Plees Lern Tu Spelle

This piece of paper had been taped to my fridge for the last several months until this morning, when I finally recycled it. It's been a constant reminder to continue to make education a priority in the Maven household.

The paper was initially taped to my son Intrepid's back in grade 6. If I remember correctly, it was an exercise in complimenting and compliment-taking.

See anything interesting?

Other than the obvious - that my child is very bright and talented like his mother - there is an underlying tone of, well, kids who can't write good.

A local friend of mine went to a parent-teacher interview recently, and was told by her daughter's teacher that our school board doesn't really fail anybody. I'm not sure exactly what that means or whether or not the teach was being facetious, but looking at that paper, I think there may be some truth to it.

There are little errors. For example, one girl (and I'm saying "girl" because she wrote in pink and has pretty handwriting - frankly I'm surprised she didn't dot her "i"s with hearts) misspelled "intelligent." It's an honest mistake, and one that most adults would easily make. Heck, I would, too, if I didn't have to type the word every time I describe myself.

But there are other, more disturbing errors hidden in these compliments.

You the coolist: Seriously? You at least eleven years old and you don't know the 'est' rule? Not good.

Your always happy: Apparently Intrepid owns the word 'always' and it is happy.

Good drawen: I can't figure out if the student meant to write 'good drawen' or 'good drawer.' The second would be slightly more acceptable. And I suppose I can't fault the kid for making an 'r' look like an 'n' - it was written on my son's back, after all. It's not a bloody calligraphy contest.

Oh, but my absolute favourite - the one that makes me laugh every single time - is this one:

I remember back in the day when I never know you

Not only is there a tense error so blatant it makes my skin crawl, but I honestly can't find the compliment in this sentence. He should have failed the back writing test, dammit.

Anyway, I think these grade six writings are proof that we need to rethink our touchy-feely approach to education. I am all for preserving the tender self-esteem of our youth whenever possible. However, I do not think we're adequately meeting the needs of our children and community as a whole if we don't hold people up to a higher standard. It's preposterous (I had to spell check that word) to allow these kids to go on to a higher education if they can't formulate a decent sentence.

Do we want our lawyers to make typos in our legal documents? I don't know about you, but I want my doctor and/or pharmacist to be able to do basic equations well enough that she won't get my medication dosage wrong. I like the idea of tomorrow's librarians being able to understand the concepts in books before they share them with my grandchildren at story time. And if the carpenter putting in my new bamboo flooring (a girl can dream, right?) can't figure out the area of each room, I will wedge a rudimentary geometry set where the sun don't shine.

When I hear that a teacher has several kids who are not deemed "special needs," and yet read and write a full three grade levels below where they should, that worries me tremendously. And when she apparently says she can't fail them due to board policy, that worries me even more. I hope we're being misinformed, and that kids do get held back when there's a problem. That would be the sensible thing to do. Sure, some confidence might be shaken for a little while, but a lot less than seeing red pen all over your thesis paper or getting turned down for jobs because you spelled it 'rezumay.'

In the Maven household, there is little worry when it comes to literacy and education as a whole. Geekster and I run a tight ship, which includes instilling a love of reading, sitting with the kids when they do their homework (or at least nearby when Intrepid does his), getting the boys hooked on museums and other fun learning places, and generally being proactive in our gremlins' education. After all, we can't expect the public system to do everything - it is government-run, you know.

I'd send this blog post to the board of education, but I'd likely have to copy it in triplicate and attend 37 different subcommittee meetings to see any action. In the meantime, all that red tape might suffocate me. Instead, I'll probably just ask the principal for clarification.

Taking the easy route is the coolist.

Maven out.

Why I Should Not be Allowed to Make Analogies

I was glad to have coffee with my fantastic friend Nat this evening. I did so without having read her most recent blog post, which involves a scary trip to the hospital with The Boy and his new friend, Mr. Asthma Attack. This happened only two days ago, and the feelings are still very raw for poor Nat. Seeing your child that sick, with machines monitoring his oxygen levels and a mask full of medicine to help him breath, is one of those scary situations a parent hopes to never find themselves in. Well, she found herself in it, and I didn't realize when I walked into the coffee shop how much I needed to be there for my friend.

