Life With an Anxious Child Explained

A few nights ago, when I was out at a party, a had a conversation with a few people about going to the gym. I explained that one of my major reasons for not going was because I like being married and would rather not get divorced over leaving the house several times a week at bedtime.  And I laughed, of course, but in that ha-ha-serious kind of way.

This is when a guy I had just met piped up and said that he would be incredibly supportive if his wife was going to the gym that often.

I glanced over at my husband sitting at another table enjoying one of the few evenings out we manage to squeeze in as a couple. He had just sat back down after leaving the room for a minute to deal with a call from a distraught seven-year-old who missed us and didn't think he could go to sleep until we got home. He knew that could be one of many phone, and we hadn't even had dinner yet. We almost left because we knew what kind of night was going on at home.

By the time we got home, teenage built-in babysitter extraordinaire Intrepid was at the end of his rope, frustrated because Gutsy just wouldn't go to bed as easily as his three-year-old brother. It wasn't a great night him or Gutsy.  Some go off without a hitch, some are bad. It's a roll of the dice.

*~*~*

This morning, Gutsy was ten minutes late because he wanted to wear shorts on a cold, rainy day in late September. He didn't want to wear one of the three different pairs of pants he could choose from. He was stressed to the point that he locked up: he couldn't get out of bed, kept glancing at the clock knowing he was going to be late for school, crying because his toast was getting cold in the kitchen. Once he did get dressed - which by now had taken 45 minutes - and had eaten his breakfast, he didn't want to wear the appropriate rain gear, which then had to be shoved into his school bag so he could wear his shoes and sweater.

And then, of course, he complained about his heavy bag. But Geekster and I took a collective deep breath and kept silent.

Why? Because we pick our battles, that's why. Doing this made him only 10 minutes late for school instead of 40 or 50.  It saved Gutsy from feeling even worse about how he behaved this morning, becaus we know he can't help it. It saved his dad and I getting stressed to the point of snapping at each other. It saved Spawnling from waking up to a house filled with the screams of his seven-year-old brother.

Basically, it saved our morning from going from bad to completely shitteous.

This is life with an anxious child. Stressful, overwhelming, heartbreaking.

*~*~*

Like a lot of kids with special needs of various types, Gutsy has good days and bad days. I watch him a lot on those good days as he smiles and laughs and flows through the day like a typical child would, wanting to bottle up his essence and save it for the harder days. Because when those days hit - oh, when those dark, unpredictable, incredible sad days hit - I wish I had some happiness and peace of mind to give him. I hug him and tell him it's okay, that we love him and always will, that I'm sorry he's having a hard day. Geekster does more of the same. He can calm him down much faster than I can. I'm still learning how to be a better mom to Gutsy.

Late at night, Geekster and I talk about the hard things:

"How do we help him?"

"Is he going to be able to overcome this?"

"What are we doing wrong? What can we do better?"

"How will he function as an adult with such crippling anxiety?"

I have to believe this is going to get better. I have to believe that my son who has not only anxiety but hearing loss and very likely giftedness (a word I used to shun but am now taking more seriously for his sake) to contend with, is going to grow into himself as he matures. He has so much on his plate that it's no wonder he struggles.  Frankly, the fact that he has good days is a big step.

He is making steady progress in balancing his moods and dealing with his anxiety. More importantly, he's learned to talk about how he's feeling. He explains to the best of his ability what is going on in his head and his heart. It's hard to hear, but it's important we do. Only when you hear him explain it can you understand why morning and bedtime can be a struggle, why he thrives on routine, why he hates himself for losing his cool the way he does. Underneath the stress and worry, he is sweet and thoughtful and kind. I love my Gutsy so much. I'm so proud to be Gutsy's mom.

*~*~*

I met with his teacher last Friday and gave her an overview of the obstacles he faces. I told her that homework can be a real challenge when he's having an off day, so she has now left that open to doing as much or as little as he can manage without any pressure from her. This will improve our home life more than she will ever know. I'm so glad he has a teacher who gets it.

