No, he's never seen "Meet the Fockers" 1 or 2, but...

First off, thanks for all the comments, people. Seems many can relate to my previous post. Who knew there were so many fatties? Glad to have some blubber buddies around.

Yes, I'm talking about you. No, you can't get insulted. It's a rule: Someone who's fat is allowed to make comments about your fat, especially if they're fatter than thou. Since I am most likely the fattiest of the fat, you need to eat your feelings with that bacon burger you're holding and deal with it. Together out journey will form a great series of books we can call The Chronicles of Lardia.

Catchy, isn't it?

So here's the skinny for this week. My original weight was 252. I am now down to 247.8 for a total of 4.2 pounds.

I have such a love/hate relationship with digital scales. They speaketh the truth which is good when one is motivated, but horrible when one is wanting to hide from reality inside a tub of ice cream. However, since I'm still feeling motivated I'm all about the reality. Seeing 247.8 is so, soooo much better than a reading of, say, 248.1. Sure there's only a .3 pound difference, but who cares? For those who are bad at math like yours truly, it looks like an entire pound and that's all that matters.

Thank you, digital scale. You are like sex in a grey box on my bedroom floor. Well, not exactly like sex. That would be weird and gross. But good like that. We're becoming friends, or at least frenemies.

Anyway, there are many spokes that make up the wheel of my Maven life. There's my newfound healty lifestyle and my, um... My coffee, and... Oh, and Dr. Who which is such a good show... and... uh... stuff. Other stuff.

Oh! Yes. And my family! Right. Those guys.

I'm happy to report that I haven't resorted to gnawing on Spawnling's limbs out of sheer starvation. I thought about it, but decided that there are many alternatives, such as 100 calorie snacks. Once his little fingers started to look like pieces of Kit Kat I knew it was time to stock up on the portion-controlled goodies. He still has his arms, his legs, tail and horns.

A few days ago Intrepid went onto the deck with the following items:

- 2 sippy cups
- a bungee chord
- apple juice
- duct tape

I was curious. How could I not be? He was either creating a new invention or going gopher hunting with the intent of drowning his prey in sweet acidity. Not very humane but it saves the need to marinate. We should try it on the squirrels.

How I wish my camera was working right now so I coud take a picture! (Anyone want to buy me a camera? My birthday is in just over a month and I'd like something high end. I must have some rich readers out there somewhere).

He came back into the house with a bungee chord tied behind his neck. Dangling down his chest from the chord were both sippy cups filled with juice and fastened together with the duct tape.

"Father's milk!" declared a proud eleven-year-old. "For when you go out and Spawnling won't go to sleep without boobies. Now he can have juice from dad!"

Spawnling shouted "Mama Miiii!" and grabbed one of the sippy cups as he giggled to himself.

"Ouch. He's heavy, mom. How do you do this every day?" asked Intrepid from the couch as he was mauled by thirty pound toddler.

I'm sad to report that Spawnling was weaned off of Father's Milk after only a single feeding. If only Intrepid had the support and guidance of an educated Juicetation Consultant. Spawnling's teeth might have rotted out of his head, but the bond they could have formed...

One day, my eldest son will be Prime Minister of the world, bringing nations together through peace talks and nurturing the mothering instinct in all men through plastic boobs leaking apple juice.

Honestly, I love my life. I have the best kids ever.

I ate Richard Simmons for breakfast

Toddler survival instincts are incredible. Did you know that when a 21-month-old wakes up at 11:30PM they will coat every word and every expression in tooth-decaying sweetness? True fact. I fancy myself a bit of an expert on the subject. I have a masters in Nocturnal Toddler Behavioral Sciences.

It's 12:20AM on Sunday morning. There are two beings currently awake in our household. One has little horns underneath his brown locks and the other one is finding that midnight is the prime time to blog when you can't go to sleep for risk of being pommeled by miscellaneous items from the night stand.

Yes, he's really like that. No, I don't think chloroform is the answer in this case, although the thought has crossed my mind. Among other reasons, it's just difficult finding a bottle of the stuff this late at night, you know?

So now that I have a reason to write about my dull life for the benefit of the entire interweb, I shall share with you the details of the last five days.

I decided that it was time for me to lose weight. Why? Because I weighed myself and was two pounds heavier than the last time I weighed myself, that's why.

What? Were you waiting for some startling revelation or something?

I'd love to say that an angel came down and sprinkled me with fairy dust... or, I guess that would be angel dust... and I had a spiritual awakening of some sort which propelled me to get fit. That would make for a great book, or at the very least a free trip to Oprah in a couple of years with a pair of my fat jeans tucked into the carry-on bag.