I'm so glad I could be there.

It's yet another example of how a bad situation - like Spawnling's illness three months ago, Gutsy's stay at the hospital for pneumonia 18 months ago, and Intrepid's exciting broken femur episode 2 years ago - can be manipulated into a positive. As it turns out, I've become an unwilling expert in the field of childhood injuries and illnesses requiring prompt emergency treatment and hospitalization. I do not like it, Sam I Am. But it is what it is, and I sure am glad to lend that ear and tea (which was free and provided by my distraught friend who was too upset to realize she buys way more than I do).

My company costs about $2.50 an hour. The Maven is a cheap whore. Spread the word.

How interesting that I would happen to write yesterday's post about Spawnling's traumatic experience changing me for the good, and then find myself with someone going through something similar tonight.

Ethereal forces, you keep me smiling.

I wanted to say thank you, once again, to everyone who has been so amazingly supportive over the last few months. I don't think I can say thank you enough times or in enough ways. Whether I know you in real life (lucky you) or only online (in which case you really should put "meeting The Maven" on your bucket list, trust me) your kindness has helped heal this huge gash in my heart. I'm no idiot: the sole reason I've been able to be a strong mom for Spawnling is because I have good backup. A ton of sidekicks. Dozens upon dozens of Robins. Thank you, and if you ask nicely I'll let you use the utility belt.

That's the way the world works though, doesn't it? Give and ye shall receive, and whatnot. It's that whole karmic circle thing: My life was shit on toast, people helped me make new toast that didn't have shit on it, I ate that instead and felt better, and now I'm helping someone else with their choice of breakfast spreads.

That was, by far, the worst, and yet, best analogy I've ever come up with. I don't know whether to pat myself on the back or delete my blog altogether because I don't deserve to call myself a writer.

We had a perfectly good day today, my herd of gremlins, co-shepherd and I. Spawnling and I went to playgroup and he only pushed one little friend, and only because he was overwhelmed with joy (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). We had our friend Jacob over for lunch, and then The Madre over for tea, after which I passed the shepherd's crook over to her for a little while so I could clean the kitchen.

I made one of the world's laziest dinners: sandwiches coupled with a piddly amount of baby carrots on the plate so I can say it comes with a serving of vegetables.

Then I went out for coffee with Nat, and now I'm back here, blogging about nothing extraordinary. Just another example of me being awesome, people around me being nearly as awesome, and shit on toast.

Deep Thoughts, by The Maven

I'm doing okay with this next-to-no-sugar thing. When the cravings come, I want to grab a bag of the white stuff and dry hump it, but otherwise I'm fine. I've been (barely) swallowing tablespoonfuls of unsweetened yogurt throughout the day to destroy the candida metropolis undoubtedly thriving in my body. The sugar mine is closed, little yeasties. Pack up your belongings and move on out.

Spawnling's withdrawls have been more... pronounced. While his mood swings are less intense than they were, the unpredictability of when and what he'll destroy next has been the theme of the day. The sac of cane sugar that broke the mule's back was when he scribbled on my antique chair - correction: my late grandmother's antique chair. We are not amused. Part of this evening will be spent learning how to delicately remove pen from fabric.

My mind is clearer, my mood is more stable and I have more energy. Now as long as I can continue to resist the siren songs of Lady Chocolate, I should be alright. It's a good thing I'm familiar with the philosophy of 12 step programs, because one day hour at a time is about all I can do right now.

***

As I was filling my cart with wholesome foods at the grocery store tonight, a chatty and adorable Spawnling in tow, I realized something.

No, not how awesome I am. That was established a good while ago. Keep up with the news, already!

I realized that, while Spawnling's health scare in August was traumatic enough that I still get teary when I think about it, what it has done to me on a personal level isn't all bad. In fact, I would say that the woman who walked her son through Kawasaki Disease and all the scary potential diagnoses leading up to it, is a better person than she used to be. Someone who sees how beautiful, how precious, and how short life is.

I was given a second chance at living when I got clean and sober at fourteen. I walked into rehab a shell and walked out a new person who wanted more for herself. I was given new breath yet again when I became a mother, and I learned there is a kind of love deeper than any other. It was transformational. And exhausting.

