100 Ways to Help Your Child

100's Day.

It's a special day celebrated by children in the early grades at our local school. When Intrepid was in kindergarten we helped him count out 100 pennies, which we placed on a piece of construction paper. He then wrote '100 Pennies' on it and we sent it in.

It cost us about a dollar.

Duh.

Other children brought in 100 Cheerios, or 100 paper clips, or 100 candies (I bet that particular piece of construction paper didn't have 100 things on it for very long).

Personally, I wanted to get inventive by taping on 100 dead ants, or 100 cigarette butts collected outside the seedy bar down the road, but Geekster said no. He's such a spoil sport.

I was just trying to be a good mom and liven things up a little, that's all. I mean, these projects can get so dull and repetitive. Does the teacher really want to see the same 100 things over and over? No. Creativity is key. As a mom, I want to help my little demons succeed in the world by rising above! Cigarette butts make a statement that cereal does not. Even an art gallery would consider buying such a masterpiece!

It's certainly not uncommon for parents to want to help their children with their projects. Why have a home project with no parental input, right? If we were not meant to assist and guide our gremlins, it would not see the inside of a school bag until it was completed and graded.

However, some of us don't need to help our kids. Some kids come up with masterpieces all on their own. I mean, look at this beautifully decorated bristol board by a little boy in grade 1 named Tracker:


Grade 1! Can you believe it? Look at the detail. Ten different types of dinosaurs all roaming the prehistoric plains. Predators with predators, herbivores practicing the pack mentality. It's amazing. I was completely floored when I saw it. I doubt even my braniac boys could come up with something like that at the age of 7.

Tracker wrote down all the different types of dinosaurs: 10 spotted, 10 green, 10 longnecks, and the like. And he put this at the very top:


That's right. On that gorgeous work of art you have 100 dino... sews?

Hang on a second. Something is not right. How can a child who paints a landscape in perfect brush strokes, sponges on trees that would make Michaelangelo weep tears of joy, and glues all the dinosaurs in the upright position without making any of them do lewd things to each other... How can a that child write like the font for Elmo's World? He writes like a normal first grader, and this is definitely not the work of a typical child.

Unless... No. That's unthinkable. And yet...

This is looking more and more like the well-meaning but overly-involved parent who has perhaps become a wee bit obsessed with her child's homework. It suspiciously resembles something that might even have been finished, say, when Tracker was at school. Perhaps the parent even stopped at her good friend's house with some dinosaurs she picked up at the dollar store so she could glue them on before proudly walking the finished 100's Day project into the grade 1 classroom. "Look, Tracker! Here's your project you, er, left at home this morning because you... um... didn't want it to get ruined on the bus. So Mommy brought it in for you! Isn't that nice? Why don't you come up here and show your friends? ... No, sweety, it's not that one. It's this one over here. The dinosaur one, remember? I just fixed it up a little for you and added some paint and some... dinosaurs... and stuff, but you did the rest! You wrote on the cards, remember? You did such a great job!"

But, of course, that's pure speculation. I don't know anyone who does stuff like that. Not even that blonde beauty, Pixie. I mean, if she were to do something like that at my house I would have documented proof to catch her in the act, right?


Right.

Oh, Pixie!

The Sister Shacks Up

Just a quick note because it's Sunday night and I've spent my day reading, exercising and having coffee dates (two of them, if you must know, because I am one of those people other people like to have coffee with).

Despite the fact that I would rather be finishing my book than blogging and that Geekster is making it difficult to focus because he keeps talking to me when he knows I'm doing something very important, I will post something. I vowed to write 365 posts in 365 days, and The Maven keeps her promises.

Also, I must congratulate my sister on her announcement today - via Facebook, no less, which makes it very official - that she has moved in with her boyfriend, Chemgineer.

That being said, I am somewhat concerned with how quickly things are moving ahead with them. They seem to be leaping into something they might not be ready for. Moving in together is a huge step and should not be taken lightly. It shouldn't be "Hey, you're hot. Want to shack up?", or "I like Seinfeld and you like Seinfeld and it's on every night, so why not just live here and only use one t.v.? It's important to think of the environment, you know."

