Yet Another Life Lesson From The Maven

The old saying is true: When life gives you lemons, whine a lot, beat the crap out of life, ask if they're fair trade make lemonade.

I had to find the silver lining in all sorts of unpleasant situations today. I was covered in baby snot - someone else's baby's snot, I might add - but I got cold hard cash which mostly wiped away the memory. I then used that money to go out with Geekster for some Bunny shopping and a late dinner. The money is now in my belly in the form of a veggie burger.

I had to fight Gutsy tooth and nail to clean the playroom this morning, but I managed to figure out that guilt works very well on him. All I have to do is traumatize the boy by telling him that his actions leave me feeling disappointed and *poof!* everything magically gets put away. I feel we both benefit from my questionable parenting tactics.

Today's biggest life challenge involved not pawning/abandoning/being passive aggressive with Spawnling for sleeping like ass last night. He fell asleep at 5:30PM, which is about 90 minutes before he would normally get tucked into his pod. I was trying to keep him awake but he passed out sitting up in my computer chair watching a Weezer video (his favourite band, even).

Then, in typical weird two-year-old fashion, he woke up at 10:30PM fully rested, and proceeded to watch preschool television until the wee hours of the morning. I tried to sleep on the couch beside him for most of the night which turned out to be an epic fail. At 5:30AM I was finally able to move us both to my bed when I found him sprawled out on top of me, elbow in my face and nursing with the world's worst latch. Ouch.

I kicked Geekster out of bed at 7:30 with a bit of nonsensical mumbling. It is a PD day, you see. All three gremlins were wide awake and foraging for food, and I was in no state to be pouring things that could make large messes on the floor.

The silver lining in this toddler tale of terror? Relax. I'm getting to it.

At 9AM, as Geekster was walking the dogs, the phone rang. I didn't even try to get it. I put a pillow over my head and figured it would either drown out the ringing or I would suffocate myself; both acceptable options at that point. But Intrepid, being a boy with a sixth sense for things which will bring his mother joy, ran into the room and whipped the phone at my covered face. "It's Coffee Fairy, Mom!"

The only person I would accept a phone call from after a night like that would be the one and only Coffee Fairy. Wonderful, thoughtful, intuitive Coffee Fairy, who flutters her magical wings and bestows upon me the gift of alertness.

As soon as she heard my cracked and slurred voice, she knew I needed caffeine. Then, when she found out I was not only running on empty but also had three gremlins home and was doing childcare in the afternoon to boot, she hung up and rushed my way, stat. Within a few minutes I was gifted with two extra large coffees ("One for now and one for when you're about to pass out again") and enough sacrificial sugar to keep the gremlins from committing mutiny.

See? When life gives you lemons, drink free coffee.

My friends are amazing. I am a lucky Maven. When I'm rich and famous, Coffee Fairy will get a nanny for each of her children and a very hunky pool boy (the fact that she doesn't have a pool isn't really the issue here).

And I may have spent all day looking for my camera cable, but only because I just had to post this video Intrepid took. The silver lining of gremlins taking my camera without permission is that I get to post their videos on my blog without permission. An eye for an eye and all that.

It's all in Parenting 101. Didn't you read that footnote?




Off to bed. The real bed. Sans Spawnling. Goodnight.

A Poem for Monday

Monday morning so full of havoc,
I dream of lying in my hammock,
Except a hammock I don't possess,
So I shall have to live with stress

Intrepid won't get out of bed,
He says the daylight hurts his head,
I throw some clothes in his general way,
'Get dressed or no t.v. today'

Up is Gutsy, my early riser,
Hoarding cereal like a miser,
Not so willing to put clothes on,
Busy yelling at brother Spawn

Spawnling half-awake and moody,
Because I cut him off the booby,
Grabs the cereal demanding more,
Before flinging it upon the floor

Geekster looking quite distressed,
Staring at the new found mess,
Dogs are running to the scene,
Canine tongues make floorboards gleam

Insane amounts of persistence,
Make our gremlins go the distance,
Shoes on, coats zipped and with much fuss,
They finally make it to the bus

Already tired and only eight,
Geekster and I don't celebrate,
But we try to turn the day around,
To wash away the mopey frowns

Coffee's bitter taste will calm,
This zonked yet oddly twitchy mom,
I pour my cup feeling so serene,


....Well, shit. We're all out of cream.

