He Likes Big Butts (and I caught it on video)

It appears my dear Spawnling has taken a liking to large behinds.

He enjoys sizable fannies.

He has a new found appreciation for the pronounced tush. Observe this morning's footage:



I know Sir Mix-A-Lot's song is used in cartoons nowadays, like in Shrek and, as Spawnling mentioned, in Shark Tale. However, there's an important difference: They stop after the first verse because parents would likely not appreciate their young child hearing the rest of the words.

...And that's where big brothers happily come in to fill in the blanks by finding the song online and listening to it with impressionable younger brothers. Thanks, guys.

There's something rather unsettling - and yet damn funny - about hearing your three-year-old say the word 'sprung' -- and not be referring to seasonal changes. Just sayin'. So I had to get it on video, okay? I had to. I couldn't help myself.

Considering that Spawnling sings everywhere - and I mean everywhere - regardless of where we are or who's around, outings are going to be very interesting for a while. Move over Star Wars theme, because papa's got a brand new bag - or butt - to croon about.

We're going to be so popular the park this year, don't you think?

Here's what I want to know: What is the most embarrassing thing your child has ever said or done in public? As I enjoy hearing about other people's impending sense of social doom and not just sharing my own, I beg you to dish.

The Middle Child in Pictures

I think I need to embrace a more positive attitude when it comes to parenting. It's not like it's difficult to raise a few kids, right? What am I always whining about?

So, to commemorate Gutsy's return to school after an entire week of sickness, and this morning's 50 minute tantrum that ensued, I will not complain about his attitude in this post. Nope, not one bit.

For example, instead of venting about how much I despise being woken up by what sounds like the screams of a cracked-out velociraptor, I will smile widely and share some of my favourite Gutsy pictures. Like this one from his first day of preschool:

Come to think of it, he still looks like that most mornings.

And instead of thinking about how he stomped around demanding a long sleeve shirt, but not that one because he doesn't like it, and not that one because it doesn't feel comfortable, and why doesn't he have any clothes at all and don't we ever do laundry because the three long sleeved shirts we offered him aren't good enough, and wearing a hoodie over a t-shirt just isn't on the agenda, how about I just grin gaily and show this treasure I discovered in a family picture from about three years ago?

Admittedly, he makes the best facial expressions I've ever seen outside of an early Jim Carrey movie. Maybe there's a decent retirement fund in my future after all!

Rather than focus on how I offered him three pairs of pants and none of them were acceptable because one had a 'hard button to do up', the second was 'too tight when I sit down' and the third was 'too short, kinda' I'll think about how much Gutsy loves his brothers, as is shown in this picture with little Spawnling:

Then, there's this loving one with Intrepid:

Sweet as pie, I tell you.

Gutsy doesn't just make me want to yank every strand of fiery red hair from my scalp (like this morning when he insisted on having a 'nice breakfast' after missing his bus due to going all Hulk on our asses.) He is as equally hilarious as he is frustrating. Observe:

Give him a prop and he'll give you an amazing shot. The attitude just oozes out:

I hope and pray a day will come when my middle gremlin will pour all his frustrations into art. And by "art" I don't mean his mother's ears and pounding head.

But he's already creative, and not just by discovering new ways to drive us batty. Long time readers will remember the scissor necklace of 2009 ("Because if you have them all around your neck you always know where they are!"):

And have I mentioned he's just downright gorgeous? I think it's a survival tactic. No, I know it's a survival tactic. Future partners will forgive him the world on account of those amazing eyes and great fashion sense. He is a boy who really knows how to dress, even if it does take him 50 minutes and a river of tears:

Yep, going through his pictures is a reminder that there's a lot more good than bad when it comes to raising Gutsy. By "good" I mean all the wonderful things that make up our special little guy. And by "bad" I mean feeling like I'm watching Godzilla rage his way through Tokyo (AKA the living room) at 7AM on a Monday morning.

But he's worth every screech, and even most of the skyscrapers.

