Now I'm one of THOSE Moms (Part 2)

Handle With Care

It took me a week to write this post. I'd apologize, but I don't need to. I have children. That's all the excuse I need right there. If you require further explanation as to why this would interfere with my blogging, it's probably because you don't have kids. Some days I might understand your ignorance. Other days I might just want to shoot spitballs at the back of your head for having all that free time.

Anyway, last week I wrote about a most terrible day and ended it with a promise to write a little about a talk I went to through our local school board. Well, I wrote a lot more. You're getting both quality and quantity. It's like Christmas for you.

The talk was given by a psychologist by the name of Eva de Gosztonyi, who is credited by yours truly as the person responsible for shifting our parenting in a very positive direction. I was so impressed by last year's talk (which was, like this year's, primarily based on the book Hold on to Your Kids by Dr. Gordon Neufeld) that I had to go up and thank her like a creepy fan. And, like a weird stalker person, I told her that she should speak to parents full-time because she has mad workshop skills and a good message that cuts through the thick fog of parental overload.

Not that I, the mother of three perfect little darlings, would know a thing about parental overload.

Parenting is a lot like a garden, we were told. We tend to our children's needs and they grow. Some kids are more like dandelions or daisies: pretty resilient to changes in routine, various types of discipline, and what have you. Our kids? Well, as parents on the school board's Special Needs committee, our kids were likely more the orchid type. And orchids, if you aren't aware, are far more delicate flowers. As I was contemplating the blooms in my own family, I couldn't help but think that Gutsy is sometimes more like a bonsai tree that we're forever carefully tending.

(Next, I will learn to catch flies with my chopsticks.)

Like most parents, I'm always being given advice by well-meaning friends and family. I hear a lot of the same things over and over. I know they're trying to help, but they must think we're living in a box in the middle of the desert with no library or TV or internet connection, because these are some of the regular suggestions I get:

"Maybe you should just try being more firm with him." Really? Gosh, I never thought of that before. I've only been parenting for fourteen years, so I guess the idea of being in charge hadn't crossed my mind until just now.

"Have you tried putting him in his room when he misbehaves?" That's genius! Why have I never thought of that before? Is it a new technique? How up-and-coming.

"Try taking away something he likes. Every child has his currency." Nice use of the word "currency." You obviously watch Dr. Phil. Me, too, and guess what? I've given that same advice to other parents using the same trendy word, all the while thinking it just has to eventually work with my kids because Dr. Phil says so. (Please try putting cameras up in my house, Dr. Phil. You'll need to write a whole new parenting book after this one)

Gutsy is not your typical child, so typical parenting doesn't work with him. Believe me, we've tried - consistently. It might work alright with Intrepid (daisy) and somewhat with Spawnling (rose bush), but not at all with the middle gremlin (bonsai-orchid hybrid).

We have an entire shelf dedicated to parenting books. I'm sick of reading them and beating my head against the doorframe when their advice doesn't work. With a special needs child - whatever that special need (or needs) may be - many general parenting techniques go out the window.  In Gutsy's case, we have anxiety, hearing loss, and poor sleep. And yes, poor sleep can be a huge factor in behaviour, as I'll explain in a bit. But parents of spectrum kids, delayed kids - all kinds of atypical kids - know that behavioural challenges can be a huge part of the package. And there are kids with no other challenges besides extreme behaviour, but in my opinion that's a special need in itself. Don't kid yourself; it impacts the entire family, it can break apart marriages, and it has far reaching consequences for the child and his or her family.  What I'm learning is that if trendy, widely-used discipline methods aren't working, it's not my fault. I am not a bad parent, just a mom who needs to change the playbook.

Our children - the ones who march to a different beat - are orchids, roses and bonsai trees. The sooner everyone realizes that parenting needs to be as individual as the child being parented, the better.

(Now I'm one of those moms who's ranting. I'll hop off the soap box and get on with what I learned at the presentation.)

As is probably obvious by now, I am very skeptical of anyone wanting to give me suggestions on how to parent more effectively. I never used to be that way, but hundreds of failed attempts at controlling the situation have left me raw and jaded. So, when I first sat down to hear Ms. de Gosztonyi speak, I was only just desperate enough to stay seated. I figured I would just hear more of the same stuff we'd been trying all along: If a child is misbehaving, put your food down - harder - and eventually they'll give in. I couldn't have been more wrong. I was sold after last year's presentation on how to cope with tantrums. I was even more excited about this year's talk: Discipline that Does Not Divide.

Eva spoke of attachment: how it's formed in the early years between children and parents, how it grows, and how it can waiver with use of current discipline tactics. She showed the brain, its development, and how current science supports the attachment principle. And if you know anything about The Maven (other than the fact that I'm gorgeous and talented and really like coffee), you know that I'm a big fan of fact-based practices. Science, if done properly, can provide reason to theory. For example, we're seeing this in the endless studies supporting breastfeeding as the optimal food for infants. And now we're seeing it in terms of discipline, too.  This is especially good for those of us with a tricky garden to tend. Read on.

First of all, if we want kids to grow, they need to feel safe. Kids living in a state of fear or worry all the time will take a lot longer to mature because they go into self-preservation mode rather than development mode. So, if I continuously put the smackdown on Gutsy for things I want him to change, he won't change very quickly. What I need to do instead is be gentler, kinder and more patient. I can't change who he is and I can't make him more mature on my schedule. Nature will take care of that part; we just have to provide the right conditions. So there's a certain level of acceptance that needs to happen: He is who he is. We just need to help him be the best him he can be.  And how can we do that? Through attachment.

I can't possibly get into the level of detail Eva went into, so I'll sum it the best I can: Strong attachment to parents helps kids feel safe and vulnerable, which in turn helps them mature at their optimal rate.

Attachment = Vulnerability = Maturation. That's the formula. That's the key.

Some ways to hurt attachment are:

• Using the relationship you have with your child against the child. For example: making your child separate from you every time he or she does something you deem inappropriate (timeout). What that tells the immature brain of a child is "my parent doesn't love me when I'm bad."
• Using what children care about against them. This is the "currency" method. Taking things away that are important to the child when he or she is "bad". I tell you, if my husband cut my internet access for a week because I wasn't unloading the dishwasher every night, that wouldn't go over so well. I would resent him and quite possibly fear him. I might unload the dishwasher for fear that he'd do it again, but I'm not going to like him, nor am I going to feel very safe around him. It feels that way for a child, too. It's an immediate fix that can backfire when you consider the bigger picture.
• Trying to make headway in the incident. I am so guilty of this I should get a life sentence. Trying to reason and rationalize with a child who is not reasonable or rational at the moment is the biggest waste of time ever. Besides, I'm likely not that reasonable or rational, myself. I'm probably pissed off and frustrated. This is not a teaching moment. Let the incident pass, let everyone calm down, and then talk about it.