Gutsy's Dance Recital

Quick: If someone brings a vacuum, a sword, a bulldozer, a monster truck and a plastic octopus into a room, what are they planning to do?

Any idea?

That's what my two-year-old just gathered up and dropped at my feet as I was about to start blogging. Then he explained the need to do some 'light cleaning' in my bedroom.

I think he may be saying my room needs a little more than your typical tidy. And he would be right. I spent an entire day not two weeks ago doing everything from windows to floors, and it's already a complete disaster. I don't exactly know how a plastic octopus is going to help The Spawn tackle the clutter, but our little evil genius always seems to have a plan that works out in the end.

Anyway, Spawnling gets a lot of sentences dedicated to him on this blog. It's always Marsha, Marsha, Marsha Spawnling, Spawnling, Spawnling! This isn't a Spawnling post. This one is dedicated to the middle gremlin.

I can't recall if I mentioned this before, but Gutsy took a lunch hour dance program at school this term. We've asked him if he wanted to take drum lessons, go back into gymnastics, join a baseball team, a soccer team or take skating lessons. We've offered him swimming courses, taekwondo classes, even yoga sessions: No interest. He's an active kid but he doesn't like the idea of spending his precious time being run from one activity to the next on top of wreaking havoc at school all day.

We're not activity pushers and believe strongly that free play is far better for the gremlins than running from one structured activity to the next, especially if they're in school full-time. And just because there's some real science to back us up doesn't mean we haven't always felt this way. In fact, I'd like to think we're pioneers in bringing back lazy parenting. By opening the back door and letting them out to explore and use their imaginations, we're not only making more Oprah time but also strengthening their brains and social behaviors and all that crap. And we were doing this form of armchair parenting before it even became trendy again. Before we ever knew there were actual, scientific benefits. We've raised healthy children quite by accident. Sort of like when abstract becomes art.

In January, when we were flat broke from Giftmas, Gutsy bounded home from school and slapped down a piece of paper next to the cutting board I was using. "I've decided. This is what I want to do, Mom."

I picked up the paper. "... Dance? ... Like, as in, dancing?"

He was adamant.

It never occurred to me that Gutsy would enjoy formal dance lessons - well, if you can call anything kindergarteners do "formal". He just didn't seem the type. But then I had to ask myself "What exactly is the type" anyway? Does a boy who joins a dance class have to be flamboyant? Feminine? Be a huge fan of High School Musicals 1 through 38? Know more about fashion than his mother? Was I, champion of equal rights for all, stereotyping my son? Stuffing him quietly into a pigeon hole so as to pass him off as one of those hockey kids?

And, worst of all, was I detecting a little bit of apprehension about putting him in this class? Was I, The Maven, maybe a little worried about people would think? That maybe he would go through childhood as "the boy in that dance class because he wasn't boyish enough to go into something sporty"?

I hate to admit it, but a little part of me was worried. Not the logical, intelligent and terribly good looking part. Just the old tapes telling me that, when I was young, no boy who was in dance was ever accepted and respected by his peers. And those who strutted their stuff usually ended up as a hair stylist or makeup artist, not that there's anything wrong with that.

So I punched those tapes in the junk and threw them out. Because if my boy wanted to cha-cha until his legs gave out, then God dammit, he was going to. And we would be there to cheer him on every step of the way.

***

Yesterday was recital night. Gutsy picked out his nicest white shirt, making sure the cuffs were done up and the collar was straight. He wore black pants and his awesome white and black plaid hightops to accentuate the outfit. He was calm and collected before his big performance. I, on the other hand, was probably more excited than he was.

When I had my third boy one regret crossed my mind: I guess I'll never go to a dance recital. As Minimaven I had a long term affair with the stage, performing jazz ballet, tap and theatre. Talented? Oh, I think so. And in my mind, I knew I would have a little girl who would also make her mama proud as she dazzled the crowd with her dance moves.

