Update on Spawnling's Gremlin Heart

Yesterday, we got the news we'd been waiting to hear for over two months:

Our son's heart is healthy and strong.

We officially took him off the aspirin that was thinning his blood in order to prevent aneurysms. We no longer have to worry about running him into the hospital at the first sign of a fever, because any fever now would be from another illness and not a Kawasaki Disease relapse.

He is 100% better with no foreseen complications in the future. He sees the cardiology appointment for a follow-up in a year, and needs a cardio risk assessment test every five years for the rest of his life. But truly, we couldn't ask for better than this.

On second thought, if they handed me a giant bag of money and then told me he was okay...

Spawnling and I celebrated his great news with a heart-healthy trip to McDonald's. Nothing says "love your arteries" like some fries and McNuggets. In my defense, I needed to bribe him with something really over-the-top in order to get him to lie still and not talk for 45 minutes. I'm pleased that, in our family, fast food take-out is considered "over-the-top". At least we do one thing right around here.

(And if you'd kindly ignore the fact that we have an entire cupboard shelf dedicated to snack food of the most heinous sort, I'd greatly appreciate it. Keep quiet and there may be some peanut butter cups in it for you.)

To everyone who's supported us through this crazy ordeal, who's put up with me being far less funny than I used to be, who's prayed for Spawn, thought good thoughts for Spawn, ignored Spawn calling them 'stupid', or wrote it off, like we often did, as 'it's just the Kawasaki talking':

Thank you. Like, for serious. You likely have no idea how your kindness has impacted our lives. Never have we felt so much warmth from both our local community and the online community. You're all so very awesome.

I mean, not as awesome as I am, but pretty close, you know?

Like so many of you have said, life has changed in a way that can't be undone. Once you see your child that sick, it never really goes away. But the troll (thanks XUP) has been caged for now. He's still in my brain, but he's currently sedated with some chocolate. I have a feeling that, as long as I keep feeding him lots of chocolate, he will be quiet. Lots and lots and lots of chocolate. For medicinal purposes.

Oh, sure, I might need a new heart in a few years, but they're growing them on mice now, aren't they?

Wait. Those are ears. This may spell trouble for The Maven.

Tomorrow's the Big Day

Breathing.

Trying not to panic.

Distracting myself.

My, that chocolate looks good...

Tomorrow is the big day: Spawnling's echocardiogram. This will be the tell-all test that lets us know how his little heart fared when faced with the inflammation caused by Kawasaki Disease. It should - should - tell us good news. It should - really should - tell us that there is no heart damage and that we can resume our pre-August 2009 life with a healthy preschooler.

I can't put across in words how much I want this behind us as a family. If all goes well, what happened to Spawnling in August can become a yucky memory with occasional flashbacks that feel like someone just kicked me in the stomach - hard. I'm happy to report they come far less frequently these days and only very rarely make me cry. I do think, however, that I will cry when I hear that everything is ok with his heart. I'm due for a good ol' fashioned relief sob. I've been waiting over two months for one of those and, gosh darn it, I'm going to rock that cry like nobody's business!

Spawnling is completely oblivious to how serious an impact this has had on his family. The only thing he remembers about the hospital is watching a lot of Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends (if I see that show again any time soon, I'm going to jump through the nearest window) and some ghosts. I think the 'ghosts' might have been what his mind imagined the hospital staff were as they examined him in the first few days. Everyone gowned up in light yellow and wore a mask when they came into the room. Throw a feverish toddler's imagination into the mix and you have the makings of a really bad trip. It makes me glad I was never addicted to hallucinogenic drugs.

I, on the other hand, have the displeasure of remember all of it. Everything from 'I think he might have meningitis' to 'We're waiting on tests for encephalitis. Let's hope it's not that'. I remember all the procedures, the bags dangling from the i.v. pole, the concerned faces of everyone we dealt with, my listless little toddler in a very big bed. I remember the chapped lips, white sores on his gums, pink eyes, peeling hands and feet. I remember thinking he was going to die. Really die. I've never been so scared in my life and I don't ever want to be again.