Safe discipline involves connecting with the child. For example, if I want to get teenage Intrepid to the dinner table on time, I might try not yelling from another room (I'm guilty of this, too) and instead try this: sitting down on the couch next to him, asking him if he's enjoying his video game, and having him meet my eyes. Eye contact is important here, if possible. It means you've made a connection, and then it's easier to get results. At that point, I could let him know that dinner is ready. He's far more likely to come with me? Why? Because I "collected" him. Meaning, I collected his attention - his attachment - before asking him to do my bidding. You get more bees with honey, and all that. This is why Gutsy throws a fit in the morning when we're rushed. We're too busy trying to get him to move, move, move, and for what? We're not engaging him, we're not collecting him. What's he getting out of it besides stress? What's his incentive? No wonder he freaks out and hates mornings. Collect before you direct. Great advice.

Another good idea: Backing out of incidents and into the relationship. If you're angry, put yourself in a timeout before you say something hurtful. Cool down before you start yelling. (Again, the jury finds me guilty on all counts - I'm only human, your honour.) Try to do no harm during a tantrum or stand-off rather than attempting to control your child. Instead, let them know that you still love them. Say something like "We'll get through this. I still love you." Because, while that might sound ridiculously obvious, a child doesn't always realize how unconditional our love is for them. This can sometimes be enough to bring on tears from your child, thus ending the tantrum. Tears are good, as was explained in the last talk Eva gave. They signal that the child has moved out of the tantrum/anger cycle and into being able to accept and deal with whatever they're unhappy about.

Impose order primarily through structure and ritual rather than bossing your child around. This works very well with Gutsy, actually. He has a set bedtime routine that is working wonders. Bedtime snack and pyjamas at 8, followed by melatonin (yes, to help him sleep - he was tossing and turning through the night and waking up exhausted and moody) and teeth brushing at 8:30. He gets to watch TV until 9:30 at the latest - and he's usually asleep before then, happy and comfortable. No meltdowns because he knows what to expect. It took a couple of weeks to get the routine down, but it's made life so. much. easier. Mornings this week have been parade-worthy. I'm so proud of him and of us for following this advice. There is huge improvement.

Aim first to change a mind rather than a behaviour. How so? Let's look at hitting. Spawnling still does his fair share of this. At four, he sees only black and white. There is no reason in his cute little brain yet. There is only one thought process at a time. When he's playing with his brothers, he loves them. When they tick him off, he hates them and thus he hits. He doesn't feel bad about it until he loves them again. That's just the way his mind works at this age. So, if I ask him in the heat of the moment if he wants to stop hitting his brother, of course he's going to proclaim "no!" and we can go no further. But if I take him out of the room and calm him down, he'll eventually remember that he likes that big annoying kid and wishes he could take it back. That's when we can set realistic goals when it comes to his frustration. Maybe he can't work it out on his own yet, but he can come and get me when he's angry instead of hitting. And I can remind him that I know he doesn't want to hit his brother, and that he'll keep trying hard. And he can tell me that he gets very angry when Intrepid doesn't let him have a turn on the Wii, but that he loves him. This way, I'm not demanding change and growth, just helping it along. Then he walks away to give an apology, and I walk away feeling like Super Mom. It's win/win.

The most important thing I took away was this: We need to keep the relationship as free as possible from experiences of separation, shame and alarm. 

Guilty, guilty, guilty. What this means is that it's time for us to throw out any and all attempts at timeouts, removing "currency", and yelling. They don't work around here, anyway. We just do them because we've been told we should. Calmness, understanding, patience. This is what we're aiming for. And while it may sound like we're handing over control to our kids at this point, Eva did stress that it's important to be the one in charge. She says we need to be both the wall of futility (AKA the person who says "I'm sorry, but you can't do that") and the angel of comfort. We can and should say no, but we can also be there to hug them when the tears come from that. And often the tears come after a tantrum. That's just par for the course. 

That being said, if the teenager keeps getting speeding tickets, it might be time to take away the car keys for their safety. And if grades are low, it's okay to insist there's a little less TV and a little more studying done. That's part of parenting. Generally speaking, kids want to do well and they want to make us happy. They just need some guidance and support.

Finally, it was stressed that if what we're currently doing works and doesn't seem to be negatively impacting our children, then by all means keep doing it. Like Eva said, some kids are more resilient and do well with that type of discipline. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, and stuff. But it wasn't working here until we started making changes. Now, finally, things are starting to improve - most days. 

I'm sure people will be up in arms after this post. Last time I wrote about one of these talks, I received several phone calls and emails from people who were defending their parenting methods. You don't need to do that. Nobody's judging you or insisting you change what you're doing. The way I see it, if you're confident in your parenting there's no need to defend it. But you should also be open-minded enough to know that your way isn't the only way. This is another way for those of us who've tried those things and found they didn't work. 

In my opinion, it's also a way for those of us who are looking ahead to do some advance planning. One day, those kids we put in timeout are going to be too big for that. One day, they're going to be taller than us, stronger than us, and they won't just go to their rooms at our insistence. And yet we're still going to have to be in charge. What do you do when you can't threaten anymore? What do you do when you can't take as much away anymore? I've often thought about this with Gutsy, and it terrifies me.  Being a drill sergeant won't work when he's 15. But if he feels safe and attached, maybe we have a chance of still being able to guide him through the scary teenage years when there's the very real worry that he'll find safety and comfort in his peer group to replace what he may not be getting at home. Maybe he'll trust that I have a good reason for saying "no", and respect me enough to listen (after slamming a door or two). This type of parenting helps lay the foundation for the future. 

A good week. A solid week. A week of saying "I'm so proud of you" and "You're doing such a great job!" A week of not yelling, of routine, of better sleep.  I don't think we've seen the end of tantrums or sobbing Mavens at the kitchen table, but at least we've all been able to catch our collective breath over the last few days.  So thank you, Eva, and thank you, Dr. Neufeld. Today feels a little brighter.

Now I'm one of THOSE moms (Part 1)

(That's me in the short-shorts)

Raising an anxious, explosive child is a lot like running a marathon:

- you signed up for it before knowing exactly what it would entail
- other people make it look easy
- halfway through it you realize you still have a very long way to go
- you wonder how anyone finishes it alive
- you find yourself wishing that maybe you had taken up squash instead

This morning was one of those full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful mornings of resistance that came on the heels of yesterday morning's full-blown, drag-out, screaming, yelling, tearful morning of resistance. Two days of not wanting to go to school. Two days of Gutsy insisting that the problem is that school starts too early, not that he stays up too late. Two days of his dad and I snapping at each other under the strain, of his brothers avoiding World War III at all costs, of Spawnling covering his ears and crying while Intrepid leads him into the living room to distract him.  Two days of dropping Gutsy off well after the bell, filling out a late slip, and feeling like the worst parent ever. Because after doing this for so long, shouldn't I have figured out how to make it work?