The Legend of Lucette

I'm so glad I wrote yesterday's post about anxiety. Truly, it's just better to come right out and admit something than try and pretend everything is perfect. I feel a lot better just having spoken the truth instead of hiding it. Today has been a good day with very little anxiety.

And I realize a fair number of people in my community read my blog and know me personally, so I may be seen as 'that anxious nutcase' from now on, but I don't really mind. Better to have a qualifier rather than just be 'that nutcase,' which we all know is a well established fact anyway.

That being said, I have upped my level of insanity this week by having two sick little gremlins at home. Funny, because every so often I hear from my working mom friends 'Oh, I could never stay at home with my kids. I don't know how you do it. I'd go crazy from boredom/breaking up fights/mundane day-to-day stuff.'

I disagree, kind of.

First of all, most people who have spent at least a year parenting are already as loopy as a bowl of Cheerios, so there's no 'going crazy' be done. Mission complete, know what I'm saying? Second, if you have any social aptitude at all, you can easily fill your time with friends, outings and all sorts of things to keep the little claws retracted. Hence, stomping out most fighting and boredom. Third, mundane it is hardly ever, as long as you get out there and enjoy the fact that you're mistress of your own universe: Champion of pajama bottoms. Owner of the ceramic coffee mug. Ruler of the park bench.

All bets are off, however, when your child get sick. Once a bad cold, stomach bug, or flu sets in, I'm one grouchy kid fight away from a straight jacket and a nurse checking under the tongue to make sure my happy pills are swallowed. And this state is where I have sat for the last four days plus a weekend; trapped inside these walls with two coughing, runny-nosed gremlins who are just sick enough to stay home and just well enough to take out their frustrations on each other.

Crazy, fighting, mundane. Twitch-twitch.

So as to reduce the aforementioned twitching, we've been taking Coughy and McSneezy out in the yard a bit on nicer days, which just happens to be where I found the most coolest thing ever like ever that has ever been found.

We bought this house nearly three years ago from an awesome woman named MC. She and her three kids lived here for several years until she decided it was time to move to a home with less upkeep. Meanwhile, we moved in with our three kids, rolled up our sleeves, and have been continuing the task she started of lovingly renovating and restoring this 1946 postwar home which just happens to be in the neighbourhood I grew up in.

It stands to reason we'd move from a shiny new house bought eight years prior to an older home. We're simply not new home people, especially when its situated in a new neighbourhood. I'm just not a cookie cutter community kind of gal. I tried it for eight years and feel I gave it my best shot. In the end, we found the kids had no room to play and the houses were so close to each other we were practically dry humping our neighbours.

I like living in a home that is pretty but has nothing to prove, stands out simply because every house looks different on the street, and is spaced far enough apart from our neighbours that nobody is getting accidentally fondled. But what I love most is the half-acre with a backyard surrounded by overgrown hedges and huge trees. Space rocks. Space with privacy rocks even more.




And space with privacy with cool treasures in it rocks the hardest.

When MC gave us the keys, she said 'Anything you find the yard is now yours. Enjoy!'

We didn't realize that wasn't meant to be funny. Since then, we've found six or seven balls, some army men, cars and a frisbee or two. Every time the boys find something, I hear squeals of delight as they run their new treasure over to show the rest of us. Little did I realize, however, that I'd be the one squealing one evening earlier this week when I found a little treasure of my own.

Geekster and I were taming the beast that is sickly Spawnling by exploring the great outdoors with him before bed. While in the far back of the yard, we decided to do our quarterly ball-retrieval exercise (stop giggling, perverts) by digging through the hedge that has what we think is a patch of poison ivy growing in it. Except it's not growing right now, so it's a good time for Geekster to be pulling out the balls.

Didn't I say "no giggling"? Sheesh.

While scouring the hedges, I pointed at a yellow half circle partially buried in leaves. 'Honey, what's that?' I asked. He shrugged and went closer. 'It looks like part of a bowl or something. Let me grab it.'

What he pulled out was this:



Beautiful, right? I instantly fell in love with it. I love old mixing bowls, especially free ones that grow in hedges. But where did it come from?