However, it was far more vain than that, I'm afraid. I'm just tired of being fat and stuff. Rotund. Rubenesque. Obese. Lard... ish. It's not that I hate myself, I just want to stop looking pregnant in anything with an empire waist. I want to wear a dress without shoving my spare tire into a pair of tummy tuckers. Walking on heels without fear of breaking my ankles would also be nice, please.

Want to know what I weigh? I'll tell you. I want to be all accountable and junk anyway. First, I'll tell you how tall I am. I'm 5'6" and 3/4. In school we were taught to round numbers to the nearest whole, so I'm 5'7". Being that extra inch gives me some extra pounds to play with before I get into "morbid obesity" land.

Ever been called morbidly obese? I have. And theoretically I'm a mere half point away on the BMI scale I found online. Damn. So I did what anyone would do and found another BMI scale to punch my vitals into. Still nearly morbid and still obese.

Thankfully there are many BMI calculators online.

Unfortunately I'm almost a fat goth on all of them. All I need is some black lipstick and a veil to complete the package.

On Tuesday morning I woke up and decided to weigh myself. I emptied my bladder first, of course, because that's at least a half pound. Then I stripped down to nothing, put the scale on a flat surface and made sure I had no jewelry on and that my hair was dry. Naked, I stood and awaited my fate.

252 pounds. You may gasp. I did. Then I sighed. Then I got off the scale, put some clothes on and vowed to only drink water all day.

When I came to my senses and had some toast, I thought about what I was going to do. That's just not an acceptable size for me. No, I'm not judging you. If you want to be 252 pounds you go right ahead. It's not a horrible place to be. My blood pressure and blood sugars are still fine. I do not need a crane to leave my home. I can even run around a bit and play with the kids.

It's not horrible. It's just not great, either.

I figure I'll start a weight loss blog (because, you know, I blog here so frequently these days that I obviously have time for yet another place to put my thoughts down) so I can document exactly what I'm doing to shed the pounds. So until then, I'll give you the skinny.

Hah! I love me!

I'm eating more fruit and vegetables. I'm eating far less junk food, saturated fat and simple carbs. I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about the glycemic index and how our bodies metabolize food.

Damn, I'm smart.

Anyway, this week has been awesome. No, not because I was in it. Because less of me was in it. Yesterday I weighed myself again - nekkid, empty bladder and brushed teeth this time because I'm sure I have obese plaque on my teeth - and was a whopping 2 1/2 pounds lighter. That's after only three days.

I told you I'm awesome!

And that was my week. I even asked Intrepid to take a really, really bad picture of me. It's a profile and it's in my fat clothes. Oh, you know what I mean by that: the clothes you only wear when you've slacked off on laundry? The ones that make you look like Shamu with hair? Yeah. Those. Want me to post it? I so will. Pixie was mortified i would do that to myself, but I consider it less mortification and more motivation. I'm a sucker for punishment.

Must go. The sweetness has run out. Spawnling is ready to crawl back into his pod and go to sleep.

June Cleaver burns her bra

For all my talk about self-esteem, I sure am insecure when it comes to having people over to my home.

Like a lot of women, I become obsessive over how clean the house is the minute plans with another human being are confirmed. It's slightly worse when it's another woman than if it were a man, because I know in my heart that all women are better housekeepers than I am. Their homes are spotless: the children's toys are well organized with every puzzle or game piece in its place, the bedroom is a sanctuary with fresh linens and fresher flowers, the bathrooms are immaculate with not a hint of little boy pee behind the toilet.

Every time someone is on their way over I clean.

And clean.

And... oh yeah, clean.

I sweep and mop and vacuum and throw out and recycle and organize and, when time is limited, do the opposite of organize as I frantically stuff everything into drawers. I have a large shelf in the living room where I can proudly display candle holders, pictures and other stuff that accumulates dust far too regularly. But I didn't buy it for the display factor, kids. The thing holds four square wicker baskets perfectly on the bottom. And you know what that means?

It means don't look in the baskets if you know what's good for you.

Not only do I try to impress people with irregular spotlessness, but I'm also a colossal bitch about it. My poor children witness their mother morph into a snarling beast who skulks around giving orders.

Oh, wait. Sorry. Wrong monster. That's me before coffee in the morning.

When I'm trying to fake my way onto someone's superhero list I am anything but snarling. I'm more the yelling sort. "Clean the playroom! It's disgusting in there!" "You're tired? Do you know how much I do in a day? I'm way more tired than you and I'm still going!" "Well maybe you're too tired to have your friends over today, then. No? Keep cleaning then!"

