hour.

Oh, wait. We do.

If you pay me $160 for an hour's work, I'll tell you whatever you want about your kids, too. I think it's probably in the speech therapy training manual in the 'client retention' section.

Seriously, though. She's a really great person and we just adore her. Ironically, she lives about 2km from our house, yet we both drive across the clogged Ontario/Quebec bridge and a good 20 minutes beyond to see each other. She drew a map to her house for Intrepid once, so he'd know how close she lives. I wonder if he could remember it. Maybe if I drop them off, ring the doorbell and speed back out of the driveway she'll give them free therapy and cookies?

Maven, you are so great at this pipe dream thing.

Last night was the board meeting at Intrepid's school. I love being on the board because it's such a riot. It's devised of several parents and teachers as well as the principal, and we make a lot of fairly important decisions about the direction of the school. I had no idea we dictated the cafeteria menu, what fundraisers are allowed, what extracurricular activities we have and what moral themes are taught to the students (respect, kindness, etc).

My favourite part is watching the drama unfold on meeting night. Our board seems to be mostly full of sound-of-mind people (yes, I realize I'm on the board. I said 'mostly'.) I sit around the table with Spawnling, who has been unofficially dubbed the mascot. I make motions, second motions and vote on other people's motions. I've had several years of board experience, but this one is by far the most fun.

We get the most interesting complaints and situations. People drinking beer while coaching sports in our gym. People getting up in arms because we don't want hot dogs in our cafetria anymore. Residents around the school getting downright nasty because they can't cut across the school yard anymore. I love meeting nights. Something fun always happens. I can't believe what people will get upset about. Sometimes I want to hit them over the heads with a laptop and tell them to go fight something useful with all that energy, like world hunger. Come on, people. It's an elementary school, not the UN. Calm down already.

Or don't, because then I might have to call it a bored meeting, which it is anything but right now thanks to you.

After the meeting, I made my way to The Madre's house to eat chocolate with her.

That was the guise, anyway. It was actually so she could tell me I wasn't feeding Spawnling enough. Then, when he barfed on me, she took him and said 'That mean old mom. Is she overfeeding you again?'

I just don't know what to do with that woman. I'm a sucker for abuse, though. I keep going back.

Anyway, I'm going to cut this short and possibly post a bit later on. It's time to pick up Gutsy from I-hate-school. I'm rather impressed I managed to get so much typing done in such a short period of time. Go, me! Now I can catch up on other people's blogs later. I've been rather suckish at that lately. And I know what those people are thinking: why even post if The Maven isn't going to comment?

Sorry Spawnling, but two can play at that game, even if I have to buy off my fans.

Swedish insanity

"So what are you doing tonight?" asks The Sister a few minutes ago.

"Oh, nothing. Just watching Spawnling eat an octopus," I reply.

"Ok..."





Here are some pictures, The Sister, just so that you know I was telling the truth and that I wasn't saying that just to avoid you.

Not this time, anyway.

And yes, that's my bra folded up in the first picture. From Walmart. Sexy.



After that, Geekster and Spawnling did their favourite activity. Geekster played 'Don't Cry' by Guns n' Roses (I do a mean Axl Rose, honest to goodness truth).

Today was supposed to be a quiet one. I was to drop Gutsy off at preschool and head home for a quiet morning, followed by an equally quiet afternoon with a hint of laundry sorting, a splash of dish cleaning and a hefty amount of chocolate swallowing.

But then I thought of The Song. That dreadfully butchered Christmas carol from yesterday which is surely a sign of my faltering social life. Having no desire to come up with a tune about seperating my lights from darks, I decided I should go bring Lushgurl some breakfast and a baby to vomit on her.

Breakfast we had and vomit he did. He even soiled one of her facecloths because I forgot to bring wipes with me.

On my way to pick Gutsy up from I-hate-school-I-don't-want-to-go!!, we were invited to hang out with the Wailings.

I've often wondered why Mrs. Wailing likes to spend time with us. I don't always manage to acquire and retain normal friends, as is readily apparent by reading the blogs of the people I do associate with - or rather, who associate with me. Mrs. Wailing had her wild days, as we all had in our youth. But then she did everything in that normal way only seen in movies or read about in books: she bought a home, married and had two children.

She stays at home, goes to church and is really crafty.

I stay at home and... yeah. My point exactly.

Today, while we were visiting, she said "Hey! You know what we should do? We should go have breakfast at Ikea with the kids!"

Aha! There's my answer. Now there's no doubt that, like myself and others who spend time with me, her solar panels are facing North.

No normal person would get excited over going to Ikea with the kids unless the words 'put them in the ball pit' are included. You have to be completely off your rocker to want to bring small gremlins into a large furniture store, let alone a restaurant inside a large furniture store.

Following that reasoning, I readily agreed to go tomorrow morning. Really early in the morning. And I'm looking forward to it. I'm sure it will be the peaceful and orderly trip I'm imagining.

