Now I can have my cake and drink it, too.

(Can you believe the look on that kid's face? Gutsy would make Denis the Menace run screaming in terror to mommy. Not only because he's my evil spawn child, but also because he really needs a haircut and 50's kids like Denis don't dig the hippy look. )

It's been a busy week, full of weddings (ok, one wedding), dinners out (one dinner), coffees (several), book browsing (just once), playdates (several, because I'm so popular) and babies up way past their bedtimes (more than once, and I ran out of chloroform).

This morning, I checked our bank account. Geekster's insurance policy paid us back for Gutsy's speech therapy: $430. Hoowah!

This afternoon, I spent $420 on back-to-school supplies, clothes, shoes, a foward-facing carseat for the ever-growing Spawnling (he'll be a year old in less than two months, as heartbreaking as that is), a gate for the stair-climbing ten-month-old, some batteries for the digital camera, and some chocolate. Because The Maven requires regular chocolate fixes. It's just a fact of life.

So yes. I blew hundreds of dollars in the span of two hours. But at least my boys will look hot at school. If they don't have a lady on each arm by October then there are a lot of little lesbians running around, because no straight girl should be able to resist a hoodie with dragons on it.

(When puberty hits I fully plan to dress them in trousers with suspenders and plaid vests. We will not have surprise baby gremlins running rampant in this house for at least fifteen years if I can help it. And believe me, mama Maven can come up with some really creative ways to keep the gene pool closed for a good while.)

Anyway, enough horrible thoughts about teenage pregnancy... My friend, Astarte, got married on Saturday and I was asked to be the matron of honour.

Yes, she asked me,

No, this wasn't an imaginary wedding.

No, she's not crazy. Not completely, anyway.

I did an awful job at my matronly duties. Butchered them, even. She had no bachelorette party. I did not partake in her wedding dress shopping. I purchased my dress and shoes less than week prior to the big day. I made her late by promising I could do 'beautiful things' to her hair, which turned into several failed attempts at sticking a flower-thingy in the back of her head. However, she shed no blood, therefore had no odd staining on her dress. We did manage to get the flowery-pin-a-ma-bob in her hair and made it to the ceremony about 15 minutes late. I then spent the next five minutes convincing her that we were just being fashionably late.

The Maven has learned that her Jedi mind tricks do not work on brides-to-be. Thankfully this particular pre-nuptial princess was by far the calmest I had ever seen. I was pratically running down the aisle at my wedding and she made me look like I had cold feet. The wedding itself was just perfect, and my gremlins were fairly well-behaved. Even poor Intrepid, while uncomfortable from that whole broken leg ordeal, did fairly well. We lasted for nearly five hours. Five hours! Us, with kids, in a public, busy place! We didn't even need any sort of restraining system. It was quite impressive.

As we were leaving, several of her family members actually thanked me for the 'good job' I did.

I'm betting on intoxication making everything look much better than it actually was. Seriously.

Astarte decided to buy me a gift despite my wedding party faux pas'. She bought me a mug with pictures of chocolate cakes on it, and a card that thanked me for my 'dedication' and other imaginary things like 'hard work'. Sweet, right? Not as sweet as the back, where she revealed her true feelings for me. 'I love you. You are sexy and hot.' says the card.

Cards don't lie. She only married her husband because I wasn't available. Poor girl. I bet she cries herself to sleep, too.

Well, congratulations, Astarte! Sorry I sucked so bad, but I'm so honoured for being asked to be your matron of um... honour. I guess that's a basic requirement for the job, come to think of it.

I'm going to throw pictures of the mug and some random gremlin pictures, all taken this evening. Because I know your very favourite thing is to look at other people's family photos. In fact, I'm thinking of dropping by with some slides. Try not to pee your pants in excitement.

Ok, but they are pretty cute, right? It's all me, baby. They don't look a thing like their dad, I swear.

No, I don't feel the need to post a picture of him as proof that they look like me. I mean, don't you trust me? Would I lie to you?

