Gutsy's Last Day of School - An Update

Is it the last day of school already?!

As of this afternoon at 3:00 - or, more likely, at 12:30 when I leave annual school picnic with Gutsy undoubtedly in tow - I will officially be the full-time caretaker of three gremlin boys once again.

Is there a way to convey anxiety-driven ticks? Because I think if I just write "*tick tick*" people might think I'm imitating a clock and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out how that fits into the context of this post.

Instead of ticking (not like a clock), I put all this nervous energy to good use and cleaned my house up all spotless like.

I did that on Friday.

It's now Wednesday. My house is still clean, even with three boys, 2 dogs and 2 cats living in it.

Throw away the yoga mat, people; I'm living proof that being a neurotic freak can be hugely beneficial to one's life.

Gutsy finishes grade 1 today. It's been one hell of a year for our middle gremlin. He started in french immersion class and ended up in the english stream with large helpings of stress for all during these difficult few months. It's incredible to think that, only a couple of months ago, our entire family was on the verge of collapse under all the daily pressure of his outbursts and, dare I say, depression. Looking back, I can clearly see the signs of overwhelming stress and sadness. I've been depressed, I've felt stuck and alone. That's how Gutsy was feeling. It breaks my heart. I get teary thinking about how hard this year has been for him.

And yet, he went off to school smiling today as he's done nearly every day since joining his new class in April. He comes home beaming and telling me about his day. He feels connected and happy. I see that sparkle in his eyes. I feel like we have Gutsy back again. It's not perfect; he still has outbursts and we still feel overwhelmed when they get bad, but the improvement is huge. With some therapy to teach us all some coping skills, I think we're well on our way to a more harmonious family.

I may be eating those words in August. Start placing bets.

We have learned so much as a family this year. We didn't collapse, we got stronger. We didn't shrink when faced with a challenge, we pulled together as many resources as possible and are using them. We didn't lose Gutsy, we got to know him better.

My only worry about this summer is that it's going to throw Gutsy's groove off. Being an anxious kid, he needs some kind of structure -- but not too much structure, because that's stressful. And it has to be the right kind of structure. Oh! And it it has to suit his brothers, too, who are six years his senior and four years his junior.

But, no pressure or anything.

I have no idea how I'm going to pull this off without losing the rest of my mind. But hey, my house is clean. Have I mentioned how clean my house is? Yes, my house is very, very clean. In fact, I was up until almost 1AM cleaning it because my brain kept shifting between "Tomorrow is the last day of school! YAY!" and "Tomorrow is the last day of school! EEEEEEEEEP!" So I just kept cleaning until the voices went away.

(I think this is the way OCD starts.)

Anyway, I need to go make some bagels. I promised one to the middle gremlin for his picnic lunch, and a smiling Gutsy makes Maven happier than a brooding Gutsy. Then, we'll head to the picnic.

And then I think I'll clean the kitchen until it sparkles.

Seasonal Sanity-Saving Survival Strategies (SSSSS)

I woke up this morning in a panic. It dawned on me that school is almost over and the summer mayhem will soon commence.

Including today, there are only five - 5, cinq, cinco, - days of school left for Gutsy. Intrepid finished last Friday and has been home playing video games skulking around the house eating everything in sight enjoying his summer ever since. Today, he gets interviewed for a seven week training and work placement. If he gets in, that means he and Gutsy won't have as much time to try and kill each other.

I'm positively buzzing with excitement at the prospect.

... Or maybe that's just the extra large coffee.

Trying to prep a thirteen-year-old boy for an interview is harder than you might think. For one, there's the grooming thing. Because girls are only a passing curiosity and not a full blown obsession just yet, the boy is not really into his appearance. I've effectively had to pick out his clothes for him. He probably would have shown up in his favourite fashion statement: a black patterned t-shirt and navy blue basketball shorts with a stripe down the side. I keep wondering what Stacey and Clinton would say about that. The possibilities are endless.

Then, there are the interview questions. I have no clue what they're going to be asking him, so I don't know what direction to guide him in. Because this is a community program, the questions could go from the very professional to the extremely personal. Rumour has it they tend to favour at-risk kids for this program, so I've given Intrepid full permission to use whatever would make him sound at greater risk for running his life into the ground at a moment's notice. Things like: "My mommy used to drink too much," "My little brother is seeing a social worker for his anger issues," and "My dad's work cut his hours back and now my parents argue over the bills" are all excellent choices.

