Why My New Job is Insanely Great (with pictures)

I've come to know that I'm good at a few things.

Well, more than a few things. Let's be honest here, The Maven is a domestic goddess of epic proportions - I mean, unless we're talking about cleaning, budgeting, organizing or parenting. Otherwise, I'm pretty much great at everything home-related.

What I wasn't sure I'd be so good at after all these years? Office work. And then, suddenly, I was doing it twice a week: dressing up, commuting, carrying around a fancy organizer, and using my brain for things other than grocery lists and new discipline strategies. I'd like to smugly admit how wrong I was and say that I totally rock the job world, but I'm not exactly sure just yet. Right now I'm happy with at least being mediocre at it. What I do know is that my boss rocks at being a boss and my job is spiffy cool. This has made the transition far less painful than I had anticipated, and, dare I say, rather fun at times. Even the filing.

Don't believe me? Allow me to demonstrate:

First of all, this is the area I work in. It's a hip and happening part of Ottawa called Westboro. This particular shot isn't so great, but it was taken in a hurry a few days ago as I was on my way into Bridgehead to get a coffee. The neighbourhood is actually way nicer than this, but this will have to do until I have time to take more pictures. Coffee first, artsy pictures second. The Maven has priorities.

I always wanted to live in Westboro, but I would have had to pawn my arms and legs to buy even the smallest house there. It's a trendy little urban hot spot of a place. I live across the river with the less trendy folk, but I get to be uncool in my four-bedroom house on a half-acre property that we can afford, so I think I'll get over it. Now I do the next best thing and work in lovely Westboro - and it's a great place to work, indeed. For, not only do I get to walk around and look at all the adorable little shops and drink fabulous fairly-traded coffee, but I get paid to be there. That's right, folks: I get paid to be there. Sure, I'm going to end up spending all my paycheques on all the pretty shiny things I see during lunchtime, but this is okay as long as nobody tells my husband (I can easily disguise that type of spending as "groceries" - domestic superpowers, remember? Shhh.)

Pretty shiny things that I want to own. (Just have to sell the children first.)

So maybe I can't afford a $700 bicycle just yet (the green one with the peacock designs on it just about made me cry tears of joy and run into the store with my credit card - resistance was nearly futile), but I have been enjoying spending a bit of money on yours truly. It's become apparent that I'm totally worth it - how did I not see this blatant fact before?

Look what I bought when I took the kids clothes shopping this weekend at a secondhand store? (I tell the kids we're "recycling" by hitting the consignment stores before looking at new clothes. Cheap ass budgeting carefully disguised as environmentalism - another one of my superpowers)

"A" is for "Amanda" and for "awesome." And also for "asshole," but we'll overlook that little coincidence.

Best part? I bought the darn thing for $3.99. And sure, monogrammed purses went out of style, like, two years ago, but now I can just say I'm retro and not just a broke mom who had to wait until she found a used one. Saving the earth, one outdated style at a time.

A bit of preface before the next couple of pictures: Boss Lady has an incredible sense of humour and keen observation skills. I'm quite sure she noticed my rapid breathing when we were making a list of stationary supplies. This tech gal loves stationary, and I especially love post-it notes. They almost turn me on. I love them in all colours, all shapes and sizes, all-- there I go, getting aroused again. Post-its are a thing of beauty. You can use them for anything. They have helped tremendously with my filing, note-taking, and with little reminders like "don't forget to turn off the heat before you lock up - and fix your hair, too. This humidity probably makes you look like a harlot."

Anyway, I walked in this morning to find my desk in a state of post-it orgy. They were everywhere, showing themselves to me with - gasp! - to-do lists on them. It doesn't get better than that.

Serious hotness.

I should point out that each and every one of those lovely little things had something important written on it. No trees were unnecessarily slaughtered for my amusement. But I do appreciate that Boss Lady used a medium that would grab my attention. Emails are great, but this got my pulse racing. And wouldn't you know it? I finished every single task listed upon them.

The way to The Maven's productivity is through sticky pieces of paper. Go figure.

But the very best - the absolute best, best, best surprise in the month I've worked in my new job, was what I found on my desk last week.

I'm going to admit something here; In support of my two youngest gremlins who have become obsessed with a certain teen pop sensation as of late, I decided to bite the bullet and give Justin Bieber's music a try.

And, uh, I kind of like it. Quite a lot, actually. He's a talented kid. One could say I adore him - minus any creepy physical attraction to a boy young enough to be my son, of course. I'll leave the dreams of being serenaded and kissed to girls (and a certain percentage of boys) half my age. But I will never say never to his music again. Them's some catchy beats, yo.