Please refrain from answering that. Thank you.

Just sayin'

You know something? Staying at home can be a really sucky job.

We work long, arduous days for no financial compensation.

We don't get 'lunch' or scheduled 'breaks.'

We don't get the respect a lot of other people get based on our career choice.

We get no pat on the back for making a healthy lunch or cleaning out the fridge. No golden watch at retirement.

Our days can be both unpredictable and mundane at the same time time.

But you know what we do get?

When, say, our ten-month-old baby boy decides that 3pm on August 17th, 2007, would be a really great time to take his first steps, we are there to see it.

And we clap wildly and hug our confused/startled baby tight.

And we suddenly forget that we don't have a lot of time to ourselves, or that nobody throws a Christmas party in our honour, or that our dressy attire is so outdated that it looks like something worn in Purple Rain, or that we can't afford a facial, like, ever.

Suddenly, it reminds us in bright, flashing, neon lights that this is a wonderful way to spend our days because we stand the very best chance of catching those first steps, first smiles, first drawings and first everythings. The things that make parenting something even sane people think is worthwhile.

This stuff is worth all the mayhem in the world.

10 years of near bliss

UPDATE: Success! We ate steak, cake and had a shake (actually we had coffee, but let's pretend because it rhymes) Best of all, nobody died, including the babysitter. Moreover, she offered to watch them again sometime and I believe referred to them at least once as 'little angels' or something, and not in a sarcastic way like I normally do.

Foolish girl. They haven't unleashed the wrath yet but they will, in time. Hopefully we'll get a few more hours of outings in before she pulls all her hair out and runs screaming out the door. Let's all cross our fingers!

********

A friend of mine told me that my last post was 'Naughty. Funny, but naughty.'

Isn't that what The Maven is all about? I'm naughty and funny. Funny-looking, anyway. Especially right now, in my ratty Dayton, Ohio shirt t-shirt and bootylicious track pants. Neither item flatters the more Rubenesque figure of yours truly. Couple that with my wet hair and naked face and you have quite a sight. Funny-looking? Absolutely However, I highly doubt I could get anyone to do naughty things with me in this condition.

All of this will be resolved shortly. I'm about to get all gussied up for a night out. Blue jeans, cute top (actually two tops, as I'm about three years behind the times and have just discovered the art of layering one's clothing for effect). I'd wear nice shoes, but I only own a single pair; they're new and need to stay that way for Saturday afternoon. More on that in my next post.

Where am I going, you may ask? Make sure you're sitting down.

Are you sitting? Put the coffee down, too.

Mouth isn't full? You're not going to spit all over your keyboard?

Ok. Here we go:

I, The Maven, am going out with my husband for dinner without the kids.

You heard right: No tag-alongs. A gremlin-free zone.

For the first time ever, we are hiring a sitter - like, paying real money and not asking a relative - and venturing out into the great unknown for steak and fancy napkins and after dinner coffee.

It's not like we haven't gone out together before. Back in the day of only-child bliss, we used to go on dates at least twice a month. I had teenage siblings with no cable t.v. at home who would jump at the chance to hang out at our place with a busy but easily entertained Intrepid.

Then, that damn infertility had to go away and we had a second and third child. The offers to babysit all but dried up. Where were The Siblings? What were they doing with their time?

It's a lot harder to book The Sibs to babysit these days. They'll do it, but it has to fit around their schedules. Who gave them the right to make schedules? Also, the sibs got these life thingies I'm not quite thrilled with. Boyfriends and girlfriends and parties and licenses and jobs and school and stuff. They just had to get all independent.

Anyway, I knew we'd eventually have to bite the bullet and get a sitter sometime. I just have these little, um... trust issues. Yeah. Something about leaving my ankle-biters with people I don't know very well who might string them up by their toes and throw marshmallows at them the minute we walk out the door. This may be a small part of why I've always been so adamant about the whole stay-at-home-mom thing. They may be around a raving lunatic every day, but at least it's a raving lunatic chock full of maternal love.

