You don't like me. And that's O.K.

There are two moms at my son's school who I am quite sure don't like me.

They don't actually look like this.

It's not that they're necessarily unfriendly toward me - they'll speak to me and they'll smile at me - but there's a coolness there that I'm not seeing when they engage other people in discussion.

Like, as in, they actually engage other people in discussion. I could stand around one or both of them for a good length of time and I won't get much more than a polite "hello" or, if I push a little, an awkward conversation where we're both trying to get out of it because it's clearly not working. Like bad sex. Ever had bad sex and you're kind of just wanting to get it over with so you can never call each other again? Exactly like that, but at a school and with clothes on.

At first I thought maybe they're just uncomfortable in my presence because I'm a fine specimen of a human being. I have great hair and can knock back an extra-large coffee faster than you can say "Maven, you shouldn't drink coffee so fast because it can burn your esophagus and cause your heart to rupture." Who wouldn't be a little intimidated by my mad skillages?

But then, one day, I added it all up. And I remembered what I learned flipping through that book "He's Just Not That Into You" while I was at the bookstore bored out of my mind and drinking a latte at esophagus-scorching speeds. And it dawned on me: Hey, Maven? These chicks just aren't that into you.

Weird, right? I get that every now and then. Some people, for whatever reason, just don't really like me. Blows. My. Mind.

My old self would have been heartbroken by this realization. I'm The Maven, mistress of mayhem, caffeine whisperer, recipient of the Mediocre Parenting Award several years running... and I'm funny, dammit. What's not to like?

And then I would have tried to do everything in my power to make them appreciate me the way I should be appreciated.

I would have figured out their interests by listening to the conversations they have with other parents. Then, when I initiated strained polite conversation with them the next time, I would have thrown in, "Boy, I can't wait to go track down broken pieces of tile so I can make that bistro table this weekend. Oh, that's right! You do mosaics too, don't you?" then prayed that I wasn't asked what kind of glue I use or what finishing spray I prefer or whatever it is you use when you do mosaics because I only watched enough of a YouTube video to know that you glue things around other things so that they fit and look nice.

I would have studied their look - because everyone has a look - and determined that they're hipster types, then taken a gamble that they're also attachment parenting types because the two tend to go together from previous observation. And then I would have thrown things around, like my 2 years studying lactation, my work as a postpartum doula, the fact that I nursed my co-slept babies until they were ready to wean, and other things that make AP parents weak in the knees. And then, when they erected a shrine to my crunchy, I would have maybe invited them over for a playdate so I could feed them organic, fair-traded, locally-roasted coffee while our kids went all Waldorf in the backyard.

And if none of that worked, I would have stayed up late a few nights, sad and wondering what the hell is so wrong with me that people don't like me.

I've always had this deep desire to be accepted. This might have something to do with being a complete outcast at school, and possibly getting set on fire in grade 7 (I wish I was kidding - even though that would be a bad joke.) Having grown up feeling awkward, different and out of place, there has always been this need to get people to like me even if I had to go to great lengths to do it. You being my friend - your validation - meant that I was okay. Your approval of me, my decisions, my opinions meant that I was a good person. And if you didn't like me, that certainly meant I was defective.

That line of thinking, my friends (or not friends - and that's okay), is exhausting. It's toxic and debilitating. Imagine the effort I put in. I could have done so many other things with that energy, like cleaned my windows or solved the global food crisis. Instead of focusing on the people in my life who do accept me, I chose to obsess over the people who didn't.

But it goes deeper than that.

Focusing on the people who accept me isn't good, either. Friend counting isn't the answer because a set number of people in my posse should not define me or how I feel about myself. Yes, I have a big support circle, but if I don't like me then that's not going to make me feel better when someone doesn't choose to hop on board the Maven Love Train.

(I really wish there was a Maven Love Train. It would be hot pink and have disco balls in the cars, and people could ride for a pound of coffee and a promise to do a karaoke duet with me.)

It took a lot of soul-searching to realize that I was still trying to make those kids at school like me. And I never will because that was a long time ago and I can't change what happened. School pretty much sucked, and that's unfortunate, but it also made me into the person I am today. The person who, unfortunately, does not have a hot pink locomotive at her disposal.