Boss Lady loves poking fun at my Bieber Fever. She has absolutely no interest in my oddly preteen musical preferences, but she reminds me of them at every opportunity. This came to light when a much-promised "Bieberizing" of my workspace recently took place. I unlocked the office and walked over to my desk to find a new garbage can filled with stationary (including the highly-coveted post-it notes). If that wasn't enough awesomness for one day, Boss Lady decided to customize my trashcan:

There are no words to express how great this is.

She drew the hearts in herself, and added "Amanda" underneath "Justin Bieber - Favorite Girl." This incredible garbage pail now sits proudly next to my desk.

She is madly in lust with Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. There will be calculated retaliation in this war of idols she started. I will Vedderize her but good. I can't say how just yet, but I will come up with something amazing, being The Maven and all. Stay tuned.

PS: Have I mentioned I love my job?

Sometimes, it's all about the shoes.

Things I could talk about in this post:

1. How disgusting my house is.
No, seriously. It's almost like if A&E's Hoarders had nasty drunken sex with TLC's knock-off show Hoarding Buried Alive and they made a love child and I moved into it. I've been cleaning like crazy and barely making a dent. After I blog, I have to clean my living room. My friend is dropping her child off here in the morning and I don't think she'd like it if he was encapsulated in a sea of Lego or devoured by the mutant dust bunny I'm quite sure lives under the recliner.

I'm not so inclined to talk about the mess in my house. Get it? Damn, I'm punny.

2. My children are fighting too much.
Seriously: this shit has to stop. It's ridiculous and unfair. When you have a house full of boys, you might miss out on some cute things like spring dresses and ballet recitals. The consolation prize, however, is that boys don't have that ear-piercing scream that girls ha-- oh, wait a minute: Yes they do. Spawnling and Gutsy have taken to threatening to throw/hit/smack/launch/ricochet-off-the-other's-forehead various objects of various sizes. One will pick up an item when he's angry and hold it over his head while the other lets out a high-pitched screech and then grabs something even bigger to hold over his own head. Then, threatener #1 will shriek like a pigtailed princess and pick up a larger item to hold menacingly over his head. And this goes on and on and the screaming gets louder and louder and higher and higher until one of them chickens out and runs away. Nobody ever actually throws an item - it's all about the posturing. It reminds me of two male birds on a nature program vying for a female's attention, tweeting loudly and trying to scare the other off. The only problem? No mute button. Reality sucks.

Realistically, I don't want to talk about this, either. (Okay, that one's not so funny. My pun quota has been reached.)

3. I have to have surgery next month.
I have an incisional hernia in my stomach. It's a direct result of the emergency c-section I had with Gutsy. I've had the darn thing for eight or so years and it's never been particularly painful. But it's time to go under the knife and get 'er fixed. The more weight I lose, the more uncomfortable it's becoming. I guess the fat created a nice little home for it, keeping it all warm and cozy. Let this be a lesson to all of you: losing weight is bad. The surgery itself is the more invasive kind of hernia repair and I'll be in the hospital for at least three days, followed by a good two or three weeks of recovery time. You can probably see why I don't want to talk about this.

So with that in mind, let's get really girly and materialistic for a moment and talk about my new shoes!

A couple of days ago, I went out with a friend of mine who is positively shoe-obsessed. No, I'm not kidding. I'm not saying she "likes shoes" or "she enjoys shopping." Those are grossly inaccurate statements. She hates all shopping unless it's for footwear. I've been shoe shopping with her once before, and it was like watching an olympic sport: she, the passionate athlete, seeking out not just the gold medal, but all of them. As many as she can buy win, be it made of leather or suede, be it buckled or zipped, high-heeled or flat. She is a puma and the shoes are her little bunny rabbits, unknowingly about to get pounced on with her wild little claws.

I guess I'm back to comparing things to nature shoes - uh, shows.

I don't often buy things for myself, but with my new job I've been forced to invest in a few office-y things like dress pants and shirts and stuff. I went out last week with my stylish sister to acquire those items, but held off on the shoes due to time. I'm glad I did, because there is nobody but this particular friend that I'd rather hit up a BOGO or two with. That type of passion is contagious.

Anyway, I tried on a few pairs and just wasn't feeling it. And, of course, the ones I really liked weren't to be found in my size. I was losing hope. And then, as I walked down the last aisle....

THERE.

THEY.

WERE.

I never believed in love at first site until I saw my husband held my firstborn in my arms saw these shoes staring back at me longingly from the shelf. God, they're beautiful. They're funky. They're versatile. They're comfortable. They have pink butterflies inside them. They have freaking rhinestones on the toes. They feel like a pair of illegal massage parlour girls working their happy endings upon my feet.

Not that I would, uh, actually know what that feels like.

Anyway, I am totally digging my shoes. I'm possibly digging them just a little too much, but escapism is nice sometimes. Maybe I can wear them while cleaning my house, or running away from my screechy little gremlins, or during my surgery.

