New babies are not the same as toddlers

I think it's fairly obvious that I'm off my rocker for wanting to spawn a fourth gremlin. Geekster is loving the comments from my last post (who knew I had 10 readers?!) and agrees with about half of you - the half that are sensible and think three is enough. I, on the other hand, am cheering for the crazies among you who support my inexplicable desire to have a new baby around.

Another recent thought on the positive side of pro-creating: Think of all the weight I'll lose if I have morning sickness again! It's the best diet ever.

My "problem" hasn't gotten any better due to recent events. A good friend of mine gave birth yesterday morning to a beautiful little girl (pictured above) as I paced the hospital waiting room eager for my chance to snuggle a newborn. Snuggle I did, as well as assist with breastfeeding. The life of a postpartum doula is filled with scrunchy little babies. It's not easy to turn that maternal switch off when you do what I do. I'll be 60 and poking holes in condoms at this rate. *sigh*

Then there was this morning which made me realize that my "baby" is not all that babyish anymore:



Me: "Good morning, Spawnling! Do you want to get dressed?"

Spawnling: "Whore."

Me: "... What now?"

Spawnling: "Whore."

Me: "Um...Ok. I'm hearing things. Ha ha. Anyway, do you want some food?"

Spawnling: "Whore."

Me: "Interesting new word, Spawnling. Neat. Let's test it out. What's that outside?" I point to a bird.

Spawnling, also pointing to the bird: "Whore!"

And thus went the morning. Every time my verbally sweet little toddler didn't know the word, he would tell me I was a whore.

This is still going on. The playdough I just gave him? It's a whore. The crackers on his plate? That's right: Whores. The Baby Einstein video we watched earlier? Full of whores.

Thankfully when my friend came over with her baby Spawnling did not point at the cute little purple-clad infant and call her a lady of the night. He said 'baby'. Phew. There is a God who has blessed my son with social graces.

Intrepid is home for his third straight sick day. He started with a cold and quickly moved into Feverland. Now he's no longer feverish, just argumentative with Gutsy (a sign that he's on the mend). They've been fighting most of the day, threatening not to play with each other anymore and seeing who can scream the loudest. I threatened to take away the television and computer if I heard any more screaming, which seems to have worked. They're quietly fighting over playdough now. That's nice of them.

The great thing about my life is that the children I have counterbalance the babies my friends are having that I sometimes think I want to have. Every ounce of mothering capability is easily stretched to the limit on days like today.

Must go. Spawnling just came in with a pen (you know what he just called it). I must go see what he and his whore have been doing to the walls...

An indecent proposal

Here's the thing: This fourth baby gremlin idea has failed to exit my brain through the 'very bad proposal' neuropathway. Not cool. What am I going to do about this?

I haven't told Geekster. Not directly, anyway. I've sort of joked with him in that ha-ha-serious way I sometimes do. I think he knows. He's giving me the shifty eyes. He's on to me and I need to ditch this idea fast, or force him to see how right I am.

Thus, I have decided to make a pros and cons list to help me. Then, I'll ask my loyal readership (now approaching the millions *snicker*) to weigh in on the results. Come on, mostly total strangers with a few real-life people mixed in: you can help me decide whether I should hatch another gremlin or put my breeding days behind me.

Cons to spawning yet again:

• I have a house full of boys right now. Do we really have room for a fourth? Our work-from-home office would most likely be hacked into a fourth bedroom. Either that or there would be a costly extension put on above the garage. Anyone have a spare $15,000? I promise to name the room after you. I'll even put your face in a mural over the baby's bed. Creepy, but I'm desperate here.
  
• Also, the van technically seats seven people. However, if we have more than five we have the smallest cargo space imaginable. Since we take at least six road trips a year to visit the in-laws, we'd have to draw straws and strap one of the kids to the roof.
  
• My stomach, while not flat, is less round thanks to pilates. And I have abs again. Real abdominal muscles sprouting from the depths of my tummy fat! Do I really want to lose those? I'm starting to feel... well, not "hot"... but maybe "lukewarm". And after a decade of childbearing that's not so bad.
• I would have a hard time picking between recovering from a third cesarean and eating live hissing cockroaches. Ok, I'm exaggerating. I think the cockroaches are an easy win if I use ketchup.
  
• Ever seen that Simpsons episode where Homer pulls out more hair every time Marge tells him she's pregnant? Well, picture a less cartoonish version of that and you would probably get an idea of how much my husband wants a fourth child. Now if we suddenly win the lottery or I become a world-famous (read: very rich) author, he'd have no problem. Maybe I could just gamble until I won enough to make his worries go away. With my addictive personality I'd be sure to stick it through until the end!
  
