Traditional

tra·di·tion

noun \trə-ˈdi-shən\

1

a : an inherited, established, or customary pattern of thought, action, or behavior (as a religious practice or a social custom)

Thanks again to the folks on my Facebook fan page who threw a heck of a lot of words my way when I asked for some writing inspiration. I was happily surprised only about half of them were insults and curses. You sure know how to treat a gal!

I just about died laughing when the word "traditional" was suggested. Not because it's a bad word, but because I consider myself anything but.

"Are you serious, Maven?" You ask loudly, nearly spilling your piping hot coffee all over the keyboard as you jump out of your seat. I get where you're coming from, readers. I'm a stay-at-home-mom to three kids in the suburbs. I do a ridiculous amount of baking and cook lots of lovely meals for my family. I married a boy I met when I was in high school. I drive a minivan and volunteer in the classroom. It doesn't get much more traditional than that, does it?

But you need to excavate just a little deeper than that, my dear sheeple. In the words of my idol, Glee's Sue Sylvester, let me break it down for you. Here are five things that will shatter the Holly Housewife impression of yours truly:

1. I moved out on my own at 16.
Not exactly typical for a Canadian teenager, but there you have it. I hope like crazy none of my kids are dumb enough to follow in my footsteps, but that's what I needed to do at the time. I couch-surfed for a little while, spent a couple of memorable nights in stairwells, a few months in halfway houses, and a short but terrifying stint at the downtown YM/YWCA. I did this all while still going to school and maintaining a decent average. It was the best and worst time of my life. I didn't always know where my next meal was going to come from, but I had a deep belief that it wouldn't always be like this. And it hasn't been, thankfully. A few months after moving out, I met the love of my life, and together we built this awesome little family.

2. I've been clean and sober since June 13, 1991.
This is the day I entered a six-month live-in treatment program and my life changed forever. This year will mark my 20th one sober. And yes, that would have made me fourteen. Can you really be an addict at fourteen? Um, yeah, dude. Trust me on that one. I now have a fourteen-year-old. This year it's really hit me just how young I was. To be so broken at that age is unbelievable. This non-traditional experience of mine means that when I say to him "And remember: I can smell alcohol from a mile away" I'm not kidding - and he knows it. Having been the teen my friends' parents hated, I know how being bad works. My poor gremlins are going to have a very difficult time hiding any kind of rebellion from me. I almost feel sorry for them. But it definitely makes me a very aware (and probably far too paranoid) mom.

3. I absolutely love Eminem and other naughty music.
Ever hear me rap along to Jay-Z? That's too bad; you're really missing out. My minivan regularly bumps mad beats as I drive to the school board for a Special Education Advisory Committee meeting. I sort of teeter on trashy, but I'm not quite there just yet. Thank goodness I'm well-spoken. And I refuse to sing/rap any verses with double negatives in them. Sorry, but The Maven has grammatical standards.

4. I'm an agnostic.
Raised Catholic, but now a highly non-commital adult. I don't believe in any religions, I celebrate Santa's birthday, and honestly don't feel my soul needs saving - but thank you very much for trying. My kids aren't baptized and don't go to church. I tried my hand at - and studied - many religions in my lifetime, but ultimately I can't find a single one that is a good fit for me. I believe in something greater than me, but that thing - that higher power - holds no judgement and makes no rules. I'm not quite sure it's even intelligent or has free thought. In the end, I think men and women are equal, gays can make excellent spouses and parents, and that you should be able to do whatever you damn well please as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. So I suppose I'm generically spiritual - not exactly the suburban mom norm. If anyone starts sending me religious pamphlets I promise to make them into pretty origami; just ask the Jehovah's Witnesses that kept coming by last year. Their newsletters make lovely swans.

5. I sit in my bed at 5:30PM and blog instead of making dinner.
Normally, Mommy Maven would be in the kitchen making something hot and nutritious for her children. But right now she doesn't feel like it. I took them out sledding today. I hosted a sleepover last night. They can have grilled cheese and carrots so I can finish my blog post. This is the price you pay for being the child of an in-demand blogger. All five of my readers are counting on me to provide them with quality content.