I had to learn to like me for me and be comfortable in my own shoes. Do I have faults? I sure do. I'm obnoxious, inappropriate, loud, opinionated, verbose, and I tend to use big words even when it's unnecessary. There's some other stuff too but I was starting to depress myself a little. Everyone has faults. We are perfectly imperfect human beings; works of art that take a lifetime to complete. There's still a lot to like about me, however, and I'm finding that I appreciate those things more and more as I get older. As I grow and learn to love myself, what other people think of me becomes less important.

The surprising thing here is not that these women don't seem to like me (although we all know how surprising that is), but that I found myself - for the first time ever - perfectly okay with that. I smile at them when I see them and I do try to make a bit of conversation, but only so we don't stand around in awkward silence and act like we're doing other things, such as rudely texting people when there's a live person in front of you to talk to. I don't dislike them for disliking me, either. There's no big resentment there because I'm not offended. That was huge for me. It's really okay that we won't be BFFs. I don't need to tell them I'm a crunchy goddess or pretend I slice my fingers on ceramics making tables. I broadcast amazingness all the time; they're just not tuned into my channel, that's all.

Kids, the moral of the story is this: You may not be everybody's cup of tea, but as long as you enjoy your own taste, that's all that matters.

Shit, no. No. That came out all wrong. So very, very wrong. Let's try again.

Kids, the moral of the story is this: You may or may not be everybody's cup of tea, but as long as you know you're steeped in awesomeness, that's all that matters.

There we go.

Writer's block, or the thing that took your fourteenth favourite blogger away

I feel like a very bad blogger.

I've been riddled with writer's block, you see, which should be called "anxiety for artistic people, who of course have to come up with a special name for everything because they're a bunch of hipsters." Every time I stare at the cursor and think about what I'm going to write, I worry that it's going to suck. Really, really suck. I have major performance anxiety.  My penis pen keyboard wants to do it, but it just can't. There is nothing more maddening to a writer than writer's block. Nothing.

Except maybe anything to do with Kim Kardashian and her wasteful life of airheadedness (yes, I made up a word just for her), but that goes without saying.

This weekend I got together with a fellow writer. When I bemoaned my writer's block, I was promptly told that I just need to write through it. Maybe it won't be good, but I should scrawl through the suckage, accept that not everything that comes out of my fingertips is going to be literacy gold, and then keep writing.

This concept is hard for me because, as a general rule, I'm pretty damn perfect. Well, if you overlook a few things like frizzy hair and sanity and parenting skills, anyway. It's hard for me to wrap my beautiful brain around something mediocre making it past quality control and onto the internet with my name attached to it. And yet, it happens. Sadly, not everything I write, not everything I say, not everything I do is or will be amazing.

I know, right? Mind-boggling.

The good news: Other than not writing, I've also been not painting. So at least I'm doing themed psychological events, which shows off my organizational skills nicely.

I bought an expensive camera on the weekend, which probably means that I'll be not taking pictures soon, too. It probably also means I'm not going to eat quite as much over the next month or so until the money tree replenishes itself. Food is so overrated, anyway. I think I need to start suffering more for my art. The camera is a Nikon D5100 and it takes great pictures; or it will as soon as I learn how to use it. And then it won't anymore when I start fretting over my pictures sucking. In the meantime, I'm learning all about shutter speed and aperture.

I didn't even know "aperture" was a word until Saturday afternoon. I wish that was a joke.

I'm also still going to the gym five mornings a week for an hour or so each time. It'll be 9 weeks tomorrow. My calves are starting to look almost as great as I feel and I'm down somewhere between 15 and 20 pounds. Here's a picture I didn't take with my new camera:

I know it's  not a full-body picture. Believe me, I know.

All the kids are doing well. Intrepid is taller than I am and has decided he's going into medicine. Huh. how about that? My son wants to be a doctor. I'm now considering taking out a out a large life insurance policy on myself and practicing my stunt driving - backwards, near a cliff. Gutsy is addicted to a game called Minecraft, which basically rules his life. I've been using any bit of creativity I have to pull him away from his laptop without any rage ensuing. So far, so good, mostly.  Spawnling is hilarious when he's not talking back - well, and even when he is. I'm simultaneously excited and embarrassed for him to start kindergarten next year. I have a feeling we'll be seeing the inside of the principal's office a fair bit.

