Time Management and Kids. Ha ha ha.

I truly thought that when Spawnling went to preschool, I would have a lot more time on my hands to get things accomplished.

Most days, the house is just as messy as it was before, the recorded shows on my DVR sit aging and neglected, the blog is just as dusty. Laundry doesn't get done any faster, nor does the to-do list get smaller. I've quickly filled up those "down time" days with work, errands and appointments. I'm thinking the old adage, "when you make more, you spend more" could be easily morphed into: "When you have more time, you fill it."

Take today, for example. I had six hours to myself from four-year-old drop-off to pick-up. In that time, I did the following:

- 30 minutes making breakfast, cleaning up breakfast and Facebooking like a loser
- 2 hours of work
- 1 hour of Halloween shopping (I'm bringing "last minute shopping" back)
- 1 hour dental appointment
- 30 minutes visiting The Madre and a couple of stray siblings
- 1 total hour driving to and from those locations and trying to figure out why our insurance plan didn't cover half of my last dental visit (we figured it out - they only allow one "new patient exam" per person per lifetime. Yes, lifetime. So your dentist better not retire/die, and you had better not move, because apparently a new dentist isn't eligible to look at your mouth for the first time ever again.)

And there you have it: a complete six hours with thirty of it dedicated to my enjoyment. Incidentally, the time minutes I spent at my parents' house involved calming down the dog who was having an absolute panic attack over my arrival, chugging back a coffee as quickly as I could without permanently scalding my esophagus, being handed a lovely pair of boots that are now mine-mine-all-mine-!, and justifying why I have yet to learn to drive stick shift even though my husband has had three different standard vehicles in the last 9 years (basically I'm just lazy, but they don't have to know that).

Fun, but not exactly relaxing.

Don't get me wrong: I love having those two childless days every week. I look forward to them like someone under the age of wrinkling might look forward to their birthday, except I get the pleasure of this happening about twice per week.  I enjoy making appointments on Mondays or Wednesdays and knowing I don't have to find a babysitter as long as nobody starts puking the night before. I wake up before it's light out, and drag myself out of bed with the promise of an approaching drive-thru window and a smiling person handing me a coffee to start my day.

My day. Mine. All mine. I structure it, manage it, fill it with all those to-dos. Some days, I work uninterrupted, sit in the quiet with a dog sleeping at my feet, usually only getting up to grab a bite to eat or to answer the phone. It's blissful.

But today wasn't one of those days. It was harried, busy, frantic, tiring. To top it all off, Geekster had to work late - thankfully a rarity - and I flew solo for six hours after my six hours of not-so-quiet time. Plus, having been so busy the last few days, I haven't done as much work on an important contract as I should have, so I asked the gremlins to fend for themselves as much as possible until dinner time. I figured I could get a good ninety minutes or so of extra work done. They'd understand, right?

Thirty broken minutes over the span of two hours later, I had finally lost my cool. I had done the mommy huddle, where I explained why this is so important, and cheered them on as capable, responsible young men who can make their own popcorn, pour their own juice, solve their own arguments. I had bent a couple of times, helped them make the popcorn they can make on their own, fetched the clean cups out of the dishwasher they could have acquired themselves, broke up arguments-- okay, they can't usually solve those on their own. Who am I kidding?

When I lost my cool, I used the evil "C" word. I know, I know, it was inappropriate and wrong, but I said it. You could see the shock and panic on their faces as what I had just spewed forth from my angry, depleted lips registered in their minds.

"Do you want a Christmas this year?" I bellowed from the office. All whining ceased instantly. "Because Mommy's work is paying for your presents. All of them!"

It was only half a beat, but I hope it wasn't half a beat too long. As quickly as I could, I tacked on "Except for Santa's presents, of course. But Santa isn't going to make up for what I can't get you because you're asking me to press buttons on a microwave instead of editing a file, ok? Got it?!" I stopped short of saying that Santa's workshop is feeling the recession, too, and that more than a few elves had been let go, and some of the reindeer had been slaughtered for cheeseburgers.

The nodded hastily and maturely went about their business.

For two minutes.

And then I gave up, until at last they had food in their bellies and iCarly was on. I was sad not to watch iCarly (admittedly one of my favourite kids shows), but happy I could get some more of this contract done.

While I love being able to work from home and make some money to help out Mr. Claus' struggling Elven Sweat Shop and Meat Packaging Plant, it's going to take a bit more training with the Gremlins Three - or at least the youngest two - to work out some of the bugs.

Mrs. Claus undoubtedly pulls her weight around the homestead, making sure the budget is adhered to, toy making is done to today's safety standards (no lead paint), and tasks are completed on time. On top of that, she likely fries up some reinburgers for Santa and herself every night.

As far as I know, the Claus' are childless. Somehow, I don't think it's because Santa doesn't ho-ho-ho it up every now and then.

