Overwhelmed? Me?

Lushgurl gave a fair representation of my day yesterday in her latest blog entry. Thank you, Lushgurl, for coming to my rescue. Nobody has died from food poisoning and I haven't yet thrown a hissy fit while desperately trying to find anything you put away. I shall allow you to grace us with your presence again soon.

My dear friend referred to me, The Maven, as "overwhelmed".

Some other synonyms for overwhelmed are: innundated, swamped, exhausted, and my personal favourite, about to burn one's house down and go live in a snow hut because one can't get the damn thing clean to save one's life.

I woke up yesterday in a great mood, you know. Sure, Gutsy had a cold and Spawnling probably wasn't far behind, but I had the entire day to spend with them in our cute little home, doing fun things like baking, playing games and watching a movie.

The problem arose when I realized the kitchen was too messy to bake in, the diningroom table was still full of the previous day's folded-and-not-yet-put-away laundry (we actually pushed the piles into the middle of the table to eat tacos the night before) and I thought I might have a hard time finding the t.v. stand in all the toys cluttering the floor.

By this point my breathing became heavier, my eyes grew wide and my eye ticked just a little.

I put on my snorkel and mask and dove into the dirty dishes on the counter to find the phone. I found it stuck between the cheese grater and an old bowl of yoghurt. Not even noticing the young colony of germs sailing across the keypad to the new world, I quickly dialed Lushgurl's number and said 'Yeah, hi. I'm feeling a bit... overwhelmed today.'

As I said this, I stepped on a Little People school bus, zoomed about three feet across the livingroom and landed - with Spawnling in my arms - onto the ottoman. The very last thread attaching sanity to my brain frayed and I laughed a laugh only known to mothers and the homeless guy I used to see downtown who walked an imaginary dog.

Within two hours, Lushgurl was scrubbing my counter and cooking us dinner. What are friends for?

So yes, I guess I have been feeling pretty overwhelmed lately. And frankly, I feel like the planet's biggest wuss; there are people in my own backyard who's lives make mine look like a frolic through Happy Puppy Forest. Unfortunately, my happy puppy has gone rabid and is chasing me through the forest while leaving a trail of toys, clothes and an assortment of snack leftovers in its wake.

Oh, hang on. That's just Gutsy.

Seriously, though. I don't know how to do it all anymore. I had it all going on with two kids. Going from one to two wasn't all that hard, after all. Two hands, two gremlins. No problem. The Maven has incredible powers of adaptability, or so she thought.

Now I find myself jumping from one unfinished task to the next, sighing a lot and grinding my teeth.

I find myself with a baby who saves nearly all his sleep for nightfall and doesn't like to be put down for more than 10 or 15 minutes in a two hour period.

I find myself with a four-year-old who wants to spend so much time with me that I'm thinking of ordering a blow-up doll with my face on it and a voice recording saying 'I love you, Gutsy. Why don't you read me a book and we'll snuggle on the couch?' every time he taps it on the shoulder.

I find myself with a ten-year-old who breaks my heart because he genuinely seems ok with not having me available to him like I used to before I had the bright idea to give him two more siblings. I feel guilty every time I look at him. If he figures this out he might be able to wrangle some expensive electronic items from me. I should probably start scowling to throw him off.

I find myself with a husband who's birthday is coming up and I haven't been able to get out to get him a gift, let alone spend a lot of time with him. And yet he listened last night as I poured my heart out to him about how I've been feeling lately and told me I'm doing a really great job balancing everything, even if I don't think I am. I think he's completely lost his mind if he truly believes that, but it was nice to hear anyway.

I find myself with friends I don't call often but who still call me because I have a hot voice and they want to hear me on the phone. That or they want to feel better about their own lives so they like to listen to the background noise of fighting gremlins and screaming Spawnling when they talk to me. They come clean my house, they take me out for coffee and they give me hugs. I really don't deserve all that, but I appreciate it endlessly.

I find myself with a house that is pretty much condemnable on most days and is an embarrassment to invite people into. I think one of my friend's toddlers is still stuck in a cobweb in the family room. I should probably go bring her a sippy cup and switch the Baby Einstein video.

