A Picture Says a Thousand Words, or Whatever

Yesterday was not a good day.

Why was it not a good day? Not because Spawnling isn't doing well, because he is.

Not because the gremlins had their claws out around the nice(r) furniture, because they didn't.

Not because I didn't have help with the three horned ones all afternoon from The Madre, because I did (Thanks again, Madre!)

No. The reason it wasn't a good day is because I am a giant tool and didn't follow my own advice.

When it comes to health, I believe there is a fine line between being informed and having too much information. For example, when doctors were scrambling to figure out what was wrong with Spawnling and the words 'Kawasaki Disease' were thrown into the mix, I quickly grabbed a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria and diligently researched the disease - along with a few others they had brought up as possibilities - on my laptop. I became an informed parent, which is important if you're going to not only make the best decisions for your sick child, but also knock the medical staff's lab coats off with your (newly acquired) vast knowledge of auto-immune disorders. By the time doctors had about reached a diagnosis, I was well aware of what we needed to do to make him better and jumped on the treatment bandwagon with bells on.

And I felt pretty damn proud of myself, I might add, because not only had I taken the time to research everything and make the right decisions, but I also took the time to apply lipstick that day. Mothers who wear lipstick in the hospital appear really put together even when we're nervous wrecks just trying to fake it. Also, I had the cutest little barrettes that did a great job at accentuating the red in my hair...

Sorry, where was I?

Right. Research. Knowledge. Power!

So, Spawnling is on a low dose of aspirin for the next few weeks to help prevent heart complications. Theoretically, when he gets the 'all clear' at his next echo in about five weeks, he'll stop taking it. A few times before he was discharged, and once when I filled the prescription, I was told he needed to stop taking aspirin if he got a viral infection, like the flu or chicken pox. Otherwise, he could potentially develop something called 'Reye's Syndrome'.

That was brought up three or four times, I realized yesterday as I was thinking about things. Hmm. Interesting.

I could have stopped there. I could have been an ignorant-but-still-lipstick-wearing mother who remembered the important thing in all of this: If your child get sick stop giving him aspirin. That's the long and short of it, isn't it? I needn't know more. I needn't ask questions. I knew, in the recesses of my exhausted little mind, that knowing might be bad.

But, in typical Maven fashion, I just had to create a bit of drama just as things are starting to calm down. So I Googled 'Reye's Syndrome'.

Ever Google 'Reye's Syndrome'? Don't do it, man. It's not worth it. You do not want to know what can happen if your child gets it. And it doesn't matter if the chances of contracting the syndrome are minuscule. It doesn't matter if only about two people a year get it in the US because developing it is that exceptional.

None of that matters because, after you read it, you will be frightened. And, if your child has to take aspirin for medical reasons - the one thing they know increases your chances of getting Reye's Syndrome - you will be positively terrified.

And poof! just like that, you're a hyperventilating paranoid freak dashing out of the house to buy hand sanitizer so you can make

every

single

person

who comes into your home use it upon entry so your baby doesn't die after a rare health issue from an even rarer one. Because wouldn't that seriously suck?

(Did Meanie mention Post Traumatic Stress to me the other day? I believe that woman should be a psychiatrist. And, if she wants to incorporate her current career into the new one, she could be a mean psychiatrist.)

Anyway, while I was at the store I, um, picked up a few extra things. It wasn't until I got home and started taking it out of the bag that I realized how easily my day could be summed up in a single shopping trip:


And yes. I did enjoy eating my feelings, and the carrots were, indeed, purchased out of guilt. (I'm nothing if not honest.)

If I'm not careful I'm going to have to start taking aspirin for my heart, too.

... And then we'll both get Reye's Syndrome! Shit.

The Maven's Guide to Hospital Wall Art

So, here we are, just you and me.

It's been exactly two weeks since Spawnling fell ill with the oh-so-fun Kawasaki Disease. Of course, we didn't know what it was back then. I just thought he had some silly little virus his body would fight off. Oh, Maven! You know so very little, and yet you still manage to be full of awesome. Incredible, isn't it?

The last time I wrote I was feeling terribly sorry for myself and my family. It was a fairly dark post for me, wasn't it? Probably shocked the hell out of my regular readership that I had feelings that went beyond the sarcastic. "Am I seeing things correctly? The Maven feels... sadness? And worry and... and pain?"

Sometimes, but only if I don't have chocolate cake in my mouth. Chocolate cake makes all my feelings taste like sugar.

Fittingly, Pixie took me out for cake today. It reminded me of our pre-Kawasaki life, when I actually felt comfortable leaving Spawnling for more than two minute stretches and did that thing called 'laughing' everyone thinks is so necessary. At first I wanted to cry because I couldn't check to see if my baby has a fever every five seconds (which, incidentally, means we'd have to go back to the hospital immediately for observation), or to make sure that everyone who's touched anything from the outside washes their hands before entering the home of the Germ Annihilator (that would be me, in case you were wondering).

