Get crackin'!

Do you know what I like?

I like combs.

Combs do what you expect they'll do; no surprises. When you want one it's always there waiting for you. When you're done, you put it back.

They're neat and streamlined. Obedient and orderly.

Most of all, combs are quiet. That's probably their best quality. A comb will never talk back, scream and throw itself on the ground, or just generally wish you could tear your ears off and not have to put 'mop up blood and ears off floor' on your already impossibly long to-do list.

... Have I mentioned it's March Break in the Maven household? Did I even have to?

It's not going too badly right now. I say this half an hour before bedtime, mind you, when frankly I would just as soon throw a parade to honour the event than use these precious few minutes to post a blog entry. One is celebration, the other venting. Both serve their purpose and this is far more cost-effective.

We're on day four of ten, meaning that it won't be long before I'm sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth and singing the score from Wizard of Oz. But so far it's not that bad. This, like any dysfunctional relationship, goes in cycles. At the moment we're in the honeymoon phase, where I'm planning fun activities with the gremlins, taking them to museums (being a good stay-at-home-mom, I have a wallet full of family memberships to all the big, local museums), watching movies, going for walks... This is that wonderful I-love-you-so-much-and-that-will-never-change stage. Love that part. By this afternoon we were showing signs of impending doom already and I'm guessing will make the full-blown switch to I-know-you-just-messed-up-but-it's-only-one-time-so-it's-ok stage. Just one time. Things will get better again, I promise, baby. Here are some flowers and a gift certificate to K-Mart to buy yourself something pretty.

Deterioration will happen as it happens with every lengthly holiday. I used to brag that my children never fought because they had a six year age gap between them. That all went out the window when Gutsy turned two. He began to walk up behind Intrepid and hit him with things. Random things. Rescue Heroes, trucks, PS2 controllers, mugs... Pretty much anything that would be sure to get the big guy's attention. Yet Intrepid maintained his cool for months as we worked on the problem.

And yet, this evening Gutsy bit Intrepid (he's never been a biter. I suppose he was trying a new torture method) and Intrepid, shocked and in pain, kicked Gutsy in the face. Not hard, but enough that it hurt and got him to stop biting.

Hmm. Yes. I know. Sounds violent, doesn't it? Normally it isn't, but four days together lead them to that impressive display of brotherly love. At that point I would normally go into the playroom, find out what happened, talk to them about it and have them apologize (which they would fight me on because they'd be so angry with each other). Instead, I tried something new: "I want you two to go into your room. You on your bed, you on yours. Nobody comes out until you've apologized to each other."

It took about 15 minutes, but by dinner time they were ready to say sorry (and Gutsy instigated it - instigated a positive action! - wonder of wonders) and come eat some grub. This left me feeling damn impressed with my mad parenting skillz. That feeling couldn't have come at a better time, as I'm usually fretting over how sucktastic I am at raising children these days. My current motto is: Consistency? Only sometimes.

Big red flag, baby. Big, bright, glowing, red flag.

I'll get back into my groove thing at some point. I just highly doubt it'll be during March break, that's all.

Gutsy has apparently had enough of his bigger brother, so he's created his own friend. Tonight he introduced me to Eggness, his new imaginary pal. Eggness has two superpowers:

1. He's invisible

2. He shoots eggs out of his arms

I can completely understand how Gutsy would want to hang around with him over Intrepid. Eggness has the cool factor in the form of invisible egg shooters for arms.

I didn't ask how old Eggness is. However, I do know that he sleeps in Gutsy's bed. If I find out that he's anything over 12 years old I'm having some serious words with him. He might fire off poultry products, but the sleepovers will have to stop. This isn't the Neverland Ranch.

This post took me four hours to make. Now I must get crackin' and head off to bed before my brains are even more scrambled and my body more fried.

Square Footage Girl

Thank goodness for Girls' Night Out. I don't know how I would survive without it. Not only am I a social creature by nature, but I'm also terribly bad at doing one thing for a lengthly period of time (except for the following: not drinking, not using drugs, not being productive, and breathing). Between the time I awoke Friday morning until about 10pm Saturday night, I did a bad job at the one task I was permanently assigned: parenting.

Spawnling is a fortunate little demon, as he can get away with a lot of things on account of his high cuteness to badass ratio. Being more cute than badass is a trait most other babies posess. The Spawn, however, likes to keep it fairly balanced. Cute? Absolutely. Badass? You don't know the half of it.

Sir Spawnling of Evilshire proclaimed that he would come down with a fever on Thursday. This was very nice of him, considering it was the second fever he's had in his little life and, like the first time, he waited until we were going to the doctor's before coming down with it. He's very thoughtful, my Spawnling. Must be my genetics. By Friday he had dropped the fever in lieu of a runny nose. He had come down with the same cold the bigger gremlins had (and Gutsy still has).

He then decided he wouldn't sleep until I went to bed on Friday night. Now, normally he's a fab sleeper, so I wouldn't be complaining. He was also very accomodating, sitting contentedly on my lap for the most part while we watched no-life-television (as in 'I have no life because I'm watching t.v. on a Friday night').

