And to think all it took was a rocket ship...

A huge thank you for the response on the tantrum seminar I attended. Mostly, I appreciate knowing I'm not the only one with a child who throws enormous fits. I sometimes have it in my head that every other parent is smirking smugly in my general direction because their child would never do that, don't you know. I have a follow-up post to write on how we're dealing with them better (and sometimes not) and all that, but I'll write it later this week.

This post is about Spawnling getting his hair did. While not as informative as my last post, it does have very funny pictures. You're on the internet, so you must like funny pictures. Or maybe porn. That's pretty much all the internet has, really.

Want to see what a three-year-old who's never had a professional hair cut looks like?



Now, want to see what he looks like when you take him to a place that caters to little kids who are terrified of scissors and clippers?



For three years, I've been hacking haphazardly at that child's hair. When he was younger, I would nurse him while snipping here and there, buzzing hither and yon. It never looked great, but it was passable. More recently, he would sit still without the lure of boobs, but with the added enticement of sugary bribes.

All I can say is that I'm glad the boy has a cute face. Otherwise, his hair cut would have mattered a great deal more and I would have been labeled a neglectful mother long ago. Genetics for the win.

I am not a hair stylist -- I've never claimed to be. Talented in many ways am I, but cutting the locks of others is not one of them. It comes as no surprise that I had to learn from experience why we should not give the lollipop before the cut is complete ("Moooooooom! It's full of my haaaaaiiiiiir!") And, while Spawnling would hop off the kitchen stool looking less like a child raised by wolves, he did bear a striking resemblance to a hillbilly version of a Beatles' member.

Basically, if the Beatles had a backwoods banjo player, he would look like Spawnling.

It's not my fault he would scream at the mere sight of a barber's chair, or jump out of my arms and take off at a mad run the second he heard a hair dryer. I can't be blamed for not being able to coax him back into the salon, either. I tried sitting with him, offering him candy, toys, immoral women, a time share in the Caribbean. Nothing worked.

So we waited, and the hack jobs continued by yours truly.

Then, we started hearing about Melonhead from friends who take their children there. Finally, the hair industry is catching on to the cash cow that is terrified kids and their parents with horrific scissor-handling skills. They charge more than the average salon for a cut, but that's because they have cool things like planes and race cars for the kids to sit in. If I could sit in a ride-on toy while I had my hair done I might pay more for that, too.

It sounded like a great place to give it the ol' college try again but we still needed some serious prep. Spawnling is not your average gremlin; he requires special care and handling, especially when there's a deep-rooted fear involved. Therefore, I, Incredible Mother of the Universe (minute hair cutting abilities) slowly worked on him over two days by doing the following:

- showed him the Melonhead website, including pictures in the gallery of happy kids getting their 'dos on
- made sure we were going with a preschooler friend who will happily sit for a hair cut (in this case, his good buddy Dalek, the Dr. Who aficionado)
- reminded him that boys who sit nicely for the stylist get chocolate milk after. Just sayin'
- bribed him with the fact that the mall we went to - has an indoor germ orgy room playground he and Dalek could visit after their cuts)

Despite the bribery and copious preparation, I expected a fight the minute he laid eyes on the salon. But once he saw the bright colours and array of happy barber chairs, the littlest gremlin eagerly scuttled in. He tried every seat before he found the one: a rocket ship with a good view of Barney singing with his creepy kid posse on the flat screen TVs.

"Did mommy cut your hair, honey?" Linda the friendly hairstylist jokingly asked.

Spawnling sighed "Yeah." (So hard done by, my kid.)

"I can see that. It's um, a little uneven. You tell mommy not to cut your hair anymore, ok?"

"Ok," said Spawnling, and glared at me.

Point taken, Spawnling and Linda the friendly hair stylist. It really was a series of god awful jobs. That's why I'm overjoyed that he'll finally sit for someone else, even if he had to be wooed in by rocket ships.

However, my ego - in full preservation mode - is happy to point out that when hair was getting cut in my kitchen, Spawnling's face never looked quite like this:


Or this:



So there.

In the end, the boy's hairstyle is fab. However, it also made him look more his age, and that makes me feel a bit sad. These years go by so fast. I mean, in the last couple of weeks, my littlest has potty trained and had his first decent hair cut. Meanwhile, my eldest got braces on Tuesday, which is so very teenager of him.

So, like, since everyone's growing up, maybe Gutsy would like to outgrow his tantrums now?

I'm so funny.