Their relationship has been very much like that: Wham, bam, move in with me, ma'am.

So, Photo Lush, who is my dear sister, I hope you're going to be careful and not jump into everything so quickly in your life. This isn't play time, kiddo. This is a serious commitment.

You can't just decide you're going to live with someone after only dating for five years. How can you know him well enough in that short amount of time to make a decision like that?

I hate to say it, but it's people like you that make relationships into a fly-by-night production. You cheapen them with your need for instant gratification and desire to play house. Don't come crying to me when you realize that his his hair is brown, or that he likes gross bands like Coldplay. You should have taken the time to learn these things about him before being so rash. I see a string of heartbreaks in your future the way you're going, missy.

But what can I do? I can only lead by example. Being the eldest sibling, I have to set the standard for how to do things right. And I have, of course. Was there ever any doubt? Geekster and I took a full month to get to know each other before we signed a lease and moved in together.

So there.

Too Much of a Good Thing

Hi. My name is The Maven and I'm completely addicted to exercise.

(... That's your cue to say 'Hi, Maven')

I used to hate working out as much as getting a root canal - I've had five of those, by the way, which is what happens when you inherit bad dental genetics while also being stupid enough to chase your gerbil across the road at 13 and get hit by a car.

Yes. I loathed exercise. I couldn't stand the thought of getting all sweaty and out of breath.

... That's not exactly true. There are other activities where I don't mind getting... well, never mind. Onward.

The problem with being fat, however, is that it does some nasty things to your body. The idea that my stomach is releasing extra estrogen that can grow tumours and set off my blood sugar levels all from the comfort of my couch really put me off. So, about four years ago I decided to do something about it.

I bought a treadmill.

I started walking.

I started to like it.

I lost some weight.

I liked it even more after that.

I started running.

And I loved the high of running even more than walking. That endorphin buzz was amazing.

Eventually I worked my way up to 4km every day. Sweet. What an awesome workout. I was pumped! I ran the bike path by our old house and was one of the "regulars". I ws the regular that other regulars waved to as they ran past, but whatever. It was nice to be regular at something other than bowel movements.

Wait. You probably didn't need to know that in order to get the gist of my story. Sorry.

Eventually running 4km every day was not enough. I had to have more. So I started doing strength training.

And that was quite enough, either. So I added in some yoga.

And that left me jonesing for even more, which lead me to doing 20 minutes of stair climbing.

Every day, on top of running a full time daycare and caring for my own two gremlins, I would run, lift weights, do some yoga and stair climb. I thought I was the healthiest person alive.

It turns out I was the dumbest person alive. Who knew?

I was wearing myself down in ways I didn't quite grasp. But I didn't care because I failed to grasp the concept of 'too much of a good thing' like normal people would. I had become addicted to working out. Figures, considering I have the addictive personality that eats other people's addictive personalities for circle time snack. It loves to find new things to obsess over.

Once I realized how unhealthy I was being I scaled back the exercise, which caused me start ovulating again, and voila, Spawnling!

So you, see kids: Excessive exercising can cause pregnancy. Let my story be a lesson to you.

The problem, of course, is that some exercise is good. If I could manage to do it in moderation and keep myself in check, I could end up actually healthy and not exhausted trying to pass as healthy.

So, very reluctantly, I have started a relationship with my treadmill again. We've done some couples therapy and I promised I wouldn't abuse him like I used to. I'm a changed Maven; a healthier one. I'm going to give him the space he needs and deserves as an inanimate object. I won't wear out his tread. I won't see other cardio exercise routines like DVDs and stairs. I will be loyal and monogamous.

Well, I might sometimes fondle some pilates weighted balls on the side, but a girl needs a little diversity, right? Strength training is important. I'm sure the treadmill will understand.

Thinking Outside the Box

It's Friday, and I should be cleaning.

I should be cleaning, except it's Friday.

See the quandary? Who wants to clean when it's basically the weekend?