Three penises later, I had lost all hope.

That is, until Gutsy sledgehammered my stereotypes into rubble and dazzled a packed house as he danced with a little girl named Cindy, who he said later was "realy pretty but also kind of mean."

Geekster explained that's usually how it goes with girls. I gave him an elbow to the ribs.

Gutsy made us all so proud. There was a limit of two people allowed to attend per child due to limited seating. We were seven: Geekster and I, The Madre, The Sister, The Brothers and Chemgineer. Rebels, the whole lot.

After the performance I got a tap on the shoulder. "Excuse me," said a friendly voice - and I expected a chair to the face for having made someone stand in the back while my family took up nearly an entire row - "I feel like a total stalker right now, but I just had to say that I read your blog and I love it."

Oh.

My.

God.

Was I just recognized in public? Does that mean I have a fan? Or maybe a groupie? This must be an April Fool's joke. Except she seemed truthful and there wasn't a pack of mean girls behind her waiting to laugh at the pleased look on my face.

As it turns out she knows a couple of people I know and they seem to all like my blog. I have no clue why, but I don't question these things. Instead I dragged her around and showed her off to my family, stating in absolute disbelief that someone actually came up to me they love my work.

Or, well, close to it.

Then I asked her to add me on Facebook, which she did. And now we'll be friends forever.

Hah. Who's the stalker now?

To my new friend: You did well, but I think there's some room for improvement. If you want to be a real stalker and not just someone being nice, might I recommend figuring out where I live and maybe doing something creepy like ringing the doorbell and leaving me a coffee on my doorstep in the morning? Extra large, 2 cream. By doing it every day you'd be creating a ritual and thus upping your game and earning more crazy points.

Please don't poison the coffee though, as I would like to drink it. Also, if you start soon I can get some Roll-up-the-Rim cups. And if I win a car I'll let you drive around in it with me sometimes. Promise. I'm nice like that.

***

When Gutsy's dance was finished and he left the stage, he came right to me and crawled up on my lap, tired and proud. I kissed the top of his head I don't know how many times and held him tight. In that moment I remembered what a long and painful journey it was getting pregnant with him; the negative tests month after month, the losses, the sadness, the hopelessness, the often faltering determination.

Last night I was able to get another glimpse of the beautiful boy he is and the man he will become. I love him so much. I love them all so much. My heart just swells with gratitude when I think about it.

I mean, what would life had been like had we given up? What on earth would life be like with no Gutsy or Spawnling around?

I mean, other than peaceful.


They have my heart. All of them.

Intrepid's Bad Choice

There are some wonderful things about having a twelve-year-old. I think it's my favourite gremlin age so far. They're old enough to do a lot of fun things, like watch previously inappropriate movies and television shows, understand and use sarcasm, and have long talks about things like human rights and religion (and how the two don't always go together). All of this in one package, and he barely talks back yet. The hormones are flowing, but not enough to scream 'SCREW YOU!' at me because I won't drop him off at the mall with $50.

It's a magical age, I tell you.

One of the best/worst things about being twelve is Intrepid's ability to contain the younger gremlins while we leave the nest in search of coffee or building materials or new vans. We've been able to see my friend's band without any phone calls, go to Bastette the Sponsee's dirty thirty (she's getting terribly old and decrepit, isn't she?) and even just peruse the aisles at the grocery store reading labels and finding sales. It's been a wonderful few months of owning raising a twelve-year-old.

But I did say it's the best/worst thing, didn't I? And that's because there are occasionally issues with an older brother minding younger brothers. No matter how well we train him, he's still a brother first and foremost. There was the time we came home to Gutsy crying - an hour past his bedtime - because he was too scared to go to sleep. Why? Because Intrepid told him if he was that angry about brushing his teeth he should probably see a psychiatrist, who is a type of doctor that can lock you up in a mental institution away from your family if they think you're crazy.

But sweet dreams, Gutsy!

We had a little talk after that. A little talk about not scaring the absolute crap out of your brother as that is not conducive to getting him to bed on time.

Sigh.

But that's the thing about entrusting the young to watch the young. Occasionally they will make bad choices. Like on Sunday, for example, when we figured Intrepid could have his friend over while we went out for an hour to the grocery store.