Oh, and my husband? He's attractive and does the laundry. I needn't say more than that.


Anyway, I guess the trick to writing is just to write.

Write and write and write some more.

Write junk.

Re-write it with an extra-large coffee on your desk.

Write until you cry.

Write until your own stuff makes you laugh (classic narcissist behaviour; I do this often)

Write until you bash my head into the keyboard (again, this is a fairly common event.)

Write until you romanticize the idea of inhaling too much oven cleaner and heading toward the light (thankfully not as common).

Write until you say, "ah, screw it," and put it up on the internet for other people to read, like I'm about to do with this blog post.

Things I wish my younger self knew about raising quirky kids

Yesterday evening was exhausting. It was panic-induced meltdown city starring the middle gremlin over something not-so-big. The whole thing, which, with a typical child, would have taken an a few minutes, took over an hour. An hour of my senses being pounded with outdoor voice usage, stomping, begging, crying.

And did I mention I ate my dinner through it all? Look, don't judge me. You don't go to the gym five days a week and not take your food seriously, ok? It was leg day, and leg day is killer. Nothing can stop my mouth from inhaling protein on leg day. Not even a very loud nine-year-old.

You know what, though? I handled it pretty well, and so did he. Given what we've been through over the last several years, it wasn't that bad. It was one episode over one hour of a twenty-four hour period. It's no longer a daily occurrence, so I can deal with that. Things are getting better, slowly, with time and maturity - on both our parts. We're learning how to do this better. 

I've learned so very much over the last nine years; nuggets of wisdom I wish I could pass back through time and hand to twenty-six-year-old me who held that beautiful ten pound baby boy in her arms and had no idea what the future held. I can't do that, so instead I'm going to share them here in the hopes that maybe someone just like me can read them and get something out of it. (Also, I will use "he" a lot, as I'm writing from my own experiences with my son. If you have a daughter, you can use that handy-dandy replacement trick where you replace "he" with "she" in your head, and maybe not go all troll on me about gender neutrality and such, ok? Ok. Thanks.)

Things I wish my younger self knew about raising quirky kids:

1. Surprise! You have a quirky kid. You know that older child you have and all those other children you know? He's not quite like them. You're probably going to have this idea that he should be because that's what you anticipated and that's what all the parenting articles tell you, but you need to get over that for his sake and yours. Step one: Accept the child you have and not the child you thought he would be. Not an easy task, I assure you. But you can do it. That whole unconditional love thing helps a lot.

2. Sometimes you're going to lose your shit. After a really bad day, after getting screamed at for long periods of time without reprieve, after not getting a single moment to yourself to recover, you're going to regret what you feel was an irrational or bad decision. These will be your darkest moments as a parent. These are the things that will haunt you and eat you alive if you let them. You love this little boy and you want to be the very best parent you can be for him. But it's okay, it really is. You're not a bad parent. You're not a terrible, abusive parent who's going to make the six o'clock news. You're just a mom at the end of her rope. Accept your limitations, apologize when you feel you need to, and move on. You're doing the best you can, and that's good enough. You may not see it right now, but it really is. And as he continues to grow up and mature into a really fantastic kid, you'll know you've done well. So go easy on yourself.

3. It's okay to ask for help. I know you're a strong, independent person who doesn't like to lean on people too much, but this is a non-negotiable item on the list. Look, families with typical kids need a good support circle; You're going to need a support circle on steroids. You're going to need to find your support circle on Muscle Beach, pumping iron, and ask it to lift you up. It won't mind because you're awesome. Trust me.

4. When you realize that you need to take things to the next level, do it. Get professional help. It's worth it.  Therapy doesn't mean you can't handle things or that there's something terribly wrong with him. It will simply give everyone the skills to communicate more effectively and to understand one another better. Your kiddo is going to take it to like a fish to water, and you're going to breathe a sigh of relief when you see that therapy is helping to shift the family's dynamic to a much healthier one. In fact, you'll likely wonder why you didn't do it sooner.