Today's lesson: Time management with children is an oxymoron.

I Think My Bread Hates Me

An Array of Maven Haters

I was catching up with a friend by phone this afternoon - and by "catching up," I mean stealthily sneaking into Gutsy's room in a (quickly foiled) attempt to get away from my sugar-spun gremlins so I could actually hear said friend on the phone.

Anyone who says sugar doesn't make kids hyper has never been to my house after a family party involving heartily-iced cupcakes.

"I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to talk lately," said I to my friend, and proceeded to list off my regular excuses of too many responsibilities and not enough birth control. "It's not you, I swear. I ignore everybody the same."

"It's okay, Maven. I get it," She said reassuringly. "You're an equal opportunity hater."

At last, someone really gets me.

It's true, I do hate on - or at least simply can't find the time to get in touch with - the vast majority of people in my life. I have a lot of patient and understanding homeys in my posse. Thank goodness, or I'd have lost so many Facebook connections my friends list would be in the negatives.

I've been busy, true. That's a given. But worse than that, I was feeling so run down and very, very stupid - like more than usual. I was forgetting names of people, things, events.  I couldn't read an entire article without getting antsy and distracted. I felt gross and bloated and and gassy and anxious and miserable nearly all the time. It took every ounce of strength I had to get up in the morning and get through the day without falling asleep. I wanted to exercise, but couldn't bring myself to go for even a short walk. I wanted to play outside with the kids, but didn't even have the patience or energy to play on the floor with them. My menstrual cycles were wonky, my acne was getting worse, and when I got a virus of any kind, it was kicking my ass. And let's not forget the unexplained mystery rash on both my hands and my strangely pitted, ridged fingernails.  The Maven was a not-so-hot mess, and it was getting worse, month by month.

Something was wrong. I wasn't just a hater anymore; I was an unwell hater.  The worst kind; We can't even enjoy hating on everyone.

And then, one day, when I was feeling particularly shitty, I was on Twitter. I'm not a regular Tweeter, as I find it far too distracting while I'm trying to do paid work on my computer (which is quite often the only time I'm online these days). But when I do go on, I grab a little bit of info here and there from those people or organizations I follow. Sometimes, it's just about who slept with who on what hospital equipment on last night's Grey's Anatomy, but other times it's something important.

And just once, it's been something life-changing - possibly even life-saving.

@EarthCafe - makers of vegan cakes I only wish they sold in Canada - tweeted something along the lines of "If you have symptoms a, b, c, x, y and z, you could have a gluten intolerance."

Interesting.  I had all of those symptoms. And when I checked out the link they provided, I realized I had not only the main symptoms, but practically the entire alphabet.

Gluten intolerance is the baby brother to big, bad Celiac - an auto-immune disease that afflicts about 1 in 133 people, including my mother-in-law, one of my best friends and her mom, too. It means that foods containing gluten act like toxins in the body, killing the villi in the small intestine and potentially causing everything from serious vitamin and mineral deficiencies to cancer. And now I could have this lovely disease, too. Or maybe just a gluten intolerance, which isn't as bad. Or maybe neither - I just don't know. The only way to know for sure is to have a piece of my small intestine biopsied, which is not high on my to-do list. Thankfully, there's a somewhat less-conclusive blood-test that checks for gluten antibodies and is often good enough for a diagnosis. When I see my doctor in the spring, we'll order the test.

In the meantime, this Maven is strictly gluten-free.

The first week sucked. Do you have any idea how many things contain gluten? It's the stuff found in wheat, barley and rye, so you can imagine the joy I felt at avoiding those and the vast amount of products that contain them. It's enough to make my frail thread of sanity unravel far faster than anyone in the "When is The Maven going to finally lose her shit?" pool could have anticipated (I bet on July 12, 2011).

I went through what could best be described as withdrawal. It was so weird that I Googled it - and you know how I hate Googling medical stuff. As a former hypochondriac, any kind of health inquiry is best not typed into a search engine. Whether you have yellow fingernails or stink eye, all symptoms to the possibility of death. I learned that the hard way.

But search I did as my bones and joints ached for three straight days, and I expected I'd get the flu at any moment but found nothing but a strong craving for french baguette. This is common, apparently. What the body craves is often bad for it, and I was paying a most uncomfortable price for depriving it. Moreover, gluten can have an opiate affect in sensitive people, which could explain my carb addiction and how hard I was "coming down" off the junk.

Since I decided to put Gutsy on the gluten-free train as well to see if it would help his anxiety, I gave away over $100 worth of groceries and replaced them with a multitude of expensive, pre-packaged health foods and wheat-less flours. I put aside the old recipes and have figured out how to make pizza crust, cupcakes and bread.