How NOT to deal with your child's tantrums

Last night, about an hour before bedtime, we told Gutsy he couldn't play anymore Lego Star Wars.

You'd think we just took away his only water supply.

The middle gremlin threw an absolute fit which involved all of these things happening at least once, some of them simultaneously:

• tears of rage
• flailing limbs
• jumping up and down on a chair
• threats
• screams
• declarations of 'It's not fair!'
• flying ottomans

We sat there calmly, Geekster and I, while the event took place. We offered words of empathy, offers of hugs, and suitable alternatives to playing a game he'd already spent three hours playing that afternoon. But mostly we just waited for him to calm down and made sure he wouldn't break anything.

Time passes differently when your child is throwing a tantrum. What seems like the longest hour of one's lifetime might only be 10 minutes. However, when the tantrum-throwing tot is quickly jumping from one destructive activity to the next, an hour can easily fly by before you know it. I'd like to say something Star Trek chique like 'it disrupts the space time continuum,' but unfortunately I'm geeky enough to know what that term means and that it doesn't apply. I am sad.

'Is this what we're supposed to do?' asked a skeptical Geekster. 'Just sit here?'

According to the seminar I attended on Monday night, absolutely.

I'm part of the Special Education Advisory Committee at our local school board. We meet every couple of months to discuss issues concerning special needs kids like Gutsy and Intrepid (who are both hearing impaired). A side benefit to attending these meetings - other than the complimentary treats and coffee, of course - is that we get some very interesting speakers from time to time. Little did I know, however, that this particular seminar, given by psychologist Eva de Gosztonyi and based on the work of Dr. Gordon Neufield, author of Hold On To Your Kids - would completely change the way I parent.

I'm going to admit something awful, so brace yourselves: Lately, I've been resenting Gutsy's behavior a lot, and I was feeling like I couldn't get beyond it to reconnect with him. The tantrums were a chasm widening daily, leaving he on one side and I on the other. It was breaking my heart, as this is the boy we tried for years to conceive; who I nursed for three years; who I love fiercely. But try as I might, I was putting a wall up to protect myself from his continuous outbursts. There's only so much any person can take, even a mom, and I was shutting down. I hated myself for it. I hate admitting it, even now. But that's the honest truth.

Then I went to this seminar, and suddenly everything made sense. It made so much sense, in fact, that I need to share it with all of you. I obviously can't explain every little detail or I'd be re-writing Dr. Neufield's book, but I'll give you my interpretation of what I learned:

There's a part of the brain called the frontal lobe. It helps us manage frustration, impulse control, and all that other tantrum-related stuff. This is the last part to develop, and the one that takes the longest to finish. In fact, research shows it doesn't start developing until 5 or 6, and isn't fully developed in the average human until the age of 25 (traumatic emotional events and neurological conditions can delay development).

This explains a lot of the stupid drama I got myself into as a teenager and young adult. Just sayin'.

Before the age of about 5, children can only process one thought at a time. That's why kids flip so easily from happy to frustrated to angry to sad to back to happy again. It's one thought after the next with no overlap. It also means they get hyper-focused on one thing. For example, when I tell Spawnling he can't have a cookie and he freaks the hell out, that's because he's unable to think of anything other than the cookie and how much he wants it. It also explains why distraction can work so well on little kids. With a little distraction, they'll often forget the ever-important cookie as quickly as they thought of it.

Now, if only I could get that distracted when I want a cookie...

A tantrum happens when a child becomes frustrated and can't yet process or accept that things will not go their way. Until that acceptance happens, they run the chance of becoming completely emotionally overwhelmed. When Gutsy wanted to launch Mr. Ottaman through the flat screen, his little noggin was effectively running around and around in a circle, unable to find the exit. Very likely, he was thinking 'Mom and Dad won't let me play my favourite game and I really want to play it and it's just not fair and why won't they let me and how can I make them let me?' over and over and over again. He was hyper-focused on one thing, and until he could accept that he would not get to play Lego Star Wars, he would not regain control.

While stuck in that thought process, all sorts of chemicals and stress hormones are raging through the body. Things like cortisol and adrenaline. These can impede judgment, but serve us well later in life when we have contract deadlines looming (believe me, I know) or when our toddler is heading for the busy road and we run like we've never run before. They're useful, but also a challenge to deal with when little gremlins are feeling foul.

Eventually, acceptance will come and Gutsy will realize he can't play his game, and Spawnling will realize he can't have a cookie right now. Sometimes it comes after one foot stomp, sometimes after a two hour blow up. But when it does come, change will happen.