When the guy at the table said what he said about the gym, I replied by saying that I have everything I need at home: a treadmill, weights, a yoga mat. He asked "Yes, but do you have the motivation?"

"Not right now, no," was all I could muster. What I wanted to say was "No, I'm totally fucking exhausted most of the time just dealing with my day-to-day. But I'll find motivation again soon. And frankly, this is all I have right now, so it will have to be enough."

I don't expect people to get it. I don't expect that they'll understand when I say I can't go out again because I was already out a couple of times this week and it's hard on my family for me to leave like that.  If you have typical kids who don't freak out on a regular basis over small things like changes in routine, then you're going to think my husband is a useless twit who can't do things on his own. What you're not seeing is that handling those tantrums alone with two other kids in the house, is beyond exhausting. And to ask him to potentially do that several times a week is not something I'm prepared to do. For him, for our marriage, for our kids, and ultimately for me, because I love my family.

But it will get better. Gutsy is more aware of himself every day and is making changes. He's resuming therapy in a couple of weeks, and we have excellent support from the school.

It will get better. But you will not see me at the gym anytime soon.

My Take on TLC's "Sister Wives"

Another Monday to myself. I could get used to this. Then before I know it,  Summer will hit me like a hard slap across the face and I'll have to find a corner to rock in as I shut out the reality that these precious few hours a week don't last forever.

I've had a cold since Friday. I'm the last in the Maven family to get it. By all appearances, it seemed like no big woop. I wasn't worried. I didn't slather myself in alcohol-based hand sanitizer every time someone sneezed. Hindsight is always 20/20. I'm now cursing its viral name as I blow unceremoniously into my 3,000th Kleenex. My nose is so red it looks like I had bagel and half a bottle of whiskey for breakfast.  My right ear is partially blocked and a lymph node on that side looks like it's an infected belly in the Alien movie. The Maven is not so attractive right now. Believe it or not, there are a few times in my life where I don't look like a ravenous sex kitten.

So, it is with great pleasure and relief that I can take a day off from meeting the demands of feisty gremlins and instead enjoy a bit of this new feeling I recently discovered: trink trankwul tranquility.

Could I pull this off? See below.

The first thing I did after grabbing a coffee and breakfast sandwich (cooking is for people who need to feed other people) was put on last night's DVRed episode of Sister Wives. If you haven't seen TLC's new reality show, I recommend you stay far, far away from it. And not just because you can feel your brain cells melting as you watch another series that requires absolutely no thought, but because you'll likely kick yourself for getting hooked on it.  Like me. I hate me right now.

And, if you have the series premiere taped but haven't watched it yet, you may not want to read the rest of my blog as it may contain spoilers.

The premise for the show is simple: Dude has three wives, and together they have a kazillion kids, and they all live in a big house and everything is mostly wonderful. Everyone likes the arrangement, the kids go to a private polygamist-friendly school, and all the wives are happy to have each other in the family. 

Except. You knew there had to be a catch, right? If it were sunshine and lollipops all the time it would fall apart like Jon and Kate did.  Nothing is perfect, kiddies.

It seems dude has been courting a new potential wifey. And she's thirty. And she already has three kids. And she's a brunette, which totally sets her apart from the three blonde wives dude already has. So she's young, she's hot, she's bringing kids into the family that are not dude's, and she laughs like a bloody school girl. Seriously, the production crew made her out to be a total bimbo for the five seconds you see her at the end of the show.  If that were my potential sister wife I would stab my ear drums out with a fork within a week of her setting foot in the door.

So, it looks like she's about to become sister wife #4, which is totally going to screw things up for this family. Jealousy, upheaval, drama. 

And I have to ask: why? This family seems pretty happy with three wives who've known each other forever, a bunch of kids who are all related and grew up together knowing the three moms, and there are three apartments in the house they live in - one for each wife and her kids. Three is the magic number, dude. Three little pigs, the three bears, three blind mice. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this out. 