And there you have it. Things you might not know about me and probably didn't really care to know, anyway. Did I burst your bubble? Are you crushed that I'm not the sweet innocent mommy you thought I was?

Traditionally Yours,
The Heathen The Maven

Cosset

COSSET verb
To treat as a pet : to pamper :
"The Maven's sheeple cosseted her with many, many words to choose."

(The noun form means "pet lamb", but I have far less to write on that unless you want to know about childhood nursery rhymes, or what I hear goes on in the dead of night in some lonely sheep fields; Just rumours, you understand.)

There's a whole lot I can write about cosseting - or pampering. First of all, I'm really good at it. I can cosset with the best of them. I didn't realize I had it in me until my first little gremlin hatched from the fiery pit of my womb, spewing forth a deep love I didn't know was possible - and a placenta. I stared at my hatchling and knew I would do absolutely everything I could to make his life a good one.

I admit to pampering my children just a little too much at times. It's par for the course as a stay-at-home-mom; My strong work ethic carries over into my domestic life. For example, the boys get chocolate milk with mini marshmallows once they come in from outside, and I'll tuck them into blankets and endure far too much Sponge-Bob blaring in the background as they slurp their drinks rather loudly, then leave the cups on the table. And in those moments, do I remind them to pick up after themselves? Why, no! I let them be slobby and ignore the twitches in my body. I crack a smile at my little darlings - the types of which seen predominantly on the criminally insane -  and jerkily retreat into the kitchen to do the stack of dishes I've asked no one else to help me with.

Of course, most of the time I insist on a little more independence, but only because I refuse to deal with the accusing glares of their future partners. The gremlins need to know how to pull their own weight in life or risk divorce proceedings and many pink slips.

When my children grow up, I will not own a dog.  I know myself too well. If I make the error of getting a dog, it will turn from this:

Awwww! What a cute puppy!

Into this:

Who's mama's little fluffy princess?? Smile for the photographer, baby girl!

I possess a deep desire to nurture everything and anything around me. I could have used that nurturing to become a rich passionate doctor, but instead I became a full-time mom. This is great, except that when the gremlins scurry from the nest in a few years, there is a real danger I will become one of those dog or cat owners. Oh, I laugh at them now, but only because I know just how similar our DNA is.

I figure I might have to do something a little wild as my boys grow up. Instead of caring for others, I should cosset - get ready for it - me. Yes, me, The Maven. She deserves spoiling, does she not? And who better to do it than myself? I had better become a very rich dedicated doctor quickly so that I may afford to get my nails and hair done regularly. They'll know me so well at the spa that a mud treatment will be named after me. Maven Mud: I like the sound of that.

Until then, I'll touch up my own roots in the bathroom and cut the crust off everyone's sandwiches just so.

And I'll patiently wait for the right time to come out of the cosset.

Groove

I am so on it.

It's Monday, there's a snowstorm outside and the gremlins are home for March Break (which also started early because technically it's still February, so really I'm just going along with things.) I have an extra child here for the day, and his mom insisted that he bring his Justin Beiber music with him because she knows how much I love it!

Please try not to drown in the sarcasm. It's thick and heavy this morning as I gasp for air filled with canned pop lyrics. She will pay dearly.

With ample eye twitches and a decent amount of caffeine in my veins, I have decided that it's the perfect time to jump on the NaBloPoMo bandwagon again - to save my blog.

In case you didn't know, NaBloPoMo is short for National Blog Posting Month. The concept is simple: you sign up on the site and commit to one post a day for the entire month. I've participated all of one time, in November 2009. That's me, always the go-getter. I was feeling in a slump when it came to writing - which is much like I'm feeling now - and I needed some motivation. So, I decided to take the plunge and post my face off, even if I didn't have much to say. It worked. Let's hope it works again.