Look, you have to use what you have. None of those are lies or even exaggerations, right? Do they mean Intrepid is destined for a life of crime and meth? Probably not, but we can let the program director be the judge. Heck, I fully plan to go in shortly after my grueling morning workout - the one that leaves me looking like complete ass. Nothing says "Mom is jonesing for her prescription pills again" like a little sweating and shaking. Throw in a faint "I need to get to the pharmacy soon" smile and he's as good as in!

All our dysfunction has to pay off somehow, right?

Anyway, back to summer. There are some good things and not so good things on the horizon, coupled with a whole lot of unpredictability. As a stay-at-home-mom, I don't have my kids signed up for camps and daycare and all that other stuff, which means I need to come up with a list of seasonal sanity-saving survival strategies. Intrepid possibly getting that job is one of them, but there are other very important items. For example:

- We have Gutsy's therapy sessions in place. Once per week through the summer. Thank goodness for that. If anything, it'll give me an hour to sit in a waiting room and read a book. I'll make sure to bring a coffee, too.

- I cleaned the master bedroom. If you're like us, your matrimonial bed is lost in a sea of toys, a mix of dirty and clean laundry and anything that needs some place quick to go before company arrives. This may not seem important in the grand scheme of things, but trust me: it's essential. With a clean bedroom, I can give myself a mommy timeout without worrying about tripping over last year's Christmas boxes. And heck, if the rest of the house is in summer disarray, I can just serve tea on my bed when people stop by.

- Great, fantastic, fabulous news: After over 18 months, they're restoring Geekster's full pay. We'll get half of what was lost this summer and it will be fully restored, in steps, by the new year. What does that mean? We might be able to go see The Karate Kid and Toy Story 3 instead of having to pick one and wincing through the cost of it, thus battling the 'We never do anythiiiiiiiiiiiing!' whining -- well, until mid-July, anyway.

- Park dates, park dates, park dates. If you're my friend and you're local, you're going to get a phone call to head to a park at least once or twice over the summer. There, you will be greated by a somewhat unkept and twitchy me with a trio of rambunctious kids. And if you avoid me, I'll find you. I'm a proficient stalker and I'm not afraid to coerce you into spending time with me and the Gremlins Three. You may now make preparations to leave the country if you wish. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Alright, must run. The skulky teen has an interview soon and I need to get my stoner game face on.

19 Years

I decided to write this post in the living room today, so as to be with the Gremlins Three instead of squirrelling away in the (generally) child-free office. After all, I'm a woman with a family, right? Surely I can get a blog post done surrounded by my beautiful children, right?

I don't know what I was thinking. It's been 15 minutes and I've managed to write one lousy paragraph. One. I've broken up two fights, comforted a sobbing child, managed to get a dog to stop barking with excitement as Spawnling taunted her with a very loud squeaky toy, and threatened to take the highly anticipated chocolate store trip away if everyone didn't give mommy some freaking quiet time to write her gosh darn blog post (Yes, I managed not to swear. It took more effort than I could possibly convey in writing).

The threat is working -- for now. I'll write quickly. Please excuse any grammatical errors or accidental cursing that may happen during the making of this post.

Wait a minute. My husband just came in and started talking my ear off. Does he not understand the mental zen I need to achieve to write such masterpieces? He so owes me coffee.

There. I just read him the first three paragraphs and he took the hint. Smart man. Onward, shall we?

Today marks my nineteenth year of sobriety. No drugs or alcohol for nearly two decades. It's unbelievable, really, that someone as infatuated with escape could go this long without. And yet, here I am. Thank goodness for sugar and caffeine to get me through the rough patches.

... Hey, nobody said I was perfect. Near perfect, maybe, but not perfect.

Nineteen years ago, I was a fourteen-year-old addict who drank every day, got high whenever she could manage to score, was terribly depressed, cut herself to release the pain, had pushed away any friends I had left, had been expelled from school, and wanted to die more than anything in the world. I was a lost soul with no future in sight.

By all accounts, I shouldn't be here today. By all accounts, I should be dead.

It took some persistent parents, six months in rehab, countless self-help meetings, lots of therapy, and a willingness to change that I had no idea I even possessed, but here I am, at 33, alive and sane enough to tell the tale.

"We have a good life," Geekster said to me this morning as we sat outside and had our morning coffee. The littlest gremlins were running around with their new water guns, the sun shining down on their bare shoulders. Their laughs infectious, I smiled wide.