I don't understand why he needs to mess with the arrangement. Is he just bored? Is he just horny? Just say no, Cody (that's the dude's name). Keep it in your pants, buddy. Is it a religion thing? I figure polygamy is polygamy is polygamy. If you think God will be happy if you take on multiple wives, then three should be plenty, right? Does he not understand the male-to-female ratio the world? It's physically impossible for each man to have multiple wives, unless men start acting like lions and eating their male young. I don't see that happening any time soon, so maybe stop being so greedy and count yourself lucky you have this many.

I've never been against polygamy per say. I mean, as long as everyone is happy with the situation, what's the harm? There are folks all over the world who marry multiple people and live good lives. Monogamists everywhere are shaking their heads at me right now, but you needn't be so smug. The divorce rate for our kind of marriage is over 50%, so I think we need to take a collective chill pill and look at the problems in our own society before we start judging others.  I'm not arguing that polygamy is necessarily healthier or happier, but until we make our own twosome marriages healthier and happier we should probably stop pointing fingers. 

Also, there are some upsides, like extra help with the dishes, laundry, homework, and all the other mundane daily tasks that make me contemplate a leap from a high bridge every now and then. Having someone to share that work with sounds rather pleasant. 

If my husband were to take a second wife, there would be conditions. For one, she would need to make a damn good cup of coffee and know how to enjoy it, too. 

Second, she must enjoy cleaning up barf, because if I were to go to all the trouble to open up my home and share my spouse with someone, she had better take stomach flu watch or she's out of here. I've paid my dues in the puke department, thank you very much. 

Third, she must be uglier than me. Listen, I may be wise and savvy and excellent, but I am still a girl, ok? I need to be the hot one. No exceptions.

All kidding aside, I am in no way interested in a plural marriage. And surprisingly, it has little to do with sex. After seventeen years together, I'm not as possessive as I once was. The issue is more logistical: I value my space, I have enough kids to raise without having to help raise my husband's other offspring, and I barely get enough time with him as it is without adding in several more people into the mix. 

Then, there are more PMS times to worry about (and if they happen at the same time, a nuke might as well go off on the dining room table because it would be an all out WWIII bitch fest).  He would have to remember multiple anniversaries when he barely remembers one, and with that many kids to send to college we'd have to open up a Sister Wives Happy Ending Massage Parlour to pay for tuition. 

Moreover, unless all my sister wives had jobs out of the house, how on earth would I get any time to myself to watch lame shows like Sister Wives and blog about it? And I swear if one of them started blogging more often and more creatively than I do, I might have to have a jealous word with Heavenly Father during prayer time and wish for a pestilence to strike her down -- or at least eat her fingers.

There can only be one Maven in this house, baby.

Do you hear that?

Did you know the clock behind me ticks rather loudly? It's annoyingly loud, really. This is the first time I've noticed the ticking since we acquired the clock about three years ago. It's the first time because, after dropping off the gremlins and kissing Mr. Maven goodbye, I am celebrating the very first weekday where there is nary a testosterone-laden individual in the house.

This is, quite officially, the first day I am all by myself.

And I am quite thrilled about it.

I tried to hide my glee while I was getting everyone ready this morning. I put on my best poker face and stuffed the excitement way, way down into my belly, which made me quite full, so I was able to hold off on eating breakfast. I now know that emotions are great appetite suppressants. Maybe I should try to feel more of them instead of drowning them out, one caffeinated gulp at a time.

Do I look happy? Because I am.

I didn't fool the mighty gremlins, however. Halfway through breakfast, Gutsy was on to me.

No pictures!

It might have something to do with me taking his picture with an enormous "it's like I just won the lottery!" grin on my face.

Meanwhile, Spawnling decided to create a bit of mess in my very clean, freshly-painted kitchen before I loaded him up in the van. How sweet of him. 

What kind of havoc can I wreak in the next four minutes?

And then, as if he knew I needed a little reminder why I should celebrate and not mourn that my babies are all in school twice a week...

Mission accomplished.

Thanks, dude. And you're right: I will not miss that whatsoever for the next six hours. 