My in-laws will be arriving tomorrow to celebrate their son's birthday. Within the next twenty-four hours I have to figure out how to make a gluten-free cake. I'm thinking a health food store, a box with some mix in it, and a cake pan. There you have it: my creativity shining through. Close your eyes, for it is brilliant.

All the energy has been sapped out of me with Gutsy's most recent illness. I'm emotionally spent. He, on the other hand, is doing fantastically well today with all those evil antibiotics coursing through his veins. He's taking it easy, but is laughing with his little brother and even being somewhat argumentative with me; a true sign that his health is picking up.

My mother, The Madre, gave me a little lesson on what to do with children who have bad lungs. She said I will need to keep him home from school as soon as he starts showing signs of illness, so that he doesn't get worn out and get pneumonia.

Like, keep him home on purpose? When he's not seriously ill? Really? And not lose my mind?

She also suggested that Spawnling and I might not want to attend playgroup anymore for fear of exposing Gutsy's wussy lungs to anklebiter ailments and the like.

But... but... Hang on, let me stomp my feet a little for good measure... I like playgroup! I really do! And so does Spawnling. It's the center of our social life right now, as sad as that sounds.

And yet, I also like my child to be healthy, so this puts me in a bit of a position, doesn't it? If Spawnling catches a vicious virus from the depths of the communal car container and brings it home to offer as a sacrifice to the demons in Gutsy's lungs, that would be problematic.

On the other hand, if Spawnling and I avoid playgroup we would probably become social outcasts who spend our days at home crying, leading to full-out depression, which might make me clean less and feed everyone Kraft Dinner and tofu dogs every night, decreasing Gutsy's health and making him more prone to infection anyway.

See the issue here?

There has to be a balance somewhere; something that will help Spawnling and I still have a life while also protecting Gutsy. With that in mind, I have come up with a few reasonable options:

• Playgroup could be held in a clean room from now on, complete with air showers, white suits and masks
• We could rent the isolation room at the local children's hospital - the very same one that Gutsy stayed in - so even if he ends up getting pneumonia again he'll have some company on Thursdays, which is very thougthful, if I do say so myself
  
• Automatic Purell dispensers could be surgically placed into Gutsy's wrists, much like Spiderman's webbing. He could squeeze finger to palm and instantly spray the germs away. Plus, he would technically be a cyborg, and cyborgs don't get sick, do they?
• Maybe Spawnling could wear a Darth Vader-like mask when we go visit his runny-nosed little friends. After a few terrifying minutes they would probably get used to his respirator voice, right?
• Using four spools of plastic wrap, a glue gun and some twine, MacGyver could design a bubble for Gutsy to live in. He could roll around in it like a hamster and run down school bullies. Think of the possibilities...

Those ideas were just off the top of my head, and sound far more reasonable than avoiding social outings. See how I can easily solve complicated problems?

I really missed my calling as a world leader.

Gutsy vs. Pneumonia, round 5

I wish I had something as interesting as vaccines to talk about. Unfortunately, I'm feeling rather drained and uncreative. You see, it appears one of my (strategically vaccinated) children has yet another lung infection.

My regular readership (and anyone who's read my current Facebook status) will know I'm talking about the middle gremlin, my exception to the rule, my most interesting character, Mr. Gutsy.

With claws in, hidden fangs, and a droopy tail, Gutsy came home from school yesterday completely spent. He started to whine the minute he walked through the door, moaning and sighing as he peeled off his outerwear. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my maternal instincts went into high gear. I knew beyond a doubt that trouble was afoot.

Gutsy got sick on the weekend with a benign little virus brought home by Geekster and spread to all of us to some minor extent. However, the middle Grem developed a fever for about three days. No worries, though. Mama Maven doesn't panic about stuff like fevers anymore. Those new-mom-freaking-out-about-every-little-thing days are long behind me. I'm a seasoned gremlin tamer now. I don't generally bat a beautiful eye until there's either a lot of blood on the floor or a really gross rash. As predicted, the fever went away by Monday afternoon and the boy went back into education mode on Tuesday morning.

By last night the fever returned with a vengeance. Damnit.