It took something incredibly special to get me to reach out. For one, AAngel is a girl we've known and adored for about a year. If I had daugther, I would want her. But not the her the way she is with her mom, but the her that is around me and surely would always be so nice and sweet even if I was her mother because I will never have teenagers who yell at me because I'm an amazing parent.

Phew. That was a hard lie to convince myself of.

AAngel has watched our gremlins a few times while we've been nearby. She's amazingly good to them and they seem to like her and not wish to torture her with their demonic powers. This is most definitely a positive sign. Also, it's quite impressive if you can amuse a ten-year-old, a four-year-old and a ten-month-old at the same time. It's a skill I've yet to acquire, and yet she pulls it off like it's nobody's business.

Ten years ago today I walked down the aisle in a beautiful (rented) dress and greeted my husband-to-be. We exchanged vows and got all kissy in front of 80 people. Intrepid was nine months old and cried every time he saw me, as apparently I looked like a strung-out, has-been show girl in all my getup. We ate roast beef, toasted our newly tied knot with non-alcoholic punch and danced the night away.

Two children and ten years later, I still adore the man. He also seems to still adore me. We still make time for each other. We still dream about the future. We work well as a team. We say 'I love you' every day and mean it. We talk to each other when there's a problem. We argue sometimes and we say 'I'm sorry'.

You know, for all my weirdness, we still manage to have some normality that I can't quite put my finger on. Maybe it's because we're both strange beyond words and we just 'get' each other. Maybe it's because we're terribly accepting of each other's little faults.

Maybe it's the drugs I slip into his morning coffee.

But for whatever reason, it works and it works well. A decade or marriage between two recovering alcoholics/drug addicts. We should get a free vacation or some sort of plaque at the Betty Ford clinic or something.

Anyway, time to get gussied up. I'm going out to eat some steak!

Nothing but a status symbol

Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit!

Gutsy likes my drink. It's Arizona green tea with pomegranate. It's a grown-up drink. It has... green tea. And stuff. And it's mine. Mine! I only gave him some so that he could make an icky face, tell me he hates it and never want any again. Then I would only have to defend it from the likes of Geekster, who naturally has good taste (obviously, given who he's married to.)

Sadly, Gutsy just licked his lips, said 'can I have some more, please?' and proceeded to empty the rest of my delicious green tea with pomegranate into his cup.

I take full responsibility for raising my children with impeccable taste and class. I suppose that if I have to sacrifice some of my delicious drink it's but a small price to pay. I can sleep well at night, knowing they won't confuse melted Velveeta on Triscuits with an hors d'oeuvre or start referring to taco bake as a 'special occasion platter.'

So, I met an old friend of mine at the mall the other day. We grew up together. One of those 'we're friends because our parents are friends' deals. She was always snobby, but I overlooked that. Until that one time we were at summer camp and my parents pulled me out because she and some other girls ganged up on me and kept calling me names. It made me cry a lot. I'm still scarred enough that I won't send my children to summer camp. I'm not paying $200/week so that mean boys can pick on my boys. What kind of fool do you take me for?

Anyway, even after I grew up and realized she was a snob, I still felt obligated to organize a baby shower for her. After all, her mother had organized one for Intrepid and also for Gutsy, AKA, The Baby Who Took So Long To Get Here That His Parents Had Given Away All The Baby Stuff They Got From The First Shower. So, naturally, when Snooterella got knocked up, it was time to put my happy face on and throw her a shower that I knew would in no way meet her high standards.

She looked mildly impressed at said shower. And, to be honest, when Snooterella looks mildly impressed that can be considered a job well done. She had a wedding planner for her wedding. Yes, she's one of those people. You know the type I'm talking about. We all know at least a couple of those people. And if you're one of those people you're going to get offended that I called her 'those people', but secretly you know I'm right.