Thus today, I am not sad. I am not nervous. I am not wishing the sound of cartoons was blaring from the living room, drowning out not only my creativity process, but that ticking clock. I love the clock. I embrace the clock. I celebrate the damn clock. 

And now I am going out for breakfast. Enjoy a fabulous Monday. I know I am!

The Tantrum: an illustrated primer for new parents

Got tantrums?

We do. As Gutsy screeched his everlovin' lungs out on the kitchen floor yesterday afternoon over my insistence that he say "please" when demanding asking for something, I tried to think about how many times I've witnessed a tantrum in my thirteen years of parenting.

The answer: hundreds.

I have seen hundreds of them from my gremlins alone. I've encountered hundreds more from other children at playgroup, the store, the park, and anywhere else kids have lungs. I would say that makes me an expert. And what do experts do? Well, other than feel incredibly self-important in our superior knowledge, we try to teach the masses what we know. So, if I'm going to fancy myself a leading authority on the study of childhood explosions, I should probably be teaching you poor peons all about them.

Who can benefit this lesson? New parents, for one. You have absolutely no idea what you just got yourself into, do you? Suckers.

Then there are the parents who's children never throw tantrums, either because they're too darn perfect or always stoned on tranquilizers. You might want to know what other people deal with. And whether it's your perfect genetics or complete lack of conscience that makes your kids so well behaved, I hate you. So there.

Finally, every prospective parent should study this primer. There's still time to change your mind, folks.

The Maven introduces: How to Spot a Tantrum

Now, my research has shown that there are 5 very distinct levels leading up to a full-scale tantrum. To make these easier to spot, I've taken the time to draw some handy dandy illustrations. Yes, The Maven is not only an incredible writer, but an incredible artist, too.  My talent has no boundaries.

STAGE 1: THE TYPICAL MOOD

We can't say "normal" anymore, can we? A friend and I were talking about that the other day. It's just not a PC enough term in this diagnosis-happy world. Therefore, this is a typical child in a typical mood. I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible, but let's be honest: it looks like a little dude. And, while I tried to use a neutral skin tone, there really isn't one, is there? We're fantastically multicultural in this day and age. I made this one look like my kids, I guess. Let's call him something like Little Billy. That's pretty generic.

STAGE 2: THE WARNING

Oops. You said or did something un-okay. You know how a rattlesnake shakes its tail before striking? This is what your child is doing, but in the form of an unimpressed look. It's a lot like the look you give the jerk who just stole your parking spot. This is a warning to cease and desist any and all activity that is not pleasing, lest Little Billy get all up in your grill. There is still time to turn this thing around if you just let him do whatever he wants and bow to his every whim and desire.

Oh, wait. You can't, because that's shitty parenting. Sorry about your luck.

STAGE 3: THE TIPPING POINT

We've come to this. The point of no return. You didn't back down, did you? You crossed that line and you're about to pay for it, big time. Look at the shock in Little Billy's eyes. He's so surprised and put off by you. How could you put your foot down like that? Why couldn't you have given him that fifth cookie before dinner? What's so wrong with throwing butter knives at his sister's head? And doesn't the couch look better with knitting needles sticking out of it?  Why, you're worst parent, ever! He's disgusted with you! He can't believe you just did that! And now you have it coming.

STAGE 4: THE TRANSFORMATION

This is where things are about to get ugly. You may want to move any sensitive viewers out of the room.

Little Billy is pissed. He's out for blood. At this point, you might as well find a door frame or table to brace yourself under, because the scream will be so strong it will shake the foundations of your very soul. If you pray, now is the time to do it.

This lifelike representation of a tantrum, stage 4, shows the subtle details often overlooked in its identification: budding horns, flaming hair, red eyes and excessive tooth growth are sometimes only seen if the explosion is recorded and played back in slow motion. But they're there. Oh yes, they're there.

STAGE 5: THE EPIC CLIMAX

Sometimes, hair loss occurs at this stage because all blood vessels in the scalp have rerouted to feed the needs of the devil horns.