I posted a picture on Facebook and tagged MC in it. She was surprised to see it, and told me it was her grandma's bowl. She has no idea how it got lost in the backyard, but suspects illegal activities conducted by her teens (I second that guess, as I now have my own teen and this doesn't seem so far fetched).

She then said I was welcome to keep the bowl, as long as I promised to pass it down to the next homeowner. That suits me just fine.

MC's grandmother, Lucette, is now 92 and destined to become a legend in my neighbourhood. I have promised to concoct an amazing - and possibly ever so slightly untrue - story about this bowl so that it can be passed down from one home owner to the next with pride.

Perhaps Lucette and her mother used that bowl during the great depression and fed countless school children who would have otherwise gone hungry.

Maybe Lucette was a WWII spy/housewife who poisoned an entire company of Hitler's men with ginger cookies a la salmonella, mixed in this very bowl.

Maybe Lucette herself buried the bowl in the backyard after the unpopular next door neighbours went missing. Wouldn't want to leave any evidence lying around...

... Okay, maybe not the last one.

At any rate, I feel like we found something really special in those cedar hedges. MC and Lucette's bowl will be taken out for every special occasion, every neighbourhood BBQ, and most certainly left as a gift to the next homeowners.

When they can pry the house keys out of my cold, dead hands, that is.

Any ideas for a great "Lucette and the bowl" legend? We need to come up with something spectacular. Also, what's the best thing you ever found? Dish! (You know that pun was intended)

Anxiety makes me anxious

I've been feeling very anxious the last few days, and it has me worried.

I used to suffer from horrible, crippling anxiety after Gutsy was born. It was so bad that I begged my doctor for medication (to no avail), even though it's similar to the stuff I was on for postpartum depression after Intrepid and I hated what it did to me. But I was desperate to change my thinking because I felt out of control. It was like the gas pedal of my mind was pushed down all the way and there was a Diet Coke can lodged under the brake. There was no stopping the thoughts whipping through my noggin from the time I got up until the time I went to sleep.

Every day Geekster went to work, I was sure he'd lose his job. Why? Because he just would, that's why. He would go to work and they'd be downsizing, outsourcing, redirecting, selling off the department, or any other number of things that happen in the corporate world. And he would get a pink slip, and never ever find another job, and we'd be on the street with two children and I'd have to teach them to steal food from market stalls, and train monkeys to dance and grind organs for money.

Every little health concern was deadly. When symptom-checking on the internet, all roads lead to cancer, heart disease, or sudden death, just so you know. Although I was pretty sure I wasn't dying of sudden death on account of probably being too dead to do any research about it.

Every friend who didn't return my calls was obviously rejecting me because I was annoying and abrasive. (Actually, both those things are true at least some of the time, but thankfully most people haven't caught on - yet.) Or, I was simply not good enough, had lost my edge - you know, the "friend edge" I'm sure everyone else is not only aware of, but stresses over having or losing all the time, right? - or I simply was too damn boring. Yes, boring.

And this went on, and on, and on, and my brain got darker and weirder and more twisted. And I found myself wishing I could go sit in a padded room for a little while, completely lose my marbles, and come back home a few days later refreshed, happy, and maybe 30 pounds lighter.

(Actually, I just threw the weight loss thing in at the last minute because if a girl is going to dream, she should dream big - or small, or whatever.)

Basically, there was a mental illness monster taking up residence inside me and I didn't know how to kill it. It took over every minute of every day. My laughs were forced, my writing sucked, my parenting sucked even more. Intimate moments with my spouse were always coupled with a distracting list of all the things that worried me, so date nights were dreadful.

What got me through it? Being really honest about it with my closest friends and relatives. Reading some good books on it, watching shows about it. However, the final death blow for my friend Anxiety was getting pregnant with Spawnling.

For some reason - be it hormones, maternal instinct, a sudden slap of reality, or maybe all three - his pregnancy jolted me into a better place. I felt more centered than I had in years, better equipped to deal with the ups and downs in life, happier, more realistic about each situation, more relaxed than ever. I loved that feeling; I lived that feeling for over three wonderful years.

