I like to Smell Old Food (a gluten-free update)

Can I confess something in the deep, dark recesses of the internet where no one will ever see it?

I really miss wheat.

Wheat, barley and rye, to be exact. Glutenous substances I have banned from my life - most likely forever. Gods, how I miss them! Every day, I remember something else I can't eat. It makes for an often surly Maven.

On Canadian Thanksgiving in mid-October, I bid farewell to my old friend, Gluten. We had a long history together, but it turned bad toward the end and I had to take a break and see if he was the one causing the problems. I wrote about previously, but to put it in a nutshell, I was falling apart in multiple ways.

My dietary equivalent of  a bad boyfriend: Yummy, but no good for me.

Mentally, I was both anxious and depressed (neat trick), unable to to focus, quick to anger, and I forgot words and complete sentence more than I'd like to admit. I had writer's block 95% of the time, which is no good when you're, like, a writer. My brain and I all but stopped speaking to each other. Thankfully, she was kind enough to remind me to breathe and keep my heart beating, but not much else. She didn't do the Facebook equivalent of de-friending me, but she pretty much blocked me from seeing her Facebook wall and new photo albums. Bitch.

The rest of my body was not much better. A painful, itchy rash on my hands; pitted, ridged fingernails with white lines on them; unexplained elevated liver enzymes; acne; borderline anemia; the obvious weight issues; fatigue; digestive problems; and likely many other things I'm forgetting. My body was going into shutdown mode, and we couldn't figure out why. Every month was worse than the last, to the point where I thought I must be dying.

(The inner hypochondriac emerges. She comes out when my brain isn't staying on top of the whole logic thing. Hello, nice to meet you. By the way, you're probably dying.)

So, like I mentioned before, I found out through the wonders of the internet that all these scary/annoying things can be symptoms of celiac disease or, some, to a lesser extent, can be attributed to the less worrisome gluten intolerance fan club. They can also be cancer, liver or kidney failure and a few other scary things that might send my inner hypochondriac running for the nearest bar, but first things first: take out the gluten, and see how I felt. So that's what I did.

It's been about a month-and-a-half, so I thought I should do some updating. Status: I feel a lot better. Like, a lot better. I look a lot better. I have a glow to my skin again. I have more energy. I have less anxiety, and no signs of depression anymore. I have creativity again. My hair has shine to it (I feel like a commercial). My nails are growing in strong and healthy for the first time in years -which is a good indicator that my organs are getting what they need to work efficiently. About half my nail bed is new growth from the last few weeks. There are no pits, no white spots in that part of the nail, and they're not brittle anymore. When I eat, I feel energized instead of tired.

I feel alive. My non-medical opinion through a great deal of talk and research, is that my digestive system is repairing itself enough to absorb the nutrients my body has been lacking for a long time. That's why everything is slowly getting better, and why I suddenly feel ten years younger. How frightening, and yet how very exciting. It's worth a damn parade, I tell you.

But I still miss wheat. Not enough to eat it, but I miss it. Soft bread, freshly made bakery goodies, all those other carb-filled calorie killers that used to kindly stuff fat around my hips and heart to keep me warm in these cold Canadian winters. Any bread I make is either too wet or to dry. Buying it at the store costs twice as much for half the amount, and some of it is puke-bucket-worthy from the first bite (I have yet to actually barf, but come on: forcing someone to eat an entire slice of some of this stuff might be considered torture in some countries). All of it needs to be toasted or warmed, or it tastes like cardboard.

When I make pizza crust, there's no stretching or rolling. I mix it in a bowl and slap it on the pizza tray, smooth it out with a wooden spoon, and put it in the oven to "pre-bake". What on earth is pre-baking? It sounds like pre-drinking, but a lot less fun. I then take the hard, misshapen mishap of a crust out the oven, slap some ingredients on it - lots and lots of ingredients so that I can pretend the crust doesn't exist - and put it back in. If I'm lucky, it wont' fall apart the minute I try to cut it, let alone pick up a slice.

I now eat my pizza with a knife and fork. How dignified. I could practically be royalty. Bitter, gluten-free royalty.

My friend Robyn and I talked about this a couple of weeks ago. As humans - and especially women - we have attachments to certain foods. So, there's something a little sad and unfair about having to say goodbye to foods that have been a part of our lives for, say, about thirty-four years. I'm going to go through a grieving process over Montreal-style bagels and Honey Nut Cheerios, as lame as that makes me.

Believe me, I know this is for the best. The way I feel today is definitely worth getting rid of what ailed me before. And, if my suspicions are correct, this decision will not only prolong my life, but return a quality to it that I've been missing for years. In the end, this not a huge sacrifice for the sake my of my health.

So, when I make something glutenous for my kids (including Gutsy, as the gluten-free thing had no effect on him whatsoever), I now do something so lame, so embarrassing, that I can't believe I'm even writing it:

I smell it.

I can't believe I just typed that out. As if I'm not a big enough loser. But I'm nothing if not honest, so this honest loser admits to smelling the bread, the cake, the bagel, the cereal, the crackers... anything I can't have anymore. I take one giant whiff, and for some reason that seems to be enough. My brain - who is now on speaking terms with me after some couples counselling - then remembers what it tasted like, and it almost feels like I just had a big bite. I'm relatively satisfied, and I go on with my life filled with shitteous substitutes.