This is a good time to grab those knitting needles out of the couch and start making something, because it's going to be a while. Tantrums can last a very long time. If the fit is happening in chillier months, maybe you could crochet a little hat for Billy's demonic tongue. Just don't stare too long into the hypno-eyes. You may find yourself giving into this monster, thus making it stronger next time.

Tantrums. They suck, I know. Thank you for your time.

THE END

Oh... Were you looking for advice to stop tantrums? I'm still trying to figure that out, too. What do you think I am? Some kind of expert?

In which The Maven feels... lonely?

Hello? Anybody home? Maven? Didn't you say you would post more often so your sheeple wouldn't cry and find a new religion to believe in that does not revolve around some thirty-something chubby chick who lists her major turn on as "some dude showing up with a coffee in his hand"?

Forgive my lack of posting. Again. We are all sick, have been sick, or are about to get sick, depending on which member of the Maven family we're discussing. It's not so fun. I was the second victim after Germy the Teenager Wonderboy Intrepid brought home some grade 8 pestilence to share. Want to know what it was like? Think 24-48 hours of Alien meets The Exorcist meets some movie with really graphic toilet humour.

The worst part of the horror-fest was that, at one point on Saturday, I was so week that I couldn't even turn around in bed to grab the remote and change the channel. I spent several hours burning my braincells with terrible TLC reality shows. I used to love cupcakes and fondant. I really did. Now, when I close my eyes, I see annoying people with aprons having annoying conversations with equally annoying people who just happen to be making elaborate pastries. 

I feel victimized. 

Anyway, there have been some good things going on, too. It's not all cold sweats and dry toast.

On September 8th, 2010, all three of our baby gremlins went off to school simultaneously: Intrepid in grade 8, Gutsy in grade 2, and little Spawnling for his first day in a junior kindergarten program (which isn't technically JK because we don't have such things in Quebec. It's like glorified private preschool, but in an actual elementary school with recess, gym time and such). I took a picture to commemorate the glorious event.

Gutsy, Intrepid and Spawnling are all off to school for the first. time. ever. OMG.

There they are, smiling happily at a mom smiling happily back at them. Because, finally - after nearly fourteen years of having children at home - I am now eligible for two entire kid-free days all to myself.  How joyful! 

Right after this pic, I hugged Intrepid and sent him off to the teenage hell that the high school bus, whisked Gutsy off to elementary, and brought an excited Spawnling over to his preschool. When we got there, he had his first ever moment of hesitation. 

"Uh, Mom? I'm not so sure about this..." he said to me as we pulled up. 

"Why not, buddy?" I inquired.

His voice cracked, just a little. "Well, you know how I don't like to be alone."

It didn't take much reassuring to get him out of the van. I mean, this is Spawn. The kid is made for school, for socialization, for independence. He was craving this. That's just who he is. So, off he went, waving fondly as he walked up the stairs with his little backpack on. 

And there I was, all by myself. 

All by myself. 

I could do whatever I wanted! Because, suddenly, I had six hours twice a week to do what my temporarily-childless mind could conjure up: work in the garden, write an article, paint the baseboards, run a meth lab... The possibilities were endless! I should be happy! Elated! Over the moon with glee!

Except, well, I'm not quite there yet. He's done two full days of school with only a small cry at the end of first day because he worried about how he was going to get back home. He's thrilled to be going, so I should be thrilled, right? 

The truth is, I kind of miss him. The house feels lonely without him here. It's big and quiet and eerily clean. I can sit for far too long without interruption. I can go for coffee and not have to dig out change for a sprinkle donut. I can have a conversation without hearing "CAN YOU COME WIPE MY BUM NOW, MOMMY?" yelled from the bathroom in the middle of it. 

I miss him.

I'll get used to it, I know.  He loves his time away and I'll learn to love his time away, too. But right now, I miss him. He's my baby boy, and it's dawned on me that he's never going to be all mine again, you know? From now on, I will be sharing him with others.