On mornings like this, I'm often left dumbfounded as to how we manage to stay sane. Then I remember that thinking I'm sane probably means I'm not, so that explains a few things. I likely went crazy a long time ago, thus throwing up a shield of denial so thick that it is near impenetrable. I'm so smart.

I can't begin to describe how depleted I am after running this proverbial marathon. We do this dance nearly every day, arriving at school with blood pressure so high it would fail a drug test, with resentment unjustly placed upon a poor little boy who can't help himself. He's not trying to be difficult. He's not trying to make everyone's morning chaotic. He's doing the best he can in his limited capacity to deal with the stress he feels about walking through those elementary school doors.

But that doesn't mean it's easy to deal with.

I can normally keep it together, but today wasn't one of those days. I had done everything right: talked to him about the things bothering him at school (including being picked on by some boys in his class), came up with an action plan, did some yoga and meditation with him before bed in hopes of helping him be more rested,  picked out his clothes with him before lights out, and got him up half an hour earlier in anticipation of it taking a long time for him to get ready.

It took two full hours for him to get dressed, eat, put on his hearing aids, and get to school. And those two hours were absolute hell. He fought tooth and nail as I did everything from staying completely calm to eventually yelling (I'd like to pat myself on the back because it took over an hour of him refusing to get out of bed before I even raised my voice, but it doesn't feel all that commendable). So, as hour two approached, I sat at my kitchen table and cried - hard.  It was one of those defeated, exhausted, chest rattling sobs. Gutsy kept apologizing and saying that he'd try harder tomorrow. Talk about a guilt trip. Poor kid.

Oh, but it gets worse. The Maven doesn't go home until she goes big.

Off to Gutsy's school we went, he in a happier mood, Spawnling still in his pyjamas with winter boots and coat, I with puffy eyes, no makeup, and hair that rivalled Medusa's. After signing his late slip and sending him off to class, I started explaining to the receptionists (whom I've known for years) that we were really, really trying to get him to school on time and that I didn't want them to think that we're delinquent parents who don't care.

And then I started crying again. And one of them gave me a hug. And the whole time I'm thinking that I look like a complete idiot - an unkept one at that - standing here in the middle of the school office with tears in my eyes and a child with pyjama pants on beside me.

It was official: I had become that mother. The unstable one. The one with "problems". Lovely.

They were very quick to reassure me that nobody thinks we're bad parents, and that they know we're doing our best. And it was even said in that sincere, we're-not-just-saying-that-to-get-you-out-of-here way. That was nice, but now I'm a good parent who's doing her best and who cries in the school office. Oh goody!

On my way out, I ran into another wonderful support staff who offered up more hugs as Spawnling impatiently waited at the front door for me (I had promised him Tim Hortons after we dropped off his brother and he was making sure I knew how to keep a deal). So I cried some more and gave her the rundown, while Spawnling said he'd wait for me outside. As I was thanking her for being so wonderful, I looked outside and saw that Spawnling was defiantly standing on the edge of the road, glaring at me.

Now, not only am I the disheveled drama queen mother, but I'm the disheveled drama queen mother who can't keep track of her kids because she's too busy crying.

There are entire reality shows dedicated to people like me.

Despite my embarrassment, I ran to the road feeling a little better. My son goes to a great school with people who really care about him. They understand that we're under a lot of stress and that we do our best. So I don't need to feel like a terrible parent, and I can drop my child off in the morning - sometimes late - knowing that he's in good hands. To parents of special needs kids, this is like striking gold.

I am not the world's best mom. I mess up from time to time. I lose my shit, I cry in inappropriate places, I'm far too hard on myself. But I'm not a robot, and my emotions are what keep me in the race. If I couldn't hurt deeply, I couldn't love deeply, and thus wouldn't have the motivation to run this marathon for him. For him.

I would do anything for him.

Tomorrow's another day, right? And tomorrow - or the next day, if that's when I have time - I will blog about an amazing parenting workshop I went to. Despite the events of the last couple of days, the advice I received about discipline has been helping a great deal.

Hooping (and my small penis)

What's the first thing I did when I got more energy and started taking pounds off? I got a mistress, of course. Isn't that what everyone does?

We met through our mutual friend, Robyn. They've known each other for a while. When we were introduced, I instantly wanted to make her mine.

"Maven, meet Hooping. Hooping, this is The Maven."

Beautiful, isn't she? I was really into her from the very first time, and I knew I had to make her mine. I see her every day, and I think about her when we're apart. My relationship with her is growing into something of an obsession, but it's not a bad thing. We get along fine when she's not bringing me to the verge of tears.

See, I've tried all different types of exercise. Their repetitive, mundane nature bores me and I end up ditching them within a few weeks or months. Not so with hooping: I love the feel of the hoop in my hands, the almost meditative nature of getting into the flow. I can work with just about any music, and make every single workout unique. It's a dance that just happens to work the body and firm it up - that's the bonus, not the goal. There are no repetitions, no yelling instructors, no measuring tapes, no scales, no competition. It's just me, my hoop, the music, and the energy in whatever room I'm in with whoever's in it.

(Yes, I realize I sound like a hippy. No, I do not need a hemp dress and a bushel of organic potatoes. Now quit snickering and keep reading.)

Robyn started teaching a beginner's course in our area, so I joined up. She also introduced the group of us to Sirenhoops.com 's hoop jams every second Friday at the Dovercourt Community Centre in Ottawa, so I've started going to that, too. I even joined a couple of online hooping communities: HoopCity.ca and Hooping.org. My friend Liliane even bought me my hoop - the beautiful, sparkly one featured above - through Sirenhoops, making me an official hooper. Everything is going as it should.

Except that I really fucking suck.

Oops. Sorry. I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to stay positive. The hooping community is by far the most accepting, encouraging, caring community I've seen outside of self-help groups (and believe me, I've been in enough of those). They don't judge, they offer guidance, they pat me on the back and tell me that it will come eventually, they celebrate when I accomplish something. But when you're the only person in your hooping class who can't get the hoop to stay up around the waist, it's a bit of an kill joy. And as I see everyone progressing further and further along the path of hooping greatness, I get a little discouraged at trailing along behind, still trying to get the basics down.

The Maven has always employed an ego-boosting tactic: she has always done things she is reasonably sure she will totally rock at. Postpartum breastfeeding support: I am awesome. Writing: Very awesome. Being popular: Killer awesome. Being a mom: I have to make sure I don't drown my children in the awesomesauce that flows forth from my maternal instinct. By all accounts, I make it look like the "A" in my DNA stands for awesome.