No. Not during my surgery. If I wake up with blood on them I'm going to be pissed. The surgeon would owe me a new pair. And I don't think he'd would be nearly as fun to shoe shop with.

How to be Popular Even When You're Kind of a Douche

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart, and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." - Unknown.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I wrote about feeling like absolute garbage? Well, you can breathe again: I'm feeling much better. You can probably gather that from my last few posts about my awesome life. It was a blip on the radar screen of life, albeit a decent-sized one. The Maven is back full-force, spreading greatness to all her sheeple.

But surprisingly, this post is not about my greatness. If you're a friend of mine, it's about yours. And if you're not a friend of mine, pretend you are and feel good about yourself for a few minutes. But, like, not in a stalker-ish way because that's creepy.

When I was at my absolute lowest, when I felt quite alone in the world, all I had to do was send out an SOS to a friend, and - ka-pow! - I had a drive to a restaurant, a cup of coffee in my hands, and someone to listen and tell me everything was going to be okay. The friend in question was the first person I reached out to, and she responded without hesitation. I doubt she realizes the impact of her simple act of kindness, but it was immense. I am indebted for a very long time. Good thing she likes coffee.

What I realized - and what is key for me to remember in those yucky times - is that there are many other people I could have reached out to who would have done the same thing in a heartbeat. And with that in mind, it's hard to feel alone.

That night was but one of many recent reminders that my life is full of amazing human beings. There have been so many more acts of kindness in the last little while. I'd list them all, but you wouldn't believe me. I hardly believe it myself. This weekend alone had me feeling so happy that I almost blew up in a sticky mess gratitude. It would have taken Geekster weeks to clean me off of the upholstery.

All kidding, all ego, all narcissistic tendencies aside for once, I don't know what I do to deserve the quality of friendship in my life. I really don't.  I tell my husband all the time that I must have a social horseshoe placed somewhere in my lower quadrant, because there is no other reasonable explanation. My support circle is forever expanding, improving, and filling to the brim with these loving, supportive, far-more-awesome-than-I-am people. I am humbled by their strength, their wisdom, their courage, their resilience. They are truly what keep me going some days when chaos tries to pull me under. And I have three boys, folks, so believe me: my life is well-acquainted with chaos.

There are days when I spend far too much time trying to figure out how to give back to everyone. I really don't think I give out nearly as much love as what comes in. I am a mooch of epic proportions. I don't keep up with everyone like I wish I could, I don't always promptly return phone calls or emails. I admit to feeling enormously guilty about that. I'm like a bad boyfriend who takes and takes and takes and doesn't even call on our anniversary. No flowers at the door, no declaration of love in the Facebook relationship status. My name should be Chad or Tad or some other heartbreaker jock name that makes you want to cry into your pompoms.

Tonight, while trying to decide what to blog about, I threw the question out into cyberspace via a status update. The suggestions I received ranged from "sibling rivalry" to my obvious Facebook addiction (I'll have you know I can quit any time I want to.) While I was looking over the list, the answer became clear: My friends. I shall write about my friends, and thank them from the bottom of my heart for being wonderful.

I shall dedicate this post to them because, in the end, who cares whether I return phone calls or ask people about their day? If I write one blog post about everyone, that will make it all better. We'll be even Steven. Then I won't look like a douchebag moocher anymore because I'll be thanking everyone, bulk-email style. People love that stuff, right?

Right?

Don't argue with The Maven. I'm drowning in my own popularity. I must be doing something right.

So thank you. Really and truly, thank you. Until I come up with better ways to give back, this will have to do. It goes without saying that every girl needs good people in her corner, and my corner has an entire pyramid of broken-hearted cheerleaders yelling "Why, Chad-Tad? WHY?!?" 

What Love Looks Like

I didn't realize how antsy I was feeling as of late until I started heading into the office part-time. Now that I have something else to focus on for a few hours each week, the desire to perform a self-lobotomy while at home has lessened quite a bit.

I think I was feeling burned out. Days at home with a four-year-old were looking mundane rather than relaxed, and our activities were simply time-fillers rather than the exciting adventures they used to be. With a couple of days of work to shake things up a little, I'm jumping into my Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays with a lot more gusto.

Or, it could just be the new espresso machine. Either way, something's working.

As we were sitting in the living room this afternoon - Spawnling with a drinkable yogurt and me with my period-week chocolate-covered almonds, I realized just how much fun I was having hanging out with my littlest gremlin. We had just gone to pick up a movie and some snacks at his request, had no particular schedule, and were just enjoying each others' company. It felt good, happy, perfect. So, I snapped this picture:

After fourteen years, this part of my life will soon be over. This beautiful, frustrating, wonderful, exhausting, magical, runny-nose-filled part of my life. I'm slowly phasing it out and heading into something new. In September, Spawnling will be going to junior kindergarten four days a week. I'll be using that time to grow my business. Just like that, my stay-at-home-mom days will be finished - with the exception of Friday. I will have hatched and raised three gremlins full-time, at home, until they went to school. That's one heck of an accomplishment. But it's especially special with Spawnling.