But then Pixie started to talk about work, and guys, and kids, and all that other stuff we talk about, and an odd feeling washed over me: enjoyment. As it turns out, there is life on the other side of trauma that involves cake and happiness. This is very good news.

Now that I'm feeling quite a bit like I used to before my heart was ripped out and put through a blender, I'm going to lighten things up a little bit around here. So, without further ado, may I introduce 'The Maven's Guide to Hospital Wall Art', a collection of pictures up in the hallways of the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario, or CHEO for short.


Oookay. Let's start with this little beauty. Everybody is really happy in this picture. It could be because they were playing baseball and kicked the other team's ass, hence the trophy. It could also be because they're out without the kids, which would make pretty much any one smile no matter what they're doing. Except they're not completely alone, because Toothless Timmy is hanging out behind the ghetto fence hoping something exciting is about to happen. Maybe the big guy at the bottom is going to unplug the cyborg machine from his ear and slap the guy above him for putting a glove on his head during picture time. Jerk.


You can't see it clearly, but this picture is entitled 'My Mother is Beautiful'. This child's mother is especially beautiful because her face looks like Christmas.


This was a section of poster in the Psychology department waiting room (I walked around most waiting rooms while there, but this one felt the most comfortable for some reason). I am well informed after reading this poster on how to prevent sexual abuse. I learned, for example, that little man-children with big heads and scowls on their faces are the most likely to be targeted by pedophiles, and that wearing a speedo and running shoes makes you very assertive, kind of like a superhero. You tell off that disgusting pervert, Little Man Child!


... But...but what if your parents or teacher want to take your picture? I looked and looked but couldn't find the answers on the poster. I'm now more at risk than ever thanks to questions that have gone unanswered. I feel confused.

Do you like Beatrix Potter? I like Beatrix Potter. All those cute little animals she wrote about. Bunnies and frogs and squirrels and the like. The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin was my favourite B. P. story growing up. I always pictured him bright eyed and bushy tailed, climbing trees and such.

... And then I saw this in the CHEO library. And, while it's not wall art, it needs an honorable mention.


... What the bloody hell?! I'm absolutely terrified. It looks like Tim Burton got a hold of a perfectly good Beatrix Potter story and mangled it by adding in an army of zombie squirrels and an owl who should have been taking pictures on the pedophile poster. Who decided this was at all cute or child friendly? We want to make them better, not give them new issues.


There is so much going on here that I don't know where to start. The picture is called 'The Brave Zoo Keeper' and it was drawn by a Chinese child. Apparently they have robots at their zoos in China, and they wash lions, give them pudding and pull carts full of pears as the happy children look on behind the dangerously low concrete wall. Oh, but what's this? Is that a floating man with a remote control? Why, that must be the zoo keeper! I don't know if I'm more impressed by his levitation skills or by the fact that he has a universal remote for all those robots. Either way, I now want to move to China.

Think fast: You're in the 80's, it's 2:20, there are two phones dangling from the ceiling and you have a dress made out of the office lounge curtains. What do you do? I would have said 'leave early and buy a less fugly dress', but apparently this working girl has other ideas.


Shhh. There, there. Now, Ken. I want you to listen to me very carefully: DO NOT MOVE. By the looks of things you've been in a horrific, limb-shattering accident and your entire spine has migrated into your neck. Try to stay very still on the Barbie bed while I get some help, ok?

I will be giving CHEO some money for new wall art. Oh, and maybe some less important things like medical supplies. You can, too.

Pushing Away the "Ick"

Crapolla. Is it Thursday already? Looks like I decided taking care of my son's medical issues took priority over blogging. I'd better be careful or I'll be kicked out of the Super Nerds Club.

The long and short of the last few days is that Spawnling is doing much better and we are home. He was discharged late Tuesday afternoon and is now resting here while he sheds his sickly exoskeleton and gets back to his more rambunctious, slightly less ornery self. He's making fart and bum jokes, which is always a good sign.

There are two not-so-good things going on right now that have us concerned. One is his heart, which the echo showed has a 'very mild' enlargement of the LAD artery. It's probably not a big deal and he may have had it all along, but since Kawasaki can cause heart damage this news is not sitting well with us. He has a repeat echo in six weeks (and we'll get him sedated right away this time - not like the epic fail two days ago where he lay there sobbing until they gave him drugs and waited 20 minutes).

A few people have said 'Well, at least the risk of heart issues is less now that he's received treatment'. Those few people would be correct: without IVIG treatment, Kawasaki patients have a 20-25% of developing heart issues. With it, the chance is reduced to 5-7%. That's pretty good.

Unless you play paranoid mother, a role I'm quite proficient at.

See, after your child is diagnosed with a rare disease everything changes. Statistics can be comforting one day and completely unimportant the next. On the surface, 7 out of 100 ain't bad. But considering Spawn was one of the fewer than 20 out of 100,000 to get Kawasaki Disease in the first place, that number seems rather high. Add in the fact that he has an enlargement of one of the arteries already and that makes for a very, very worried Maven.