It's come to this: I need to rekindle my love of humourous, narcissistic, attention-seeking writing, or abandon the blog altogether. Either I find my groove or I pack it up and let the dust settle on stay-at-home-mayhem for the last time. In the end, I don't need to post every day, but it should flow out of me far easier than it has been. I've been spinning my wheels of creativity for a while now, and it's time to do stinky things or get out of the bathroom.

Oh, dry your tears, already. Now you have to reapply all that mascara - what a waste. What's your boss going to say?

I'm the fat lady, and I'm not singing just yet. What you're hearing is the Beiber Fever oozing out of my living room walls. It's an honest mistake; he kind of sounds like a chick. I'm not willing to give up on a nearly five-year-old project that easily. This blog is older than my youngest child; it's a collection of our life stories over the last few years. It documents the ups, the downs, the scary, the wonderful, and the funny - especially the funny. It's so important to me that it practically has its own social insurance number. I don't want to let it go, but I don't want to do a poor job at capturing all my family's awesome in word form, either.

Some big things have happened in the last few months. Some of it I've blogged about, some of it I probably never will because I'm such a private person (yes, you may laugh now). But let it be known that I am a fundamentally changed woman: Maven 2.0, if you will. This new Maven is stronger, more capable, more interesting, and is faster than a train.

Oh, and while I'm at it, she has great abs and perky breasts. True story.

I'm no longer a full-time stay-at-home-mom, sort of. I regularly take writing and editing contracts, and there are two days every week - barring the occasional preschool plague - when all three gremlins scuttle off to school, leaving our home a quiet place. My entire diet has changed thanks to my good friend Mr. Gluten Intolerance. I've lost a fair bit of weight and am down nearly two dress sizes. My relationships have grown and evolved, my determination to live a happy life is more paramount than ever. Life is morphing, and I along with it.

I need to find a new groove: hence the word I've chosen for this post.

Every day for the month of March, I'm going to pick a word and write about it. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to post them as a comment here or anywhere on the blog's Facebook page. Go ahead, just throw them out there. I need to come up with 31 of them and am begging you to give me ideas.

And, if you haven't already figured it out, I'm an attention whore.  I love when you whisper sweet little nothings in my comment field. While you're at it, why don't you feel up my sidebar and become a fan or "like" me. Yeah, baby. That's like getting to third base in the blog world.

I might even respect you in the morning.

Braces and Debt with Sugar on Top

It feels like forever since I last blogged, and yet it's only been two days.

That's what NaBloPoMo does to your brain; it makes it all efficient and stuff. I'm hoping that unfortunate ability gets turned off soon. I'm nothing if not a slacker. But how I loved that break; that glorious two-day break. I was able to watch Glee last night without thinking to myself 'Ok, so after the show I have to write something before I go into the hot tub, because after a soak I'll be too relaxed to do anything but sleep...'

See? I lead a life fraught with many challenges.

Since it's been a whopping 48 hours since my last post, I might want to do some updates on life in the Maven household.

For one, I'm starting to respond to emails again. I've been carrying tremendous guilt. For example, a long lost friend got in touch with me, I wrote her back, she wrote me back... and communication ended there. What little time I've had between a bazillion birthday parties, a disgusting amount of blogging, and all those other things I have to do in a day left me with little time to sit down and write stuff. Not only has said friend been ignored, but also the woman who advocates for my deaf children at school, and people from two committees I'm a member of.

I admit it: I was a giant pile of suck the last few weeks.

I figured I should update on a few things I talked about in the month of November. Why? Because that's about all my only slightly-caffeinated brain can come up with right now, that's why. I'm kind of a bitch before I get enough coffee in me, so I suggest you politely smile and keep reading if you know what's good for you.

The Sugar

I spoke about my sugar addiction, and how I had to cut the white stuff way back for a little while. I'm happy to say that's still happening. On the weekend I went to two birthday parties - including Intrepid's - and I did have a small piece of cake at each, but it ended there. Then last night, I tested the waters and had some donut holes (Timbits, for the Canucks) because I felt like having something sugary.