Try saying that three times fast. I dare you.

If you've been reading long enough, you know that Spawnling was not exactly a planned pregnancy. We had "not been careful" for a couple of years after Gutsy's birth, knowing full well that my body was more infertile than fertile and thus would not produce a third offspring easily - especially since I nursed the middle gremlin until the age of three. 

Once we found out that Gutsy also had hearing loss at two-and-a-half, we made a firm and final decision not to have more children. We were at peace with that choice. I started looking forward to doing something else: going back to work, watching my two boys grow up, being able to stay in our smaller home and drive smaller vehicles. I thought of the money we'd save, the trips we could go on, and how life is designed for a family of four. Planning is so fun, isn't it?

And two weeks later, the pregnancy test had two lines. The world shifted. I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry. Geekster and I walked around the house for several days feeling stunned. It took a little while to get happy and even longer to get excited. I put my dreams of a career on the back burner, and focused on being a new mom again.

Then, suddenly, he was here, and he looked at me with his big, beautiful eyes. And I knew he was meant to be here, that our lives were about to get even better because of him.

What love looks like

He grew some more, became even more beautiful, and I started to wonder if he was just trying to show off.

What love looks like a few months later

And now he's four. Four! Where did the time go? How did we go from a shocked moment staring at a pregnancy test to having long conversations about how the solar system works while simultaneously building lego rocket ships? 

Today, Spawnling told me "Mom, I love you more than pizza. So that's, like, a lot."

I love you more than pizza too, little buddy. Even the pepperoni variety. I win.

12 Reasons to go Back to Work after 12 Years

1. You get offered a near-perfect job. The hours fit, the work suits you, the commute is short, and you still get to sit around in your jammies for three weekdays and a weekend if you so choose (and you so choose). You've been working from home doing contracts for a couple of years, but this will get your foot in the office door once again.

2. The heating company is sending you polite reminders to pay your exorbitant oil bill, and any offers made by you to "work it out in trade" have resulted in the threat of sexual harrassment lawsuits.  Prudes.

3. Going somewhere where the furniture isn't covered in peanut butter stains* is a nice change of pace.

4. Being able to think clearly - and not just in between bouts of intense fighting/screaming/threatening/toy-launching - is a really neat trick that you look forward to.

5. Getting organized down to the minutest detail the night before you drive everyone to school and yourself to work brings out your inner OCD Virgo, and she tingles with glee at the thought. Lunches made, clothes laid out, house clean, bags packed-- oh, there we go, getting all excited again...

6. You just happen to work for the coolest boss lady on the planet, and you're not even exaggerating all that much, even though she reads your blog. (Reading your blog, incidentally, just ups her coolness level, anyway). You've known her for awhile, share a mutual love of caffeine and Doctor Who, and she gets what it's like to be a mom who's trying to balance a job, too. I have struck managerial gold, people. May this mine be bountiful.

7. The Boss Lady says you can use the space during off hours to practice with your Justin Bieber interpretive dance troop. (You did say that was okay, right, Nat? I'm pretty sure you also said you wanted to join)

8. After your first day of work, there's a knock on the door, and a flower shop delivery person hands you a big bouquet of these:

Thank you for being my cheerleader, Lil. It means a lot! xo

9. After over a decade, you get a little giddy saying "I have to go to the office this morning." In fact, any excuse to say it is welcome, and your Facebook statuses are filled with those words to a sickening degree. Thankfully, everyone must sense your excitement, because they're being uber supportive. Thus, when you're CEO of Awesomecorp (I'm a working mom now, folks. It's all about ambition! AMBITION!!) you shall reward them all for their allegiance to your corporate ladder climbing campaign.

10. As a writer, you're going to enjoy coming up with interesting ways to present your administrative assistant tasks during Career Day at your child's school. It takes an enormous amount of talent to make "filing" and "proofreading" sound like "surgical rotation" and "space exploration," but I think I can do it. I look forward to exercising my imagination muscles like most other parents on the planet.

11. Because you finally had an excuse (like you needed an excuse) to buy one of these beautiful things to put in place of worship upon your kitchen counter:

My life is now complete.

12. Your husband hugs you this morning, hands you a coffee, and says "I just want to thank you for everything you do to keep this family running smoothly. You're amazing and beautiful.**" And that small little thing blossoms into a really big thing and makes you get all teary. Dammit. And you realize that all the work you do - both inside and outside the home - is incredibly important to the your little family. That feels so. very. good.

*The jury's still out on whether or not those stains are peanut butter or another brown, organic substance, but I will deny, deny, deny until it can be proven otherwise.