I find myself with a stack of novels to read for a course and six months to do it (which seems like an eternity if you haven't read the above paragraphs). Anyone have a magic wand? Preferably with several charges as I have years of part-time university to go through. Thanks.

Oh, and regular AA meetings and two school board committees and a non-profit committee and several other commitments. . Wouldn't want to get bored with all that free time on my hands.

Anyone have a chocolate magic wand? I could eat it after it runs out of spells.

About a Boy

"Foolish big brother! Your plan to suffocate the life out of me with my own toys has failed! However, I am slightly peeved with Food Source for laughing and taking a picture of me instead of removing Mr. Inch Worm from my head. I shall have to remember that when I have teeth to bite her with."

This was the scene earlier today when I was making tacos and Gutsy was amusing Spawnling in the infant swing. I asked if he could give him a toy. One toy. One.

My child has a math deficiency. Apparently counting to 1 is a challenge for him.

This post is all about Gutsy. Everyone needs one of him. Well, everyone with no heart problems, no pre-existing anxiety issues, an abundant sense of humour and the patience of a saint. Gutsy is the child we tried and tried and tried to have. We went through a miscarriage, we got on the reproductive endocronologist list, I saw a naturopath, I cried a lot, I worked my ass off (literally as well as figuratively) and, lo and behold, five years later I had Gutsy staring me in the face after 27 hours of labour and a cesarean.

Now, at four, he is everything to an extreme. Yesterday and today were no exceptions.

Yesterday, he came upstairs while I was on the phone with Impossible MOM. He was wearing a pyjama shirt on his lower half, the sleeves up his legs, the neck around his waist and a large, dangling mass of cloth between his legs.

"Look mom!" said Gutsy, swaying his hips around like a hula dancer. "I have a GIANT PENIS! See my GIANT PENIS?!"

There are probably several right things to say or do at that exact moment. I highly doubt laughing one's ass off is one of them, but that's exactly what I did. What else was I supposed to do? Say 'Oh, you're right, Gutsy. That is a giant penis!'?

And then there was today... I aptly call this 'Things you shouldn't do even if they seem like an okay idea at the time'.

It seemed like a good idea at the time to leave Spawnling on the floor for two minutes while I ran downstairs to switch the laundry loads.

It seemed like a good idea at the time to let Gutsy stay upstairs watching television at the same time.

It seemed like a good idea that, while downstairs for two seconds, I could briefly check my email. Everything was quiet up there and I figured if Spawnling started to fuss Gutsy would either call out for me or get him his pacifier.

Two minutes. Just two minutes.

Gutsy did come downstairs, but I didn't hear a crying Spawnling. Strange.

'Hey, mom. Want to know what I did? I did something neat!'

For those of you without four-year-olds, I'm going to pass down a bit of wisdom: This is NEVER a good sentence. Never.

'Oh? What did you do?' I asked cautiously.

'I put Spawnling on the ottoman! He's really happy there!'

'Wha... Oh my god!'

And sure enough, there was Spawnling, sprawled out happily on the oversized livingroom ottoman not three inches from the edge. He was babbling contentedly, fist stuck in his mouth, drool everywhere and not a care in the world.

My heart lost about 10 years worth of beats in five seconds. It seemed like a good idea, but it was really, really stupid. Way to go, Maven.

But it just goes to show that imcompetence makes for a really good blog entry.

Mother of the year I am now. Maven of mayhem I most surely am.

Welcome to being a playgroup playmate

Ah, the playgroup.

A place of gathering for new mothers and their children, where snacks are served, craft materials are abundant and conversation is overflowing with low-fat recipes and sleep training advice. It's a place where bonds are formed between parents and where children learn to share and make their first friends.

A magical place. A wonderous place.

A total crock. Well, sort of. The Maven has been scarred by brutal reality and has been hesitant to get back on the Mom Scene horse, so to speak.

You see, I know all about playgroups. I went to one for about two months a few years back and that has made me a bonafied expert on the subject. I went with an unknowingly hard of hearing child with a penchant for violence and a strong dislike of sharing, who was significantly larger than a lot of the tots he was to be befriending and sharing with.

