You're Welcome!

Tonight I met Nat at a local coffee shop and engaged in what seemed like endless conversation. We drank hot beverages, ate treats and she even bought me a tea (switching it up from the usual free coffees I get - leave it to her to be different!)

Anyway, I just want to say how happy I am for her that she was able to have that special time with me. It obviously meant a great deal and I'm sure she felt all warm and fuzzy afterwards. I'm awaiting her next blog post in which she will undoubtedly gush over my great looks and rockin' personality.

It's so good to be The Maven.

All ego aside - let me just whip it back into the cage for a minute - I was glad to steal some one-on-one time with this chick. She struck me as someone I needed to get to know better when I met her at the Ottawa blogger brunch a couple of months ago. She's witty and intelligent and hip and has extremely cool hair. Cool hair gives people bonus points on my score sheet. People who rock the hair often have wicked personalities, and being a social succubus I tend to feed of the energy of others. It's sort of like being an empath but far more selfish. It really suits my style.

I confided in Nat that I'm always a little nervous meeting people who read my blog. I worry that they're going to expect this really funny, outgoing person who's snappy comebacks roll off her tongue like a toddler barfing up a marble.

The problem, of course, is that I'm a rather dull person. Think about it: I have three kids, I'm a stay-at-home-mom, and I blog. Wow. That's a life of excitement right there. I'm practically bursting at the seams with funny anecdotes and fling them around the room using perfect timing: BAM! There's one now. Everyone's laughing. BAM! There's another one that's related to the first. Look at the precision that Maven has! She owns the room!

Oh, how I wish.

I prefer when things go the other way: when people I know in real life read my posts and suddenly realize that I might actually have a talent that goes beyond knowing when Dr. Phil comes on the various satellite channels.

Don't knock it. Not everyone can remember channel numbers off the cuff like that; they have to actually consult the guide. Losers.

I can be really geeky and serious at times. It's not all fun and games when you're The Maven. Sometimes you have to talk about alcoholism or secondary infertility or miscarriage or other tales of woe. And sometimes you even have to shut up and let someone else talk. And actually listen to them.

Ick.

This evening I told my coffee date how I cried before dinner because Gutsy said he likes daddy way more than me, and how I was set on fire at school when I was thirteen. Those are not light topics, people; they are very serious, feel sorry for me topics. I'm just glad I talked about interesting, drama-filled events and not how I placed an online order for a missing part to our steam cleaner. There's serious stuff related to the discussion and then there's loser talk. I don't go that far down the ladder and step into Loserville too often. Only when I'm really desperate for a topic. And tonight I was not. It appears some people like to talk as much as I do. I'm not as unique as I once believed. Tragic.

The nice thing about writing blog entries is that I can take the best parts of myself (and, well, some of the worst parts) and carefully craft them into words before sticking them up on a website. It allows me time to think about what I'm writing so I don't bore my readers (the thousands of you out there) to tears.

Recreating myself daily: It's my gift to you.

You're welcome.

But in the really real world I'm actually a pretty average girl. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that I can blend in fairly well in most circles and don't have (quite as much of) the ego I put on display here.

I am, however, above average in looks. And I'm really intelligent. I ooze brain cells out of every gorgeous pore. Just so we're clear.

Parenting 101, sorta.

Since I'm such an expert on parenting, I thought it would be in my readership's best interest if I were to ask some questions that could be on the exam in my future parenting classes. It would give all my loyal visitors a head start on the course and they wouldn't have to miss out on any frat parties because they're too busy cramming for exams.

Imagine the travesty of missing the spring kegger. Horrific! (Unless you're me and you avoid keggers altogether for obvious recovery-based reasons...)

So, without further ado, here are some practice questions:

Describe all four phases of how The Maven, parenting diva, would deal with a tantruming six-year-old when they're both exhausted and she's trying to do the fifth manual load of dishes of the day because the stupid dishwasher is stupidly broken.