**Okay, maybe he didn't say the "beautiful" part, but that was assumed, even in my nasty pyjama pant getup. It's not a workday, okay? Cut me some slacks.

Gluten-Free: Six Months Later

Eight months ago, I looked like this:

Two months after that was taken, in a desperate attempt to feel anything but sick, I took all gluten - wheat, barley, rye and anything derived from those products - out of my diet. After an uncomfortable week of withdrawals, I started to feel better - a lot better.

Today, about six months later, I look like this:

And yes, I have headphones on. I was listening to the Black Eyed Peas and didn't feel like stopping just to take a picture. I might be vain, but good music takes priority. 

The greatest thing about all of this is that I never did it for the weight loss. Honestly, I was sick of trying to lose weight. Anything I've ever done in the name of shedding pounds has backfired on me. I did this to get my health back, and my body is responding with a slow, but steady "Thank you!" And I am responding to my body responding by grinning every time I look in a mirror. I would say this is a rather pleasant side effect to improving the quality of my life.

I saw my doctor a couple of weeks ago for a physical and told her I had gone gluten-free. She was very supportive, especially after seeing the results on the scale. She does not recommend I get a formal test for Celiac Disease as I'll just cause myself unnecessary pain and sickness going back on the gluten in order to test for antibodies. It's very apparent that my body is allergic to gluten. Duh. As a result, I can never eat it again without getting sick. Ever. When I've accidentally ingested it at a restaurant or through cross-contamination making gremlin sandwiches and the like, I've been sick for two or three days. Yucky, awful, digestive issue sick. My symptoms point to Celiac Disease, and that's what I'm now informally diagnosed with.

I whined a lot in the first little while after being forced to make this lifestyle change. I like whining about new things as I adjust to them. It's my way of processing everything that's happened while simultaneously getting on everyone's nerves: two birds, one stone. I complained at how unfair this is, how hard it is, how tedious it is. The world makes it really easy to feel sorry for ourselves when we have to make a big change. I've quit drinking, smoking, and a few other unmentionables in my life, but gluten has definitely taken the cake - yes, that's a pun -  for most challenging in my day-to-day.

However, there's only so much bellyaching a girl can do before she has to accept what is and move on. I'm there, and looking rather fabulous in my acceptance if I do say so myself. There are some wonderful bonuses to being gluten-free. Allow me to explain:

1. I look hot. Oh, I'm sorry. Have I mentioned that already? My skin, my hair, my nails have all improved, and it's exciting to see what I look like underneath this weight. I love myself no matter what size I am - I had to learn to be kind to myself in that way years ago or risk passing on a lot of self-image crap to my kids - but I'm really enjoying this transformation. When I started, I was a size 20-22. I'm now a size 18, and will very shortly become a 16. I can't tell you the last time I was a 16. I think I might have been, uh, 16.

2. I have now have a healthy relationship with food. Food and I have made peace. I no longer crave carbs (save perhaps two days each month - and you can probably guess which two days), I just eat them when I happen to eat them. I will go without bread/bagels/insert-other-carby-food-here for weeks and not even miss them. I no longer need specific foods in my home or in my belly to feel happy/calm/like I'm taking care of myself. Food is no longer love nor comfort; It's a means to an end. I generally eat nutrient-dense foods that I've prepared myself rather than the processed, pre-packaged junk. The reason is twofold: First, eating out safely is a challenge unless I plan it in advance, and I can't afford to buy most pre-packaged gluten-free foods in the grocery store. Second, now that I don't buy them anymore, I don't really want them, either. My diet consists mostly of whole foods, and that's doing wonders for me in every way. I don't think I could have kicked my food issues as easily without having a disease that made me do it. That makes me very grateful, actually.

3. I'm super awesome. I'm more alert, less anxious, wittier, more creative, and overall a more interesting human being. Scientists didn't think it was possible to improve upon The Maven, but an unclouded mind in a detoxed body has made it so. How wondrous for all who are fortunate enough to know me. You're very welcome.

4. There is no 4, actually, but I figured that wasn't a very long list and I'm trying to impress people.

5. Or a 5, but I wanted to round it off. 5 points are better than 4, even if the fourth wasn't real. 

And there you have it: 3 5 great things that have happened to me since going gluten-free. I can't wait to see what the next 6 months bring.

How to be a Good Mom on a Bad Day

We all have them: those low points in our lives where we wish we could just go crawl into bed and watch nothing but Grey's Anatomy reruns with a box of tissues and a big bowl of eat-my-feelings chocolate-covered almonds. Those times when shutting out the world and forgetting we know anyone but those crazy, half-toothed guests on trashy talk shows would be the best self-help a girl could get.