Today, he started with the cough. Damnit, damnit, damnit!

You know, the cough. The awful, terrible, dangerous cough that turns my blood cold. The one that signals pneumonia, which infests his lungs like hippies at a tie-dye convention.

Gutsy has had the cough five times now, if I counted correctly. And every time I wonder if this is going to be the one that lands him on a respirator. I know that sounds over-dramatic, and it is, because inside I'm a drama whore. But looking beyond my shortcomings, pneumonia isn't exactly life-friendly, most likely due to it affecting that ever important breathing requirement of living persons.

Couple that with Gutsy's asthma - he can thank me and my side of the family for that little gift - and we have a situation that sends even this relatively calm mother into a state of panic. When I hear the cough my legs want to give in, and I want to start crying right there. I tend to hold back the tears and only break down later into a blubbering sack of uselessness, and instead immediately put on my brave mother face and march us off to the clinic or hospital.

The routine is practiced when we get there: This is Gutsy. He's six. He has asthma. He is prone to pneumonia. He started a cold about five days ago. He started getting better, then developed a fever and is now tired, short of breath and complains of pain when he coughs. Gutsy, can you please show the doctor where it hurts? I feel like an actress doing a well-rehearsed monologue, except that I leave with a prescription or an x-ray form instead of some roses (I'd rather the roses. Why don't I ever get damn roses? Although two years ago I got a laptop for Valentine's Day, which somewhat trumps little red flowers, I think)

When pneumonia hospitalized five-year-old Gutsy last spring I just about lost my mind. I couldn't sleep, I barely ate, I paced the house, I ran Spawnling and Intrepid here and there for babysitting so I could visit Gutsy and Geekster in the isolation room, and basically lived on coffee and other caffeine-containing beverages.

In hindsight, that was a pretty sweet weight loss regimen. Nice.

Wait. Did I just say that out loud?

No. No I didn't. I typed it. That's slightly less evil, right?

Anyway, the thing is, that was the first time I truly believed I might lose him. And I realize there are more life-threatening things out there, like anaphylactic allergies (onion pizza, anyone?) and cancer, and meningitis, and a host of other nasty stuff. But when he's in your arms and can't catch his breath and his fever is 105 and he's trying to cry out for you to help him, that's a moment you'll never forget. And when your husband calls you at 5AM and says 'they have to keep him and he's on two different i.v. antibiotics and he can't even lift his head off the pillow, he's so weak', you want to drop everything and run to him. But your baby is asleep beside you and you have another who has to get off to school in three hours, and you don't know what the next phone call will bring, and a little, dark part of you wonders if holding him on the couch last night will be the last time you'll ever hold him. Just a little part, a little irrational one, but that's a fear that lives for a long, long time.

When I heard the cough today my heart stopped dead. It's a good thing it started again or I don't think there'd be a blog post today which would totally ruin my once-a-day posting rule, on account of death.

I ran him to the clinic. I dropped everything. I left Spawnling with Geekster and we went. The entire time he said 'I want daddy to take me, I want daddy, I want daddy...' and he cried and cried about it, of course, because Mommy is chopped liver even when he's sick, apparently. Not this time, Gutsy. No way, no how. Like me or not, I am the one taking you to the doctor's. Like me or not, I'm going to be the one who's with you this time, because last time my life stopped when you were gone and I missed you more than anything, and I need to be there for you in a way you might never understand. And you need me there, too, even if you don't feel that way right now.

Once he got over his separation issues, he realized how much I rock. The clinic is above a grocery store, so I bought him a treat and some Crayola craft stuff to keep him busy while we waited over two hours to be seen. We played eye spy, we laughed, we took silly cell phone pictures, we cuddled. I totally worked it and I think he almost liked me as much as his dad by the time we got home.

Wow! I'm almost as awesome as Daddy and all it took was saving his life and buying his love? Why haven't I gone this route before now?