Bread. Can we talk about that for a minute? Gluten-free bread is a bitch. The first one tasted like sawdust and the second looked like someone shat in my bread machine. I was about ready to cry because a nice slice of toast is really all I want in life sometimes. But I sucked it up, put my big girl panties on and tried it a third time. It was delicious, and I suddenly felt a little more hopeful.

My friend with Celiac had me over last week and loaded me up with supplies from her pantry. She gave me a lot of advice on what to buy, what to avoid, and how it's not the end of the world (so no need to contemplate a bridge dive? Good. The water and spiky rocks are really cold in October). She also listened to my list of symptoms and basically told me that she's suspected I have issues with gluten for a long time, but didn't want to say anything.

Funny; my mother-in-law basically said the same thing. But they know me well enough to understand that I had to come to this on my own terms. Denial courses amply through this addict's veins.

Anyway, I feel so much better. I can't even put into words how much more awake, alive and alert I've felt since those aches and pains stopped. I feel like myself again. The cravings are gone, the rash on my hands is gone, the anxiety has lessened dramatically. I no longer feel bloated and sickly. I can go a whole day without needing to lie down, and I have a lot more patience and focus to deal with unruly little gremlins.

Gutsy, however, is far less unruly in the last week. In fact, this is the best few days we've had in ages with him. I'm hoping it's not just coincidence, and that maybe his body just needed to detox along with mine. It sucks not eating wheat, but it sucks more to feel out-of-control.

We'll get tested, but in the meantime I will be 100% gluten-free, Gutsy will be about 95%, and the rest of them will eat primarily gluten-free, even though it would be rather amusing to watch me run around making two separate meals at at once.

It's a good thing, too, because that would definitely drive up my full-fledged insanity date to mid-winter and none of us would win the pool.

The Love Triangle: a Poem by The Maven

Writing's not something I've done much of late,

And as to why there is no debate,

I see Creativity in my backseat,

Making out with Free Time - (voyeurism is neat!)

Neither of them even bothers with me,

While I'm too stressed to think and too busy to pee,

My trust in their friendships has been violated,

Our relationship status? "It's Complicated"

Tae Kwon Do, Cross Country, run this way and that,

Here! Grab your schoolbag! Please wear a hat!

It's not that I don't want to sit down and write,

But herding my gremlins is always a fight

Wee demons throw wrenches into my down time,

They're loud and they're needy and boy can they whine!

And just as I sit on my fanny to post,

They scream from the kitchen "Mom, make me some toast?"

Imagine: them wanting some food on a plate,

Blogging or cooking: Where's the debate?

But mothering guilt starts to seep from within,

Taking time to myself is like living in sin

I truly thought when I had no more babies,

I'd stop running around like a chipmunk with rabies,

But it seems to get crazier most every week,

So much coffee gets guzzled that I start to tweak

"Where's the new post?" asked in an earnest attempt,

To get me to write before you feel verklempt,

And I know that you wait and keep clicking "reload",

Hoping my blog oats will finally be sowed

So here is a poem 'cuz I throw these off easy,

They're so quick and dirty I feel a bit sleazy,

Which suits as I jump in the back with Free Time,

And Creatively finish this up with a rhyme

Happy 4th Birthday, Spawnling!

Is it just me, or has four years gone by way, way too fast?

It seems like just yesterday when a gate to the Netherworld opened up from within my womb, spilling forth the horned wonder child we now call Spawnling. With his birth came chaos and fury, noise and mayhem.

Truly, we couldn't be more proud.

It's hard to believe that our littlest gremlin is now four years old. One day, I'm staring at a faint line on a pregnancy test in my kitchen, quietly freaking out at the prospect of a third child and the thought of breaking the news to my husband, and the next thing I know he's telling me he's too big to watch preschool TV because he's four now.

It's not that we didn't want another baby, necessarily. I mean, at one point we wanted another one, but then two got pretty comfortable - and busy. But you know, a third wouldn't be so bad.  I mean, it's not like it would be another boy anyway, right? This one was definitely a girl. I knew it to the core, and moms are never wrong about this stuff.

Our "daughter"

Okay, so we found out at around 20 weeks' gestation that our daughter had a penis, and I had to give up the idea that getting enough pink clothes together to do a load of laundry in under two weeks' time. On the night of October 12, 2006, I became ridiculously outnumbered.

Right before he was born, I told myself that maybe he would have the blonde curls I had when I was a baby. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't look so much like his brothers and dad, and instead would take after me a little bit. Because frankly, these gorgeous looks of mine have been going to waste due to my husband's stronger genes.

Maury says: Geekster, you ARE the father!

Yep. Wrong again. He looks about as much like me as I look like North Korean Supreme Leader Kim Jong-Il.

We're like twins!

Do not take candy from this man

So basically, not at all. Remind me that the next guy who knocks me up three times needs to have weaker genetics, ok?

