Further Musings from an Overwhelmed Mother


When I wrote Saturday's post, I honestly thought nobody would read it, let alone comment on it. Then, you came in droves to support, understand, and send a lot of love our way.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. For, while I really do write these posts for me and my own stress relief/inner exhibitionist satisfaction, knowing people are thinking about me and my family means a great deal to this heart of mine; particularly when it's broken and hurting as much as it has been lately.

I usually try to be funny - okay, let's be honest: downright fucking hysterical - and this type of depressing, helpless post is not my sort of thing. I only let Sad Maven out to play when things get really bad. Well, it really has been that bad. Perhaps I didn't quite realize just how bad until I let it all out in the open for the world to see.

There are some things I don't talk about on my blog because they're too private, or discussing them might open up a big can o' drama I really don't feel like eating. When we realized a couple of weeks ago that Gutsy didn't remember the epic tantrum he had just had, my first thought was that this was really serious. The second was that we shouldn't tell anyone right now. I didn't want anyone judging or labeling him because of it. I wanted to roll the entire ordeal up in bubble wrap and tuck it into a corner, maybe stick a few flowers on it for decoration. "What, that? Oh, that's just a little thing we're getting checked out. Nothing important. But doesn't it smell nice? So lovely... Scone?"

Then, after a couple of very overwhelming weeks, I decided I really did need to say something. To speak the truth - our truth - for me, for my family, for Gutsy. We had already told a handful of key people and yet it still felt so bottled up inside me. I couldn't write, couldn't even contemplate working a contract or doing much of anything other than the absolute life-essential basics. I made or ordered lousy meals, the house was filthy, contact with friends and family limited. There was little on my mind besides what was going on with Gutsy, therefore I didn't feel like talking to much of anyone - what would I talk about? Only The Thing That Shall Not Be Named. More importantly, I was seriously sucking in my roll as Mom, CEO of the household. With my energy stores tapped, the gremlins were suffering the most.

Living a lie, even through omittance, is very, very toxic.

I half-jokingly said to a friend today that writing this weekend's post kind of felt like 'coming out' to the world. But instead of saying 'boys are icky' I'm saying 'my family is in crisis.'

(Dear Johnny Depp,

For the record, I do not think boys are icky. Especially not you. I was simply drawing a comparison. I just wanted to make sure that no potential miscommunication ever comes between our love -- you know, the love that will undoubtedly smack you across the face when you eventually meet me/run away with me to your chateau d'amour in France.

Sincerely, The Maven)
When I threw open the closet door, I felt an immense release. The world got a little lighter, a little friendlier, a little less scary. People were sympathetic and kind. There have been offers of help and support in many different forms. Most importantly, people still think the world of Gutsy and maybe even understand him a little more.

Imagine that: the truth really does set you free.

We have a child who cannot control his anger, frustration or disappointment. His mood swings are extreme and sometimes violent. Some days bring us to the point of tears and leave us wondering if this is the end of the road for any remaining shred of sanity. He screams, throws things, throws himself around, hits himself, slams doors, and is absolutely unable to see any reason until he calms down -- whenever that is; sometimes minutes, sometimes hours. Our home life is far more unpredictable than it should be, even with three little gremlins in it.

And yet, we have a child who is one of the most amazing, thoughtful, beautiful, intelligent people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. When he takes my hand, he lovingly holds it in both of his. When he wishes me goodnight, he often reaches out and gently caresses my cheek. In the summer, he picks me flowers almost every day because he knows how much I love them (even if they do come from the garden). He loves his family intensely, idolizes his dad and big brother and will spend an enormous amount of time teaching his little brother new things. When he's not upset, he is the embodiment of pure love.

We have a child who needs our help, who needs us to swallow any pride and reach out for whatever resources we can find. He needs our help to learn to cope with his emotions. He needs a family that is not struggling to keep its collective head above water, who lives in joy instead of apprehension.

There have been some improvements in the last couple of days. For one, Friday was the worst day of the weekend. Saturday was pretty close and Sunday kind of sucked, too, but I did not sob either of those days. Horray for small victories!

I did cry this morning, however, but not out of frustration. I cried because we're starting to clear through the thorns of Gutsy's emotions and get to some of his biggest triggers. Today, we found one.

Gutsy refused to go to school. He's done this before, but we can generally coax him somehow. He does have a cold, but it's mild and certainly not something absentee-worthy. I decided to try a dialogue we've attempted countless times before. However, all the effort we've put into helping him express his emotions is starting to pay off.