And then, when it looked like I might lose my littlest boy in those dark days of August, something snapped inside me. I remember the exact moment it snapped - you can't forget that feeling.

At first I thought it was a bad something and would require a phone call to my therapist. And maybe some drugs. And Oreos. But as shock and sadness lifted, as he gained his strength back and, finally, as his heart was given the all clear - for the next year, at least - everything looked different, felt different.

It wasn't intentional, but it seems I've given myself a makeover from the inside out. I've re-prioritized what's important to me, who's important to me, and what I'm willing to put time and effort into. I've had no problems cutting ties with people who are unhealthy - passive-aggressive, immature, continuously self-destructive. In fact, there are a few people I spoke to regularly in August that I don't speak to at all anymore. The funny thing is that it's not done out of anger or spite or a sense of superiority; I'm just not willing to put in the effort to keep a one-sided or very unhealthy friendship afloat. If I get sucked into someone else's negativity, then I'm wasting my energy on those things and not putting it into the important stuff.

Then, exhausted, I binge on chocolate. This is a lose/lose situation, obviously.

At the same time. I think I've been more real, more assertive, more kind, more honest. I cherish the people in my life, I love them deeply, I let them know. Spawnling has taught me to embrace every day - except during PMS time, when I get a couple of days to hate everyone's face.

***

So, this sugar thing? This didn't just randomly come about like I thought it had. It was a natural progression. I've been weeding out the negative in my life, and eventually I dug deep enough to hit my diet, that's all. It's very simple. It feels right because it is. I've arrived at a place and time when taking care of myself and my loved ones is the only thing that makes sense. I'm transformed. I don't think I can go back to who I used to be. But then again, I don't think I want to.

And there you have it. My deep thoughts for the day, brought to you by a three-year-old, a grocery store trip, and an experience that maybe I don't want to forget as much as I want to look at in a different light.

Holy crap, I'm awesome.

You are my Candy Girl

Yeah. So, like, I cut my refined sugar intake way back the last few days, and today it's catching up with me. My brain is mush. Then again, my waistline is mush and my heart will turn to mush soon if I don't start taking better care of myself. Thus, less sugar and a detoxing Maven have we.

I've tried doing this before, but always to an extreme. No sugar. Ever. At all. The end. It was doomed to epic failure right from the start. I'm not doing things differently this time and incorporating a neat little idea called 'in moderation'. And not in the way I used to incorporate it, by implying that if I only eat one chocolate bar a day that's 'in moderation'. I'm good at many things, including lying to myself. It's a curse. Getting real about this little sugar problem was a slow process, but I feel like I'm there now. I want to eat better. I want to feel better. I want those things more than cupcakes. This is a very positive thing.

I've taken my family on the journey with me, explaining to the boys the benefits of eating more whole foods. Despite sounding like an after school special, the little chit chat went rather well. Intrepid was interested in sugar's ability to weaken the immune system, and found it ironic that, after two days of binging on Halloween candy, he came down with H1N1. I was going to state that it could just be coincidence, but his enthusiasm was intoxicating and I didn't want to ruin the moment.

Gutsy was all for it, until after dinner. Then, he asked what we were having for desert. I said we weren't having desert. He glared at me. After about an hour of persistence, we settled on some graham crackers. We either both won or both lost that fight. I'm not sure which.

Spawnling is a big reason why we decided that sugar needs to take a backseat in our lives. He is completely and utterly addicted to the stuff.

No clue where he gets it from.

He's a typical addict. He craves, he binges, he gets high, and he crashes. When he crashes he's the moodiest little demon on two hooves. He tips chairs, throws things, randomly slaps people, and then realizes the monster he's become and sobs apologetically. Dr. Phil would beg me for video footage of these tantrums. Given our current debt, I wouldn't say no. Give him a bag of cookies and watch the money magic happen.

I think this will be a good change for everyone. We'll likely all feel like complete ass for a few days as we adjust to eating less refined crap, but by the end of the week we'll hopefully see less chair tipping and, I hope, a little more room in my jeans. I love chocolate, but I love my kids significantly more, and I want to be around for them for a long, long time. I need to marry my health and only have the occasional tryst with mistress sugar.