They were absolutely delicious.

But within a few minutes I felt awful: jittery, unfocused, anxious. I think the reason I never noticed before is that I was constantly feeding myself sugary stuff, whether it be in the form of a chocolate bar or a granola bar or some very sweet yogurt. I was never away from it long enough to notice the difference.

Lately, about the only sugar I tend to have most days is a spoonful in my oatmeal. Other than that, I stay away from it. So, it comes as no surprise that my un-sugary body reacted poorly to the invaders. Had I stopped at two or three Timbits like a normal person it probably wouldn't have happened. I had about ten of them and KABLAM! Super Maven was smacked down hard. I didn't like that feeling. Lesson learned.

I still eat fruit, whole grain breads and pasta, and am generally not afraid of carbs. I'm not counting calories, fat grams, or adding more exercise into my day right now. The result? My stomach is getting flatter, my jowls are less jowl-y, and I have more energy than I've had in years. Can we say "Borderline diabetic"? Oh, I think we can! If I can head off diabetes at the pass by being more mindful of my eating, all the better. And if I start looking excessively hot as a result, all the better.

Go team Maven!

Braces

Intrepid needs them. We visited the orthodontist the day after his thirteenth birthday. Fitting, really. The long and short of it is that Intrepid has a Class III underbite, which means his lower jaw is longer than it should be. Meanwhile, his upper palate is too small, the teeth are crowded, and if we don't do something now we're looking at some of the following in his future:

- Teeth jutting out the sides of his gums. Not exactly girlfriend-friendly
- Upper front teeth destroying lower front teeth by sitting on the back gums. I would have to seriously whore myself out (in a sexual way, with my eventual sugar-free slimness) to pay for implants, so let's not go there
- Lower jaw getting so long that, at the age of 21, they have to break it, remove a piece on each side, reset it and wire it shut for a few weeks while it heals. That sounds incredibly fun, doesn't it?

The bill? Somewhere around $8,000. I'm surprised my heart didn't stop right then and there. I'm sure a lot of it involves the high tech braces going onto his upper teeth to expand the jaw, but just walking into the orthodontic clinic gave me a very clear picture of what, exactly, we're paying for:





And yes, those are two of the three game consoles built into the walls of the playroom. The clinic itself is huge, brand new and state-of-the-art.

Pretty sweet, isn't it? I was too embarrassed to take a picture of the entire waiting area and instead made it look like I was only photographic my kids, but rest assured that every single parent had a smart phone and was dressed very nicely.

I see rich people.

Oh, and did I mention the robot in Texas that bends the titanium/nickel/some other metal wire to custom fit Intrepid's mouth every six to eight weeks? Or the specialized toothbrush that comes with his treatment? How about the self-serve single-shot coffee and tea station in the waiting area? Or the wheel kids can spin after a procedure that wins them anything from a $5 Dairy Queen coupon to a $25 HMV gift certificate? We're paying for extras at a high-end clinic, I'm sure. And yet, I'm pleased as punch we're going somewhere reputable and technologically advanced. I'll skimp in a lot of places, but when it comes to my gremlins' health, I don't want to mess around.

I'm happy to say that Geekster does have insurance, and that they should, theoretically, pay for half of this. Still, who knows? Insurance companies are crazy these days. This article scares me. Next thing we know, they'll say they've seen profile pictures of Intrepid on Facebook and he looks happy without braces, so they're denying the claim. Sheesh.

Debt

Ah, debt. I wrote about how we're sinking ever so slowly into a pile of it, and how I was crossing my fingers that our application to re-mortgage would be approved. When we visited the orthodontist, we hadn't heard a thing yet. So I came home with an $8000 estimate and no idea how we were going to pay our existing bills, let alone a new one.

And yet I didn't binge on sugar. I'm terribly proud of myself.