"Just find something to do with them that will keep them busy and you'll be fine," I said cheerily.

All appeared well when we came home. The first test is to listen outside by the front door and check for really loud screams. If any are detected it's recommended you go back to the car and head out for coffee for another hour so the whole mess can be sorted out. Really loud screaming is an early warning system for a completely ruined day if you dare walk through the doorway.

If you do step into the house and notice any yelling it's probably too late. If someone is upset enough they'll likely be somewhere near the front door waiting to pounce on you with complaints about how cruel someone else is being. You'll be detected in no time and any hope of escape to the blissful sounds of steaming milk are long gone.

In this particular case we heard none of those things. All seemed to be status quo. We like those days. We get back and everyone's watching a movie or playing a board game or building train tracks. It's quite lovely to breathe in some sanity as it's a rarity at Casa Maven.

But then something caught my eye. Dropping my shopping bags I walked into the living room only to discover a large space of floor completely cleared. It's a sizeable room to begin with as it was built onto the back of the house, so why did they need so much clear space? What were they doing?

The table was pushed against the window, the chairs stacked on top of it. What few toys were on the ground were now moved into a pile by the china cabinet (containing, I might add, some actual china I recently inherited from my late grandmother). Across from the china cabinet is an open cubby-like shelf full of breakables. The space around that was also cleared out. What was going on?

Gutsy bounded across the floor, a trickle of sweat on his brow. "Hi, Mom! We were just playing dodgeball!"

Oh.


My.


God.

Bad choice! Bad choice!

No you were not. This is some kind of joke.

It was quickly apparent that it wasn't some kind of joke. Damn. "But Mom," Intrepid tried to explain when he saw the shocked look on my face, "We're not anywhere near the t.v., so it's fine, right?"

Just when you think you've explained all the rules you realize how very, very wrong you are.

Just when you think you've instilled common sense into your children, you realize that a twelve-year-old, no matter how bright, is still a twelve-year-old.

It's all XUP's fault. And Maybe Gutsy's.

I now know why I haven't been blogging much, and you can blame her. Yes, that's right. XUP is the cause of all my blogging woes. See, I added her to my feed a little while back and I started to read her. And read her. And read her. She's really quite good, you see.

And that's the problem.

XUP can always find interesting things to talk about. I cannot. I do not comprehend how the brilliant woman comes up with a new and exciting topic most every day. She makes you laugh. She makes you think. And, in this particular case, she makes you wonder how you can ever blog again when you have that to compare it to. I believe she might be alien. She's even one of those creepy vegetarians. Those people are so aware of the bigger picture that they can't possibly be human.

Several times in the last couple of weeks I've started to write. It looks good at first and I think I'm actually getting somewhere. Then I hit the literary wall, get discouraged, and throw it all to the wayside while I pour myself another fair-trade coffee and sulk.

(One must remember the bigger picture even when one is sulking.)

Today, I woke up with a fresh perspective. You know what? Forget all those extremely talented bloggers. I may not be among them, but I'm also not swimming in the crappy blogger pool, either. You know those crappy bloggers. They write stuff like this:

omg so like tara is such a biaaatcchhhh!! WTF?!?!?!? shes all up in my face like were in high skool still but we not were workin peepz now u no? so when im geting the maneger to sine my vacasion form she doesnt need to come up and be all like 'what were u doing txting my man last night????'

fuuuukkkk! i hate this place and i cant wait to leave it 4 ever! as soon as her boyfriend and i get marryed i can quit stupid berger king and move in with him and she can serve me my fukkin frys. yesssss!!!!!

Ever stumbled on a blog like that? It can make your eyes bleed. I made that one up but I have no doubt someone will come along eventually and claim intellectual property rights:

hi u stole my life biaaatch! dont copy me and dont hate. ur jus jellous of my talentz!

Nope. I'm not quite that bad, thankfully. So I'm going to stop trying to up my game and instead get back to my writing roots. I'm not going to try and come up with neat topics anymore. I'm just going to let the words flow, like an improvising rapper. I'm going Eight Mile, yo. I'm spinning phrases like a spider spins webs.