As soon as I figure out how to make this work with chocolate, I'll be a very slim woman.

So, here's my dilemma: I can be tested for gluten intolerance and celiac disease. However, I'll have to go back on gluten for up to three months before the testing, and even at that point may not get accurate results. Is it worth doing, since it's obvious I'm at least gluten intolerant if not full-blown celiac based on the changes I'm already seeing? If I test positive, I go on a gluten-free diet as that's the only thing that manages this condition. But then I have to go through feeling like crap all over again just go to back on the diet I'm already on. I'll need to detox all over again, which was no fun the first time (three days of painful aching all over my body. Yuck.)

My alternative is to see my doctor in a few weeks and get an overall blood workup to see if I'm still borderline anemic and if my liver likes me again. If everything looks good, it's sort of a roundabout way of getting the same answer, but less official and possibly less accurate. So what do I do?

Yes, I'm asking. Give me your opinion. You know you wanna.

Anyway, that's my update. I don't really have time to start a gluten-free blog right now, so a post about my boring ol' dietary issues is going to come up every now and then. You've been warned.

On the plus side, Geekster recently challenged me to write a short children's fable with the title "Horny the Unicorn and the Gigantic Sack." You know how I love a challenge. And you know you're at least a little bit excited about how I'm going to pull that off.

Onward, Horny!

I have a fourteen-year-old and am thus very old

I saw you, and the world came into focus for the first time. It was like the last twenty years simply didn't matter, because the existence I had before you never contained a love so thick, so heavy, so overpowering, that I took it in with ever breath.

Your birth was hard. I lost blood, you struggled for air. We looked at each other for only a moment as I lay fading on a table, being stitched and fed bags of blood while they took you away. X-rays and invasive tests and supplementation awaited you. The darkness of a sleep as deep as I'd ever known awaited me. We wouldn't see each other again for several hours. But in that moment - in that defining, perfect, beautiful moment - when everything stopped and our eyes met for the first time, I knew my world would never be the same. 

Baby Intrepid and a very young Maven 2007

Mother. It's a word beyond words, with a meaning so deep that it can't be summed up in six letters. The transformation I felt that day - the shift in everything I used to know as truth - was profound in a way that even this writer can't put into words. But if I were to try, it was a feeling of inner completion, when I never knew I wasn't whole to to begin with until then. Miraculous, spellbinding, absolutely blindsiding.

I nursed you, slept beside you, held you while feverish, calmed your cries. I watched your dad shift from boy to man in his new responsibilities, walking you back and forth, making you smile, waking up when we did in the wee hours of the night, just to see if we needed anything. He and I grew stronger, fought less, loved more. You turned us from couple to family. You gave us a purpose, when we had spent the last three years spinning our wheels, not knowing what direction to go in.

You grew, you changed, and soon you didn't need me to stay by the bed as you drifted off, or hold your hand on the way to the park. Soon, you dropped the last syllable in "mommy", and fetched your own cereal in the morning while I slept on. Your Rescue Heroes were packed in a box, and picture books were passed on to your brothers in favour of bigger words and fewer bedtime stories read aloud. 

The first day you went to preschool, I walked around like a lost soul, trying to figure out how to spend a day without you. My shadow, my darling, my sweet little boy. I felt empty without you nearby. You were - and still are - my world. But worlds evolve, and sometimes we need to figure out how to move with them. 

Now you're in grade 8. You like girls, you play guitar, and your voice is changing. Your friends matter a lot, all of a sudden, but you still make time for your family. You talk about world issues, and teach me things you learned at school. I easily slip on your shoes to run outside, because your feet are bigger than mine - your hands, too. The little boy who built Lego robots will outgrow me this year. Soon, I won't be meeting your gaze without looking up.  

It's both exciting and scary, watching you grow up. I love it, I fear it, I grieve who you were, and I celebrate who you're becoming.

All smiles and smirks on his 14th birthday (no idea where he gets the attitude from)

Happy fourteenth birthday, my Intrepid little wonder. Who would I be had you not come along when you did? You grew my heart, which in turn grew my soul. I am a better woman, a stronger woman, a wiser woman because of you. You're a kind and patient big brother, a good friend to those lucky enough to consider you one, and a wonderful human being. 

But, most importantly, you are my son. And I am so proud to know you. 

Keep being you. Keep shining brightly. And never forget how much we love you. 

McDonald's Mama Mayhem

Photo credit: Injury.com

Ah, McDonald's Playland on a Friday morning during a city-wide PD day. It's the haven of lazy moms everywhere - especially when the joint is dishing out free coffee this month to anyone who wants it. My friend and I brought a grand total of six kids to the Playland in Ottawa's College Square, and let them off their leashes this morning, hoping to kick back as they enjoyed a friendly frolic in the germ tubes. We sat in a cozy booth on the other side of some nearly-soundproof plexiglass, happy to have an hour or two to chat. 

Or so we thought.

As Gutsy and Spawnling ran amuck in socked feet with their buddies and some other runny-nosed rugrats, a mother came in with two daughters who were about five and seven. Before sending them in to play, she said something about how those people don't supervise their kids, and to stay away from them because their kids are bad. I was only halfway paying attention, so I went back to my coffee and conversation.