But there's nothing we can do right now other than give him his daily aspirin dose and hope for the best. The next few weeks are when any heart issues will arise. They tend to form in the later stage of the disease.

The other issue that cropped up is vision-related: Spawn can't look right with his right eye. It stares straight ahead when he tries. It could be a couple of things, and one could resolve spontaneously as his health improves. But there is a good chance he will need some long term care to make his eye work properly again. Why is this happening? We don't know. He did have some weak eye muscles at birth which quickly strengthened and required no follow-up, and they could have relapsed when he got sick. He also had very swollen eyes for a few days and it might have damaged the nerves or muscles temporarily or permanently. We see the opthalmologist again in three weeks.

Maybe this time he won't scare one away with his Kawasaki screaming and draw blood on the other one's arms with his sharp little claws. 'Ooh! Look at those scratches. Impressive!' she declared yesterday after he let her know how unhappy he was.

'Please don't sue us' I half-joked.

She grinned. 'Usually it works the other way around'. She officially made my Awesome People List with that joke.

***

I know I don't tend to get serious very often and try to keep this blog light-hearted, but sometimes I just can't. I'm sad right now, and that makes funny hard.

I am so grateful that my baby boys is doing better. There isn't an hour that goes by when I haven't thought of him when we first brought him into the hospital; when I honestly thought I was going home without him. I hug him all the time and thank the powers that be that he's alive and mostly well. I try to take his moodiness in stride; it's something that will pass, after all, and every day we see a little more Spawnling and a little less Kawasaki.

But in some ways he's not the boy I knew less than two weeks ago. He's weak and shaky. He's nowhere near being back to his old, energetic self. Add to it that he can't see well and you have the makings for a frustrated, unsure child who wants to run around and play but is afraid of falling over. And when he does fall, he cries for a long time. Seeing him struggling with his own limitations kills me inside.

I try not to worry about his heart, but I do. I wonder what's going on in his chest despite our best efforts. Will he drop dead of a heart attack at four? At six? At twelve? Will I ever feel comfortable not watching him like a hawk? Will I worry every time he's out of breath? Every time we go to the park? Will I be that parent who begs for follow-up cardiology appointments even when they give us the all clear? Will they say 'Uh oh. Here comes that crazy Maven again. Alert security. Tell them if they launch a latte out the main doors she is very likely to follow it.'

In 12 step recovery programs we're taught to take things 'one day at a time'. With eighteen years of sobriety behind me you'd think I'd have that well entrenched in my psyche. I'm trying, because all this worrying isn't doing us any good.

But this experience has fundamentally changed me in ways I haven't completely figured out. I now know how quickly life can change and how little control I have over the whole thing. Apparently I'm not queen of the universe after all. I am keenly aware of how precious life really is, and not in some cliche, saw-it-in-a-movie kind of way. I also have more empathy for anyone who's had a very sick child, and a deeper respect for the strength it takes to have one who is chronically ill - a club I hope we never have to join, but if we do we'll be in good company.

Also, I hear they have cookies.

I'm sad a lot lately, and not much fun to talk to. When we were at the hospital it was all go, go, go, and the constant adrenaline rush helped me get all the things done that needed doing. I cared for Spawn, met with doctors, interacted with nurses, researched everything going (to the point where a few people thought I had a medical background - I told them I just have a giant brain), updated people and took care of myself. But now that we're home and I've had time to fully appreciate what has happened, my emotions are running amuck. This is why I've been so quiet. I just don't have a lot to give right now. I hope that gets better.

I know it will get better.

The wound is fresh, but some time will heal it. I'm well aware that things could have been a lot worse. I'm also aware of how awesome I am, and how I will bounce back as Spawnling does. Geekster, Intrepid and Gutsy will, too. We're all feeling a little low, but we'll be okay. We'll schedule in some quiet coffee visits with friends and family, get ready for back-to-bliss school, go to Spawn's appointments and take it from there, a day at a time.

It will be okay. Also, the next post I have lined up is significantly more lighthearted than this one. I just needed to purge the yucky stuff first.

In Which The Maven Takes a Moment to Say Thank You

It's a sunny morning in Ottawa, and I'm tuning out Diego with an iPod playlist. I would have normally shuddered when Spawn picked that annoying little animal konservation kid from a stack of perfectly acceptable videos, but I suppose he being alert enough to pick and watch a video is the important thing.

I guess.

There are only two things more annoying that Diego: Barney the nasal dinosaur (complete with creepy, overly-animated kids) and that huge-headed Dora. Figures she's Diego's cousin. Please stop yelling questions at the screen. I don't know any child who actually answers you out loud anyway. Also, if you can't figure out where you are, where you're supposed to go, or how to to identify primary colours, you are far too stupid a child to be out in the jungle by yourself. Where are your parents?