I'm dipping my toes in the crappy blogger pool with that last sentence, aren't I?

Whatever. I can more than make up for that with some amusing anectodes. Why do I stress myself out trying to find fresh topics when the gremlins provide me with more material than I ever thought possible? And what they don't provide, my crazy friends and family do. I, of course, am nearly perfect and rarely do anything that could be considered short of amazing. Not much to write about, there. I'd basically sound like I'm bragging all the time.

It's a curse being this great, I tell you.

Speaking of gremlin stories, the middle one decided to let his horns show this morning. Not only did he crawl into our bed in the middle of the night - followed closely by Spawnling, and let me tell you that four people in a queen size bed does not give me the beauty rest I require at my advanced age - but he woke up a good 45 minutes before the alarm and wanted to get himself cereal.

No problem so far. Gutsy is a capable six-year-old who often wakes up with the birds to watch cartoons before school. The problem today was that he wasn't feeling very independent.

Poke. Poke. "Dad?"

Shake. Shake. "Daaaad?"

Geekster mumbles "Yes, Gutsy? What is it?"

Spawnling stirs. I stir. It's like a memory foam mixing bowl.

"I want some cereal. Can you get me a bowl?"

All gremlin-friendly diningware is in the pantry on the bottom shelf for easy acquisition. I streamlined the early morning food gathering process in the last quarter so that we can increase dream production. It's supposed to be a full-proof system that Gutsy and his brothers have had a training seminar on. He's to read the manual before calling in management. I was rather disappointed by this morning's events.

"Gutsy," replied his very tired father, "the bowls are in the pantry and the cereal is in the cupboard next to the dishwasher. You know that. Go get it yourself, honey. It's too early to be talking. I'm going back to sleep, ok?"

Did you notice where the cereal is? Streamlined, see? I'm such a freaking genius.

Poke. Poke. "Dad?"

Geekster's mumbling turns into grumbling: "What?"

Spawnling kicks me in the ribs. Ouch. Damn it.

"I don't want a plastic bowl. I want a glass one."

The "glass" - or ceramic - bowls are sitting in a less convenient cupboard above the sink for a very specific reason: they are breakable.

"It's not time to get up yet so I'm not moving if I don't have to. What's wrong with plastic bowls? You always use those." At this point, Geekster sounds like he's whining more than discussing. I can't blame him. Being forced to make conversation before any coffee is a form of torture in some countries. So, instead of subjecting myself to torture as well, I winced at the pain in my ribs and went back to pretending I was fast asleep.

Gutsy, never quick to back down, explained his situation earnestly. "Yes, but they're plastic bowls. Plastic bowls are for babies. I want a glass bowl."

Knowing this could go on until the alarm sounded, I figured I would quickly rectify the situation. I didn't have a Food Acquisition Manual for Casa Maven in hand to throw at Gutsy, so instead I used 6:15AM logic. "Gutsy, when you're tall enough to reach the glass bowls you'll be old enough to use them. That's why they're up high. I have a system. Please respect the system. Now go get a plastic bowl and let us sleep, ok?"

There. Problem solved. When The Maven puts her foot down that is final. End of story. Everyone listens because I am god-like in my power.

For the next half hour we listened to Gutsy whine at the foot of the bed in such a way that he sounded like a sickly cow. A very sickly cow. A cow so sick it couldn't go get a damn plastic bowl in the damn pantry so its poor elderly cow parents could get a few more minutes sleep.

And then the alarm went off.

I got him a plastic bowl. He frowned and begrudgingly accepted it, his throat too hoarse from deep throated bovine-like whining to argue.

See? That's quality material right there. Moo-velous material.

The Naughty Maven

I've been a very bad girl. So bad I should be punished.

If anyone wishes to punish me they could try taking away my chocolate, although I would advise against it if they value the use of their hands in the future.

I've been bad to myself, you see. Since Spa Weekend I haven't been taking very good care of myself. I've been eating poorly, sleeping less, whining more (see below), ignoring pain (see further below) and not blogging much (see the last few weeks).