What I didn't know at the time - and found out later through chatting with a mom who was sitting closer to the McDonald's mama - was that she was referring to the Middle Eastern parents and their toddler inside the play area. Incidentally, the only parents who were actively supervising the child. The rest of us were drinking coffee and sitting at tables, including McDonald's Mama.

That was strike #1.

My friend and I watched in amazement as the increasingly frazzled McDonald's Mama lost control over her two kids. Long after those people and their anything-but-poor supervision had left, MM's girls made it apparent that white kids can misbehave like the best of them (not that this caucasian chick needed a primer. Hi, have you read my blog?) The two girls climbed on things they weren't supposed to climb on, listened about as well as great-grandpa Morris with his hearing aids off, and made no qualms about letting their mom know that someone's in charge - and it ain't her.  Every now and then, my boys - who were disgustingly well-behaved today to the point where I think there might be an well-hidden-yet-expensive repair to make I haven't discovered yet - would shoot me a look of "Is this really happening?" 

Sadly, it really was.

McDonald's Mama yelled - a lot. She threatened - a lot. She used the word ass in the middle of the playroom - often. And it wasn't in a context I might overlook, like, "I feel like ass." Instead, she used it in much more colourful ways, such as, "Daughter #1, you're being a pain in the ass," and, "I'm going to tan your ass if you don't watch it!"

Add in several angry phone calls to some undisclosed person she felt the need to yell and swear at, and you have yourself some serious shock and awe from the other restaurant patrons.

Now, my mother always taught me that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover and that it's good to give people the benefit of the doubt. So, while the other parents were shaking their heads and quietly tsk-tsking, I tried to remind myself that everyone has a story, and she likely has one that is very hard and sad. To test this theory out and prevent a visit from the ever-waiting Judgmental Maven, I took a deep breath in between her slide-side rantings, and tried to have a conversation with her. Call it "reaching out." I'm nice like that.

In about 30 seconds, I found out that she lives on the outskirts of town, is a single mom to three, has a fourteen-year-old with a mental illness, has no money and doesn't know how they're going to eat tomorrow, let alone have a Christmas. She told me no one will help her and that she's all alone. A heartbreaking story, and about what I expected. People who aren't stressed to their limit don't yell at their kids to that extent. They think twice before they act, especially in public. 

When people can do better, they will do better. That's what I believe; what I have to believe. It's my faith in humanity that gets me up in the morning. 

Insightful, I know. It's a talent.

However.

There are times when, try as I might, my belief in the greater good can't dig deep enough to extract a single positive quality from someone. Serial killers and pedophiles are obvious examples, of course. But there are others who catch me by surprise, like the McDonald's Mom I tried so hard to understand and empathize with. 

I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I dug my heels in, and reached down - way, way down - to find something good. There had to be something there, something... right?

Her younger daughter hurt herself on the slide. She had collided with another child in the increasingly busy Playland, and was holding her nose. Her mom went in, picked her up, checked for blood. There we go. There was the good!

"What did I fucking tell you?!" she hollered as she burst out of the play area with her sobbing child in her arms. She plonked her daughter on the bench. "If you just listened to mommy and got ready to go when I told you, this wouldn't have happened. See? See what you did?"

Strike 2. Keep digging, Maven. Keep digging. Here, try a bigger shovel.

Look: I've been stressed before. Very, very stressed. And I've lost my shit before - sometimes in places I wish I hadn't. I've even gotten upset at one of the gremlins when they've hurt themselves doing something I explicitly told them not to do. 

But.

I have never sworn at my child because he hurt himself as a result of playing somewhere I'm allowing him to play by not putting my foot down. Saying, "we need to go" and "two more minutes. I'm serious this time!" over and over will not get them out the door if I don't actually decide we need to leave. It's not her fault her mom was too busy fighting with someone by phone, and huffing and puffing back and forth from the playroom muttering (loudly) under her breath that, "mommy's going to fucking lose it soon, I tell ya! I'm pissed!"

Things got increasingly volatile. Eventually, my friend and I had to get our kids out of there. They were getting scared, and I was getting worried that I might start having words with this woman whom I had come to judge. I tried not to. I really did. I guess I'm not quite as perfect as I thought I was.

The coup de grace was when she started talking to an elderly couple behind us about how the "damn immies" come to this country and get on welfare and get subsidized housing and drive $100,000 vehicles while the white folks get nuthin'.

Okay, enough. Strike 3. Now Maven's angry. I have no tolerance for stupidity.

I had a "you are a douche" card in my hand, folks. I really did. At that point, nobody was more worthy of one. I was ready to pounce on this ignorant woman and get all up in her grill. I wanted to tell her off so badly--

--until I looked down, and saw my worried kids, and knew that I needed to put them first. If I caused a scene and put my anger before their wellbeing, I wouldn't be any better than she is with her own kids. I wouldn't be setting a good example, just as she's not setting one by being a racist idiot. I would teach her nothing, and she would probably take it out on her daughters after I left. So I took a deep breath, put my coat on, and walked out with my boys in hand. 

I wanted to call someone, but knew there was nothing I could do. Technically, she's not doing anything wrong. She said she was bussing it, so I couldn't get a license plate number. And what was I supposed to say to the cops? "There's a woman who isn't quite abusing her kids at McDonald's, and I don't know her name, so hurry up and watch her not break the law before she leaves"? My hands were frustratingly tied.