The next day - yesterday, for the record - we heard back: Mortgage approved. Everything should be done before the holidays. I'd like to say that means we're out of debt, but it actually means we get to spread the joy across 19 years. Still, it also means hundreds of dollars less every month in payments. We're canceling our line of credit and keeping only a small credit card for emergencies. This credit card, by the way, has a $1000 limit and we've told the company NOT to raise that limit without our permission. See? We can be responsible.

It also means I don't have to get one of those unfortunate job things, and instead stick to the occasional writing/editing contract. Thank goodness. All that time being a slave to the grind would really interfere with my sugar-free bonbon eating.

Learning to live on cash will be a challenge, but one we absolutely must do in order to not end up in this situation again. Any suggestions on how to save and what to save for are welcome. You be the teacher, I'll be your pupil.

That sounded kinky, didn't it? Don't run away in fear: I said I would only prostitute myself for implants.

Er... Tooth implants. Just so we're clear.

Intrepid Turns 13, part 2

Well, well, well. Look at who did thirty posts in thirty days. I believe some coffees and surprises were offered if I made it this far. I'm fully expecting the pay-out. I am, more than ever, an awesome human being.

It seems fitting that the last day of NaBloPoMo falls on the birthday of the boy who started it all: Intrepid is thirteen today, officially making me the mother to a teenager.

Thank the Gods that I'm also young, beautiful, talented, and intelligent or I might just be feeling really confused right now. I might be sitting here wondering how, exactly, that darling little baby I held in my arms thirteen years ago is now almost as tall as me and has feet so big that I can slip his shoes on with ease.

I might be wondering how this child of mine went from a baby who had no respect for my previous life, its sleep patterns, un-engorged breasts, and food that was actually prepared rather than microwaved, to a young man who used his some of his birthday money to buy his brothers Christmas presents.

I could be pondering how on earth we got here, with such a great kid who is loved by everyone he meets and who has made entering the teenage years anything but scary. We were painted a very grim picture of who this child would become. He was supposed to have learning disabilities, a severe case of ADHD, major behavioral and social issues, and quite possibly end up a dysfunctional delinquent.

It figures he'd break the mold, that one.

Intrepid's birthday ended exactly the way he wanted it: with a game of Super Mario Bros. Wii with his dad and I. Tomorrow, we visit the orthodontist so he can tell us how much his mouth is going to cost.

I'm so happy we're in the process of remortgaging.

My boy is growing up, and I love him more every year. Happy birthday, my wonderful son. It's amazing how someone so perfect could have come from someone like me. Miracles really do happen.

(photo courtesy of my sister, of course. The picture on the left is of Intrepid holding baby Gutsy for the first time. He then handed him back, ran into the bathroom and puked. Leave it to one of my gremlins to get a stomach flu when I'm birthing his brother.)

Intrepid Turns 13, part I

I promised a significantly better post than yesterday's, and I shan't disappoint. I even used a spiffy word like "shan't," so you know there's something good coming.

In just a few short hours, my firstborn, my darling Intrepid, will turn thirteen.

Thir-freaking-teen.

That's, like, a teenager. An official teen boy will be living in our house, complete with the large appetite, odd smells, and soon-to-be-cracking voice that goes with the territory. I'm feeling oddly sentimental. I used to think I'd dread this moment, and instead I'm so gosh darn proud of the kid that I need to get my write on and tell everyone about how instrumental he's been in shaping our lives.

Of course, every boy in our batch of gremlins has brought with him drastic changes and lots of chaos, anxiety, stress, pure unbridled joy. But there's something really special about the first.

I don't love him any more than the others, just differently. It's hard to describe exactly, but I'll try: Remember your first love? And I don't mean the guy who dry humped you on his parents' corduroy couch, or the girl who made you tingly in your happy places but purposely gave you the wrong phone number after the dance. I mean the first one who really loved you, and who you loved back. The one you remember years later because it just felt so gosh darn good to be together, experiencing love for the first time. Everything he or she did was new and exciting and fresh. You couldn't wait to see him or her again. You could go on and on about how incredible the person is, or how needlessly long this paragraph is becoming because people obviously get the point by now and you should move on.

