Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

It's me, The Maven. Remember me? You know, the pretty one? Doesn't ring a bell, huh? Weird. The last time we saw each other was at the workshop Mrs. Claus hosted on what to do with your elderly reindeer. I was the one who suggested putting them in stew. Did you see how fast I ducked the flying chair you threw at me? I may be insensitive, but I'm quick!

Oh, that Maven. Yes, that's the one. But I've turned over a new leaf this year, Santa. I'm a different sort of Maven. For one, I'm a vegetarian now. That's right: a non-meat eater. My stew is reindeer-free. When I take a walk in the country I'm surrounded by forest critters who break into song with me. It's a wonderful way of life, and I think it should put me squarely on your "nice" list.

But just in case, there are other things I've done this year to earn my place in your good graces. I house trained a dog. By "I", I mean my husband, the vet who cut off his pair of wonkers, and me. But whatever. It was my idea to get the dog, so I get to take credit. I'm the nice one.

I made new friends, which has allowed them to experience the wonder of me. My social calendar was already bursting at the seams (do calendars have seams?) and yet I allowed more people into my inner circle so that they may feel the joy of knowing me. What better gift to give?

I watched a lot of documentaries about electric cars and fair trade coffee and how big industry makes the trees cry. That brought me to a new level of consciousness, which helped the greater good. Now I know more than many of my friends and I can look down on them as I lecture. Guilt is a gift that keeps on giving.

And look: I'm writing even though I've been suffering from major writer's block, bringing good tiding and insight to the masses! Thankfully Laurie from Not Just About Cancer recognized my need for some writing therapy and sent me an amazing book. Thanks again, Laurie. Internet stalking is a great ability and she put it to good use, so I'm sure she'll be rewarded not only by more blog posts but by that warm feeling of knowing she's spread the joy to others. Well, and maybe I'll buy her a coffee or something.

... Oh, wait. Sorry, Santa. This isn't about Laurie. It's about me. Me, me, me and how great I am and how I deserve lots of prezzies. Focus, big guy. Back to The Maven.

Good job.

So what does a Maven want under the tree this year? I've compiled a short list for you:

• 25 hours in a day (I would split the extra hour equally between catching up on laundry and sleep)
• The ability to sit down without having a toddler climb up on my lap and say "Oh! Hi, mom. I want some mommy's milk right now." To which I reply "When do you get mommy's milk, Spawnling?" To which he replies "At bedtime." "Is it bedtime, Spawnling?" "No, it's not. Okay, mom." Then he starts to climb off, changes his mind and promptly dives a hand into my shirt while saying "Mommy's milk right noooowwww!"
• Headphones that play music loud enough that I don't hear any happy/angry screaming, but I do hear hurt screaming. That could save me a neglect lawsuit.
• Self-cleaning floors, please.
• I would like the Prime Minister to declare at-home parenting a government job and start paying me. Benefits and a pension would be pretty sweet too, thanks. Perhaps a witty personal assistant, too?
  
• A baby I don't have to give birth to or stay up all night with or nurse ever two hours. She - hey, we're wishing here, right? It's a wish list? Now shush up - she would show up in a basket at my front door. She would probably be about three years old and sleeping through the night and be very quiet and pleasant. Oh, and if the rest of the basket could be filled with money I would like that very much.
  

It's not like I'm asking for a lot, here. Just a few things to get me through the year with the strand of sanity I have left intact. In return I promise to be an even better girl next year and fill the world with more Maven-y goodness.

Now pony up or Blitzen's being schnitzelled.

Lovingly,
The Maven

What happens at the dinner table, stays at the dinner table (and on the blog)

Want a glimpse at my dinner table on any given night? I bet you do. Also, I bet you'll feel a lot better about your own "chaos".

I've been so busy with cookie exchanges, school commitments, social thingies (because I'm soooo popular), cleaning my house because it's gross, and, oh yeah, giving up sugar! (More on that tomorrow)

I haven't had time to blog much. You understand. Also, I have mega writer's block. It's been brutal. Thank the gods for video.

This is at our place last night. I set the camera while they weren't looking. Geekster and I were waiting for our own grub. Vegetarian pizza and salad. Damn I'm a good chef.