Gutsy and Spawnling were so good that I took them to see a movie to lighten the mood. While in the theatre's bathroom, I caught a single piece of graffiti penned on the stall door:

"You are blessed."

Yes. Yes, I am. I am blessed because I was raised to value all people, and celebrate our differences. 

I am blessed with an open mind that I can then pass on to my kids, so that they don't end up being the racist/sexist/homophobic idiots of tomorrow. 

I am blessed to have been poor and gone without food and safe shelter for a time, so that I know that life can be hard. I've walked the welfare lines, I've lived with cockroaches, I've begged for money. But I've also been fortunate enough to not have been a mother at that time, because I can't imagine how it must feel to watch your babies go hungry.

I am blessed with new insight in my thirties: people and situations are not black and white. I can feel sorry for a socially awkward, obviously overwhelmed single mother, but I don't have to forgive everything she does because of her circumstances. I also know there is a difference between income and class, and this mother's financial situation does not mean she has to act the way she does.

I am blessed to live a privileged life of sorts, in a safe neighbourhood, in a cozy home, with a vehicle to get around, and food in our bellies. 

I am blessed to know love, so that I can raise my children with love.

I am blessed.

Thank you, bathroom stall. 

I wear many hats - most of them sexy

Like the pet hamster I got in fourth grade, I've been ignoring my blog as of late. It's not that the blog isn't fluffy and cute, and it's not like I don't want the blog, it's just that it involves time I haven't had a lot of lately.

Hopefully, unlike my poor hamster of yesteryears, my blog won't escape due to lack of attention and be found by my dad a few months later as a pile of bones in the corner of the basement. Oops.

We hope for a far better outcome for Stay-at-Home-Mayhem. We really do. I promise to give it the attention it deserves (or for now, at least enough attention that it doesn't die).

Life has been ramping up rather than calming down. While there's a lot less financial and emotional stress piling up on my shoulders, it's left room for other things, like work: lots and lots of work. Writing and editing contracts, to be exact. 

Don't get me wrong: I like working. It means my frazzled in a different way, doing something other than caring for gremlins. And, best of all, I get paid for it. This, in turn, means I can spend more money on the necessities; things like getting take-out food because I don't have time to cook as often, or renting movies for my kids so they're too placated by the flashy box thingy to ask me for stuff, thus allowing me to finish the contract in the first place. 

I know, I know... I'm a walking example of "when you make more, you spend more." But let's pretend I'm not.

Contracts also buy Christmas. I have 1.2 children bought for right now thanks to my contract work, and I haven't even had to use a credit card. Eat your heart out, Santa. When you come down the chimney on the night of the 24th with your last-minute elven-made toys, I'll be waiting by the tree to show you how much better I am at your job. You're too slow, old man.

Oh, don't cry, Santa. I didn't mean it. It's not your fault. You need to get up pretty early in the morning to be as awesome as I am, that's all. 

Another thing I've been doing more of is volunteering. I've become a career volunteer. And, while it doesn't pay, it's still rewarding in that giving, warm and fuzzy way. So that everyone can talk about how egotistical what a good person I am, I will provide a rundown of where I volunteer:

- I sit on my neighbourhood association board (when I manage to make the meetings)

- I sit on Gutsy's school's governing board

- I'm a member of the Special Education Advisory Committee for the local school board and attend their meetings (when I manage to make them - are we noticing a pattern yet?)

- I read with Gutsy's classmates every Friday morning

- I now volunteer at the school's library

Three kids, four pets, a part-time job, a busy social calendar, a house to clean, food to buy, and five volunteer positions. 

Yes, it's true: I am a damn superhero. Fear me and things. 

In actuality, I wrote out the list because I want everyone to think about how they can help out in their community. If there's one thing that annoys me more than anything else about my generation, it's that we're too complacent and selfish. We complain, but we don't do anything about it. We wish things would be different and that someone should do something about it, but we're too wrapped up in ourselves and our excuses of "My life is busy enough" to help make those changes. 

Well, I'm here to say that I'm insanely busy, and yet I still help out. If I can do it, you can do it. So quit giving me that defensive, bitchy look and get out there and make a difference, already. Don't make me tell you twice.

I yawned all day today and wondered why on earth I was so tired. Then I remembered how I'm a stay-at-home, work-at-home, volunteer-everywhere-but-at-home mom. Even superheroes like me need to put their feet up sometimes. 

With that in mind, I'm going to go watch some Grey's Anatomy with crock pot leftovers from yesterday (did I mention I love my crock pot these days? It makes me seem like I spent all day in the kitchen when I just threw random things into a hole and turned the heat up for 7 hours). I just wanted to give my blog some attention. You know, some food, water, a little nose rub with my index finger. And now, I shall make sure the latch is secure so the little bugger doesn't run off in search of greener pastures - or a dingy basement. 

An Unfortunate Diagnosis - and douche card giveaway results

I've been meaning to write all week with the results from the Douche Card giveaway, but I was inflicted with an debilitating ailment that prevented me from spending more than a few minutes at a time on the computer. Worried, I took part of yesterday to seek medical attention.