None of this would have been an issue had Geekster not committed himself to helping a friend move all day Saturday. So other than a bit of restless-sick-baby-beside-me sleeping, I had no break from parenting for two solid days.

Meanwhile, Jobthingy and Fly were eagerly awaiting 6pm. Why? Because that was the time I had penciled in to give them their Maven Time.

... You know, Maven Time. Time with me, The Maven. I'm one of People magazine's 500,000,000 most beautiful people, after all. I got an honourable mention on their website. Just keep scrolling down. You'll find it there. Number 498,768,194.

At 5pm Geekster came home, I zoomed out the door faster than you can say 'I didn't know fat girls could run that fast', threw a moody baby in the van, got my stressed-out self behind the wheel, turned up Justin Timberlake and made my way out for Girl's Night.

It's not like we do anything terribly special. After feeding me grapes on a suede chaise, we had dinner, lattes and cookies. Cranky baby turned into happy, hyper baby. Jobthingy and I ooed nad awwed over Fly's beautiful belly. She's has also failed miserably at the role of infertility goddess, as she's only a handful of weeks away from providing me with a suitable female for Spawnling to marry in 25 years (unless, of course, he prefers rainbow flags and leather hats. But she still needs to put Smudge on hold until we know for sure).

Anyway, I came home feeling significantly less like taking a nice, warm nap in a running car with the garage door closed. I love parenting, but I need to not parent for at least a couple of hours in a twenty-four hour period. The faster baby Spawnling figures out that heeding my need for mommy time earns him the privilege of having his love bought in the form of sugary sweets and new bikes, the better. Until then I will have to rely on my friends to provide me with hugs and laughter when I'm ready to shave my eyebrows in a fit of Pink Floyd-like insanity.

Speaking of feeling good about myself, here's what I've learned: I'm getting more self-confident. Well duh, I'm The Maven. I ooze self-confidence, right? A picture of me sits right next to the definition of self-esteem in the Webster's dictionary. Well, at least that's where the photographer told me it was going. He also gave me $75 and said I could keep the short shorts.

There's a really lovely mom that to comes to playgroup. I invited her over to my place for coffee a few days ago. I got the house tidied up, looked around with the sense of pride I generally get from taking care of the place I live in, and welcomed her in.

She entered, looked around and asked for a tour. 'Oh, this is really cute!' she said. 'If you don't mind me asking, what's the square footage here?'

... Cute? Square footage? ...

She continued: 'We looked at a place just like this one in your neighbourhood. Same floor plan and everything. Except it had an extension on the back. Like a solarium-type thing. But I felt it was too small for us.'

... *blink* ...

Sometimes I want to say things and they seem like a good idea at the time. For example, I might see someone at the grocery store and want to tell them how interesting their hair is. By interesting, I mean I would never, ever wear it on me, but it looks good on them. That sort of thing.

But I stop myself. I have a minuscule amount of tact that has grown a little with age. I've honed this ability with great precision over the years, learning from past mistakes. For example, never tell someone that the town they grew up in and are still living in is 'quaint'. 'Quaint' sounds nice in books, but it's best not to let it leave your mouth when describing something dear to someone else.

It's the same as, oh, I don't know, perhaps telling someone their house is cute, but too small for your family of three - even with an extension on it - when you're speaking to someone with a family of five.

In my youth I might have been insulted by such a thing. But I realized a long time ago that these comments aren't meant to be mean-spirited. Either it's a genuine, clueless comment by an otherwise thoughtful person, or it's a stabby-jabby-knifey-backy comment made by someone who is insecure about something and needs to feel better by putting someone else down. Either way, it has nothing whatsoever to do with me, my house or, shockingly, its square footage. Instead I laughed and vowed to blog about it.

So, this lovely girl whom I otherwise adore immediately became Square Footage Girl. I knew I had to write about her, but it was even more obvious once we had the playgroup's moms' night. It was at Square Footage Girl's - or Square Foot as I now think of her - home. A semi, just like mine. About the same age, about the same subdivision-awful quality, but significantly larger. It has pretty much the same number of rooms, but bigger and more extravagant. Her decor is similar, but nicer. Her cleanliness reigns supreme. It looks like it's out of a bloody catalogue.

She gave everyone the grand tour of her gorgeous home. All the ladies were impressed and remarked on her keen sense of decor. She smiled, said thank you and, once she realized many of the other women also lived in semi-detached homes, asked the ever-important question 'If you don't mind me asking, what's your square footage?'

She seemed terribly pleased when it was shown her house was the largest.

Her husband, upon his return to their comparatively palace-like abode, also went on to ask people what their square footage is.

Apparently this is a very important question. Most important when your place is bigger. Which is probably why I don't tend to ask.

See, I know we have a small house by most standards. But you know what? I really like it. It's bright, it's happy and definitely has its charm. It's most certainly cute and definitely on the smaller side for a North American family of our size.

I guess I secretly revel in the idea that if we really, really wanted to, we could live in a much larger home. We just don't feel like paying that much. After all, bigger house = fewer lattes. See the quandary? These are important things to think about.