Yeah, I'm sometimes that mean. My poor little gremlins. They're going to hate all women by the time they leave home. They'll run off and join the Buddhist monks in the Himalayas (or wherever Buddhist monks hang out - somewhere chick-free, I'm sure). I'm traumatizing my children in the name of cleanliness. Any day someone's going to have me on the Dr. Phil show where he'll ask me how that's working for me and I'll tell him it isn't and he'll say it must be, because we only do things that give us a pay off. Then he'll go to commercial and I'll ask him why he butchered his mouth with those veneers. It's just not normal to have teeth that straight and white. Then we'll come back and he'll ask me the same question while trying to hide his fake teeth because he'll realize how right I am: How's that working for you? And I'll reply with: It makes me look like I have it all together when the house is cleaned.

If the place is tidy then I'm like all the rest of you with your neat and organized homes, your non-existent laundry pile, and your empty sinks. Our homes are a reflection of how the rest of our lives are, which means that you'll quickly realize that, just like you, I'm a great mother, a wonderful spouse, an excellent chef, highly intelligent, very organized in all areas of my life and, best of all, my floors are shiny.

So I cleaned to be like you. I exhausted and stressed out my little boys, fretted over the stains in the carpet, hid the laundry in the closet and stuffed everything else into those four wicker baskets...

Until one day - today, actually - I stopped.

See, I met this new friend. Let's call her Pixie, because her hair is short and blond and really cute. In fact, I kind of hate her because she can pull that style off. If I cut my hair that short I would look like a basketball wearing a poodle. Fat girls with curly hair don't do pixie cuts very well, much to my husband's dismay (he loves that look).

Enough of the hair rant. I still kind of hate her, though. Dr. Phil is on board with that because she also has very nice real teeth.

The thing is, I instantly hit it off with Pixie. She's a cool chick. She has two boys who wear glasses and I have two who wear hearing aids. We match!

... Oh, and Spawnling who doesn't. He's my spare boy in case I lose one, I guess.

As in all new relationships, I wanted to impress her, so I did what I always do and voraciously cleaned before her first visit to Casa Maven. She was impressed, I'm sure. I can say with certainty that she could clearly see I had it all together based on how shiny my faucets were.

On our next get-together I went to her place to watch a movie. Of course, this is girl code for "hang out and talk all evening" which is exactly what happened. Before that, she showed me around her spotless abode. The floors were virtually glistening with cleanliness (I found out later she pre-cleaned for me as well. Why do we do this to one another? It's cruel).

Last night we made plans to get together again. It was fairly last minute, which left me holding the bag this morning as I ran around frantically, barking orders in between voluminous gulps of coffee. I muttered disagreeable things under my breath as I folded laundry and swept floors.

It was when Gutsy told me how tired he was at 10AM when I realized how much of an idiot I had been. I told the 'gremz to stop cleaning the playroom. I let the squirrel-kabobs marinade in the fridge and went to make a phone call.

"Hello, Pixie? This is The Maven. Listen, you like me, right?... No, no. I didn't mean that way. You obviously like me that way because of all my sexual charisma. It's impossible not to. But what I mean is, we're friends, right?... No, I'm not asking you to bring coffee over. What is it with everyone? You'd think I'm obsessed with coffee or something?

"Anyway, the thing is, I... I... this is hard... Um, I don't really feel like cleaning today... I know my house was spotless last time you were over but I actually don't, um, live like that. In truth I'm a huge slob and I'd rather set fire to my eyebrows than mop more than twice a month.... no, no, I spot clean. That's what dogs are for.

"I just want to hang out and enjoy your company and not have my children pour arsenic into the coffee you're going to bring me because they hate my face.... You understand, right? What? Your house is spotless! ...ooooh... Not all the time. Ok. Gotcha. See you soon. Bye!"

There. That was simple, wasn't it? Why didn't I do that a long time ago?

I don't know why I kept trying to be all June Cleaver when I look so bad in patterned aprons. Besides, we all know June was smashed on sherry well before the Beav' came home from school. I kept expecting to find her head in the oven along with the roast. The pressure of having that much to do in a day. Mercy!

So, what did I do with all that spare time between said phone call and the impending visit? I blogged.

Duh.

You like me, right? Great. Now go get me a coffee.

Squirrelatarianism, anyone?

Every so often my husband, Geekster, comes up with a new favourite animal for his website. Why? Because he's a strange little man who's vegetarian brain has shriveled up from a lack of protein. That's what happens when you eat too many vegetables, kids.