Phase 1. The Maven tries the calm approach by physically getting down to the child's level and lovingly but firmly telling him he needs to stop. She places a hand on his shoulder and rubs his arm while he screams loudly enough to make her eardrums want to drink cyanide. Like, if they had mouths. She cradles him in her arms and strokes his hair softly while she tells him it's alright, he just needs to calm down.

Phase 2. If he doesn't stop screaming because his previously embryonic self absorbed every ounce of genetic stubbornness from both his parents, she decides she needs some space and tells him that she's going to go to a quiet place so she can breathe and hopes that he'll calm down as well.

Phase 3. If he chases her down, still screaming, she keeps walking as she breathes very deeply and attempts to see any colour but red; preferably mauve with maybe some rainbows and unicorns floating around in the mauveness.

Phase 4. If the six-year-old whacks her on the back of the leg with all his might because he's not getting what he wants, The Maven, mother supreme, stoops to her son's level in a whole new way by screaming louder than he can and threatening to throw his precious laptop (a 10-year-old Apple with some missing keys and a broken hinge) in the garbage if he makes even one more peep. He goes to time-out quietly.

It works. The Maven wins.

(Did everyone get that? It might be a good idea to take some notes.)

Question 2: What would The Maven recommend you do if you had confirmed via email a meeting at the school with a woman coming from out of town to talk about your gremlins' hearing needs?

Well, first of all, don't write it down anywhere, especially on something useful like a calendar. Just make a mental note of it and tell yourself you'll remember because it's obviously too important to forget. Then have a few things break in the interim, like a furnace and dishwasher, and throw in several friends in crisis and in need of your advice and support, and voila: Twenty minutes after you're supposed to be at the school you'll get a phone call saying "Did you forget about me?" and you can stammer and apologize and make excuses and just generally feel really craptastic about the entire thing.

3. What should you do if your children have been cooped up inside the school all day because it's bitterly cold outside, are in foul moods, are throwing tantrums and/or crying about nothing and/or falling off of things and hitting their faces on tables, and you've been rather forgetful?

It's obvious you all need a nice healthy meal. Preferably something homecooked. But the day has sucked for you, the mom, and you know that example of putting your own oxygen mask on before your baby's? It's time to use that card and use it well. The Maven would recommend you throw steamed veggies to the wind and order some extra cheese pizza and pop. That's how we amazing parents roll, yo.

***

Thus concludes our lesson for the day. I thank you all for coming and hope that you will gain some valuable information from this session. It's not every day I impart wisdom of this magnitude, but it's truly my hope that everyone can shine as bright as I do when it comes to raising their children. Step up and be the best parent you can be. And, when all else fails, eat an extra slice of pizza and have a nap on the couch.

R.I.P. Dishwasher

When we first moved into Casa Maven there was no built-in dishwasher. There wasn't even a spot under the counter for a dishwasher. What the house did come with, however, was a portable machine that the previous owner was more than happy to give away. She said it was a little tricky to get going and showed us how to attach the hose to the tap in just the right way. Right. Got it.

I decided to try it the very next day. I did exactly what she told me: I set the draught glass she left us upside down in the sink. Then I precariously balanced the bottom of the hose on the glass and screwed the top of it into the faucet. I put soap in the loaded dishwasher, turned it on and switched on the taps.

Water came shooting out of the hose where it met the faucet, the force of which was enough to send the hose flying through the air spraying everything in sight. At the same time, the beer glass flipped over and smashed in the sink. Soaking wet, I fought my way through our new indoor sprinkler system and turned off its water source.

I then unceremoniously hauled the dishwasher into the garage.

Stupid dishwasher.

But, you know, it wasn't so bad doing the dishes by hand. Casa Maven is situated on a half acre in a lovely, almost cottagey area. Although we're in the suburbs it feels quite rustic in our old fixer-upper home surrounded by 60-year-old trees. I didn't mind getting my hands soapy while baby Spawnling played happily on the floor with whatever he could find in our half-unpacked boxes. Doing the dishes by hand three times per day felt old fashioned and simple. I smiled and hummed as I listened to the splish-splash of the sudsy water.