Intrepid had this thing about hitting other kids. A lot. I guess it came from not being able to hear them all that well. Oh, and being a highly doted on only child of two young parents who had no idea what a challenge this I'm-pregnant-but-it's-ok-because-babies-are-fun experience would be. The combination proved disasterous to our mutual social lives. He would hit, I would intervene, he would hit again, I would intervene again... and this made it very difficult for him to make any friends or for me, as I was too busy watching my child like a hawk to talk to anyone.

After a few polite but obvious comments about my boy's behaviour, I felt it best to duck out of playgroup with my parental tail between my legs. I couldn't properly socialize my child in a situation designed to, well, properly socialize one's child. I felt like a complete and utter failure as a mother and the bitterness stayed with me for years. As I licked my ostrasized wounds, I vowed never to return to playgroups again. Not a single one. Never, ever.

Until today.

This morning I bravely put on my winter attire, bundled up the two younger gremlins and made my way to Gutsy's preschool. After dropping him off, I got up my nerve, walked to the church next door and nervously climbed the stairs to the playgroup's meeting place.

I didn't just decide to join a new playgroup. I joined the playgroup. The one I had quietly left before, which was closely followed by trying to avoid any mothers from the group for the next few years. It made grocery shopping quite uncomfortable. There are only so many times you can duck behind a bakery rack or read the ingredients of an olive jar you hastily plucked from the shelf.

The truth is, that playgroup reminded me of how badly I felt I had failed Intrepid as his mother. I was home with him, I spent lots of time with him, I loved him to pieces and yet he couldn't make any friends because he was too busy hitting/shoving/taking from/yelling at them. It wasn't so much that he was doing these things; it was more that I couldn't understand why. And the why ate me up for another three years until I finally had the bright idea to have his hearing checked.

And then, of course, I ordered myself up another plate of sauteed mommy guilt and chomped on that for another couple of years as I pondered how in the world I could have missed something as seemingly obvious as hearing loss. But I'll save that for another night with another decaf and another raisin bran muffin. That's a whole other mishap in itself.

To make a long story short, I, The Maven, walked into that playgroup with as much courage as I could muster and a three-month-old teeming with personality to smooth over my transition into the new clique of mothers. Nothing distracts people from your imperfections like a new baby. I was even able to tell them the story of being voted off the island with Intrepid, quickly followed up by my new master plan:

Start bringing Spawling to playgroup while he's sweet and innocent so that, when he gets to that ever-so-lovely I-like-to-hit stage the other two gremlins have gone through, people will love him anyway because he's Baby Spawnling. Remember how cute he used to look in his Old Navy track suit? Awww. Remember his cute little blue shoes? His 'I've been a good boy' hat? He could never do any harm with a hat like that.

And surprisingly, my idea was met with warm laughter.

I don't get why they were laughing when I was perfectly serious. It sounds like a damn good plan to me, thanks.

Ergo, every Monday morning from now until the end of May, I shall be getting out of bed with a dual purpose: Get Intrepid and Gutsy off to school and get Spawnling off to playgroup.

I've learned through a great deal of strife that there's no way to 'properly socialize one's child', as I had previously thought. Playgroups are designed with three important outcomes in mind:

1. For moms to get to know other moms.

2. For moms not to go crazy in the house in the dead of winter with no one to talk to but a two-year-old, and,

3. For children to play with new toys and contract weird diseases from whatever germs were left upon them.

If Junior learns how not to throw trucks at the heads of his peers a few months earlier than he would otherwise, then that should be considered a bonus and nothing more. Little kids like to watch and learn from other little kids, but this idea of it being some kind of mandatory socialization is crazier than I am after taking the gremz on a roadtrip. It's supposed to be fun and leisurely. If it's anything but, it's time to find another time killer.

So while I could spout off all the supposed benefits for wee Spawnling of me rejoining the ranks of the playgroup playmates, I think I'll save up my lies and justifications for another time. I'm there for my own socialization, thanks. I want a coffee and a chance to chat with other women while I watch their children beat the living hell out of one another (after they pick their noses)... (the kids, not the moms. I might not want to chat with the moms if they're picking their noses in front of me). I want to recharge my batteries for a while. And if Spawnling ends up enjoying it too, all the better. For now he's content to watch the action from my lap (or the lap of another mom who swears up and down she's done having children but please oh please can I hold your baby oh my god he smells so good).