And then there's the hooping thing.

I knew from the first time Robyn brought her hoops to a party that I didn't have any natural talent for it. While nearly everyone else was effortlessly whipping the circular piece of plastic around their waists and exclaiming "Wow! This is fun!" I was quick to drop (or "crash" as the community often calls it) the hoop repeatedly. But I knew I could enjoy it once I got it, and I was sure it wouldn't take that long. Nothing takes me that long. I'm The Maven, for crying out loud.

This, of course, has turned into a lot of painfully frustrating workouts where I wonder if I'll ever be able to figure out such a basic hooping maneuver. But I keep trying because I love doing it - or the idea of doing it - and because it's good for my ego to try hard at things. I might even grow a bit of self-esteem - imagine that!

Good things can come out of working through one's frustration. Robyn suggested that I take breaks when I feel overwhelmed at trying to get the hoop going and "play" with my hoop doing off-the-body tricks. Well, as it turns out, I'm not too shabby at it.  I can make the hoop do things I don't even realize I'm making it do. And, while I still have a lot of work and practice ahead of me to get good at it, the hand tricks I'm learning come easily, and I now have my heart set on a pair of smaller hoops called "twins" to advance even further.

At last night's hoop jam, a friend of mine complimented me on my off-the-body work. I thanked her, but explained the situation to her like this:

Imagine that I'm a dude. If it helps, you can call this male me "The Marvin".

The Marvin has a small penis. My small penis is waist hooping.

I am rather embarrassed by my small penis. I keep trying to make it bigger - Swedish penis pumps and imported herbs and the like - but it's still, like, 2.4 inches long and prevents me from wanting to wear a speedo at the beach. This makes The Marvin feel inadequate.

One day, The Marvin realized he could just get a sports car. As long as I'm driving my Ferrari around town, I feel better about myself. It's my shiny, manly penis extension.

And, as you probably could have guessed, my penis extension is off-the-body hooping.

So right now I drive around hand hoop to forget the fact that I feel inadequate in other areas. The only problem is that a whole heck of a lot of hand hooping - especially with a heavy beginner's hoop like mine - really freaking hurts. I have bruises on the backs of each hand the size of a toonie; Proof that my ego needs to a take a backseat more often. I have to take a deep breath, suck it up, stop worrying about what everyone else might be thinking, and waist hoop like a madwoman until it actually stays around my body for more than three seconds at a time.

I can get this. And when I do, I'm going to be a really happy Maven who will swing her proverbial package around proudly. But until then, I do look sexy in my sports car.

How not to take a self-portrait

Yesterday I was given a picture of Geekster and me which was taken at a wedding in late August. It's a nice picture and one that is now on my fridge for me to smile at as I hurriedly prepare meals at least one family member will loudly decline with a grossed out look on his face (It varies as to who will make said face, which makes it somewhat exciting. Kind of like a lottery, or bingo.)

August 2010

What I immediately noticed - and what shocked me more than anything - is how big I am in the picture. And I'm not a fat-hater - really I'm not. I've been overweight most of my life. In that time, I've been a healthier fatty and an unhealthier fatty. I don't think being skinny necessarily equals health, just as being un-skinny doesn't necessarily mean one's heart is going to explode in a mess of Cheetos. But in this particular picture, I realized just how sick I look; the bad kind of overweight. The bloated, tired, sluggish kind of fat. I was a few weeks away from hitting the proverbial wall and desperately attempting something that would end up changing everything for me. But at that time, I just felt like ass.

Liking this photo - and having it on the fridge for all to see - is a big step for me. Generally speaking, I hate pictures of myself. I loathe, despise, am disturbed by pictures of me. Ironically, this means I take a lot of them (more on that in a bit).  You'd think that years of being tagged in sometimes less-than-perfect poses on social networking sites would make me more accepting of myself. Sadly, not so. I'm a girl, after all, and I have self-esteem issues. They're a lot better than they were ten - or even five - years ago, but there's still that nagging voice in my head that likes to tell me I'm far uglier than you.

The big difference yesterday, however, was not only that I liked a photo of me at one of my heaviest weights, but that it was the first time Geekster and I really saw how far I've come in the last three months of gluten-free eating and, more recently, natural adrenal gland support. The first thing I did, after picking my jaw up off the floor, was drag my hubby over to the camera and snap a current picture of the two of us to compare it to:

January 2011

Not too shabby, right? I should of gazed in amazement, made it my Facebook profile picture and stopped there.

But you know I didn't.

I'm an addict. Most of my addictions haven't been exercised in several years. However, there are a few - like chocolate and caffeine, for example - that I drag out to a dirty motel and make sweet love to whenever the mood strikes. But there is another nasty habit that I simply can't stop doing once I get started. It's so bad that I keep checking for hair on my palms for days afterwards. While less frequent a guest star in my situational sitcom than the aforementioned yummy food, it still likes to come out and play every month or so: taking pictures.

Now, as I mentioned before, I'm not too keen on Maven photos. Self-esteem issues = a fear of flashes and full-length mirrors. When I take pictures of myself, I generally snap a few dozen, then dig through them until I find one that doesn't want to make me want to eat a bucket of ice cream. Sometimes I get one - and furiously edit out everything I possibly can until it looks passable enough to share - and sometimes I dislike every single one and await the little black rain cloud that will follow me for the rest of the day.

But something happened yesterday. I actually liked the pictures I took.

I mean, sort of.

I liked the difference I could see in my eyes, my skin, my shrinking double chin. There was just one problem: the hair. I'm long overdue for a hair cut and the coif wasn't cooperating. Observe:

In this picture, I'm trying to show myself the difference between August and January. But I have a scarf on, and my hair is different, so I figured I should probably let the hair down and get my neck naked. It was all downhill from there.

Alright, not too bad. Angled shots are funky and make me look like I'm not aging from stress far too quickly as a stay-at-home-mom. Smile's good, not too much shine or makeup. But, um... The hair is kind of plain. I should probably try doing something with it, so I attempt to give it a little bit more body with my fingers...

Anyone read Dilbert cartoons? I do because my doppleganger is regularly featured. Alice is one of Dilbert's coworkers. And when I don't get a haircut, I look just like her (this is not a good thing):

Alice and I even think alike

Next, I tried ridding myself of the Alice 'do by holding my hair up, all cute-like:

There is bird watchers' club in my neighbourhood, and I may just invite them over to have a look at whatever just made a home behind my neck.

I was getting desperate. It was tussle time. Let the hair go a little wild and crazy, like a supermodel's. Yes, I could be a supermodel! So that's exactly what I did.

Canada's Next Top Inmate

Dear god. All I need is a pair of fishnets and a sign with numbers and this could be a mugshot. Note to self: supermodel hair is styled to look messy. This looks more like I'm trying to find my missing pipe.