Some of you might be rolling your eyes by now and thinking, "Can't you let this go now? It's been two months, Maven. He's home and he's happy and it could have been a lot worse. Let it go, drama queen."

Sure, you're likely a bit of a bastard if you're thinking that, and I probably don't want to be having coffee with you any time soon. But you're also kind of right. I do need to let this go. Moreover, I want to let this go. I want it to be over and I want to move on with my otherwise awesome life full of awesomeness. In fact, I was doing fairly well until this dreaded appointment crept up, ever so quietly, and spooked me when I looked at our upcoming week on the calendar.

I don't think about those scary few days all the time and it does get easier every day; particularly on the days when Spawnling is trying his hardest to be the very best Spawnling he can be. Today, for example, he was a cat in the early morning, a dog when we visited the book store, and dressed up in his lion costume for a good roar before dinner. When he's in character you have to address him by the correct animal sound. Otherwise he'll ignore you.

Today, while visiting Grandma Madre, he asked her if she would like to have a game of peckers. He then took out the pecker board and asked her what colour of peckers she'd like to be.

Picking your own pecker colour? How delightful! I have pecker envy all over again.

Life would not be the same without Spawnling, or any of The Gremlins Three. So, regardless of what you may think of me and my drama queen postings, please keep Spawnling in your thoughts tomorrow morning at 10:30 EST. Let's wish him some aneurysm-free arteries, shall we?

And, while we're thinking good thoughts, I would like him to lie still without sedation because that would be the best thing - although watching him trip out on the stuff is rather amusing. Also, I'd like there to be no line-up for coffee at the hospital cafe.

...I'm asking too much now, aren't I?

His Best Friend. (I think.)

We have a bit of a problem. To explain it, I need to tell the following story:

Gutsy has a friend named Madison. She is effectively the female version of him, which is both good and bad. When she's not furious at him for not following her rules, or when he's not stomping his feet demanding to go home because she won't precisely do his bidding, they get along famously. Her parents commiserate with us about having such diva-esque children. We've quite literally bonded over this experience. It's a special, you-totally-get-why-my-hair-is-already-going-grey kind of bond.

Anyway, Gutsy came home on Wednesday, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Mom!" he declares proudly. "Madison and I had the best day at school! Some girls were trying to hit us, so we ran around hiding from them! Isn't that great?"

He flopped down in a chair and sighed. "She's my best friend!"

Ignoring the fact that little girls were trying to hit them for some reason, the story is pretty cute. I like that he and Madison have each other to fight play with.

At around 7PM, I get a text from the Guilt Goddess: Her little guy, Jacob, was on the local news at six. Naturally, being an excellent mother who was too busy furthering the education of her children by doing homework with them, we had missed it. She sent me the link of the online broadcast, and I called the kids over to see it.

There, in Scotiabank Place, was little Jacob watching our local NHL team, the Senators, at a practice. He was meeting them and their lovely wives. (Why are hockey wives always so damn beautiful? Oh, right: because they can afford to be. Hook me up with a trainer and an esthetician and see how gorgeous I get. Sort of.) Jacob was as sweet as ever, doing an interview about the experience like it was no big deal.

Suddenly, I hear Gutsy behind me. "So that's why Jacob wasn't in class today. He was meeting the Ottawa Senators!" His eyes grew wider in amazement and - was that pride? "Look at that; my best friend is on the news!"

"Gutsy, I thought Madison was your best friend," I reminded him.

The boy shrugged nonchalantly. "Second."

It's official: My six-year-old is a fame whore.

Diapers, Deodorant and Dictation

What a great Thanksgiving weekend! Spawnling's birthday rocked the house and he actually sat through all but the last five minutes of a 90 minute movie. At that point he got up and looked at me defiantly in that 'I just dare you to try and make me sit'. When I whispered to him that he should sit down, he frowned, whispered 'Stupid!' in my ear and made his way up onto his dad's lap.