The doctor came in looking solemn. I knew it was bad news. "I'm sorry, Maven," she said as she looked down at my chart. "You have a chronic disease called 'Kinetic Irreversible Disruption Syndrome'. You've had it a long time - over a decade, by the looks of things." She gave me a couple of minutes for it to sink in before telling me more. It's not every day you're told you have a disease.

She said there's nothing she can do to minimize the disruption of K.I.D.S., as it's something I've brought upon myself through lifestyle choices. It's a chronic, lifelong condition, which is more physically demanding closer to onset, but more of a financial strain later as I begin expensive rounds of treatment in search of eventual relief. Because, while there is no cure, I can learn to manage it through the purchase of vast quantities of food, special clothing, college tuition, car payments, and wedding receptions. 

Right now, I'm dealing with a third bout of K.I.D.S., which has been particularly demanding this week. But I'm going to need to suck it up and get used to it, because I have at least another fourteen years to go before the symptoms begin to lessen. 

The doctor was pretty sure there are support groups out there, but I think I'll stick to what I'm best at: Blog therapy to cope with my K.I.D.S. Besides, while this is a disorder I'm going to be dealing with for a very long time, there are worse things out there. Like douchery, for example. People who have to cope with douchery are far worse off than I am. 

Photo Credit: Orange32.com

Last week, I asked my sheeple to tell me about a douche in their life. If the story was compelling enough, I would send them a douche card that they could then share with that special douchey someone. After careful consideration, I've decided to send cards out to everyone who told me a story. Here's who wins and why:

Winn: For bitching about Anne Murray (who was really rude to me the one time I met her in person), and for being disgusted with environmentally-unfriendly douchebags. You may not get far sending a card to Ms. Murray, but the diesel truck guy could use one stuffed into his mailbox one day. Just sayin'.

Steph: You can give one to your girlfriend-beating, plastic-burning neighbour. He sounds lovely. I'm sure he'll think twice after getting that card sent to his house-- you know, if he can read. And between you and me, I'm having serious doubts about that.

Mama Zen: Your old mechanic most definitely deserves a card for sending you driving merrily away in a potential death trap of a vehicle. I have a special hate-on for dishonest mechanics. A few months ago, my ex-mechanic improperly installed my rear brakes, resulting in my van catching on fire on the highway with three-year-old Spawnling in the backseat. 911, firetrucks... Good times.

Mama Gayle: Oh, Mama Gayle. What on earth can I say? I'm speechless, and that's saying a lot for me. You get a douche card to give to one of the douchiest people I've ever heard of - patient zero in the douche ward, if you will. You have my sympathies, and I certainly hope this guy gets whatever karma is coming to him, because I'm sure it won't be pretty. 

Josie: Your boss sounds "special". I think special bosses deserve special awards. Personally, I would put a coffee mug on his desk with a card in it when no one's around (make sure there are no cameras so you don't get in deep doodoo). I'll be emailing you!

AJ: What is it with brother-in-laws? I have one that has said about 10 words to me in the 17 years I've known him. That being said, he hasn't done anything douchey to me otherwise. He just quietly dislikes me, which is far better than what you're dealing with. I'll send you a card so you can send him a card.

Momma Sunshine: I read your blog. You definitely need a douche card for your ex. And I know this even though you're pretty tame about what you say about your former marriage, so that really says something.

Kristin: You may not have the proverbial balls to give your mother-in-law a card, but maybe having it in on you during family get-togethers, as you smile through clenched teeth and search for a way to stuff it in her purse, would be therapeutic enough. I'll send you a card.

I'm going to try and contact all of you, either via email or on your blog (if you have one). Then, if you trust that I won't show up at your house with an axe (all internet people are axe murderers, as I've stated before - although I'm more into spears, myself. Nothing like a good spearing to make my day a little brighter) then I'll mail one out to you the old fashioned way. You can then either use it, keep it until you work up the nerve to use it, blog about it somewhere, or burn it because I frighten you. Your choice.

Finally, I want to give credit where credit is due. A company called Orange32 designed these cards that I coveted for so long before having some of my very own. They seem like a cool little design and print shop, so I encourage you to check out their site. They have no idea I've been writing about them and their marvellous wares, but I think I'll send them an email so they can witness douchery being fought on the front lines. Nothing feels better than knowing you're making a difference in the world.

The Ruler of the Universe turns Eight

Baby Gutsy and aunt Katie, 2003

Gutsy turned the big 0-8 on Saturday.

I threw in the zero because I realized that two digits sounds more powerful; more omnipotent. Since Gutsy informs me he wants to be ruler of the universe (he'll have to fight me for it), he deserves a more impressive announcement of his most recent age change.

We rang in his birthday with an iPod Touch (Did you know you could buy them used from the online Apple store? They come with a pretty package and a one year warrantee, and the price is far more reasonable than a new one. This works well, considering I tell my kids that Dad and I aren't made of money. In fact, we're usually made of overdraft. I don't think they get the joke. Frankly, I hope they never do.)

A couple of months ago, I asked Gutsy if he'd like a party and some small gifts, or no party and a nicer gift. He immediately squealed, "Like an iPod Touch?!" to which I replied, "Maybe something like that."

I made a real point of telling him that if we got him a big gift, there would be no party. It would be a pretty typical day with something shiny to play with. He seemed completely fine with that.