Sadly, shutting out the world is generally reserved for the woman who has not, in the last 18 years, pushed a screaming watermelon out of her hooha. I was reminded of this yesterday when I was having one of those gallon-of-ice-cream-down-the-cry-hole days and Spawnling wanted to... play. The very last thing I wanted to do in the world was play. The very first thing was I wanted to do was scream, followed by cry, followed by maybe some good ol' fashioned moping. But I had no such luxury. Having had unprotected sex five years ago, my ability to lock myself away in my room was severely impeded.

(May the last sentence be a warning to all young girls who are sad right now and thinkibg "Maybe if I just had a baby, I'd have someone to love me and wouldn't feel sad anymore!" Uh, no, little emo chick. You'll feel sadder because you'd have stretch marks, and you won't have any time to write your cryptic Facebook statuses and notes with ex-boyfriends tagged in them anymore, because you'll be too busy catering to someone who cries even more than you do. Go talk to someone instead.)

Anyway, I had no choice but to abandon my hopes of curling up in the fetal position, and instead be a responsible mom. Ick.

It got me thinking about how I've managed to muddle through all those other days in my parental past where I've felt like absolute garbage. How have I done it? And, more importantly, what Mavenly wisdom can I pass along to the masses? Naturally, I've made a list. At 5:30 a.m. with a cup of decaf by my side, may I present to you my findings:

1. Keep busy. Very, very busy. If you're anything like me, the most dangerous thing to have on a bad day is time on your hands. When I'm stressed out, my mind can be a scary place with nary an off switch in sight. So, I make lots of plans. Since I had my first actual day off yesterday in at least two weeks (note to self: schedule yourself better so as to avoid future burnouts), I took Spawnling to the museum with some friends. That took up a good chunk of my day and staved off the emotional wrecking ball in my brain for awhile. When we were there, I saw this sign. Being the incredibly self-absorbed human I am, the title made me think it was put there just for me:

True dat.

Awesome! I'm dealing with extreme pressure right now! I thought to myself. And I was going to read it, until I realized it was on the side of a fake submarine. And then I saw the picture of the octopus:

Oh hai, octopus.

And I remembered we were in an ocean exhibit. Different kind of pressure. Just slightly more deadly. Gotcha.

2. Eat your feelings. It's okay to have a day where you shove your emotions down the gullet with some less-healthy options. Don't be a hero, dude. Say "yes" to chocolate! Say "yes" to cupcakes! Say "yes" to that fourth cup of coffee! Yes, you can. Or, if your stomach is too tied in knots to eat much, think about how skinny your going to be if this keeps up. I devoted at least 2 hours of my thought process yesterday to how many pounds I could take off if I felt this awful every day. The idea was almost as delicious as candy.

3. Reach out to someone. I know this sounds impossible with little ones underfoot, but it really can be done. A quick phone call or an email works - with junk food as toddler bribery. A coffee date carefully disguised as a playdate can fool your kids into thinking you did something nice for them when really it was all about you, you, you (suckers). It's incredible how someone else's words and understanding can pull you out of The Dark Place. Last night, I did a lot of talking; deep, heartfelt, gut-wrenching sharing with someone I trust. Then I came home and let my husband pamper me (so nice of me, I know). I watched two episodes of Mad Men - which is not quite Grey's Anatomy in terms of distraction, but definitely juicy enough to keep me entertained. Then I slept like a rock - until Spawnling crawled into our bed at 4:30 and I woke up just enough to start thinking about how I should go back to sleep. Game over.

4. Don't over-think. A friend of mine said this week that our thoughts are like a train, and that we're supposed to sit onside the tracks and watch it go by (I really hope I got that right). But sometimes, when we're over-thinking things, it's easy to grab hold of one of those cars and get violently whisked away from that peaceful place. I'm trying to stay passive in my thought processes and not touch the shiny cars. Hands off, watch them go by. Of course, the next question is "How on earth do you not do that, Maven?" Which leads into,

5. Enjoy the moment. Yesterday, as my head was clouded with a hundred racing train cars, Spawnling walked into my room, hopped up on my bed, and said "You know, Mom. We never used to have computers, or beds, or TVs, or anything! They weren't always here. And in the future, we'll have new things that are really cool" He paused for a moment, thinking, then said "It's like the world is a story that never ends..." Wow. The train came to a halt as I absorbed what my philosophical four-year-old had just said. I blocked the tracks with cattle, dumped out the coal, and breathed in a very special moment. Later, I sat for a few minutes and sang Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" with the littlest gremlin, back and forth, back and forth, listening to his sweet little voice when it was his turn. That boy is so full of wonderful, which leads into,

6. Embrace joy - and I'm not talking about the scowling cafeteria lady downstairs by the same name. It's not always an easy thing to do on bad days, but joy is always there, hiding in the peripherals of our clouded vision. Sometimes it finds us, and all we have to do is let it in. When I was in my not-so-happy place yesterday, the universe thought it a good time to remind me of how lucky I am. Spawnling and I were at the museum with friends, but what we didn't realize is that there was a school trip filled with a bunch of other people we knew who were visiting at the same time. And, believe it or not, that was the second time this week this has happened to us, in different museums and with different schools. I lost track of the people I ran into yesterday, and how many hugs, handshakes and laughs we had. Joy: It's everywhere. I just needed an extra big dose yesterday, and it was delivered right to my front door-- or the museum. But whatever, I'm not picky.