All those stress chemicals racing around the system become toxins that need to be purged. Crying happens after a tantrum because those toxins are being released. When tears come, this is a good thing; the brain is switching into a more problem-solving mode. Now is the time to hold and console your child, and let them know it's okay. It's also when you can start talking about what just happened.

Here is what not to do during a tantrum. I will highlight in red the wrongs I've been committing:

• Do not start yelling. It creates more stress and makes the problem worse.
  
• Do not threaten to take away things that matter to the child. Again, this creates more stress.
  
• Do not remove your child to another location ("time out") unless they're at risk of harming themselves or others, or because you need a break from the situation to compose yourself. Kids have a way of making everything about them and will assume you don't love them unless they do exactly what you want.
• Do not assume they're trying to manipulate you with their threats and ultimatums. They're simply very overwhelmed and don't know what else to do.

So, like, basically I was doing everything wrong.

Here's what to do during a tantrum:

• Be present for your child. You don't have to sit there and watch the whole tantrum, but stay close enough that they know you're there for them no matter what. That helps them feel safe and get to the tears/problem-solving stage faster.
  
• Be both compassionate and firm at the same time. Set boundaries but be gentle. For example, we empathized with Gutsy's frustration over not being able to get what he wanted, but we also held firm to our decision.
• Make sure things don't get broken. (I added in this one - it was not in the seminar. Just a handy-dandy Maven word of experience) We quickly stopped Gutsy from throwing things so no one or nothing got hurt.
  
• If there are two parents present, it's okay to tag team and take a break, especially if you're feeling overwhelmed.
• Tell your child that you understand they're frustrated and empathize with their feelings.
• When the tears come, gently help your child problem-solve and come up with other ways of expressing frustration and working through it.
  

The speaker said something about her daughter that really stuck with me. Her daughter would be good as gold at school and out with other people. The minute she walked through the door and disliked one thing her mother said, she would completely melt down. This is so true of Gutsy and a lot of other kids I know. Why is it he can be so well-behaved for others and not at home? Am I wearing clashing colours? Does he not like the meals I make him? What the hell is wrong with me?!

The simple answer, she said, is that Gutsy uses what little frontal lobe control he has when he's at school, on playdates, at grandma's house, and melts down the minute he gets home because he's emotionally exhausted; he's given it his all for an entire day and he simply can't do it anymore. She also said that a child who tantrums around their parents is one that feels very safe and attached. Basically, it's a compliment.

So, ear-piercing screaming + ottoman launching = awesome parenting. Great, I think.

In the end, I learned that there is no way to accelerate frontal lobe development. (Damn.) All we can do is provide a safe and loving environment for our children and do our best not to exacerbate the tantrums by adding more stress to the mix. She also mentioned that for little brains, being able to come home right after school is ideal, as it allows the child to switch off and rest. In our society we expect so much of our kids: full-time school, part-time daycare, lots of after-school and weekend activities. Their brains almost never get a chance to recharge.

I have to say, with all the financial stress we've been under lately, it really validated my decision to stay home and keep after-school activities to a minimum. Heck, the gremlins tantrum enough as it is. They have a frightening lack of frontal lobe action going on. Thinking about what they'd be like if they were scheduled even more makes my eyelid twitch.

Anyway, that's about all there is to that. We need to stop expecting our kids to be little adults and allow them the time they need to mature naturally.

Last night's tantrum took about 20 minutes, I'd say. We were happily playing actual Lego within short order, and bedtime was a breeze. When I compare this to the usual butting heads, multiple time-outs and utter screamfests, this was progress. We'll see how things go from here, but I'd say we're off to a pretty good start.

And the best news? I have a better understanding of why Gutsy behaves the way he does, and I don't resent him for it. It's not his fault, he's not trying to make this difficult, he's not trying to manipulate me. This week has been spent bridging that chasm, and figuring out how I need to change, not how he needs to.

After thirteen years, I still haven't figured out this parenting thing. Leave it to the gremlins to remind me how imperfect I am.

Hot, mind you, but imperfect.

How to sully your reputation, by The Maven

It's been a very good week, despite the puke.

Intrepid may have barfed down the side of the playroom couch and been home for the last two days, but the rest of mid-to-late-February has been pretty awesome.

Let's start with the reason I haven't blogged in a week: I was applying for writing contracts, and then I got one.

I got one!