We really do have a good life. Nineteen years later, I have a fantastic husband, three great kids, a home I love, the most incredible friends, and I fall asleep every night feeling grateful for all of it. Even the ugly, frustrating days. Even the overwhelmingly sad days. I'm just grateful that I'm here to experience it, and that I have more than I imagined I would. When you figure you'll be dead before you hit twenty years of age, anything and everything feels like a miracle.

On Friday, Intrepid accepted an honour roll award and made his mama very proud. When I looked at him up there accepting his certificate, I thought of what I was like at thirteen, in grade 7. I was in a completely different place; a darker place. And yet, wonders of wonders, I managed to have a son who is racing into his teen years with a smile on his face and a good head on his shoulders. It's amazing.

Intrepid says it's because he sapped me of my awesome stores while in the womb. He's probably right. It's a good thing they replenish so quickly. I'm an evolved form of awesome, you see.

Thus concludes my sappy moment in the Blogosphere. Thank you for indulging me. It's just that, sometimes, I can't believe I'm here, in this place, so damn happy most of the time. It's cause for making people puke a little in their mouths, it is. Breath mint?

My family members did stop interrupting me for a few minutes. We're still go for the chocolate store trip.

Thank god. I think that would have hurt me more than them.

Why I'm Not Too Keen on Daycare

Today, I took Spawnling to Ikea. It's not a place where I regularly frequent as of late for several reasons, not the least of which that I try very hard not to be an allen key toting consumer whore. Look, with three kids under my belt I'm sure there are rumours of other types of whoring in my life, so why make things harder on myself? It would be nice to leave at least my consumerism unsullied.

Still, I was drawn to the magical promise of uninterrupted coffee and browsing. With Spawnling being three, potty trained, and of the required magical height, he now qualifies for an hour in free daycare the Ikea ball pit. And what does that mean for mommy? A type of freedom I don't often experience during the day: Alone Time.

Except I wasn't alone, because I met two other stay-at-home-mom friends there and we all unceremoniously plopped our preschool-aged boys into the germ haven at the store's entrance before purchasing some cheap, shitty coffee at the store's exit. We started to wander aimlessly. We had an hour. One complete, beautiful hour to look forward to, where we knew our children were safely behind plexiglass with some energetic, undoubtedly childless young man to keep an eye on them.

We made it through 15 minutes before the pager went off.

Do you have any idea how long it takes to walk through an Ikea? The place goes on forever, even if you happen to know all the shortcuts (which we did). It was like a giant obstacle course full of strollers (almost sideswiped a toddler in the restaurant), shuffling old ladies who stop to look at everything (and I mean everything), and a concerning number of career-aged people who seem to not have a career to go to on a Thursday morning yet have a cart full of Swedish lots-of-assembly-required products. I think I may have broken a sweat as I sped walked, in high-heeled sandals, toward what I was sure would be a sobbing Spawnling who missed his mommy.

It wasn't. It was a nonplussed Spawnling's friend who wanted out of the chaos and into our would-be adult time. Spawnling saw me and waved, grinning wide before diving into the balls again.

We sat in a fake living room with a rocking moose - yes, I said moose - just out of site from the ball pit. We were there for perhaps ten more minutes before we heard "Spawnling's mom?"

It was the happy ball of energy employed by the European megacorp who was calling to me to come get my son. Spawn had also had enough of coating himself full of disease and wanted a slice of that rocking moose action.

Well, it was a nice 30 minutes.

It's funny, because I don't usually leave my kids with complete and utter strangers. Heck, I've never even put them in daycare. The closest we've come before the age of five is part-time preschool. I have trust issues that have apparently taken over thirteen years to work through.

And just as I'm starting to get into the mindset of maybe putting my youngest gremlin into a new preschool for two days a week in the fall so I can get some contracts done, I see a major daycare faux pas. I have dubbed it:

DayScare

(Like that? You just add an "s." I really am that creative. Does that intimidate you?)

You may not know that your child is in DayScare. You may think that he or she is in the hands of responsible, hands-on professionals. And you may be right. I certainly hope you are. On the other hand, you may have your child with one of the four scary dayscare providers I saw at the park two days ago. I can tell you right now at least 20 parents have no idea they're not getting top quality care for their money.

These dayscare ladies pulled up their minivans, unloaded a herd of children, let them loose in the park, and sat down at a table.

When I showed up, the little darlings were running wild, pushing other children to the ground, hitting and kicking each other, dangling dangerously off a play structure meant for older kids. One of my friends showed up with her son, who was then shoved abruptly down the slide by one of the dayscare kids. He tumbled all the way down and was hurt pretty badly. My friend asked who this child belonged two in both official languages, yet nobody responded. Not one of the dayscare divas even bothered to glance over. My friend ended up talking to the boy herself about how there is no pushing.