Away From a Manger

The neighbours across the street have pretty much adopted us. They're an older couple who have grown children and grandchildren who live far away. Therefore, they lovingly turn a blind eye to the badness emanating from every crevice of our home and blissfully overlook the horns and fangs of our darling little gremlins.

About a week ago they showed up at our door with a manger. A spare one, he said, that was just sitting in their basement. I gave a nervous chuckle that only a parent to several children could interpret to mean "You want me to put that in my house and have it not get broken?"

"Let them play with it," he said kindly. "Over the years they'll probably damage it, but at least they'll have fun, right?"

Over the years. Riiiiiight.

The problem, you see, is that the gremz don't really understand what significance the manger has. They know about Jesus and that Christians believe he was the son of God, but that's pretty much it. The nativity story is a good one that we plan to tell, but just haven't yet. We're openminded folks though, and I am quite certain that God, whoever he or she may be, loves us. We're way too awesome not to love.

Well, we were too awesome not to love until we set up a manger in our home and unleashed the fury of our three demon spawn upon it over the course of a few days. Observe:

Here's a picture of the manger after I set it up. Isn't it pretty?


The first thing you may notice is the deer infestation. I don't know if they even have deer in Bethlehem, but I'm no fauna specialist. Besides, the dear are fuzzy and, most importantly, unbreakable. This proves to be a good thing for them in the days to come.

Other than the Bambi Brigade running out any livestock normally found in a barn, things are pretty status quo. We have three kings carrying some baby bling, Mary, Joseph and cute little Jesus, who must be pretty cold because the blanket only covers up his winker.

Mary's looking pretty good considering she just gave birth. She's dressed nicely, her hair is up. Between you and me, she's a bit overconcerned with her appearance. I mean, really: Is anyone - and I mean, anyone - going to tell the woman who just birthed God's baby that she's looking a little tired? She should just let herself go for a few days. Wear bunny slippers and a ballcap to hide the greasy hair. That's what new motherhood is all about, Mary. Embrace it.

Joseph seems a bit clueless. I don't think he quite knows what to do. He has new sort-of dad syndrome. So, he makes himself useful by holding a lantern. That's nice of him, really. Light is good.

(Psst! Joseph,did you notice the giant star hanging above your head? You know, the one with the angel next to it announcing Jesus' arrival? Stars are bright, dude. I hate to say it, but this has rendered your job useless. You're going to suck it up, put the lantern out and start changing diapers. Sorry, guy.)

Everything was perfect in the little manger. I took a picture to commemorate it.

Then, twenty minutes later, the gremlins discovered the manger, shouted 'Cool! A deer farm!' and we wound up with this:


A sand storm swept through the deer-infested desert. Complete and utter devastation. One of the wise men was knocked unconscious in the manger and another outside. They did manage to keep the gifts securely in their hands even while passed out. That takes talent.


I want to know what's happening on the roof. The angel (who my children insist on calling a fairy) is obviously crying. And Bambi is looking rather smug. I wonder if there was some name-calling going on? Where's that kid's mother? Why isn't she stepping in to discipline? He shouldn't even be on the roof in the first place. It's no place for fawns! Just fairies... er... angels.

(What? Dead? Really? Don't I feel like a jerk now.)

The next day we found even more surprises:


Baby Jesus is all by himself. Where is everybody? Does Dr. Phil know these people are leaving an infant in a barn all alone? Unacceptable. Where are the parents? Someone should have a word with those two.


Well, there's Joseph, standing outside and still holding his lantern (apparently he didn't get my memo). He's looking a tad upset right now. What's wrong, Joseph, buddy? Talk to me. The Maven's here to listen.


Oh, no! Mary's arm fell off! She's an amputee. Tragic. What happened, Mary? How are you going to raise the son of God with only one arm? Joseph's going to have to put down that lantern now (no wonder he's upset). Good thing he's around to help you out. Over the next few years he'll be there for you and your son. He'll help you raise him into a fine young man. Together you'll go down in history as an amazing couple, full of strength and life and...


Wait... Who's that? He's big and red and looks mischievous and evil. Be careful, you guys. Don't trust him. Don't turn your back for even a second. I'm just going to grab a coffee in the kitchen and I'll come right back, ok? Don't look him in the eye while I'm gone!

Ok. I'm back. He's gone? Great. Are you guys alright? What's...


JOSEPH!! NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

Crap. I don't think God is going to like this very much.