So, Square Foot can sit happily in her seemingly enormous estate, proudly displaying its wide-open rooms.

I, on the other hand, will be sitting down a lot more than her, as I have far less square footage to sweep, mop and vacuum.

Neener neener.

Little Spawnling or Little Rascal?

Look! It's Alfalfa!

Check out the hair. Memories of Cameron Diaz asking 'Is that hair gel?'

Yesterday was Spawnling's four month doctor's appointment. It's difficult to believe that 4 1/2 months ago I had been contracting for six weeks, was three days over my due date and might have jumped off a bridge if not for the fact that my belly would have made an excellent flotation device.

And now he's here and four months old. Or six months, if you had asked the doctor. She said by all accounts he's a good two or so months ahead, from his level of alertness to his incredible strength.

Duh. I grew him. Do it well or don't do it at all. He's perfection incarnate. A flawless little being that was sculpted with impossible precision within my womb.

Well, except for that eye thing.

What eye thing? Just the one where one pupil dilates at a different rate than the other. If it were more obvious he'd make a great P.T. Barnum attraction. They could call him Bam Bam the Pupil Man or something. Give him a club, dress him in the latest Neanderthal infant fashions and charge 10 cents at the door.

Apparently the condition is known as anisocoria and up to a fifth of the world's population has it for one reason or another. It's just a fancy word for uneven pupils. Spawnling's left pupil seems to have a mind of its own and likes to grow and shrink subtly. So subtly, in fact, that I never noticed it. I feel like one of those mothers who is so in love with her new baby that she doesn't see the flippers for hands. It took both Geekster (a few weeks ago) and the doctor to spot it. Geekster noticed while he was taking CPR training and immediately asked if the Spawn had hit his head that day, as uneven pupils can signal brain damage. When he looked again they were the same size, so he brushed it off as a trick of the light.

Stupid Geekster, thought I, getting all worked up over nothing. Well, didn't I feel a bit sheepish when I had to tell him he was *cough*... er... this is so hard to admit... right.

He's actually right a good deal of the time, but don't tell him. The Maven wears the pants around here.

Or at least the bigger pants. And I could sit on him if I wanted to get my way.

The appointment went well other than the weird, harmless eye thing. Spawnling weighs in at a modest 16.5lbs and 65cm in length (which is pretty average). Definitely the runt of the litter, but definitely loving those solids. In his haste to eat, he often does a number on my hand, with his demon claws. I have a video of it that I took today, but Youtube is borken and won't let me upload it. Jerks.

In other news, my good friend Spitting Camel and his wife had a beautiful baby boy a few days ago! Here's a picture of baby Ahmed. SC has been a friend for years, but moved to Europe a while back. I could hate him for leaving us back here in frigid Canada, but instead I laugh that he now has to deal with drivers worse than him. Congratulations on fatherhood, you Parisian snob.

Also, I moved Fly to 'people I know' because she was brave enough to meet Jobthingy and I a couple of weeks ago for dinner and coffee. When I first began stalking her blog I had no idea she was a local girl. It took Jobthingy, AKA my personal organizer, to figure it out. She is one cool bird, that Fly. Or one cool insect, I guess. She's expecting a baby whom she has nicknamed Smudge. Personally, I would have called her Maggot, but that's due to my linear thought patterns. It may lack a certain endearing quality anyway. Unless you like maggots.

And then you're gross and and I don't care what you consider endearing anyway.

And finally, a big shout out to a fellow MDC mama named analisa-roche. The poor girl is so bored that she read a kadozenillion(tm) of my old entries, and commented, too! She has four kids though, including a set of twins, so I suspect they've driven her to the brink of fried-egg-for-brains anyway.

This is your brain. This is your brain on Stay-at-home-mayhem. Any questions?

Thanks for all the comments. They give me more reason to waste my life at the computer, eating M&Ms and getting fatter by the minute.


Finally, I just wanted to carify that the creepy, anonymous comment on my last post with pictures of my children, stating:

Sorry girls...they're all mine.

is, in fact, my mother and not an internet pervert. Good job signing into Blogger, The Madre! I'm going to die of laughter. I definitely got my brain from the maternal side.

Sleeping brats... er... beauties

Just when I think they're surely going to drive me to drink, they sense it and decide to go all cute. Here are Gutsy and Spawnling late last week, sleeping like the little angels they like to pretend to be.

I'm going to go to Ikea this weekend and buy one of those three panel frames. Can you blame me?

Why can't they always be this adorable? Why must they scream at me for things? Like tonight. Spawnling suddenly decided that mommy disappearing means she is going away forever and never giving him breastmilk again. He began to wail the minute I left the room until I rushed back in and scooped him up.

And Gutsy? Well, he's discovered the art of using up nearly every article of clean clothing I so lovingly placed in his drawer. Dress up is fun, you know. So very fun. And mommy doesn't do nearly enough laundry, so he figured he'd mix up the clean stuff with the dirty. Guess who's going to help mommy sort and put away his clothing tomorrow? Hint: it starts with G and ends with Y and rhymes with Buttsy.