The last little while has been mostly sucktastic: news of tooth decay and dental surgeries for two of the gremlins, no hope in the near future for the reinstitution of hours (and thus full pay) at Geekster's work, and added expenses as the insurance estimates start trickling in. We're on the hook for about $800 of Spawn's surgery and, while I considered prostitution as an quick-fix money maker, I don't think I have any leopard spotted bras or frayed jean skirts, and none of my shoes have heels high enough or colours bright enough to get noticed on a street corner in the dark.

...Also, did you know what you actually have to do as a prostitute to make money? You don't just lean over and talk to people in cars while holding a cigarette and looking flirty. There's... other... stuff. Stuff involving getting in the car. Ewww.

Anyway, since I'm not in the mood to be replying lipstick that much in a day, I've decided to whore myself out in other ways; I'm doing casual childcare and some light cleaning and sorting for a friend. I'm also strongly considering getting an actual postpartum doula certification as long as it doesn't break the bank, and doing some real, paid writing.

Oh, and we're getting a tax return for the first time in ten years. I had big plans about how to spend the $1200 until Geekster said nothing would look as nice on me as less debt.

Damn him and his reason.

All this stress and new work has wreaked havoc on my poor, delicate neck. And since cashflow has been a bit of an issue I haven't been seeing my chiropractor on a regular basis. And by 'on a regular basis' I mean any time in the last six months.

Then I woke up and couldn't move my neck.

For three days.

Pain is incredibly motivating.

I saw her this evening and will be seeing her once or twice a week for the next little while. I have some kind of syndrome - the name escapes me, but I think it's something like When You Move Your Neck It Feels Like Someone Is Throwing A Fucking Hammer At Your Back Syndrome. Something like that.

Anyway, I'm now able to blog again because I can look at my screen without wimpering. It feels good. I missed you almost as much as you've undoubtedly missed me. Wipe away those tears, my lambs, for The Maven is back and she has many great stories to tell about her sorry little life in the suburbs.

Right now I'm going to go make myself a late dinner and watch some X-Files. My twelve-year-old is obsessed and I'm enjoying drooling over Mulder in Season 1. Not so much Scully, though. She doesn't get attractive for a while yet. At some point they make her look less like a schoolmarm and she catches some sex appeal. Right now she's just annoyingly skeptical and trying so hard to be normal.

Don't try so hard, Scully. Some of us fringe girls are never quite normal and it's not a bad thing. At the very least, it means a lot of people will want to be around you for entertainment purposes or because they're addicted to crazy, but either way you'll sometimes score free coffee. Also, you might find yoruself doing cool things like talking to fictional characters on a show that ended several years ago.

I need to get out more.

Baby Boot Camp

When The Sister and I go shopping and I bring one of the gremlins, it's not because I'm a sucker for punishment.

When she chases Spawnling around the house with a shoe of his in each hand, enacts a perfect wrestling hold to put his coat on, hastily chases him outside and stuffs him unceremoniously into his car seat as he cackles evilly, she's not doing it because I'm too busy deciding what purse would go best with my shoes.

When she hovers around him in a mall, bribes him to get into the stroller by buying him a lollipop, navigates carefully around store racks that have clothing he could stain with his sticky little hands, all while attempting to buy things, I'm not off getting myself a bagel and a coffee because I feel like it.

When she's trying to negotiate a movie in the van for him to watch, changing it because he decides ten seconds in that he hates that one, reaching haphazardly behind her to pick up his dropped lollipop, contorting her body into uncomfortably painful positions to tickle him when he gets grumpy, I don't ignore the entire kerfuffle and instead belt out Weezer tunes because I'm being insensitive.

See, The Sister - AKA Photo Lush - has no little spawns of her own yet. And given that it took five years of dating before her and Chemgineer moved in together, I'll probably be throwing her first baby shower about the time we enter the next ice age. In the meantime I have three gremlins at nearly all stages of development for her to sink her future parenting teeth into.

Thanks to me, she can learn to steer through the ferocious storms of toddler tantrums, attempt to focus on her daily tasks while simultaneously processing a six-year-old's incessant monologues, and delicately, oh so very delicately, tiptoe around a preteen's precarious mood swings.