Just like that, someone decided to hire me - and this was after I directed them to my blog. I'm not too sure what that means, and sadly I forgot to ask. Either they liked my writing style or they thought that any woman crazy energetic enough to raise three boys full-time can pull off pretty much anything.

It was like a dream job in so many ways. It looked like something I could easily do, be creative with, and actually learn something new in the process.

However, the odds were clearly against me: I applied for it on a site where I had yet to be hired by anyone, had no feedback scores from previous clients (that would require having previous clients on said site), and had a big fat $0 in my 'total earnings' box. Basically, I looked like a complete newbie in Bigwig Freelancer Land, and it was a long shot.

But I won it, likely because my awesomeness transcended even my newbieness, and it became clear to the clients that hiring me was the only logical choice.

...Or maybe it was the blog.

Nah, it was totally my awesomeness.

Anyway, I had a phone call with the project manager on Monday to discuss the work. Right before it ended, he asked me how I got into this freelance writing thing.

Wouldn't you know it? Normally witty Maven went off on a business tangent about how I've been writing for a while, and I have a background in IT but this suits my lifestyle better, and I've done a fair bit of local work, etc. I was trying to act all professional-like, and tripping all over myself in the process.

Lame, and oh-so-boring.

Hindsight is, of course, always 20/20. The minute the call ended I came up with many other, far better answers to the question, like:

"The orthodontist made me do it."

"It was either this or I go back to the meth lab, you know?"

"I used to sell black market babies, but with the economy the way it is people are skipping the middleman these days..."

"I used to be a rodeo clown, but PETA's been looking for me."

"Actually, I just find the contracts- I make my kids do the writing. You don't mind a few typos, do you?"

"Well, it sure beats hooking!"

It's probably best I didn't use any of those...

In the end, I did a good job, was finished early, and the customer was happy. I got paid, and the now Intrepid's undoubtedly starving orthodontist can buy some groceries for his family. I'm feeling all professional and full of myself.

And if anyone said "When do you not feel full of yourself?" I'm going to lock you up in the meth lab. Don't think I won't do it.

Tomorrow -- if I'm not puking (so far so good) -- I'll write about an amazing seminar I went to on Monday night that dealt with tantrums, which was the other highlight this week. I'm pleased to say that since then, when Gutsy or Spawnling start throwing a fit, I have far less desire to repeatedly run myself into the patio doors until I black out. This is a good thing.

Five Things I'm Grateful For (Other than my Awesomeness)

Last night I had a dream that Geekster was made captain of one of seven space shuttles, all of which were taking off simultaneously on some cosmic mission. I remember feeling so incredibly proud of him and, of course, bragging my ass off to everyone who could hear me.

Then I woke up and felt kind of bad for the bragging.

This dream taught me two things:

1. I've been watching far too many space movies lately (can't help it - Captain Kirk and Han Solo are dreamy dudes) and,

2. After sixteen years, I still think a great deal of my husband

Let's face it: Life has been shit on toast the last few months. The Maven family has had a series of unfortunate events that, while not exactly book or movie worthy, have thrown us for a loop or two. We faced a minor health crisis, a serious money crunch, some fluctuations in our social circle, a small fire, and a whole bucket load of 'Why is this all happening at once?!' This has undoubtedly been our worst year in at least a decade.

But he's been there, that man of mine. A shining example of this was how, when we couldn't afford anything for each other on Valentine's Day, he woke up early and made pink pancakes for the entire family. I married an amazing guy.

He's been solid footing when life feels almost treacherous; a warm campfire when the path is dark and cold. I could come up with many other cheesy metaphors - I'm quite good at them, you know - but I think the point has been made without making you gag on my sappiness. While stress has certainly not passed my darling husband by, he's been the incredible best friend to me that he always is, and for that I'm very grateful.

In fact, I'm feeling a whole crapload of gratitude lately. Back when I was quitting the sauce, I was taught by the wise recovery gurus that gratitude and optimism are sometimes all a girl's got to hitch her sanity to in times of extreme sucktitude, lest she go out for a pint or ten. I've carried that knowledge all these years within my soul.

Uh, I mean my fat cells, which is clearly why I carry the extra weight around. It all makes sense now, doesn't it? Someone pass the bag of chips; It's for a good cause.

So, in lieu of writing yet another depressing post about how we had to spend our grocery money to fix my windshield and Geekster's birthday money on groceries, I'm going to take a few moments to mention the good things in my life.