His first animal was the raccoon. It was an acceptable choice. It washes its food and looks really cute. Sadly, I was once surrounded by the masked rodents when on a camping trip as a teen. My family went to gather firewood and the little bastards came out of the woods and wanted my marshmallows. I had to throw them the entire bag. They dragged it into the bushes and I watched their beady little eyes as they devoured every delicious bite. Since then any attempt at camping has been foiled by raccoons. They are most certainly not my favourite animal, but I've come to accept that my husband and I can have different opinions and still be happily married.

Next he chose the platypus. We all know what a messed up animal that is. It has a beak, and fur, and it lays eggs, but it also nurses its young. Oh, and it's venomous. Did you know that? True fact. He found that out when he was doing his "research".

Yeah. He researches them. I'm not even making that up.

Today he decided it was time for yet another favourite animal. He's kind of like those people who adopt a puppy and return it when it piddles on the carpet, then get a kitten and return it because it scratches the couch, and then get a fish and flush it down the toilet when they realize how boring fish are... He just can't commit. It should be cause for worry on my part.

I left the office for a coffee and came back to find this on his computer screen. "I like squirrels now!" declared Geekster happily. ("That is so not how it happened, dumbass," is what he's saying now. Whatever, buddy. It's my blog. Go back to looking at your rodent porn.)

Now, we have squirrels all over our neighbourhood. Black ones, gray ones ("Black ones are the same as gray ones" is what I've just been told. "It's a colour variation, but they're the same species." He's supposed to be putting the pizza in the oven. When will he leave me alone to create my epic prose?) *ahem* and red ones... We see squirrels all the time. They're amusing, but fairly commonplace. For a year I've been watching them chase each other around, scream at birds, eat all our birdseed. Last week I even chased one out from behind the tractor in the garage with a giant broom. I felt powerful and sort of mean.

But how did we get here? How did Geekster go from something fairly interesting like the raccoon (a germaphobe food washer) to the platypus (the offspring of a beaver-molested duck) to the bat (rats who decided that scurrying is not nearly as disgusting/creepy as flying) to the boring old squirrel?

All afternoon I've been hearing about squirrels and, I must admit, they're a way cooler mammal than I am. For example, did you know:

- Squirrels have caused dam failures to the point that workers even have manuals on how to deal with them?

- Squirrels have been responsible for taking down the NASDAQ twice?

- Squirrels have been observed attacking a chicken and eating a snake?

If squirrels could rap they would be the baddest gangsters around. When all the toxins of our polluted world flood their little noggins for a few more generations we'll have super smart squirrels who will form mafias and run for president of the United States.

(Hey, if Bush could get elected twice we already know that squirrels are already smarter than many voters.)

Also, our little furry friends are a delicacy in some parts of the world. This will bode well for the Maven family when food becomes prohibitively expensive. I can just grab my hound dog and go a huntin' in my own backyard. I can kill them with a quick whack of my banjo. Apparently there are some delicious recipes available. I wonder if you need all your teeth to eat them?

I told Intrepid we were having squirrelaroni on our pizza tonight, then asked him if he could go clean up the dead ones I caught just outside his window and hung up in his room to dry out. Squirrel jerky. Yummy.

I don't think he'll sleep tonight. I'm a great mother.

Geekster's homepage is here, just in case you doubt his existence. I realize it's hard to believe anyone could be a perfect match for The Maven, but it's true.

Now I need to gather the youngin's 'cause it's time fer dinner, ya'll. We'll put out the toothpicks so as to clear the fur out of our mouths afterwards.

Reality Check

Today is the last of its kind until September. It is a day of running errands with few complaints from the peanut gallery (or the back of the van), of no eye-rolling, no drawn out arguments between brothers, and no poking at the covers containing my pre-teen who is still sleeping at 10AM.

Today is Intrepid's last day of school. Once he's finished we are officially on summer vacation. God help us all.

It's not that he's a bad kid. Not at all. He's a thoughtful son, a caring big brother and someone I enjoy spending a lot of time with in the following combinations:

1. The Maven and Intrepid
2. The Maven, Geekster and Intrepid
3. The Maven, Geekster, Spawnling and Intrepid

Can you spot who's missing? That's right: Gutsy. The boy who used to be all fire and brimstone and is now a fairly easygoing, hilarious five-year-old.

I should have been a mathematician, as I have discovered that putting two positives together can, indeed, create a negative. The Intrepid/Gutsy combination breeds mayhem on such a scale that I could charge admission to chaos theorists.