Anyway, I swear I could have 5 more just looking at these pictures. Don't tell Geekster that though, or he might confiscate my camera and lace my morning coffee with Alesse.

All growed up

Wow. I gratefully accepted this sacrificial gift from my husband on the pretense that I would have more opportunities to waste my time online. However, today - my first full day with Lapzilla taking up a sizeable chunk of the dining room table - I realized a very important thing: Irregardless of where one's computer is located or how many gremlins one has to keep one from using it, one must actually be home to waste one's valuable time surfing the web.

I started off with good intentions. I said to myself 'Self, today you will drop Gutsy off at I-Hate-School, come home with a sleeping Spawnling, clean up your disgusting living space, read more of Heart of Darkness for your prose course, try not to slit your wrists after that depressing read, and then you will view blogs and waste your time on Lapzilla.'

That sounded good. Really good. Except for it being utterly boring and pathetic. I don't do boring and pathetic well. Besides, I had missed an invite out for coffee on Monday because I was - surprise! - not home, so I figured I would see if I could cash in my raincheque. I ended up leaving the house at 8:45 and not coming home until 2:45. So much for cleaning, surfing or anything else. I went out for coffee, a walk, picked up Gutsy at I-Liked-School-Today, took him to speech therapy and stopped off quickly at Mrs. Wailing's abode for another coffee.

Socializing is all about the coffee. In fact, I don't know how people socialize without it. Blood is thicker than water, but caffeine is the stuff friendship is made of.

Coffee was with a friend I hadn't seen in probably two years. I'll keep her nameless so as not to embarrass her, even though that's rather pointless since a few of you will know who she is anyway and she reads my blog (because I'm hot and she likes checking out my pics). Why haven't I seen her? Because we had one of those falling out, bitch olympic thingies. It was probably the worst falling out I've had in my life and one of my biggest failings as a decent human being because I got all spiteful and resentful.

Imagine. ME! The Maven! Not being a perfect person. Shocking, I know. It's the stuff nightmares are made of.

So after I put my tail between my legs and apologized for my bitchtastic part in said falling out, I started to feel a bit better about myself again. And we talked a little here and there. And we met for coffee today. She even brought her kids, which indicates to me that she either trusts we're not going to brawl again or planned to use them as little, human shields if I arched my back and started hissing. Either way, they got hot chocolate so don't feel sorry for them.

I brought Spawnling because people can't hate me if I have a baby with me. Just not possible. He's cute and sweet, he comes from me, ergo I must be cute and sweet, too. Spawnling is a wonderful ice breaker.

I kept waiting to see some incredible change in her personality, her views, new insight into the world. Because, you know, when The Maven is upset with someone, it's obviously all their fault. I had two years to make her into a demoness of epic evils and a great imagination to facilitate that perception.

At first I was disappointed. No major change. I mean, she had obviously matured both with age and life experience. But her personality was the same. Her manner, her tone, her sense of humour, all the same. She was just two years older, that's all. No horns, no tail, no glowing red eyes.

And yet she didn't say anything mean or thoughtless or downright cruel. She didn't subtely put me down or say something highly offensive. In fact, I enjoyed her company.

Damnit, damnit, damnit! That's a bad sign. See, that means that maybe I made some changes. All those healthy things I've been doing for myself like exercise, my return to 12 step meetings, the hobbies I've taken up, the inner reflection crap I've taken on... All those things have bred these new traits in me, like confidence.

For example, the girl is skinny now. She used to a fellow Club Chubette member, but has since left the rest of us high and dry in the reinforced treehouse. At one point I might have been envious, or even inject-your-healthy-apple-with-bacon-fat jealous, but instead I was - ick - genuinely happy for her, if not slightly more motivated to become a club alumnus myself. Before, I would have felt like she might have been smugly judging my choice to have a fatty soy latte or wondered how I managed to (barely) squeeze my postpartum ass into those jeans. I might have left thinking: I can't have coffee with her again! She might think I'm, like, fat or something! And I'd be so totally embarrassed and stuff!

Well, newsflash: I am fat or something and I hardly think she cared in the slightest. And even if she did, I'm not, like, totally embarrassed.

It's not a competition.

Except when I'm obviously winning.

See, I think I'm the one who's grown up a lot. We were both stupid to each other, but I held the grudge for so long that the movie of the same name should have been about my life (although at least they picked my twin, Sarah Michelle Gellar, as the star). And now I'm thirty and so very grown up.

This has been apparent in other aspects of my life, but none so much as in my choice of friends in the last few months. The people I spend my time around now are trying hard to grow up, too. We're not exactly the definition of maturity, but at least we have our priorities straight. No one is a big gossip. Nobody parties like they're eighteen again. Nobody forgets to parent their kids. Nobody is terribly judgemental. I feel like I can open up to all of them and feel nothing but support.

Overlooking the fact that they choose to spend their time with yours truly, these are healthy-in-the-head people.