The doctor told me that if we had waited until tomorrow he would probably have full-blown pneumonia, but that it appears to be just the start of it now. I'm just glad my mommy instincts started roaring and I got him in there before the really bad stuff happened. And, in the end, I've concluded that I don't care whether or not I'm the favourite. I'm his mom, he needs me, and I really need him, horns and claws, favouritism and all.

Forgiveness is Key

Yesterday I took Spawnling to get his twelve month vaccines.

Yes, I said twelve months, as in one year. And if your brain cells aren't completely fried from the college days - or, in my case, the junior high days, as the truly gifted users tend to leave you wussy dabblers in the dust - you'll notice that he would be about 15 months behind schedule.

A mistake? Nay. A carefully coordinated attack on a sensitive issue.

I'm a little scared of needles; not only because they're sharp little bastards that hurt even when I'm promised they won't, but also because they do funky things to the immune system that I can't fully wrap what's left of my brain around.

Then there's the alleged autism link, the mercury now removed from most - but not all - vaccines, the unknown longterm effects of immunization against something more or less benign (such as chicken pox). The worry that even after several needles given to a terrified and screaming baby, there is no guarantee of safety from the many strains of meningitis.

On the other hand, I'm not completely against them, either. They're not a cure-all for our health, and truly we need to care for our immune systems through diet, rest and stress-reduction, but they do serve a purpose. For example, I don't think any amount of organic tofu will prevent polio. And when I pierced my leg on a rusty nail last summer and learned all about the horrors of watching people die from lockjaw (thank you for that, emergency nurse) it occurred to me that my supplements probably won't keep tetanus from doing me in.

I wish I felt either black or white on the subject, but, in true Maven fashion, I have a stunned look on my face as I straddle the fence. I've read just about everything I can read on vaccines from a variety of sources and have come to a solution that seems to work perfectly: The Gremlins get vaccinated, but on a schedule I think their scaled little bodies can handle better. That's why Spawnling received the dreaded MMR yesterday and not a year ago. He tried his best to bargain his way out of it, too: "No, it's okay," he said to the nurse. "You can have the needle. I don't want it and I don't need it. I will colour over there and you can get it. Or maybe Mommy. Ok? Bye!"

I had to bribe him with a Doodlebops movie. Ever heard of them? Neither have the four stores I looked in afterwards in my attempt to buy/rent a DVD of his favourite show. After dragging him out for nearly two hours I found something else that was satisfactory to the tired terror. He sat on the couch feeling grumpy while eating chips and Peanut M&Ms.

Oh, yes. Didn't you know? I feed him nuts at the age of two. He's been eating them for over a year. So while we vaccinate very late, we also introduce high allergens very early.

It's all part of my master plan: his immune system is like the rival football team. I don't let it see my team's plays and that's how I win. No vaccines on schedule! TOUCHDOWN! Introducing nuts two years early! TOUCHDOWN! Letting him lick things at playgroup and roll around on the grocery store floor! TOUCHDOWN!

The Mavenites win!!

Now, isn't that far more exciting than following a boring ol' parenting book? Doing that would make way too much sense, and when do I ever make sense? And then what could I blog about? Making all the right choices? Boring! Besides, all my readers would go away and cry in their rooms because they feel bad about themselves. I don't want to destroy anyone's self-esteem or anything.

I can't win. I've concluded that there is no perfect answer to parenting. It's a series of mistakes covered up by other mistakes and all done under the guise of unconditional love. We have so many choices to make: Homebirth or hospital birth. Breastfeed or bottle feed. Spank or don't spank. Home school or public school. One income to two incomes. Nursery rhymes or Eminem. Regular baths or washing them down with a hose in the backyard once a month. Tooth brushing or straight to bed with a goodnight chocolate bar.

Who can say which is the right answer? It's enough to make your head spin.

Naturally, I spoke to Pixie, my life advisor, about my frustrations. How do I know if I'm making the right choices? Will the gremlins grow up to resent me for screwing them up so badly? Will they point their clawed fingers at me in hatred? Will I find dog-eared self-help books about how to overcome a dysfunctional mother on their bookshelves?

'Maven,' Pixie said in her sweet voice. 'It's not about doing a great job raising them. All you have to do is instill a strong sense of forgiveness. Then they can't stay angry at you for all your mistakes. Isn't that easier?'