And then, a few days ago, I felt a very familiar twinge. I don't know what got its heart pumping again, but the beast is back. It's smaller and weaker than it was, but it's definitely here. I want to hit the damn thing with a shovel and throw it down a well.

How do I know this isn't normal anxiety? Because I know what normal anxiety feels like, and this isn't it. When I get anxious about something serious, my brain is demanding me to focus my attention on something pertinent. When that situation is dealt with, I'm no longer stressed out about it. Anxiety can be good.

This anxiety? Well, it's not the good kind. It's the kind that has me wondering everything from 'Why hasn't that person talked to me in so long? Is it because they don't like me? What's wrong with me?' to 'Why isn't anyone commenting on my blog posts? Is it because they've finally figured out what a shitty writer I am?'

Yes, I'm even anxious about comments. But please don't leave one just because I said that. I'm smart enough to know this usually insignificant worry makes absolutely no sense and is just a symptom of my overall insecurity.

The Maven? Insecure? Well, now we know there's a real problem.

I need to kill the monster. Here's my plan:

Step one: Admitting I'm anxious. Hello, I'm anxious. I'm even writing it on my blog so everyone can read it. Now I'm an anxious exhibitionist. Exhibitionism is rather anxiety-producing in itself, I think, so this could be counterproductive, especially with the lack of comments lately (That was a joke)

Step two: Admitting that being stuck at home with two sick kids - one who sounds like he might be getting pneumonia again, and the other who runs around naked hitting people on the head with sticks and laughing evilly - is probably fueling my anxiety just a little bit.

Step three: Understanding that maybe I have some residual stress from the last year that I haven't dealt with. To be honest, I let a lot of things roll off my back that were probably cry or scream or hit-my-head-repeatedly-against-the-wall worthy. Things are actually pretty good right now, so maybe my brain is processing. I just wish I could convince it that processed things aren't good for you; that's what Dr. Oz says, anyway.

Step four: Understanding that this may very well be hormonal and I'll get over it in a few days. That being said, I told myself that for three years last time. Just sayin'.

Step five: Eat chocolate.

The last step solidifies everything. It's a fool-proof plan, I tell you.

"Why I can never seem to blog" - a poem

What does it take to write a post?
A lot more than you think,
To give my all -- or at least my most,
Would drive most girls to drink

Blogging is for me a space,
To rant and rage galore,
Getting up in mayhem's face,
Doth take a posting whore

But at-home-moms do not have time,
To do things that they like,
Let alone spend hours online,
Coming up with useless tripe

I often ponder velcro walls,
As a way to find more time,
If done just right the kids won't fall,
And all would be just fine

Perhaps a nanny with a hat,
And petticoat to boot,
Could threaten softly with a bat,
...No, that wouldn't suit

I just want to find more time to write,
Instead of wishing it,
For mommy time I shouldn't fight,
Or need to throw a fit

I tell the boys that blogging,
Helps mommy stay quite calm,
So we can avoid flogging,
And other outlets that are wrong

But of course they never listen,
Being my boys after all,
And my sweat it starts to glisten,
And my head bangs on the wall

And I'm really getting twitchy,
And my eyes go really wide,
And I'm feeling rather bitchy,
And disquieted inside

So instead of velcro walling,
Or considering a flog,
I write this poem I'm calling,
"Why I can never seem to blog"

A post about illness, sex, and chocolate cake

I spent a great deal of Friday catching up with friends I don't see nearly as often as I'd like. When you're as insanely popular as I am, you can't possibly see everyone all the time. It's just not feasible, people.

But if I could just hang up my popularity pompoms alongside my ego for a moment, something else happened on Friday that really hit me that I need to write about: I caught those same people up on what had been going on over the last few months, including the tale of Spawnling vs. the sudden scary illness. I was asked for definition, details, diagnosis. I talked about how he slept for an entire week, stumped the doctors for several days, recovered miraculously despite the very real concern he may have something far more sinister than what it thankfully turned out to be.