Birds of a feather get stupid together? Great minds are on the pipe? They both work.

A special message for my family and friends

Dear friends and family,

On the first trip to Starbucks,
the barista made for me,
a soy vanilla latte, venti

On the second trip to Starbucks,
the barista made for me,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

See that? That, everyone, is the workings of a deranged mind.

I've had that stupid song in my head for about three hours in preparation for a jaunt to Fourbucks for a night time beverage with which to help with blogging.

On the third trip to Starbucks,
the barista made for me,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

I thought actually going there and getting the damn coffee would get it out of my head, but it hasn't. In fact, I came up with all twelve verses.

On the fourth trip to Starbucks,
the barista made for me,
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

Annoyed yet? You shouldn't be. This is entirely your fault.

See, during the day I used to have a lot to do. I had a bunch of stay-at-home-mom friends, a mother who loved my company, a sister who only did school and work part-time and came over a great deal, a husband who was at his desk more often than not and several phone calls a day.

On the fifth trip to Starbucks,
the barista made for me,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

Now things have changed. I'm still poppin' bon-bons and sitting on the couch while a good portion of my previously at-home friends are doing their jobthingies (not to be confused with 'doing Jobthingy', which would be a whole other post). The phone remains silent for a good portion of the day. I call people and I talk to their answering machines. The messages I leave are sounding more and more like actual conversations:

"Hey, it's me. The funniest thing happened today *insert very long story complete with guffaws or swearing, depending on event*, anyway, I'll be home... Uh, all day... So call me. But not between 2 and 3, because Without a Trace is on."

On the sixth trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

The sister got herself a job, then left that job and I rejoiced because I thought we'd be able to spend time together while she hunted for another one. Then she just had to come down with the flu because she's so damn selfish. I do get a daily phone call, but deciphering what she has to say between hacking fits takes a great deal of concentration that I don't posess as of late. Plus, she sometimes calls between 2 and 3, which is so not cool.

On the seventh trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

The Madre, wanting to see me less often, decided the best and most permanent way would be to get sick. Now she has an abundance of excuses, including doctor appointments, tests to be run and the highly overused 'I'm really tired right now.'

I don't know how she could do that to me.

I thought you loved me, mom. That's just so selfish of you.

On the eighth trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
eight frappuccini,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

So what, exactly, do I have to occupy my time with? Well, I blog. And I think about blogging. And I read other people's blogs and try to come up with witty comments that very rarely pan out. I minimally post on a handful of web boards to avoid the mommy drama as much as possible (Team 1! Rah rah rah!), I have a television show I could possibly watch for virtually every hour of the day if I get that bored.

On the ninth trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
nine apple ciders,
eight frappuccini,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

Oh! Oh, right. And the kids. Yes, the gremlins keep me company in their time-consuming, get-me-things, play-with-me, wipe-my-poopy-bum, clean-up-my-urine-puddle, make-me-food kind of way. I like those gremlins. But I wish they knew more about capitalism and it's long-reaching effects on humankind. I even had a Rescue Hero start to explain it once, but he was eaten by Gutsy's polar bear.

"Um, right. How do I explain this now? Ah, right: The Polar Bear is representative of evil capitalist bigwigs. Rocky Roads here represents the death of socialism, which is very sad and just as gory. See honey?"

He didn't see. He just turned his polar bear on Wendy Waters, AKA Public Health Care.

On the tenth trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
ten white chocolate mochas,
nine apple ciders,
eight frappuccini,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

So as you can see, this is truly on your shoulders. If I had my old social life, I wouldn't be coming up with ridiculous remakes of Christmas carols that suit the activity I plan on doing.

I did do other things today, though. I put on four loads of laundry, for example. Yeah, I did! And I folded and put away zero of them because I'm so together. I also talked to an old friend about an old falling out and I think we're basically on good terms again. Writing two long emails in a single day was too much excitement for this Maven, let me tell you. Apologies to Lushgurl, who claims she hit the 'refresh' button 14 times while waiting for my most excellent post.

Sorry it's not most excellent. It was an emotional day for me, ok? If you make me cry more than I already have today I'll make Spawnling barf on you at the meeting on Friday. I'll overfeed the little demon right before we get there, I swear.

On the eleventh trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
eleven green tea lattes,
ten white chocolate mochas,
nine apple ciders,
eight frappuccini,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

Oh, and Geekster? He's not only bogged down with meetings at work half the time (which, ironically, keep him from doing productive work on top of taking him away from relieving my boredom) but he's also smack dab in the middle of some courses he's taking. What happened to 'For rich or for poorer, in work or in school?'

(My attempts to convince him that the above was actually in our vows has so far failed. I'm going to keep trying, though.)

On the twelfth trip to Starbucks
the barista made for me,
twelve refillable gift cards,
eleven green tea lattes,
ten white chocolate mochas,
nine apple ciders,
eight frappuccini,
seven tazo chais,
six pumpkin spices,
fiiiiive hot chocolates!
four macchiati,
three caffe mochas,
two cappuccini,
and a soy vanilla latte, venti!