...But being in a hospital room for several days isn't getting to me or anything.

Spawnling now has the pleasure of being our most costly offspring. Geekster and I want to sincerely thank the taxpayers of Canada for helping to make our child better. This is where public health care really shines, and why we need to protect it; Spawn's isolation stay costs a few thousand dollars a day. He's also had 72 hours of anti-viral drugs and many tests that are quite costly. Furthermore, his IVIG treatment was at least $3000. Yes, for one dose.

I only know all of this stuff because I asked and I researched out of sheer curiosity. Nobody has bothered me about cost-related stuff because we don't have to directly pay for it. Thank goodness.

I've always been a big proponent of public health care, but now that Spawn has been this sick I'm positively militant about protecting it. The last thing anyone should have to think about when their child is very ill is how much it's going to cost, what their private insurance company will cover, whether or not they'll renew coverage after this is all over... Nursing your baby back to health should be the entire focus. That's stressful enough as it is.

(I would highly suggest you don't try to debate this with me right now. It's not a good time. Just nod and smile and back away politely. Say things like 'Wow, Maven! You're so passionate about this! That's great!' That would be the safer approach. Just sayin'.)

I think I'm done ranting now. It's been kind of stressful around here, in case that's not apparent. And the recovery process for my dear Spawnling (who's real name is Jackson, in case you didn't know and feel strange praying or thinking good thoughts for a kid with such a 'colourful' nickname) has taken its toll on the whole family. The situation has a lot of 'hurry up and wait' elements to it, and that can really wear a person down - even one as amazing as myself.

So here's the scoop on Spawn: He's picking up, but it's very slow. He's awake more often, eating a bit, drinking some, watching movies and cuddling in bed to read books.

But he's irritable. Sooooo irritable. It comes with the Kawasaki disease. He wakes up every time his IV monitor goes off, which is quite frequently because the little bugger moves around a lot (another good sign). He's somewhat combattive which is also positive. And last night, at 3AM, he called me 'stupid'. I was so happy to be belittled I nearly cried!

On Monday the tinniest gremlin has an ECG so we can have our first look at his heart. I'm not terribly worried, but only because I need energy to focus on the right now and not on the 'what ifs'. The heart might not be affected now but could be compromised later. Or maybe not. Why worry about it? We have a long road of aspirin taking and cardiac follow-ups regardless. It could be worse. I mean, he could have potential heart problems and the hospital could face a serious coffee shortage. Now that would be a problematic.

I'll have you know that I was an awesome mother this morning: In an attempt to bribe the boy into taking the four aspirin pills he needs every six hours, I gave him a bag of Doritos to munch on. Don't worry; the aspirin will more than offset any potential Dorito damage. That's my hands-on health-conscious parenting at work.

Everything is by-the-minute right now. As my wonderful new friend Lil said, you take this stuff a moment at a time. That's all we can do.

You people have been amazing. I can't thank you enough. All the comments on the blog have kept me going when I'm feeling scared or overwhelmed. My friends on Facebook have been incredibly supportive, asking how he's doing and how they can help. My cousin apparently got a lot of people at this weekend's pow-wow to pray for Spawn to get well. How cool is that?

Folks have been calling, coming by, bringing coffee, offering hugs. Geekster has been holding the fort down and keeping the older gremlins amused and distracted. Friends and family have been pitching in wherever they can, taking the boys for an outing or cooking meals. And my mom has been a rock for me to lean on more times than I can count. I call her about everything and, sick as she is, she's here, she's babysitting, she's preparing food, she's researching. If I ever needed her it's now, and she knows that. Thanks, Madre. I love you!

Oh hell, I love all of you. Come here and get a hug. I always knew I was fantastically popular, but I didn't know exactly how good my friendships and family relationships were until now. I pick good peeps. Pat yourselves on the back - you deserve it.

Shit. Now I'm crying. Gratitude crying this time. That's good, right? Better than terrified crying or exhausted crying. We're headed in the right direction.

Must go wipe my tears and check the dryer upstairs. It will be nice to have clean clothes that do not smell like ass.

Thank you. I'll update when we know more.

Spawnling vs. Lots of Bad Stuff

To enter the room: put on gown and scrub hands.

To leave the room: dispose of gown at the door and wash hands.

Vitals were being checked every three hours. They are now being checked every hour.

When Spawnling turns, I instinctively get up and make sure he's not wrapped up in his lines: OSAT monitor, heart rate monitor, respiration monitor, IV line, blood pressure cuff.

When he pees I put the wet diaper in a bag and we weigh it on the scale. Input vs. output.

Who knew living in a hospital could bring out my inner OCD? Everything has exact steps to follow or a precise technique. Today I accidentally screwed up Spawn's IV on the way back from Ophthalmology and they had to put in a new one.

Mom of the year award. Right here, baby.