After I picked him up today, he filled the air between us with details about everything he did at school. How he has a new friend and one of his other friends is being shy, and how the twin girls tried to steal the flowers he picked outside so he stuffed them into his raincoat pocket saying "they're for my mom, but I can pick some for you, too," and how they learned some new songs, and drew apples, and how he really loves school very much even when he misses me.

And I realized then, as he's saying all of this, that I am so grateful. Because, despite the financial bumps, the sometimes monotonous days, the endless cycle of child care and dishes and laundry, I would never trade the at-home years I've had with my boys, ever. I might grieve those early days, but that's because I've been able to experience that precious time; the wonder and the joy beneath the obvious humdrumness; the diamond in the rough. I am so lucky, and I know it. 

Of course there's the fighting and the tantrums and the messes and the stress and the tears and the sorry-we-can't-afford-that-right-nows. Those are all there, too. Hell, after the summer we just had at Casa Maven, those have been at the forefront of my mind -- possibly even ahead of coffee, if that's even possible. It's easy to get caught up in those things, as I often do (and you should thank me for it, because otherwise this blog would be all about the rainbows and puppy dogs of parenting, which is more nauseating than the stomach flu). 

But today? 

Well, today reminded me just how lucky I am to know what I'm going to be missing. 

Then, they came home and they decided to show me exactly what I was missing all day in all their dramatic flair:

What monkeys.

Yep, the gremlins three are growing up. I promise I'll figure out what to do with those two days each week. My womb might even stop aching enough for me to enjoy them. But in the meantime, I'll be not-so-secretly grateful that we still have two more years before Spawnling is in school full-time. I plan to savour every most the occasional the very best moments. 

And write about all the nerve-shattering rest of it for your amusement. You're welcome.

Spawnling the Potty Mouth

"Dad, do you know where my sandals are?" asks a polite Spawnling as we're heading out the door last  night.

"I don't know, buddy" Geekster replies as he begins scanning for them.

Spawnling drops his hands down in an exasperated fashion. "Dammit!"

"Oops," chimes in Intrepid. "That word would be my fault. I'm sorry."

Geekster is behind Spawnling with a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. Intrepid sees it and turns away, also smiling. I give them both the "If you start laughing I'm going to kill you" look.

Okay, it is kind of funny, I know. There's nothing like an innocent little mouth saying a big rotten swear word to make me giggle. And normally I would be wanting to laugh, too. Except that, in less than a week, Spawnling goes to school. He just can't drop his glue stick and say "Dammit!" during craft time. He can't flex his extensive vocabulary of faux pas fun words. These include:

Stupid, as in "You're stuuuuuuuupid!"

Stupidhead, as in "Stupidhead!" He made this one up. I suppose I should be celebrating his creativity.

Shut up, as in "Shut up!" I probably didn't need to explain this one.

Shut your mouth! As in "Shut your mouth, Guuuuuutsy!" For some reason, this is far ruder to me than "shut up."

I realize this is a sign of our family's foul mouthedness. We take full responsibility. With two older brothers, a dad who mutters under his breath, and a mom who stubs her toe on absolutely everything, can you really blame him for picking stuff up? The only redeeming factor in this scenario is that he hasn't been dropping F-bombs; a sign of at least a pathetic attempt to censor ourselves.

The bigger problem is that we're still getting used to having a hearing child in our home. Even with their hearing aids on, Intrepid and Gutsy often don't pick up quiet speech, like, say, me muttering something about how I'm tired of all the damn fighting. Super Ears, on the other hand, will yell out "Stop all the damn fighting!" a few hours later, and then I'm left kicking myself for not being used to this non-hearing-impaired kid in our midst after nearly four years.

Now, with my little angel starting school, I'm left with my stomach in knots at the prospect that he's going to open his mouth and spew forth a plague of nastiness the first time little Tommy takes a toy out of his hands. I can hope he won't, but I worry. Oh, do I worry.

I pulled him aside this morning and told him we needed to have a talk about bad words. I told him he can't call his new friends or teachers any names, even when he's very upset. I explained that he can get in very big trouble using those words, and that I was quite sure his teachers would give him a big time out.