Oh, how I wish I had twelve refillable gift cards... Such a pipe dream, my song is.

I suppose I'm going to have to start taking the buck by the horns, the tiger by the tail, the minivan by the wheel... And start coming up with new ways to pass my time. Spawnling takes up a great deal of it right now, but he isn't normally... intellectually stimulating. I mean, he's a cuddlebug and he loves to babble, but I think I might be starting to understand what he's saying and that's probably a big, red flag that I need to speak to other adults more often.

I have been taking the gremlins for a walk every afternoon for the last few days. I want the Spawn to get some vitamin D through my milk and sun exposure as opposed to through nasty drops. I also kick my children off the cool spinny things in the new park and make them watch the baby while I have a turn. Then, to make up for my selfish ways, I chase them around the play structure and pretend to be a ghost from one of their The Real Ghostbusters cartoons. I do a great Sandman voice.

I can't figure out why nobody ever comes to the park when we're there...

I've also finally enrolled in university. The course I'm taking is definitely good for a laugh: a four-year BA with a major in psychology.

The Maven, psych major.

There. Now I have a stupid song stuck in my head and you have something to have a bad dream about.

Next time maybe you'll think twice before not calling enough, not writing enough, not leaving comments in my blog for me to respond to and not otherwise wasting my time enough.

You have singlehandedly created a monster. A monster who "helps" people.

I have a feeling my phone will be ringing bright and early tomorrow. You should assume that I'm expecting you to call. Assume that I'm mad at you, too. You could probably all form a great Team 2 right now.

Bitch olympics

Yesterday was most excellent. I had a wicked time at the museum and a nice, relaxing (I threw that in because it sounded good, not because it's true) evening with Geekster and the gremlins. We played 'Break the Safe', which is a great game to encourage criminal behaviour in one's children. After all, if we can't afford to put them through college how else are they going to pay for their books?

I'm sitting here drinking burnt decaf coffee (circa two hours ago, reheated in microwave because I am too lazy to make a new pot) and reflecting on the day I've had. Thankfully, being a mom to three, I get a great deal of time for reflection. One of RHCP's new CDs is playing in the background and I'm trying to make sense of exactly what the hell just happened today and what it means.

Today started off as totally craptastic. I woke up anxiety-ridden. Why? Because I knew today was the girl games championship and I was being pushed off the bench and into the playing field.

Girl games suck. I've spent hours defending womankind to a good friend of mine. 'Girls are mean. I'm scared off of most of them,' she tells me on a fairly regular basis. 'But we're not all like that, you know. You're not. I'm not. Well, not anymore. I sort of used to be, I guess. But I've always sucked at playing the games so nobody picks me for their team anyway'.

But Maven, how do I play?

The first rule in girl games makes them very easy to play: assume the worst. If I don't hold the door for you, asssume that I saw you and couldn't be bothered. If I don't smile as we cross paths, assume that I'm unfriendly. If I don't call you for a month, assume that I'm angry or uncaring.

But coming up with negative things about other people isn't always easy. What can I do?

Don't sweat it, my estrogen-filled friend. That's why this is a team sport! Very few people can come up with something bad about every person. If you don't find something your teamates surely will. Then all you have to do is agree with them. You'll get your chance at bringing something negative to the table, too.

What equipment do I need to play?

No equipment is necessary, but a computer is highly recommended. Since most communication is through tone and body language, online conversations are more easily misinterpreted. You could try this in person, but it's much easier to sleep at night when you don't have a personal relationship with the opponent.

How are the teams divided?

To start, there is usually one person on one team (team 1) and everyone else on the other (team 2). It's best if team 1 doesn't know they're on a team at first so Team 2 can work on its assumptions and methods of delivery. People may switch teams as many times as they want.

What are the methods of delivery?

This is best left up to the individuals on Team 2. Everyone can choose their own methods of delivery to Team 1, such as cryptic comments, eye rolling or just overall avoidance. If Team 1 asks what's going on, it's best not to have any manner of civilized conversation about the assumption(s). Instead, have a full-out brawl that accomplishes nothing but hurt feelings.

How do I win?

Winning can take on several forms:

- If Team 1 runs off sobbing, Team 2 wins
- If Team 1 gets really annoyed and stops playing, Team 2 wins
- If Team 1 shows strong evidence that the assumption is wrong Team 2 can still win if they mutually agree on a delivery method similar to 'LOLOLOL whatevR U SUK LOSERRR!!'

Er... Can Team 1 ever win?

Very rarely, some peole from Team 2 will jump ship and run over in defence of Team 1. If Team 1 becomes bigger than Team 2, then they win. Special bonus points are added if Team 1 ends up making Team 2 cry. The original Team 1 player gets immediate ringleader rights for the next game if Team 2 leaves the playing field, never to return.

Who is the best at playing this game?