And I've put myself here. Good job, perfect me! Let me stretch that arm out a bit further so I can pat myself on my fat-laden back. I'm a happier, more relaxed Maven who knows who she is and what she wants out of life. If that doesn't deserve a caloric reward of some kind I don't know what does.

Cookie, anyone? Let me grab some from the treehouse and I'll be right back.

Ding-dong! Your life is being delivered!

Hey there, sexy. Lookin' good.

You're so young and slender and light.

You're easily turned on and you can go for hours and hours.

Wanna go someplace and be alone for a while? Maybe somewhere with complementary wireless networking and lattes?

Like I didn't know the answer already. *wink*

Why hello, blog world. I'm sitting at my diningroom table while dinner cooks. That would be salmon, long grain brown rice and steamed vegetables. I figure if I'm going to act like a snobby suburban with my fancy shmancy computer I might as well eat like one, too.

This opens a whole new world of possibilities for The Maven. I can now write articles througout the day. I can post to my blog. I can comment on other people's blogs. I can chat on MSN with more regularity. I can play World of Warcraft while watching Lost. No longer will I be trekking down to the depths of the basement to shackle myself up to my desk. Lapzilla will make my life more integrated, myself far less scarce to the online community, and the online community wishing my husband wasn't so thoughtful.


I would post more about my terribly exciting day which involved going to the dentist's for a cleaning, installing online gaming patches for four hours and taking Spawnling for an hour-long walk to work off the M&Ms I ate last night, but I need to get Lapzilla off the table before she gets covered in Omega-rich fish fillets. She deserves to be treated like a queen.


I'd like to thank Geekster for the amazing gift (he does occassionally read my blog so I need to say nice things about him).


Aren't you terribly excited that I'd be around more? Aren't you?


Where did you go? You must have run off to spread the good news.


Or cry, maybe.

The Maven: Sticking up for you since 2007

I vaguely remember a time when I used to sit at the computer at least once per day and write a blog entry, check my email, check on the ladies in my due date club, chat on MSN. This was back when I was simply pod-mother to Spawnling and his only demands were to ensure he had sufficient calories entering via the umbilical cord and some nice, warm amniotic fluid in which to grow his mammoth self.

Then he hatched. And you know, he slept a lot! I had prepared myself for having next to no 'me' time from the time we trekked home from the hospital. Instead, I found I had many opportunities to update my blog, post comments about other people's equally pathetic lives on their blogs, and basically bum around on the interweb until I was nearly bored to tears.

Then he turned four-months-old and his horns started to sprout. Suddenly mommy is not only food source, but also mode of transportation, jester, librarian and chef. Now he loves me for more than my breasts, which gives him a lot more credit than most of the guys I used to date. This also means that I don't see the front of my computer screen very often unless I stay up until my eyelids are about to fall off my face from sheer exhaustion.

This will all change, however, when Dell decides they would like to ship my laptop. I think it may already be on its way, but every day of waiting is another day when I have to stay upstairs and do productive things like clean and cook and - ick - spend time with my children. Apparently that's what mothers are supposed to do and I've just gotten off easy having a shiny screen to stare at all these years. Spawnling only likes sitting at my desk if he can pound at my keyboard, which sort of takes away the desirability factor for yours truly.

At any rate, here I am. I know you miss me. I'd miss me, too, if I didn't have to be around me and smell me. In fact, I gave Intrepid a big hug this morning and only let him go when he said 'Uh, you smell like baby puke.'

Oh yeah? Well you smell like smart ass ten-year-old, so there. I wanted to say that, but instead I used his observation as an excuse to pawn the Spawn(tm) off on his big brother and change my shirt.

A few things have happened in my absense from the blogosphere. For one, Beth had her baby. Congratulations, Beth!! I've been following her story for a few months now and was thrilled to see the news (thanks Jobthingy for the 411. My lack of computer time makes it near impossible to read other blogs on a regular basis). If you watch the video, have Kleenex handy and prepare to bawl your eyes out like I did. That woman has been through an incredible amount to have her baby girl; so much more than she should have. And yet I bet she's in awe at her precious little one and thinking to herself that it was all worth it.

I usually think that way until they hit about two years old. Then I wonder if there's any possible way to shove them back up there until they reach about five or so.

Ironically, her daughter was born the same day as I attended my playgroup mom's night. It's an anti-gremlin zone unless you have a baby. I have a baby, so I brought him.

Two other women also have babies and didn't bring them. One was a nursing mom who's child only breasfeeds every two hours or so. She came for about 90 minutes. If Spawnling was that predictable in his boob feasts I might have also attempted that, but the dirty little secret is that I actually like to bring my baby out with me.

Yeah, that's right. I like it. They're only little once and we're going to end up spending more and more time apart as they get older, so I enjoy their company for the short period of time when they're small. Go ahead, look at me like I have two heads. I don't mind. Because once they're two and I realize I can't put them back in utero during the tantrum stage, I have no issues leaving them at home anymore. Momma didn't raise no fool.