And I realized, quite suddenly, that what so many other parents have told me was right: You never "get over it." That, while seven months have gone by since a rare autoimmune illness called Kawasaki Disease befell my then two-year-old baby boy, the trauma is not gone, the wound is not healed, the very real fear that I can lose someone so special and so important is still present and accounted for. Telling the tale brought up a lot of emotions I thought were gone. I'm not over it and I probably never will be.

But unlike those dark days so many months ago, there's a more positive quality to the memories now.

My friend The Guilt Goddess and I have talked a fair bit about hospital promises. They're a lot like pillow talk; honest in the moment, but quick to fade into something more realistic in time. See, after sex, emotions run deep and we're quick to say just about anything. However, the "I love you"s of Saturday night turn into the "So, like, I'll call you sometime"s of Sunday morning. The "Yes, baby! Oh yes! You can have a Lexus!" post-date-night becomes "Is a used Volvo okay?" over before-work cappuccinos.

Hospital promises are similar, in that they're made during a time of high emotional involvement. I only got a taste of the type of things we'll swear off of or onto when our children are very ill. Spawnling was in a hospital bed for a few days, while The Guilt Goddess' Jacob was there for months. I tip my hat to her keeping her sanity (mostly) intact after seeing her son fight a brain tumour with everything he's got. (I say she's 'mostly' sane because she ended up befriending me shortly thereafter, so we know not all her solar panels are facing south, if you know what I mean.)

Anyway, hospital promises, in my limited experience, are also a lot like new year resolutions. They're made with gusto and a lot of willpower. You really don't think you're ever going to have chocolate cake again, but actually you will - just maybe a little less of it. Here are some of the things I promised during those scary days at Spawnling's bedside:

If my child gets better:

- I will never yell at him again
- I will never argue with his father again
- We'll start taking vacations
- We'll spend lots and lots of time together
- I will never complain about the little things again
- I'll never take him or his brothers for granted again, ever

Don't they sound wonderful? They're so full of positivity and determination, aren't they?

Ahem.

Now, let's fast-forward a few months down the road. Spawnling is, by all accounts, very healthy and has made a full recovery. We know his first two echocardiograms were good, so the chance of a potentially lethal aneurysm hiding in his ticker is unlikely, although he will continue to be monitored every so often for he rest of his life. Still, this mother's fear has lessened, the adrenaline has left, the depression and worry have lifted. Let's take a look at The Maven's revamped list of hospital promises, shall we?

Now that my child is better:

- I will never yell at him again except when I do
- I will never argue with his father again except when he deserves it or I'm PMSing and just need to bitch about something
- We'll start taking vacations when the magical money tree suddenly sprouts from the ground in our backyard (still waiting)
- We'll spend lots and lots of time together but I'll sometimes wish we spent just a little less time together, especially when all you want to do is talk about Star Wars or call me stupid
- I will never complain about the little things again except when they don't seem so little, which is actually quite often
- I'll never take him or his brothers for granted again, ever -- and I don't. Ever. Still.

See, that's the difference. I was always grateful for them. But as much as they drive me completely insane sometimes, I'm even more appreciative, more amazed by them, more captivated by the things they do, say, think, feel. Why? Because sometimes Spawnling will run into the room and say 'Mom! Check this out! It's my lightsaver, a green one, but maybe a double-sided red one because those are cool and chop off hands better' and I'll get a flash of him lying helpless in that big white hospital bed with tubes and monitors around him, and I'll remember how fortunate we are to have dodged a proverbial bullet and have him home safely.

I still remember that; I won't ever forget it.

And then I think about how any of my little gremlins, at any time, could suddenly not be here tomorrow. But instead of being deathly afraid like I could be, I choose something better: I choose to appreciate that they're here, today, and celebrate that.

Except when I'm getting punched in the arm. That's not so celebratory-like. I take a break from my happy place when that happens.