The women there are nice and seem to like me. And I think believe me to be sane of mind and worth talking to. I can pull that off 'normal' look when I want to.

I had better not let them find my blog, though. Like, ever.

Mind the bon-bon wrappers

Oh Maven. Your life is so exciting.

Nothing says 'social life' like fiddling with your blog's template on a Saturday night. The party's all up in here, ya'll!

I had options tonight. I was going to go out with Muhlissa but her babysitting fell through, so we're rescheduling. I could have gone to an AA meeting but I lost track of time because I was playing board games with Geekster and the gremz. I could have gone to get a latte but that involves getting dressed in real clothing and running out before eleven... That is, if it closes at eleven. It might be ten. I'm not sure because I'm not usually out that late.

I am so cool it makes people cry.

I did other things today, too. I dyed my hair. It's hip. It's fashionable. It's hot. It's brown. Like before, but with no grey roots. I stink now and the baby makes funny faces when I hold him.

I watched the second Lord of the Rings. That was after the first Lord of the Rings, which I watched yesterday. I may watch the second installment of Clerks, which makes fun of people like me who watch Lord of the Rings.

I posted on two message boards throughout the day. I did that while waiting for laundry to dry so I could fold it and put it away. I posted about stuff that's so mundane it would make your eyes water to read it. Only people more dull than I am could get any joy out of what I had to say.

I had coffee with my husband and discussed a lot of nothing in the livingroom. It was good coffee. And frankly, if you can talk about nothing with your husband and not have it bore you to the point of wanting to stab yourself in the temple with a letter opener, that's the sign of a good marriage.

So, I guess you could say I worked on my marriage today. Or took its pulse, which was a healthy 75. Or um... had coffee with my husband and tried to make it out to be something more important than that later on.

I read a hilarious story on Steve Novak's site that my mother is NOT allowed to read. It's about sperm and her eyes will burn out of her skull if she does, so I pray that she heeds my warning (note how I said 'heed', which is so Lord of the Rings. Just shoot me now.)

I added some new self-absorbed exhibitionists to my links. I also divided it in two: people I know and people I don't know. You might think that my goal is to have everyone want to get to know me so they can make the first list. This is true. I am not-so-discreetely saying that I am worth knowing and it would be an honour to be listed there.

Unfortunately, I have a feeling that the goal of a lot of people on List 1 might be to get themselves put on List 2. Do you really want the world to know that you've had some kind of relationship with me, even if it's only online? If your coolness factor is zero then maybe. Otherwise, it's a one-way ticket to Loserville. I'm a stay-at-home-mom who speaks endlessly of AA meetings and makes up songs about coffee. I call my children 'gremlins' and add subtitles to videos of my baby. I laugh at stories about sperm going through the mail.

Good news for The Maven is that she is the only one who can access said lists. So like it or not, you are where you are. You can thank me (or beat me) by appointment only. Appointments involve buying me coffee. If you're there to beat me I also get a brownie.

Also, I have a shiny new email address. Feel free to alleviate my boredom any time: mavenmayhem at gmail dot com. You can figure out how to connect the dots and make it a proper address, I'm sure.

Please alleviate my boredom. Otherwise I might have to pay attention to my prose course or, heaven forbid, the kids. Then people might expect me to do productive things and... well, you can see what a slippery slope that is.

Thug 4 Life

My brother sent me this picture of Gutsy that he took a couple of months ago.

What.

The hell.

Is that?

I was birthing Spawnling while my brother was teaching Gutsy gang signs. I take absolutely NO responsibility for this picture.

No wonder the women in Tim Hortons give him strange looks when we walk in there. They probably think he's packin' a 9.

Anyway, let's take a trip over the segue bridge. You know what really sucks about being me?

Ok, besides that.

No, not that either. Good one, though.

Feel free to stop coming up with an answer any time, ok?

What sucks to be me is that, when people see me with the gremlins, they tend to go on and on about how much they look like me. Their eyes, or their hair colour, or their smiles, or whathaveyou.

Then they meet Geekster and I hear nothing but 'Wow, your kids look a LOT like your husband!' Grrr.