Anyway, Snooterella greeted me in the mall and said a brief hello. I suppose I should feel honoured that she even bothered. I didn't even recognize her at first, to be honest. I would have just kept on walking in all my oblivion. Even after she said hello it took me a few seconds to realize that she was, indeed, Snooterella.

Let me stop myself there for a second. For those of you who read my blog (the four of you) who happen to be in recovery (maybe one of you) you may recall a slogan often used in 12 step groups called 'live and let live'. Yes, it's true: I'm supposed to be non-judgmental as much as possible and try and understand my fellow human beings. I'm supposed to attempt to see the good and the beauty in everyone.

I do that. I do that right after I blog about it.

Look: I might initially be judgmental of some people. I'm just an average person, despite my seemingly godly intelligence, wit and wisdom. I need to vent like everyone. I require a spot to let loose and get it all off my chest. This, dearies, is my spot. I am not a functional human being on these cyber pages. I'm a self-centered, egotistical bitch.

The great thing is that, if you judge me, you also suck. So that makes you no better than me. Neener neener.

Back to my story: Snooterella spent about 3 1/2 minutes chatting with me. Enough to ask me about the boys, meet Spawnling (the only one I had with me) and comment on her seven-months-along pregnancy (I didn't know she was pregnant at all, which goes to show how often we speak). She pinched her lips shut a couple of times when I mentioned that I see her nephews' pictures on Facebook. She rolled her eyes when I asked about her family, and she demanded that her daughter say hello to the baby because it was rude not to. She's breeding a mini-her: be nice to the people you look down on. At least, when they're around. I mean, how dare her three-year-old look at toys in a toy store when she should be talking to a baby who doesn't talk back? What's wrong with her, anyway? Her mother has obviously failed at parenting because her preschooler lacks social skills. Hmph.

I'm trash to her. Always have been and always will be. She judges me and I know that. She always looked down on me because she was popular and I was lucky if I wasn't the last one picked for dodge ball. That was when I realized she was actually embarrassed to know me. She married her high school sweetheart, finished school, got a great job and planned a pregnancy. I married my high school sweetheart after making him my baby daddy and dropping out of high school. My 'good job' consists of making peanut butter sandwiches better than anyone else I know.

Meh. That's what I say. Meh. Know why? Because despite my occasional feelings of tear-my-hair-out-stress, I'm happy. I wake up 99.9% of mornings and feel very grateful that I'm alive, married to a great guy and caretaker of some huggable gremlins.

Also, my house is bigger than hers now. That helps me feel better.

Status is a funny thing, isn't it? What you have, where you went to school (or if you went to school, as in my case), where you live, what you drive, what you own, it all matters. Just recently I got a message from a girl I went to high school with. I asked her how she was doing and gave her the 'married, three kids, staying at home, just moved into a new house and it's busy' message. This is the email I received (identifiable parts taken out). I leave you with it to ponder. Heck, I've been pondering it for weeks and have yet to reply. What the hell do you say to this?

Hi [Maven],

So good to hear from you! Wow! Its been a productive 10 years to say the least. I guess that you are all grown up now!

Well, I can give the long version or the very long version so... Lets go with the very long!

After [high school] ('94), I bashfully set out for [community college] where I met my husband of 13 years. He is from Iran and was not part of the [old high school crowd]. He was older than the teen crould at [community college] also but young at heart. I finished in Applied Sciences at [community college] in '97 and then set out to join [Husband] at [university]. He studied Admin at [community college] and then started the Accounting program at [university]. He finished his bachelors in Admin concentration in Accounting in '99 and I finished my bachelors in science concentration in bio in 2000. I then did my honours year in bio and split for the University scene in 2001. Just before I finished, [husband] and I had bought a condo in [half decent area nearby]. [Husband] was making his way into the accounting world in Ottawa while I was struggling to make my way into the government. He was also enroled in the CGA program. Between the two and wedding plans we finally married in the summer of 2004. It was big and expensive but I have good memories of the day. I'll have to post some of our big expensive photos. So finally in 2005 I got my permanence with [government job] as Project Manager and [husband] also landed a Finance Officer position with [another government job]. So then the fun began. We sold our condo in the fall of 2005 and moved into our big dream home. We bought a big house on waterfront property in [names prestigious area] in Hull. It is our haven to say the least. It is a four bedroom house with four full bathrooms and a big inground pool in the backyard. We are quite comfortable since we are only the three of us! As soon as we moved in, I found out that I was pregnant and so 9 months later, baby [girl] came to complete our little family. Other than that [husband] has finally completed his CGA designation minus a french test (those damn Quebecers! hehe, I am one of them!!!). So hopefully his grasp of the french language is enough to pass the test and then he will have his licence. Hello, hello, hello... is there a doctor in the house?