This went on for about two hours. The other parents and I had to hover around our children constantly to make sure they didn't get hurt by the kids left to run wild.

Look, I'm not coming down on childcare workers. I was one (and will never be one again now that I'm well on my way to becoming a world famous author and sex symbol), and many of my friends take other kids into their homes for a living. But the difference is that the providers I know personally actually work for their pay by, you know, paying attention. Making sure the sweet pumpkins don't trample each other. Teaching empathy and kindness. When you spend 40+ hours every week with a little somebody, you don't just make sure they're fed and watered.

I get that it's an exhausting job. Heck, that's why you couldn't pay me enough to do it anymore. The scariest part about daycare is that it's a bulk business. In my community, the only way to make any decent money at it is to take in as many children as possible, feed them as inexpensively as possible, and hope to god they don't smash your flatscreen with a wooden train. I didn't make a killing because I would only take in two full-time kids at once. I don't pride myself on being the world's best business woman (just the world's most awesome woman).

But now that I see you can just dump them in a park, turn your back to them and drink coffee with your friends, I see that I had it all wrong. Why did I put myself under so much pressure to do a good job when I could get paid the same amount to do nothing at all?

So, in short, it took a lot for me to let my gremlin go wander into the ball pit under someone else's supervision today. He did not get hurt, he had a lot of fun, I enjoyed my 30 minutes, but I was a little relieved to have him back by my side after what I saw at the park this week. Hopefully I'll regain some trust in time to enrol him in preschool.

Or maybe I'll just bring my laptop to Ikea twice a week and work there. The coffee sucks, but there is a Starbucks right across the street.

Did she really just ask me that?

I suffer from eczema.

Worse still, it shows up on my hands.

Even worse still, it appears to be stress-induced. Every time life hands me those bitter little lemons, I try to make lemonade and my damn hands get all busted up.

Last week, after using evil, skin-thinning cortizone cream for far too long to absolutely no avail, I decided to try the healthy, hemp-happy health food store. I am a crunchy girl at heart, after all. I like natural things with ingredients I can pronounce, preferably not tested on angry monkeys.

I made one big mistake: I brought Spawnling with me.

Actually, make that two big mistakes: I brought him right after I fed him a donut full of sugar with sprinkles full of artificial colours.

When we pulled up, I guiltily attempted to wipe the multicoloured evidence off his mischeivous little face, took him out of the car seat and walked into the organic wonderland. I directed him toward the little play area for kids and walked a few steps over to find the naturopath. There, I showed her my hands and we started to talk about how and why this rash was happening.

"Have you had this rash a long time?" She asked me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Spawnling climbing out of the toy area.

"No... Well, yes. I mean, sort of," I replied. Spawnling was now examining the bags of kettle chips and thinking about picking one up. He decided against it and shuffled just out of sight.

She said "Are you asthmatic?"

Spawnling started walking toward us with a jar of honey. "Um, excuse me for just a .... Spawnling, can you put that back, please? Very gently. That's right. Okay, go play with the toys now.... Yes, sorry. Mildly and unmedicated most of the time."

"And do you have trouble sleeping? Anxiety?" she asked. My three-year-old giggled and ran down another aisle.

"Um, a little. Yeah. I mean I sleep okay. Anxiety, yes. I have a history of it."

"Do you have a lot of stress in your life?" Spawnling ran at me with a loofah.

Stress? Really? Did she just ask me that? Lady, I have three kids. One is a teenager, one is a quick-to-anger seven-year-old, and the other is attempting to impale me with a sponge on a stick as we speak. My house is a mess, I have next to no time for myself, I'm always busy but nothing ever seems to get done... and you're asking me if I have a lot of stress?

I took a breath and smiled as I walked The Spawn back to the natural sponge display rack, then back to the toys. "Yes, I think it would probably be safe to assume that. See that little testosterone terror? I have two older versions of him at home."

Her eyes went wide. "THREE BOYS?! Say no more. No wonder you're stressed. I have three girls and that was pretty busy, but I can't imagine three boys! Do you ever get time to breathe with all that energy in your house? Oh my goodness. You need a B-Complex for stress, a probiotic to cleanse your gut, and some topical cream for your hands. And rest, and some extra help if you can get it. Come back and see me if this doesn't help. And good luck." She handed me the goods and gave me a look filled with -- was that respect? Respect because I was still breathing, perhaps, or maybe just because I managed to have a shower and put makeup on that morning.