I KNOW they look a lot like him, ok? I am the woman with the weakling genetics. He is the one with the supermegakabuterimon strong sperm that rush in and pummel the crap out of my eggs so that there is no resemblance to me whatsoever when the little ones are born. It is a sad truth that I am sometimes asked if I'm sure I'm the biological mother.

Because I'm a sucker for punishment, I shall prove it to you:

Here is me, the beautiful Maven with all my early postpartum hotness:



Here is ugly, ugly Geekster in all his unhandsomeness (I love him for his money):



And finally, here are the gremlins, who fortunately have made the best of the paternal genetics they've been given:




See what I mean? It's not fair.

They also get their ability to use gang signs at the age of three from their dad. Like I said: super genetics. Yeah.

(click on the pictures for better quality because I'm too lazy too fix them)

Peanut Butter Sandwich made with mayhem

Dearest children of mine,

Mommy really loves you. That goes without saying and is made readily apparent by the fact that I buy you things and feed you.

Mommy loves doing things with you. Like taking walks. Especially you, Gutsy. In the winter, with sleeping Spawnling and our friends. However, there are a few changes I'd like to make: For example, running outside in your hoodie, snowsuit and boots is NOT proper winter attire. Climbing up every single snowbank will turn a 7 minute walk into a 30 minute walk, leaving you too tired and everyone too cold for you to do much playing at the park.

Oh. And it's so not cool when you collapse in a screaming lump of hissy fit madness when I say it's time to go. Crawling through the snow yelling 'MOMMY!!! MOMMY!!! I DON'T WANT TO GO!!' and waking up the babies leaves mommy embarrassed.

Mommy loves you, but doesn't love being embarrassed. Can you understand the difference?

(Also, mommy needs to remember that strollers need shovelled areas to, erm, stroll on. So, say, if the park is not shovelled or plowed, one might have to wait on the side of the road with one's tired, cold friend and our tired, cold, semi-sleeping, semi-screaming infants. That's after the 30 minute walk there, of course. And then, she might have to carry you home while her friend carries her preschooler home, finding very creative ways to balance you both on the strollers. That leaves mommy almost too tired to blog, but I digress.)

Mommy loves doing other things with the three of you, like listening to music. She thinks Raffi is pretty fly, too. However, break-dancing and jumping off the ottoman through all 19 songs makes for a little less quiet than she had originally anticipated. Listening to music is supposed to be a relaxing activity to help us unwind at the end of the day and not a dance audition for the next big boy band.

Mommy loves to cook for you. She likes it when we all sit down together as a family and enjoy the delicious and nutritious food she's prepared while juggling all your various needs throughout. Gutsy, that means that when it's time to eat, you do not run downstairs to watch a television show and then have mommy follow you down to demand that you turn it off. You do not start screaming and crying in full-out protest, throwing yourself on the carpet like you've just been impaled with a sharp object. You do not follow your mother while crawling on the floor, screaming incomprehensible things at her. You are right, however, in stopping short when she says 'Who, exactly, do you think you're talking to? There's no way it's me, because I'm your mother and you KNOW you're not supposed go there.'

I'm teaching you these things because there is a good chance that you'll have a wife one day. And if you start getting all bitchy with her and she gives you that exact tone, you'll know that it's best to shut right up and mumble something apologetic. You may not realize it now, but I'm saving your marriage.

You're welcome, sweety.

Spawnling, we need to talk, too. Mommy loves to hold you and play with you. It's just that you need to grasp the concept that you are the third child and not the first. Intrepid had a lot of attention beause he was my only. Gutsy had a lot of attention because he came six years after his brother and was the only one home all day with me.

You, my little surprise, are unfortunately last in line and will get the least amount of mommy-baby one-on-one time. Sad, but true. There are three little gremlins lurking around The Maven household. Ergo, you must learn to occupy yourself on your playmat or in the swing a bit more.

If you don't, I will not be able to cook nutritious food or clean the house.

If I don't clean the house we'll all die of some new superbug that will form in the depths of the unwashed laundry.

If we don't eat nutritious food we'll develop scurvy.

Neither of these things will enhance our family life in any way. Nor will they get you more time with me. Especially if I'm a dead, scurvy-ridden corpse.