By the time she has her own children she will be nothing short of a parenting goddess, and people will bow at her feet for she has knowledge they only wish they, too, possessed. She'll know why we say "because I said so" and that it's okay to yell "STOP YELLING!" in certain situations. She'll understand how important shopping lists are when your mind is on telling the kids they can't have every damn thing in the store, and why you should never, ever leave your box of tampons where someone can reach it ("Look, mom! Nose plugs!")

When my sister becomes a mother she will already know that you can't watch a movie from start to finish without pausing it. That spit-up stains can be covered up with a nice scarf. That rock music trumps Raffi after you've given birth to your second child.

***

As she was struggling to get Spawnling into his car seat today while avoiding his sticky lollipop hands, I loaded the shopping bags into the trunk and sat in the front seat eating Peanut M&Ms with my free hands - all two of them.

Why? Because I love my sister enough to let her get sticky hands all over her hair, that's why.

(Photo: My sister as a baby. Sooo cute!)

Spread 'Em!

This afternoon, around the time I was dumping my cleaning water after nearly four hours of playing Maid Maven at someone else's house, Gutsy took it upon himself to organize the bathroom I had just organized two days before. Lovely.

I guess Geekster probably mentioned I was working and the middle gremlin felt inclined to do something nice for me. He really is a sweetheart most of the time.

Well, at least half of the time.

Sometimes only a third, but that's because we don't meet his high standards of quality on those days.

As I dragged my exhausted ass into the kitchen and dropped all the cleaning supplies on the ground, Gutsy whipped his head in and said "Mom, guess what? I have a surprise for you. Come see! I organized the bathroom! Come see right now!"

I shuffled away from the chair I was about to plop into and made my way to the bathroom, where I doscovered the sink and mirror ledge crammed with toiletries found previously in the medicine cabinet. On the left were the toothbrushes (all five of them) and toothpastes (all four of them) in a plastic container. To the right was my acne system, make-up and deodorant.

Gutsy felt the need to tell me what everything was just in case I inhaled too many cleaning products and had forgotten. "So we have toothbrushes, toothpaste - did you know we have four toothpastes open, Mom? That's kind of a waste - and then your makeup in that container there, and right at the end is your Lady Spread Stick."

Ever tried to swallow a laugh? It actually hurts.

"My... My what?"

"Your Lady Spread Stick."

"I bet Dad wishes I wore that all the time, eh Gutsy?"

"Oh, yeah! So you don't get stinky, right?"

"Riiiight."

Newly reading six-year-olds are awesome blog fodder.

It's Like Pulling Teeth... Or Elbows.

Yesterday, I took Gutsy to see our new dentist. I figured since Spawnling's teeth were rotting out of his mouth and the old dentist didn't catch it, we might want to question the validity of Gutsy's "perfectly healthy teeth" report at his last cleaning a few months ago. Intrepid will eventually follow suit and have his own appointment. But frankly I'm getting really tired of dental clinic smell. It makes me think about parting with money.

The new dentist took some x-rays and showed me the heavy decay in two of the middle child's front teeth. Yes, the same spot as Spawnling's. Not nearly as pronounced, but enough that they will need to be drilled and filled, thankfully without sedation. Gutsy is perfectly happy to watch Sponge-Bob on the television in the ceiling while they work on his frozen mouth. He has no need for $850 in sleep medicine like some people. *CoughSpawnlingCough*

Of course I'm unimpressed by the total lack of dentistry that has been going on at the old dentist's. However, this latest discovery makes me feel less like a jerk for leaving over one mistake, even though it's a big one. And yes, I was feeling a little jerkish being so pissy. I don't do anger very well. I'm more of a 'find some way to make it my fault' kind of person. It suits my personality better and it makes for fewer uncomfortable confrontations. I don't like accusing people of not doing their job very well; probably because I feel edgy when people do it to me. It's okay if I question my capabilities as a mother, but you had better not critique me or I'll get all up in your face.

Or I might just go somewhere and cry, or pay for therapy so I can cry in front of someone.