• I will most likely complete menopause by the age of 45, like my mother and her mother. That means my eggs are old and dusty now, at 31. They're selling off their family homes, looking at condos in the southern part of my ovaries. My fallopian tubes are being equipped with railings and those long, flat treadmills they have in airports. I might have a child with a third eye or two penises for ears. Who knows what lurks in my abnormally aged reproductive system?
• Infertility sucks. I don't think I can call myself "infertile" anymore with three children. I might get punched in the junk by actual infertile people. But let me remind everyone that it did take a decade for my body to produce three babies. This is a body with polycystic ovarian syndrome, kiddies. And do I feel like waiting another four or five years for my next one? Not really, no. The pain, the tears, the frustration... Those cockroaches are looking appetizing again.
• Could it be that I'm actually being a bit selfish here? I know, I know... It seems unlikely that someone as fantastic as The Maven could have character flaws at all, let alone such nasty ones as selfishness. Sadly, however, I am an alcoholic and I know all about it being all Maven, all the time. I've just moved from booze to babies. I have three great children. Three should be enough. But not for me, Geekster the bartender. Oh, no. Just one more for the road. What? You're cutting me off? Back off, man! I can stop any time I want to, ok? Just one more positive pregnancy test, ok? One more and then I'll stop. I swear.
  

Reasons why I am right and we should have another baby:

• Babies are really, really cute.
• Blue is a nicer colour than orange so I should get a point for that.
  
• Babies are cuddly and I like to be cuddled.
• My home is already chaotic with three, so I figure another one wouldn't matter. Maybe I could just stop taking my pill and get pregnant and have the baby and my husband won't even notice in the fray. I could tell him it's a pimple or something. A crying pimple attached to my breast. Gross, but it might work.
• A lot of my friends have four children and they do just fine. Maybe it's easier with four. Yeah, that's it.
  
• Four is an even number. Three is uneven. We are currently an unbalanced family. We have to balance it. There must be some type of feng shui rule about that.
  
• My stupid ex-friend is having a baby and she's dumb and it's not fair because I'm more awesome than she is and so it should be me having one and not her.
• Babies smell so nice.
• I don't get out of the house anyway. It's not like I have all this free time that I'm going to lose if I have another one. Besides, I can watch House, and Lost, and everything on HGTV. Who needs a social life?
  
• Babies have really cute clothes and I like to buy cute clothes and dress them up like dolls and parade them around so everyone can tell me how cute they are.
• I like babies.

As you can see, I have some compelling arguments for having another child. Time is of the essence. Geekster is going for his vasectomy consultation in early May. That gives me a few weeks to let him know how wrong he is. Because he's wrong, right? And I'm right, wrong? Um... right?

Summer, this is partly for you...

I'm including pictures taken over the last week. Just a few for the boys and some of our yard and street especially for Summer, who's starting her garden because it's *cough* spring. But you know, with a name like "Summer" I suppose I have to overlook the gardening.






What happens when an exhausted gremlin tamer sleeps for 2.5 hours, waking up at 9:30PM?

She puts a spinach pizza in the oven and honestly believes she'll have no problem staying up until 1AM watching Lost on the west networks.

I also plan on rescuing the batch of crispy crunch bits on the passenger seat of my van so I can stuff my face with sweet after I stuff it with garlicky. Garlicky with vegetables. Spinach, remember? That totally justifies my chocolate intake.

Today I took the day off, sort of. It turns out that my friend with the house for sale didn't need my help today. I wonder if that has something to do with my liberal sharing of ideas concerning her real estate ventures? Teehee. I'm the very best know-it-all.

So, Gutsy and Intrepid went to school and I chilled with Mr. Spawnling. We watched Montel (family secrets revealed!) and he fell asleep (can't say I blame him). I did pilates and drank coffee (not at the same time, although that would be an accomplishment to be proud of). Then, we took off to the expensive grocery store - I've found a cheaper one I go to for most of our stuff - and blew half of next week's food budget on useless items (read: spinach pizza, the health oxymoron of the year).

The boys were quite good after school, and I made egg, ham and cheese sandwiches - minus the ham for Vege-geekster - for dinner. With carrots, of course. We're all about health around here, made obvious by how trim I am.

It was then time for the Spawn to fall asleep. So I crawled into bed to give him a cuddle... and woke up over two hours later. Oops.

It's not my fault! I'm a really busy mom, what with my intricate dinners and elaborate grocery orders and all this blogging. UGH!

It's the hardest job in the world, you know. The hardest. *sigh*

Alpha-bits

So I have this little...problem.