Intrepid, mommy loves you because you're so easy going and helpful. You were the biggest handful out of the three by far when you were little, but you more than make up for it now. So much so that I called the circus back and told them we were going to keep you. You give me hope for the other two.

In short, mommy loves all three of you and never goes a single day without thanking the Powers That Be for giving me the joy of raising you.

Besides, Raffi would probably be impressed that you can breakdance and stage dive to his stuff. It gives him an air of coolness he's been lacking for a while. Maybe he can go on tour with Green Day now.

Sincerely,
Your worn out but still kicking around mom.

Things I have learned in the last 48 hours:

*ahem*

1. When going out with a new baby, do not forget the diaper bag.

This is especially important when the going out will be more than an hour and your baby has a habit of defiling his clothing with righteous defecation.

2. If you have a habit of forgetting the diaper bag, do not - I repeat DO NOT - put your wallet in there.

This is especially important when you're going out with a friend for breakfast.

3. If you have a habit of putting your wallet inside the forgotten diaper bag, do not figure this out after you drive half way across the city with two children to pick up a friend who starts work in less than two hours, thus having no time to go home and get it.

Yeah. Where the hell are those teleporters they promised us by the year 2000?

4. If your friend offers to pay, she should probably make sure that the cheque she deposited in the bank machine on Friday has actually cleared.

5. Next time, she should probably check that out before we order, too.

6. You should probably not critisize said friend, since you were the one who forgot your diaper bag/wallet at home in the first place, dummy.

7. Non-fat Cinnamon Dolce lattes with whipped cream are actually quite good and the extra caloric intake can be easily justified by saying 'Hey, I'm breastfeeding, ok?'

However, I still prefer mine with soy. It's one of my few crunchy attributes, ok?

8. Preschoolers can go from I-hate-school to It's-not-so-bad-this-school-thing in a very short period of time.

When I took Gutsy to I-Hate-School this morning, he took off his outerwear, grabbed his schoolbag and, when asked if he would like me to walk him into class, he said 'No, I'll be fine, mom'. Then he hugged me and trotted off. He doesn't actually hate school, he just thinks he does when it's time to get ready. He always has a blast when he's there. I guess he's finally started to figure that part out. It only took until mid-January.

9. This is Spawnlings most favouritest thing ever.

10. If you watch that, the song will be permanently etched into your psyche. It's worse than banana phone when it comes to catchiness, which should only be viewed by children if you want to be paying for therapy in a few years instead of a prom dress.

11. You can be part of the Wedding Crashers trailer. Very fat babies look especially funny as Owen Wilson.

12. Male blogglings read my entries (!!), as seen by the comments to my last post.

13. If things don't work out between The Sister and Chemgineer, she has a half-decent fan club to draw from.

14. Just as your friend loans you a book you've been dying to read, your university course will be shipped to you, including 6 mandatory novels.

Well, I think I've learned a lot in the last couple of days. Now I must go make dinner while holding a three month old and reading a book of aboriginal short stories. I forget my wallet, but I can multitask like a mofo.

SAHMs represent! Werd.

Maven-made snow day!

Hey everyone! Check out the cheap floozy in the low-cut top guzzling vodka at a party!

Oh, hang on a second. That's no cheap floozy. That's my sister!

In fact, that's the picture she was using on MSN last night when her ten-year-old nephew started talking to her.

She called me absolutely mortified. I couldn't stop laughing. The advantage to Geekster and I being recovering alcoholics/addicts is that there's no alcohol in the house and very rarely around the kids at all. Intrepid doesn't even know what vodka is. So it's all good, The Sister. If he asks I'll tell him you were drinking water and wearing your track suit after a workout. You were thirsty, that's all.

Really, really thirsty.

Floozy.

Anyway... Dude!

Whoa.

It's not just nasty outside this morning. It's nastay. There's an added 'A' for 'awful'. I took one look outside, called Gutsy's preschool to say he wouldn't be in and cancelled breakfast plans with Jobthingy. Then I listened to Geekster tell me how wussy I am for the next 20 minutes before he headed off for his half-hour drive to work.

Which, by the way, took well over an hour.