That lasted about three weeks. Then the wet dishrag of reality snapped me in the eye.

It was really nice while it lasted, though.

By the end of those three weeks I had a hard time not breaking dishes as I slammed them into one another on the dishtray. Dishes three times a day? Who the hell did this family think I was, some kind of Cinderella? Surely they realized I had more to do in life than washing dried ketchup off of plastic Buzz Lightyear plates. If I had to stick my finger into the bottom of one more cup to scrape off two-day-old milk I was going to stick my head into the lavender-smelling water and quietly drown myself.

Not only had we just moved into our home, but we also had a ton of renovations going on. The downstairs bathroom was being gutted (the one that contains our washer and dryer, which were sitting in the dining room, unusable), a wall had just been built between the playroom and livingroom, and the entire house was being painted room by room. All of these renos were being done by Geekster and I. Well, mostly Geekster. Being the household manager, I feel it's best I delegate and focus on my primary task of motivating everyone while eating chocolate. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.

Geekster looked like a demon risen from the ashes of a hardware store. His clothes were covered in (very nice coloured) paint, his hands cut and oily, his goatee greedily hanging on to bits of insulation. He was so hot.

Hot like in body temperature, I mean. He's a sexy beast, but only after he showers.

In one of my greatest moments of empathy I politely told Geekster that if he would not build a dishwasher into the kitchen I would probably have to divorce him, as I was certain getting dishpan hands and a sore back were grounds for such a thing.

He understood, but explained that we had used up all our savings on the other house repairs and couldn't possibly afford one right now.

It's probably best I don't repeat what I said after that, lest I shock those who believe me to be quiet and respectful.

(... What? Nobody? I'm so hurt.)

It goes without saying that within a few days I had a brand new kitchen island and a (free, secondhand) dishwasher, all custom-built and installed by Geekster. Impressive and, most importantly, efficient. I welcomed laziness back into my life with open arms.

How I enjoyed having a dishwasher. It was noisy and made clunk-clunk-ROWR-wown-wown-wown sounds, but my dishes (mostly) came out clean. Life was good and I was a happy Maven.

***

Today my free secondhand diswasher broke. Isn't that wonderful? We're broke and it's right after Christmas, so the timing is perfect!

Sigh.

I feel like we just lost a family member. A noisy, unstable, and rather ugly family member, but that's beside the point. For 18 months Clunk-a-Dunk has been helping me maintain order in the busiest place in our house.

No, not the bedroom, you sly dog, the kitchen. Teehee.

I'm understandably stressed out. There is no happy baby Spawnling to play merrily in the now non-existent boxes while I scrub the stupid pots and pans. He's been replaced by a toddler who loves to get all up in my face at every opportunity. In order to do the dishes I'll have to fill the sink next to me full of water so he can splash it all over the floor and wet my socks. My alternative is to let him scream as he clings to my pants.

Oh, joy of joys!

I can hardly wait.

I'm brimming with excitement at the prospect.

Geekster thinks he might be able to repair the broken dishwasher. I certainly hope that it's not only repairable, but quick to fix. Because it goes without saying how much staying home to clean dishes will affect my social life.

Priorities, you know?

A Few Notes To Self

Self,

Cookies will not make you skinny.

Exercise only works if you actually reduce or maybe maintain your caloric intake. Increasing it because "exercise makes me hungry" is not helping.

Just because your house is clean in areas that other people visit does not make you an excellent housekeeper. Please stop patting yourself on the back and go wade through the mess in a bedroom or two.

You might not want to ingest so much caffeine, like, ever again. If scientists were to come to the house and measure seismic activity the shakes from your body alone would produce a 3.6 on the Richter scale.

It's great you put Spawnling's baby clothes into some giveaway bags. Now you might want to actually give them away. That's what you're supposed to do with giveaway bags and not leave them in the hallway for months at a time.