You know what one of my biggest pet peeves is? People who think they know everything. They make me want to pick their eyes out with a plastic fork. Nothing makes me run in the opposite direction more than a know-it-all. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!

And, uh... There's a reason for that.

Recently a friend of mine put an offer on a house and it was accepted. The offer is conditional on them selling their house. The greatest part is that the new home is in my neighbourhood and it's one that my mom found while looking online. She knew they were looking around here, so she told me and I told my friend.

My neighbourhood, my mom, my friend. I have a personal investment in this purchase, obviously.

I am a self-professed real-estate lover. I watch all the shows, I surf local realtor websites to snoop current listings. I read any article about interest rates and home equity. I'll talk market values until I'm blue in the face. It's probably an addiction at this point. Realty Anonymous, anyone?

So given how special this friend is to me and how excited I am for her, I have become her personal expert. I sold a home last year, you know. With a house full of children just like her. And it sold in a week. Why? Because I made sure it would be perfect. Geekster did some flooring and repairs. I did de-cluttering, cleaning and staging. By the time the realtor walked in ready to hand me a list of things to get done before it went on the market, it was impeccable. "The nicest one in its price range," was the feedback we received. It sold in a week and for a good price.

Of course, this means I know what I'm doing. I'm willing to share my wisdom with those less knowledgeable, though. I'm nice like that. I will spout my sage advice whenever its needed, helping my friend to achieve that "Wow factor" so many buyers are looking for. And certainly my friend and her husband welcome my advice, as I have a real estate license and many years of home selling experience behind me.

... Oh, wait. I don't.

For the last week I've been overloading my poor friend with things I've learned from... What? From selling one home and watching television? Great. I'm not exactly rolling in expertise, am I? She hasn't even asked me for advice, either. I've been throwing it at her, changing the subject to suit whatever I think she should learn next. I'm sure she's rolled her eyes when we're on the phone more than once, and possibly even complained about me to others. I can't say I'd blame her.

On the surface I'm just trying to help. I genuinely love to help others. I'm excited for her and her family, and I'm excited for me and mine. To have someone as wonderful as her in my neighbourhood would be stellar. But if I keep acting like this I have a feeling we might not spend as much time together as I'm imagining.

Under the surface, I'm insecure (Surprise!) I'm an uneducated, fat girl who barely manages to parent her three children. I feel "less than". I feel unimportant. I feel beneath you. So when a topic comes up that I understand fairly well, I pounce on that with fervor. It's my chance to scramble to the top of the pile. To feel like the alpha dog for just a few minutes, instead of the lowly bitch.

(I really do a great lowly bitch, though. Or at least just a bitch.)

I realized my mistake yesterday when I was imparting some more of my vast experience on her. And instantly, I shut up. Just like that. I shut up and accepted that I'm not the wisest of the wise. I'm The Maven. I'm kind of awesome, but not a realtor. That's cool. And really, until I can get my son to stop calling me a big stupid jerk, I had better stop pretending I have it all together. I am only an expert at not knowing what the hell I'm doing.

They say if you don't like something about someone else, look in the mirror. Chances are it's something you don't like in yourself.

Damn "they" and their stupid rightness. I hate that. Bunch of know-it-alls. Where's my plastic fork?

Gutsy would kick Super Nanny's Fanny

Gutsy. Oh, Gutsy... He's so sweet, you know. He's like a breath of fresh air sometimes. He can take four chairs and a slightly adapted pantry (for a control panel) and turn it into a train ride. He'll make room for Spawnling in the front beside him (the "coachman") call me, the Station Master, up on a walkie talkie (AKA a canned corn) at "the station" (AKA the sink where I'm elbow deep in greasy dish water) and take off to the next stop with his passengers (AKA three dumbfounded stuffed animals).

Sweet as pie. It's times like that when I wonder if all the other, "bad" behaviour is just in my head. Maybe I make it up, or at the very least over exaggerate it. When I'm stressed out about burning the fries at lunch time I make a mountain out of a molehill. That must be the problem. I mean, look at him. He's smiling, sharing with his baby brother, telling me how every button on his imaginary steam engine works... How did I get so lucky?

"Half an hour until bedtime, Gutsy," I gently inform him with a big smile on my face.

My five-year-old whips his head around with his eyes wide. "WHAT?!"

"Bed time in 30 minutes. So you can play for 10 more, then we'll read stories and..."

"WHAT?!!?!?!?! NO!! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! I'M NOT GOING!" he hollers.