So he may have been unplanned, have a penis, and look nothing like me, but there is something really wonderful about our not-so-baby-anymore gremlin. He's charming, funny, engaging, mischievous, loving, and terribly cute (despite not looking like me - who knew there was another way to be attractive?) He is the perfect final notch in our fertility belt. The grand finale in our trilogy of awesome spawns. The best possible reason not to wear a condom that month. And today, he is four.

So happy birthday, my darling boy. I hope you enjoyed running amuck in the Museum of Nature today with our friends, the endless train of carb-carrying cargo that entered your mouth tunnel, and the presents your brothers not-so-lovingly wrapped for you as they yelled at each other over who should do what.

What love looks like (watch the claws)

My heart grew tenfold when I held you for the first time, for I had no idea what completion was until I met you, our littlest family member.

A story for the bullied: It really does get better

It seems like bullying is in the news a lot these days. Just last month, Intrepid's school had a serious incident. After a lot of pressure from parents, students and the media, the school did the right thing and came down hard on the aggressors. I went to bed after that news with a warm heart. Finally, some vindication for the the victimized. Now my son's friend can walk the halls without living in fear. That's the way it should be at school.

I've always hesitated going into detail about my own bullying history on my blog. I've told a little here and there, but never an in-depth look. In part, it's because this is generally my place to write with wit and humour. There's nothing terribly funny about that time in my life. Also, there's still some shame associated with what happened to me.  I don't know why, exactly. I suppose it's because these things never really leave you. The two biggest reminders of being bullied in my adult life are my sizeable gut and serious fear of rejection.  And part of me has always been afraid that if I share all of this, you'll think less of me.

People laugh when I say I worry about being unloveable. "But you're The Maven!" they exclaim, like that's the coup de grace that will end all my fears. "You're one of the coolest, most awesome, intelligent, funny, vivacious and popular people I know!"

... Alright. They don't say all of that in one sentence. That would be ridiculous.

It's usually broken up into at least two.

Alright, it's true. My life today is pretty wonderful. But given all the high school-aged suicides lately, I think I need to open up and spill it. I don't know if many teens read my blog because it's about babies and poop and breastfeeding, but maybe you'll stumble upon it one day or your annoying mom will make you read it.

I'm going to echo what so many survivors have said to date: It gets better. So much better. They're not trying to fool you. Life after high school is unbelievably better for the bullied. But in order to prove it to you, I'm going to need to do some compare and contrast. This is where I warn everyone that there's some heavy shit about to be said, so if you don't want to know this about me now is the time to wander over to one of my lighter posts and leave this one alone. You've been warned.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Grade 7 Maven was a different girl altogether.  Curvier than most girls her age, untamed hair and pimples a plenty. Come to think of it, I pretty much still look like that at thirty-four, but I and those around me today have accepted that I am not - and never will be- a supermodel. It's a wonderful thing, this acceptance stuff.

But what was markedly different back then was my attitude, or lack thereof. After years of being teased, rejected and beat up at school, I had simply shut down. I had stopped trying to get help. I had stopped trying to make new friends. My eyes were permanently locked in a downward stare at the hallway floors as I tried to get from class to class as quickly and painlessly as possible, so that I could get through the day as quickly and painlessly as possible and I could go home to my room, listen to loud music and forget everything.

I lived in fear each day that I would be tormented. Most days I was simply ignored or only verbally prodded a little. Sometimes, however, a carefully orchestrated event would occur. Yes, it's true: even back then, I was important enough to make plans for. These wonderful "events" had been steadily growing in number since the earlier grades, and had been getting crueler each time. My two favourite memories of grade 7?

1. I had a crush on a boy named Marty. Someone told him. He decided it would be hilarious to get half the school together to watch him ask me out. It was a big joke, asking Teen Maven on a date. Obviously I didn't say yes. I just tried to ignore him (and the dozens of people circled around us, laughing hysterically). It didn't work. After that, I was painfully shy around boys.

2. I was set on fire. These two girls hairsprayed my back and threw matches at me until I lit (it was their second attempt, but the first on school grounds). Pretty epic, right? I mean, if you're going to be bullied, why not have a sensational story to tell? The only problem is that, had I not stopped, dropped and rolled, I probably wouldn't be here to talk about it. That was pretty much it for that high school. My parents pulled me out faster than a boy on prom night without a condom. I was sent to another school where I was tortured slightly less. I think the girls were kicked out, too, but we didn't stick around to find out.

I had started drinking heavily and, more noticeably at the time, had started cutting. For those who don't know what that means, I salute your blissful ignorance but shall explain nonetheless. It's when a person (usually a young girl) makes cuts on her body to deal with emotional pain. I don't recommend it for many reasons, the least of which is that it really fucking hurts. Some of my friends (I did have a few, and they were wonderful people) tried to help me when they noticed. I thanked them for their concern, told them I was fine, and started moving the cuts to less noticeable places.