Gutsy was perfectly happy to get an iPod and iTunes gift card. We were to follow that up with a quiet dinner out as a family at one of the few restaurants that can cater to my gluten-free self: Swiss Chalet. Apparently, the quarter chicken and baked potato are a pretty safe option. You're welcome, vast quantities of gluten-free lifestyle Canadians who read my blog. I'm sure all 2.7 of you will want to know that.

What ended up transpiring was one of the very best birthdays he's had.

It turns out that our friends decided to throw a rather impressive birthday for their son who turned 9 on Friday. On Saturday, they had a party at their house, complete with cake, hot dogs, hyper children and a reptile zoo. Gutsy and their son are friends, so off we went to take part in the festivities. Gutsy was impressed that, not only only did he get a nice gift, but he he also went to a party on his actual birthday. He didn't care a smidgen that it wasn't for him. Who cares when you get to hold a scorpion and pet an alligator?

After the party, we decided to go chill out at home before heading out for dinner. However, by the time we were going to leave, we had a total of nine people in the house. Gutsy's friend Jacob, Intrepid's friend Aidan, my mom and brother had all come by. We decided to just fedd everyone take-out Swiss Chalet, and jokingly referred to it as the "After Party".  Gutsy grinned the entire time. As it turns out, would-be Ruler of the Universe attended two parties on the birthday that wasn't supposed to have even one.

It took me most of Sunday to recover from Saturday.  We had a great time, but there isn't enough coffee in the world to keep up that pace for 14 hours straight. We are such unintentionally awesome parents, aren't we? Let's hope Gutsy remembers that when the iPod honeymoon period wears off.  I hope they're happy together for a long time. A really, really long time, because he sure as hell isn't getting a DS for Christmas.

I spent an entire year waiting for reason to kick in. Kids start to reason at seven, you know. It's when their cute little brains start registering that the universe doesn't revolve around their every whim, and that maybe they should start taking notes about how it actually works. "I do this and this happens. I don't do this and that happens." Neat-o concept, isn't it?

Frankly, I don't think Gutsy ever got the memo. Seven wasn't an easy year for him by any means. In fact, I'd say it was probably his worst. His anxiety peaked, we had to do an emergency class change in the spring, he had bullying issues, had a hard time making friends, we were in therapy all Summer and are waiting for a psychology referral to go through now. We had more tears, more panic attacks, more fury, more worry and more heartbreaking moments than ever. Geekster and I spent many hours talking about what we could do to make his life easier, and how we need to help him manage this stress before he gets into the teenage years. With a brilliant mind that never stops running and a propensity toward anxiety, this is a kid who needs special attention now. Put simply, last year was a really hands-on time, an exhausting time, but hopefully it will pay off later.

Between you and me and the internet, I'm happy to say goodbye to seven.

Too cool for school, 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

Eight is great, or at least it should be because it rhymes. You don't rhyme something with "great" unless you expect it to deliver, right?

Come to think of it, "seven" rhymes with "heaven" Shit. There goes that theory.

Okay, so seven might have been a bad year, but I believe we made a lot of headway.

I sound like a CEO during a bad quarterly report, don't I?

Put a different way, after some maturation on his part and work on all our parts, Gutsy's outbursts (which are usually panic attacks regrettably disguised as tantrums) are becoming less frequent and often less severe. We gave him his own room,  which means he now has a quiet place to go to think and calm down. He relies heavily on schedules to keep his life routine, so we make sure those are in place as much as possible. He tires easily after a day at school, so we've left homework open-ended this year.

And truly, I can't say enough about his teacher. She has been nothing short of phenomenal. Patient, understanding, supportive, and seems to genuinely understand who our son is. The two Teachers Assistants have been really amazing, too. Thanks to them, he's doing well both academically and socially so far. I don't worry about him at school. Now if only they could bottle up that essence and send it home...

This year, we're focusing on making life less stressful in Casa Maven. Geekster and I have realized that we're all wound up incredibly tight, like snakes ready to pounce.

Strike. I mean strike. Why can't snakes pounce, anyway? Do you need feet to pounce?

It stands to reason that, after hundreds of explosions in the house, everyone is going to have their guard up, waiting for the next one. Unfortunately, anxiety breeds more anxiety, and before long we have ourselves a perfect storm. We need to stay calm. Easier said than done, but we're trying. I've even cut back a little on caffeine.

Only a little. I'm already alcohol-free, drug-free, smoke-free and now gluten-free. Caffeine-free is not on my list of priorities. Do I look like someone who wants to suffer every day?

I'm also working on rebuilding my relationship with Gutsy. We're butting heads less, laughing more, and enjoying each others' company again. I hate to say that I all but shut down around him for a while, but I did. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to that as well as a bit of unreasonable resentment for the stress we all felt. That couldn't have helped him whatsoever, and it certainly didn't help me. And it royally sucked, because this is a child we tried to bring into the world for five long, frustrating, sad years. This was a very wanted, anticipated little boy. Words can't describe how amazing it is to hold a baby you've wanted for so long and thought you'd never have. It was truly one of the best feelings in the world.

I always said that it needed to be one stubborn little egg to lay anchor in the unfriendly waters of my PCOS-riddled uterus, and Gutsy most certainly fits that bill. He needed to be who he is in order to be here today. At least, that's what I tell myself. And yes, it does make it easier, so don't burst my bubble. Stubborn egg, stubborn sperm, got it?