It's been a good run, baby, but we just can't do long term. It's not you, it's me, and all those other things we say when we're trying to delicately end a relationship.

Now shut up and pass the sunflower seeds.

Dog Walkers Don't Need Cappucinos

I like Christmastime, I really do. The music, the lights, the warm hearts, family gatherings, and my belly full of seasonal lattes.

I won't lie: the lattes inch further up the list every year. Soon I'll be wishing everyone a merry Gingerbread Spice day.

And I like buying gifts for people. They'll be small this year to match our budget, but thoughtful and wrapped in love, with a pretty little boy of joy.

(I know that was puke-tastic. I wrote it that way on purpose. If Jobthingy can make us gag on her and her boyfriend's love every freaking Saturday, I want to join the party and stamp my blog name on some barf bags. It's good advertising until you get close enough to smell it.)

But something happened this morning that cracked my pretty snow globe and spilled Christmas spirit all over the kitchen floor. I got a flier (I hate fliers, by the way - they make trees cry) from Second Cup, a reputable Canadian coffee house. Excited at first, I opened it up and instantly lost my holly jolly. There were two reasons, and they are:

1. There are no coupons. How dare someone make a flier about coffee and not include a coupon? When I'm Universal President I will demand a law be put into place banning such terrible business practices.

2. There is a list of people one should "remember" to buy gifts for. Surprisingly, this list is my biggest beef; moreso than the lack of coupons. Maybe it's because I'm not a commercial kind of gal. I shudder when, on the morning after Halloween, I find Christmas decorations hanging in the grocery store. I despise hearing Xmas muzac pumped of mall speakers any time before December 1st. So frankly, this list made me want to jingle someone's bells, and I mean that in the least jolly and least perverted sense possible.

There are plenty of occasions to give plenty of people the gift of coffee. Pretty much any time is fine with me (like when the Coffee Fairy did so this morning, which was so good of her). However, there are certain people I do not feel the need to buy caffeine or caffeine-related products for at Christmas time. People like:

Workmates, from the boss to the mailroom boy: Um, seriously? If you're going to bribe your way to the next promotion, at least make it sparkly and diamond shaped like, oh, say, a diamond. And the "mailroom boy"? For reals? I didn't realize we were living in a 1950's comic book.

Personal trainer and yoga instructor: Thank you for showing me how weak and pathetic my body is. Please accept this gift of carb-filled hot chocolate mix, which of course I will not drink because it might make my soul fat.

Nanny and babysitters: Wait. You can have both? At the same time? Why wasn't I aware of this? I don't have either, but if I did I'd be really broke and couldn't afford to get them much anyway. However, speaking from experience as a former daycare provider, if you're going to spoil anyone this year, make it the chick who wipes your kid's butt for (very little) money. She's a gift from the heavens and you should treat her as such.

Hair stylist and esthetician: I tip them every. single. time. Now I have to buy them a Christmas gift, too? I appreciate what they do, but doesn't my monetary gratuity reflect that already? (Incidentally, I don't have a regular hair stylist or esthetician at the moment. But if I did I suppose I'd have the means to buy them gifts)

School bus driver and dog walker: What the hell? Are you lumping the person who walks my canine and the person I trust to get my child safely to and from school in the same category? This is not equal billing. It's like saying "Influential artists, like Beethoven and N*Sync" I don't have a dog walker, but I'm sure they're lovely people. Still, they don't drive a large vehicle full of loud children down busy streets to and from a busy school. That person is a saint and deserves some Christmas cookies. I never forget the bus driver.

Doorman and cleaning people: Aha! Now I'm starting to figure out who this pamphlet is really for. People who live in Manhattan. I've seen enough movies to know that all doormen reside in Manhattan.

Doctor, dentist and veterinarian: Are you kidding me? There have been years when I've indirectly purchased a new game console and half a trip to Maui for my family's medical professionals. They should be buying me Second Cup gifts.