I could have taken him out of the theater and given him a time-out.

I could have.

I probably should have.

But onscreen there were giant food items falling from the sky and crushing buildings. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Thanksgiving dinner/Spawn's birthday supper was excellent. Cake was even excellenter.

Hang on. That's not a word. No clue why, really. I think we should make it one. It's excellenter than a lot of other words.

Yesterday we started potty training. How it went depends on one's definition of success. Like the CEO of a failing internet start-up, I'm going to redefine the meaning of the word 'success' to make all involved parties feel better. Did Spawnling pee in the potty? No. Did he pee once on the living room carpet and once on my duvet instead? Yes. Sure, Geekster and I were freezing last night because we only had a single thin blanket to share, but look on the bright side: Spawnling actually let us take his diaper off without screaming. That's progress, people. And if we could just bottle that progress and sell it, we'd be millionaires!

Or, at the very least, we wouldn't be dreading today's training experiences that will undoubtedly involve a lot more laundry.

I'm not one to rush these things, so obviously we feel he's ready to take the plunge. Gutsy and Intrepid have been eager big brothers, congratulating The Spawn on wearing underwear and on sitting on the potty until the timer goes off. A family of four can potty train a single preschooler, can't they?

Please say they can. Please?

Right now Spawnling is curled up on the couch, bare-bottomed, and refusing to sit on the potty. I'll admit that October in Canada is a frigid time to toilet train a child, but summer was a no-go; he just wasn't ready. Like a Bonsai tree, a preschooler grows slowly over time and should only be sculpted and guided when necessary.

I just compared parenting to an ancient art form. How very zen-like of me.

In other news, Intrepid is a stinky twelve-year-old boy. Why must he need prodding to shower? Why? Does he not understand that greasy hair is not attractive? Does he not get that wearing mustard-stained clothing doesn't help his popularity?

I guess my problem is that, when I was twelve, I liked showers and styling my hair and wearing outfits that match. I very much enjoyed not stinking. Why must boys and girls be so vastly different? There's a chasm that separates the sexes in the teen years. On one side, the girls hold their noses and make other gestures showing how much they disprove of the boys' lack of hygiene. On the other side, the boys take turns whipping deodorant and hair gel across the divide. Two points if you manage to hit one of the girls and four points if she screams and throws it back at you.

One day soon the hormones will hit Intrepid and he will realize he wants to be appealing to the ladies. At that point I will not want him to be appealing to them whatsoever and will likely sabotage any efforts to clean himself up. I have a visual of me pouring gravy in his clean shirt drawer. Yesterday I told him as much and said I didn't want to be a grandmother until at least 45 (that would make him 25, by the way). He said 'Yeah! At least! I'm not stupid, Mom!' That's my boy: full of confidence and mostly void of testosterone just yet. Thank goodness.

If you're a parent, you'll likely recall all those times you said 'I will NEVER do X'. I did a lot of that; in fact, I fancy myself a bit of a former expert in future parenting. Well, I never thought I'd say this, but at sixteen I may just fill his entire stocking with condoms. Santa wants him to be jolly, but safe. Very, very safe.

Gutsy is thankfully a world and several years away from any kind of stinkiness or contraception interventions. He's a hard one to figure out, lately. For those not in the know, we decided to put Gutsy in french immersion this year because, by the end of the summer, he was reading english chapter books at a grade 6 level. As I told the principal, you don't want to see a bored Gutsy: A bored Gutsy is a mischievous Gutsy.

Throwing a child with very little knowledge of a language into a classroom full of it is a lot like dropping a New Yorker into the middle of the rainforest without a map. So how is Gutsy doing? It's hard to say, says his teacher, because Gutsy is so quiet in class.

... I'm sorry. Pardon me? Gutsy is quiet somewhere? I think that might be one of the signs of an impending apocalypse. I'll have to consult the 2009 apocalyptic almanac.