I woke up ridiculously early this morning, but I'm feeling a lot better. Yesterday was tough. Those are days I sometimes wish I didn't have, but they're ones I wouldn't trade for the world, either: growth days, reminder days, days that make me grateful for the less painful ones. I threw my grappling hook up and caught the side of the pit, and pulled myself up - with a little help.

And I did it all with a four-year-old on my back. Good job, me. The Maven, as always, rocks on.

What do you do on a bad day? Any advice to impart? Do share.

Gutsy the 8yr. old Vs. The Maven, round 3,592

If you lived here, you'd be Gutsy's mom. Photo credit: http://mistressofthemoonlight.wordpress.com/

He wouldn't get out of bed this morning; the lump of an eight-year-old curled up in his blankets, unwilling, unmotivated, and unnecessarily unkind.

He moaned and groaned and hesitated. He whined and flopped and complained. I coaxed, encouraged, and enticed with promises of breakfast and hugs. Nothing worked.

After 25 minutes, I left his room, snapping "Get up and get dressed, now. I have to make your lunch." My patience had been properly trampled. "And whatever you do, don't start yelling for me. Just get up, put your clothes on and come and see me for breakfast."

He yelled back "Mommy! Mooommmyyyy!" in the whiniest, loudest most grating voice he could conjure up. Truly, the child has mastered the exact pitch that will push all my buttons at once. But I breathed through it, and walked into the kitchen over his protests. I knew what he wanted: he wanted me to keep coaxing, to keep playing the wake-up game. I refused. Maven don't play that anymore.

I ushered him into the van as he protested - rather loudly, I might add. The neighbours walking by had a front row seat as he blamed me for absolutely everything. Everything was my fault: it's my job to get him out of bed on time to eat breakfast, it's my job to get make sure he's happy, it's my job not to send him to school when he's this upset. "It's all your fault, mommy!"

As we drove the two minutes to school, he told me through tears how he's going to take a whole bunch of stuff from people he hates and use it to buy a mansion (I'm thinking he must hate a lot of people - or at least a decent amount of rich people). And he's going to move in his best friends, and maybe his brothers and his dad, but not me. Oh, no, definitely not his mean ol' mom. He's going to buy me a smaller house and make me live there.

I'm being punished via square footage. Extra points for creativity.

We got to school at exactly eight (which is when it starts), he in tears, me close to it, my blood pressure likely high enough to harness as fuel and light a small city. I let him calm down in the van and eat his granola bar - which he was righteously pissed off about getting for breakfast, as he wanted cereal and I told him there wasn't enough time. We got in as the late slips were about to be given out, and I got him off to class just in time. By the skin of our teeth, with resentment still in his eyes.

So, like, it's been a really lovely day so far.

*~*~*~*

I've come to the point where I've accepted that this is what some of our mornings are going to be like. This is Gutsy, and this is the way he behaves when he's tired or stressed. I can't change his core personality. I can only my best to work with it. If he doesn't feel motivated then he doesn't want to get up, period. Sometimes the promise of meeting a friend at recess is enough, or the fact that the teacher lets him turn on the computers if he gets there early enough, or the dollar we've started dropping into a jar every time he gets out the door on time.

But sometimes none of that is enough, and we're stuck with a child who seemingly has an overactive anger gland.*

The last time he did this, which was about a week ago, I literally picked him up and put him in the van as he screamed at me. It was much worse than this time, and the hurtful things spewing from his mouth were epic. Everything, of course, was my fault. It was like a scene from the exorcist, except his head wasn't spinning around all that much.

When he got home in a cheery mood that afternoon, I said "Gutsy, I think we need to talk about what happened this morning."

He put his school bag on the ground and walked toward me with open arms, saying, "It's okay, Mom. I know you were just trying to get me to school on time."  There it was: after a few hours of reflection, he had realized he was wrong. My usually sensible and loving child had used his giant brain and figure things out. A light had gone on. He was a changed person.

He wrapped his arms tightly around me.  "I forgive you," he whispered gently.

I took a very deep breath and fell into his hug. Sometimes you just have to let it go.

I look forward to his interpretation of this morning's screamfest. Truly, I do.

*There is no scientific proof of an anger gland, but I'm quite sure one exists. Or, in Gutsy's case, quite possibly two.