Now, add in a dash of whatever you felt when you realized what the stars and planets were, what it meant to have them there, and how amazed you were by the thought of an entire universe of wonders out there.

Now, fold those two ingredients together and mix in the immense pride and sense of accomplishment you had when you taught your puppy to "sit", and you have some kind of an idea.

Love + Wonder + Pride = Firstborn.

The greatest thing about firstborns is that the older the get, the more they impress you. Sure, walking was cool, and that first word - or whatever you convinced yourself sounded like a first word - was neat-o, but seeing your child perform a piano solo or win a spelling bee? That takes the sugar-free cake.

But with Intrepid, there's a little something extra: What sets him apart from a lot of other kids is that he's defied nearly every expectation of who he would become. I'm going to brag in two parts, starting now and concluding tomorrow, on his birthday. Prepare to roll your eyes a great deal as I take a trip down memory lane.

Hey, it's my blog and I'll brag if I want to. Want to stroke your own ego in a purely exhibitionist fashion? Write your own damn blog. This one's mine and I'm not afraid to use it.

***

We just barely escaped the stigma of teen parenting. I was nineteen, and Geekster and I had been together for just over two years when we realized that, despite the bleak picture painted by a doctor about my fertility, not using condoms could result in a pregnancy. Oops.

There was never a time when we didn't want the baby. The ultrasound tech dating my pregnancy asked that very personal question, and when I said we were happy to become parents, she zoomed in on my six week old embryo's heartbeat. I was blown away, completely smitten, and I walked out a mother.

I've had countless people say things like 'There's no way I could have been a mother at twenty.' Actually, you could have.

Unless you're a dude.

Anyway, I wouldn't recommend motherhood at that age for most people, but it's definitely doable. I'm going to step out of my usual grandiose skin for a minute and say, quite honestly, that there was nothing spectacular or unique about me.

Could you at least pretend to be shocked by this news? Thank you.

I was just a girl who loved a boy and made a baby with him. Then, we made a choice to have that baby (and I don't judge those who chose not to, just for the record). And then, we did everything we could to make it a good choice. It really was that simple.

In short, I wasn't born awesome: Motherhood made me awesome.

Were we scared? Of course. The Maven may be many things, but an idiot she is not. Geekster and I were poor, had very little education, no car or license, and had both only very recently quit smoking (like, maybe a week before conception). And folic acid? What on earth was that? I only started taking prenatal vitamins after my first doctor's visit at five weeks. "Scared" didn't even begin to describe it. But we were excited, too. And eager and happy to become parents, too. We felt ready emotionally and ready to grow our family. We would make it work, we said to each other.

There were several people who kindly informed us that having a baby at that time would be the end of our relationship, our aspirations to climb above the poverty line, and any chance at a life that wasn't straight out of an episode of Cops. Our baby would have only limited resources to become a well-adjusted, well-educated, productive member of society.

Supportive, positive people are wonderful, aren't they?

When I was alone, I would rub my belly and tell Embryo-trepid that it (we didn't know the gender) would be okay. Daddy and I wouldn't let anything bad happen. That together, we would shatter those stereotypes. After all, this child was from my womb, and therefore it was genetically impossible to suck.

And then, one day, at my routine 39 week checkup, I was told my blood pressure was suddenly sky high and I needed to get induced, like, now, because my baby and I were in danger. Young, first-time mothers are at a higher risk for preeclampsia. That was one stereotype my body was kind enough to honour, the bitch.

I'll spare you the gory details of a traumatic birth experience. Suffice to say that, fourty-eight hours later, what I knew about love and the meaning of life was instantly transformed with a cry.

My son entered my world, and that world shifted.

***

Continued tomorrow...




Oh, wait. I guess I should probably do some kind of cartoon thing, like this:

Will The Maven and Geekster feel they made a grave mistake?

Will their relationship fall apart?

Will baby Intrepid join a gang?

Will parenthood drive The Maven to drink (again?)