The whole ridiculous attempt at boosting my own ego made me laugh. Did you catch that? It made me laugh instead of cry. How cool is that? I'm thirty-four and I finally find this vain excursion hilarious. That's growth. Growth as I shrink. Ironic, isn't it?

And then, finally, unexpectedly, the picture. I like this picture. It's not edited. It's not posed. It was effortless, and it was what I needed to see after all that (hot) mess:

I'm getting healthy. It looks good. It feels amazing. And I'm going to keep documenting it every so often so I can remind myself of how far I've come.

I deserve that for all the bagels I'm giving up.

The Case of the Bad Teenage Moustache Flashbacks

Something terrible happened yesterday. Something that came out of left field, tripped me while I was eating my ice cream cone, and laughed as I cried into my strawberry-stained pigtails.

My son - my teenage son - shaved for the very first time.

He had a moustache, but not a full one, exactly. It was a bad teenage moustache, with dark little hairs hanging unceremoniously above his lips, forewarning everyone that he will soon be nine feet tall and eat three lasagna trays for dinner. The pimples, the moodiness, the sudden interest in girls that doesn't just involve grossing them out - all signs of impending adulthood. But I was able to overlook those because they didn't bug me. That moustache bugged me. Why?

High school: 1990

I was a fourteen-year-old with curvy hips and curly hair. And, while I wasn't the prettiest girl around by far, I had those ever -important markers horny boys look for: insecure with obvious daddy issues. I might as well have had a target drawn on my forehead that said "Please come on to me. I'm looking for love in all the wrong places, and, while I won't necessarily enjoy your attention or even be attracted to you, I'll appreciate that you notice me. Thanks."

I remember a lot of things about the boys who took an interest in me. I remember they were mostly denim-wearing rockers with mullets rivalling any Def Leppard video. Most of them played guitar - or at least tried to - and were in bands that had any combination of the following words: "death", "hate", "mega", "motor", "dark", "slash", and "beer".  All their bands were going somewhere, of course, and you could be that special girl who gets a ride to the top with them - in more ways than one.

But there was one thing I remember more than anything else about these guys: the bad teenage moustache. As they tried to grope me over my well-worn Motley Crue shirt, their annoying little moustaches would tickle my cheek or my neck, making me shudder (they probably thought I was shivering with excitement - sorry, boys). And, when I would finally tell him that he needed to simmer down a little and take things slower, the creepy caterpillar on his pimpled face would curl as he scowled.

The realization that being able to play five power chords on your dad's electric guitar doesn't mean you're going to get laid is a tough pill to swallow.

Anyway, if there's one thing I associate with horny boys who want to dry hump you through their acid wash jeans while "Sweet Child of Mine" plays on the ghetto blaster, it's a dark patch of sparse hair sitting north of the upper lip. It screams "I have hormones! Lots of hormones! Girls to do every girl I see!"

Intrepid's furry little friend started coming in a few months ago. At first it looked cute. You could catch a glance here and there if the light was just right. But by last month, it was growing in a lot darker and was noticeable from across a room. It kind of reminded me of when Joseph on King of the Hill hit puberty. Visions of tassled suede boots and boy makeup swam through my mind. I wondered if other mothers had shared the bad teenage moustache stories with their own daughters. Would they be wary of the fuzz?

Since my son was taking an interest in the opposite gender, I felt it best to give him an edge only a clean-shaven young man can have. It was time to send him upstairs with his dad for a lesson with the electric razor.

He came down after a few minutes looking much better and rather proud of himself. I am relieved for girls everywhere - or at least in his junior high.

My own traumatic horny pubescent boy experiences aside, I have a responsibility to my son to teach him how to look his best. He is fourteen, and if he wants to start dating in the near future, he needs to know what girls find attractive. He doesn't have to change who he is, but using what he has - including a handsome, clean-shaven face - is what's going to score him the ladies.

Or the lady, who he'll meet after he's finished his PhD at 26, and will marry and lose his virginity to on his wedding night, and who he'll live nearby with so I can see my grandchildren every day.

*ahem*. A girl can dream, can't she?

Anyway, my baby boy now has enough facial hair that he needs to groom it. For some reason, I wasn't quite ready for this. I'm thirty-four, for goodness sake. It is not right that I have a child who shaves.

I'm feeling positively ancient. Maybe I'll have a midlife and go be a groupie for a while. I seemed to be pretty good at it twenty years ago. Has anyone seen my Motley Crue shirt and push up bra?

Not Feeling So New Year's

It's January 5th. It's the last day of holidays before two-thirds of the Gremlins Three make their way back into the public education system. It's been several days since New Year's, and even longer since I last blogged.

I've been feeling a little stuck; writer's block, if you will. It's something that happens to writers for various reasons, including being completely mentally and emotionally drained - due, say, to the great doses of fatigue and chaos that happen when you have little horned ones underfoot for two weeks. But there's more than that. I've been trying to come up with some resolutions for 2011 and having a hell of a time doing so. Every time I think about writing them out here, I come up with absolute butkus.

I had the best Christmas in a very, very long time. I enjoyed every minute with my boys, had good family and friends over, and I swear I did not squeal like a little girl when I opened season 1 of Glee (thanks, honey).

It was just a really nice time. I loved it, I felt it, and I embraced the season as the proud agnostic I am. Jesus and I get along just fine over Christmas. When we can, we like to have brunch with Santa and Buddha on Boxing Day. Planning the whole thing over TweetUp works best, because Santa gets the notification on his Blackberry no matter where he is.

But then New Year's came. I mean, it was suddenly just there. I didn't feel it coming on like I did Christmas. There was no major preparation other than a bit of a grocery shop. We planned nothing, we had nobody over. The youngest two were asleep by 10:30 and Intrepid was upstairs chatting with other bored teens on Facebook. We decided to play some World of Warcraft, because what the hell else were we going to do? No excitement means no interest in watching the ball drop as we shove h'ors d'oeuvres down our gullets and reminisce over the year gone by. My blood elf paladin could use some company as the clock struck midnight, anyway.

I guess maybe our lack of excitement was due to a difficult year that followed an even more challenging one. They were a little sucktastic, those two. We had fires, financial issues, a stressed child, a sick child - and, eventually, a sick me. For a lot of 2010, we gritted our teeth and braved a storm. It could have been worse, but it could have been a heck of a lot better, too. So, one would think that perhaps we'd be excited to see a shiny new year, but that wasn't the case, either. I can't speak for Geekster, but I walked into it kind of indifferent. No feeling of new promise, new hope. No feeling of ominous scary stuff either, mind you. Just... indifference.