It's a whole different world in here, especially in isolation. It's quiet and I watch the clock. I watch Spawn. I listen to his IV machine make noise and his monitors sounding the occasional alarm. I know what every single beep means and I even know how to fix most of them, although they'd probably kick my ass if I tried.

I wake up at around 6 every morning and look for signs of improvement in the demonite. So far there hasn't been a lot: just a disappearance of one symptom as another pops up.

The diagnosis du jour is Kawasaki Disease, which is the weirdest damn thing I've ever seen. John Travolta claimed his late son had it at one point, and I once saw an episode of House M.D. where they were considering it as a possibility. It's incredibly rare; various sites claim between 10 and 19 per 100,000 people, and nearly all of them are younger than 6.

Leave it to Spawn to pick up something that is rarely seen and very hard to diagnose. He has dramatic flair, I'll give him that.

Oh, and the twist in the story? Because it's not interesting enough on its own, there's a high possibility that he also has herpes stomatitis on top of the Kawasaki.

Well of course he would do that. He's my child, isn't he?

His cocktail right now consists of Acyclovir for the herpes, IVIG and Aspirin for the Kawasaki. If the herpes culture comes back negative tomorrow we'll take him off the Acyclovir.

Blah, blah, blah. I sound like a fucking medical textbook. I've learned so much jargon and doc speak in here I'm beginning to sound rather boring. That's why I added in the swear word. I need me some cussing to prove that I'm still a jobless lowlife and not just another person with a brain.

I've been eating my feelings a lot, too. Guilt free, I might add. It feels nice to say 'today, I am going to have a chocolate bar because my son is very sick and we don't know what's wrong with him and I'm stuck in a small room with no life while I stare at his limp little body and the last thing I care to think about is how many calories are in that thank you very much'.

I've made some acquaintances in the hospital. Since I did too many drugs in my early teens and thus have a hard time remember names, I've made up my own nicknames for them: There's the Lumbar Puncture Demin Doc, who looked fantastically hot in those jeans when he told me the needed to draw fluid from my listless son's spine (being easy on the eyes when delivering potentially devastating news is kind of a superpower). We have Herpes Hero, the resident who specializes in the disease, appreciates that I do my own research and treats me like someone who can, like, think. There's 'Witty Late Night Counter Dude' who I think is the funniest, most sarcastic bastard in the whole hospital so I introduce him to everyone who stops by. And, finally, there's a resident who's name always escapes me, so I call him 'Nice Shoes Guy' for obvious reasons - he has killer taste in footwear. In the middle of one of my numerous crying jags I stopped dead, looked up and him and said 'Wow. Nice shoes.' Every time I see him now I say 'Hey! Nice Shoes Guy! What's kickin'?' and he pretends he's not incredibly annoyed with me.

Since I started writing this post I've had to get up several times to check on Spawn, question the nursing staff on his decreased heart rate, comfort spawn because he's finally waking up when the monitors go off (good sign!) and cover him up because he's getting cold without blankets instead of running a constant fever (even better sign!)

I'll update more tomorrow. The Kawasaki Disease treatment is finished. Now we wait and hope for the best.

Funny thing, life...

Where am I supposed to be right now?

If you had asked me two days ago, I would have said in Peterborough, Ontario, visiting geekster's grandma. I would have explained that the gremlins and I, along with my mom and brother, Hefner, would be frolicking in the lush countryside (can you frolick in the country? Is there frolicking to be had?). We would be spending a relaxing few days keeping the Geekster family matriarch company, visiting the local zoo and forgetting the school fees and supply and clothes shopping is soon to rear it's ugly head. Denial practiced well is the best form of denial.

Where am I supposed to be right now?

I would not have said in an isolation room at the children's hospital while Spawnling is pumped full of drugs. I would not have guessed that in a million years. Not my rough and tumble Spawn.

Here's how it all went down:

on sunday the toddler wonder came down with a fever. No big, right? What toddler doesn't get those? Only genetically engineered super lab-grown ones bred to fight for the United States army (someone's been watching X-files reruns again)

the fever never went away. And worse, still, was the listlessness; the boy has been sleeping for four days straight. Normally I would rejoice, but this is just a bit too much. Eating? Nope. Drinking? Somewhat. Calling people 'stupid'? Not very much, which is a bad sign. The day the fight leaves Spawn is the day I worry. And worried I most certainly am.

Yesterday afternoon was our second trip to the children's hospital. Our first revealed nothing , as we only had a fever to go on. Butby yesterday his mouth had filled with sores, in that horror movie way that looks really gross. I thought he had thrush.

They took us in immediately. The nurse took one look at him and said 'you're not waiting this time'. He was in a room before I could fully process how serious they were taking it. Within 30 minutes the word 'meningitis' was used, and within an hour I was shaking and crying as I signed the consent forms for a lumbar puncture to test his spinal fluid.

I have seen a lot of things, but yesterday was the scariest day of my life.