Geekster: 0

Maven the Wuss: 1

For anyone thinking 'Bah! Aren't you Canadian? Why can't you deal with snow?' The answer is : yes, I can deal with it. Just don't want to. That's what being a stay-at-home-parent is all about. I have no boss to answer to, no office to go to. Gutsy's I-hate-school is a preschool, so it's not mandatory that he attend. Intrepid takes a bus to school which is a heck of a lot sturdier on the road than my van, so we made him go outside in the cold this morning. But as for this girl, I'm staying inside.

I ran to Fourbucks last night in preparation for the white stuff and got myself a pound of decaf Sumatra. I have chocolate chip/butterscotch cookies in the pantry. I like to be prepared for emergency situations, such as caffeine and saturated fat shortages. You never can be too careful living up North.

So here I sit this morning, still in my (spit up on) PJs, wishing I should find my nice, warm slippers and debating whether or not to throw some of the real stuff in with the decaf in the coffee pot this morning. Days like today make me feel lazy and tired. I watched Maury today only to find out that not even the 10th guy some girl tested is her three-year-old's dad. That's a lot of people to spend time with in such a short period of time.

I wish my social life was that exciting. Minus the sex, because I barely have enough energy to do that with one person, let alone ten. Or eleven. Must be at least eleven since she's already tested ten of them.

I'm not normally one to judge people's sex lives. I mean, you do what you do with who or what you want to do it with and you won't hear a peep from me. But um... ten people in a matter of a maybe four weeks?! And so far none of them are the baby daddy? That's beyond promiscuous. At that point you're probably too tired to remember how to spell promiscuous anyway. However, you could probably land yourself a great job as a mattress tester if you could find a good way to put that on your resume. You could be to Sealy what Jared is to Subway.

This weekend was a quiet one 'round these parts. On Friday it appeared that Spawnling was coming down with a cold, but I'm having second thoughts on that diagnosis. He's drooling up a storm, chewing on everything and not acting like his usual, cheery self sometimes. I've narrowed it down to either teething or rabies.

I became a weekend warrior widow on Saturday, as Geekster made his way over to our friend Sprockett's to get his home ready to sell. Effectively, it was a sixth weekday for me, except that Intrepid was also home for added excitement. He and Gutsy fought a good portion of the afternoon and only started calming down after my threat to remove Lego Star Wars from the PS2 game library.

"Find their currency," Dr. Phil always says between his supernova-bright new teeth. Well, I've found it. As craptastic of a parent as it may make me, television and things attached to the television are their currency. I tried taking away all lentils, but it didn't seem to hit home quite the same way. Apparently it has to be something they really like. Go figure.

On Sunday Sprockett had an open house at his place, so he and the kids came over for the day. It was so nice to see them as it's been a while. In fact, it was Sprockett's first time meeting Spawnling. The Spawn decided he would make a good first impression by screaming bloody murder for the first hour of their visit until finally falling asleep for a couple of hours. And this was while wearing his 'good looks run in the family' onesie, which thankfully didn't say 'good moods run in the family' or we'd all be pegged as liars. But not about the 'good looks' bit, though, because as former runway models, I can assure you our genetics are of the highest quality.

After the Sprocketts left I did something I haven't done for many, many moons: I went out by myself.

Alright, it was only for fourty minutes and it was to the grocery store. Other than two trips to Tim Hortons to get coffee all by my lonesome, this is the first time the food source has been out of the house without the Spawn. But it was freedom! It was blissful! It was wonderful!

Unfortunately it was anything but the above to Geekster, who's once sleeping Spawnling woke up after five minutes of me leaving due to Gutsy running into the room saying 'I'M SPIDERMAN!!!! PSSSHHHH! PSSSHHHH!! LOOK AT MY WEBS!!!' followed closely by 'NO! I DON'T HAVE TO BE QUIET!!!'

The next thirty-five minutes involved Geekster pacing the floor while holding the pacifier in Spawnling's mouth to keep him from screaming. Oops.

After I got home, calmed Spawnling down and started watching house flipping shows (my not-so-secret new addiction), I received a call from a childhood friend whom I had seen six months previously, when we had sworn up and down we would be getting together the following week. A baby for me and a return to work after maternity leave for her later, we're finally getting together. She's bringing me coffee, so I suppose I'll forgive her. I should probably also let her know the nagic rule: even when it's The Maven's fault, it's actually yours. She might have forgotten about that.