This is the start of an unavoidable tantrum. At least, that's how it seems. If we give him any warning at all that bedtime is coming, he freaks out. If we give him no warning, he freaks out even more. Stories? Forget it. He'll scream for 45 minutes instead of getting stories. Bath before bed to calm him down? He'll enjoy the bath, then scream again when it's time for bed. Cuddling? Hard to cuddle a flailing, screaming little gremlin.

Consequences? Obviously. Consistency? Consistency's my middle name: The Consistency Maven. See?

It doesn't just stop at screaming. That would be too easy. We also get called names. Lately the names are 'Jerk', 'Big Jerk', 'Stupid idiot' and 'Big jerk stupid idiot'. We can thank an older brother and Sponge-Bob for those. He hates us, too. Hates us a lot. Especially me. And everything inevitably is my fault. All roads lead to The Maven. The Consistency Maven.

He also hits. Punches, kicks, pushes... Do we punch, kick or push him? Nope. Do I want to sometimes? Oh, you bet. But I don't. In fact, the only thing we ever do is pick him up to to put him somewhere quiet before he hurts somebody (usually one of us). It takes incredible restraint, you know. I think I deserve a reward for that. Like maybe a nanny to do it for me.

We've tried yelling back (there was no "trying" involved, really. It's called "losing my cool" and it was quite easy to do). We've tried not yelling, which is slightly better and makes me feel like a less horrible mom. We take special things away. We give time-outs. We have a reward system. Dude, we have everything. We've done it all. I've poured through parenting books and parenting sites and polled friends and relatives.

Nothing.

Works.

I've tried gentle discipline and not-so-gentle discpline. Time-ins instead of time-outs. Trying to defuse the situation with humour (this does work on rare occasions, but it involves me using the words "fart" or "butt" quite often)... This child has run us down to empty. After a several weeks of this we're both pretty worn out. At night we stare at computer screens and yawn. We barely talk because that takes too much energy.

This isn't exactly new behaviour for dear Gutsy, but it has recently escalated to a whole new level. Geekster and I have visited and revisited our parenting and just can't seem to figure out what we're doing wrong. And believe me, I would love to be doing something wrong; that would mean I could fix it.

I think the worst part is that I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Parenting is my full-time job. If I had a boss who was critiquing my work, I would probably be fired on the basis of Gutsy's Exorcist-like behaviour (minus the projectile vomiting, thank goodness). I would have found a pink slip on top of my coffee pot.

He just gets completely overwhelmed sometimes and he can't seem to control himself. Other than that he's a happy, hilarious, agreeable child. Is this a case of middle gremlin syndrome? Is he going to total my car and get three girls pregnant before he's finished high school?

I'm slightly terrified.


Thank goodness for my husband. I would have imploded if it wasn't for him. He came up to me the other day and said "I had to reboot my stupid laptop. My stupid JERK LAPTOP! It's such an IDIOT! I hate it! I don't want it to be my laptop ANYMORE!"

It's ironic that Geekster defuses my mood with humour. He doesn't even have to use "fart" or "butt".

Mind the formality

Stalkers are fun, aren't they? Anyway, he's been reported. Blogger needs to come up with a way to allow members to block other members' comments. That would save me a LOT of trouble.

I was originally excited to see so many comments to my last post. I figured my template was that beautiful.

Silly Maven.

Anyway, I have to get this formally out here: MICKY. STOP COMMENTING ON MY BLOG. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME TO COMMENT HERE. I AM FEELING HARASSED. THANK YOU.

Anyway, I needed to make sure this was in plain black and white (or brown and white). I will start another post to talk about better stuff.

Case of the pregnant ex-friend

Hold on to your knickers, kiddies, because mama just went shopping!

For a new template, anyway.

I would love to say that I am a master of artistic design. Sadly, I am not. I like to think I am sometimes, but other than drawing cartoon dogs or hacking together a banner for my blog in a pitiful attempt at self-importance, I come nowhere near Van Gogh. It could be that I'm too busy parenting to be good at much of anything. It's a worthy excuse, anyway.

I needed something new and fresh around here. Something to liven things up. To pick me out of my little slump. It has something to do with massive snowbanks flanking both sides of my driveway after yet another snow storm. The fact that Gutsy has been acting like a child from the "best of" files of Super Nanny is another reason for my gloomy outlook. Then, there's the ear-infected, teething Spawnling who has only recently turned the corner and started acting like his old self: busy, but out of my arms and off the breast for more than five minutes. It's like a bloody miracle.

Oh, and one of my least-favourite people in the world is expecting a baby and it makes me angry that I'm not pregnant, too.

I spilled the beans to Geekster last night: "She's having another baby and I'm not and it's not fair."