By Popular Demand

Well, you asked for it, lambs. Everyone wants to see my awesome parenting in action. I guess you all want to figure out where you go so, so wrong by comparing it to my excellence.

Try not to be too hard on yourselves. It's taken years to perfect my craft. Just remember that the journey to success is more important than the destination and all that rot.

So, without further ado, Gutsy and I proudly present The Tantrum To (Hopefully) End Them All:

In Which The Maven Feels Very Old

It's official: I have a twelve-year-old.

Twelve years ago today, at the age of twenty, I miraculously birthed a 10lb 6oz baby boy after a wonderful 48 hour labour.

Then, while I blissfully bled out all over the floor, I held him in my shaky arms with the help of Geekster and a nurse.

Then, while they were giving me blood and trying to stop the bleeding in a calm and leisurely manner, my beautiful baby boy was taken away for observation because he wasn't breathing very well.

We just try to block out those particular details and remember that, on the surface, it was a joyous occasion. Minus the blood and potential death parts.

Today we bought his love with an XBox 360. It's the least we could do, having burdened him with the task of being eldest brother to two little horned ones who bite him with their fangs and claw at him when he doesn't give them a turn on the computer.

Buying children expensive gifts shows that you care. But, just in case, we also have some therapy money put away for later. You never know what major screw up will haunt a child for life. My big parenting blunder of the week, you ask? The one that is bound to keep a therapist's car payments secured for at least few months?

Gutsy threw a tantrum and I taped it.

Yep. Like, with my camera. You see, recently Gutsy has reclaimed his role as The Loud One Who Screams When He Doesn't Get His Way. On more than one occasion I have threatened to record one of his fits and show it to his classmates. In the past this would cause him to stop screaming and settle down in fear that I'd actually do it. This last time, however, my threat stopped working.

Who knew that empty threats eventually stop working? Nobody told me that. Is it in any of the parenting books collecting dust on my shelf? Would I know if I actually read them from time to time? That's, like, work. Who wants to do that?

Anyway, I had enough of the yelling and throwing himself on the floor this last time, so I picked up the camera and started filming.

I expected him to stop his juvenile behaviour and act like the mature six-year-old he is. I figured he would take a breath and say "Mother, what you are doing is upsetting me. Could you please stop? I promise never to tantrum again, which I believe to be a reasonable compromise. How about a hug?"

That's not exactly how it went.

Ever watch Taz on Looney Toons? He sort of looked and sounded like that. It was epic. It was damn impressive on so many levels. The running, the chasing me, the trying to knock the camera out of my hands (which he succeeded in doing). My idea to extinguish the flames of his anger set the entire Gutsy Forest on fire, and nothing would put it out.

After I abruptly stopped filming because the batteries fell out of the camera upon impact with the floor, Gutsy received a time out, some heavy consequences, and I chalked it up to a failed experiment,

...Or was it?

As it turns out, my parenting methods are not only revolutionary but highly effective. For, when I showed him the video of his tantrum, we both cracked up laughing and he said 'I look so funny, mom! Can we watch that again? You should put it up on YouTube!'

When Geekster and Intrepid came into the room he proudly showed them his crazed Hulk-like behaviour, grinning when they laughed out loud.

And he hasn't tantrumed since. Not once.

The Maven: 1 point for being awesome

Gutsy: 1 point for having a good sense of humour

Intrepid: 12 points for his age and 360 points for being spoiled by electronic devices

Happy birthday, Intrepid. I can't wait until Gutsy is 12. I can, however, wait a very long time for his teen years. My hair is grey enough, thanks.

Now I'm going to go play XBox.

Dreaming of demerol

Just so we're clear: if this post really sucks it's all Spawnling's fault.

I went to bed at a decent Maven hour of midnight. I figured I would get a good night's sleep that way. Seven hours to this new vegetarian is like sleeping in. I used to wake up drained and now I wake up refreshed after five or six solid hours.

Five or six solid hours.

Not an hour of sleep in my own bed before Spawnling calls me, wide awake, from his bed.

Not another hour of trying to get him back to sleep in his bed while he kicks the wall as I nurse him.

Not admitting defeat, heading down to the living room with a blanket and a pillow.

Not another few minutes finding the all-night preschooler channel, a granola bar for each of us and some orange juice for him.