Neighbours and friends: And maybe acquaintances, too? Oh, and that guy who drives past my house in the morning? And the old lady I sometimes see in the produce section of the grocery store on Tuesdays? We are in a recession, people. The money tree I planted hasn't bloomed yet, but as soon as it does I'll start boxing up a little something for all my Twitter followers, too. Promise.

What was supposed to be a handy dandy guilt list checklist has now been picked apart by yours truly. Second Cup, I may have been more forgiving if you had included a $1.00 off coupon or some such. It would have lessened the blow of your blatant faux pas - the one where you insinuate we should buy for absolutely everyone, thus sucking the life out of our bank accounts and destroying the earth simultaneously.

Everyone needs to stop killing Christmas. Besides, I'm sure just knowing me is enough of a gift for most people.

Rant over. Goodnight.

Deliciously Defensive Diva, Complete with Sore Arm

Ow. Oww. Owwwwwwww!

That's me, whining.

Spawnling, Gutsy, and I got the H1N1 vaccine today. It didn't hurt at all.

Until later, that is. And now it feels like a professional pitcher just threw a brick at me from six feet away - and that's after taking Advil.

I've had flu shots before, but I don't remember a single one hurting quite this much. I would get some muscle aches and soreness around the injection site, but nothing that travels into my back and neck like this. Still, it's better than getting the flu - especially if you're asthmatic like Gutsy or me.

I gave it a lot of thought, and ultimately decided that we would get vaccinated when it was easy to do so. No standing in line in the wee hours of the morning, no waiting in a crowded, disorganized environment; The Maven likes good service and is willing to wait for it. I want my social medicine served with a side order of quality, which is exactly what we got today.

I've been PMSing this week and am frankly a bit disappointed by the lack of rudeness over my choice to get this vaccine. Like the flu, the preventative has been blown out of proportion to make it seem so big and so scary and so greed-driven that everyone seems to have an opinion one way or the other. I was sure people would be more confrontational when I said I was getting vaccinated. Instead, most friends who don't want the vaccine are being rather polite about the whole thing.

Why can't you just argue with me? Can't you see I'm bitchy and need an outlet? Don't you want me to lose my shit on you? We can always make up after, anyway. And if I'm really good, I can make it seem like your fault and you'll buy me a coffee and we'll both feel better. This could be a good thing for our relationship.

Mostly for my side of the relationship, but whatever - that's the important side.

I have, however, magically resisted the urge to start a fight when someone is trying to be politically correct by saying 'The vaccine isn't for me'. It's a very nice thing to say, isn't it? And the non-PMSing me would never think of countering such a perfectly acceptable statement. After all, it's not targeted at yours truly; it's not a statement of superiority veiled in a seemingly benign comment. Reading too much into things is what Typical Maven strives to avoid.

But the PMS-infested Maven, well, she wants to lash out at people who don't seem to understand what a child with weakened lungs goes through with a cold, let alone a flu. She wants to viciously reply with 'Want to know what's not for me? Seeing my son gasp for breath because his lungs are filled with fluid. That's way less appealing than a vaccine, don't you think?'

She wants to describe what it's like to have a child with low oxygen who has to stay at the hospital for several days on i.v. antibiotics, and get mask treatments, and stay in an isolated room. Because a Maven ravaged by hormones gets defensive, and thinks people don't understand her, and plays victim beautifully. It's a great excuse to dine on a big bag of jellybeans and feel sorry for herself because people just don't understand.

Well, that could of been a lot of wasted energy and hurt feelings. Really, I could skip the entire first part and just have the jellybeans. That seems to make more sense.

I realized today how defensive I was feeling about the whole thing, and then stopped and laughed at myself - which I often do, but this time I had to hold my arm because it hurt. What a silly not-so-little person I am. I mean, I'm The Maven, for crying out loud. I make fantastic decisions (minus the chocolate eating and occasional late-night coffee, which we all know keeps my body humming in a very manic state until the wee hours of the morning.)

I did my research, I weighed the pros and cons, I saw firsthand what the flu did to my 12-year-old, and knew it could do a lot worse to my pneumonia-prone seven-year-old or me, the awesome asthmatic. I made the right choice for me, for my family, based on the data available right now. What's there to be defensive about? And, really, it's a flu and this is just a flu shot, which we always get because we're at higher risk of getting up close and personal with a ventilator or a coffin. It's sort of a no-brainer, so I don't see why I even agonized over it.