'I don't want to go to school. I'm too tired and too sick. I don't have any energy,' said a solemn Gutsy.

I pulled up a chair. 'Is there something going on at school, honey?'

Gutsy sighed. 'Mom, you've asked me that, like, a million times, and I always say no.'

'I know you do, but something tells me otherwise. We're not going to make you go to school today, but I would very much like it if you told me what's wrong. I'm here to listen and help.'

So he did tell me. He said that he doesn't understand a lot of what is said in his French immersion class these days. He said he gets frustrated and sad because they're learning a lot of new things right now and he can't figure them out. He said he wishes he were in an English class because it would be easier and he would be happier.

On the surface it almost seems laughable. Gutsy has good grades and is reading above his grade level in French. His reading and comprehension in English is even higher. The reason we put him in French immersion was to add a challenge. But I see now that it was too much of one. We put a hearing impaired child in a grade 1 immersion class with kids who had an entire previous year of French. He not only had to catch up to his more experienced peers, but do it with hearing loss to boot. He may have succeeded academically, but at what cost to him?

It made perfect sense. He's depleted at the end of every school day and simply doesn't have it in him to keep his emotions in check. An already explosive child has become even more so because we're asking too much of him.

So that's that. His teacher and I spoke today and both agree he needs to return to the English stream. I think he'll feel more comfortable and be able to express his wonderful self a lot better. His dad and I are sad he won't get fully immersed in a second language, but we know his self-esteem, love of learning, and our family harmony have to come first. I head to the school tomorrow afternoon for a meeting and we'll go from there. I hope the switch happens soon, as I think it will greatly improve things for all of us.

We're still going to follow up with the social worker at our local health unit as well and get us all some coping skills and understanding of how we can best help our Gutsy. We could use some peace in this household, to say the least.

On Saturday, Geekster and I went out for coffee and cake at our favourite little getaway. We're both so emotionally drained with everything going on, but talking about it helps. Some days are worse than others, but we're seeing a light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in a while.

May it not be a bunch of flying monkeys.

Seriously, I could not handle flying monkeys right now. Like we don't have enough problems.

An Open Letter to my Teenage Boy

Dear Intrepid,

Forgive my recent stumbling as your parent, but your sudden leap into the teen years has left me scrambling to catch up and figure out the rules of this new game.

See, when I became illegitimately pregnant with you at the age of 19, perhaps I wasn't thinking things through as clearly as I should have. Looking into the future for your dad and I, all I could see was a snuggly-wuggly little sand bag of joy in my arms, literally sucking the pregnancy weight out of me along with all that breastmilk. You would be perfect in every way, always, and we would be the bestest parents every despite our complete lack of experience and copious immaturity.

After 48 hours of agony beyond words which resulted in me finally being able to push out all ten pounds of your watermelon self you came gently into the world, I remember rocking you softly, peacefully, thinking every so often about what kind of person you would be in a few years. But right then - at that moment - you were my little angel, and the idea of you becoming anything but was so distant it was almost laughable.

And then, suddenly, you're thirteen, you talk back, your hair gets stinky when you don't shower, and I'm still as fat as ever.

And worse still, you seem to think you're some kind of individual. Like you can make up your own mind about things, or something. You have your own likes and dislikes, you have opinions that don't always reflect my own, and not all your choices are made after seeking my approval.

Well, shit. What happened?

Last week, when I got the call from your vice principal about you skipping a class, I nearly dropped the phone in shock. How on earth could my perfect, studious, responsible son not attend advisory? It was obviously a mistake. Surely you got lost, or you hit your head and fell unceremoniously into your locker and was buried in old apple cores and crumpled paper until you regained consciousness an hour later.

Except that wasn't the case, and the next thing I knew you were in detention. Meanwhile, I was scrambling to figure out how to deal with this in the best way possible with no prior experience whatsoever.

Oh, wait a minute. As it turns out, I do have experience! Not in raising a teenager, perhaps, but most certainly in cutting class. And suddenly, a little grin appeared on my face. I had a shower, put my clothes on, and I went to collect you from after-school detention knowing exactly what to do.

See, I was a bit of a high school bad ass. By thirteen I was skipping classes regularly. By fourteen I was expelled.

Some would say I was the cutting class queen.

A cut above your average school delinquent.