That had me worried, so I started to throw myself into extra homework with Gutsy. You know, being a good mom and all. And guess what? He's absorbing it, retaining and applying it. He reads, he spells, he sings, he writes, and he knows his numbers up to 30. Once he has more confidence he'll start speaking up in class and his teacher will hopefully see that our child is not a mute. In fact, if he's smart, he'll start teaching the class a third language to throw Gutsy off again and regain some serenity.

Good idea, actually. I may just start asking all the kids to speak Cantonese at home.

How long before they figure out I can't speak Cantonese at all? In fact, I'm only trilingual if you count Pig Latin.

Happy 3rd Birthday, Spawnling!

Sometimes it's hard to believe that Spawnling originated from two lines on a pee stick. What humble beginnings.

(Actually, he originated from something else, but Captain Killjoy Geekster said we couldn't post pictures of that event.)

Like most women today, the first official confirmation I received that I was going to be a mother to my teeny little gremlyos was a home pregnancy test. My reaction to Spawnling's impending arrival, however, was a little different than how I reacted the first two times. I wasn't immediately... thrilled. Delighted. Overjoyed.

In fact, I may have been a teeny bit apprehensive.

We had decided, for so many reasons, that two was enough. When Gutsy was three we decided we weren't going to try to have more children, nor were we going to throw caution to the wind any longer and 'just see what happens'. We began wrapping the willy; putting a lid on the mayo jar; caging the monkey; enabling the cloaking device. And words escaped our lips that had never been said before. Things like: 'complete family' and 'the next phase in our lives' and 'permanent birth control'.

The universe, however, had other plans. Because, just before we started shrink wrapping the leftovers again, I got pregnant. And as I scrutinized those two blue lines under every available light source in my home, I realized something: I was pregnant. Without trying. And it was a girl!

...And our girl had a penis, the ultrasound technician told us a few weeks later, trying so hard not to laugh.

But Geekster and I laughed, because of course it couldn't be a girl. That would disrupt the comfortable cycle of chaos in our family brought on by an abundance of testosterone.

But a thought occurred to me, although I wouldn't admit it at the time: Would a third boy be that, well, interesting? We had two already. Been there, done that, got the pee on the t-shirt while trying to change newborn baby boy diapers. He'd have to be pretty gosh darn spectacular to stand out. A girl would just have to be a girl, really. Dresses, pink things, dolls that are used as dolls and not beheaded zombies. I rubbed my Spawnling-stretched belly and wondered what kind of boy child he would be.

And then we got this:


I would never, ever trade him for a girl. Ever.

He talks to pumpkins when he's sad. He helps his friend Diego the cat muddle through a gender identity crisis. He sings 'Danger Zone' every time he makes two things have a race.

When he calls someone stupid, even an old lady who says "hi" when he's having a bad day, he says it in such a way that even she tries to stifle a laugh as I stifle mine and make him apologize.

He has names for all his shoes and is very insistent on which ones he's going to wear on a particular day. One must have footwear that matches ones' outfit, you know. Cars Shoes will not go with khakis; that's best left to Big, Big, Green Shoes.

He loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe Dad, and even more than me now that he's no longer enjoying 'Mommy's Milk'.

Traitor.

Ok, maybe not more than me. He's just forming stronger relationships with others now that I don't have the nutritional advantage. The successful and mutual weaning process about six months ago put an end to the baby years in this house. We're now onto the big kid stuff.

Well, except potty training, which is supposed to start happening today, right after his first in-theater movie: Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. Let's see if he stays still once the popcorn is all gone. These 'first' experiences are always unpredictable in that this-could-be-a-wasted-$60 kind of way.

It's funny how, once I held Intrepid in my arms, I couldn't imagine loving anyone else that much. Then, once Gutsy was born, my heart grew to twice the size. When Spawnling came along and threw what we thought was our perfect little world upside down, my heart grew so big that I thought they were going to have to remove ribs like they do to some of the top runway models.