I've learned that it's okay for things to normalize and for some of that hospital pillow talk to become more realistic again. It means I'm not afraid and sad and angry every day anymore. I'm a mom who will never get over what happened to her son, but maybe in a better way than I thought. And that's a good thing, because I'm awesome like that.

Finally, the Guilt Goddess said it was okay for me to write about her as long as I say how much she curses me every day for getting her hooked on shows about hoarders. I'm guessing any promises made about The Maven probably involve voodoo dolls and a lot of swearing. No Lexus for me.

My little potty mouth

I think, after the last two darker posts, I owe you something funny. So let's talk about penises, because that's always a good time. Right, mom?

Spawnling is now potty trained thanks to my handy dandy scientific formula. It's really simple. Allow me to explain:

In order for diapers to go bye-bye, a child's maturity has to outpace their stubbornness.

And let's face it: this kid is pretty damn stubborn.

See, the minute Spawnling's desire for independence outgrew his desire to say 'no' to me and anything new I might suggest, he ended up going all big boy on me and finally accepted the concept of not voiding wherever it suits. He is now wearing underwear day and night with very few accidents. This means that, after thirteen years...

... drum roll, please! ...

We are quite officially done with diapers forever. FOREVER!!

Well, at least until we get into our 80's. So at least for next 50 years-ish.

Anyway, as a result, the little demon has been taking an interest in his third horn, if you know what I mean. Not being hidden behind a diaper most of the time, it's become a source of some interesting conversations - always while he's on the potty. Like this one from yesterday:

'Mom, how big is your penis?'

'I don't have a penis, honey. I have a vagina.'

Spawnling gives me the most puzzled look.

'Well, okay then. How big is your va... vagi... um, that thing you said... well, actually I have no idea what that is.' Spawnling shrugs, pulls his pants up and leaves the room - a good thing, considering I had no idea how to answer that. I mean, where do you even start?

Then, last week, my favourite conversation about penises ever took place (What? In thirteen years of parenting boys I'm not allowed to have a favourite genitalia discussion?)

Spawnling asked the question pondered by many a man throughout time: 'Mom, why is my penis so small?'

'Well,' I explain, 'it's small because you're small, honey. It'll grow as you grow.' There. I answered his question with just enough information to appease him. Or so I thought.

Just then, Intrepid walked into the kitchen.

'Intrepid, is your penis bigger because you're bigger than me?'

Intrepid, hardly missing a beat despite the awkward question, replies 'Um... Yes, and yours will get bigger as you get older, too.'

Spawnling things for a moment and draws a reasonable conclusion in his mind. 'Wow! Daddy's penis must be HUGE!'

(Yes, Daddy was very pleased to hear this story.)

Ah, the penis. Frankly, they're talked about so much in this household that I'm surprised I haven't sprouted an honourary one myself.

How do I reconnect with my chid?

I love all of my gremlins three, as I'm sure you know. They're my special little guys, even that stinky teenager with the braces who isn't so little anymore and forgets to take out the garbage. I'd even go so far as to say we're enmeshed in a potentially co-dependent relationship, what with me staying home, foregoing any hope of a decent career, and basically dedicating my entire life to their care and feeding.

But love them as I may, there's one in particular I'm having a very difficult time connecting with these days, even after going to that seminar about tantrums, and even after understanding why he tantrums, and even after trying out some of the anti-tantrum techniques during his meltdowns.

Look, I know he's a good kid. An honest to goodness amazing and gorgeous boy. He does really well in school, has no discipline issues there, is polite, has friends, comes home smiling every day. He likes to help his little brother, has a great deal of compassion, appreciates all of life's little wonders. He's smart as a whip, has the mind of an inventor and an incredible imagination. I'm fiercely proud to be Gutsy's mama.

But then he comes home, starts to tantrum over the slightest litle thing and I forget all of that, and my blood starts to boil, and I feel overwhelmed and embarrassed and exhausted and on the verge of tears. I ask myself why I can calm down my three-year-old a lot easier than my seven-year-old, why 'no' is less of an issue with him, why he seems to accept things so much easier.