"But what can I say when I'm fur-russ-ter-rated if I can't say 'dammit'?" asked Gutsy.

"You can say 'darn it'. How's that?"

"Okay, that's fine." As he walked down the hallway, I heard him say "Darn it! I can't find the flashlight!"

I love that kid's ability to quickly assimilate.

There's a delicate balance to strike here: On one hand, he needs to know there are consequences for his actions at school, just like at home. On the other hand, school needs to be painted as a fun place where he needn't be terrified to go.

Because I need these two days off to become a most excellent writer, dammit!

Uh, I mean darn it.

Steve Martin Hates My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I'm thirty-four. That's nearly three-and-a-half decades of awesome under my belt.

Hmmm... No wonder my belt is so big.

So, what does it mean to be this old? I have absolutely no idea. So far, it means I had to renew my license and treat myself to a coffee. Next, I have to check my Facebook birthday greetings. Well, if I have any. Steve Martin doesn't think so.

See, I had a dream a couple of nights ago that I lived in an apartment building and Steve Martin was my landlord. I mean, he was still Steve Martin, but he had retired from acting and entered the glamourous world of property management.

I spent a lot of my time trying to make Imaginary Steve Martin like me. Maybe because I'm a fame whore. Maybe because he's the guy I was paying rent to. Maybe because I still have a lingering 1980's "All of Me" crush on him lingering in my subconsciousness twenty-something years later. Whatever the case, he was always doing stuff around the building - watering the plants, painting the hallways - and I was desperately trying to have a friendly conversation at every opportunity, to no avail. He was curt and a little snobby; not what I pictured him to be.

Then, one fine midday, I walked out of the building to see him supervising the installation of a privacy fence. He said "Hey, Maven! Happy birthday!"

"Thanks, Mr. Martin!" I smiled happily. What a jolly good bloke. He wasn't a bastard after all! Maybe we could be Facebook friends. I would find his personal account and add him. He would accept my friend request - probably. Most likely. Maybe if I got him drunk first.

Steve started flipping through papers on a clip board like all important people do. "I hope you get some Facebook wall posts today."

What an odd thing to say, I thought to myself.  Of course I would get a lot of wall posts. Hello? I'm The Maven?

I gave him an odd smile. "Thanks."

Not taking his eyes off the clipboard, he replied "Because as of right now, you don't have any. And it's already noon."

Never mind that a highly successful comedic movie star was now my hardhat-wearing landlord. Never mind that he somehow had access to, or knowledge of, my supposedly private social networking page. At that moment, neither of those things were relevant to me. All that mattered as I made my way back inside the building and toward my apartment, is that it was midday on September 1st and not a single person had wished me a happy birthday. No one? Not even my own mom? Was the internet broken? Yes, surely the internet was broken. That was the only logical explanation.

You know how dreams go. I spent what seemed like an eternity trying to get to my computer. Absolutely every hurdle imaginable was thrown my way to slow me down: a broken elevator, a closed hallway, very chatty neighbours... but I finally got to my laptop and was in the process of logging into my Facebook account when-- my alarm went off. And it was the first day of school. And Gutsy was standing next to me with a big smile on his face, and I had to get up and make toast. Dammit!

I could picture that arrogant moustached ex-comedian snickering into his clipboard because I would never know now, would I? And, worse, I actually cared about my stupid Facebook wall enough to have a dream about it.

At noon today, as I was wrapping up a kick ass morning of breakfast and bookstore with my very cute three-year-old birthday date, I checked in on Facebook to see if, you know, people like me.

I learned a few important things:

1. I need therapy, because apparently my self-worth partially depends upon whether or not people say hello to me on a virtual wall, and,
2. People like me, a lot. Oh, and,
3. Imaginary Steve Martin can bite me

The Summer I Almost Gave Up Blogging

Oh, hello there. Are you still visiting this dusty old place?  Remember me? I used to post here fairly often before I was struck by the soul-crippling days of summer. And then vacation hit, the gremlins scuttled off their respective busses, and I was quickly buried by my seasonal responsibilities.