Me and top runway models: We're similar in so many ways.

I honestly can't picture life without him. And, two months ago, when he was in that hospital bed with a then mystery illness that had everyone very concerned, I remembered the pregnancy test and how I wasn't immediately thrilled. I remember selfishly hoping for a girl and feeling concerned he might not thrill me in the same way. And, touching his sickly little body, I remembered how wrong I had been, and that life had only changed for the better with him in our lives. He is the glossy finish that coats our family and makes it shiny and strong and beautiful. He solidified what we already had before he came along. He made it complete.

Actually, he's kind of like the MSG in our over-processed take-out food, except he doesn't give anyone headaches or scare pregnant women.

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and it's also Spawnling's third birthday. We have so much to be grateful for. We don't even have to try hard to find the good stuff this year. He's our little, rambunctious cheat sheet.

Happy birthday, my sweet little guy. Words can't possibly express how much I love you.



(And if you make this potty training thing easy on me, I'll love you and give you jelly beans. Just sayin'.)

Diego the Cat: Destroyer of Gender Stereotypes!

The in-laws were here last weekend to safeguard the world from the gremlins while Geekster and I went to do grownup wedding stuff. The next day, before driving three hours back home, they wanted to take Spawnling to Build-a-Bear as an early birthday present.

Our nearly-three-year-old currently has a propensity toward cats. He goes through various stages, as little horned ones often do, as much to keep us on our toes as anything else, I'm sure. Just a week before, he was into dogs and not much else. Buying anything for him more than a few days in advance could have dire consequences, as we may discover firsthand when he opens his Cars' racetrack on his birthday. Lightning McQueen may not be all that come Monday.

We were happy to discover that there are presently three cats to choose from at Build-a-Bear. There's a tabby cat, a snow leopard, and that other one; the one he probably won't want because it's purple and obviously a girl cat, and Spawnling likes all his toys to be boys right now. It's a penis thing, I guess. I don't question it.

Except that the purple cat was the one he wanted more than anything else in the entire store.

And he named it 'Diego'.

Diego is not only purple but has sparkles in his beautiful fur. He has lovely long eyelashes that I can't help but envy and couldn't possibly acquire without sporting some falsies from the drugstore. His nose is dainty and sweet, but not as gorgeous as the black satin bow on his tail.

...Except it's not a bow, apparently. It's a bone. And you can't argue with Toddlerface, because he's not asking for your damn opinion, thank you very much.

And his outfits? Why, Diego as two: he's a police officer by day and an adventurer/fisherman by night. How strong! How character-building! And, with the exception of Lara Croft, how rather,well, masculine. You'd almost think Diego chose careers and hobbies that proved, above all else, that is rather macho. There's nothing like making a drug bust, discovering an ancient civilization and going bass hunting on the same day to show the world just how tough you are.

But you know something? I'm proud of Diego. No matter how he started out in life - whether he was a female feline with a deep longing to run with the tomcats, or a male kitten with exceptionally high cheekbones and great fur who dreamed of high speed chases - he is more than welcome in our family. We are accepting and loving of all stuffed animals, whether purple or black, sparkly or camouflaged, long-lashed or snarling and foamy.

Welcome to our home, dear friend.

Here is a video I took yesterday morning of the purrfect pair:



Spawnling, like his big brother gremlins, is allowed the space and freedom to be who he is, purple cat and all. Intrepid had a dollhouse, Gutsy nursed all his teddy bears and Spawnling likes strollers and cats who don't fall neatly into gender stereotypes. Aren't we raising well-rounded children? Oh, I think so. It's just another shining example of our excellent parenting.

(And if you ask the boys what they had for breakfast this morning and they answer 'chocolate chip cookies', don't believe them. It's all lies.)

Letting Go

I have tried all week to be funny, in between dealing with an annoying cold, many a gremlin fight, and being in a wedding party on the weekend.