Not another hour of him talking my ear off as I try to go to sleep.

And certainly not another couple of hours of him rolling around on top of my snoozing body, waking me up, elbowing me in the ribs, kicking off my covers and trying to get comfy.

I woke up sometime after it was light out with feet in my face. Smelly toddler feet with the toes creeping into my nose. He was almost snoring. I was a mess. Not even a hot mess. A mess.

I left him on the couch and crawled into my bedroom. Gutsy had made his way in to cuddle daddy and was coughing quite a bit. I was able to ignore him and go to sleep anyway.

Five minutes later the alarm clock went off.

I tried to throw it into the yard but there was a damn window there.

Five or six hours of solid sleep, not seven hours of broken sleep. I've realized there is a big difference.

This afternoon I attempted to sleep while Gutsy and evil, evil Spawnling were playing nicely on the floor. I whispered my plan to the Gutsmeister who nodded maturely and said he'd watch his brother while I tried to catch a few winks on the couch.

Contrary to what you might hear, not all stay-at-home-moms nap during the day. In fact, once I had my second child I became the anti-napper. I would rather bum around on the computer, clean the house, watch some trashy TV or gossip on the phone with a coffee in hand. Very rarely am I exhausted enough to sleep. But today was one of those days where I knew it was an absolute must.

Good thing I have all that good karma from all those kind deeds and positive energy I put out all the time. I figured I would cash some of that in so I could get some much needed shut-eye.

Apparently I used all the good karma in my savings account for the damn picture that makes me look hot, because the next thing I knew I had Spawnling sticking a finger in my ear saying "Wake up, Mommy! What you doin'? You seeping? I wan' to play! Come on, Mommy! My finguh is in yo ear, see?"

Oh, I see.

When Spawnling decided to fall asleep an hour later while watching Dora I wasn't having any of it. No way was the gremlin going to get away with napping when I couldn't. No way was he going to recharge his little batteries and pull an all-nighter again. So I picked him up and swung him around with my arms under his belly until he woke up in protest.

Protest he did, but he also woke up and stayed up until his bedtime. Then I went and saw the lovely Coffee Fairy for her birthday (and gave her - what else - a gift card to one of our favourite coffee shops because it's all about me, me, me and my damn lattes and don't you forget it), came home, watched a great documentary, and am now blogging.

He's still sleeping. I'm fried. I should go to bed. I will go to bed. I just have to figure out a witty way to finish this post, and then edit it.

No. Instead I"ll use my 'get out of being witty' card for the night and top it off with the 'you may edit this for errors in the morning' card, too. I've used two of my three lifelines, but I did make it to the end of the post so that counts for something.

Goodnight. Let's hope it is, anyway. Otherwise I may consider a demerol drip, either for him or for me. Preferably both.

Hot Bloggers in Chilly Ottawa

How come I can look like a total slut in this re-vamped picture (thanks Jobthingy, and the real one is in the post before this one)...



... And yet be oddly proud of that fact?

Seriously, now. I'm a mom to three kids. I should not enjoy looking like a skank. I should be embarrassed and never let this picture see the light of day. I should berate my friend for trying to sexify my pure self.

I should, but I won't because it makes me see some gorgeousness in myself I don't normally see.

My time for caring whether or not I'm attractive should have left about 12 years ago, when my hooha stretched wide enough to let out a 10 pound watermelon, and my hair was matted so badly during the 48 hour labour that I had a macho warrior top knot.

Sexy left me a long time ago. I waved goodbye to it with a baby to my engorged breasts and many extra pounds in my bum. For years I consoled myself in bags of Oreos and focused on my growing family (and thighs). I stopped thinking about shades of lipstick or the grey creeping into my hair. I stopped thinking of myself as anything but den mother to the gremlins.

Oreos make everything better, just in case you were wondering. They are a super food.

But, now we're done having babies. We're starting our transition out and into the next chapter of our lives. Our eldest is about to turn twelve, which makes me really old, right?

Right.

No, wait. That's wrong. I'm thirty-two. Something tells me I'm not over the hill just yet. Maybe I have a few more years left in me to try and look hot. Maybe I can start going to bars and wearing pleather and animal patterns as I flirt with the 20-year-old college students. Or, better yet, I could ditch my husband, shack up with a cabana boy, get a personal trainer, leave the heartbroken cabana boy for the personal trainer, leave that guy for a millionaire, move to Florida and drive a sports car to my Botox appointments.