That 80's band, Cutting Crew? That's right: Named after your mom. And any chance of getting out of your truancy easily just died in your arms tonight.

Um, I mean last Wednesday.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I won't let you go down the same path I did. No way, no how. You're too good for that. You made a mistake, but it's one that, if not dealt with properly, could lead to more and bigger mistakes. I won't see you mess up your life under my watch, no matter how ill-equipped I may feel about raising a teenager at thirty-three years of age.

So, when you got into the van after detention and I didn't say a word to you, I hope you saw the seriousness of what you did.

When I grounded you for a week, I hope you saw concern beneath the anger.

When I made you tell your dad what you did, I hope you saw worry under his disappointment.

When I said you have to earn our trust back, I hope you believe in yourself enough to know you can, because we believe a lot in you.

When I told you that if you ever do that again I'll go to school with you for an entire day and walk you to every class and cut your sandwiches into little stars in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch time, I hope you know me well enough to take me seriously.

And when we tell you how much we love you, I hope you believe it. Because we really do.

We really do.

I know you feel badly about what you did, but you're a good kid. Everyone makes mistakes, my sweet boy. Thankfully, I believe to the core that this is one you're not likely to contemplate again for a very long time. I know some of the people you cut class with didn't even go to detention because they aren't afraid of the school consequences, and at least one of them has a parent who doesn't seem to care enough to discipline him whatsoever. But I hope you can see that the reason we jumped on this so hard is because we do care, and we take our role as your parents seriously.

Love you, big guy. Don't forget it.

The Truancy Officer Mom

PS: Your brothers have promised never to grow up. I'm so relieved I only have to go through this teenager stuff once. Phew!

His Best Friend. (I think.)



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy shrugged nonchalantly. "Second."

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

Diapers, Deodorant and Dictation

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

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

I could have.

I probably should have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please say they can. Please?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Unhealthy Fear of Rejection


Last night I had to get up in front of an auditorium full of parents and explain why I would be the best candidate for a position on the school's governing board.

Why do I want to be on a boring ol' school committee? Because I'm interested in my child's education. Because I feel a civic responsibility to volunteer where I'm needed. Because I'm very good at it.

And maybe, just maybe, because it gives me a couple of hours out once a month where I can be around only adults and discuss something other than preschool television.

I had some great b.s. lined up in my noggin to say up in front of all those people and forgot at least half of it while I was up there. While I'm not generally nervous about public speaking, I'm positively terrified of rejection. I nominated myself because there were four positions available and only three people had been nominated. However, being the trend setter that I am, two more people wanted to jump on board after I did. That meant we were in for an actual election and that two people wouldn't be sitting around the table once a month with everyone else.

Therefore, when I got up and started doing my thing, I choked; I don't know if I appeared to, but I most certainly did. It's not like I had a lot of time to prepare a speech, you know? There wasn't supposed to be a speech because there wasn't going to be a need for one until those people started nominating themselves. Those people threw my groove off. How dare they put me in a position where I might not win by default?

When they came back in to announce the results, I was extremely nervous. I kept wondering how I was going to feel if I didn't get elected. I was up against people with education and experience that would make them prime candidates for the board. What did I have? A previous year on the board and a bit of experience I forgot to mention - I choked, remember? - coupled only with my good looks and incredible charm. It wasn't going to be enough. I was sure of it.

The first three elected officials were named and there was only one spot left. I was now up against a high school math teacher and a mom who seems to volunteer at the school way more than I do.

I wondered how I was going to walk out of there with my head up when this was all over. I knew so many people in that room it was insane. And I'd always ask myself who didn't vote for me. Those bastards.

***

Rejection sucks. In the days before I rose to this level of popularity I had been rejected more times than I can possibly count. To give a few examples:
  • My best friend in elementary school used to threaten to find new friends all the time so I would buy her off with cards full of money because I didn't have any other kids to play with
  • I've been told 'I'll play with you, but not at school because I don't want people to make fun of me' (and sadly still played with these kids after school because I had no self-respect)
  • My friend asked the cute boy in our grade if he would dance with me and he laughed
  • My boyfriend left me for my best friend (who laughed in his face when he declared his love, mind you, but that's not the point)
  • Incidentally, I have never dumped anyone - I've only been dumped. How does that saying go: Always the dumpee, never the dumper?
That's just a sampling, but I think I've made my point.