I've tried all week to summon up my creativity - because there is quite a lot of it in there - and be the awesome Maven you all know and love. I want to tell you about Spawnling's best friend Mr. Pumpkin, his freak out in the book store yesterday (it topped the library), Gutsy's excellent progress in immersion and the enlightening moments of living with a male preteen.

And yet over a week has gone by with nary a post. Why is that? I've asked myself this question several times. I'm a member of a 12 step program, after all, and self-examination and reflection are pretty much mandatory if you don't want to fall off the sobriety wagon and stagger into Captain Morgan's Tavern.

After thinking about it all day, I've reached a conclusion: I'm angry. And I need to tell you why. I've gone back and forth between wanting to say something and wanting to say nothing at all, but it's time I came clean. After all, this has affected some of you.

So, we're going to take a one day break from my usually hilarious rants and ramblings. Just one day, ok? And then I'll be back to my usually scheduled programming. Sharing this will help me feel better, and since I'm pretty into myself that suits me just fine.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a few months ago about a friend who was sick. Terminally sick with ovarian cancer, actually. Devastating news to hear about a friend, and worse still if you're a relative of that person. I've seen her family go through a great deal of strife over the realization that they were going to lose her some day. I also went through my own emotional hurdles, had my own crying fits, wrote her nice letters and went out of my way to make as much time as I could for her because, hey, we didn't have a lot of time left.

I didn't know what I was going to do without her in my life. I wrote about her in my blog and I read, along with many of you, about her strength and her courage. I watched her video diaries to her kids and wondered how her children would go on without her. It was tragic on so many levels.

Then, another turn, tragic in its own way: we found out, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, that she apparently never had cancer.

Take that in for a minute. I know I needed to. Actually, it took me days to really mull it over and weeks to accept as fact.

What made it worse is that she didn't come clean of her own volition. Her family reached out to her, then, when they felt they had no choice, to her loved ones, including me. Eventually, the lies started to unravel. Eventually, she confessed to a select few - I being one of them. Her blog had been deleted months before, and she shut down her Facebook account shortly after it all came to light.

Why am I angry? A few reasons. Like a hurricane, she has left a huge path destruction in her wake. So many people stumbled out of the wreckage of her lies bewildered, overwhelmed and hurt. So many people continue to be hurt as a result of the choices she made. That makes me angry.

She accepted money, gifts and support from strangers and loved ones alike, who only wanted to help her. Who believed her and hurt for her and her family. That makes me angry.

She pretended to have a disease that many people are dealing with. That other people close to me have gone through. That people close to me have died from. Name one person who doesn't have a loved one who's been affected by cancer; who's entire life hasn't changed because of the disease. I see people like Jacob and Laurie and Jen who are truly struggling with a terrifying illness, and I think it's a huge slap in the face to them and others. That makes me angry.

She was my friend. A real life friend. A friend I had a falling out with and who I reached out to nearly three years ago. Who I grew close to again. Who I thought I knew. Who I had many coffees and laughs with. Who I went through mutual pregnancies with. Who I told some of my deepest, darkest secrets to. Someone I cried for, hurt for, felt life isn't fair for. I kick myself for getting involved again. I should have stayed away. I'm upset with myself for not picking up on this sooner. I'm upset that this all came to light not two weeks after Spawnling was discharged from the hospital, and that my already fragile emotional state was driven near the breaking point. It's taken me this long to be able to write it out and admit that yes, I am angry. That this makes me really fucking angry.

Is there some mental illness involved? I'm not a professional so I won't jump to conclusions. I have done some research and I have spoken to professionals to try and gain some insight into what, exactly, happened over the last six years. I'll keep my thoughts to myself. All I know is that, no matter what the reason was, I am angry. And how am I going to let go of it? This is how I'm doing it.