Usually insecure people on both teams. People who feel best working in groups and, if singled out, will feel anxious, alone and afraid of rejection. That's the irony of this game; everyone feels exactly the same way, but the pack mentality will have you believe otherwise.

Simple enough, Maven. Thanks for the tips. How do you know so much about this game?

Well, I've been on Team 2 a couple of times, but I find I've learned best being the lone Team 1 member. In fact, I just recently ended up on Team 1 again. The funny thing is that I sorta kinda knew it was going to happen. Before getting off the bench to play, I was told several times that team 2 was formed and ready, with some very interesting accusations. Sure, they were years old and completely unfounded, but that's the best kind! You're almost guaranteed a win when everyone's memory is foggy.

So, I learned my lesson. I won't step on that playing field again. I was warned, I didn't listen and now I feel stupid. The old me would feel like I feel now: anxious, alone, and afraid of rejection, and a little hurt, but she would jump into the fray to protect her honour.

But the new me - the one who's a little bit older, a little bit wiser and not pleased about her handful of times on Team 1 or Team 2 - decided to do something differently:

- She talked to her husband about it
- She hugged her kids and remembered how lucky she is to have what she has in life
- She went out for some shopping therapy with the Spawling, who was gracious enough to sleep through the entire experience
- She visited a good friend who made her cookies and coffee and gave her more hugs
- She came home, had dinner, watched a movie with all four of her boys
- She decided to do something positive with her time and finally signed up for her university courses
- She wrote about the experience in her blog so she can remember that she was hurt. That way she can come back and remind herself not to ever play that game again, no matter what side she might be on

Nope. No more girl games for me. Although if you're good at assumptions and like to play, you could assume that I'm making assumptions about your behaviour. Then you can get other people to assume the same thing and you have yourself a rockin' new team!

You just need someone to sponsor your uniforms.

Or you could do a bottle drive or a car wash.

I'm just trying to help you out with ideas. Were you assuming something else?

Maybe I am talking about you.

You know... There might be some other entries from way back where I make reference to you, or bad things I think about you, or terrible things I've done to you. Maybe you should look for them.

I'll put on the coffee for you because I like to help a sister out.

Museum playdate with a slice of frenzy

Well, the next time I'm bored I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm calling my friend, Muhlissa.

Back in the day (that would be various times between three years and one year ago), we used to hang out. We'd meet up either with no kids, or with her one child and one or two of mine (when I only had two and used to think that was hard). We'd go to parks, museums, have coffee, sit around and laugh... It was simplicity at its finest. Serenity at its best.

So recently I made an unexpected return to a board I used to be on. She's also on there, so she sent me a private message and asked if I'd like to go out this weekend with the kids. That's the nice thing about friends like Muhlissa. I haven't spoken to her in months and yet we picked up right where we left off (she doesn't see me enough to get sick of me).

Go out? Sure, I figured. Why not, I figured. It's always relaxing to go out with Muhlissa, I figured. Remember the good ol' days, Maven? It'll be leisurely and fun, I figured.

It's fairly apparent where I'm headed with this by now.

We decided to meet at one of the local museums. It's in a very central location and parking is at a premium now that the place has been revamped and is, well, actually nice. It used to be creepy like Michael Jackson's ranch. It's now very bright and pleasant and people other than myself actually want to go there. It actually ticks me off, because I used to have no problem. Now I have a harder time finding a spot than I did getting a date in junior high.

I drove past the parking lot while people were pulling in trying to find a spot. I guess the big, shiny 'PARKING LOT FULL' sign normally also says 'EXCEPT FOR PEOPLE WHO ARE TOO IMPORTANT TO READ SIGNS'. You wouldn't believe the amount of vehicles circling like vultures.

There are alphas in this life and there are betas. Alphas expect that a spot will open up for them. Betas know better and can't be bothered to compete with the alphas. I'm a beta to the core when it comes to driving and parking. It's easier to slink off in that hyena fashion and park down the road, which is exactly what I did. Then Intrepid, Gutsy, Spawnling (nestled snuggly in his sling) and I made our way into the museum.

Muhlissa is not only a mother, but also a foster mom (another theory as to how we maintain a friendship is that saints tend to overlook people's faults) so her numbers are always changing. Today she brought three kiddoes with her, making a grand total of six under our care.

Just so you know, six is a far cry from three.

Six<---------(running way over here)----------> three. See?

One would think I would have caught on to the magic rule: the work of parenting grows exponentially with each additional child. If I hadn't learned that by going from one to two, surely I would figure this out going from two to three, right?

Um. Yes... Of course I have. I'm a parenting expert, after all. Gifted at it, even.

It only took a few minutes before I realized that my memories of peacefulness were horrible, taunting things, laughing at me from the cobwebbed corners of my mind like that weird uncle nobody knows at birthday parties.

There is no peacefulness with six children in a busy museum - having to run around the exhibits looking for strays (*coughGutsycough*) sort of ruins it.