Reading. It's good for you. Try doing more of it. Staring at your 'to read' pile of books does not actually count as reading.

While we're on the subject, Facebook does not count as reading either. It doesn't. Not even a little bit.

Oh, and the pile of art supplies sleeping on your printer? Works of art don't create themselves. There is no self-discovery in thinking about painting. Nice try.

Never, ever switch both your shampoo and hair styling product at the same time again. Frizzy disaster! They could make a B movie out of your hair right now. The Thing That Ate The Maven!! Your head currently has its own continent. Brutal.

Know what? Despite your faults you're actually a really cool chick. It's important to balance all that nitpicking with a compliment or two. You're also intelligent, funny, and dead sexy. You know, if we're going to be throwing around compliments. Go big or go home.

It's time to go do something productive. But before that happens can you please finally post links to the interviews you gave? Procrastination is definitely one of your superpowers, Maven.

Impossible M.O.M. - She knows exactly what she'd ask George W. Bush.

Nat - She lets us in on what a proper robot helper should look like.

Mary P. Jones - She reveals what Muppet she'd give a rose to.

Jobthingy - She ponders what kind of Starbucks drink she'd design.

Anybeth - She shares her top three 80's songs.

Momma - She designs a parade float that best resembles her life.

Jen - She changes one thing about life in Russia (Yes, Jen. Just one.)

(If I forgot that I interviewed you please remind me, and do understand that I am terribly busy and extremely popular coupled with the fact that I fried many braincells in my early, non-recovery days. Thank you.)

Money, it's a gas

There are some really wonderful things about having a responsible husband. He's the type of man who makes his family a priority and models responsibility to his children. He cooks, he cleans, he shops, he fixes things and he's very hands-on when it comes to taming the gremlins. He's pretty near perfect a husband, really.

No, you can't have him. I found him first and I'm keeping him. Plus, he thinks I'm beautiful and I can't seem to convince him otherwise, even first thing in the morning. That right there is worth getting all amazonian on any woman who tries to move in on him.

There's only one problem: every two weeks, he insists we sit down and pay the bills. We tuck the tiniest gremlins into their pods for the night and he fires up the dreaded spreadsheet. Every time that graph paper-like document opens up I just about spew vomit all over his keyboard. On budget nights I would happily hand him over to just about anyone if it got me out of the chore I hate the most.

How would I deal with money if it wasn't for Geekster? I would probably book a holiday somewhere warm to get away from all the stress. And that is why I'm not the crowned Queen of Budgets.

See, I hate dealing with money. It's one of the few things I really and truly suck at. However, I do have my strong points in the dollar world: I can shop for sales, I can avoid buying things we don't need, I can find ways to cut costs. But I absolutely hate to look at the actual numbers.

Geekster lost 10% of his pay a few weeks ago due to some cutbacks at work. Not everyone had their cheques reduced, however. The rest of them were laid off. Therefore, we try to smile when we say "pay cut" because it's currently an antonym for "fired". In this economy you have to roll with the punches, so roll we have. We just cry a little while we're rolling.

We always said we'd never live beyond our means. In fact, we had a master plan of not even living at our means. We had a cute little house, two cute little cars, two cute little children and one solid income. Life was good. It could have gone on that way forever.

What crumpled up our life plans and tossed them in the proverbial recycling bin? Lust, my friends. Pure lust. At some point just about three years ago, Geekster and I threw caution to the wind and did some naughty things in our cute little house without a cute little condom. Before we knew it, there were two cute little lines on a test indicating that our lives were about to change forever.

Again.

Don't get me wrong: We all adore our little Spawnling, hooves of Hades and all. He's by far the greatest ending to our reproductive tale. However, his arrival meant trading in my compact sedan for a budget-busting van and our compact house for one with enough room that we wouldn't be eyeing each other homicidally all the time. The last three years have been a whirlwind of change with a serious lack of spare change.