Yet, like an idiot, I maintain a positive attitude that would make Mother Theresa jealous. Spring after spring, I smile to myself as I envision the end of early mornings, lunch prep, matching clothes and last minute homework help. In my disturbed little mind, I delightfully recite the "thank you" notes I will write to the teachers while making sure to include a tearjerker line or two in between the laughs. I make note of all the things we will do, the three boys and I: Museum trips, picnics at the park, gardening, bird watching, visiting friends, popcorn and movies on rainy days...

By June I'm practically jumping out of my skin in anticipation of the last day of school. Last night I ran out and got the flowers and cards for the teachers. I even selected three additional ones for Intrepid's two school administrators and principal. I had my fifth-grader write out a lovely letter to his teacher and placed it delicately in the envelope. We packed everything he needed for today's field trip to the beach. This morning I brought everything over to the school. I received warm smiles and thank-yous and we'll-see-you-in-the-falls. I felt like Suzie Homemaker on steroids.

I picked up coffee on the way home, made toast for Spawnling and Gutsy, put on Curious George so I could get a few minutes to myself (which is what you're reading right now) and was suddenly keenly aware of a small voice in the back of my head.

"Hello? Stupidface? It's me, Reality. Hi there."

"Go away, Reality," I said with a cheery grin on my face. "I'm busy right now."

"What are you busy doing? Convincing yourself that this summer is going to go smoothly?"

"Quiet now, Reality. I'm entitled to my fantasies." I said melodically through clenched teeth, my plastic smile fading ever so slightly.

Reality cackled gleefully. "Oh, Maven. Poor, damaged Maven. You know what's coming, don't you? You can't plead ignorance, honey. Don't you remember the previous years? The tears, the screams, the pleading, the hiding? And that's just you. I haven't even started with what the kids do all summer..."

Red flashed across my eyes. "Shut up, Reality! Shut up, already! You're the stupidface, OK? I'm not listening to your crap. Summer will be great this year! I'm a stronger person. I'm a better mother. I'm a more resourceful individual. I will be organized and colour-coded and, and... action packed!"

"You're a fool, girl. You go crazy in the summer. I mean, look at you: School isn't even officially over and you're talking to an imaginary voice! You are so not going to survive. Wait until the boys start throwing toys at each other and Spawnling runs through poison ivy and Gutsy starts the tractor up when you're going to the bathroom and Intrepid argues with you over getting milk at the..."

"LA LA LA LA LA LA I'M NOT LISTENING I'M NOT LISTENING LA LA LA LA LA..."

"*sigh* Get your fingers out of your ears, Maven. What are you, three?"


(T-minus four hours until summer officially begins. It's going to be awesome!)

Goodbye, forever swimmers. Hello again, fluid-filled lungs.

This picture is a close representation of one of my husband's biggest fears.

Yes, it's a wagon full of cabbages.

No, he is not suffering from lachanophobia (a fear of vegetables). That would be a life-altering phobia for a vegetarian.

No. What this picture represents is the cost of purchasing large quantities of food to feed a large family. The amount the five of us currently consumes costs enough to keep him up at night. He worries about gas prices and wheat prices and diary prices and meat prices... Oops. Pardon me. I'm the one who worries about meat prices. I like my sausage.

... Oh! And other meats. Yes, of course. Not just sausage. Franks, too. And wieners.

And speaking of wieners, Geekster's is currently bandaged up after a twenty minute procedure which should pretty much guarantee that we never have to buy a wagon full of cabbages. His sausage - well, his meatballs if you want to get technical- will no longer function in a reproductive manner.

Today my husband got his vasectomy. V-Day. The big, scary day when I had to console myself with ice cream and remember all the very good reasons not to have more children. Among said reasons is weight loss, which the ice cream (and pizza, and breakfast sandwich earlier in the day) did not help. But whatever. It's been one of those days. For reals. Allow me to break it down for you:

Yesterday evening Gutsy's cold turned into Gutsy's potential pneumonia. Geekster took him to the hospital. Again. They were up all night. Again. I barely slept waiting to find out if he was OK. Again. They came home at 5:20AM with a prescription for antibiotics and descriptions of the pretty x-ray of the boy's lungs making out with some fluid. Again.

I went back to bed. Gutsy and Geekster took the couch for some unknown reason. At 7AM I woke up and made Intrepid's lunch for school. It was crap, by the way. I am a lousy lunch maker. Geekster rules in that department. It makes me feel like less of a mom that I'm destroyer of packed school meals, but I've made peace with that (making peace with it allows me that extra time to sleep in when I would otherwise make crappy lunches).

At 9:30AM Spawnling and I go run some errands, including the depositing of a cheque (don't get too excited. It was $43.00 and it's completely spent, as you will see), filling a prescription and buying fatty no-good-for-you breakfast.