My mom was here through it all, propping me up both emotionally and physically. Not only is she an RN, but she's seen a lot of illness and a lot of scary moments in her life. Thank goodness she came with me. What would I have done? Picture jello. Now picture it on the floor. That would have been me.

The initial meningitis test camd back negative and his spinal fluid looked clear, but we're still waiting on the bacterial culture results that take 48hrs. Meanwhile, Spawnling is still sleeping 90% of the time in his isolated room and I'm blogging using my fancy new iPhone, so pardon any weird typos or formatting.

The sores all over the inside of his mouth coupled with the fever are indicative of herpes stomatitis, which is non-life-threatening but extremely painful. He's being pumped full of anti-viral drugs to help his body fight it off, and some awesome antibiotics just in case he also has meningitis or some other bacterial infection. His white blood cell count is a little off, but not alarmingly so. We await more results to come in.

He's not out of the woods yet. The listlessness has everyone a little nervous. So if you pray, please do that. And if you think positive thoughts, do that. And if you burn chickens in health ceremonies I'll even condone that right now. He needs to get better fast. Now. I miss him calling me 'stupid', like, a lot. And I miss his laugh even more.

Where am I supposed to be right now? Here, with him. And I wouldn't be anywhere else.

Falling Off the Over-The-Counter Wagon

Ladies and gentlemen, my humblest of apologies.

The earth opened up and swallowed me whole last week and I only had my smartphone on me. Have you ever tried to write a blog post on a touch screen? Only if you're a desperate blogging loser. And The Maven, while many things, is not one of those.

Ok, fine. So I am one of those, but I'm far too lazy to type on a touch screen. Especially when I'm busy being popular, doing home renos and entertaining the mischeivious trio. Thus, no blog post. Better?

I'm still running, and my foot injury has completely left the building. I suppose if it hadn't I might feel badly about nearly having to sell a kidney for my running shoes. Who needs two kidneys anyway? What a huge waste of body real estate. With it gone, I could fill that cavity with nuts for the winter or some dirty magazines. I could also keep food warm until guests arrive without using the oven. Having all your organs is so overrated.

Other than that, I've been managing a freak show. Namely: The Maven and the Incredible Shrinking Boobies. Come one, come all! See how quickly milk-filled breasts can shrivel up into walnuts!

Do bras cry? I think mine are. They can't find their fleshy friends who are now floating freely inside a couple of air pockets. These bras used to be a perfect fit. And they're cute! Where's the justice in this?

But there's good news to be had about weaning: I've been experimenting with drugs.

Yes sirree. Now that my body is mine again for the first time in over seven years, I've decided to start taking drugs to deal with my problems. For example, last night I took an antihistamine to deal with an allergic reaction. As a general rule, antihistamines are contraindicated for breastfeeding mothers. Meaning they might not want to take them. Why? For no other reason than they have some theoretical potential to reduce milk supply. It's not even a proven link as far as I know and is based only on anecdotal reports. Still, I had exactly one half of a pill in the entire seven year period I was making milk and/or growing gremlins.

My mom gave me the drugs the other day. She handed me these hot pink pills (my favourite colour - that's how they get you roped in) and said 'Try a couple of these and see if they help'. Typical pusher behaviour, isn't it? Disgusting. And I was about to tell her I couldn't because I'm high on life, but figured that sounded lame. Without my usual breastfeeding excuse I took the pills and walked back to my van with a little skip in my step.

They could make a Dateline episode about people like me: Strung Out Minivan Moms or something like that.

You'll have to forgive me. My body has been a hatchery and feeding station for a very long time. I'm still in utter (or is that 'udder'?) disbelief that I can abuse myself again without fear of it impacting another life. It entices moments of panic intertwined with complete elation. What an exciting time to be me!

... Then again, are there any times when it's not exciting to be me?

Last night I opened up the package and placed a pretty pink pill in my mouth. This is it, I thought to myself. There's no going back now, Maven. You're officially a bad girl again.

I proudly strutted into my room and declared to Geekster 'Honey, I just took drugs.'

He looked up from his Harry Potter book. 'Uh, what?'

'Drugs. I took drugs. An antihistamine pill.'

'Okay...'

I went on. 'Yep. I real antihistamine. Not one of those crunchy granola ones with buckwheat extract or whatever that never saw the inside of a lab. An honest to goodness, clog-your-liver-with-toxins antihistamine.'

'Great. I hope you feel better!' Thinking the conversation was over, he went back to his book.

'Yep. This puppy is the real deal,' I bragged as I sat down on the bed. 'Causes drowsiness and everything. So I might not hear Spawn if he wakes up before seven. I might, like, keep sleeping. Like a stoned person? Like one of those people who takes sleep aids or something.'

'Uh-huh. Okay, that's fine.' He glanced back at the page he was reading.

'So, yeah. You'll have to wake up and get him, and get his drink and stuff. You know, if I don't hear him because I'm, like, on drugs.'