Since I have been on mat leave we've bought a second vehicle which is my little posh pad! We bought a BMW X3 and I love it. We say that we bought it for [baby girl] but it really is comfortable and no more running to the mechanic for another car problem. We still have the Audi but will be trading it soon for a newer BMW. I hate car problems. Then we will be looking into a boat.

Other than that, I go back to work at the end of July and [husband] is on holidays with [very common and rather unimaginative girl's name] for three weeks. He is trying to move up at his office but I guess he is getting the "your not bilingual" BS. I am also trying to move up but being on mat leave does not help. Try to find the time to study for these interviews. It doesn't happen.[husband] is also working hard with his business "on the side". He has accounting and tax and book keeping clients that keep him so busy that he doesn't know whether to scratch his nose or pick his ass anymore. He's even got me doing some of the work. Accounting... YUCK!!!

Well, we definitely have to have you guys over for a swim atleast if ever you have time. Mind you there won't be much to catch up on now that I've rambled on so much. Better to talk about baby stuff. [Boring girl's name] is going to be one year on the 5th of July. Time to have another one of these bundles of joy!

Yeah... um... I'll be right over for that swim. Maybe I'll bring my friend, Snooterella. Watch out, though. Her daughter doesn't always say hello to people.

I'd say 'don't go there', but someone already went

Ah, India. I've always wanted to go there some day. It conjures up images of beautiful colours, glorious fabrics, esthetic design beyond imagination...

And then there's Bollywood. Ok, we can get over Bollywood. I hear it's quite the thing in non-english-speaking countries.

But then there's this, friends. And frankly, if Bollywood gave birth to this, I don't know how much I feel like visiting India anymore.




Is he saying 'Girly man'? Because that would be highly appropriate, given who he's copied his moves and sleek sense of style from. And she's not screaming because she's scared; she's just incredibly disgusted that someone thought up that video. She's trying to hold back the vomit.

I can say no more. I'm truly scarred for life now.

The Maven: Filled with sweets and joy and joyness

If I had a dollar for every time I said 'Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, but...' I'd have enough for my own morphine button by now.

But that's neither here nor there. I'm fed up with apologizing. Screw you, blogosphere. I have a life and I can't always post. Ok, so it's not an amazing life full of artistic friends, romantic trips and insightful new discoveries. It causes mystery stains on my shirts, dishpan hands and a few crying spells, but I have the ownership papers for it and I take pride in that. It's a life, and it's mine. Time-consumingly mine.

And right now I just had my very own revelation: I was trying to search out a blurb on 'overwhelmed parents' and poke fun at the comparisons between myself and the descriptions on various websites related to parental stress. I've been stressed out lately, in case it hasn't been apparent. Intrepid broke his leg. Meanwhile, Spawnling got in four teeth followed by the grossest, nastiest case of thrush I've ever seen. He was the clingiest of clingy babies at a time when he needed to be the most independent of independent babies, doing crafts and self-study courses and cooking family meals. Gutsy, meanwhile, was being his usual self but all attention-starved-like and therefore so much worse.