Somebody call Oprah, because that's an a-ha moment if I've ever seen one.

While I've been spinning my wheels for twelve years trying to make everything right in the gremlins' upbringing - making sure their horns are filed, fangs are brushed, not letting them cry it out at night in their pods, stuff like that - I could have been preparing them to forgive me for making them screwed up adults who form weird diseases due to being vaccinated off schedule.

I feel so cheated that I hadn't thought of this sooner.

Mr. Maven Celebrates his Birthday

Dearest Geekster,

Today I stood in the kitchen for several hours and cooked for you. I made you quiche with homemade crust with these weird little carrot balls lovingly steamed in the microwave.

For you I baked a lovely lemon poppyseed coffee cake, which I screwed up royally even though it came out of a box, and then had to smother with homemade icing to hide it. But whatever. It was kind of good. if you got beyond the tough outer shell, right? Kind of like me. Yes. Yes, it was symbolism, you see. It symbolized your love for me, as it should on your birthday.

For you I collaborated to buy you the

best.

birthday.

gift.

ever.

which you do not have in your posession just yet because it is at my parents' house awaiting your parents' arrival on the weekend (they paid for half) and, while you think you might know what it is, you will be blown away when you see just how far my love reaches. I really am that awesome to be married to! You're so freaking lucky!

For you I have given my love and devotion, I have given my vows, I have given my body for three babies, and I have given my virgitinity.

...Forget that last part. I got carried away for a second, there. The other stuff is all true, though.

Happy birthday, my wonderful Geekster, you gorgeous creature, computer nerd extraordinaire, man with brain on 'roids, maker of banana bread and meatless chili, co-creator of the gremlins three, husband to one amazing woman.

I love you so much I'm going to stop blogging now and go to bed to read my book and snuggle with you on your birthday, because I know that's what you want more than anything.

Yes. A book and a snuggle. Hey, didn't you see the virgin part up there? What do you expect from someone so chaste and pure? Kissing with tongues? Ew!

The Bowl is Half Full (of cereal)

Spawnling has asked me for cereal about five times today. No milk, just dry cereal. Every time I have given him what he's asked for.

'Mommy, I want cereal,' he demands in his kingly way.

'Don't you want something else instead? Like a banana, or some cheese, or an apple?' I ask with very little conviction.

'No. Cereal,' he thinks for a moment, then grins widely in that manipulative way children instinctively use to lure in their mothers. 'Pleeeeeaaase?'

I could argue with him, but I don't. I don't because that would take energy that simply must go elsewhere today.

If I say no and he starts to cry and scream and throw himself on the ground, it means that I have less patience to care for still feverish Gutsy.

If I say no, I have less energy to meet the demands of the Laundry Leviathan that grows and grows unless it is tamed regularly.

If I say no, I have less time to work on my portfolio in hopes of landing one of those jobthingies everyone else seems to have.

If I say no, I have less brain capacity to structure my day into the important categories: breathing, eating, Rockband, childcare (can also be Rockband), housework, exercise (can also be Rockband), job hunting, looking pretty, and the all important blogging.

Plus, we must look at all the health benefits of fortified cereal. If we are to close our eyes and ignore any nutritional education we've had on how poorly many vitamins and minerals in fortified foods are absorbed, we can smile stupidly at the side of the box and think we're doing a great job at giving little Spawnling his daily iron and vitamin A requirements.

If we sink a little deeper into Duhville we can skip merrily out of the kitchen after filling the Toddler Terror's bowl full of cereal sweetened not with sugar but with juice. And doesn't that mean he's getting a serving of fruit, too? And isn't fruit full of antioxidants? How delightful! What a healthy gift to bestow upon my child! His brain and body are getting exactly what they need from dry, little, coloured circles. Ah, science! It's a marvelous thing.

Life is all about perspective. Today, I'm choosing to look at everything through the lovely rose-coloured glasses of denial. Sure, my child has had nothing but cereal in his belly all day, but it's only 11:30AM, and hey, my laundry is all but caught up and, even better still, I blogged.