I saw the slightest you-are-such-an-idiot look cross his face, but it was gone in a flash. 'Alrighty, no problem. Um, can I read my book now?'

'Sure thing. I'm going to try to read, but I'll probably get too drowsy. You know, because of the drug I just took?'

'Goodnight, Maven.'

Spawnling awoke just after seven and I heard him. But I did have some really funky dreams last night. You know, because of the antihistamine.

I'm so incredibly badass.

The Text Bubble Intervention

Every now and then I need to stage an intervention in an effort to preserve a friendship.

It's not something I like doing, but if i feel it's necessary I'll use every ounce of assertiveness I can muster and present the problem in a loving and constructive way. I'll state the problem, provide reasons why it's an issue, and list a series of solutions.

Being really funny and incredibly good looking, I have a lot of friends, and thus a great deal of experience in staging these loving interventions. It's just what I do, being a great person and all.

Here are just some of crises I've had to help friends address over the years:

- Brown and black do not match, ever, and should not be worn together unless it's laundry day
- The reason you're not getting dates is because acid wash jeans went out with teasing one's bangs up (which you're still doing, so please stop)
- If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, looks like a duck, he's obviously screwing his secretary
- The fact that your toddler is calling everyone 'stupid' is a clear sign of your inability to parent effectively

No. Forget the last one. That's the intervention I'm expecting to get any day now.

The most recent intervention took place about three days ago, when I confronted none other than Pixie.

Now, some of you may be asking yourselves why I keep mentioning Pixie more often than other friends. It could be that I spend a great deal of time with her. It could be that she's just incredibly funny and gives me a lot of material. It could be that she gets a real kick out of being mentioned on my blog and that it's likely about as close to being a celebrity as she'll get in her lifetime.

But, the truth is, I'm madly in love and have plans to leave my husband so that she and I may escape to somewhere warm and build a new life together. All of these blog posts are my subconscious way of wooing her; of making her feel special enough to want to drop her entire life for me.

Actually, none of that is true (except, perhaps, wanting to live somewhere warm), but starting internet rumours can be a huge career booster. Don't Brangelina command more attention and money because their relationship began as an affair? Doesn't Tom Cruise still get cast in roles because he jumped a couch on Oprah?

Well, this is me, couch jumping an affair. Now somebody pay up.

But I digress...

Pixie and I used to send each other a lot of texts on our spiffy new phones. Lately, however, it seems like I've been doing most of the texting. One morning I informed her (via a text message, of course) that I was developing a complex. With that, she decided to give me a call:

"What's up, precious?" asked Pixie, completely unaware of the serious situation awaiting her. Incidentally, she calls everyone 'precious', so don't read into that too much. Other pet names for people involve 'baby', 'sweetheart' and 'darling'. She calls one of her sons 'Milkybug', although I'm grateful to not have shared that particular nickname.

"Baby," I said, because I'm now in the habit of using her pet names on her, "I need to talk to you about your serious lack of texting."

There was a slight pause before she asked "My serious... What?"

"Lack of texting. It's become a bit of a problem recently, Shnookums."

"I'm not quite sure I know what..."

"Pix, do you know how texting works? Generally, when you text someone asking a question or saying something funny, they reply or at least acknowledge receipt of your text. It's, as I like to call it, 'textiquette'. And sweetheart, you've been slacking on the textiquette."

"... But, but... My mom is visiting. I can't text when my mom is visiting. And before that I was on vacation, remember?" defended Pixie.

"Do you know how iPhone texting works? See, there are these coloured chat bubbles. In this case, green bubbles and grey bubbles. When I text you it shows up as a green bubble. When you text me it shows as grey. (I will now provide a handy dandy visual for my iPhone-less readers, courtesy of this website:)


"Pixie, in the last few weeks I've noticed a slow decline of grey bubbles in our conversation. So much, in fact, that there is now nearly a 4:1 ratio of green to grey. Do you know what this means?"

"That I've been busy? Or that you need a hobby?" retorted Pixie. Denial is so thick and so angry, isn't it?

"No. It means that you've been a bad friend. I'd like to think I have acceptable standards for friendship, and I fear you've crossed the line. If you're going to enter into a texting relationship with me you need to respect the rules of that relationship. Pixie, I'm afraid that if you don't get help for whatever is creating this lack of response, I may have to dump you as a text friend altogether and just see you at the park." I was firm, yet loving. It's a gift.

"You wouldn't!" she challenged. This is often how addicts behave, so it doesn't surprise me that slackers would do the same.

I took a deep breath. "Milkybug, it's time for change. Will you make that change with me?"

The anger left her and she melted into a puddle of acceptance. It was beautiful. I'm pleased to report that she's been practicing excellent textiquette for the last three days by doing it one day at a time. It's beautiful and I'm proud of her. It's also a relief, because interviewing for a Pixie replacement would take up a lot of my summer and I honestly don't have time for that.

Interventions are an important part of friendship. Be kind, and help those around you see it your way.