The worst part of having a fear of being excluded is knowing, at the ripe old age of 33, that I'm blowing things out of proportion. I go through a lot of emotional turmoil over not being invited to a get-together even when I don't - and can't possibly - invite absolutely everyone to everything I host, either. Logistically I know I'm not being excluded because I suck, but those old tapes play over and over telling me that I'm forever going to be the loser and that this is one more example of that.

I need to replace that outdated tape deck with an iPod of positivity. iPositive?

Okay, that was lame. I deserve some serious rejection after that.

***

So, when I was sitting there last night looking cool and collected in my cute hairband and perfect metallic grey shoes, I was inwardly a complete spaz. Normally I'm outwardly a complete spaz, but I was trying to appear graceful as I prepared to walk the hall of shame.

"And our last elected official is The Maven," said the head of the committee.

Obviously. I thought to myself. Like there was ever any doubt?

(The good news is that I bounce back quickly, in case that wasn't apparent.)

I then proceeded to politely smile and wave as people clapped for me, trying not to think of the fact that I was the last name on that list and very likely received the least amount of votes of all the elected officials. I won't know if that's true because I never asked for confirmation. I chose to ignore it and bask in my political winnings.

I so rocked that vote.

Door #1 or Door #2?

"Boys, can you look at me for a second, please? Thank you. Now, before anyone says anything, I'm not pointing any fingers and therefore do not want to hear 'I didn't do it!' or 'It wasn't me!'. It doesn't matter who did it because I'm directing this at everyone. Listen closely: Mommy does not like sitting in pee, nor does she like wiping up other people's pee from the toilet seat to avoid sitting on it. Therefore, please lift the seat before you go to the bathroom. Also, flushing would be nice. Thank you."

This little lecture was brought to you by a mother who, after giving it, instantly felt as though things were returning to normal - whatever that is. Defining normalcy in the Maven household is a tricky endeavor. I suppose, if I were to take a shot at it, I would say having hiccups of insanity - nothing too crazy - in between trying to pretend we have a schedule and children who listen is our normal. And I never realized how much I would miss it until I was sleeping in a fold-out hospital chair listening to monitors beep.

Things are really starting to feel like they used to around here, minus all the appointments. Spawnling had a follow-up with our family doctor today, meets in a couple of weeks with the ophthalmologist again, and needs his blood drawn sometime in the next few days. However, all of that is blended into a nice, thick chaos smoothie with all the back-to-blissschool stuff we need to do. Even putting class registrations and supply shopping aside, having two hearing impaired gremlins means meeting with the teachers and principals of two different schools (Intrepid is in junior high this year - YIKES!) to make sure everyone understands what they need to make each school year a success.

Today we had a little situation: Gutsy's meeting was at the same time as Spawnling's doctor appointment. Swell. Thankfully, my husband rocks and not only offered to take one of the boys to an appointment, but asked me which one I would like him to do.

... Seriously? Really? I have a choice? Oh, goody! Let me think for a minute.

On one hand, I could take an eager Gutsy to school to meet with his teacher, see his classroom and have a friendly chat about classroom seating and lip reading.

On the other hand, I could drive 40 minutes into the country to sit in a waiting room with a bunch of sick and/or grumpy people with a toddler who can't get sick right now. I can follow him around as he touches things, dosing him with Purell and trying to figure out how I can Barbapapa myself into a bubble around his fragile little body. Then, I could hold him while he kicks, jabs and claws at our very friendly doctor, trying desperately to have an important conversation over his screaming.

Tough call.

Surprisingly, I almost took Door #2. That was my mothering guilt calling. It kept saying 'If you're a good mother you'll go to his doctor's appointment and deal with it, because you know more about his condition than anyone else, and who said this parenting thing was supposed to be easy, and why wouldn't you do that one small thing for your child who's been so sick, and what kind of awful parent would even consider not going in the first place?'

And then I told that guilt where it could be shoved, and took Gutsy to meet his teacher. Why? Because I'm lazy. But that's not a very PC thing to say, so instead I'll say that it's important I not shoulder all the burden of Spawnling's recovery and that I also have other gremlins who need my undying motherly devotion, and stuff.

Gutsy is going into immersion classes this year. And by immersion I mean French and English, just in case you don't know Canada's two official languages. He was in the all-English stream until we discovered his talents went beyond being able to scream louder than a virgin in a horror movie; the boy can easily read Grade 5 and 6 books independently. This is not surprising, being the child of such an intelligent parent.