...or maybe that's why I have a lot of 'old friends' I don't see a lot of.

Nah. People wouldn't avoid me. I'm far too charismatic.

Even Mrs. Wailing keeps coming back for more. I heard that after our morning jaunt to Ikea last Thursday she had checked herself into a substance abuse clinic. They apparently sent her home because their Maven Addiction wing has a two month waiting list.

Oh, how I wish. At that point I could probably accept that the universe doesn't revolve around me because at least an entire treatment program would.

Some day, Maven. Some day... Just keep oozing that pestilence, er, charisma like you always do.

Ikea was pretty much what I expected it would be. It involved a lot of repetitive sayings, such as:

'Gutsy. Stay with us, please.'

'Wailing Jr., come back here, please.'

'Gutsy, I understand that this is "only a two player game", but you do know that these are Ikea's tent and chairs and that you have to share them with other kids, right?'

'Wailing Jr. and Gutsy, get back here.'

'Wailing Jr. and Gutsy! Oh, for the love of... Guys! Watch out for carts! No, stop... Ok, that was dangerous. Get down from there, ok? You can't... No, please don't... Oh God...'

'Gutsy, don't poke Wailing Jr. Wailing Jr, don't hit Gutsy because he poked you. Gutsy, don't push Wailing Jr. because he hit you...'

'I think I'm getting an ulcer,' says Mrs. Wailing.

'I think I'm having a brain aneurysm to along with your ulcer,' says The Maven.

By about halfway through the excursion, Mrs. Wailing had come up with alternate lyrics to the song 'If I had a hammer'. It involved replacing the word 'hammer' with 'razorblade' and was actually quite catchy.

I think she was secretly impressed that I managed to get some actual shopping done while we were there. She knows not what I go through on a regular basis, but will as soon as Baby Wailing reaches the full-blown toddler stage. If you have to, you will. That's my golden rule and it has helped me accomplish things not thought possible beforehand.

My gremlins have a golden rule for busy areas, too: if one does it, the other must do it as well. It's like the herd mentality. There's safety in numbers. Carnivores, or parents, are less likely to pounce on you if you're not the only one grazing, or climbing on furniture, or running down aisles, or screaming 'come find me!', or jumping on display cases.

Thankfully, my gremlins have also established rank like pack animals: Intrepid is alpha and Gutsy is beta. This works well now that the alpha is ten. He sticks closer to the cart/stroller, which normally makes the beta less likely to go wandering.

In Thursday's case there was no ten-year-old alpha gremlin, leaving two preschoolers to copy each other.

Bad bad bad bad bad!

So after an ulcer, an aneurysm and new lyrics with the word 'razorblade' in them, she still called me last night to make plans this week. 'Oh, and also,' she says, ' I have coupons for a kids' convention coming up in a few weeks. We should go!'

...*blink*

I'd like to think this is a Maven addiction because it would make me feel all warm and fuzzy, but I have a feeling it's a more deeply rooted psychosis. Still, it's nice to have someone to suffer with when I do crazy things like going to busy places with kids.

Must go watch The Real Ghostbusters with Gutsy and Spawnling. Gutsy set up a blanket on the floor for them in the family room and they're awaiting my arrival. How cute is that?

Oh, one last thing: Spawnling has figured out how to screech. He's quite proud of himself and does it at every opportunity. Last night I showed him a picture of my childhood friend's little girl. He screeched so much I took yet more video footage. No editing this time because I know I'm overdoing it with the movies and even people who've never met the cute little Spawnling are probably getting sick of watching him do baby things. Still, it's MY blog and I get to decide what's on it, ok? ME ME ME. Maven addiction! Maven addiction! The world revolves around my videos!

Phew. That feels better.

Unlocking the secret

There was a woman on Oprah not too long ago who claims to have unlocked the secret language of babies. She says the cries of newborns normally change after about three months, at which point it becomes more difficult to assess their needs based on cries alone.

Well phooey to her. She's no expert, then. Because I, The Maven, know exactly what my baby is saying to me, as is proven in the following clip.

And I, The Maven, was really this bored on a Friday night.

You may now dispense with the pity.