There is no leisurely walking - trying to avoid bumping into gremlins who run in front of you and stop suddenly ruins that, too.

Sitting around and laughing quickly turned into sitting around and laughing and telling kids not to eat masty things off the floor or lie on the stairs or oh my god that's disgusting pick their nose and eat it or to please, please share their chocolate bar with mommy because she sure could use the sugar high right now.

We left after three hours because, of all things, the fire alarm went off and we had to evaculate the building. I think she secretely sent one of her kids into the hall to pull the alarm so she could get out of there faster. I checked my armpits after we left and I don't smell, so I can only guess I had something green stuck in my teeth.

On second though, maybe she just wanted to see some hot firemen.

One thing hasn't changed, though: although it isn't as relaxing as it used to be, the company was still wonderful and I look forward to doing it again. Even though we haven't spoken in months because we're both busy people, we pretty much picked up where we left off - with a bit of added chaos thrown in for spice. True friendships, I've decided, can survive pretty much anything from losing touch to pissing each other off a little. True friendships aren't high maintenance. I save all my high maintenanceness for my husband.

You're welcome, honey.

Muhlissa will not go another few months before she sees me again, as one of my resolutions for the new year is to keep in touch with the people who matter. It's part of The Maven going all thirty on life.

Poor, poor friends.

Screaming and laughing and ranting, oh my!

As promised, here is my very talented handywork on a new video:



Hey. I didn't say it was a good video. I said it was a video. If you assumed it would be interesting, amusing or in any way watchable, that's your own damn fault. I just like to take footage of my children and get people to watch it. It's like when Aunt Elma takes out the slides of her 33rd vacation to Florida. If I can inflict that level of torture on another soul then I'm having an incredibly good day.

Fear not, Maven Haters (don't hate the player shorty, hate the game), for as you can tell if you actually watched the video, I get my just deserts several times over in a day. Screaming children who are overtired, oversugared and very, very bored make for daily hair pull-out sessions. Thankfully I have a rather shaggy mane or you'd probably notice the bald patches. That Gutsy can drive me batty sometimes. He's not all bad, though. I mean, how cute was he on Christmas morning?





No likeness to troublesome cartoon monkeys is implied in any way.

Nope. Not at all.

Oh, alright. Maybe a little. Is it any wonder Curious George is the middle gremlin's idol? They're so much alike. Right down to the tail; Neither one has one anymore. (We had Gutsy's removed at birth when his horns were filed down. It made it easier that way.)

He's really cute though, isn't he? He loves the camera. So much, in fact, that we took a lot of pictures of him opening gifts.

What's that? The who now? OH! The 'others'. Yes, they were allowed to open gifts with Gutsy, Geekster and I this year and we even took a picture of them:




Once again, I didn't say it was a good picture. Stop assuming things. You know what happens to you and me if you assume things, and I don't want to be an ass, as the one I have is large enough.

Terrible though, isn't it? I mean, I had to go through the pictures and trim the selection of photogenic Gutsy down to two. Spawnling has red eyes in nearly all of them and Intrepid is looking down in all the ones of him. Thus, Gutsy is the star of Christmas 2006. He's an excellent middle child who takes great pictures.

*~*~*

Now I'm going to switch hats from Complaining Yet Secretely Very Proud Mom to Slightly Annoyed But Laughing At The Same Time Lactivist.

It appears the internet has been bad for two major companies: Nestle and Blockbuster. While Blockbuster is losing millions to illegal movie downloads, Nestle is losing would-be formula purchasers to free and readily-available fact-based information. Breastfeeding and movie pirating have become so commonplace that the marketing geniuses had to put their fancy degrees to work to come up with a promotion that will surely stop both movements in their tracks:

Now when you buy specially marked cans of Good Start formula, you get a coupon for two free movie rentals and some popcorn from Blockbuster!

You know, breastfeeding has been going so well and I've had not the slightest urge to wean him. But I have to tell you, with the news that I can get free movies and snacks I think I might just switch to formula. How could I pass up a deal like that? Screw this 'breast is best' stuff. I can't watch Matt Damon tame horses for free with no late fees right now, can I? How can that be best?

Who came up with this ridiculous idea? I saw it advertised in a Canadian parenting magazine and I about fell off the toilet laughing. How is this supposed to draw in customers? I don't know a single person who is currently or is intending to nurse their child who's going to look at that ad and think 'Gee, I might have to give this more thought if I'm going to miss out on free movie rentals.' Nor do I know many people who have their child on one kind of formula and think 'Well, we were going to keep you on the one that we know doesn't upset your tummy, but now that Nestle is offering us some free popcorn for the trouble I think we're going to take the leap!'

Stupid, stupid Nestle. Stupid Blockbuster. I don't feel bad that Bit Torrent is my age demographic's best friend.