The Cake of Hate

Photo Credit: http://comesitbymyfire.blogspot.com/

In case you've been living under a rock for the last ten days, you probably figured out that I epically failed at the whole NaBloPoMo thing. This whole "one blog post every day for a month" is not meant for me at this time in my life. I am far too busy in my role as mayor of Very Important Personville (population: 1). I just finished a sizeable contract, have another one on the horizon, and another-other one on its way. Then there are my feisty little gremlins, of course, and a house that looks more like an episode of Hoarders than anything on HGTV.

If I manage to put together two posts a week, I will throw myself a damn parade.

I could beat myself up about not meeting this lofty goal I set, but frankly I've been my own best punching bag enough lately. There's no need to add more icing on the cake of hate.

Or "hate cake". Both are kind of catchy, really.

It's ironic that my last blog post had to do with self-esteem, ego and all that, because I've fallen so far down the slippery slope of self-love that I'm scrambling to fasten enough vines together to pull myself back up. I'm not a big fan of Me right now. "And why is that?" you ask with a fair bit of bewilderment. Well, I'm glad you asked. I worked through a lot of it today, I think. But first I really need to paint a picture of this less-than-fabulous Monday morning.

I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to both the cat meowing and Spawnling calling me from upstairs. Spawnling came into our bed and the cat stopped her noisemaking, so I went back to sleep.

That is, until Spawn peed the bed - our bed - and I had to take care of that. I then fell back asleep and woke up at 7:15 - a full 45 minutes after my alarm is supposed to go off. This is because Geekster set the alarm for 7:30 a.m on Saturday so he could wake up for Tae Kwon Do and never set it back to 6:30. I never checked the alarm before bed, so... yeah. Oops. It's a good thing my internal clock woke up me, or we would have been far more pressed for time.

It's Monday, and we have now woken up late. Oh, and my cat is eating a mouse on the kitchen floor. Fabulous.

Gutsy had a tummy ache last night which persisted into this morning, so we kept him home. One gremlin home on a would-be childless Monday isn't the end of the world, but certainly not what I had planned for my first actual day off in days (I've been a busy worker bee the last couple of weeks - especially on gremlin-free days).

So now it's Monday, we woke up late, there's half a mouse on my floor, and a sick child home.

And just when I think the day can't possibly get any more fan-freaking-tastic, I remember that I have a doctor's appointment. A pap test, even. And my doc's office is a thirty minute drive.

And guess what? It's fucking snowing. Like, a lot.

That was the start of my Monday. Add to this that I'm feeling ridiculously small and insecure lately, and I just knew that if I didn't do something, I was going to take a day trip into my Dark Place. I don't go there very often, but when I do it's not exactly a fun excursion.  It's all rainclouds and misery and heaping servings of self-pity. Considering I'm The Maven and do everything big and impressive, you can only imagine how impressive my Dark Place is. (It got a five-star rating in last year's Depressive Traveller's Guide.)

I'm a woman of action. These things need to be nipped in the bud quickly so they don't fester. I decided the best thing to do was to get some therapy. So I emailed a friend of mine and offered her coffee in exchange for her couch and wise words. She wrote back right away with an invitation to come by, and I truly believe that turned my entire day around. I told her everything that's been bothering me lately - baring my soul in a way everyone has to do from time to time. She did all those things a good therapist does, like nodding and empathizing and interjecting with some sound advice from time to time. And, in the end, we both agreed that I'm running predominantly on fear these days. Not exactly healthy.

All three of my children have had a hard time with transitions. Switching gears is a challenge for them. Time for dinner = tears at giving up playing trains. Time for bed = tantrum over turning off the t.v. I used to blame the sugar (my favourite scapegoat), but I'm kind of seeing a genetic connection right now - although I'll deny it if anyone asks me.

I'm in this high point of transition in my life. The kids are getting older, I'm going back to work part-time,  There are big, healthy lifestyle changes going on. I'm no longer who I was just a few months ago.  She was amazing, but this new woman emerging is going to shine even brighter. Like my friend said to me this morning, I just have to go through the process of shedding my old skin first, and that can be uncomfortable. I'm going to have doubts, I'm going to have worries, I'm going to have that little voice in my head telling me that I'm not good enough, not strong enough, not awesome enough. I'm going to need reassurance from those close to me. But, more importantly, I'm going to have to learn to reassure myself that everything is okay; that I'm going to be okay; that I am The Maven and I totally rock - even during my weaker moments.

I mean, who else can have an impromptu therapy session for the cost of a coffee? Major score.

I left her place and drove through the snow, belting out tunes and enjoying the scenery. I walked into the doctor's office smiling, and she said she wished everyone was that happy about getting a pap test.

Now I'm home, blogging for the first time in days, and feeling a little bit lighter. Things are going to be okay as soon as I get this skin off.  Anyone have a good exfoliator?