No. I did not mean Geekster. Why does everyone assume I mean Geekster? Like, you know?

Anyway, this is Grade 1 he's heading into, so my guess is that if we don't give him the challenge of a new language he's likely to do some really bad things with that boredom. Just sayin'.

Tonight I'm heading out for a well-deserved coffee with ThatScriptChick. Tomorrow, I jump back on the running bandwagon, as I've only been once since returning from the hospital. The chocolate to cardio ratio is heavily unbalanced, and my waistline is looking a little more Michelin every day. This eating my feelings thing has been good fun, but I'd rather not have to replace my heart in fifteen years with a new one. This one is rather nice, and it likes people. And people like it. It's a popular heart.

(That being said, I still might treat my heart to some cake tonight. It likes cake.)

Summer is not for sissies

Whoever tied the words 'summer' and 'lazy' together was obviously not a stay-at-home-mom.

Today marked the first official day of the sweaty season in the Maven household. Meaning Gutsy survived - or, rather, Gutsy's teacher survived - kindergarten, and Intrepid officially 'graduated' from elementary school and is now on his way to the big leagues: Junior high. Grade 7.

But we're not going to talk about that right now. At the moment, he's still my little boy. Puberty hasn't hit its full stride just yet, so I can remain blissfully in denial about him ever becoming the 'T' word. You know that word, don't you? Starts with 'teen' and ends with 'ager'? But we're not going to say it because it makes my heart do anxious little flips. The doctor tells me those are bad. For the next two months we're just going to go along thinking he'll stay young forever, being my sweet boy with a clear face, no body odor and only a passing interest in the opposite gender.





Thank you for your cooperation.

At any rate, today has been anything but lazy. I woke up at 6:30AM and decided that, instead of going to bed, I would go for a run while it was still cool outside. Some would call me an idiot. I would say I'm rather kick ass, actually. I ran hard and fast. I think I even managed four whole minutes without stopping! Four minutes!

And then I remembered that I used to be able to run 20 minutes non-stop. Stupid memories.

God bless my addictive personality and those lovely endorphins. There's no way I could torture myself like that if it weren't for the great high to carry my through the rest of my day.

After feeding the gremlins a healthy breakfast of leftover popcorn and grapes - excuse me for a moment while I shine my Nutritionally Savvy Parent award - we swarmed the local water park with a couple of other mommies and our platoon of ankle biters. Nothing says 'Time to go home for snack, Timmy!' like two minivans and a station wagon pulling into the parking lot. Going out in a herd-like fashion is a lot like being a VIP, but less expensive. Free, actually. So maybe it's more like bullying. Whatever.

After the gremlins were done sitting on the water jets and pretending they were peeing eight feet into the air, it was time to bring them home, dry off and make lunch.

Except that we ate all the popcorn and grapes in the house, so I had to do some grocery shopping.

By myself, because Intrepid is home and can watch the other two.

Have I mentioned I like summer? I mean, even if it isn't lazy, there's still an exciting element of freedom that can't be ignored.

I fed the kids a healthy lunch of boxed macaroni and cheese. It has all the important post-water park nutrients, such as saturated fat and food colouring; everything a body needs to pick itself up and shake off that healthy glow.

Then I cleaned my house, yelled at the bank (I won), played with my new iPhone, did four loads of laundry, made dinner out of another box (this one actually had vegetables in it somewhere), played fetch with the gremlins outside, and scrubbed Gutsy down in the shower because he ran through poison ivy.



(... What? The iPhone? Oh. That. Yeah, um... The thing is, I hated my other new phone because it didn't do what I wanted it to do. So, as pretty as it is, and even though I invested in a handy traveling case and matching cup, I decided I needed to get what I actually wanted and thus force myself into writing for actual money to justify the exorbitant cost of looking even cooler every month. It's the price I have to pay to up my street cred, you understand. It was the best worst decision I ever made. And, although I'll suffer through several lectures from my mother, I can tune most of them out by checking to see if her the pictures on her walls are level using the funky leveling tool I just downloaded. These phones really do have everything!)

Anyway, the long and short of this story is that I'm awesome.

Wait. No. That was a sub-plot. The main reason I wrote this post was to say that whoever decided that summer is lazy should be left in a dark alley with Gutsy. Maybe he can knock some sense into them.


I know. That's the best. Picture. Ever. I totally agree.