See, part of it is guilt. Guilt for reaching out for support from friends and family when I was struggling with her impending demise - that they were so concerned for her, too. Guilt for dragging my readers into an imaginary world, even if I didn't know it was imaginary. I feel bad that so many of you were worried for her and have asked me about her. I need you to know that I believed it too, and that I feel like a sucker. I need you to know that I am not in contact with her anymore and haven't been since I found out it was all a lie. I still speak to a handful of mutual friends but am very happy to be in another part of the city enjoying the controlled chaos that is my life. Because we all know I barely control the typical chaos as it is. Our friendship will not recover from this. I will not be able to trust her again, no matter what. I have lost my friend, but in a different way than I anticipated, and I do mourn that loss.

So there you have it. I think I can let this go now and move on. Part of getting rid of resentment is refocusing my energy on something positive. So, I send out good vibes to all of you who are struggling with cancer or other serious illnesses, whether directly or indirectly. I've put a lot of this nervous energy into Spawnling's recovery from Kawasaki, his appointments and every day management. And I appreciate all the more the fantastic group of friends I have around me, who have helped me process two very unexpected situations in a ridiculously short amount of time. And to my readers who are always commenting, emailing, following and reminding me that there are good people in the world. Thank you.

And now we are done. And I shall go make dinner.

And tomorrow I shall discuss the transvestite stuffed animal.

No, seriously.

Getting my Groove Back

(Photo credit: Photo Lush, my most excellent sister.)

"What are you doing, mom?" asks an inquisitive Spawnling this afternoon.

Trying to balance a bottle of cleaner in the crook of my arm while tearing off a strip of paper towel, I say "Just cleaning the windows, buddy."

"Are they dirty?"

"Yes. They are."

"... Is that because I touched them without using Purell first?"

It's official: I've turned my youngest child into a germaphobe.

It's not my fault. Let's blame it on the Kawasaki he acquired last month. Throw in a little extra vigilance due to H1N1 and it's a recipe for disaster. What am I supposed to do? I can't go back to to my easygoing ways. I can't just say: "It's okay, Person With a Cold. You can come into my home where I have one child who's on aspirin and can't get a viral infection and another child who's lungs have about a 75% chance of contracting pneumonia every time he gets sick, and a mother who lives down the street who can't fall ill because she's immuno-compromised and resistant to nearly all antibiotics. Come on in! Want to wipe your nose on my sleeve? Maybe lick some cutlery?"

Ah, the reality of my current life; where I've had to beef up microbiotic security and shed my previously relaxed stance on germs. No two-year-old should have the word 'Purell' in his vocabulary. No person should shudder every time she's out and hears someone coughing. No mother should sanitize her door handles this much, even with three boys touching them. My laissez faire half snickers at my anal retentive half on a daily basis. I know it sucks, but it is what it is. It's an inner struggle I quell with evening chocolate.

Chocolate makes it all better.

Spawnling has his follow-up echocardiogram on October 20th. At that point we'll find out if his little heart made it through the Kawasaki-induced inflammation unscathed. There's a good chance it did. A very good chance: About 93%. So, I'm trying not to worry too much. I'm trying not to think of the little aneurysms that may be hiding in his artery walls. What aneurysms? I don't see any aneurysms...

Did I mention chocolate makes things better?

It's funny, you know. When I signed up for this parenting thing, nobody ever told me I might have to know what an echocardiogram is, or why a toddler might need one. I expected broken bones and antibiotics and asthma. I even anticipated some pneumonia, given my family's ridiculously bad lung karma (although Gutsy has broken some records, I'm sure). But dealing with extremely rare diseases? Apparently I didn't read the fine print.

The good news is that I'm feeling a little better these days. I've stopped crying when I talk about how traumatic our stay at the hospital was. I don't feel as big a lurch in my stomach every time I think about the few days when he was so sick we thought we might lose him. Every single time he says or does something insanely cute or funny does not fill me with so much emotion that I get teary. I mean, I still think he's awesome and miraculous, but his presence is once again becoming more every day, more commonplace; a good sign of healing if I've ever seen one.