I know: big of me, right? Just flexing my well-used optimism muscle, that's all.

I've already mentioned my husband. He gets top billing. Then there are these beautiful little guys. Here they are this afternoon, smiling widely and loving life:



You're right: I'm full of it. They were totally fighting when I took those.

I'm also grateful for Spawnling's drawings. Like all good artists, his work is able to invoke several emotions simultaneously. When I see his work, I'm first proud that he's drawing sensible shapes.

"Snowmans"

"Daddy playing guitar" (Guitar added in by daddy upon request)

Then I'm somewhat confused because they look like potatoes with toothpicks, or drunken amoeba.

"Daddy hugging me."


"Daddy and me, but I drew Daddy with hair, and he doesn't really have hair, so... oops."

Then I'm a little annoyed that every single one of them is either Spawnling and daddy, Daddy being a rock star, or some inanimate object. You'd think having given birth to the ten pound turkey, I might get my own cracked-out single-celled organism look-alike, but apparently not.

And finally I laugh a little, because they're gosh darn cute, just like their maker. And their maker's maker, obviously.

I'm grateful for the family members who have stepped up and helped out with babysitting so Geekster and I can preserve our sanity and our coupledom, bought outerwear for the kids so we don't have to worry about clothing three gremlins for next year's winter season, given us a hand up financially until things get better, and just been generally supportive and understanding.

I'm grateful for the friends who text just to tell me they care, tow away the gremlins to make our house less chaotic for a little while, take me out for breakfast, drop by with coffee, and listen to my incessant complaints about Murphy and his damn law.

It's really hard to be depressed around you guys. You give me little opportunity to drown my sorrows in melted chocolate. Thank you.

Husband, gremlins, creepy/adorable pictures, family, friends. That's five, right? Counting is hard this evening. I went skating with Gutsy's grade 1 class and accompanying grade 6 class today. After tying that many skates and watching a kit throw up in a garbage can a few times, my brain is a little fuzzy.

Oh! And finally, I'm grateful it wasn't my kid throwing up in the garbage can. That's six.

Spawnling Lays Down the Law

I often talk about how much attitude my little Spawnling has. Yesterday, I decided to get it on video.

For the record, I did take away his jellybeans. They're potty training bribery (and it's working - who knew sugar would work?) and he took off at a dead run with them in his hands, cackling the entire time. He wasn't cackling so much when I chased him down and put them back in the cupboard, however. So, he decided to set down the law with me.



Have I mentioned lately how much I love this kid?

Now I can Prove How Awesome I am

Admittedly, I really suck at receiving blog awards, which is probably why very few people award them to me anymore.

But sometimes, a person quite ignorant to my years of slackdom, comes along and hands me over something shiny, like this:


Thanks, Mandy! (I'm not thanking myself, just so we're clear. The cool chick who gifted me shares my real life, non-interweb, super secret name.)

The Sunshine Award. It could mean so many things, could it not? Perhaps I was given it because I glow radiantly, like a large ball of life-giving fire. Maybe the sheer idea of me not blogging would be like the sun ceasing to burn, causing the end of the internet. Gosh, there are so many possibilities running through my mind, and all of them are just as - if not more - pompous.

What do you expect? I'm a maven -- it's my job to be like this.

It's not like I don't deserve awards, of course. I blog at least... once a week. And when I blog I'm even kind of funny, sometimes. There are even days when I'm not being sarcastic or bitchy in the slightest in order to avoid having some of my more politically correct readers choke on their tears of disgust. Because, hey, if you're politically correct, you should totally be reading my posts. I practically scream social correctness.

(Did you detect the sarcastic tone? And the bitchy, too? Thank you. It was rather impressive, wasn't it?)

So, why don't I typically accept awards graciously and do as I'm told by passing along the joy to others? Because I am a giant procrastinator, that's why. I have the very best of intentions, I really do. I really, really want to do what I'm told because I'm a good girl who obeys the rules. (Yes, that last sentence was sarcasm again. Good catch!) The problem is that I get busy herding gremlins, cleaning their nests, and drinking copious amounts of caffeine. Days go by, then weeks, and I simply forget. By the time I remember, it's just far too late to do it.

This time, however, things will be different. I will not let Mandy down. Not just because I need to prove I'm not always lazy (only on pizza nights), but because having something shiny with which to show off my awesomeness is always useful. Sadly, there are days when I need to flash my blog bling in the eyes of naysayers, rendering them temporarily blind. Once the pain and awe subside, they always come back for more. Possibly because they've heard rumors that deep down I may have something resembling humility in my soul.