Despite any issues we've had, we're so happy to have him here. He is loving, thoughtful, kind and gentle - when he's not throwing chairs or launching ottomans. I love him even on the most challenging mornings. I love him when he strokes my cheek and smiles, or tells me that I'm beautiful. I love him when he buys his little brother a donut with his own money, just because he loves him so much. I love him when I'm trying to follow what he's telling me about cabling and networking and movie editing software, and it's going right over my clueless head. I love him when he tells me the funny things he and his friends do at school. I love him in the evening when he tells me he loves me, half asleep.

I especially love him when he's sleeping. Just sayin'.

I love him, and because of that, I'm going to do everything I can to make eight better than seven. Happy birthday, my sweet little boy. Just try keep the claws retracted and the horns tucked away a little more this year, ok?

Gutsy and Spawnling, Fall 2010 Photo credit: Trinque Photography

PS: Many of the great pictures on my site are via Trinque Photography. My sister is one talented chick who does everything from family shoots to weddings.

Do you know a douchebag? - a contest by The Maven

In response to some serious gay bashing by an Arkansas, USA school official, George Takei - who you might remember as Sulu in the original Star Trek series - sent out this message:



Oh, George! If you weren't strictly into dudes and old enough to be my grandpa, and I wasn't a pudgy married chick with three kids, we could be soulmates.

My favourite part of the video - other than his countdown clock insinuations - was the liberal use of the term "douchebag". Who needs to use the terms "homophobe", "bigot" or "asshole" when you can sum up the essence of all three into a nice little word and stick a pretty bow on top? Is this ex-school official a douchebag? You bet he is!

A few months ago, my friend Mea gifted me with cards that I've been salivating over for a very long time. I kept meaning to order some, but never got around to it because food always seemed to be more important (I must learn to prioritize better. My well-fed gremlins could easily skip one measly day of food in the name of my entertainment, right?). Thankfully, Mea decided these cards were as awesome as I am, and brought some in pretty orange packages when she came to visit us Canadians a couple of months ago:

You want some now, don't you?

I love my douche cards. They're so simple, yet they convey the message I'm trying to send perfectly. Finally, I have a way to let people know just how douchey their actions are.  When would I use these cards? Here are a few examples:

The woman who yells at the poor lady behind the counter just because she feels entitled to treat service staff like garbage? You are a douche goes into her hand with a smile as she leaves in a haughty huff.

The obnoxious drunk guy at a party who won't stop hitting on my friend? Douche card with a fake number on it. Oh yeah.

The neighbours who throw a loud party until 2 a.m. with no thought for anyone else? Douche card in the mailbox first thing in the morning. Or, as I like to call it: Ding dong douche.

The guy who parks horizontally in a busy parking lot, taking up four spaces so his BMW doesn't get scratched? Card on the windshield, black facing out, white with writing facing in, so that he gets the message loud and clear just as he's putting his seatbelt on.

The possibilities are endless.

Are these cards passive aggressive? Absolutely. Is this a healthy way to deal with one's emotions? Hell, no.  Or maybe it is. Maybe, after many years of dealing with inconsiderate people, a little action could feel good.

And, just maybe, Horizontal Parking Guy will think twice about his actions, especially if you write on the card that you had to walk your children all the way across a busy parking lot. Maybe the neighbours will bring the party inside after 11, and Angry Woman will think twice about yelling at people who will lose their jobs if they defend themselves and yell back. Obnoxious Drunk Guy might-- Oh, who are we kidding? He'll still be obnoxious and drunk at the next function.

The only problem is that I have yet to find anyone to give these cards to. I've wanted them for years and can list dozens of examples where having one at hand would have been good.  Now, I carry them diligently around in my purse, but the only people I seem to hand them out to are friends and family when I'm showing them off. "Look at this!" I'll declare. "Here, keep this one in case you meet a real, live douche."

Where are all the real, live douches in my life? I'm perplexed. Murphy and his law have decreed that the minute I can use a weapon against douchery in the Ottawa/Gatineau region, not a single one will make themselves known to me. Once, someone cut me off in the Tim Hortons parking lot, but she was, like 107 years old, so I didn't have the heart to deface her windshield. Other than that, it's been a city filled with polite, happy people around The Maven. Damn it.

Since I have all these cards, I thought I might have a bit of a contest. Do you have a douche in your life? If so, I want to hear about it. Leave a comment below this post about a person in your life that you would give a douche card to. If you're concerned said douche will see your comment somehow, send me your tale of woe to my inbox at mavenmayhem@gmail.com. I want to be convinced that this is someone worthy, and that you'll actually go through with it and not chicken out and disappoint me. These are not cheap cards, people. I want them used appropriately!

I'll pick 5-10 great stories, contact you by email (so make sure you leave a valid one for me) and arrange to mail them out. Then, I'll post a summary of the type of individuals these cards will be gifted to. Let's snuff out of the flame of douchebaggery all over the planet, shall we? We're such great vigilantes.

What my Children do When I'm Not Looking (a video)

If a picture says a thousand words, then this video is a dictionary on steroids.