It took me a few days to figure it out, but now I know why: I already feel like I had my New Year. In October, when I changed my diet, I changed everything. Finally, I'm losing weight I've been trying to take off for years. Finally, I have the calmness and clarity to handle situations that I was too anxious to deal with before (like fighting children - all day every day). Finally, I have the energy to keep my house clean(ish - three boys, remember?) and de-cluttered. Finally, I have clarity of thought to write and not be tripping all over my words. As a writer, that's kind of important.

Finally. I have my life back. Changing calendars couldn't possibly top that. And I have no plans to change my life any further than I have in the last little while, because there's no need. Everything is starting to fall into place on its own. I'll eventually add in some exercise, I'll likely cut back on sugar, but those are progressions of the path I'm already on.

So, it's not like I'm unhappy about 2011. It's not as if I'm not excited to be starting fresh. It's just that the timing was about two months late. The Maven, as always, is a trendsetter.

At 11:45, Intrepid came downstairs and asked if we could watch the ball drop. The three of us sat on the couch and had a look at the controlled chaos in Times Square. And I felt happy to be with them - as I always am on New Year's Eve - and that's good enough.

Buddha sent me a text wishing me a happy 2011. So nice of him, but Jesus sent an edible gift basket, so he might want to step up his game if he wants to pick the brunch venue next year.

The Maven of Christmas Past

Spawnling and Gutsy: So cute with their claws retracted

Greetings from the other side of the fray.

It was a wonderful, crazy, stressful, harried, mostly enjoyable Christmas. The gremlins were spoiled, of course. We had a large family dinner, then went out of town on the 27th for another family dinner. Gutsy came home with some adorable African dwarf frogs, which I promise to get a picture of soon. They're named Bubbles and Squishee, and I pray every day that they're both males who will never figure out how to impregnate each other. Gutsy is quite smitten with them, and when he's not fighting with his brothers or telling us how bored he is, he sits contentedly in his room and watches them swim around. I must admit, they're rather captivating. Soothing, even. I've sat on his bed and stared at them myself when no one's around. They're my little amphibi-friends.

My husband and I are tired from the crazy, and are sometimes at the point of barely speaking after a long day of refereeing loud arguments and enduring even louder cooperative games, but we're managing. We still love each other, we just love each other from different rooms. It's like this every year.  Nerves run raw and we all walk on eggshells. After nearly a decade-and-a-half of parenting, I've learned that you just. get. through. it. And when you get to the other side, you can safely remove the cyanide pill you've been hiding under your tongue for emergencies and enjoy some back-to-school quiet.

I had my first ever gluten-free Christmas, which was not only manageable but surprisingly delicious. The husband I barely speak to some days went out of his way to make a Maven-friendly version of my dad's tortiere (which, for the non-french, is the most amazing meat pie on the face of the planet). It was so good and much appreciated. Christmas isn't Christmas unless there's half a tortiere in my belly.

I ate everything and anything I could safely manage, stuffing my waist full of artery-ravaging cholesterol and loving every mouthful. I did have to pass on a lot of homemade goodies that made their way to our place, but I expected that. My aunt brought over freshly baked bread, and I stayed away from that, too, as difficult as it was. Instead, I ate some shitty store-bought cheese bread and wished I had taken the time to bake something at home. 

And I would feel sorry for myself for having to pass all that up, except I've lost... oh, about ten pounds.

That's right, kittens: TEN POUNDS in as many weeks. I'm a freaking toothpick! Well, if there were size 18 toothpicks. I guess I'm more of a redwood cedar trunk, but not one you can drive a car through anymore. It's progress.

But how on earth did I lose weight? What did I do? Nothing, actually. I still eat chocolate, chips and the gluten-free varieties of my favourite breads and pastas (albeit fewer servings as they get expensive and some of them just aren't palatable). Still, I'm not exactly training for my next triathlon or anything - unless I can strap wheels and a speedo on the couch. My body just likes that I'm not poisoning it, I guess. Imagine that. 

It's motivating, refreshing, totally awesome. I feel like I'm going into the new year with a healthier mind and body. My energy levels are incredible. In fact, I've even cut my coffee consumption down by about two-thirds. Yep, you heard right. There are paddles to the right if you need to start your heart up again. I figure if I add some exercise in I'll be on my way to some kind of serious hotness. It's hard to believe that exercise might actually result in a decent amount of weight loss now, but my body doesn't seem to be holding on to fat for dear life anymore, so I'm going to tentatively try to nudge it along a little faster.

In short, I'm even more amazing than I used to be. And to think scientists always assumed it was impossible to reach this level of greatness. But I suppose breaking down barriers is what The Maven is all about. I'll be smacking 2011 with a big bag of rice flour and making it my bitch. I will own it, and it will buy me smaller pants because it is afraid to anger me. 

I like where this is going.  I might just get myself a fur-lined trench coat and a cane. Word up.

It's the Most Horrific Time of the Year

A Spawnling-decorated Christmas tree

It's here.

As the Gremlins Three play some insane fighting game in the other room, screaming things at each other like "Thunderbolt!" and "Shadow!" (which is seriously confusing our cocker spaniel who goes by the same name), a thought has hit me:

As of 90 minutes ago, all my little horned ones are off for two weeks.

Two weeks.

Someone hit me with a snow shovel really, really hard. With any luck, I'll lapse into a coma for the entire duration of the season's cruelest joke: Christmas holidays.

If you're giving me that judging mother look, I suggestion you stop wasting your time. I'm all too familiar with it from playgroup, circa 1999 - I've built up immunities. As you bore your eyes into the screen and hope I'll start to feel guilty for having said I'm not exactly looking forward to two weeks at home with my kids, I'm trying to figure you out, too. If I could guess, I'd say you probably fall into one of the following categories:

A) You have no children and think everyone who has them should appreciate every single second of every single day with them (is there a discount on tickets to Never-Neverland if I get a group rate?)

2) You have one child. One perfect little child who has no one to take toys from and spends her days quietly scribbling in a colouring book while you gaze upon the perfection you created. I've been there. It was nice in some ways.

Third) You have two children and your second is a baby. Like me once upon a time, you think this stage of adoration and idolization between older and younger siblings will last forever. But you are wrong. Very, very wrong. This too shall pass, and it will be mourned greatly by you and those who have the displeasure of hearing the bloodcurdling screams coming out your walls. Coming to terms with the fact that your children will tear at each other with their adorable little nails and teeth is a harsh reality, and I look forward to laughing at you as others once laughed at me.

Eleventeen) You are a grandma and you've completely forgotten how dreadful the snowed-in holidays can be. That's okay; like birthing pains, this is Mother Nature's special gift to women who've survived beyond menopause. I forgive you, and I look forward to forgetting this part, too.