It wasn't long before the cutting got a little deeper, and then a little deeper. And before long, it didn't seem so farfetched to just cut deep enough that I would never wake up, if you catch my drift. One of my friends must have had spidey senses because she started to talk to me about her boyfriend, Ken, who was a couple of years older and had been where I was. She asked if he could call me sometime. I played nice and said sure, but I wasn't really interested. I'd be long gone before he ever picked up the phone. If he even did at all.

She may not have known it, but that night was the night. I had planned it out. My parents had no idea. I was all alone in the basement, listening to music, candles lit, working out a letter to write. Razors were beside me, alcohol in hand. I was sick of it all and I was going to end it. I wasn't scared, just determined. No going back now. No one would laugh at me again. No one would hurt me ever again. I would have the last laugh this time.

Beside me on the floor, the phone rang. I considered it for a few rings. To this day, I have no idea why I chose to answer it. It was Ken. And he quite literally saved my life.

I let Ken talk to me. While I don't remember his exact words, I remember him telling me that it will get better. It will be okay and things will get better. And for some reason, I believed him. He made me feel hope for the first time in ages. I put away the razors that night and never touched them again.

Ken and I became good friends. He was like a big brother to me. School sucked and my home life was chaotic, but with Ken there was peace and acceptance. He really got me. He was my soft place to fall.

When his family moved away a few months later, I felt more lost and alone than ever. My drinking and drugging picked up and I wished for death many times. But never again did I try to take my life because I knew Ken would call and check up on me, and I wanted to be around to answer that call.

A few months after Ken left, I hit bottom and went off to a six-month treatment centre. It was a blessing in disguise, as life improved drastically. At fifteen, when I went back to school, I made new friends and greeted the halls with a confident stare and a smile. My physical scars healed and most of my emotional ones did, too. I was lively and chatty and the bullies stayed very far away. My love of life was impenetrable.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Ken and I lost touch for many years, but reconnected on Facebook not so long ago. What did I say to the boy who once upon a time saved my life? Thank you, for one. But it doesn't seem nearly enough. You can't exactly pay that back.

However, you can pay it forward. I think I've done that in a lot of ways. For one, I'm not only alive, but living. I married a great man and have an enviable support system of friends and family. I have three incredible boys, one who is now the same age I was when I tried to take my life. We're so similar, he and I, but he possesses a confidence I only wish I had had at his age. I made a real point of instilling strength and self-esteem in the Gremlins Three. Never do I want them to be in that dark, scary place and feel there's no way out.

I smile and laugh a lot. Like, a lot. I also try to make people smile and laugh a lot, too. I've learned that happiness isn't found, it's created. I create it in my home, with those I love, and I try to spread it around on the internet through my blog. No medicine cures what ails you like a good belly laugh.

Although admittedly, this isn't exactly a funny post. Sorry about that. I'm kinda busy paying it forward right now, so could you cut me a bit of slack?

Anyway, the point of this post is that I survived high school, and my life is totally awesome now. I'm here because someone reached out. I'm alive to finish the story properly. And now I'm telling whoever's out there in the big, wide internet, that it will get better for you, too. Just hang in there.

Thank you again, Ken. Thank you for saving the life of a lonely little girl. This post is dedicated to you.

Penis Envy. It's a woman issue.

I sometimes struggle with inadequacy as a stay-at-home-mom, as if I'm somehow not doing enough. Never enough.

I watch my working mom friends cook, clean, do homework and all the other things I do in a day, all while balancing a career precariously on a gorgeous pair of stilettos. On top of that, they often have the financial means to do things we only dream of, like take vacations, save a reasonable amount for retirement, and not want to puke from the stress of Christmas shopping on a tight budget. I don't know how you do it, ladies, but hats off to you. You could see how, if we were comparing penises, I might feel a wee bit embarrassed by mine. From here, it looks like yours is bigger and can do more things.

But this morning, as I read a brand new blog a friend of mine started called Sprung Onto the Spectrum, I was taken back to a time when what I do today sounded not only overwhelming, but next to impossible. Her most recent post talks about how she felt when her son was diagnosed with PDD-NOS a few months ago, and how far she's come since that initial feeling of complete devastation. Reading that post gave me a quick kick in the ass. It's exactly what I needed to get out of Eeyore mode.

(You know, Eeyore mode? Where a little back raincloud follows you around as you eat thistles and talk in an emo voice about how bad things are? If you need a demonstration, come by right after one of the vehicles breaks down and we need to figure out how to pay for it. I put on a good show.)

The truth is, I'm my biggest enemy. I undervalue myself far more than I should by insisting I could always be doing more: more one-on-one parenting, more educating, more housework, more baking and cooking, more family outings, more budgeting, more writing contracts, and more coffee drinking so I can maybe jump high enough to reach the impossibly high bar I've set for myself. Then, hopefully, I'll hit my head on said bar and pass out so I can stop acting like such a douche.