My hands are slowly getting better. The B-Complex is helping a great deal, and my tummy feels healthier already. No loofas were injured during the retelling of this tale.

Coming Out of the (Writer's) Closet

I'm just going to come out and say it.

I feel an enormous amount of pressure to put out -- good posts, that is. Because I'm a writer by trade (I love being able to say that), I'm always trying to outdo myself, raise the bar, make the next one better than the last. And what does that result in? A serious lack of posting, heartbroken readers, and a frustrated Maven, that's what.

I pondered this over my afternoon coffee today, and then tried to come up with solutions. I managed to think of three:

1. Shut down my blog so I don't have to worry about it anymore (not really an option, as the world would be reporting a surge in attempted suicides shortly thereafter)

2. Keep stressing out about coming up with The Ultimate Post (not really an option either because my stress quota is pretty full as it is, thank you very much)

3. Quit worrying about it and write what I love, even if not everyone loves it as much as I do -- like those owners of really ugly purebred dogs who think they're the cutest things in the world

Maybe this blog is my greyhound. Maybe it's not to everyone's taste and will never be a wildly successful online parenting pagoda, but as long as I smile when I see it, that's all that really matters, right?

When I first started posting, I wrote about our day-to-day lives. I had gremlin #3 growing inside of me, the first two scuttling around me daily, and a home daycare to boot. I needed a place to vent, to bitch, to whine, to look at things in ridiculous and highly inappropriate ways. It was a great release, which is why 2006 is filled with many entries. I felt free to write whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I made a fatal mistake: I tried to categorize myself.

Much like the boy who sat next to me in grade 10 art class, I felt confused. What kind of blog was I trying to write? What message was I attempting to convey? Should I stay completely anonymous or let people know who I am? Should I use profanity or keep it G-rated? Should I be funny all the time or allow for some self-pity posts?

The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. But, unlike my grade 10 art buddy, there are no support groups for this kind of thing. There are no stickers on the back of other people's cars letting me know that I'm not the only who's ever questioned her bloguality.

Yeah, I like that word, too. That's why I made it up.

Today, as I sat in front of a blank post screen yet again, wondering what on earth I could write about that would be fun, thought-provoking and rich in quality, an idea came to me:

Screw this noise and get back to your roots, Maven.

As per usual, the inside voices are right. And to think the doctor said I should quiet them down with medication. Besides, who else would tell me when I need to wear my tinfoil hat?

First of all, there is absolutely no way I can categorize this blog. I'm a walking oxymoron; I'm a mom to three gremlins (mommy blog), addict (recovery blog), writer (professional blog), postpartum doula (breastfeeding blog) who has two kids with hearing loss and sensory issues (special needs blog). How on earth do you fit that all into one category?

Secondly, I can't write posts to please other people -- unless they pay me to do it, in which case I'll write whatever they want. Email me; I will be your whore. (Sorry, that's the freelance writer in me coming out) It's just not humanly possibly to please everybody all the time, even for someone as extraordinary as myself.

Finally, The Maven needs to stop worrying about what everyone else wants, and start writing for herself again. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what a self-centered, egotistical bitch I am. Where's the fun in thinking of others? That's for chumps and people named Oprah. This is the one spot in the entire world - in my entire child-filled life - where I can plant a flag firmly in the ground (hopefully not spearing my foot in the process) and make this my own territory. It's time to step out of the closet again and breathe the fresh air of narcissistic exhibitionism.

It's quite invigorating.

So what, exactly, does my readership get out of this deal? Simple:

1. You'll get more posts because I'll be drawing from my inner fabulousness instead of trying to find it externally all the time, and,

2. You'll get inside my very scary head and even scarier life as I recount the day-to-day goings on with three gremlins and a house full of chaos

Sounds great, right?

...Wait! Where are you all going?

Don't you want to see three-year-old Spawnling's (Jack's) first attempt at writing his own name?

Don't you want to hear about how I cleverly distracted the littlest beast for an entire day last week by taking him to the newly improved (and absolutely beautiful -- definitely go see it if you can!) Canadian Museum of Nature? I told him if he didn't listen I would let the dinosaurs eat him. The horned wonder informed me that dinosaurs died a long time ago and these are just fossils, stupidhead.

Little know-it-all.

Anyway, I'm going to try and shrug off this writer's block with a good amount of coffee and some personal freedom to just write whatever, whenever. My inner critic can critique something other than my blog posts. Heck, if she judged the state of my house half as much, the place would be spotless.