And now I trudge bravely forward into summer.

Jerkfaces Shall not Inherit the Earth!

It's easy to be reminded of what jerkfaces people can be. We get little nudges of idiocy every day. "Oh! Look! Someone smashed in our car window for no apparent reason. What a jerkface." Or "Oh! Hey! Thanks for stealing Pixie's money out of her wallet. She didn't need to feed her children anyway. What a jerkface." Or, "Oh! Look! Someone cut in front of us in line to get coffee because he doesn't realize how closely tied my deep-rooted homicidal tendences and desire for caffeination are. What a jerkface."

Jerkfaces are everywhere. It's enough to make me want to crawl into a bag of chocolate chips and never come out.

(Well, not until the chocolate is all gone. Then I might come out so I can find another bag. Very parasitic, my desire for chocolate is.)

Sometimes, I need to know that there are still good people in the world who aren't completely wrapped up in themselves. Besides, that's my job. We don't need a bunch of Maven clones.

Enter Jacob Randell, a boy I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting, but who has already stolen my heart. Jacob is a little guy in kindergarten at Intrepid and Gutsy's school. In September he started throwing up every morning at 6AM. In November, after the simple diagnosis of acid reflux proved wrong, his parents sought out more answers. The news was devastating to his family: Jacob had a brain tumour.

This brave little guy has been at our local children's hospital ever since, and has received more treatments and surgeries than the majority of us will have in a lifetime. Both his parents have taken the last six months off work to be with their son. His mother just gave birth last weekend to his baby brother, Liam, and the entire family is relocating to another hospital two hours away for the next three months for more treatments, including a stem cell transplant.

Can't imagine it, right? Neither can I. Having close family friends who lost their two-year-old to a brain tumour at the age of two, and having a brother who was very sick in his early years, I have a bit of an idea. But not from a parent perspective. Not like that. It's a whole new level of devastation.

Jerkfaces hear about stuff like this and think "That's too bad. You know what else is too bad? I left my bank card at home and I can't get my latte now. Damn it!" That's the last time it even crosses their mind. Then they go smash some car windows or something.

When I found out about Jacob, I cried. And when I read his mom's updates on the Facebook group I cry more. Pretty much every time, actually. I'm a huge crybaby. In fact, if I cried fat instead of tears I'd probably be a runway model by now. They could cast me in roles where the character has an eating disorder. I'm actually pretty good at keeping it together when it comes to most things, but a boy with cancer? Hard to be stoic about that.

Today we have a fundraiser at the school for brave little Jacob. Jogging for Jacob's Journey is what it's called. The problem? I don't, um, jog very well these days. Something to do with carrying around a few extra pounds that make my bum wobble, thus throwing me off balance and sending me flying backwards into the ground.

Well, the bum-wobbling part is true. Flying backwards sounded like a better reason not to lace up the running shoes, though.

But there's a used book sale as well, and we have a lot of books. So we sent those in. And then there is also a bake sale. I can bake stuff. Too well, actually. Well enough that I eat a lot of my own baking and thus sabotage any future jogging plans. Baking that I have an excuse not to eat? Sign me up! I'll be jogging in no time.

I casually mailed a few friends and asked if they'd like to bake as well. But I didn't hold out a lot of hope. It's not that I think my friends are jerkfaces, but they're all very busy parents with a lot going on. And, if you're like most of us with children in the school system, you're completely burned out on Fundraisers by this time of year. There are only so many bottle drives and chocolate bar sales you can manage.

This is what was in my kitchen by the end of last night:



And there's more coming this morning.

Not only that, but a couple of the girls came by and helped me wrap the goodies until late into the night. The results are so pretty!

I had to take a few pictures to show off what love and hope can do. And, of course, in true Maven fashion, I had to start crying as I took them. Tears of joy and gratitude they may have been, but it still made it hard to focus the damn camera.

My friends are incredible people, aren't they?

But, like, duh. They're my friends. Who else would I pick?

If you'd like to make a donation to Jacob Randell and his family, you can do so on their website. It's only $10, and every little bit helps. Thank you.


Gutsy vs. the Bus


Gutsy and Intrepid came through the door this afternoon, both near tears.

Fantastic. What a great start to the weekend.

"What's wrong, guys?" I asked.

"Gutsy thought it would be funny to tackle me on the school bus and all the kids said it was disgusting because it looked like we were having S-E-X!" exclaimed a very embarrassed twelve-year-old.