In Which The Maven Meets Cooler People Than Her

Now, I don't know if this is a noticeable trait of mine or not, but I apparently have a bit of an ego.

It's obviously a small glitch in my otherwise perfect personality, so it's nothing to get all huffy about. Awesome doesn't mean perfect. In fact, seemingly perfect people are never awesome. They downright suck because they're better than me. My (iddy biddy) ego doesn't like that very much.

Every now and then the universe puts someone in my path to bring me back down to earth. Someone who carries around a giant pin with which to deflate my ego (before I hastily slap some duct tape on it in order to preserve the arrogance required for writing such a self-centered blog).

Today I had the pleasure of meeting four of those people.

You may remember Jacob, the little boy at the gremlins' school battling cancer. If you don't, here's his website and his Facebook group. Jacob is now at home and doing a series of therapies and getting himself ready for the 2009-10 school year. The little guy has been through the ringer since last November, so it's exciting to see his life returning to some kind of normal. Throughout the last few months, I've been reading his mother's updates and, like so many others, cried a great deal - tears of sadness and of joy.

Not to toot my own horn - well, okay, to toot my own horn a little - I am sometimes referred to as a strong individual. I have eighteen years of sobriety under my belt, raise three boys, and have emerged from being a depressed, suicidal loser in my school years to a level of popularity that is practically embarrassing (I secretly like it, but ask me in person and I'll play it down like it's nothing. Popular people shouldn't brag lest they might become less popular.)

Do those things make me a strong person? Maybe. But not in comparison to getting really sick, or watching your child get really sick. And this is what I realized as I read post after post of Jacob's mom's entries on the Facebook group. While I would sit there and sob and eat my feelings, I also walked away from each update with a new understanding and a new appreciation for the situations of others. I had a new level of empathy for Emely, my wonderful friend who is battling cancer while raising three kids of her own. I forged a deeper connection in my heart with my own parents, who have spent the last twenty years raising my most amazing brother with Downs Syndrome, Hefner.

And, overall, I realized that I am pretty much a big wimp. Because, while I may sit lazily in the shade of my own ego as it feeds on the compliments of others, I don't know if I'm cut from the same cloth as Jacob, his parents, my parents, my brother, or my friend. I don't think I'm that kind of strong.

Anyway, like I was going to say before that incredibly long lead-up, today I had the pleasure of meeting Jacob and his family. How did I go about doing it? I stalked them, of course.

No, I mean I really did. I stone cold stalked them. I didn't realize it until afterwards, but the proof is in the pudding. It went a little something like this:

First, I started reading his mom's posts and getting all teary, which made me feel a connection to her in some way: Stalkers often feel they have a connection to their prey.

Second, I volunteered at the bake sale for one of Jacob's fundraisers: Stalkers often try to be where their victims are so they feel as though that connection is strengthening.

Third, I wrote to Jacob's mom, Liliane, (I will have to find a catchy name for her at some point) and told her a story that I hoped would be inspirational: Stalkers often try to relate to their victims so they can weave a false relationship in their minds.

Fourth, I saw Jacob and Liliane at Wal-Mart a couple of weeks ago and was going to go say hi... until I remembered we hadn't actually met yet, so it would probably be weird and creepy: Stalkers often wuss out on meeting their prey for a good while, as they struggle with separating reality from fiction.

Fifth, I saw Jacob's dad at the hardware store and decided to get out of my van and go say hello to him. No, I hadn't met him before, either: Stalkers will often ramp up their efforts as they feel the pretend connection getting stronger and the urge to reach out impossible to resist.

Oh, my. How terribly disturbing.

When you look at all the facts, it's apparent that I'm psycho. The good news is that they seem rather comfortable with psychotic behaviour, because they invited me over to their house this morning. I brought coffee, which softened the blow. I also brought Spawnling so they could focus on him and not on my crazy.

All kidding aside, they are a rockin' family. Jacob stole my heart the minute he said hello, and he even managed to get my toddler terror giggling within a few minutes - no small feat in a new environment. His baby brother is the mushiest marshmallow baby ever, and I almost took off with him until I realized that, as much as I like babies, I'm currently in the celebratory stages of not having any more. As cute as he is, I bet he poops and pukes like normal babies, which would likely cramp my style a bit.

His parents just blew my mind. They are cool and funny and real, exactly like my stalker mind pictured them. The most amazing part - other than the fact that they trusted me to sit in their kitchen - was that the air in their house was thick with love and joy. I left wanting to go home and hug my boys just for being them, and to find the beauty in all the things they do, even if it involves red paint and a beige carpet and some sparkles for added staining.

That scenario and being kicked in the kidney are things I'm still trying to find the beauty in. I'm a work in progress.

So, it's true: people who are more awesome than me actually exist. They may be rare, but when you find them you have to hold on tight and never let go no matter what and make sure you know where they are at all times and what they're doing and who they're with and make them like you damn it!

... Uh, forget I said the last few words.