A Day for the Record Books

Spawnling, we need to talk.

And yes, it's about our relationship.

We've been seeing each other – every single day without fail - for a little over three years now, right? And don't get me wrong, I love it. I mean, you're an amazing guy. Funny, sensitive, cute, well-dressed. Well, except when you dress yourself, which makes you look a bit like a Hawaiian clown. Still, nothing makes me happier than walking down the street hand-in-hand with you, my darling. I'm proud to call you mine.

Except for days like today, when I have to run away – far away from your now thankfully sleeping self – in an attempt to reclaim some balance and sanity.

Take right now, for example. I'm at my favourite little cafe, drowning myself in some half-decaf blend of fair-traded beans and trying to forget the last 12.5 hours of absolute mayhem. I'm attempting to remind myself that, thankfully, you had this horrendous day after my last contract was over, because trying to balance writing a bunch of articles with today's attitude would have been a feat for even the most powerful mother. And I think you slipped some Kryptonite into my cereal this morning, because I'm feeling like anything but a superhero tonight.

It's not your fault, really. You didn't plan the day trip to Peterborough, Ontario yesterday for your great-grandma's 90^th birthday. You couldn't have anticipated how much sugar and artificial colours I would let you eat for dinner in the name of picking my battles. How were you to know that Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs would be as captivating the 155^th time around, thus keeping you awake the entire ride home? Falling asleep at 10PM wasn't your doing, my love. And waking up at 7:45 this morning because your teen brother desperately needed to shower in the room next to yours? Entirely understandable.

So you started off on the wrong foot today – I get that. I know how these bad starts can snowball into larger, more catastrophic events.

But, Darling... dumping out every single Cranium card onto the living room floor? Mauling our elderly cat's tail as he's sleeping soundly on the bed? Cornering the 10 pound dog into the kitchen cupboards with a chair? Chasing your brothers around with toys intended to make contact with their persons? Calling your aunt a “stupidhead”?

Not exactly my favourite moments of your lifetime.

But if I were asked to pick a lowlight of the day, I'd have a very difficult time. I think I'd have to narrow it down to the following choices:

• This evening, when you ran away from me in the parking lot of the splash park – stark naked and screaming “Don't grab me!”
• This afternoon when you said “I'm sorry” over and over before I even walked into the bathroom (following a bubblegum scent) only to discover the brand new SpongeBob toothpaste smeared across the sink and all over your hands
• At Starbucks, (the only outing I would consider, and only because there was coffee involved) with the constant whining of “I want a cookie! All I want is a cookie! Where's my cookie, Mommy?!” that attracted so much empathy from the barista that she not only gave you your cookie, but handed me a bag and said “And this one is for mommy” with a look of you poor, poor woman.

The minute your horned little head hit the pillow tonight, I about burst out crying in relief and joy. I think Jesus, Buddha, Allah and Mother Earth all got together to pull off that one amazing miracle. Thanks, guys. You are now on my Non-Denominational Commercially-Driven Holiday Season greeting card list.

Anyway, back to our relationship: We need to work a few things out.

First of all, you have to get a full night's sleep so I have a hope in hell of keeping my wits about me tomorrow.

B) The words “Please,” “Thank you” and “Mommy is the most awesome woman alive” had better be in your vocabulary, while “Stupid,” “Stupidhead,” “NO!” and “I'm going to [insert attention-getting, destructive/aggressive action here]” must not be uttered.

3) For the love of all things good and right in the world, please don't ask me for sugar, because you're not getting any. Furthermore, there will be nothing colourful in your diet that isn't grown in a field or orchard. We will not be having a repeat of today, mister.

The good thing about this otherwise dreadful day – by far the worst disobedience day since Gutsy went loco at the family reunion in Toronto three years ago – is that it will be over soon. Also, I took myself out on a well-deserved coffee date with my new friend, Mr. Macbook. Don't be jealous, Spawn. Sure, he may be young, gorgeous, and have the battery life of a God, but it's not like I get to see him when you're awake, anyway. Between the hours of 8AM and 8PM, I am solely your bitch mom.

Be nicer tomorrow, k? Love you.

Conversations with Spawnling, May Edition

Forgive me for not blogging much over the last couple of weeks, but I've been playing with this new concept of - get this - writing for money. Did you know you can actually get paid to write blog posts and articles? I also learned you can put other people's numbers into a spreadsheet, and that action gets translated into currency in your pocket. Seriously. I'm not even making this stuff up. All it takes is working full-time as a mom while simultaneously working part-time as a writer, trying to write sensible sentences while being screamed at for more apple juice, and subsisting on lots of coffee and an average of five hours of sleep every night.