Anyway, you can tsk-tsk and shake your head at me all you want, but this ain't my first rodeo. I'm a veteran stay-at-home-mom now. I have fourteen years of holidays under my belt, and the last eight have involved more than one child trying to occupy a space at the same time.  From the moment Gutsy could toddle we've been dealing with conflict. I have absolutely no doubt that the impending vacation will feel like anything but. Case in point: In the five minutes it took me to write the last paragraph or two, Intrepid accidentally whacked Gutsy's loose tooth, which resulted in a lot of loud accusations being flung around the living room like poo in a septic tank full of monkeys.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that my kids have conflicting personalities. And the older I get, the more I realize that it's not the end of the world.

Sort of.

I've tried different techniques over the years to try and get the boys to play nice. I scoured the internet and shelves full of parenting books, and tried all the "proven" techniques. Let's take a trip through my list of failures:

I used to run in at the first sign of a fight, get everyone's version of what happened, and try to help them resolve the problem. FAIL. Why? Because I kept having to stop what I was doing every 2.4 minutes just to break up an argument that would start up again the minute I left the room. I have a life, you know.

I tried to run in as soon I heard an impending argument, so that I could calm everyone down before the decibel level climbed to the point of making my ears bleed. FAIL. Why? Because going in before it happens means I have to listen to the slightest increase in tone and be prepared to sprint across the house like a chubby gazelle every time it sounds like there could be a fight. There is no coffee pot large enough to dole out the energy needed to do that. Exhausting.

(Just got back from a writing break. And by "break" I mean sprinting into the living room like the chubby gazelle I am because Spawnling was in a rage after "losing a battle" to Intrepid, and started yanking ornaments off the Christmas tree. But I digress...)

I've tried ignoring the fights. I've sat in the kitchen, quietly sipping my tea while scream bombs explode in the war zone behind me. FAIL. They expect me to be their UN ambassador and streamline the peace process, and will insist - loudly - until I do so. Funny, because I feel a lot more like a refugee who needs to duck under the table for safety. If I don't help them resolve their conflict, they load up on ammunition and race back into the fray, ready for more blood. If anyone's winning the war, it sure as hell isn't me.

I've tried completely tuning out the fight by putting my headphones on - the ones that block out all sound if I just turn the Black Eyed Peas up loud enough. EPIC FAIL. It turns into a silent horror movie: Kids running to me, faces red, tears falling to the floor, pointing at each other, mouthing words I can't make out, toys and fists having already been thrown beyond my peripheral vision. Then I need to check for collateral damage: flatscreen TV, grandma's china, bewildered pets. It's only a matter of time before there's a downed bookshelf. One mustn't let it escalate to that point. Hearing is my friend.

So, what do I do? I have no freaking clue. There is no perfect way to resolve constant fights - especially in frigid temperatures when it's harder to shoo them outside for half the day. I've learned keeping as close to regular bedtimes as possible can help, along with crafts and outings and family movies to keep everyone busy. Happy hands aren't fighting hands: let that be your motto.  I keep the junk food as last resort bribery, and the horse tranquilizer gun strapped to my back--

-- forget I said that last thing.

In short, acceptance and humour help the hubby and I breathe our way through the chaos. Like he said to me earlier "I look forward to Christmas vacation and I dread Christmas vacation. Does that make sense?"

More than you know, darling. More than you know.

The Day we could have Kicked it (or: Montreal in a Snowstorm)

It's taken me a week to write about our harrowing journey to Montreal, in part because of all the media attention, parades and movie deals I've had to deal with since. And by "media attention" I mean marketers at the mall trying to get me to buy hair straighteners for Christmas, and by "parades" I mean the parade of drywall-dust foot tracks along the hallways from the renovations going on in Gutsy's room, and by "movie deals" I mean the free ones on TV with too many commercials that I can watch when my creativity is tapped from sheer exhaustion.

Sadly, the blog - and all things related to it - have been neglected. I'd apologize for that, but it's nearly Christmas and some things need to take a backseat so I can keep my head above water - double chins and all (and no, said chins are not quite big enough to act as a floatation device, alright?!) But since the snow is falling heavily on Canada's National Capital region right now, and people are trapped in their cars along a snowy highway in Sarnia, Ontario, I figure it's as good a time as any to write about the trauma of our epic journey.

Gutsy, my mom and I went to Montreal last Tuesday for an appointment with a psychologist at the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf (Psst! Give them money - they do good work!)  We were offered some free academic and behavioural assessments by someone who understands deaf and hard of hearing kids, so how could we say no? We have a bit of money for therapy with Geekster's work insurance plan, but we don't know when I'll finally snap from the strain of raising three boys full time, so we like to hold onto it just in case.  Initial psychological testing can get really expensive, so theoretically it's worth a two-hour drive and a tank of gas to get it at no cost.

Theoretically.

I had it all planned out: We'd leave before it got light out and beat traffic out of Ottawa. We'd arrive in Montreal at the tail end of their rush hour, but we'd have lots of time to get to the school anyway. With three-and-a-half hours to do a two-and-a-half hour drive, it would be a breeze.

Oh, except for one thing: the fucking snow.

See, when I smugly left my home at the carefully-planned time of 6:30 A.M. and balked at the line-up through the Tim Hortons saying "It's fine, mom. We have lots of time!" only a few flurries had graced Ottawa's roads. Being in a valley, we sometimes avoid the worst of a nasty system as it splits off around us and regroups later as it heads East.

You know, toward Montreal?

I never thought to check the weather outside of Ottawa. In my mind, anything that was going on here was probably also going on two hours from here. How could someone as ridiculously intelligent (and good looking) as I am overlook something that simple?

If I had a MENSA membership, someone would have come to revoke it due to my sheer stupidity that day. And if they were to try and find me last Tuesday, they'd need look no further than highway 40 East, just west of Montreal, where things had slowed down to a crawl. Those exclusive geniuses could have just run up between lengths of cars which were more or less stopped for some then unbeknownst reason. They would have found me looking puzzled and a little... tense. Because, about three quarters of the way to our destination, just as I was feeling like the best road trip planner ever, the highway was suddenly coated with a thick slab of snow. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and I began my steep decent into a panic that wouldn't let up until well after sunset.

"Why are we stopping? It's just a little snow," I whined to The Madre. I ignored the fact that the snow was getting deeper. I ignored the gusting white stuff before my eyes. I ignored all signs that this was going to be a very long drive. I had planned this out, dammit. It was going to go well because I had planned it out. That's how these things work, right?

Instead, I kept glancing at the clock. I get a little obsessed with time when I think I'm going to be late for something. Look at road, look at dashboard clock, back to road again, over to iPhone to see if it's synched with clock, back to road, back to clock again, back to road where there looks to be a barricade along the division strip up ahead. Why is there a wall there? Construction? Back to clock, back to road, over to the strip of wall, back to fretting about how we might be late if this rush hour traffic doesn't let up soon, back to strip of something which is looking a lot less like a wall and more like a... Oh. My. God.