Yep. It's a pat myself on the back kind of day. Looking at life like this makes me realize that I am so awesome it's not even funny.

I've got my blog, I've got my Orange Crush

I realized yesterday that I have 25 public followers. Twenty-five! Wow!

I feel like a bloody rock star.

Or blog star. Or something that maybe doesn't sound as lame as ''blog star".

The important thing is that 25 people have decided to come out of the closet and admit to the world that they actually read my stuff. That's a very brave move considering I write about sensitive topics like parenting and, even racier, food experimentation. Do you really want be associated with a girl who eats peanut butter and chips in a single sitting? You do? Great! I'm enlightening the human race to new ideas and you're boldly coming along for the ride. It's like the 60's all over again, man.

I wish I could reward all my sheeple with an excellent post, but unfortunately I'm feeling rather run down and, thus, uncreative. I think it's a combination of too many late nights partying it up with diet drinks in hand, my body's reaction to Onion Fest 2009 (see yesterday's post), and a mild yet annoying virus running through the Maven family.

Two of my three gremlins are down for the count. Gutsy had a mild fever today and slept on the couch, randomly singing things in his sleep. It was amusing and rather creepy. He gets weird like that every time he's feverish. I sometimes sit next to his bed and wait for his head to turn around and his body to spew forth the vomit of Hades but it hasn't happened as of yet.

Spawnling has a disgusting runny nose but is otherwise fine. Well, if you count sleeping like ass as fine. I define 'sleeping like ass' as waking up at least half a dozen times throughout the evening and night, which means I can't do much of anything but hang out where I can hear him (read: not in front of the television. Sigh) and wait for the next time he starts crying for me. Princess Stuffynose finds that illness does not agree with beauty rest. And then her servant - that would be me - has to convince her highness that the two of them can go together. Over, and over, and over. I've contemplated some kind of mild narcotic concoction to help with the convincing but I've heard that's actually illegal in most places.

Stupid laws.

No sleep for the wicked, or rather, The Maven, means that I was bound to get sick. Thankfully I've been feeling the effects of germ invasions far less since giving up meat. If I get hit it's much milder than it used to be. I have my theories on that (like fewer toxins and such) but I think it's at least partially karmic. Not killing animals for food must put me a little higher on the righteous scale, shouldn't it?

...What's that? The self-righteous scale? Really? Oh, you're hilarious. Now be nice or I'll feed you to one of my eager followers. There's a good chance that one of them is willing to try cannibalism at least once.

I'm certainly glad I got the busy part of this weekend finished off before the ick factor settled into my body and made me not want to do stuff. Other than having a steaming hot bath I have folded and put away some laundry and watched The Thunderbirds.

Yes, the kids' movie. Yes, with my kids. Well, Gutsy was sleeping and Spawnling was playing with toys and Intrepid was out with his dad getting a haircut until the last five minutes, but whatever. Leave me alone, alright? My fragile mind can't handle anything more complex than movies about teenage boys trying to prove themselves to their fathers.

Geekster came home, made fresh bread, buttered a piece and brought it up to me in the bath. He also brought me a Timmies coffee. I love that man. Now he's playing Mario Kart with Spawnling while Intrepid is fishing for compliments from Gutsy in the kitchen. 'Like my new hairstyle? I look older, eh?'

He does indeed look older and grinned from ear to ear when I told him so. It's so very wrong that I have a child who will be driving in four years. I'm far too young and beautiful for this to be happening so soon.

I'm going to go curl up and watch the races in the livingroom. I'll leave my readership with a funny anectode from playgroup this week that I keep forgetting to write about.

Spawnling was happily playing with a dollhouse for a good while before coming over and asking me for his guitar. I said 'What do you need your guitar for, little guy?'

He looked pointed at the toy he had been playing with and said 'I want to rock the house.'

That's my boy.

Now back to being sick. Please send me nice comments and maybe buy me some chocolate.

(You can't have followers and not ask for stuff, right? It's worth a shot, at least.)