The Maven can act surprisingly douchey. I suppose it helps balance out my awesome.

I have two kids with hearing loss. That involves a heck of a lot more than just slapping some hearing aids on and sending them off to school. Over the years, we've had a team of support that involves the likes of teachers, in-class aides, ENTs, audiologists, audioprostheticists (try saying that three times fast), psychologists, speech therapists and integration specialists. I end up running around the national capital region more than a call girl on government pay day.

I have one child who not only has hearing loss, but anxiety. He has massive panic attacks that manifest as meltdowns. He has additional appointments to learn the skills to deal with it, and we spend a lot of time calming him down and reassuring him that he's safe. Then, we spend more time helping the other kids understand and deal with his outbursts. It's a jolly good time.

Sometimes, I forget that we have all these extra appointments and situations and that so much of the time I think I'm supposed to have is eaten up by them. I blame human adaptability. Life since these diagnoses has become our new normal; so much so that I forget how much I do in a day to keep this family going. Like my friend, I morphed from the devastated, heartbroken, sick with worry parent into a mom who accepts and loves her kids for who they are (most of the time).

Unfortunately, I seem to have gone the extra mile and am now beating myself up for not doing more with my life. See? I'm so douchey that if they named a Disney Princess after me, they would call her Doucherella.

And I'm not the only one with this self-destructive problem. This seems to be pervasive in the mothering community as a whole. It's a rare woman who is completely confident that what she does is more than enough. The rest of us seem to wade through this mess of inadequacy and self-doubt.  Then we wonder why we eat our feelings.

Oh, wait. That's just me.

I think taking personal inventory of our lives every so often can be healthy. When we take the time to look at where we are, how far we've come, and all we've done to accomplish these things, it's rejuvenating. This morning, I was reminded that I do my fair share in this society of ours. I don't need to do more, and in fact I probably could stand to do a little less. This is true of a lot of women I know, whether they work at home or in an office, whether they have one child or five, special needs kids or not. Single, married, broke or comfortable. We all need to give ourselves a pat on the back.

In short, I think we should all pull the balled up socks out of our crotches and stop comparing.

Today, just repeat this motto: My proverbial penis is bountiful, my proverbial penis is bountiful, my proverbial penis is bountiful.

You're welcome.

3 Things that Drive me Crazy

1. THE UNKNOWN

To me, the great unknown is the emotional equivalent to having bamboo shoots hammered up my fingernails. Put another way, sitting in limbo is the poop raining down upon my happy parade, making all the clowns cry and the tuba player wishing the opening of his instrument wasn't quite so basket-like. It's my nemesis, and I've had to spend a lot of time with it the last couple of days. Spawnling's ECG was yesterday morning. We were to sit in the waiting room and the nurse was to come out after speaking with the technician to tell us how the little gremlin's heart is doing. Problem? The nurse was busy, so they sent us home to wait for her phone call. Do you have any idea how long it takes for medical professionals to get around to calling people back? I suspect we may have answers by the time Spawnling starts collecting a pension. And yes, I was one of those moms and called to let them know we were still waiting on answers. Guess what? That was about as effective as Sarah Palin teaching a sex ed class.

2.  THE SIX-DAY WEEKEND

Who do I strangle at the school board for deciding to lump three PD days together and stick them before the already long Thanksgiving weekend? Now I get to listen to the cheery sounds of my children trying to kill each other for the equivalent of three back-to-back weekends. School board genius, I haven't even recovered from summer vacation yet. The twitches have stopped but the nightmares still come in droves. What were you thinking? Do you hate stay-at-home-parents? Do you envy our bonbon-eating, Ellen-watching, pyjama-wearing ways? Why must you do this? The exhaustion is already setting in after only a single day of uncooperative, un-sharing, unbridled chaos. When the turkey's tryptophan kicks in on Monday I'll probably lapse into a coma. How on earth am I supposed to experience an "a-ha moment" with Oprah in a coma?!

3. THE CLUELESS MARKETER

A) Are you serious? This is a different woman altogether.

B) There's this neat program called Photoshop that lets you edit things like skin tone. If you used it, maybe you could convince us that Miss Pasty Whitey Universe 2010 up top is the same person as Fake-Boob SprayTan below.

C) Apparently when you get skinny, you start buying bikinis with flashy stripper tassels. Good to know. I'll start saving up.

D) Oh, and another thing? Ms. Before isn't fat. She's PREGNANT. Did you also know girls have vaginas? That's where the babies come out. I'm concerned that you couldn't recognize an obvious sign of human reproduction. But take heart, my internet marketer virgin: you might still be able to have sex one day if you pay someone.

E) Your Easy Rule for losing weight? I tried it three times and it didn't work. Well, I mean, I lost weight when the baby came out (of my vagina, incidentally) but apparently sitting with your colicky baby and eating a bag of Oreos while sobbing uncontrollably doesn't make you look like a supermodel. Go figure.