I also thought that was a great sentence. Thank you.

Tonight, after I went on my daily doggy walk, I came home to find my nemesis the spreadsheet grinning maliciously at me from Geekster's laptop. "Just paying the bills," my husband said with a sigh.

Drat. Why did I have to powerwalk tonight? Couldn't I have taken my time? Maybe took a leisurely stroll and frolicked in the park for a while with the dog? Sure, I would have probably lost the tip of my nose to frostbite, but if it meant not talking about how much we need for groceries or how much I don't have in my pocket to spend on coffee over the next two weeks I'd be willing to make that sacrifice.

My biggest issue with paying the bills is not that I hate paying them. In fact, I like paying them because that means we no longer owe them money anymore. I've thankfully only had a single incident with a credit collector, and that was a hospital in the US looking for money my insurance company was supposed to pay them. This is the good part of having a responsible spouse who reminds me that a phone is more important than a pizza. No. My problem with paying bills is that it reminds me that I need to actually make some money like all those normal people with jobs.

But I don't want to be a normal person with a job! I don't wanna! I want to sit home and eat bonbons for the rest of my life and watch Ellen dance on TV and find out what happened to Ricardo once he got out of his second coma after being found in the water with his brother's boss' neice's dog's ex-groomer.

My best shot, as should be clearly apparent, is for me to make money writing my crap. Guess what I'm doing tomorrow? Starting to find someone who will buy my crap.

Then I get to be a sucker like all those working people.

Note to self: It would be wise not to refer to the editor as a sucker. It might be counterproductive to the whole finding a job thing.

Team Maven: Justice Fighters

I was a slightly ticked off the other night when a couple of people I consider friends started speaking in a homophobic manner. They're nice people, really, just that they've been raised to believe that being gay is somehow a choice and wrong and that it goes against God, or whatever. But to be honest, I don't think there's ever a good reason for discrimination.

There are very few things I can't tolerate, but one of them is prejudice. To me, being homophobic is right down in the bottom of the junk pile with being racist. You're judging someone based on elements of themselves that are beyond their control, are not in any way inferior, have no bearing on your own life and are, quite frankly, none of your business anyway.

I hate saying something because it can lead to conflict. And I hate conflict as much as I hate the idea of tearing off my toenails with a butter knife. So, like, a lot.

But I said something. I had to say something. Not because I want to be right, but because I firmly believe in everyone being treated equally. I don't normally get preachy, but if you're going to tell me your opinion I'm certainly going to give you mine in return. And you're going to like it, of course, because it's my opinion.

Okay. Maybe not. I don't think I changed any views at all. I have superpowers, but one of them is not the power of persuasion. I wish it was because I could score so much more free coffee and maybe even some cash. Convincing someone that they'd like to get paid nothing to feed me organic grapes all day would be nice, too.

Next time I pray to accept the things I cannot change, I'm also going to ask for a grape feeder.

But I don't just talk the talk. I'm not one of those I'll-save-the-earth-in-my-Hummer type people. Generally speaking, Geekster and I make a point of surrounding our family with very open-minded people. I think it's good for the gremlins to get a healthy dose of different in their lives, lest they be blinded by my greatness and think that being like me is the only way to truly be alive (it's a curse). Or, worse, they start to think that the Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual family with 1.8 children and a Volvo parked in front of a bungalow is all they can expect from adulthood*.

One such open-minded soul is Jobthingy. In some ways we have a lot of things in common: we're both women of about the same age (which is my way of not mentioning my three year headstart), we both have children with special needs (and have tried numerous times to make Speedy and Intrepid's betrothal legitimate, but Canada thinks we're being archaic. Whatever.), and we both blog. On the other hand, she drinks wine and I drink sobriety, she uses more swear words in an afternoon than I use in a month, and she's very proud of her boobies in a way that I will never be of my saggy eggsacks. Er, I mean, my beautiful, milk-making life-givers. (Must remember that I'm a postpartum doula and thus have a standard to uphold.)