The rest of the morning was spent cleaning, enticing Gutsy to take the mystery fruit-flavoured medicine and making phone calls regarding all the other things I've put off doing because the rest of my life has been so chaotic.

Oh, and whining. I did a lot of whining.

Seeing as Gutsy is a contagious carrier monkey, I graciously let our babysitter and her four young children off the hook and instead took The Guts and The Spawn to the V-Day celebrations downtown. We parked and said goodbye to their father's sperm and any future biological family members. We figured we would see him in about 20 to 30 minutes.

The following 75 minutes were like Hell in many ways. First, it was hot. Then, there were crazy people in an old truck next to me that kept eying my family while I pretended not to notice and feel weirded out about it. Also, there was a lot of crying and say "no". I did not cry, but I did partake in the verbal negativity. There were full bladders and a five-year-old who kept saying "it's going to come out soon if we don't find a toilet!" as his brother shouted "Pee! Pee!" because it was fun and Gutsy normally laughs. Finally, a cowboy appeared from beyond the saloon - or medical building - doors. Fresh off his horse, he moseyed on up to this purdy little lady.

Ok, it was actually Geekster and he was in significant pain, but it's better to envision a cowboy.

I wanted to ask him if the aliens had anally probed him, but I thought otherwise. Pain makes people cranky and less likely to enjoy my awesome jokes.

It was 3:30PM. We had to make our way to the audio/visual impairment center to acquire documentation that I needed to fax off by the end of business. The place closed at 4PM. I plucked some seldom-used words from the vocabulary tree which I then used under my breath as traffic crawled along. Spawnling screamed in the background at the injustice of being strapped into a car seat without The Wiggles on the DVD player. Gutsy coughed and told me how hungry he was. Geekster moaned every time we hit a pothole. It was so fun!

After what seemed like an eternity we managed to reach our destination. I bolted from the van and ran my pneumonia-ridden lungs through corridors and down a flight of stairs only to arrive at 3:59PM. The secretary thought that was quite funny. She looked at the clock and shook her head and giggled. I thought it would be funny if she wore her computer screen as a hat, but politely chuckled along with her before stomping back up the stairs, through a series of corridors and into the hungry/screaming/moaning family vehicle.

We got home. I nursed Spawnling. He liked that. I liked sitting down in front of the television for 10 minutes. I then made pizza. Intrepid had walked to my parents' place after school and was eating there. I secretly wished that everyone had gone to my parents' place for dinner except me because there would be more pizza for me to stuff down my feelings with.

Geekster can't lift for a week, which essentially renders him 98% useless in the eyes of his co-parenting wife. Useful to cuddle with, talk to, laugh at... er... with, but as far as parenting goes I'm boss for the next seven days. A tired, bitchy boss who did a little jig when Gutsy finally went to bed.

Spawnling didn't want to go to sleep just yet, so I walked him over to pick up Intrepid. Earlier that week my dad had fixed our weed trimmer. Tonight while we were standing in his driveway drinking coffee he asked: "So, how does Geekster like having his whipper snipper fixed?"

I nearly sprayed coffee out of my nose. Once I had composed myself I said "I'm sure once the pain subsides he'll be very happy he has a fixed whipper snipper."

Then we were both laughing, and life was good. And I walked home on the longest day of the year (or thereabouts) with two of my favourite boys. I still felt tired and moody and a little sorry for myself, but when I saw an old woman passing us I said hello and remarked how lovely it was tonight.

She smiled warmly and agreed with me. She smiled at the boys. She then told me her husband had passed away earlier in the day. My jaw dropped. I said I was sorry for her loss. She said sadly "We're old, you know. So it happens." I told her that old or not, that has to be very painful. She said she was walking to clear her head and get a new perspective on what just happened. It was sudden, you know. She didn't have time to prepare.

I told her my name and pointed to my house. I said if she needed anything, even a cup of tea, to come over any time. Spawnling smiled at her and said 'Bye-bye!' in his sweet little voice. She thanked him, and me, and continued walking... alone... very likely back to an empty house full of a lifetime of memories.

Bitch-slapped with perspective. Thanks, Higher Power. It probably didn't have to be quite as dramatic as meeting an old woman who lost her husband, you know. Ever heard of "less is more"?

So no, my life does not suck. I can stop whining now. I get it.

Sheesh. Way to make me feel bad.

Cobwebs on the Treadmill

You know what's worse than recovering from pneumonia?

Being fat and recovering from pneumonia.