Or not. That sounds like a lot of work. I think I'll just let people mess with my pictures and maybe lose a few more pounds. I don't have the commitment to be a cougar. I can't even blog every day for crying out loud.

Speaking of blogging, Jobthingy and I had a blast at the blogger breakfast. I even broke anonymity and wrote my actual name under 'The Maven'. I felt like a rebel! Well, not really, but I like to sound badass whenenver possible. I met some cool chicks, like Alison, Nat, Meanie , Zoom and the awesome Xup (although I didn't get a chance to chat with her as much as I would have liked - there were a lot of us and she's even more social than I am, if you can believe that)

There were others as well but I have to find their blogs. That involves work and I think I just finished talking about how lazy I am. I'll get there later in the week. I just finished 30 minutes of pilates and nearly an hour of power walking. I earned the right to slack tonight.

One thing I did notice is that there are some very attractive bloggers out there. I guess there's hope for me yet! Who knew people who spend time chronicling their lives in front of a monitor could be so beautiful? How much karma did they have to use up for that, and where can I find some more?

Hey, if anyone comes up with real life Photoshop could they give me a call? Until then I'll lounge happily in attractive mediocrity and let Jobthingy make me prettier. It's a good life, this one.

Distractions in Demonic Form

Like this picture? I can't remember when I took it or why, but it's awesome. It's like I'm trying to be sultry and sexy-pouty and instead I look tired and awful. And... what's that on the right? Why... Could it be a toddler arm practically blocking my windpipe?

There goes sexy-pouty. I'm obviously looking dazed because I'm being suffocated.

I think it about sums up most of my week. See below.

Pardon my absence. I was a tad distracted this week. It's not a difficult scenario to imagine, coming from me. I get sidetracked by things like dryer lint, for crying out loud.

The good news is that I'm better now. After two great evenings out in a row I feel refreshed and ready to go. Go to where, I'm not quite sure. I do have a blogger breakfast tomorrow morning. My very first one! I get to meet a bunch of people who only know me as The Maven and then - drumroll, please - I can reveal my secret identity. I can stand up and shout "It's me! I am the mole!"

... Okay, maybe not. Maybe I'll just use my real name which will lead straight into dropped jaws as people realize that, yes, the persona I have online does exist in real life form and she's pretty much exactly as described in these posts.

How frightening.

Perhaps, when my fellow bloggers start running from the table, they'll leave behind their scrambled eggs and I won't have to buy myself any breakfast.

Jobthingy and I are going together, so this should be a blast. Everything's a party with Jobthingy around!

As I mentioned previously and am only saying again for the portion of my readership that doesn't actually read my material and instead scrolls over it to get to the funny picture of the Conjoined Fetus Lady, it's been a week of distractions. Most notably how the majority of it has been overrun by Tropical Storm Intrepid, Hurrican Gutsy and Tsunami Spawnling.

(In my world we give tsunami names, alright? It makes for better reading.)



On Tuesday we had our flu shots. The goal was that we would keep the gremlins home until 10AM, cruely stick them full of needles at the clinic, then send them to class just in time for lunch (which I painstakingly made that morning).

And now is the time when anyone who reads regularly asks themselves "so what actually happened?"

Not much, really. Just Intrepid turning white as a ghost and almost passing out about five minutes after his vaccine, which in turn caused a stir involving nurses lying him down on a mat and giving him orange juice, which in turn revealed that he didn't eat much for breakfast, which in turn caused dirty looks and lectures to be given to us by said snarky nurses about how we should have fed him, which in turn made me snarky and reply that a handful of Honeycomb cereal is better than nothing, which in turn made my case officially lost. And all of this caused Gutsy to panic about possibly fainting as well, so we kept them both home, turned on the television and let them eat their packed lunches.

Swell. There went Tuesday.

No big deal, of course. They would just go off to school for the rest of the week and I could get my cleaning and sorting done in anticipation for the in-laws to arrive on Saturday. The house was a huge mess, but that was fine because I still had three kid-free days to clean it.

Oh. Wait. I didn't. Because Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were PD days. Isn't that great?