You, too, can have this dream life!

Making a living with my mad skillages is nice and all, but there's nothing like a good freebie of a blog post to really let loose. This is why I don't have advertisers, giveaways, or anything else on here. I get to be me, without interruption, and without being owned by The Man, whoever he is. This is freedom money can't buy, baby.

For example, advertisers may not want to show off their parenting wares on a site where the mom parents poorly half the time, and Spawn-isms are commonly displayed for all to gasp at and chuckle about.

You know what Spawn-isms are, right? All good Stay-at-Home-Maven readers know that Spawnling comes up with the most inappropriate hilarities. Offensive to some, knee-slappingly funny to others, this is a three-year-old I'm simultaneously proud and mortified to call my son.

Today was no exception. We went out for lunch with Jobthingy, who had a day off from that work stuff she usually neglects me for. (Why we're still friends after what she puts me through , I'm not quite sure. ) We ordered our food and sat a perfectly acceptable length of time waiting for it, while we drank our drinks and chitchatted and did our best to keep a three-year-old entertained. Meanwhile, Spawnling would let out a whiny "I'm hungryyyyyyyyy!" or an "I'm staaaaaaaarving!" or a "When is my food going to be heeeeeeeeere?" every so often.

Spawn's food arrived not 15 minutes after ordering. The waiter put the plate down and started to walk away. He wasn't halfway through the restaurant when my dear child let out a loud sigh and followed it up with an even louder "FINALLY." The waiter turned around, wide-eyed, looked at me turning beat red, and started to laugh.

He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to bring the grownup food and said "It's a good thing I brought his food out early, eh?"

Say it with me now: MOR-TI-FIED. That is my child, who came from my womb, who has this sense of entitlement built right into him. I don't know who, exactly, decided he was King of the Universe, but we'll be hard pressed to ever take that crown away now.

*~*~*~*

We get back home. Spawn is happily playing on my bed. I lie down beside him for a minute (see above mention of lack of sleep) and he comes in for a snuggle. I get sentimental for a moment - always a fatal mistake - and say to him "Please don't ever grow up, ok? I like three-year-old you."

"Even when I'm four, I'll still love you, Mommy" says he, and smiles.

If there was a sound for my heart melting, I would put it in here.

"When I'm four," continues Spawn, "Will I be bigger?"

"Yes, you will be," I answer.

"Will I have this?" he whacks my stomach and makes it jiggle.

"No, I don't think so."

"Will I have boobies?" he asks as he smacks my breast.

"Um, nope. That's a girl thing." I reply, warily. I can see where this is going.

He looks at me with that rotten little twinkle in his eye. "Will I have one of... Uh... what's that called again? That thing you got? Oh, yeah: a buhgina?" He giggles. "Will I have a BUH-GIIIIIIIINA?"

"No, honey. You'll still be a boy."

"So I'll have a PENIS! And you'll keep your BUUUUUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA! BUHGINA!"

"I'm going to go get you a snack now and sit you in front of a movie now, ok? Mommy needs to get work done."

"Okay, Mommy. Mommy's buhgina. Heehee!"

Welcome to my life.

Top 10 things I won't miss as my kids get older

A few of my friends are pregnant or have just recently had babies.

Good for them.

Holding those snuggly-wuggly newborns is nice and all, but doesn't do a thing for my maternal instinct. I am done. Finished. There is absolutely no desire to reproduce. This is a good thing, because based on family history, my body will hit menopause a good ten years earlier than the average woman. I'm likely at the start of perimenopause as we speak; and dammit, I'm absolutely fine with that. It means that, even if a rogue sperm should escape the would-be Alcatraz of my husband's vasectomy, it will soon discover a pile of dust that used to be my eggs, and no embryo shall come of it.

However, as the Gremlins Three gradually leave behind their individual "little kid" stages, I'm met with the occasional bit of sadness. I give away Spawnling's too-small clothes knowing that he's growing far too quickly. I put books and toys in a garage sale bin that my children will never use again. I look at paint colours in their rooms and realize we may need to change them soon to suit their maturity levels. I go through baby pictures and get a little teary at the sweet little beings they used to be (before they started coming up with exciting and original ways to torture their parents).

All that aside, I'm so pleased to be done with diapers, night after sleepless night, teething, screaming sick babies who can't tell me what's wrong, and even breastfeeding (a total of seven years, I'll proudly announce to anyone who asks... or who doesn't. Whatever). Yes, it's good to have my body back and my bed (mostly) back. I've earned my stripes, thank you very much.