The night was mostly fun. Only one comment really irked me from one of the moms. She has three children under the age of four, so my hat is off to her. However, when she realized mine were spread over ten years, she said something along the lines of 'Wow, talk about spacing them out! I didn't want to do it that way. You know, start over every time like you did. I'm sure it's good in some ways, though. But I had all mine eighteen months apart so I could get the baby stage over with faster.'

Um... Problem with your theory: You're assuming that we planned the years of spacing between the kids. I wasn't going to say anything, though. I was going to keep my mouth shut and let her think whatever she wanted. The pain of infertility all but went out the window after Spawnling was born. Despite how overwhelmed I am a lot of the time, I'm also incredibly grateful and feel like I've healed a lot from our conception war wounds. I have the family I always dreamed of, after all.

But you know what? I had to say something. The Maven likes to stir the pot a little bit. I had to say something for Beth, for Fly and for everyone else who has had to work their asses off to achieve a pregnancy. For the millions of infertile couples who may or may not have a baby and may or may not have another one years after the first. Who have to suffer through the comments and questions about why they don't have any children, or how having an only child is so lonely and why wouldn't you want them to have a sibling, or how their children will have nothing in common and will never be close because they're spaced so far apart. For the other woman sitting quietly in the room that night who is struggling with secondary infertility and doesn't know if she'll ever be able to give her son the sibling he keeps asking for.

So I took a deep breath, wondered why I was doing this to myself yet again, and told her that it wasn't planned that way. That we had tried for over four years before to have Gutsy and that Spawnling's pregnancy only came to light after we had effectively given up and decided that our two boys were enough of a gift, and that with their hearing loss they were likely to need more of our time and attention, and that maybe three would be too many. It was only then, after three years of unprotected sex, that my body did what it's supposed to do.

The women seemed very moved, their wine glasses frozen midway to their lips. I hadn't realized that all eyes were on me and that the other conversations in the room had completely died off as, one by one, they started listening to my story. The infertile woman in the corner nodded in understanding of what I was saying and with perhaps a slight look of appreciation on her face.

I had changed some views and assumptions that night. I had, in my own small way, made the world a more understanding place.

'Wow' said Mom to Three under Four, breaking the silence. 'And then there's me with the opposite problem: I get pregnant even when I'm on birth control! Haha! It really sucks!'

'Oh, I so know what you mean!' said another mom.

'I hear you there!' chuckled another. And with that, the vibe completely dissipated as a room full of women in their child-bearing years began to discuss what birth control methods work best.

Well, I tried, right? And in the end, I don't blame them. You don't know unless you've been there. I don't know what it's like to be incredibly fertile and how that might take the spark out of one's sex life as easily as infertility can. On the other hand, I don't know the pain of never being able to conceive a child at all, let alone three. I'm smack dab in the middle. An odd place to be at times, but I guess I get to feel a bit of everyone's joy and pain, sunshine and rain.

Pump it up, pump it up. Keep it goin' now.

Time for bed. It's officially Monday and I need some sleep before I drag Gutsy to I-Hate-School so he can think he's going to have a horrible time and enjoy himself tremendously. Then I'm headed off to playgroup for some caffeine and conversation. Love those girls, despite their utter failure at being infertility goddesses. I suppose I failed, too, although as far as failures go I'm not too disappointed about that one.

175 things to say about my boring life

I can't believe I've actually had the time and incredible wit required to post to this blog 175 times. This is my 176th post. I could have put '176 posts of worthless crap' as the title, but it didn't look as good, even though it would be accurate.

And when you're The Maven, it's all about looks. That's why so many people spend time with me. They like to say they hang with the beautiful people. Today was such a day.

This morning I had a meeting with one of the playgroup moms. I would refer to it as a playdate if her two-year-old daughter had someone to play with other than my four-month-old Spawnling. I would refer to it as a coffee date if she were a coffee drinker. Or an anything drinker, for that matter. In fact, she consumed nothing and her daughter only had a cheese string. I had two cups of coffee. So it was a meeting of the minds. Or um... of the moms. Or something.

I love complicating my life.

Afterwards, I picked up Gutsy from I-hate-school and went to Mrs. Wailings' abode. It takes about half an hour to get there and I've decided she needs to build me a room in the basement. That way the boys and I could live there part of the time, since we do anyway. I have it all figured out: She could drill a hole in the floor under the kitchen sink and drop scraps of food into a bucket. Then she could say things like 'It likes the apple peels it is given' in that creepy, cannabilistic tone. And she could let us upstairs for playdates. Or coffee dates. Or both.

It might put a wee bit of a strain on our friendship with the basement and the scraps and the name-calling, but if I could save a bit on gas then I'm willing to take that chance.

So in short, two people basked in my glory today. Spawnling then decided to become quite posessive of his pod-mother and cling to me for the rest of the afternoon, crying whenever I'd leave his site. Sitting on the floor playing with cool toys? Why would he want to do that? Afford me five minutes to complete a bodily function while his brothers entertain him? "Silly Food Source. You produce so much milk for me that you needn't produce much waste. You lock yourself in that bathroom to read O Magazine, Foul woman! I shall make you pay by screaming at the door while Intrepid politely inquires as to how long it will be before you emerge!"