There I was, being a health-conscious Maven and working my booty off on the treadmill most every day, doing pilates every second day and dreaming of the flat abs I will never have lest I go under the knife because I've had three ten pound babies. I craved exercise like I crave sundaes. I loved it. I would watch the mayhem of Jon and Kate Plus 8 while burning some calories on an incline. I had my towel, my water and the stack of remotes needed just to watch television. I was in the zone. You know when trainers scream "Get in the zone!" ? I was there. I felt it. I relished it.

Then Gutsy had to go cough all over me and give me pneumonia. He has some nerve, that kid. Doesn't he want a thinner, healthier mother? Does he want me to send him to the store in ten years for blood sugar strips? His illness got in my way. It crippled my attempts. Good thing he's cute and made me something nice for Mother's Day this year. I shall renew his lease until our Christmas gift exchange. Then we'll see.

Just over two weeks ago I was diagnosed with pneumonia. The week before that I could have had a chest x-ray showing my fluid-filled lung, but obviously I didn't have pneumonia because The Maven does not get that sick. Never. No way. Not me. Just like I never was going to have a cesarean (or two) because those are for other people who don't know how to birth properly, don't you know.

Full of myself? Perhaps just a smidgen.

I thought ten days of antibiotics would take care of business and I would be back to my old self again. I've been eying the treadmill longingly since my final dose last Wednesday. "Today's the day!" I've said every morning for a week. "As soon as Spawnling goes for a nap I will start up that treadmill and work up a good sweat!"

By the time Spawnling's nap rolls around I'm about ready to hide behind a chair in order to shield myself from the beckoning exercise equipment. I'm too tired. I'm too weak. I can do the day-to-day stuff but I can't do any more than that. I'm ready for bed by 7PM but I stay up because the television and I have a love affair that extends through prime time. I have noticed that I'll often miss the middle of Without a Trace, but as long as I see the beginning and ending I still find it quite exhilarating.

This could be what it feels like to be an eighty-five-year-old woman.

I've been told that it can take up to three months to fully recover from pneumonia. In my case, which was less serious, it can still take a month or two.

A month or two!? Don't they know I'm obese?

And therein lies the other problem. It's one thing to be a healthy weight and inactive. I know a lot of thin people who tell me how out of shape they are, all while eating an ice cream cone and burning off the calories through the digestion process alone. If I were a less rotund individual I might find my lack of energy frustrating but certainly not embarrassing.

The other night Geekster and I took the gremlins for a walk. Or, rather, they took us. "Let's race!" shouted Gutsy, who I will begrudgingly admit has made a full recovery much faster than his mother. "Come on, mom! You push Spawnling in the stroller and we'll run home."

Home was only four houses away. In a neighbourhood with half-acre lots that's probably half a block. No biggy, right? What's half a block? After checking for concealed weapons on Spawnling so as to make sure he doesn't commit a drive-by while zooming down the road, I yelled "On your mark! Get set! Go!" and took off full-tilt.

I used to run 4km (or about 2 miles) every day pre-Spawn. Then the little demon stole my life energy. I've slowly been making a return to my old, active self on the treadmill. I was doing three miles of power walking on an incline when I was bitch slapped by pneumonia. By race time it had only been three weeks since my last workout. No problem, right? What's four houses?

I stopped about ten feet from our driveway gasping for air.

Just then my sister (my very thin sister) and her boyfriend (her very thin boyfriend) pull up with coffee for Geekster and I and donut holes for the gremz. I can barely talk. I'm a fat, panting ball of sweat as I make my way over to their car.

"Hi *pant pant*! Sorry, I was *pant* running with *pant* the boys and I... *pant... I'm still recovering *gasp* from *pant* pneumonia... Normally *pant* I can run much *pant* further *gasp* than that, you know *pant* *gasp* But my lungs aren't *pant*..."

"I know" says Sisterella, who never says anything about my weight and is always incredibly supportive of me. "Here's a coffee for you".

"Tha*gasp*nk you," I reply, wiping sweat from my brow. Now that skinny people have seen me out of breath after running the length of four homes I'm highly embarrassed and feel HUGE.

The now seemingly walrus-like Maven goes inside to take her puffers. Oh, have I mentioned I'm mildly asthmatic, too? Go team Maven! I should offer myself as the poster child for the Canadian Lung Association.

It's one thing to be skinny and out of breath from running because you had pneumonia. It's another thing to be overweight and out of breath from running because you have pneumonia and some small self-esteem issues that tell you everyone thinks you're just out of shape because you eat too much fried chicken.