But, we do love breakfast followed by lattes, and this is what we do best when we're together. When Jobthingy and I hang out on those too-rare occasions, we head to Rockin' Johnny's (a 50's style greasy spoon diner) followed by coffee for us and trains for Spawnling at the nearest mammoth bookstore. It may sound like a lame morning, but it's awesome. One of my favourite outings, actually.

Yes, I am really lame. I know. I have three kids. It's not like I get out much, ok?

Jobthingy's moms are a happily married couple and great people to boot. So it goes without saying that neither of us batted an eye when, surrounded by trains, puzzles, ride-on toys and hundreds of children's book titles, Spawnling picked this little beauty to leaf through:


You can't see it very clearly in the celly pic, but the title of the book is BOYS! BOYS! BOYS! and it's filled with all the prettiest young men you can imagine: the Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron and all the other hearthrobs of this millisecond.

Not being concerned over my children's sexual orientation can be quite liberating. For, instead of nervously grabbing the book, slamming it back down on the table and marching Spawnling over to the nearest Tonka section in hopes of smearing him with testosterone, I said "Aww, cute! Jobthingy, he really likes this book. Take a picture!"

And she did. While I still think Zac Efron is too pretty to be a boy, I'm open-minded enough to support Spawn's choices. I'm such a great mom.

Ergo, it will come as no surprise that I was rewarded for my shining example of parenting. For, when I was about to back out of the parking lot after our latte fest, I found a special someone sitting next to me:


Why, hello there Justin. Where did you come from?

Jobthingy looked a little guilty. I'm sure it wasn't because she stole him out of the sticker section of a particular book just so he could be immortalized in my van, gazing at me through his heart frame with gorgeous eyes and five o'clock shadow. That would be wrong, and I couldn't possibly accept him as a gift if he were stolen.

I'm thinking he probably fell into her shoe as she was placing Spawnling's favourite book back before we left. Yeah. That's it. And then when she came into the van she noticed he was there and had no idea where he had come from. She assumed maybe he was one of her daughter's stickers that had somehow gotten misplaced in her footwear and thought giving him to me made more sense than bringing him home, lest he get lost again.

That's far more plausible and much more honest. And, damnit, I'm open-minded enough to believe it.

So, Justin Timberlake, AKA my boyfriend (and quite possibly Spawnling's) has been living happily in my van ever since. It's nice in there, minus the bitter cold. But once I climb in he knows all that frostbite was worth it.

* A note to any Anglo-Saxon, heterosexual families who may be reading my blog: I'm sorry if I offended you in any way. I'm sure your 1.8 children are quite lovely (is the second one missing its arms or something? Is that why it's not considered an entire child?) and I happened to have lived in a bungalow myself for several years. Also, I hear Volvos are very safe and get good gas mileage. I might like to own one when I have that kind of money. Must get to work on that persuation superpower...

Perfect Parents = Perfect Children

I put in a call to a friend of mine today because she was having a bad day. Her son had thrown a colossal tantrum and it had set the mood for the rest of the day. I feel so badly for her.

I wish I knew what she was going through, but I don't. See, my boys never, ever throw tantrums. There is no screaming, no bodies being self-propelled to the floor, no objects being thrown across the room, no door slamming, no stomping feet, no yelling 'I hate you!' or 'Go away, meanie!' or any other inappropriate statements.

My boys have always been very calm. They like to sit quietly and read books or work on giant floor puzzles for hours at a time. When I put a movie on they sit down to watch it without making a sound. Well, sometimes they laugh or pause the film to discuss important and/or sensitive topics pertaining to the plot, but that's about it. There is never any rolling around on the couch or floor, pillow throwing, humming or popcorn launching.