I'm pleased to say the insecure portion of my otherwise stellar personality will be very soon locked away for another three weeks or so. I don't like to let her out much. She's a drag at parties, kind of like a whiny chick with a sore arm.

Which would explain why I'm not at a party right now.

Let's Talk About Debt

I want to be someone who has no debt and is married to someone who is also debt-free.

And then I woke up.

Funny stuff, right? Well, maybe not. I do know a select few people who don't have a cloud of balance owing hanging over their heads, don't cringe at the first sign of a bill, and for whom Christmas is not a dirty word. They are few and far between, even in my sizable circle of friends and acquaintances, but they do exist. When encountering such a person - and after the tsunami of envy retreats back into my ocean of inappropriate feelings - I like to pick their brains about how they've managed to wind up in such a good place. What I've concluded is that the debt-free are made up of three types of individuals described below:

1. The Ex-Indebted

This is the woman who used to have enough shoes in her closet to lose a small child, or the guy with a television and entertainment system impressive enough to make him both blind and deaf. They received too much schooling and not enough salary, bought a shiny new penis-extender sports car, and have a great deal of Facebook pictures of themselves on a beach somewhere. Or, in some more unfortunate cases, they simply fell on some really hard times. In short, they have a checkered financial past and escaped it by the skin of their teeth. These are the people who are either completely reformed cash-only spenders, or in between huge money mistakes. Either way, they currently have no debt and that's good for them. Jerks.

2. The Very Fortunate

I try very hard not to hate these people, because they are normally quite nice - just too damn lucky. We all know them: they come from a good family - or at the very least a family where mom's drinking is done mostly in private and dad's little hooker problem is swept quietly under the rug. A family where Little Darling is put through college, her wedding paid for, the down payment on her first home taken care of. She got a job through a friend right out of college and makes good coin. Rich family members fall over dead at least once every decade and she inherits money for all those overseas trips she wants to take. No major job losses, marriage break-ups, serious illnesses or dismemberment. They are good people, happy people, god awful to be around people. However, their backs are take on a funny shape due to the large, golden horse shoe stuck way up their asses. At least you look better in a skirt.

3. The Angelic One

This is the person who, for whatever reason, has it all figured out right from the start. Maybe mom and dad were great with money, or explained to the kids how they should have done things, or taught them that credit cards were only to be used in an emergency. This person pays cash for everything, saves up money while commuting by bus instead of - gasp! - taking out a car loan. Perish the thought! They buy a modest home, live a modest lifestyle, completely ignore the Joneses and whatever they're doing, and are just... happy. These are the people I place high up on a pedestal and admire from below. I pace around them, trying to figure out what makes them so much better at this whole capitalist society thing than I am.

***

A few days ago, we noticed we haven't been able to make much of a dent in our debt situation in quite some time. The company Geekster works for has been bitch-slapped by this recession and that sting has been passed on to its employees in the form of hour reductions - two days every three weeks, to be exact. For a family of five on one income, that's not an easy pill to swallow. And for one who's been living at or slightly above its means while doing renovations to the fixer-upper home they bought two years ago, choking on the proverbial pill would be a more accurate description.

It's been a full year of reduced pay, and we've realized something critically important: Geekster pay doesn't really need to come back up (although that would be nice for many reasons), we need to reassess our lifestyle. We're piggish consumers in many ways, buying on emotion, on impulse. We're not horrible, but we don't always make great choices. Our latest not-so-great choice? The hot tub. How did we justify it? It was on sale, and still way less than any major vacation - which, by the way, we've never taken, not once, ever. It's easy to justify by saying it's like a vacation that keeps on giving, or some other crap. But the truth is that we couldn't afford it or a vacation. It was a dumb move.

See, we both left home at sixteen, and were faced with the harsh reality of sleeping in stairwells and shelters and half-way houses, lining up at the welfare office and the food bank, living with cockroaches and above some very scary drug dealers with an even scarier rottweiler. At nineteen, when Intrepid was born, a friend came to visit and said "He's very cute, but you realized you just fucked up your life." She went on to say we'd never get out of poverty and I would end up a single young mom with no education and nowhere to go. A really thoughtful thing to say to a new mom, wasn't it?