Stay tuned for another excited episode of As The Maven NaBloPoMos!

Wordless, uh, Friday? Yeah...

In keeping with the laziness trend of my day - which involved shopping most of the morning and afternoon, followed by cooking an embarrassingly unhealthy meal for my gremlins - I'm putting only minimal effort into this blog post.

Hey, it's after 7PM, Spawnling is tired but not sleeping yet, the older boys have been fighting since school let out, and I'm still running on about 95% less sugar than I was at this time last week (but my clothes are fitting much better. Hot damn! Who knew I could be more attractive than I already was?). I have Coraline and season one of Supernatural to start watching later (provided by the lovely Nat, who has an eye for, well, eye candy). A spooky evening with my hubby, a bowl of popcorn and my favourite slippers.

Sorry, but that so wins over blogging. I don't get cuddled by a hot guy while I blog. Priorities, people. Priorities.

Should we look into starting a CudLoBloMo? You know: Cuddle a Local Blogger Month? It could work, you know. We'd have to really screen the applicants, though.

Also, it was my idea, so I get first pick. Step back, bitches, because I can throw a mean sucker punch.

Anyway, I did spend a minute in The Gimp touching up a picture of some bathroom stall graffiti art I found in my local Wal-Mart a few weeks ago. No matter what I did to the colours, I couldn't get the faint pen writing at the bottom to show up clearly, so I did a quick trace over it with the airbrush. It was totally worth it; hopefully you'll now be able to see my reason for taking the picture in the first place.


I think we may want to call this an epic graffiti fail, times two.

Plees Lern Tu Spelle

This piece of paper had been taped to my fridge for the last several months until this morning, when I finally recycled it. It's been a constant reminder to continue to make education a priority in the Maven household.

The paper was initially taped to my son Intrepid's back in grade 6. If I remember correctly, it was an exercise in complimenting and compliment-taking.

See anything interesting?

Other than the obvious - that my child is very bright and talented like his mother - there is an underlying tone of, well, kids who can't write good.

A local friend of mine went to a parent-teacher interview recently, and was told by her daughter's teacher that our school board doesn't really fail anybody. I'm not sure exactly what that means or whether or not the teach was being facetious, but looking at that paper, I think there may be some truth to it.

There are little errors. For example, one girl (and I'm saying "girl" because she wrote in pink and has pretty handwriting - frankly I'm surprised she didn't dot her "i"s with hearts) misspelled "intelligent." It's an honest mistake, and one that most adults would easily make. Heck, I would, too, if I didn't have to type the word every time I describe myself.

But there are other, more disturbing errors hidden in these compliments.

You the coolist: Seriously? You at least eleven years old and you don't know the 'est' rule? Not good.

Your always happy: Apparently Intrepid owns the word 'always' and it is happy.

Good drawen: I can't figure out if the student meant to write 'good drawen' or 'good drawer.' The second would be slightly more acceptable. And I suppose I can't fault the kid for making an 'r' look like an 'n' - it was written on my son's back, after all. It's not a bloody calligraphy contest.

Oh, but my absolute favourite - the one that makes me laugh every single time - is this one:

I remember back in the day when I never know you

Not only is there a tense error so blatant it makes my skin crawl, but I honestly can't find the compliment in this sentence. He should have failed the back writing test, dammit.

Anyway, I think these grade six writings are proof that we need to rethink our touchy-feely approach to education. I am all for preserving the tender self-esteem of our youth whenever possible. However, I do not think we're adequately meeting the needs of our children and community as a whole if we don't hold people up to a higher standard. It's preposterous (I had to spell check that word) to allow these kids to go on to a higher education if they can't formulate a decent sentence.

Do we want our lawyers to make typos in our legal documents? I don't know about you, but I want my doctor and/or pharmacist to be able to do basic equations well enough that she won't get my medication dosage wrong. I like the idea of tomorrow's librarians being able to understand the concepts in books before they share them with my grandchildren at story time. And if the carpenter putting in my new bamboo flooring (a girl can dream, right?) can't figure out the area of each room, I will wedge a rudimentary geometry set where the sun don't shine.