Now that both Guts and The Spawn are going under the knife - or drill, or plyers *shudder* - I'm finding it very easy to take our business elsewhere. Even the prospect of writing him a letter explaining the situation is less scary. I don't know what I'm going to say just yet, but maybe it'll go something like this:

Dear Dentist,

Thank you for missing obvious dental problems in two of my children. Specifically, eight cavities in total. We're eagerly awaiting April 25th, when our toddler will be sedated and lose four of his teeth because they are now so badly decayed they can't be saved. I'm also looking forward to paying our portion of the $1500 for his dental surgery and his likely need for braces in a few years' times.

It's okay. They didn't need to go to college anyway.

Sincerely,
The Maven

See? Polite and positive. That's the best form of complaint letter.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: This morning I had been visiting a friend of mine and was just getting back into Vanzilla when I got a call on my cell phone.

"Hello, Maven? Are you near the school? ... Oh, good. You'll want to come pick up Gutsy. He and a boy were playing outside and Gutsy's arm was pulled. He can't move it at the elbow anymore."

"Ah. He dislocated it. It happens. I'll be there in a few minutes."

You might think I would be freaking out at this point, but we're old hats at this. Intrepid had four separate trips to the emergency clinic to have his elbows put back in. This was Gutsy's third go in six years. Our children have wussy joints. It's not their fault. If there is a genetic mutation to be discovered that causes someone to be ten pounds at birth, have poor elbow joints, weak enamel and hearing loss, the gremlins will be frontpage news in the science world. Until then it's one blurry haze as we travel from specialist to specialist with occasion trips to the hospital.

But you get used to it and it stops becoming a big deal. It's not drama if it happens all the time. When I want drama now I just start some rumours about people, or make them get into fights with each other but subtly egging them on. It's not like I'm busy with my own life or anything.

I immediately called Geekster and informed him that he'd be spending the afternoon keeping Gutsy company in the CHEO emergency waiting room. "Again?" was his reply. I explained I was working in two hours' time doing childcare for my friend who is, ironically, a nurse, and that I didn't think she'd appreciate me minding her babies in a hospital full of sick children. Something about contamination or superbugs or whatever. Those nurses are so paranoid.

I would like to say that I then hung up the phone and, panic-stricken, raced down the road at top speed so as to gather my sore child into my arms and comfort him, but I transitioned out of that state a long time ago. That's what first-timers do and I'm a seasoned pro. Old skool, baby.

By dislocated elbow #2 I stopped panicking and put on the radio to drown out crying on our way to the hospital (there are only so many times your heart can get ripped out of your chest as you helplessly listen to your child wimper every time your vehicle turns a corner or changes speed). By #4 I had learned to make a nifty sling out of either a pillowcase or receiving blanket. And by #6 I knew I could get a coffee or a bite to eat before heading out anywhere as long as the gremlin in question was not in complete agony. In this case, time #7, Gutsy's elbow episode sounded minor compared to the others and probably only partially dislocated. He was sitting, not screaming and simply keeping it propped up so it wouldn't hurt. Sounds like a candiated for pre-pickup coffee if you ask me!

After four hours the Gutsmeister was back home with his partially dislocated elbow now mended (can I call them or what?). I was finished my paying job for the day and we ate dinner. I then made my way over to my neighbour's house where I got the skinny on my other part-time moneymaker, which is the cleaning and organizing of her home.

Now, if you know me and have been to my place, you might ask yourself why anyone in their right mind who also knows me and has been to my place would trust me to clean theirs. While I've improved how tidy and organized Casa Maven is, it still doesn't look like I have mad skillz, yo. More like my skillz are starting to get moderately angry. It's a work in progress. But, like I explained to someone today, if I was paid cash every time I swept and mopped my floors or organized a pantry, my house would be sparkling at all times.

Then I would mess it all up and clean it again.

Then, after a few cycles of that, I would retire and my retirement home would remain a pigsty.

My only hope is that the people I'm working for will be able to go on without me when I'm a successful author who no longer needs to pimp out her other skillz to the masses. It won't be long before I'm rolling in more cash than I know what to do with. That's because I'm an awesome writer. So awesome I have all these writing jobs!

Oh, wait.

Damn.