She has not received a single Christmas card from us, I'll have you know. And also, I think I'm way happier than she is. And more awesome. And somewhat prettier. Just sayin'.

It's been seventeen years since I left home, sixteen since I met the love of my life, and nearly thirteen since our first gremlin was born. Sometimes I think we're too hard on ourselves. Statistically, life should really suck right now. We shouldn't be together, let alone smitten with each other. Our son should be a delinquent who has a lot of trouble in school. I should probably have a litter of kids-- I suppose that part is somewhat true. Three is a small litter, right? And we should be quite poor and regretting the decision to keep our baby.

As per usual, I am pleased to be a statistic abnormality: Happy, married, good kids, food to eat, home owner, a vehicle to drive and good credit. Oh, and an adorable smart phone I can't really afford but have to keep for at least the next 2.5 years. You can see I'm pretty broken up about that.

Soon, I'll get discovered for my ravishing beauty or exceptional writing talents and we won't have to worry about juggling the bills anymore. Until then, I'll pat myself on the back on nights like tonight, when I walked out of a very tempting Tupperware party and didn't buy a single thing.

I'm ridiculously proud of myself.

Instant gratification. Wants masking as needs. We're as guilty and, dare I say, imperfect as the next person. Judge if you'd like, but I get to think about all my mistakes while sitting in my warm, bubbly, amazing, relaxing mistake of a hot tub. So there.

(I might let you into my hot tub if you tell me about your debt/lack of debt and give me some fantastic advice - and don't have any communicable diseases.)

Future Career Paths for the Gremlins

Ever wonder where your little wonders will be in a few years? Well, nobody knows your kids better than you. My darling gremlins will ultimately choose their own ways to buy me wonderful Mother's Day gifts, but in case they need my wisdom to guide them, I have a few suggestions:

Intrepid:

Hoarder
This isn't exactly a career path, but since they now have a show dedicated to it, maybe Intrepid could make some money by allowing cameras into his cluttered chaos. A walk through his living room in twenty years could reveal anything from half-eaten snack wrappers to moldy old stacks of locker and desk entrails. Why does he insist on keeping every single workbook he's ever used? WHY?! I'm all for his love of education, but not an entire forest's worth in a 10x10 bedroom.

Screenplay Writer
Ah, talented, just like his mother! Intrepid is a child filled with great ideas and just enough procrastination to always put off writing the next big thing until later. Like I said, a chip off the ol' block; It's a good thing we started our family by accident and didn't put it on the to-do list or I would have been a 55-year-old first time mother. The good thing about screenplays is that they fetch a pretty penny - there's some motivation. And, he can keep his mother in the lap of luxury like she deserves (and would provide for herself, eventually. You know, when she got around it.)



Gutsy

Professor of Whine-ology
He could teach it in university; from the tone that makes a my eye twitch, right down to launching himself upon my bed as he says - for the tenth time - how incredibly hungry he is despite just eating dinner followed closely by a granola bar. Don't I know how starving he is? Don't I care? It's a delicate art, whining, and it takes an experienced professor to teach it properly. Before long, every student in his class would have a new car and their books paid by highly irritated parents who thought the whining stage ended at some point.

Fashion Designer
Today we went to an indoor play area with our good friend Jacob, his baby brother Liam and their mom/my awesome friend The Guilt Goddess. We had a blast, of course, despite my feelings of disappointment over the lack of snooty, distant, upscale moms who TGG says regularly frequent the area. I had my best fake smile ready, and was really looking forward to talking to them about my fixer-upper home and the van I'm still driving from - gasp! - 2005! There's nothing like some purposely uncomfortable conversation to make my PMS Wednesday a good one. Anyway, before the boys left they handed in the tickets earned from playing games in exchange for little prizes. They had everything from ninja action figures to stickers and kazoos. What did Gutsy pick? A necklace with a happy face and a blue bracelet - to match his blue outfit - of course. And earlier this week, he threw a fit in the morning because his clothes didn't "match". Now, if he could turn this passion of his into a runway career, not only would he make some killer cash, but those snooty moms would be clambering to share a bench with TGG and I at the park. "Um, Maven? Do you think Gutsé would design a gown for me to wear at the Ottawa Art Gala?" See? A win/win situation.