I regularly gripe about the drudgery of parenting the Gremlins Three. I whine about the fights, the messes, the meltdowns, the leftover grilled cheese crusts found stuffed between the couch cushions. How I find the energy to complain that I have no energy is truly beyond me. They wear me out, day after day, after hectic, unpredictable day.

Some days - especially ones where my husband has gone out of town and I'm breaking up multiple epic battles in the living room - I'll bribe the horned wonders with something neat-o, like a program on my Macbook. Like Photo Booth. I'll show them how to use it, and before long they're snapping pictures and adding in affects like genius children.

(Which, obviously, they are, as they contain half my genetics in their awesome little bodies.)

And some mornings - especially ones when I'm exhausted from the previous night's arguments - I like to sleep in, and will mumble "Why don't you go use that cool little program on my computer for a bit and let Mommy sleep so she's not a grouchy witch all day?" And they do. And I don't get out of bed until nine, when I'm finally asked to pry a juice box out of the cupboard for Spawnling.

And some evenings - especially ones where I'm hiding in the office while they make pretend weapons and run around and throw them, cackling like maniacs and screaming anime-type things at each other, and I'm wondering how single parents do this all the freaking time - I find videos like this of Gutsy and Spawnling, taken this morning while I was sleeping peacefully in bed. And then I laugh and laugh, and can't breathe, and cry, and laugh some more:

And then, I remember that I have the most kick ass, funny, amazing little creatures living in my home.

My kids rock.

Why I'm the Worst Halloween Mom EVER

Here lies any hope of me ever excelling as a mom on October 31st

Halloween showcases what a terrible mother I am. 

Every year, I say to myself, "Self, it's going to be different this time You're going to brainstorm early, shop for all necessities in September, and execute the perfect costumes. They will be sitting in their closets weeks in advance, awaiting the accolades of the masses. The boys will be thrilled with what you've accomplished, and awesomesauce will be smothered upon thee.  Finally, you will feel like the incredible parent you know you are."

Every year, I promise this. Every single year.

And every year, I run out four days before Halloween, find whatever is left on the shelves, and hope to candy hell that it comes together well enough that the boys don't cry and ruin the shoddy makeup job I will undoubtedly do on their disappointed little faces. 

I love Halloween, but I am not a Halloween mom. I wish I was. I want to be one of those moms. I've strived to be one for the last thirteen years. They lovingly piece together homemade costumes as easily as a peanut butter sandwich, humming as they take measurements, sew materials, iron on sequins. Their children strut down the road like they would a runway, showing off the latest fashions straight out mom's craft room.  The rest of us smile politely and say, "What a great costume!" while shoving our inadequacies deep, deep down with a few calories from the candy bowl.  We try not to meet our own children's gazes. Gazes that ask: why don't you love me as much as Sally's mom loves her?

If I can't be that mom - ruler of all things black and orange - then I'd at least like to be the Acceptably Adequate Mom, or AAM for short. The AAM somehow figured out a long time ago that she either doesn't have time, or just doesn't want to put that amount of effort into a costume that will be worn for a whopping two hours. Best of all, she's okay with that. Instead, she will take out a second mortgage and go buy a really nice outfit for her child. Or, if she's frugal, she'll order it on eBay three months early and only have to sell her car. She may not have the artistic savvy of those moms, but she still comes out ahead of me. 

I'm the mom on a tight Halloween budget, with no talent to speak of, who doesn't plan ahead, and has to costume three kids. I am the worst possible combination - the perfect storm of Halloween fuck ups, and the most likely to lead my children straight to a therapist's chair in the future. 

Don't believe me? One year, I decided to make four-year-old Intrepid into a ghost. Yes, a ghost: go ahead and bask in the light of my creativity. I took a white sheet and plonked it over his body with a hole for his head. I drew some chains on it in permanent black marker. Then, I made him a "ghost hat". A hat I had to sew.

It ended up being white and pointy, and had eyeholes in it. 

It took a few houses before it dawned on me that we were parading a little Klu Klux Klan member around. 

We took the hat off and stuffed it way, way into his candy bag. We then proceeded to parade a child with a white moo moo around. It's sad when that's a huge step up. 

This year, the most impressive costume was Gutsy's "bowling league zombie", which involved shredding and dirtying up some old clothes and painting his face. Intrepid used his dad's reaper costume, and Spawnling thankfully decided to be a ninja - which meant he could use Gutsy's costume from last year.

I look like this before coffee, most days

The worst thing about this? I was both relieved and happy that I didn't have to put a lot of effort in. I'm quite sure there is a scary place in hell reserved for serial killers and mothers who don't take Halloween seriously/dress their kids up as murderous racists.

(And what did Geekster do this year? Well, before anyone starts waving fingers and saying something sickeningly politically correct like "This isn't the 1950's and your husband could help out, too", I'll head you off at the pass with pictures of the ever-growing haunted graveyard that he tends to lovingly every year. It's not super elaborate yet, but he and the Gremlins Three are always adding new things. Last night, he added a fog machine and homemade spooky music that he and Gutsy created. At least someone puts the effort in around here.)

Pumpkin brain guts. Nasty, but cool.

Pumpkins and creepy corn stalks

We got our first snow the night before. Skeletor has risen from the dead to kick Mother Nature's ass

I told Spawnling that if he kept yelling Mrs. Spider would wrap him up for a snack