When you live with my children, you see good behaviour modeled all the time. The dinner table is a perfect example: three little boys, all sitting nicely, using utensils and eating every vegetable. They ask for the ketchup bottle and never blindly reach over another's plate to get it, rubbing their sleeves in food or knocking something over. They stay at the table until everyone is finished eating and always ask to be excused. They ask me about my day: What did I do? Did I take some time to relax? Do I need help with the dishes after dinner?

The garbage is always taken out. The playroom is usually spotless. The counters cleaned up after a snack is made. Their beds tidy and pajamas laid out. They fold their own laundry, remind me that they need baths or showers, and sit down to do their homework as soon as they get in from school.

Tantrums are something other people's kids have. Those are behaviour issues directly related to poor parenting. Those people with screaming kids in the grocery store? They obviously overindulge their children/don't spend enough time with them/let them stay up too late/teach them no boundaries.

Those people with aggressive toddlers? They're exposed to too much violence/watch too much television/each too much sugar/don't get enough sleep.

Don't get me wrong, here. I'm not judging anyone. Some of it is certainly beyond anyone's control. I'm sure at least a part of is genetic. Geekster and I are both very calm, sensible people. We are always relaxed and roll with the punches. There's rarely any stress or anxiety in our lives, made possible by good planning techniques and some good, ol' fashioned responsibility. Model citizens raise model citizens, you know.

It's simple, really. If you parent my way your little boys and girls will be better behaved. They won't do all those terrible things that make you want to pull your hair out and/or jump out your bedroom window, running naked and laughing into the night. They'll be happy and well-adjusted, just like my children.

Yep. Just like mine.

(It was so nice to dream for a little while. Thank you for indulging me. It's too bad I'm an addict or I could occassionally pop a hallucinogen and take off into this little world more often. Now, I must go. Spawnling is crying because he wants the Rockband guitar that Intrepid is using, and Gutsy is whining that I won't make him nachos, like, right this second. The one redeeming quality of this moment is that no one is technically tantruming. Score one point for me. Go, Team Maven!)

It's 9:18AM

There is a lot of snow on my road. Tons and tons of it. We shoveled twice already and I'm planning to build a float in honour of the neighbour across the street who snowblowed the end of our driveway two times yesterday. He's my new favourite person.

I believe my van has suffocated under a blanket of the white stuff. Good thing it's a lease.

Spawnling has not has his diaper changed. He's been up for over two hours.

He is not dressed. He's currently wearing grey track pants, a blue dinosaur pajama top and a hoodie. He refused to take the hoodie off before bed last night and the track pants were a result of me not being able to get him a change of pajama bottoms on account of Gutsy trying to fall asleep when the "incident" occurred. Tres toddler chique, though.

He is not cooperative about getting dressed. He has the Rockband drum sticks and has made a drumkit for himself out of pots and plastic containers on the kitchen floor. What he hasn't used from that cupboard has been tossed across the kitchen in order to give me something to do today.

Spawnling's favourite saying this morning is "No, no, no! I don't want to do that! You go away!" While I'm grateful he has taken up speaking as well as he does, sometimes I wish he would also take up anger management. The two would work well together.

It probably doesn't help that he was awake until 11 last night because I decided he could use a nap. We cut out naps two months ago for this very reason. What was I thinking? Apparently I forgot to have my cold glass of reason yesterday morning.

Did I mention we have to be at a birthday party in 42 minutes?

Did I also mention I haven't wrapped the gift or purchased the card yet?

Did I mention I haven't had any damn coffee?

But hey, at least I blogged. Priorities, right?

Now, off to try and dress the octopus that is Spawnling.

A Lesson on Gender Tact

This post is for anyone who has children of both genders, or who has a strong preference for either boys or girls and doesn't do a good job of hiding it. I hope you're paying attention. It's not every day I dedicate a post to a specific demographic.

In case you've been living under a rock, I will mention that I have three boys. Yes, three. That's right: boys. This is not abnormal in any fashion. Many people have multiple children of a single gender. I know two families with five boys, one family with four girls, many with three boys or girls, and an abundance of families with two males or two females.