Well, ok, this is all still going on but now I've learned to pretend that it isn't for a few minutes a day. I wave my hand in front of my own face and say "This isn't really happening" in calmest, most convincing tone I can manage. It's a nifty Jedi mind trick that Obi Wan Kenobi taught me. But not the old Obi Wan. The younger, hotter, Ewan McGregor one.

Hey, if you're going to dream, dream big.

Anyway, so I typed in 'overwhelmed parents' and what did I get? Not sites with whiners like me. Oh, no. That would justify how I've been feeling lately and make me whine even more. Instead, I read pages about how not to get overwhelmed when your child needs heart surgery, or how a support group in Kentucky can help overwhelmed, bereaved parents.

Well don't I feel about five inches tall right now. The Powers that Be are laughing at me as they whack me in the face with the clue bat of life.

I can feel rundown, overwhelmed, frustrated, or whatever other nasty little mood I want to feel, but only for a little while. Then I have to put my big girl panties on and get the hell over it. I have three little men who depend on me. They need me to be not-short-tempered, afrustrated and any other grammatically incorrect terms I can come up that stress the importance of being more positive.

Don't get me wrong: Life with Yeasty, Beasty and The Gimp - my temporary names for the gremlins - has been anything but relaxing lately. However, I would say it's been far more like sipping virgin daiquiris out of coconut glasses than, say, one of them going through open-heart surgery, or planning a funeral for one of them. Things I don't ever want to do or think about, but that's life for many families out there. We are truly blessed to have our chaos, Geekster and I. We are truly blessed to have our yeasty, beasty, gimpy gremlins.

So enough whining, Maven. Time to get out of this slump. I've bought some makeup (although I have yet to wear much of it). I did my nails (the toes look lovely, but the fingers were peeling by the next morningb). I dyed my hair (a lovely shade of suck-the-light-out-of-all-living-things-black-hole-brown) and, happy of happy days, we managed to get some time to ourselves for the first time in nine months when the in-laws came down to throw a 'feel better soon, Intrepid' party (complete with party hats and toys, books and movies for all).

Today, The Madre surprised me by stating that she will tame the gremlins once per week during the day starting in September. She'll give me a little while to run some errands, get my hair done (no more black hole brown? Could this be!?) or - and this is where I'm trying to separate fact from fiction - just spend some time by myself.

Spend some time... by myself? Like, not at the grocery store or on the toilet? I vaguely remember a time like that... So very long ago, in a galaxy far, far away... with a hot Jedi and some weird alien named Jar-Jar who needed speech therapy.

Also, AAngel, Lushgurl's daughter, is hoping to be able to take the gremz on the 16th to Geekster and I can sneak away for our 10th wedding anniversary. I'd like to say we'll have a romantic meal, but I'd be happy with one where I don't to squirt ketchup on someone's plate or look under the table to find a missing family member.

Yes, things are definitely looking up. Also, I have to say I've been (temporarily) cured of my babylust. A baby? Now? Hell, no. No, no, no. I have a baby and right now he eats acidophillus every day and yells at me for boobie.

Tonight's dinner: cooked chicken from the deli counter at the grocery store (courtesy of The Madre, who watched 2/3 of the boy children so I could go get some grub.) Simple and delicious, just like me.

Tonight's plans: The water park Yeasty, Beasty and friend Astarte and son, HGTV's Realestate Wednesdays, more of The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway, maybe some essay writing. But I don't overextend myself or anything.

The title of this post: Comes from here. Candy Mountain! Candy Mountain!

Ousted from the cult of punctuality

Just a quickie because I'm about to head off to bed. It's now been over a week since I've posted and I admit to having some major blogging suckage going on. Seriously. I'm like a bad boyfriend who never calls and never says 'I love you', just 'yeah, you too.' Promises, promises, broken hearts all over blogland.

It's hard to find time to come up with interesting material (because, of course, SAHMayhem is chock full of amazing wit and writing) when I'm swamped with a child on crutches, a child who's four and doesn't listen to a damn thing I say because he's four and he's the boss of the universe, and a child who, at nine months, got his first case of thrush - and it's a doozy. White tongue, inside of his lips, all over his face and neck. And did I pick up on it right away? Of course not. That would have made life simpler for all of us. Instead I wondered why he was being such a crybaby all the time. It drove me nuts.