There are many other things I won't miss, either. Here are the first 10 that come to mind. Can you think of others?

1. Exhaustion

Evening hits me like a Mac truck with a driver who's high on barbiturates. It's not tired I'm feeling; it's a whole new level of fatigue unknown to those who don't serve little masters all day, every day, for thirteen years straight. To those parents who seem to have it all together - clean house, well-behaved children, solid relationship, fruitful career - I ask you: What are you on, and did you get it from the truck driver? More importantly, can I have some?

2. Stress

Is parenting ever not stressful? No no, I mean, when you're not high on barbiturates? What I would give for a full day when I don't have to deal with some kind of child-induced upheaval. The best laid plans are often laid to rest in a matter of minutes and there's nothing I can do about it. Maybe being a control freak with a vision of what our day should look like doesn't help. Yet, I never seem to learn. I just keep hitting my head against the same wall of frustration as I try to reason with a child who is too young to reason, one who is too explosive to reason, and one who is too pubescent to reason. Silly Maven.

3. Bedtime Routines

I use the word "routine" lightly. It's more of a patchwork attempt at salvaging the last of our sanity stores in time to spend at least a couple of hours together without being asked for one more glass of milk, one more slice of cheese, one more story, or one more cuddle. These days, Intrepid brushes his teeth, gets his pajamas on, says goodnight and goes to bed. We've had a piece of this independence pie and can't wait until those are our evenings all the time. I'm looking forward to the days when the only bedtime routine I need to follow is my own.

4. Noise

This could have been grouped with stress but I believe it deserves its own category. With two hearing impaired children and a three-year-old infatuated with the sound of his own voice, this is a loud household. The television is louder, the music is louder, the fights are louder, the singing is louder... Well, you get the idea. And as someone who needs quiet for any shred of creativity to blossom, the near-constant loudness factor makes me all twitchy-like. Twitching doesn't help in the sex appeal department. I feel like my hotness is wasted when my eyelid is fluttering.

5. What's a Vacation?

Oh, you mean that time when two-thirds of my children are not in school? That's not a vacation, people: that's pure chaos. And those rare times we actually get away to somewhere that is not our own city? You got it: foreign chaos. Overwhelmed gremlins who are completely off schedule and don't know what to do with themselves resulting in overwhelmed parents who are trying their best to justify the cost of this would-be stress reducer. No, we don't do vacations very often at all. Twice in thirteen years, to be exact. We're going to wait until Spawnling is at least five or six before attempting a big one. I envy the parents who's children travel well, I really do. You're very lucky. I'm thinking the truck driver may have something to do with your "good luck," though. Just sayin'.

6. Dirt

Filth. Smears. Stains. Smells. Everywhere. Enough said.

7. The Overgrown Thing I Call a "Lawn"

Somewhere in my front yard there are gardens. Unfortunately, they are being molested by an insane amount of weeds. But it's alright: you can't see the gardens anyway because of the long grass that should have been cut last week but wasn't because we were too busy. The good news? A lot of the toys littering the front yard are buried in said grass. Actually, between hidden toys and gardens, this overgrown lawn thing might not be so bad after all.

8. Playdates

These are such a crap shoot. Let's get two or more kids together and they can play nicely while the moms drink coffee and get a bit of a break. What a good idea! Oh, except when the kids don't play nicely/won't share/push or shove or kick or scratch each other/break things/injure themselves. Then, everyone is more stressed out than when they were before and, tragically, the coffee goes cold. Swell. Know what I want? Coffee without the playdates. Actual conversation not involving several dozen "excuse me for a minute"s. Is that so wrong?

9. Scheduled Date Nights

"Honey, would you like to go out on Saturday night?"
"Sure! Sounds wonderful. Let's do it."
"Okay, we just need to make sure someone can babysit and that the kids are fed and bathed and ready for bed and that the babysitter doesn't cancel at the last minute and that nobody gets really sick right before our big date night so we don't have to cancel. Oh, and we have to be back by 10:30."
"I'm... looking forward to it, I guess."
"Me too, I think."

10. Barf

This had to get a mention. I hate barf. I hate stomach bugs. I especially hate stomach bugs in little kids who can't anticipate and can't aim. Our couch has told me it feels violated.

Must go. It's been chaos for the last 30 minutes. Loud, tantrumy chaos. Thankfully, no barf. One must be grateful for the little things.