Why are you shaking your head at me? Is there an award for bloggers who show humility? No? Well, then, I see no reason to be modest if I'm not going to get a trophy to show off my humbleness with. You can see the bind I'm in.

But I didn't say I was the only awesome blogger out there, did I? Hell, no. I share the spotlight sometimes, you know. As part of accepting this award, I'm going to list 12 of them. You can go check them out, befriend them, and then talk about how grandiose I am. They'll understand.

If your blog is listed and you decide to accept this award (Why wouldn't you? It's not smothered in herpes or anything), please find 12 more awesome people to give it to. That's how it works. It's like one of those annoying chain letters, but without the threat of death or dismemberment.

12 Blogs That The Maven Likes to Read and Give Awards to and Stuff:

The Single Screenwriter
Chasing Blue Sky
Jobthingy's Jungle
meanoldmommy
WackyMummy
From Nat's Brain
Canadian Bald Guy
Party of 3
XUP
Not just about cancer
Sunshine on My Shoulder
As told by Kat

These are some of my favourite people, and if I could I would read them every day. Unfortunately, this life thingy takes me so far away from the computer lately that I scarcely have time to tell them how amazing they are. The nice thing about giving them some blog award love is that I have an excuse to go read their work and comment on it; Something I haven't done for a long time. I'm betting they'll be weeping with joy.

Oh, they won't admit it, but they will be. Trust me. I have that affect on people. It must be my thick coating of humility. It's like lacquer - you can see right through it.

Tell it like it is, Spawn.

Spawnling is nothing if not honest.

Unfortunately, at three-and-a-half, he has yet to discover the wonderful world of word filtering. It's a useful tool in all sorts of potentially sticky situations, such as the ones that just occurred at my place of residence this morning. Oh, my.

My good friend Handcuffs - a mom with three crazy hyper chaotic perfect little boys of her own - was over for a visit. The kids were screaming and running around playing ever so quietly with stickers and charm bracelets when some kind of physical incident occurred and Spawnling was hit in the face.

Spawn, my dear little son, did what he now does best in these situations: screamed as loud as he could and let the waterworks flow. You know, I used to loathe when he would hit back, but I almost hate this whole sobbing uncontrollably at the injustice of it all phase even more. Doesn't he see that I'm trying to drink my coffee? There should be a no-wailing rule when mommy has her feet up on the ottoman.

I picked my boy up and asked him what happened. In between gasps for air and sobs, he told me the whole sordid tale: 'Gasp! Riley... he... sob! ... he hit... gasp! snort!.... m-m-meeeeee! ... sob!'

It would have been nice if it had ended there. But no, of course not. He had to keep going about it. '... And I was just ... gasp! ... sitting there and he... sob! ... h-he whacked me just like that, and... sob! ... and he's SUCH A BIG DUMBO!"

Yikes. Nice one, kid. Here's a little trick I've learned over the years: If you're the victim in an altercation and there's some kind of parental intervention, just stay put. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred-dollars. Don't start throwing bad names around; it'll just complicate the situation. Now both of you have to apologize. Do you know how hard it is to make two three-year-olds say sorry to each other without another hit or yell happening in the process? Even seasoned mothers struggle with this.

A little later, when things calmed down again, Spawnling had started drawing a picture. And, like every other picture he draws as of late, it looks like a Mr. Potato Head on hallucinogens: a large (this time yellow) circular body with two circles of different sizes for eyes and four creepy little sticks protruding from its spud-like frame for limbs.

Handcuffs, forgetting who she was talking to, said 'Hey, Spawnling, do you know who that looks like? Sponge-Bob!'

'No. It doesn't.' replied the artistic diva, cooly.

Trying to explain herself, Handcuffs went on: 'See? It has a big yellow body, and little sticks for arms and legs. Just like Sponge-Bob does!'

'No. I don't think so.' I believe he may have rolled his eyes at that point.

'Okay, then,' shrugged Handcuffs, trying to stifle a giggle over Spawn's stubborn refusal to see her point.

He looked over at her and said, so matter-of-factly, 'Ummm, do you know that I don't like you?' And he casually spun around and walked off to do something else.

Just so you know, it is very, very challenging to make your child apologize to a person who is practically falling out of her seat laughing, while you yourself are in stitches, and tears are running down your cheeks.

He may be ballsy, but I really do love that kid.