Then one morning I realized that he wasn't just crying because he's getting more teeth, the white stuff was not because he just consumed something white, the rash was not a heat rash, and my lady lumps were not sore simply because he was nursing/pulling off a kazillion times an hour and all through the night between wailing sessions.

Um, oops. Now we've traipsed into Acidophilus Land, where heavy doses are mixed into our morning yoghurts and my bras are washed by hand in hot water and hung outside to dry in the sun. Die, yeast, die!

Not cool, not cool at all. Plus, none of them have fallen asleep before 10pm two nights in a row. I'm sorely tempted to slip Intrepid's codeine prescription into some bedtime Ovaltine tomorrow. Sweet dreams, my little junkies.

About that depression thing I was griping about last week - let's just say I'm taking care of it Maven style, which entails looking into someone to talk to as well as a trip to Walmart almost entirely dedicated to making myself the priority I so obviously should be. Hey, look: I'm the only female in a house full of crotch-scratching, toilet-missing, anime-loving, style-blind boys. It becomes very easy to get caught up in the toxic fumes of testosterone and overlook some very important girlish must-haves. For example:

- a regular hair cut so that one does not look like one has a sparrow's nest fastened with a hair clip on the back of one's head

- non-practical undergarments that are white (not grey), black (not grey), and/or only pink if they were actually purchased as pink and not originally as red

- shirts that do not have mystery stains which will not come out no matter how many times you spray-and-wash them

- extra shirts for when those new shirts get said mystery stains that may or may not have come from a baby or from a preschooler discreetly wiping grease on you instead of using soap and a hand towel

- very light, almost neutral pink nail polish because you're going to screw up bigtime because you never apply nail polish and you're a shame to all womankind

- green toenail polish because at least nobody gets close enough to your green toes to notice the mistakes

- shampoo that does not say 'no tears' on it and is actually off-limits to all children in the house, even as pretend boats in the bathtub

Yes, there are many things a maven must do to keep her sanity. Because when disaster strikes in the form of gremlins falling from trees and/or getting thrush all over their faces, the regular maintenance does wonders for her psyche. And, as I've learned, when she lets herself go, she notices she hits those speed bumps a lot harder.

Now that I'm driving the big, honkin' SUV of sexy hotness, I'm going to sail over said speed bumps next time and not even spill my latte on my beautiful new nails.

Tomorrow's post: Meet my neighbours, the Punts (you heard me.)

Overwhelmed, underwhelmed, just generally whelmed

Intrepid and Geekster are back from the hospital. My brave boy is doing much better now that he's back here and king of the playroom couch for the next little while. He's bright-eyed, talkative and down to Children's Tyl3n0l for pain. Considering they only removed the wonderful morphine button yesterday, I must give the kid some kudos.

I've cried every day this week at least once, and today has been no exception. I can't really pinpoint what I'm crying about; I mean, Intrepid's fine other than having rods and pins in his leg. He's in pain, but only when his awful mother drops a crutch on his leg (I really thought he had a hold of it. Really!) Gutsy's been great except for the couple of tantrums thrown in the Old People Mall two days ago (around a bunch of - you guessed it - old people) because I wouldn't buy him things that he wanted. He also hit me with a PS2 game before whacking a bunch of them on the shelf and knocking them all over when I demanded he put it back.

Sweet. I only hope that I made at least one fertility-challenged bystander feel slightly more comfortable in their own skin for a few minutes. The childless thing does have a few benefits and I'll gladly show them off, albeit indirectly. It's about the only positive thing I could come up with in that situation.

Spawnling was excellent up until yesterday. I do believe he's growing more fangs. He's eating fewer solids, nursing more and showing off his fiery screech and forked tongue as he wails every time I put him down. My only reprieve? Intrepid. The boy can really make a baby gremlin giggle. Thank goodness for that.