And yet, I managed to speak to two friends by phone (Impossible MOM and Lushgurl, who is quite ill - not just in the head - and hasn't relapsed or died, in case anyone is wondering), make a healthy dinner and even watch Gutsy destroy my previously-clean diningroom by creating an elaborate 'obstacle course' for he and Intrepid to go through. Score one for messy creativity, Gutsy.

By the time Geekster came home and food was had, I had pretty much decided that I required some breathing space. So I loaded the Spawn up on his favourite food (that would be me, in case there was any question) and headed off to the grocery store. I was gone perhaps twenty minutes - a wonderful, liberating, peaceful twenty minutes - and came home to a howling baby and two hyper children. But Geekster, in true seasoned father fashion, was as cool as a cucumber. A cucumber that was in the fridge and not, say, sitting on a stove or something. The minute he handed me Spawnling, the little stinker stopped wailing and dove for my chest.

This has been an ongoing problem with our four-month-old Spawn. For nearly two weeks - ever since he really started to get the sitting up thing - he hasn't been pleased with the flow of my milk. It doesn't come fast enough and there isn't the amount he seems to need. At first I thought it was a typical growth spurt. But it didn't go away after a few days like it should have. It just kept getting worse and worse.

I'm trained in lactation and infant nutrition. I'm forever telling people 'It's just a growth spurt. Most babies don't require any solid food until at least six months of age.' And generally that's true. The average baby doesn't need anything but a liquid diet for the first few months of life. It's not recommended that they be given solids any earlier based on their size or much of anything else for that matter. In fact, it's downright frowned upon by most health professionals nowdays. Six months is the new four months. Or something. And it makes a lot of sense if you look into it.

But you know, Spawnling isn't your average baby. Call me a braggart (and I won't deny it most of the time) but this kid is a six-month-old in four-month-old clothing. He's about 18lbs, he sits, he pulls himself up to stand, he manoeuvers around the floor like it's nobody's business, and he expends a great deal of energy. Every day he does something new and pretty creepy, given his age. I've never seen anything like it. He's an exception to the rule.

So, I made an exception to the rule and fed him a potato.

There. I said it. I fed my four-and-a-half-month-old a baked potato.

Not the whole potato. I baked a teeny tiny one, peeled it, mushed it up with some booby juice and some water and fed him a spoonful. He was in baby heaven. Gummed it up and swallowed it down. Then he went for a 90 minute nap and mommy wanted to jump up and down. And he was much happier and nursed at longer intervals for the rest of the day.

That was two days ago. Today I fed him some squash.

Don't scowl at me and lecture me about the evils of introducing more than one food per week and not giving him cereal first. I'll be forced to roll my eyes at you and you certainly don't want that kind of wrath. I know what I'm doing. I know how their tummies work. I even know that it's possible Spawnling's digestive system isn't as advanced his muscle tone is. But you know what? Mother's intuition is telling me that the incredible Super Spawn is ready for some nummy from another mommy. The 'mommy' being a bowl, but that didn't rhyme.

Just go with it. Geekster has for the last thirteen years and we're not divorced yet, so obviously it works.

What sucks is that I hate having to go against what I believe is best for the majority of infants. Because I'm almost an expert on the subject and I really should be practicing what I preach. But if I give him a teaspoon full of something solid when he's having a hissy fit day, it's not the end of the world. I need to suck it up and get over myself.

One of my best friends, Bumpkin, just moved back from Toronto with her husband and four kids. I missed her terribly for the few months she was gone and was thrilled to hear that she missed me so much that she had to come back here (me and everyone else, but they don't matter on my blog). I'm heading out to the country to see her tomorrow. I need to polish up my ten gallon hat and hitch up ol' Nell to the wagon, but it'll be worth it.

So with that I will head out for the night. Many speedy recovery wishes to, well, Speedy, who just had dental surgery. Get-well wishes to Lushgurl, the poor sicky.

Cherotica: coffee soon. I miss you!

Jobthingy and Fly: dinner soon! Before Fly can no longer fit in a booth.

Mrs. Wailing: Coffee sans gremlins soon. It's foreign, but I know we can pull it off.

Shout outs over. Way to overpersonalize your blog, Maven. Sheesh.

Pictures from the herd

Having children is like trying to herd crickets. They're loud, they're jumpy and they don't respond well to being told what to do.

And if crickets got the stomach flu, then you'd pretty much have what we had here this past week. Oh, the joy! Nothing like being elbow deep in puke. And, just when things start to settle down, Geekster begins to feel lousy. He was laid up for most of today while I dashed after our little crickets as if it were a Monday. And, tomorrow being the actual Monday, I'm fortunate enough to get to do it all over again tomorrow!

It's impossible to sound happy about that no matter how hard I try.

So I received nothing on Valentines Day. He cooked for me, but we were so preoccupied with Vomitpalooza that going out to get chocolates or flowers was the last thing on his mind. I, on the other hand, stole him a gift in a last minute attempt to buy his and the children's love.