Oh, and the kicker in the teether: When I went to the Nestle site to find the link to said promo, I came across this lovely little planet-destroying treasure:

NEW! GOOD START with Omega-3 & Omega-6 Ready to Go

The only formula with Omega-3 & Omega-6 that’s specially designed to be easier to digest** is now easier to feed. Each 89 ml (3 oz) prefilled, disposable bottle is ready to feed. Just shake well, remove cap, twist on a standard size nipple and ring and feed baby. Available in 8-pack cartons. Look for Good Start with Omega-3 & Omega-6 Ready to Go on shelves today in packs of 8 bottles.


Oh boy! Let's make formula in DISPOSABLE BOTTLES! Why spend all that time washing out re-usable bottles? Let's create more waste and drown more polar bears with our global warming-friendly packaging!

I'd go console myself with popcorn, but I don't have a damn coupon.

What I got you gotta give it to your momma

ARG! It took me about 15 hours to be able to type this post out in its entirety. Welcome to the land of Squirmy Infants. Spawnling is going to be one busy toddler in a few months!

This morning I put my very favourite Christmas present on the stereo and started doing some housework (incidentally, getting genital herpes was my second favourite gift. Nothing like a sweet smelling disease from good friends. Well, and then there are the German cream cookies from Lushgurl... But I digress).

But there seemed to be something wrong with the track. While Spawnling and I were grooving to the Chili Peppers I kept hearing some faint background vocals:

The more I see the less I know
The more I like to let it go - hey oh, woah...
(I want a turn! I want a tuuuurn!)
Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder where it's so white as snow, (NO! I said 'no'! Stop it!)
Finally divided by a word so undecided and there's nowhere to go; (OUCH! You hurt me!! Stop hurting me!!)
In between the cover of another perfect wonder and it's so white as snow,
Running through the field where all my (MOOOOOOMM!!!!) tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go.
(MOOOOOOOOM! He hit me, mom!!!!)

Last I checked my gremlins were not singing backup in a rock band, so I relunctantly turned down the music and made my way downstairs to deal with the brawl.

This did not help.

It didn't stop for the next couple of hours. I tried having them talk it out, speaking with them individually, serving up time-outs and threatening a quick sale of 'two very well-behaved children - enjoy nutritious food, quiet reading times and meditation' on eBay to a blissfully clueless and childless couple.

Nothing worked.

Next time I might try having the music louder. Hear no evil and all that.

Thus, I did what every mom at home with three moody kids should do: when the going gets tough, the tough get groceries. That's right - I packed all three into the van and drove off to the grocery store. Because, you know, they'll be better behaved if I take them out somewhere.

Being an alcoholic, I have a track record of not always learning from past experiences as quickly as I should. This would be one of those times.

Intrepid was wonderful and helpful. Spawnling was sweet and smiley, but wanted to be held most of the time. This worked well because I had brought in the stroller intending to buy only minimal mounts of entirely nutritious foods, but ended up getting quite a lot of things and needed the extra space. Apparently the food pyramid has changed, and now white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies, gummi bears and discounted Christmas chocolate are considered 'nutritious foods'.

But Gutsy... Oh, that Gutsy. Running away in busy stores is really funny. Hiding behind stacks of bananas while trying to grab tangerines out of a box you hauled off a table is also hilarious. Putting your foot out in front of an old man's cart just because you want to show him who owns the aisle isn't embarrasing at all, sweetness. It's amusing for mommy. See me laugh? Oh, wait. That's not laughter. That's sweat beading off my brow in sheer frustration and an attempt to resist the urge to fold you up and put you snuggly in the basket under the stroller.

When I left the house it was 12:30pm, I figured I would be back well before mid-afternoon, would have time to whip up some lunch and sit down before Without a Trace came on at 2pm. Since all my plans involving juggling three children and a busy store have always gone swimmingly, I figured this would, too.

When I turned the engine on and pulled out of the parking lot, it was 2:12pm. Drats! Foiled again by the little gremlins! That middle one is the CEO of the lot and his company's mission statement is to destroy Mother's will and love of life at all costs by 2009. So far they're right on schedule; just a few more errand runs like that and I'll be getting weekend passes out of places that keep me all cozy warm in a padded room.

Some beautiful irony occurred on my way home from what could only be a Fox special called "When Stupid Mothers Get Nifty Ideas": I was thinking about my new year's present this year, which was the return of my fertility only 2 1/2 months after Spawnling's earthside debut. I was none too happy when I realized that one of those great bonuses to breastfeeding - the absense of one's period for several months - wasn't in the cards this time around. I figured as much because the Spawn sleeps through the night and going more than four hours between nursing sessions can make for a speedier return of baby-making power.

Here's the scary part: I immediately started thinking about when I could safely get pregnant again - as in, when the scar from Spawnling's cesarean would be as healed as it's going to get - so that I could have another cute little baby. Because, you know, he's getting so big now at all of 12 weeks of age and I have all these baby clothes and I'm sure it would be another boy because we have three of them already so he could use all those clothes and if I waited a couple of years we could trade in the van for an extended model which would leave room in the back for a double stroller and...