(Incidentally I would like to say that I never eat fried chicken, but I do eat chocolate and I am out of shape, but I also have weak lungs and I can normally kick anyone's ass in a four-house race - especially a five-year-old's. Thank you.)

((Also, no chickens were fried in the making of this post. Oh... Unless you count the picture, but I didn't take that picture. I think those are American chickens.))

Living in Spawnling's paradise

I think I might have to use a flamethrower to get rid of these cobwebs. Not only is it quick but it's also very cool-looking. Has it really been a week since I last posted. Oh, for shame!

We could use anything cool right now as it has been a kazillion freaking degrees in the Ottawa area. Most of my days post-Good-Grandma-funeral have been spent recovering from pneumonia (which took a little longer because I didn't take it as easy as I should have. Shocking.) and attempting to find the coolest, least humid solution to the hot weather. We erected a series of fans (yes, I said "erected" and yes, I'm giggling) to blow (teehee) the air from the one little air conditioner around the rest of the house. It sort of worked. It was hard but we pulled it off (snicker).

While I was busy with everything else, Spawnling joined a gang. He kept it a secret until last night, when out of the blue he started shouting "South Side! South Side!"

When we lived in another, less interesting part of the Capital Region suburban sprawl there was a group of delinquent youth who called themselves the West Side Crew. They did horrible things like spray paint highway overpasses with pictures of cannabis that they undoubtedly smoked a lot of while having unprotected sex. I think I once saw one kick a kitten, too. They were a bad bunch, the West Side Crew.

And now my baby boy was branching off and forming a new posse. Frightening.

I should have seen the signs. Spawnling took a liking to a yellow shirt and refused to take it off for two days. Gang colours. Check.

Next he started saying "no" more often and even pushed me a couple of times. Defying authority. Check.

When we were outside hanging the laundry he stuffed a couple of clothespins in his pocket and walked into another part of the yard. Weapons stash. Check.

And finally, when I was holding a baby today, he tried to make me nurse the newborn. "Try a sample of my product, kid. If you like it here's my cell number." Check.

When he began to yell "South Side!" I knew it was time for an intervention. My child was headed down the wrong path at such a young age; a sure sign of the daily neglect he faces as the youngest of three boys. Couple that with the noticeable difference of his left-handedness and the slippery slope is steepened.

"South Side! South Side!" declared Spawnling.

"We live on the north side, Spawn. You should at least call it the North Side Crew. Get your directions right."

"South Siiiiiiiide!!!" Hollered the Spawn.

"What are you trying to say? I don't understand."

Intrepid walked into the kitchen to get a drink. "South Side!"

Intrepid replied with: "Oh, you want to go outside, buddy? Ok. I'll take you right after I get some water."

"Yeah!" declared the former gangster.

Outside? Oh. Hmm. I guess he could mean that, too.

If I got a grade for this, it would be "F"

Hey, it's me. Trying hard to do a lot of nothing.

I have my decaf and my faux-leather chair and Lapzilla. I have an Intrepid to keep the Gutsy and Spawnling ones occupied while I twiddle my thumbs and attempt NOT to feel guilty that the house is a huge mess, the laundry is backed up a good 5 loads and I haven't even contemplated what we're having for dinner tonight.

I know I have pneumonia. I know that. I get it. I just don't like not doing anything. In fact, my day of do-nothingness actually involved two visits from The Madre's friend to hem my pants for the funeral tomorrow, a trip outside in the rain to play with Spawnling because he really wanted to (great for my lungs, I'm sure), , running out for coffee since we were outside anyway, two loads of laundry, folding of said laundry, a load of dishes, the making of breakfast and lunch, and the picking up of Gutsy from preschool.

That's "doing nothing" in Mavenworld. It's a mom thing. We can't just sit here even with a potentially serious infection.

Oh, sorry. I said "potentially serious infection" to Geekster last night and he gave me the look. You know that look that husbands give when they're highly annoyed? That one. Then he said "Maven, you do not have a potentially serious infection. You have a serious infection" and then told me I needed to sit down while he made me food and got me water and watched only the television programs I wanted to watch.

This being sick thing isn't all bad, I suppose.

To keep my spirits up, Spawnling has decided to wave and say 'Hewwo' every time he sees me. Right now he's walking around with 3D glasses, in and out of the room and greets me every time he sees me. He's special, my Spawnling. Very... special.

Tomorrow afternoon is Good Grandma's funeral, followed by tea, coffee and deserts. Her favourite things. See why I'm going to miss her? We had so much in common.

I suppose I should go sit on the bed and fold laundry now. That's "doing nothing" isn't it? Does it make it more of nothing if I watch Oprah at the same time?