I suppressed the first logical thought: how would they even know what S-E-X looks like when half the bus is still young enough to watch The Backyardigans and the other half still watches it but would never admit it? Did I miss an episode or something? I don't remember Austin and Tasha getting busy.

(Not that I watch that show or anything because I'm way too old. Only babies watch stuff like that.)

I hate school sometimes, with its groups of children old enough to say S-E-X but not old enough to know what it actually looks like, which certainly is not two boys in snowsuits and backpacks on a bus. Stupid know-it-all kids.

Gutsy, meanwhile, was looking very sad and in need of some serious mommy Maven comfort. He fell into me crying and saying 'Nobody likes me on that bus! They think I'm annoying and they hate it when I sit in the back. They don't even want me in the middle. They tell me to sit up in the front! The front!!'

Now, if you know anything about the social hierarchy of school buses, you'll know that the back is where the cool kids are, the middle is for the well-liked kids, and the front is where all the band camp, chess club geeks hang out because they need to stay close to the bus driver lest they get their butts kicked.

... And these kids want my child to sit in the front? My child? The Maven's boy? I think not.

I resisted the urge to do a few things:

- Call the school and make an ass out of myself
- Flag down the bus that was now pulling away so I could step onto it and beat down the nasty kids who dare make my boys upset
- Eat my feelings
- Encourage Gutsy to eat his feelings with me
- Admit to myself that, while I find the middle gremlin to act in an annoying fashion sometimes (well, a lot of times), I do not appreciate other people noticing that quality in him, thankyouverymuch

So I gave the boy a cuddle, a story and a granola bar; all the good mommy things I shine at. Obviously it made everything better, but as anyone who's cuddled me can attest to, that's pretty much a given.

The funny thing is that, while I can be very nonchalant about the things that happened to me as a bully magnet, I'm a raging bitch when it comes to the gremlins' social affairs. I was on the school's governing board a couple of years ago due in large part to my dedication to the anti-bullying policies, which I wanted to make sure were enforced. So, basically, I'm a control freak.

An alcoholic control freak? Who ever heard of such a thing? Madness, I tell you!

Spawnling received a sizable scratch on his cute little face yesterday due to an altercation between he and another male toddler. They were fighting over a seat in front of the princess vanity mirror at playgroup. You can see how this quickly turned ugly. Both tots are the youngest of three brothers, so are quick to unleash rage and fury upon the enemy. It was really neat to watch how fast it escalated, too; within seconds my sweet little Spawnling reached up with both hands and pinched the other boy's cheeks. Not to be outdone, his wrestling opponent went all Wolverine and actually drew blood. Impressive!

The mother was so embarrassed and apologized as we held our crying boys. "I 'cared, Mom!" sobbed my child, which is Spawnling for "I'm scared, Mom!" (he doesn't pronounce 's' very well yet). I didn't feel bad for him, though, and he certainly had his own apologizing to do. If he had been a true princess he would have been courteous enough to take turns in the vanity mirror. This was not a bullying incident but a sharing problem. Next time he'll think twice about wanting to put his tiara on first.

What's been happening with Gutsy on the bus has been a problem since the beginning of the year, however. I have a difficult time not flaring up into Ninja Mama Maven Bear at the slightest thing. Don't these kids know what they're doing? Don't they realize that they're destroying his self-esteem? That he might start hating himself, isolate, drink too much, do some drugs, run away from home and become a shaggy man who rides the rails? Do they truly want to contribute to this tragic outcome for my son?

Deep breath. I tell myself to keep things in perspective. Having been the bullied of the moment at more than one school I could pretty much write a book on crappy things that can happen to you before you're old enough to consider to call it harassment and start threatening lawsuits. This getting teased on the bus thing is maybe a 2.5 out of 10. People have different emotional thresholds, however, and because I turned into a self-loathing, suicidal alcoholic by the age of fourteen, I underestimate Gutsy's ability to handle a bit of teasing without it completely destroying him.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, to what it's like to be a dysfunctional human being attempting to raise functional kids. Come see what oddities await you inside the tent!

I could probably make some sweet cashola and retire if I just started charging for a peak inside my tent.

(That is not, by the way, a metaphor for something else, although I could probably make some money at that, too, if I marketted myself effectively. But it's kind of dirty and definitely illegal, which made me finally decide to scratch it off my list of 'ideal work-from-home jobs')