NO!! Damn you, Mother Nature! Why do you do this? I swore I was done after Intrepid. Then after Gutsy. And now definitely, absolutely, positively, we are DONE after Spawnling.

Look, I've had three babies over 10lbs that took forever to conceive, three very long, difficult labours and births, long recoveries, postpartum depression with the first and anxiety up the wazoo with the second, awful morning sickness with all three, liver conditions causing extreme itching, life-threatening toxemia with one of them... The Maven's body is closed to all sperm and sperm accessories, thankyouverymuch. No eggs will be acting as greeters to foreign entities any longer. We are an estrogen-only commune from now on, content to grow our armpit hair out and burn our makeup bags.

I believe I have made myself clear. More gremlins = no freaking way. Even though they're really cute and sweet and beautiful and talented and funny and smart. They can be all those things without a new sibling in the house in a couple of years. And have you ever used a double stroller? They're bulky enough to turn me off of needing to buy one, anyway.

The people who know me or have been following the comedy that is my life will immediately see the irony in all of this. I'll draw a pretty map for the rest of you.

Gutsy was 5 years and a miscarriage in the making. Spawnling was three. I have PCOS and don't make babies easily. I cried many tears over this fact. My eggs are shy and have an irrational fear of anything resembling a tadpole, so coaxing them out takes great skill and patience.

So why is it that now that our family is supposed to be complete, when I have my hands full of children I never knew I could have and feel so blessed with, who drive me insane half the time and make me so grateful the other half of the time, and when, truly, it's probably not very safe health-wise for me to have any more babies, do I suddenly become a fertile goddess? Where's the justice in that?

Fertility struggles carry deep wounds. I find myself weirded out at discussing birth control, let alone anything permanent like the big V for Geekster. I'm just not there yet. A part of me feels very done and yet another part is saying 'But you can't just NOT have more babies when you're able to make them. What's the matter with you, stupid?'

Just in case there's any confusion, Geekster and I are being careful and have been since I suspected ovulation a couple of weeks ago. I may be weirded out, but I value what little sanity I have.

Tomorrow I will post a video of Spawnling playing with a toy today. Not because I need to post yet more videos of more things only I find amusing and neat because he's my baby, but because you'll get to hear one of Gutsy's infamous screams flowing from the depths of the basement. Then you might empathize with my dilemma a little more.

Cute, but troublesome. They take the cuteness from me and the troublesomeness from Geekster.

Yes. That's it.

Spazzy New Year!

What good is a new year without some cute baby footage? This one involves my mom and the Spawnling, engaged in chatter only the two of them seem to appreciate. The Madre and Intrepidare the sole people who can get Spawnling this excited. What do a ten-year-old and a fifty-year-old have in common? You can decide. Here's the clip (with some ridiculous editing throughout by me, who just discovered the joys of editing videos and now everyone on the internet gets to suffer for it):



So happy new year! I hope 2006 was most excellent.

Yesterday, on the last day of 2006, I had a conversation with Jobthingy that went something like this:

Me: So, I did something that I should have done a long time ago.

Jobthingy: Oh yeah? What's that?

Me: I wrote an apology letter to X. Although I sent it to her Hotmail address from, like, three years ago, and I don't even know if it's current, so I don't know if she's going to get it or not. I hope so, but you know, I sent it, and that's what counts.

Jobthingy: That was unexpected. What prompted you to do that?

Me: Well, I thought it was time to make amends for some of the things I did wrong, and...

Jobthingy: Oh. So you workin' the steps?

Me: *blink*... Um... Yeah, I guess so. Yeah.

Jobthingy: Ah, ok. I figured you were because of the whole 'making amends' thing and stuff.

Me: ... Will you be my sponsor?

What's up with that? Jobthingy scares the hell out of me. See, I'm forever calling her trashy and picking on her left, right and center (she loves it. She knows she loves it, too.). She can swear up a storm to the point where even I get embarrassed - no small feat. And then she goes and says something like that.

Now, it's not that I never get asked whether or not I'm 'working the steps', but it usually comes out of the mouths of people in recovery. 12 step people. Alcoholics and addicts like yours truly. Jobthingy isn't in recovery. I give her about 3 years and she'll need to be, mind you (due to increased drinking brought on by the stress of maintaining a friendship with me).

I guess Jobthingy just knows everything about everything.

Well, actually I know everything about everything and she just gets some of it from me through osmosis. Yeah. That must be it. I'm the boss of Jobthingy.

The eerily bright one is on to something, however. Lately I've been trying to be a better person and leave a positive mark on the world wherever I can. I've done a few things that have made this a reality so far:

• I've had really cute children for people to look at and think 'what cute children!'
• My coffee habit keeps at least two part-time staff employed at my local Tim Hortons.
• My blog keeps people amused. Even people who don't like me can be amused by it because they can laugh at my stupidities that I so proudly put on display.
• I make some other people look skinny which makes them feel better about themselves.
• The people who buy stock in hair de-frizzing products are out yacht shopping because of me.
• I just made up a song called 'Inchworm! It's the Inchworm! He has his own theme song, for Spawnling! It's Inchworm!' as I wiggled the toy in his face to keep him from crying, which shows the level of creativity I am capable of spreading to the masses.
  