The Final Stretch (not the yoga kind)

If all goes well, I will be able to stop being such a drama queen after today.

Oh, I know you're getting sick of it: Kawasaki this and Kawasaki that. If I were a helmet-wearing crotch-rocket enthusiast then maybe you'd forgive me. But I'm not. I'm just a mom with a blog who's kid got sick last year and she hasn't been able to fully let it go yet.

A careful analysis of my posts over the last few months reveals the following thematic pattern:

My kids are crazy!
I'm also crazy!
Look! I watch TV and I write about it!
Spawnling had Kawasaki Disease. Poor us.
I like coffee. A lot.
Spawnling said he would kick a baby if I let him.
Did I mention he had Kawasaki last year? Did I mention that sucked donkey gonads?
I'm anxious about a lot of stuff. No idea why.
Oh, wait... No. My kid's anxious, actually. Maybe I'm just a spaz.
I read my blog out loud and made new friends! I'm a celebrity!
Except I'm not because I never post anything lately. Maven who?
Boohoo Kawasaki.
Look! I drew something funny!
Childhood anxiety sucks.
I really, really like coffee.
I should write about something original. Hey, I know! Ever heard of Kawaski Disease?

See? No matter what I do, I always come back to the same sad topic: an illness that was treated and so far has shown no signs of permanent damage. My constant need to write about this stuff is a problem. Next thing I know, I'll agree to be in a documentary about Kawasaki Disease. I'll be heading to my final appointment to talk about scary it was, only to walk into a room full of blog readers holding letters and crying about how I need to get help. Today, or they'll never read me again. And once I agree, I'll be whisked off to a rehabilitation centre for drama queens and attention whores. There will be some debate as to what my problem actually is, but in the end we'll probably decide I need treatment for both addictions. There will be talk of acceptance and letting go and perspective. I'll be told that it could have been much worse. I'll be told that people are tired of it rearing its ugly head in my writing, sapping me of creativity. And we'll probably have a follow-up interview to show how well I'm doing as a recovering drama queen/attention whore.

Or, we could just wait until later this morning and I'll probably feel like forty pounds of Coscto carrots have been lifted off my shoulders. Spawnling has his one year post-Kawasaki follow-up ECG, where they'll do a final check for heart damage. Since they didn't find any last year, they likely won't find any today. Then, we'll get the all-clear, he will be formally discharged from the hospital's cardiology department, and we will go through life not worrying about his little ticker unexpectedly detonating in the middle of a soccer field a few years from now.

My wise friend with a sick child (you know who you are, Gussachi Goddess) told me before Spawnling's ECG last year that if you look at your kid, you'll know if he's healthy. All year we've seen the littlest gremlin grow into his horns, sprout a nice set of claws and tackle everything that life throws at him. He's chatty, outgoing, hilarious and-- well, he's totally awesome like his mom.

Back when Spawn was in the hospital, Meanie put me in touch with Chantal, who's son had Kawasaki Disease a couple of years before. Since it's one of those exceedingly rare things, being able to read a local moms' firsthand accounts on her own blog meant the world to me. She's been my go-to gal when I've occasionally needed a "I know what you're going through" ear.  She's also damn funny, for the record. When I got to the point in her posts about Alex's one year follow-up ECG showing a healthy heart, I could feel her sigh of relief. I knew if we could just get there, Geekster and I would feel better, too.

Spawnling's heart is good. I know that without them even hooking him up to the machine. I feel it to the core. Is there a chance I'm wrong? Sure there is, but we'll cross that dreadful bridge if we get to it.  This morning, I'm choosing to walk into that appointment feeling excited instead of scared, holding his little hand, eager to close this chapter of his life. Once we get the all clear, I will truly feel better. I'll know he's going to be okay.

So, all this to say that you can burn the letters and send the camera crew packing. Because today, a week prior to Spawnling's 4th birthday, I am anticipating some good news and will promptly toss my tired old tiara in the garbage as soon as I hear it.

 Thank you for being here through all the ups and downs. For not telling me to shut up and be funny when I don't feel like it. For letting me go through all the emotions. Today is a big day. It will be a good day. If they tell us right after the test, which I suspect they will, I'll update as soon as I get home.

Illness: An Illustrated Primer for New Parents

Ah, germs! Back-to-school time is overrun with the little bastards, finding their way into our bodies and taking a baseball bat to the ol' immune system. And even worse, if your very young child is in any sort of activity that involves other young children, you get the best of the best of the best of the germs, sir.

The question on every new, overprotective parent's mind is, how do I know if my child is sick? Well, let me show you!

(And if that's not on your mind, pretend it is so that I know I didn't go through the trouble of writing this primer for nothing, ok? I slaved over this artwork, people. And sure, it looks a lot like the work from my tantrum post, but that's because I saved the egghead shape from that last series of child drawings I made. The rest is custom designed for this post, baby. Don't say I never do anything for you.)