I see single-gendered children in a family as often as I see a mix. And, while I haven't looked into statistical data on this subject, I am fairly popular and thus know a great deal of families. My scientific methods are quite sound, thank you.

With the aforementioned in mind, I would like to make a few points:

1. You should probably pick your jaw up off the floor when I mention that I have three boys. I didn't just tell you I have a conjoined twin living in my hairline, or that science recently found a new species building cities in your processed cheese slices. It's not weird or shocking in any way to have three sons.
2. You can definitely tell me how wonderful it is to have a little girl. I'm sure it is wonderful, and I'm happy for you. I will enjoy your daughter's company and admire her clothing and barrettes. I will feast my eyes on her pink snowsuit and anything baring polka dots. You may even find me hiding in your playroom brushing the mane of a My Little Pony. So soft, those manes.
   
3. You can also tell me that the bond is different with a girl and that you share a special connection. I'm sure you do and I am, once again, very happy for you. I can imagine it's very special to share a common gender with your child. It might be wise, however, to refrain from telling a woman without daughters that you feel sorry for her. Because, by doing so, you're essentially implying that her relationship with her son(s) is lacking or inadequate. I can say with absolute certainty that, while my gremlins may be loud, boisterous and terribly busy, we are all very nicely bonded. I don't cry myself to sleep every night at the thought of not having a daughter and I don't look enviously upon those who do. If I did, there would probably be a deeper psychological issue. I can't afford to be nuttier than I already am, thanks, so I'll let you take pity on me instead.
   
4. It's not a good idea to hug someone and say 'I'm so sorry' when they tell you they're having a second boy. That happened to me once. It goes down in history as one of the oddest moments of my life.
   
5. Telling me that you would shoot yourself in the head if you had three boys is not very polite dinner conversation, especially if I just met you. Just sayin'.
6. People with same-gender spawns sometimes wonder what their life would be like with the other sex around. It's a lot like wondering what having lots of money is like, or travelling the world, or being an astronaut, or a world-famous blogger (hah!) but nothing more than that. We're actually pretty happy with who we birthed. Strange, but true.
   
7. Yes, you really can have a bond with a child that goes beyond whether or not they have a dangling appendage. Intrepid, Gutsy and Spawnling are all very different people with their own likes and dislikes, their own strengths and interests. Phew! It's a good thing Geekster and I didn't just stamp BOY on their foreheads when they came out of the womb and raised them all exactly the same like we were planning to! Parenting outside of gender stereotypes is an advanced technique that only a few excellent parents like myself can master. A lot like being a ninja, really.
8. Not everyone feels the pull to have "one of each". If that's what you wanted and that's what you received, it's a lot like winning the lottery. Congratulations! I used to care about things like that. I really did. Then some neat-o things happened, like a brother with Down's Syndrome, my own PCOS, infertility, miscarriages and genetic hearing loss in two thirds of our spawns. Suddenly the type of body parts our children were born with became less important. Funny, that. (Well, we still hoped for two arms, two legs, a heart and some lungs, which I admit is still picky. Nobody's perfect.)
   
9. It may surprise you that nobody found me on top of a skyscraper after Spawnling's ultrasound sobbing with regret over not being able to buy pink things. It may equally astound you that I willingly agreed to Geekter's vasectomy even though our house is devoid of Barbies.
10. I've observed that people with all boys don't tend to feel sorry for those with all girls, or vice versa. Instead, we tend to high-five each other over needing fewer bedrooms and celebrate the hand-me-down train. We laugh at the stereotypes and we recount tales of insenstive remarks. It's like a secret little club - and it has me in it which makes it posh, too. A secret little posh club.

I write one of these posts every few months not because I have hang-ups about the subject matter, but because this is a recurring theme in my life and I know I can't be alone. The next time there's a fluoride debate at city hall I might stand up and suggest adding some tact to the water. What's more important: Harmony with our fellow beings or nice teeth?

Ok, but harmony's the second most important thing, right?