"But I thought you didn't want another baby," retorted a puzzled husband.

"I know I said that. But now I'm not sure." I explained. "See, she has three girls and I have three boys and she's always wanted boys and I know this because she goes on and on about how great girls are and told me how my boys aren't going to be there for me when I get older like girls would be, which is an obvious overcompensation, and cycled through all of her friends' boys thinking there was something wrong with them when in fact they were just acting like boys but she wouldn't know that because she doesn't have any boys and I'm glad she doesn't have any because she'd just mess them up because she's such an anti-man kind of person but I think that's because she's always wanted a boy. She was convinced all three of her girls were boys in-utero, you know."

"... And this has something to do with you because...?" Geekster slid his office chair away from me ever so slightly. He was moving closer to the phone. The one he could call the nut house with. Although it would take them a while to get over here as there was a massive snow storm raging outside. Meanwhile, I was raging inside. Poor Geekster.

"Well, it has something to do with me because, um... Because what if she's right, ok? What if my boys don't love me when they get older? What if all my friends with girls are out shopping and having breakfast and being all supportive with each other and all that crap, and I'm waiting at home for a stupid Mother's Day card? And meanwhile, my stupid judgmental ex-friend has her stupid three girls AND her boy that she's always wanted? Where's the justice in that?"

Geekster has a really great way of remaining calm when I'm throwing the crazy around. He asks the important questions, but very delicately. Tactfully. Geekster is an artist of crazy wife tact. "So what are you saying, exactly? That you want to have another baby so we can maybe have a girl so that you won't be left alone? Do you think that's a good reason?"

"No," I sighed. Damn husbands and their damn logic.

But I'm still going to secretly hope she has another super-supportive shopping partner instead of a overall-wearing abandoner. That'll show her.

And to make myself feel better, I put a new template on my blog. I have no idea how that's actually going to make my illogical feelings go away, but it's a lot cheaper than my Theramistress, whom I can't afford to see at the moment.

That's right. I can't afford therapy lately. Was it that obvious?

Just say "no"

Lately a good deal of my friends have been having babies. And I've been thinking to myself "Maybe you could have another baby, Maven. They're so cute and squishy. So lovely and soft and new."

And then the Powers That Be stepped in. They knew I needed an intervention, like the show but not really. Actually, like the name of the show, but not really like the show at all.

On Friday not only did I get sick, but Spawnling did as well. He caught a cold. A simple cold from his brother, Gutsy. Bad timing, but the worst would be over by the end of the weekend, I told myself. Two days of snotty tissues and barking like a seal, then things would get back to normal. By that point my own bowel issues would have cleared up and I could probably move my belongings back into the bedroom. Having both made a full recovery, the first week of March Break would start off on a more positive note. Also, it would give me more time to think about what we could call the next baby.

Maybe Demonica for a girl or Doppleganger for another boy... Cute twin names! I could totally handle five kids. I'm a freaking goddess!

Intervention time.

It's now Tuesday evening and we just got back from the emergency clinic. Spawnling's cold turned into a full-blown ear infection and he's now on antibiotics and a decongestant. Great, maybe he'll stop screaming soon. He's been clinging to me all day while simultaneously throwing a fit because he's in so much pain. I'm a seasoned mother; I know all about pain medications. He's had Tylenol and Advil and he's still screaming.

Oh, wait. He's stopped now. Geekster rescued me from the baby banshee by bringing him into the office to watch Youtube videos. I suppose I have to finish dinner now, though. Damn.

I'm so tired. Two nights in a row of being up at 4AM with a feverish child is something even an extra large coffee (1 milk, 1 cream) can't seem to cure. I'm cooked. The last five days would have made for great television. A&E should have been notified of this.

Thank you, Powers that Be. I may very well attempt to remove my own uterus before Geekster's vasectomy takes place. You know, just in case.

An open letter to my immune system

Dear immune system,

We need to talk.

I understand your need to lay low sometimes and allow foreign entities to attack the body. Everyone deserves a couple of weeks off. Maybe you're off to the sandbanks of the cerebellum with a good book. Whatever the case, giving me the stomach flu on a Friday (a Friday!) when Geekster has a product being released at work today and Spawnling has a fever of 101 and a cough to boot, is NOT okay.

I exercise, I eat plenty of fruits and vegetables and I demand you be in tip top shape when I need you most. If you do not shape up, I will have to hire another immune system. I hear there are a few currently employed by stressed out 400lb chain-smokers who would love to hop on board this joy ride.

Sincerely,
The Maven

PS: If you insist on bringing up the amount of chocolate I consume, I vow to eat something three days past the expiration date and make you wish you hadn't.