See? I help people all the time.

I have some big plans for 2007, too:

• I'm going to learn to own up to my (extremely rare) mistakes and not be so stubborn when it comes to saying 'I'm sorry.'
• I'm going to take the time to keep in touch with my good friends. I tend to let relationships slide a little when life gets busy. Note to self: Saying 'You can just read my blog' is not an adequate substitute for actual conversation.
• I'm going to be nicer to Geekster during stressful situations.. Sometimes I... this is going to come as a shock... get moody when things don;t go according to my master plan. And he can't read my mind even though I swore he promised me he could in our vows, so I'm going to have to say things in a nicer way sometimes, even with one child attached to my boob, one attached to my leg and the other one screaming at the one attached to my leg.
• I'm going to make Jobthingy my AA sponsor because she's all about workin' the steps.
• I'm going to have to buy her a business-class ticket to Alcoholism first, though. Definitely do-able. I'll just spend more time with her.

Other than bringing someone to their knees because of addiction for personal gain, that's looking fairly positive.

Stupid Me

Lushgurl reminded me of an event that went down last week involving me making an ass out of myself (I do this quite often). Since I'm always making fun of others (read: mostly my sick mother, as it's much easier to pick on sick people because they can't fight back), I will share this little story.

Reluctantly.

Lushgurl and Devilteen graciously offered me the use of their home and hands to help me wrap the umpteen million gifts I swore I wouldn't buy my spoiled gremlins and husband but ended up buying anyway. A few days prior a mutual friend had decided to buy the duo a DVD player. He told me the week before and I figured I would buy them some DVDs to go with it. I imagined the surprise when they opened first the DVD player, then the movies from yours truly, The Maven: giver of life. Or entertainment. Or something moderately worthwhile, anyway.

I wrap up the gift and make my way over to their house. Lushy and DT start to tell me about how badly they felt that they didn't have a gift for me. How they were going to package up some baked goods but didn't have the time and Lushgurl even got a little teary in the process.

In typical Maven fashion, I rev up my mouthpiece and start spewing out niceties such as 'Christmas isn't about gifts, you know. It's about family, friends, love, joy, peace... Materialism is so overrated. It's the thought that counts. Your friendship is way more important to me than anything you could wrap up for me.' The sweetness just flows from my lips. I feel very good about myself, being the big person. I didn't even feel disappointed on the inside.

Ok, maybe a little. Lushy makes these German cream cookies that are out of this world and I was hoping to get my tastebuds on them. But I digress.

'Well, I can bring out a tray of goodies, at least,' says Lushgurl. Big Girl Maven says that would be lovely, and enjoys a few tasty morcels while the girls open their gift from my family, hold the Spawnling and help me wrap. Life is good. Perfect. I feel so centered and mature and smart.

I sit myself down by the tree and shuffle some bags around from behind me. I don't want to squish any of the girls' wrapped gifts while I'm working on my own. Thoughtful Maven. Thoughtful and Smart.

Very smart.

About three hours later, there is a large pile of wrapped, material love on the couch. I gather up the goodies and nearly take one of the girls' gifts home with me. It was the one directly behind where I was sitting that I had displaced from underthe tree. So, I replace it and stand up, gathering my things.

'Aren't you forgetting something, Maven?' asks Lushgurl.

'No, I think I have it all, thanks.' And I really do; Even at nearly 2am I have my act together. Way to go, me.

'You're definitely forgetting something. What about that bag there?'

'No that's one of yours. I just had it with my stuff so I wouldn't squish it. I put it back under the tree for you.'

'I'm pretty sure it's yours,' says Devilteen.

'No, that's not mine. That's yours. Trust me.'

'Why don't you check it and see?'

Stupid people. Don't they know their own gifts? Don't they know what they wrapped stuff in? What the hell is wrong with these two? I need to start screening my friends. Maybe give them IQ tests or something beforehand so I'm not blindsided by cluelessness.

So I spend the next little while trying to point out that it's their damn gift. I didn't bring this bag. I know my Christmas bags. That's not my wrapping style, anyway. There's a card in there and I didn't include cards in my gifts to the kids or husband. Heck, I didn't even bring cards.

Eventually they nearly yell at me to open the card and make sure, for goodness sake.

'But I don't... Oh! Oooh....'

Somewhere in my little brain, a tumbleweed bumps a lightswitch on as it blows on down Gullible Blvd.

Inside I find a lovely card and a whole whack of baked goods, including many highly coveted German cream cookies. The girls can't stop laughing at my expense and I can't stop saying 'I really hate you guys' in various ways over and over.

I wonder if they make dunce caps big enough for me?

That's a rhetorical question, just in case you were wondering.