Single moms deserve a hot pool boy and a bed full of rose petals and cash. I don't know how they do it. By day four of the Great Hospital Getaway I was dragging my ass around the park in a pitiful attempt to look energetic. I went to bed a couple of hours earlier than usual, woke up and was still pretty darn tired. And lonely. Very lonely.

A wee bit depressed, maybe? Could one even get depressed over such a thing? Sure, my ten-year-old broke his leg three hours away from me and required surgery and a hospital stay. But you hear about stuff like this all the time. I'm not the first parent to have a hurt child. I'm not the first to feel overwhelmed as I run back and forth between being there for him and being there for the younger ones. I'm not the first to miss my husband and adult conversation in general.

I've told myself these things over and over and have tried to look on the positive side: he didn't break his neck, back or head. He had his dad there with him the entire time. He's been very brave and is recovering well. You'd think I could just get over it.

I'm contemplating, you know, talking to someone. Like a professional someone. Not just because of this, but because I've been feeling a little craptastic for a while now. Not down in the dumps depressed, but overwhelmed and yet underwhelmed at the same time. Stretched to my limit, but also feeling useless in my day to day drudgery.

I'm the damn Maven and I can feel any damn way I want, thank you.

I'm overwhelmed with the constant flow of responsibility, yet underwhelmed by the mundane nature of what I do. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to change diapers or do dishes or walk to the park. It takes patience and dedication. I have those. Well, after coffee, anyway. However, it can be rather... um... dull?

Sounds awful, I know. I love my kids and I generally love what I do. But I don't love having not had a haircut in 10 months, or having a spa certificate near its expiry because I haven't had the time to sneak off for three hours.

People are always complaining to me that they don't get enough help with their kids, and yet I haven't had a date with my husband since Spawnling's birth because we can't find someone to watch all three of them (which I'm sure has nothing to do with me referring to them as 'the gremlins' on a regular basis). I don't know a single person who has as little personal or couple time as we have going on here. Not a single one.

Do I win a prize? The prize for losership?

Anyway, I'd love to continue this whine, but it appears the Powers That Be have decided I need a reminder of how mundane = stable which = good. Not satisfied with simply having my child fall out of a tree, my youngest one - you know, the one who's been crying all day? - is now awake with a fever. At 12:30AM.

You bet the coffee will be a brewin' tomorrow morning.

$21.25 in parking fees later...

Intrepid is doing A-OK. Who wouldn't with a morphine button?

Press = drugs.

Press again = more drugs.

Sweet deal. I might want to see if they can hook me up with one of those.

He has two titanium rods in his femur and some screws in his knee to hold them in place. There's a 90% chance that he won't need a cast, which was very unexpected and nearly made me want to dry hump the surgeon right there.

A dry hump from The Maven is a pleasure legends are made of.

I'm absolutely exhausted, which means that Geekster is absolutely, incredibly exhausted and Intrepid has to come up with an entire new name for his level of exhaustion because one can only use so many adverbs as emphasis before one just sounds stupid. And my brave boy is anything but stupid.

Geekster will stay at the hospital tonight. I'm on little gremlin patrol back at the palace. And tomorrow morning is the best part EVER: The insurance inspector is coming over to tell us that we can't use our fireplace! Yeah!! Nothing like an 8AM inspection which will tell us things we already know to make my morning.

I would cancel it if I knew the number, sillybuns. Obviously I didn't ask because I figured we weren't likely to have a child in the hospital Tuesday morning. Shame on me for not thinking ahead!

Alright, I have a huge stack of dishes to do, a playroom to clean and some gremlins to put to bed. I think I'm more tired than they are. Maybe they can tuck me in and read me stories tonight. But nothing too scary. Maybe something Dr. Seuss-ish.

Thanks everyone for thinking of my boy. He's worth thinking about, and not only because he's related to me.

However, that's a big part of it.