The speaker at the seminar said not to expect miracles; children who are prone to explosions will eventually grow out of them and figure out new and ways to cope, and that all we can do is try to guide them to the other side of it faster by not making it worse.

But he's seven now and why hasn't that magical reasoning happened yet? I'm so very tired, and to make things worse I don't drink. Man, if I did, I'd be chugging it down all the time, every afternoon beginning with a couple of shots 10 minutes before Gutsy gets off the bus, swigging a few beers in between outbursts, and ending with a glass of wine after dinner.

(My inner alcoholic would like to take this opportunity to point out that my disease is ever present and dormant within me, and that if you do something similar to the above example, there is help for people like us.)

I'm exhausted, folks. Completely and utterly emotionally spent. I love him tremendously, enormously, ridiculously lots, and yet I can't seem to bridge that gap with him. I don't have a marital problem, I have a relationship with my middle child that is dangerously on the rocks.

It's just not fair, you know. He was the baby I wanted so very badly. I begged my husband for another child shortly after Intrepid was born. When we realized we were dealing with secondary infertility, I went to great lengths to make my body release her damn eggs. We suffered a miscarriage in the process (and many more undiagnosed ones, I'm quite sure), but five years after the journey began, he came into the world completely perfect.

And sleepy. He slept through the night and pretty much through most of the day for nearly six months. He totally fooled us -- we assumed he would be our 'quiet one.' Ah, ignorance, how wonderful you were. Like many 80's bands, I wish you'd never left.

Every day Gutsy tantrums, and every day he makes his little brother cry in fear from the ear-piercing screams and his older brother stomp off into the other room because he's too overwhelmed to handle Gutsy's moods anymore. Every day his dad and I get stressed to the point of silence because we know if we communicate with each other it'll likely be snippy and we'll just end up arguing. Every day we wonder when the next tantrum is going to be and we brace ourselves for it, praying for the day when he's going to finally figure out this just doesn't work, because it's doesn't. We don't give in to his demands just because he's yelling - I wish we did because we'd know how to solve the issue. See, he knows he's out of control and he feels really bad about it afterward. It hurts him that he's hurting us; he feels sorry and he apologizes. He says 'I don't know how to control myself when I get angry.'

It breaks my heart.

The worst part? I don't think he likes me very much, and not just when he's angry. I'm not exactly cool and collected with him all the time, as much as I'm trying since that seminar. He prefers his dad, who seems to have a magic touch with him. They understand each other, while I'm the outsider trying desperately to do the right thing. I blow up too quickly, I come down too hard, and it doesn't help at all; it only makes it worse. I just get my guard up really fast and I lash back. I'll yell back sometimes, and then we both just cry.

If I feel I've failed at anything so far, it's at being Gutsy's mom. There are a lot of things I feel bad about in my life, but not being able to help him navigate these stormy emotional waters is incredibly painful and demoralizing as a mom. I seem to be doing a good job with Intrepid and Spawnling, so why not Gutsy? Where am I going wrong?

I've been trying to blog for days. I have all sorts of ideas and thoughts and things I want to say. But I had to write this first because it's been weighing heavily on my mind. When I said goodnight to him this evening, I felt a familiar wave of relief that he's now calm and in bed and we're done for the night. It's sad that I feel that more than warmth and affection. My emotions are clouded by his behaviour. That's unacceptable to me.

Gutsy is one of the most important people in my life, and yet I can't seem to connect or relate to him much at all these days. And we have to find it; that magical something we used to have and that I have with his brothers. If we don't, I fear for his teen years. He needs to know I'm there for him and he needs to feel safe around me well before he hits puberty. I don't know how to foster that, exactly, but I'm desperately trying.

Admittedly, this was more of a tear fest for me than my usual type of post, but I had to write it out. I'm feeling so fragile and upset because I know there's no magic fix. He is who he is, I am who I am, and somehow we have to figure out how to be good together. I honestly want that more than anything.