When I hear that a teacher has several kids who are not deemed "special needs," and yet read and write a full three grade levels below where they should, that worries me tremendously. And when she apparently says she can't fail them due to board policy, that worries me even more. I hope we're being misinformed, and that kids do get held back when there's a problem. That would be the sensible thing to do. Sure, some confidence might be shaken for a little while, but a lot less than seeing red pen all over your thesis paper or getting turned down for jobs because you spelled it 'rezumay.'

In the Maven household, there is little worry when it comes to literacy and education as a whole. Geekster and I run a tight ship, which includes instilling a love of reading, sitting with the kids when they do their homework (or at least nearby when Intrepid does his), getting the boys hooked on museums and other fun learning places, and generally being proactive in our gremlins' education. After all, we can't expect the public system to do everything - it is government-run, you know.

I'd send this blog post to the board of education, but I'd likely have to copy it in triplicate and attend 37 different subcommittee meetings to see any action. In the meantime, all that red tape might suffocate me. Instead, I'll probably just ask the principal for clarification.

Taking the easy route is the coolist.

Maven out.

A Conversation with Gutsy's Friends

Seven boys in my house.

Seven. Boys.

"Tired" doesn't even begin to describe my desire for a long, hot shower and an even longer, uninterrupted sleep. One of those things will likely not happen. Guess which one?

Gutsy loved his party, and everyone had a really great time. Dawson's parents even let him come. Great news , considering that, just last week, I thought I was one ditch-splashing away from a visit from our local child protection agency.

A lot of people have asked what a "half-sleepover" is, so I will explain: A half-sleepover is what parents with experience and clue organize for their child instead so as not to go completely crazy by morning. The children arrive around dinner, eat some pizza, have cake, play some games, get in their jammies and watch a movie. Then, just before everyone gets tired enough to fall asleep and, more importantly, because freaked out little kids start crying about wanting to go home, the party is over! Parents pick up their tired, wound-up, sugar-high kids, we get a full night's sleep, and Gutsy thinks we are the bomb.

We came by this experience and clue honestly. Intrepid's wake-over sleep over a couple of years ago taught us that we must avoid another at all costs. Gutsy stayed up until an ungodly hour and was as easygoing as a rabid grizzly bear at a honey convention the next day. Spawnling was but a year old and woke up every hour or so to laughter and the ongoing use of outdoor voices emerging from the living room.

To prove how traumatized I still am from the experience, I would give away my coffee pot if it meant we never had to have a group of boys sleep in our house again.

(Unless those boys happened to be Chippendales who's tour bus broke down in front of my house. I would be a very kind hostess to them; they could even sleep in my bed. As you all know, I'm a big proponent of co-sleeping.)

It's now 10:30. I am beyond exhausted a full day of party prep and the management of excited, antsy gremlins who woke me up at the jaw-dropping hour of 6:40AM.

Two parties down, one to go: Intrepid turns thirteen on the 30th.

Thirteen. A teenager. We're going to pretend I didn't just say that.

I drove two of the boys home tonight: Elijah and Dawson. On the way out the door, I complemented Dawson on his proficiency at shoelace tying. I said I was nearly eight before I could tie laces that well, but that I do a pretty good job at the age of 33. I then laughed at my own joke.

"You're thirty-three?!" gasped Elijah.

I smiled and nodded. I waited for the inevitable "You look a lot younger than that!" to follow. I get that all the time.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Dawson.

"My mom is only twenty-nine," said Elijah.

"Yeah, and mine is only twenty-eight," Dawson added. "You're older than my mom?"

"I guess I am!" said I.

"And my mom, too! You're older than both our moms."

My smile was more like a grimace now. An old person grimace.

"Yay me!" I grimaced. "The van is this way."

I used to roll my eyes at women who lied about their age, or were hesitant to give it. I would now like to sign up for that club, please. And do I get some free Botox injections?

Bloody hell.