...What responsibilities? Did you seriously just ask me that? Do you read my posts?

Stay-at-home-moms work their aprons off when Summer hits. There is no time for bonbons. There is no time for daytime trash TV. We put on full protective gear and cute matching camo outfits and run into the fray for 2.5 months.

The tasks assigned to me over the summer included (but were not limited to): chambermaid, professional organizer, short order cook, event coordinator, life coach, lifeguard, personal shopper, personal assistant, complimentary shuttle van driver, payroll manager, and overworked referee --very overworked referee. And I did all of this for the low, low cost of my sanity.

By mid-August, I had completely lost the will to live my ability to blog. Being able to write involves having time to sit down and think about stuff. It involves not having to get up every two minutes to break up a fight, get someone a snack, or help someone figure out how to not be bored.

I seriously contemplated giving up blogging altogether. I really did. I thought that perhaps my time to share the crazy in my life with the world was coming to the end of its natural life. That maybe I should shut the whole operation down and turn this subprime piece of internet real estate into a mail order bride outlet: "Canadian Wives: We Got Your Beaver Right Here."

Why are you laughing? That part wasn't funny.  I was talking about closing my blog down. It's a sad thought that is undoubtedly reducing you to big, wet tears, right? Right?

I was at a very low point in my creative life: feeling burned out, overwhelmed, with no hope in sight.

And then, yesterday, just as I had given up all hope of ever being awesome again, this little yellow dot appeared on the horizon.

Was it a canary?

A loud banana?

The Man with the Yellow Hat?

Nay, friends.  It was the school bus. The wonderful school bus, packed to the brim with wonderful children going to wonderful school!

And just like that, I felt fucking wonderful again!

So, here I am, writing a blog post on day 2 of many, many glorious days of public education. Am I subpar parent for the joy I felt when I could hand two of my children over to the system five days a week? Probably. Do I feel guilty about it? Not really, no. I'm over feeling guilty about parenting stuff. I could find things to feel guilty about every single day. Do I want to be depressed my entire life? Do I want to feel like a failure 365 days a year? No. So I turn the guilt dial way, way down.

Then, I drown the rest of my conscience out with coffee. It's better for everyone that way.

And, with my guilt dial being held down with a popsicle stick and half a roll of duct tape, I did another great thing: I enrolled Spawnling in a pre-kindergarten program 2 days a week. That's six hours on Monday and six hours on Wednesday for a grand total of 12 hours each week, or 48 hours every month. If I do the math - and believe me, I have - that will be about 480 hours this school year that are entirely dedicated to The Maven and her craft. Minus sick days, of course.

But who's counting?

Don't look at me like that. He's ready, you know. He's been begging me to go to school for two years. And besides, after well over a decade of raising kids full-time, I could use a little scheduled breathing room. I deserve this. I've earned it. Been there, done that, have the after hours comfort food binge rolls to prove it.  Stop judging me! I don't need your repressive eyes upon my person.

... Oops. I think someone moved the popsicle stick. Anyone see the tape?

Just a quick one

A year ago tonight, I went to sleep in a hospital room next to our very sick two-year-old. It would be the first of several nights. The nurses had given me something for my headache - it was so bad it felt like my head might explode from all the stress inside. As the medication slowly kicked in and I could listen to the beeping of machines without wincing in pain, I wondered if Spawnling would make it through the night. 

Today, we had friends over. Spawn tormented his four-year-old pal and chased Gutsy off the tire swing.  He ate homemade pizza, told his dad stories about the Lego creatures he had just built, wrestled with Intrepid, stole forkfuls of my cheesecake, ran way ahead of us on our way to the park and held my hand on all the way home. Tonight, he kissed me, rolled over, snuggled his purple stuffed cat, and fell asleep with my arm around him.

I am so grateful. We were so lucky last year. He is so healthy. We are a good, strong family of five with a tough little guy to complete us. 

What a difference a year makes.

I'm done being sappy. I just needed to get that out.

I love you, Jackson. Always.