"Mom, you'd better call the school and tell them we might be a little late. Or a lot late. Oh. My. God."

A tipped over tractor trailer. On the side of the road. The road we're driving on right now. We are so dead.

It was then that it dawned on me: we weren't dealing with rush hour traffic. We were dealing with weather pandemonium. How did I not see this coming? How did I - a Canadian through and through - miss that we were driving into a snow storm? The receptionist at the school told my mom to be careful. She said she had heard there was a tractor trailer flipped over somewhere. "Yes, there is," said The Madre, calmly. "My daughter took pictures."

I'll skip some boring details in this part of the trip. There's a lot of panic on my end, a little bit of worrying on Gutsy's part due to my panic, a lot of reassurance from my mom who's trying to get me to calm down, some stalled cars in the middle of the highway, a lot of stressed out drivers, many tow trucks, some very slow commuting, and a GPS on my phone that kept bouncing around to the point where we actually overshot our exit and had to turn around in a highly illegal highway manoeuvre that could have resulted in several lost demerit points and quite possibly an accident if I had been just a hair off (stress can make even amazing people like myself do really stupid things - it was still pretty cool, though. I should have been a stunt driver. A minivan stunt driver.)

When we arrived at our destination, we had been on the road for five hours.

Can I say that again? FIVE BLOODY HOURS.

What should have taken just over two hours took five. When we arrived, we were tired, anxious, and hungry, but mostly grateful. The psychologist had kept her entire day open for Gutsy and took him in right away. The Madre and I sat in the waiting room and ordered Greek food. Naturally, that took about 90 minutes to arrive, and it was lukewarm to boot. But it was the best damn meal I'd ever had, because I wasn't eating it on the highway to hell. It could have been pickled silverfish on a stick, for all I cared. It was just nice to be somewhere where I wasn't constantly making sure rubber firmly kissed pavement.

Later on, I made my way to the convenience store down the road on foot. I had thought it was right across the street, so I hadn't bothered with my coat, mitts or hat (my brain had a serious case of the dumb).  It was bitterly cold, and the sidewalks were as messy as the roads. All told, the city received over a foot of snow. I tromped my way through it, determined to get drinks and chocolate bars for our lengthly waiting room stay, all the while cursing my stupidity for not grabbing my winter gear from the van first. By the time I reached the final crosswalk, I looked like a pudgy yeti, all snarly and shit. A man strolled out of the store, smiled at my preciptation-covered self and said "So I hear it might snow," before smiling as he walked away. It's a good thing he was cute or I would have devoured his soul with my angry. Instead, I laughed and replied with "I heard something about that, too." That man will never know how much I needed that chuckle.

The testing went well, as far as I know. I think we're going to end up with the diagnosis of "bright and anxious," which is pretty much what we figured. She suggested some local places for less pricey therapy, and also said that Geekster and I may need to change our parenting strategies when dealing with Gutsy; a tough thing to do when the other two gremlins are parented in a completely different way. But if it means fewer panic attacks, less meltdowns, and more cooperation, sign me up. I'll jump through hoops of fire if we can have more harmony around here. Furthermore, she told us that this type of behaviour - the need to try and control what he can - is not uncommon in hearing impaired kids. She stressed that we have to remember he has a disability, which we often forget because he's so capable in other ways.

Before we left, one of the amazing ladies printed up a map with alternate highway directions and highlighted our route. She said we'd avoid a lot of traffic that way, and could easily make our way to Boston Pizza for dinner on the West Island (land of the tipped over trailer) before heading home. We headed outside, confident that the uneventful trip back would more than make up for the chaos getting there.

You know those disaster movies like Armageddon or 2012, where absolutely everything that can go wrong does? Yeah...

As we're leaving the parking lot, I tried to give my windshield a wipe to get what the brush missed. Crack! The passenger side wiper, which was apparently frozen to the windshield, broke and started flailing around. My mom and I jumped out to fix it, but I made one fatal mistake: I forgot to turn the wipers off. Wump! The bloody thing got stuck under the driver's side wiper, flipping sideways. A plastic piece flew off.

"Turn the wipers off!" The Madre reminded me.

"Okay, I just have to..." K-thzzzz! The wipers were trying to move away from each other, but still lodged.

"You need to turn them off!" she insisted.

Panicked, tired, and in a dream-like "is this really happening right now?" state, I finally made my way to the wiper controls and was about to switch them off when there was a snap! 

The passenger side wiper splintered, still lodged under the other one.

This is the part where I let out a string of curse words while holding back tears. We were in a strange city on a Tuesday evening in the middle of a snow storm. It was dark, and the roads were so bad that I couldn't drive more than a few blocks without needing to clean the windshield. Now what?

A man happened by with his dog. I asked him if he knew anything about wipers. He said he didn't, but there was a full-service gas station and garage three blocks up the road. He gave us directions, and away we went. I finally fishtailed into snow-filled parking lot, only to be met with several cars lined up for gas, many people picking up their vehicles after getting them serviced, and a disgruntled employee who said he could help us, maybe -  and then went back to pumping gas into cars that were still running. Very safe.

I couldn't help but laugh. Was this actually happening? Unbelievable.

The garage manager hooked us up with a new wiper, ($25 - ugh! Could he smell a desperate traveller or what?) but only after telling me I was crazy for attempting to head back to Ottawa in the storm. But my mom needed her medication before bed and Gutsy had school the next day and I needed a hug from my husband and my very own pillow, so what other option was there? Onward.

We overshot the Boston Pizza, but only because it was off some obscure little road and it was snowy and we were tired. When we did find it, I had the best damned gluten-free pizza ever. Refreshed, we headed home.

We got in at 10 P.M. - nearly sixteen hours after we left. Gutsy took Wednesday off, and I spent most of the day in bed watching Grey's Anatomy reruns. The last time I felt that tired, I had just given birth. Several hours of stress really wreaks havoc on the body. But it was worth it to get help for a little boy we love so much.

I have no idea what I did to anger the Gods of Transportation and Travel, but apparently it was something worthy of only the nastiest of punishments. I've learned my lesson. The next time I see freshly painted lines on the road, I promise not to drive through them so I can leave tracks. And the next time I see a hot construction worker directing traffic, I promise to keep my eyes on on the road ahead of me and not gawk at his beefy biceps.

So today, as I watch the snow fall onto messy roads, you'll have to forgive my hesitation in going out to playgroup, or to get groceries or Christmas gifts. If at all possible, I'm going to stay right here in my warm house. Eight hours in a snow storm is more than my quota for the month of December, thank you very much.