FIGURE 1: THE HEALTHY CHILD

Look! I made a girl child this time. Are you happy? I fully understand that not everyone only makes boy babies like Geekster and I. I'm not bitter, and to prove it I made Little Sally. In this picture, she's quite healthy. Look at that glow! Isn't she adorable? She looks kind of like I did when I was little. Come to think of it, she probably looks a lot like what my girl children would have looked like if my husband hadn't locked the X chromosome sperm up in his Tower of London for all of eternity.

But, uh, anyway. Not bitter, like, at all. Incidentally, Sally has one of those obnoxious bow things on her head that screams "Look at me! I may seem gender-neutral right now, but my mommy gets to dress me in lots and lots of pink! My clothing department is twice the size as the one you get to shop in for your stinky boy babies. Neener!"

FIGURE 2: WARNING SIGNS

Incidentally, the name of this section is also the name of my favourite Coldplay song. Not that you care.

Little Sally isn't looking so hot right now. She's still rocking the bow, but her eyes are a little fatigued.  She's not smiling as much as she usually does, either. Displaying signs of poor behaviour is another symptom of illness. So, if Barbie's head finds its way into your coffee cup while Sally grins evilly from behind the couch, do NOT panic: she may be possessed by a virus (it's like a demon, but smaller). This is the time to keep an eye on things and see how she is in the morning.

FIGURE 3: IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

If Sally wakes up looking like she just stuffed Jabba the Hutt up into her sinuses, you could be dealing with the common cold. This isn't dangerous for most people, but it is gross. The younger the child is, the more disgusting a cold becomes. Boogers are eaten, sleeves are smeared, spittle shall be gratuitously coughed everywhere and anywhere but mostly into your open mouth.

If you're at home with your kids anyway, giving them a day or two to rest would be nice at this point. But if you need to cling tightly to those work-allotted sick days, now is probably not the time to use them.

FIGURE 4: IT'S GETTING HOT IN HERE

If your child was a planet, then National Geographic would be having a field day right now with all the global warming going on. Little Sally is hot -- and not in that creepy wrong way that lands people in jail. She's actually hot to the touch with fever.  Look: her obnoxious little headband thingy is sizzling away on her head. Tragic!

Sally's immune system is being attacked hardcore and is doing its best to fight it off. This could be nothing but a viral infection making its way through, or it could be a sign of something bacterial in nature. But until you have symptoms, it's wait and see. Keep her at home, throw on some Dora to make her happy. Then, go into the other room and pop some codeine so you can deal with Dora's loud, annoying voice.  It's okay, we'll understand.

FIGURE 5: I SEE SPOTS

Uh oh! Sally's fever is gone, but now she's covered in -- is that your brand new $35 lipstick? -- no, but you shouldn't spend that much money on makeup anyway. It's wasteful. Shame on you. Go sponsor a hungry child or something.

Sally has a rash on her sweet little face. Is it something mild, like roseola? Does it pack more of a punch, like chicken pox? There's no way of knowing right now. There is a very easy way of identifying chicken pox that we'll cover in section 7.

At this point, you couldn't even bring Sally out of the house if you wanted to because she's too easily identifiable as a carrier monkey. Heck, whether or not she's contagious is irrelevant at this point; she looks contagious, and that's all it takes. If you bring her into a grocery store pandemonium will ensue. People will drop their produce and take off at a dead run. Some will smash their way through windows if they have to. Women will fall to their knees in prayer to whatever saint will grant them immunity from the pestilence which has now surely tainted the supermarket.

For your peace of mind and Sally's future therapy bills, I would recommend staying home.

FIGURE 6: SPEWING FORTH THE SIGNS

Puke. Barf. Spew. Vomit. Upchucks. Blowing chunks. Whatever it is, keep it to yourself, Little Sally. Stomach bugs are really contagious and really unpleasant. If you have one, please stay far, far away from everybody else. We don't want it, we don't need it, and it will not help us build immunity toward the next bug.

Did you know that having a stomach virus only gives you partial immunity for about six months until the virus mutates? Did you know that adults are contagious for up to 1 week after they stop showing symptoms, but that kids are contagious for up to 2 weeks after? That knowledge is my gift to you. That being said, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone quarantining their gremlins for 2 weeks after a stomach bug. Heck, I know all about this stuff I don't do it. Do you want me to go absolutely insane? Because it would happen much sooner than 2 weeks in, let me tell you. That's why mommy hand sanitizer in her purse. It's my societal compromise.

FIGURE 7: AND NOW YOU KNOW

Break out the calamine lotion. And maybe some shake n' bake.

I hope this primer was helpful in some way. Please let me know if you have any questions. As I'm sure you can tell, I'm very well-researched and extremely fact-based.

Thank you.