Spawnling:

Actor in a 2025 remake of The Hulk
Dude can go from happy to tantrum in mere milliseconds. Today I told him not to walk his new toy on the hood of someone else's car, which resulted in him yelling 'No!' and running full-tilt into the parking lot. His impulse control button has been malfunctioning as of late. I've contacted the manufacturer, but so far no recall has been issued on this model. We're going to have to go MacGyver and fix it with a shoelace, a piece of gum, and maybe six months of maturation. Help me.

CEO of a Candy Factory
The Spawn has a serious sugar addiction. No idea where he gets it. Nope, no clue whatsoever. Must be from his dad. I swear, all he needs is a top hat and a really bad suit and he could be Willy Wonka. And maybe, just maybe, he could meet Johnny Depp, who played Willy Wonka a few years ago. And maybe, just maybe, Johnny Depp would like to come visit the factory and meet Spawnling's mom. And maybe, just maybe, Johnny Depp would like to sneak off and knock boots with me in a bin of cotton candy.

Oh, sorry. This is about my kids' career paths. I'll save my fantasy romps with Johnny (and Chris, and the brothers in Supernatural, and nearly the entire cast of House, and...) for another post.

It's That Time Again, Folks!

...And I'm not talking Christmas.

I had a coffee with a friend this morning, another coffee with a friend this afternoon, and a quick and efficient shopping trip between those two social events.

My children are all home, safe and healthy, and have only had one major fight in the last 90 minutes (a good afternoon, I'd say)

While I haven't lifted a finger except when it's been gripped around a mug, my house is not filthy; Not spotless, but not filthy.

And I am eating chocolate.

I should be really happy. And I am not.

Why? Because I'm PSMing, that's why. It's making me moody and sleepy and weepy. I'm worried about report cards, I'm concerned about money, and I'm stressed about the fact that I don't have a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Everybody needs a decent pair of slip-on shoes. Life isn't fair, dammit!

I'm feeling fine, body-wise. I don't have the flu like I thought I might. I don't have anything but a consistent feeling of wanting to scream and/or cry into a pillow. And maybe I want to hit some things. And perhaps yell at some people for good measure. Maybe I'll find someone to take this out on, like the people that invented "child safety seals" on caps. Ever seen what a naked crazy-glued toddler looks like? I have. It's not pretty.

Gutsy got his first report card home today and it wasn't so great. He technically failed 1st term French by three points, and scored below class average in practically every subject. This means he passed, but barely.

As I've mentioned previously, this is Gutsy's first year in a French immersion class. We had placed him in the English stream last year because of his hearing loss, but realized over the summer that he would likely need more of a challenge. Now I'm rethinking that.

Except I'm not, really. I know this is a bump in the road and that he's working really hard. By the end of the year, he's going to be a rock star in the immersion world. That pessimistic view is PMS Maven talking, and she is one negative little bitch. She likes to draw unhappy conclusions in life and whisper them in my ear for two or three days every month. I would appreciate it if she left my life entirely, but I haven't figured out how to take her off my Facebook list yet.

Even Mavens have low days, folks. I know it's hard to believe, but all this - *making wild circles with my arms all around my body* - needs a perfection break sometimes. It's scheduled maintenance: every 29 days the production of Awesome comes to a halt while the machinery is oiled with sweet, chocolaty deliciousness, and reset with a 20 minute power nap.

Tonight I have a meeting with Sponsette followed by a coffee with Photo Lush. That technically qualifies as four coffee dates in one day. If that doesn't cheer me up, I don't know what will.

(Damn. I take back what I said earlier. They're having another fight. Must go. Someone pass me a pillow, will you?

To scream/cry in, of course. What did you think I was going to do with it? I'm not the murderous kind of moody. Try to keep things in perspective, ok? You're overreacting. Is it that time of the month? Want some foil eggs?)