I feel funnier again. I feel stronger. I feel more beautiful (if that's even possible). I'm really getting a grip on life again. I want to write more, and talk more, and be my excellent self more. Every task does not seem so overwhelming these days. I'm not gasping for air while trying to keep up with the every day. The house is looking more like a home and less like a nuclear test site. Meals consist of at least three food groups. School forms are being returned no more than a week after they're due.

Yep. I'm getting my groove back.

I'm trying not to think too much about October 20th or the news we might hear. It's a million miles away, and between here and there is a sea of activity, including Spawnling's third birthday.

You know, I used to worry he would grow up too fast. Then, in August, I worried he would never grow up. And now I'm just grateful to be celebrating his birthday at all. We were lucky and I don't think I'll ever forget that.

Perspective is a good thing. Know what else is good? Mixing peanut butter and chocolate, which I did last night when I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. I am going to go eat one or five of them now.

What's today's motto, everyone? Chocolate makes everything better. That's right! So go have some chocolate and think good thoughts for October 20th, ok? Awesome. Thanks.

Monday Doesn't Like Me

Ah, Monday. It's the day of peeling one's eyes open as the alarm goes off, only to realize the alarm has been going off for half an hour and you have exactly fifteen minutes to get your sluggish six-year-old onto the bus.

Obviously, you don't get him on the bus. And, with no pomp or circumstance, you throw a waffle at him as he's getting dressed, grab some of his clothes that don't match but you hope are clean, and make your husband drive him to school because he's bald and thus won't have to suffer the embarrassment of frizzy, unwashed hair in the front office.

Monday is snickering at you.

You invite a friend over for coffee, because that's what you do when the day isn't going according to plan. Coffee dates keep you centered. They keep you mellow. Mellow is good for handling unfortunate situations, like when you realize a few minutes after your coffee date arrives that your eldest son forgot his lunch in the front hall and you'll have to bring it to him. That is quite unfortunate, you think to yourself, as the coffee is brewing. Monday likes seeing you waste good coffee. The good news? It's a ten minute drive to the school, leaving plenty of time to enjoy a cuppa.

Take that, Monday.

Packing up your two-year-old and your overly-accommodating friend (thank you, friend!) you put the pedal to the metal and break away for the big, scary junior high school only to find out that they won't page your son out of class because it's against school policy. They won't tell him his lunch is there unless he asks. That's nice of them. Monday must have whispered in the secretary's ear that you were coming. It is obviously harboring an unhealthy resentment toward you. You leave the lunch at the front desk and hope he thinks of looking there before starving all day in the way only a preteen boy can.

You come home and plan on finally chatting with your friend. Coffee makes it all better. But Monday is waiting for you. It informs your toddler that playing independently is for suckers. It shows him the Rescue Heroes bin and points at your friend. Suddenly, you can't have a conversation because the situation is being monopolized by a two-year-old waving Billy Blazes in your friend's face. Nice.

But Monday has made a fatal mistake in choosing this particular friend: She would be more than happy to play Rescue Heroes for a few minutes. In fact, you even find some time to - get this - clean your house. A visitor, mother's helper and coffee date all rolled into one? Monday's powers are weakening.

Oh, sure. There are a few other annoying little things awaiting you today. It's raining and all your toddler wants to do is go to the park so you have to hear about it incessantly, your dog has found a favourite pee spot in the basement (it's a good thing they don't make sausages out of dogs or you might sell him for some pocket money), the children have forgotten how to use their indoor voices, and the dirty laundry pile is large enough that it should be declared its own sovereign nation. You just have to fasten a flag to the top and call the UN to make it official.

Monday is getting its jollies.

Still, the day will end with everyone sleeping and an episode of your very favourite narcissistic doctor; House is on at eight, and there are cookies in the cupboard.

Monday just got kicked square in the junk and is off in a corner whimpering. Another epic win for you, The Maven.