Picture it: I head to a bookstore at 8:30pm with Intrepid and Spawnling on the eve of the day of guilt, er, love. Everything there is hideously expensive; especially the things that are not book related. Hot chocolate and a mug for Gutsy. Candies and a mug for Intrepid. Insanely overpriced Robeez shoes for Spawnling. Espresso toffee bars for Geekster. Two packages of Valentines Day cards for Intrepid who decided to hand them out at the last minute (the were $13 for a package of 20 and I had to get two packages. I almost cried).

I get to the cash, pay and walk the two blocks back to the van (downtown parking isn't the most convenient thing), start the thing, load up the kids and... What's that on top of the stroller? Oh! It's the toffee! And it was sitting right there the entire time. I walked out with toffee.

No, I didn't go back. Go ahead, Christians. Boo me. Stone me. I'm okay with my dishonesty. I'm okay with it because it means my children and I didn't freeze our faces off walking back into the wind two blocks in the name of honesty. Instead, I justified it to myself by saying that I will make a contribution for that amount to their charity which buys books for needy children. Hah! See? I steal and I still come off as saintly.

Might I add that stole goodies taste even better than paid for ones? They just do. Something extra sinful about them.

Back to the story... The day after V-Day I wrote a proposal letter to a large, nationwide publication. I heard back within hours with the response of 'Love your idea, but can't use it for about six months. If you haven't sold it by then please resubmit because we want it'.

Not the perfect response of 'Love your idea. Will pay you $5000 for it, half up front, and will have our hot copy editor visit you with a latte and a big fat cheque.' But I'll take what I can get, you know?

So I excitedly told Geekster about how I didn't screw up my proposal letter and that I bet I could sell them other ideas in the meantime. However, I was worried that between running the Gremlin ranch, reading books for my university courses until my eyes bleed, and dealing with a screaming Spawnling every time I go near my computer desk, that I might not have time to write said articles for the next little while.

And with that, I apparently will be receiving my Valentines Day gift within 10 business days.

My husband deserves a metal as well as other things I can provide for him when he no longer has the stomach flu.

That little beauty is going to be a lifesaver. I can put it upstairs on the diningroom table and actually be able to not only read email, but respond to it. Respond! Wow. What a concept. And I'll be able to blog more often (whether or not that's a good thing is up for debate). I'll be able to write articles, essays and other things that will eventually bring some money and personal satisfaction. It's the gift that keeps on giving (and that we'll keep on paying for because Geekster didn't use cash).

Oh, and I'll be able to post more pictures. After I dosed up Spawnling with gripe water and Tylenol (couldn't figure out what was wrong so I figured a double shot was in order) and he fell asleep, I was able to update my Flickr page. So I'll end this post with a snapshot of what February has been like in Fort Maven:



Spawnling is freaking CUTE. Conceited? Hell yes. Biased? Absolutely. But come on. Look at him! That boy oozes sweetness (and other things that smell far worse, but thankfully you can't smell a picture).



I insisted that Geekster take a picture of us bathing the Spawn in the kitchen sink tonight in order to show how completely white trash we are. Nothing says Nothern Redneck like a baby in a stainless steel sink.

In our defense, I would like to point out that we have a fairly large corner tub that makes bathing a baby impossible unless one of us is in there with him. And at around 18lbs, Chunkalicious isn't a baby who easily fits in an infant bath anymore. So yeehaw, sink!




Now back to complete show-off mode. This is Spawnling standing up without assistance. He figured out how to grab on to the wires at the top and pull himself up to a standing position. He's been doing it or about two weeks now and keeps getting better. Note that my hand is still strategically placed beside him. He is only four months old, after all. Mama didn't raise no fool.



Spawnling, AKA Stunned, and Gutsy, AKA Stoned. Not the world's best picture, but I like seeing the sibling love. I know that comes from not thinking poor Intrepid would ever have any siblings. Now he has two little brothers who pull his hair, scratch his face, scream and throw things at him. I bet he loves the special gifts we gave him.



And here he is now, doing a leap of joy. Gutsy took this picture and I had to post it. It's so bad that it's artsy and so artsy that it's cool. Therefore Gutsy is cool and I am cool by association because I gave birth to him. Amazing how one picture taken by someone else could validate my entire existence.



This is Cock Sauce.

It's a seafood sauce named Cock.

I could not own a bottle of Cock Sauce and not take a picture of it. Sorry. I just couldn't.

I am so twelve.



Back to cute things. This is Gutsy decorating cookies for Valentines Day at school. He was supposed to share them with people he loves. He ended up eating all of them. Gutsy loves himself.

A lot.


And when I see pictures like this I really can't blame him. I'd eat all my cookies too if I looked like that.



Last but not least, this is what happens when you neglect your children by continuously saying 'Please go play downstairs for a little while'. They raid the Hallowe'en costume stash in the storage area and try to threaten some candy out of you with their plastic weapons.

I am an amazing mother.

Now imagine all the pictures I'll be posting when I get my new toy!

No, not another bottle of Cock Sauce. The laptop, pervert.