Deep breath. Still not a problem. Now that Gutsy and Intrepid are both in school they've matured a great deal and have learned to solve conflicts without resorting to yelling, chasing or using physical means to get their point across.

Also, during my visit to Magical Fairy Land, I lost 80lbs and all my grey hair turned blonde.

Needless to say it's been a little...tense... around here the last three days. To top it off, I barely slept last night for a variety of reasons, so I was three shades of burnt out at eight this morning. Coffee Fairy came by with two java juices for me: "One for now and one for later" she explained.

I love my Coffee Fairy. Seriously. Do you get any better than that? She saved my entire day!

In between caffeine refills I spent the day in a daze; very slow and very emotional. A nasty combination and something that always happens when I'm tired. Little things become big things and big things get overlooked because I'm too focused on the little things. It was a pervasive theme all afternoon, made worse by the screeching hooved ones, chasing each other down with fangs and claws out.

Being a resourceful parent I had the perfect solution to end all conflict.

Then, once I realized I was out of tranquilizers I went to Plan B.

Plan B involves me, an iPod, and a big grin on my face as all but the loudest screams are drowned out. While ignoring fights I knew couldn't be resolved and were best left ignored, I dusted the spot in my trophy case for Best Mother in the World.

It's so mine this year.

Finally, I'm Normal

In AA we talk about normal, or social, drinkers. Those are the people who enjoy a glass of wine every so often with dinner, or only have a few drinks when they're out with friends.

Then, they go along their merry way for days, weeks or months at time without having anything alcoholic. Just like that. Like a neat-o magic trick.

They don't center their lives around drinking; they do it as an aside, like if the function they're at happens to have alcohol, they might indulge. They usually won't overindulge either, as that could lead to poor choices or a hangover and it's just not worth it to them.

I've never understood these people. I've never been able to wrap my noggin around this lifestyle of theirs. I've contemplated performing tests on a social drinker, like ripping a martini from their hand to see what the reaction would be. As a practicing alcoholic I would have lunged over the table and politely snapped their wrist in order to get my damn drink back, carefully trying not to spill any liquid self-esteem in the process.

I've found myself quizzing social drinkers, even after 17 years of sobriety:

"So, like, how do you not want to get drunk all the time without a 12 step program in your life?"

"Do you realize how odd it is that you can stop at just one? You're a total freak."

"Does the drink taste bad? Is that why you're not having more? Couldn't you just block your nose and down the next one?"

"So what if you lose your inhibitions? Most guys that would take a drunk girl home have some alcohol and/or drugs lying around anyway, so what's the problem?"

The problem is that I am not normal a normal person. I know it's hard to believe that I, The Maven, am not the standard upon which all living creatures should base themselves, but that's the conclusion I've come to.

Take a breath, people. I know that's a tough pill to swallow.

People with addictive personalities have to work very hard at not wanting the things that feel good to the point where it becomes a problem. My entire life has been lived with the desire for instant gratification. Some of the proofs of this are: the HDTV in my livingroom (thought and bought the same day), the countless 'if I get this I'll read it right away' books on the shelf who's spines have yet to be cracked months or years later, and the bag of chips that sits on the table next to me because eating them now tastes better than fitting into my new winter coat more comfortably next week.

Having spent my entire life basking in the dysfunction of I-want-a-lot-of-it-all-the-time syndrome, I felt quite alien next to all the perfect social-whatever jerks who make me look bad.

Then, a brilliant thing happened. A light came on.

(Lights are brilliant, are they not? Do not question my prose.)

I realized recently that I am social when it comes to one thing and one thing only:

I am a social blogger.

Think about it: When was the last time I blogged? (I'm practically giving the points away: scroll down for the answer). Friday of last week, correct? And before that? The day before... Ok. I had a bit of a binge going on. But before that was Monday, and before that Saturday... And then...

Well, look! Could that be partial abstinence I see? A pattern of blogging which could be indicative of a balance between my online life and the life I have when I close my laptop?

Amazing, isn't it? I'm actually normal. Me. Normal! And all I had to do was be a giant slacker who doesn't feel like putting the effort into writing!

Two conclusions here:

1. My name is The Maven and I am a social blogger

2. You social drinkers aren't healthier than I am. You're just slacking off on the drinking because you're too lazy to develop a full-fledged addiction.

Hah! Who's the awesomest one now?