I'm not looking for 'how to discipline' advice because this is not a discipline issue, but I could use some support and 'how to reconnect' suggestions. This sad and hurting mom is all ears.

Thanks for reading.

Beverly Hills, that's where I (don't) want to be

Addictions and artistry often go hand in hand.

When people jokingly ask me why, as a fabulously talented writer, I'm am not sitting next to a full ashtray and smelling like a week's worth of gin, I'll usually chuckle politely and say 'You should have seen me a few years ago. Actually, be glad you didn't. I smell a lot better now.'

For those who don't know me beyond the beautiful children I raise and write about, I'm also a recovering addict. I tell people because it's not a secret and it's nothing to be ashamed about. Alcohol was my drug of choice, but I would use just about anything my teenage self could get her hands on. By the age of fourteen I had been expelled from school, was drinking every day, using drugs whenever they were available, was suicidal, self-injured regularly (the polite way of saying 'I cut myself to deal with my pain') and wanted to die.

I so very badly wanted to die.

It took six months in rehab, countless therapy sessions and step-based meetings to get me where I am today. I am now 18 years clean and sober with no desire to ever go to back to that life. I'm a wife, mother to three, live in a four bedroom house in the 'burbs and drive a minivan. I lead a disgustingly normal and, in the global scheme of things, incredibly privileged life. There isn't a day that goes by when I'm not grateful for what I have -- because I know damn well I could easily lose it all if I make the wrong choices.

How do I manage to stay away from the glug-glugging? Simple: I take things one day at a time. Later today, when Gutsy is throwing his Wii controller on the floor and the back flies open and a battery rolls under the couch and then he screams even louder and makes Spawnling cry who then comes running to me clinging to my leg while Intrepid starts yelling at Gutsy for making Spawnling upset, a little voice inside my head will say 'I will not drink today. Instead, I will go make a tea and sit in the kitchen and look at the pictures in a National Geographic magazine because I can't possibly focus on any articles but if I stare hard enough I might think I'm actually in the rain forest and not at my kitchen table listening to this crazy shit.'

And there you go. It's as simple as that.

Corey Haim died today of a drug overdose at the age of 38. He follows a long line of drug-addicted predecessors who graced Hollywood's red carpet: actors, directors, writers, producers. Some of the most talented people on the planet work or have worked in Los Angeles, and many of them are as drawn to drugs and alcohol as a PMSing woman is to the supermarket junk food aisle.

What feeds addictions? Excess and ego, of course; there's nothing like partying it up with the bigwigs and snorting some coke off a stripper's boobs in the bathroom to feel like a god. But what can make life even worse for Hollywood addicts is when the golden studio gates are shut abruptly in their faces and they're given their walking papers:

Thanks for stopping by. We got what we needed and you got your money. Now go watch helplessly as everything you've come to expect disappears. The fairytale's over, kid. Go rent an apartment miles away from the mansion you just lost and pray every day that you don't turn into a pathetic joke.

I used to want to be an actor. My parents even enrolled me in a great local theatre group. I had dreams of Broadway and blockbusters. I wanted to wear the beautiful gown on award night, get my picture taken as I stepped out of a limo, do interviews with big name reporters.

See? Addicts love the high life -- pun intended.

These days I'm glad for normalcy. I like my small little life of no major worldly importance, raising my kids, cleaning my house, writing my blog, drinking my coffee. I recognize how the lifestyle I used to dream of corrupts and corrodes even the best of us, but especially someone like me -- or Corey -- who is only ever an arm's reach away from a drink, a drug, and a life destroyed.

Corey Haim was used up and spit out unceremoniously the minute he stopped being what people wanted. And he couldn't cope with it, so he dove into what he felt would take the pain away. It ultimately took his life, too. Rest in peace, my preteen crush. My heart hurts for you.

When I become a world famous author, I promise not to start drinking just to prove myself a talented one. I'm badass enough without using anything, believe me.

Now to go hug the child who is not in school and remind myself how good it is to be alive. My demons are controlled today. My disease is quiet. I am grateful.