Open Letters to the Gremlins: February Edition

Dear Intrepid;

Showering: It's an essential part of life.

I understand that you're thirteen and you would rather stay up late, watch highly inappropriate cartoons, eat anything you can get your hands on, go to bed, and wake up 20 minutes before school without ever seeing the inside of a bathtub. However, you need make room in your busy schedule to bathe. I shouldn't have to remind you to do this.

You may argue that I was once a teenager and therefore should empathize with what you're going through, but you would be missing one important fact: I was a girl teenager. Most girl teenagers live in the shower. We take great care to do our hair, apply makeup, switch outfits 18 times, and possibly throw a top into our school bag that shows more cleavage than mom or dad would approve of so that we can put it once we get to school. We like to smell good, look good, feel good. It's a whole different universe.

Furthermore, girl teenagers like boy teenagers who smell good, too. Since we're lacking in the stench department, our olfactory system is wide open for stinkiness from outside sources. This will become far more important to you in the coming years. Just sayin'.

Other than that, you're pretty awesome. You're a ray of sunshine, a huge help, and you even remember to take out the garbage sometimes. But please make sure you do your ethics project tonight. I do not want yet another last minute stress-fest tomorrow morning because it's due and you haven't printed it out yet, and the printer isn't working, and your bus comes in four minutes, and...

Love,
Mom



Dear Gutsy,

People like to tell me what a great kid you are. I couldn't agree more. You're funny, creative, bright, sweet, and have all sorts of other wonderful traits, too. I'm pleased as punch to call you my son. A world without Gutsy would be a much less colourful place.

However, I draw the line at statements from people at your school who like to tell me how you're quiet, polite, and a very good listener. You have many amazing qualities, my dear middle child. But those are not among the list of things I say about you (Yes, I keep a list. It's in my head, and I use it show off to other moms when I'm in a bragging sort of mood. We all do it, trust me. It's a mom thing.)

Clearly, they have never witnessed a morning at Casa Maven. I should probably invite them over to be proverbial flies on the wall. They can watch as you take a very long time to get out of bed; insist on a specific type of breakfast even if there's not enough time to make it because you took too long to wake up; refuse to pick out your own clothes yet complain about the ones we bring you, need help getting into absolutely every article of outdoor clothing and whine the entire time; and only actually make it to the end of the driveway before the bus drives by about 75% of the time, usually after stomping around and yelling about how things aren't going your way.

You do all this before I manage to get any coffee into my system. That is so uncool.

Clearly, you have them all fooled. I think you bottle up all the complaining, non-compliance, ear-piercing screaming, stubborn arm-crossing, fridge-door-kicking, and remote-control-throwing, and save it for when you're at home.

While I appreciate the thoughtfulness of this gesture - trying to make school a good place for everyone around you- we may need to discuss a more balanced approach. I could most certainly deal with some behavioural notes coming home in your school bag every now and then if it meant you wouldn't throw your pants at me because you don't like the zipper. I could handle the odd call from your teacher about a discipline issue if you wouldn't try to break our appliances when I say you can't have a snack five minutes before dinner.

Balance. Let's work on that, ok? It could give my heart an extra ten years of ticking time. Think of all the extra birthday and Christmas presents that could buy you! See? I'm not a selfish bitch of a mom. There's something in it for you, too.

Love you lots and lots despite butting heads yet again this morning,
Mom



Dear Spawnling,

Sorry about your hair. Maybe we could try visiting an actual salon without having you jump out of my arms and run screaming at the mere site of a barber chair? Then I wouldn't have to do a hack job at home like I did this morning. Your hairdo makes me think of what would happen if Shaggy got freaky with a paper shredder.

Dammit, Spawnling! I'm a writer, not a hair stylist!

I guess you wouldn't get the Star Trek reference, being three and all...

Hoping you have nice hair and start using the potty soon, please-oh-please my little darling.

Lovingly,
Mom

In Which The Maven Calls 911 and Dreams of Whips

It started like any other weekend, but better. Finally, we're in a place once more where I can afford a decent cup of coffee and not lose sleep over it. Remortgaging earlier this month left us with fewer bills to pay with Geekster's reduced salary.

The husband and I discussed how we still need to be careful; With only a small amount in our emergency savings account, we could face monetary challenges should something break. In a few months, we'll have more saved up, and we could probably be a little less vigilant at that point. But for now, we should stick mostly to necessities.

... But that's so boring, you know? And there's a world of lattes out there just begging for me to taste them. So I had a couple. Sue me.

And Old Navy had a sale on denim. The boys needed new jeans. Hey, it's not my fault the gremlins go through knees faster than I go through a bag of peanut butter cups.

Yet, I was proud of myself; I didn't go crazy. I would say I was rather responsible in my spending. But I should have put at least half that money away instead of throwing caution to the wind and breathing the air of those who can afford a few extras. Silly, naive little Maven.

As the old adage goes:

It's all fun and games until someone loses both a windshield and a dryer on the same weekend.

My windshield has had a pock in it for about two years. It was filled, and I was told it shouldn't get any bigger. Well, it cracked. It was an icy cold Canadian winter day, and I blew hot air on a cold piece of glass that was already stressed, and it split faster than Drew Barrymore and Tom Green.

No worries. We have a little bit in savings - enough to cover a new windshield. We could claim it on our insurance, but we've had two such claims in the last three years - one for a cracked windshield, and one for the back window of Geekster's car that was smashed in by rowdy youth last summer. Any more claims right now and we'll be looking at a premium increase. Gag me.

Then, on Sunday, as we were standing in front of the dryer, discussing how poorly it was drying our clothes as of late, I said "I smell something electrical. Oh my God..."

Within seconds, smoke was billowing out of the dryer, and my husband was running for the fire extinguisher and turning off the breaker. Meanwhile, I was getting the gremlins out of the house and calling 911 - well, after ran around the house freaking out like the proverbial chicken with her head cut off. My body wasn't sure if it felt like fighting or flighting. I chose flighting - across the street with my half-dressed children to our neighbours' house, minutes before the fire trucks pulled up.

There was no damage save to the dryer itself. I don't want to think what would have happened had we not been standing in front of it when it caught fire. Those are thoughts and feelings I do not wish to explore right now, thank you. We were there, we acted quickly, everyone is safe. That's all that matters.

So, we are now without a dryer and I need to get my windshield fixed. That's a lot of cash we don't have. The ironic part? I had just reached a decision to lay off trying to start my own business so as to remain focused on my main priority - being at home with my kids. It was part of my stress-reduction plan. After all, I told Geekster and a few friends, trying to write more than an hour a day with the demon child clawing at my legs does not exactly promote creativity. Had we neglected him a little more, maybe he would have learned not to come to me when he needs things. What where we thinking, giving him all that love and attention? Hindsight, and all that... It won't be long before Spawnling is in school and I find myself with more time than bon-bons and soap operas alone can fill. At that point I can focus on this career-thing people say is so fulfilling or whatever.

Unfortunately, while being at home fulfills me just fine, it doesn't fill the damn bank account. It doesn't pay for car repairs or major appliances. Looks like I'm going to have to find some more contracts. Let's hope I can convince someone that I have some kind of literary talent. Some people are gullible, right?

If things go south in the writing department, I may have to use my old fall-back plan of part-time prostitution. Sure, I may carry that little bit of Monday morning frumpiness with me the entire week, and my body is not as young and tight as it used to be, but I obviously know what I'm doing - I have three kids, after all.

I've never actually tried being a prostitute, but I hear you can skip drug use and even the fishnet stockings (A good thing, as it's cold up here in the Great White North). I've also heard rumours that there are men out there who like their woman curvy and rather plain looking. I do plain very well and have no problems maintaining my curves. Proof, once again, that I am the perfect woman.

The one problem with prostitution? The whole 'having sex with strangers' bit. Also, I don't want to sleep with ugly people, or people with bad breath, or people with bad clothing choices. Nothing would make me say 'keep your hands off my eyelet-embellished pleather mini skirt' faster than someone wearing pinstripes and plaid together.

If I could just find the guys who pay for an hour so they can complain about their wives and jobs, I'd be all for that. I'm a great listener. I'll hear your sob fest, and I won't even wince at the stench of your garlic breath unless you try to get to first base.

On second thought, maybe I could just be a dominatrix; They don't have to put out and they get to whip people. How could this possibly be a bad thing? Also, if I were to time appointments around my cycle, I could charge more one week per month due to uber-bitchiness. Lashings? Oh, I'll give you lashings. Do you know how bloated I feel right now? Did you bring me any chocolate? No?! You're a very *snap!* naughty *snap!* boy! *snap!*

Who says I'm not an entrepreneur at heart? And you thought these smarts were reserved for sock-sorting and fort-building.

Anyway, I'm hunting for a used washer as we speak. Maybe I should also look into a whip and some heels.