5. Don't desperately seek a diagnosis for your child. It's not going to make him "better." At the same time, don't desperately avoid one, either. When you find a therapist that says "I don't want to overdiagnose and slap a big label on him, but I also don't want to under-diagnose him and possibly miss something important," you know you've struck mental health professional gold. That's a happy medium that works. Do the testing and see what happens. No matter the outcome, he's still the beautiful little person you love. That will never change.

6. Stay connected to your spouse. He is the greatest support you have. Don't lose each other in the chaos and the stress. Communicate, laugh, hug, cuddle, make love. Divorce rates are higher when there are special needs kids involved. Don't let that fact scare you, let it empower you.

7. Take time for you. Please, please, take care of yourself. Don't let yourself slip into depression, eat too much, not sleep enough, or stop doing the things that give you joy. Don't manage emotions with food, and don't use your kids as an excuse not to be healthier. If anything, your kids - especially your quirky one - need you at your best. You're going to feel as though you're drowning in responsibility and exhaustion. You're going to feel as though you have nary a second to spare for you. You're going to come up with a lot of reasons not to put yourself first. But put yourself first anyway. Force yourself. Go out with friends, eat more vegetables, paint, write, make exercise a daily priority. Make you a priority. You'll be happier, have more energy, and be able to handle everything with more patience and kindness. You are the only mother they have; the only mother they'll ever have. What would they do without you? Let's not find out the answer for a very long time. 

8. Your son is not an extrovert. Don't try and make him one. Instead, accept who he is and help him practice his people skills a little at a time. He's going to be out of his shell at school all day, pushing himself to work in groups, play with friends and speak in front of the class. He's going to need down time when he gets home. Let him use the computer longer than you feel he should, as long as he plays with his brothers, does his chores, eats dinner with the family and completes his homework.

9. He is probably never going to like showers/baths, certain food textures/combinations, "scratchy" clothes, or falling asleep with the TV off. Get over it. This is not a negative reflection on your parenting. In fact, accepting that's just part of who he is makes you a progressive parent. Very trendy. Just please make sure he washes his hair anyway.

10. The fact that he's a little different than the norm is okay. In fact, it's downright awesome in a lot of ways. Think about it: you tore open your pack of gum and found the rare baseball card inside. But instead of a pack of gum it was a uterus and instead of tearing it open you-- well, okay, that part of the analogy is pretty similar. The point is, he's unique and has a lot to teach you. Some of the teachings are obvious, like learning to exercise a great deal of patience and understanding. Others, however, are more subtle, like learning to see the world in a new and unique way through his eyes. Remember that this small package has a big gift inside, even if it's not the one you ordered. 

7 Things Never to Say to a Stressed Out Parent

I get stressed, you get stressed, and if you're a parent then you're probably ready to lose your shit at least half the time. And I'm being pretty generous.

I asked some of my Facebook friends with kids what they hate hearing the most from well-meaning loved ones and strangers, alike. The response was overwhelming. I picked my favourites, but will likely need to do a follow-up post at some point to address the rest of them.

If you don't have kids - or if it's been a long time since you've had smaller beings underfoot - I feel it's my duty to warn you what not to say to a stressed out parent in the thick of things. You know, that mom holding her screaming baby on the bus, or the woman who's dragging her wailing child out of the grocery store? The one who looks like she just might snap or burst into tears at any moment? The one who's hair is standing up no end but doesn't look to have her finger in an electrical socket just now? The one who's bags under her eyes are big enough to pack for a 10 day vacation? That one.

This is a post reminding you to think before you speak. I figure you might like your head and not want to get it bitten off. I figure you might be enjoying your shopping trip and not want to get body-checked into the deli counter. I figure you might like your life and want to keep breathing. I know you might mean the very best with your unsolicited comments, I really do. And very likely, after the hormonal rage exacerbated by lack of sleep has subsided, I'm sure that woman will, too.

7 THINGS NOT TO SAY TO A STRESSED-OUT MOM (and what we're thinking when you say it):

1. "Maybe you should be more strict/follow a schedule."
Wow. I'm floored. That's genius! This whole time I've been letting them do whatever they want whenever they want, figuring that would make things run more smoothly around here. Gosh, I still have a lot to learn about this parenting stuff. Thank you so much for this out-of-the-box suggestion.  Have you considered a career as a childhood psychologist?

2. "You look/sound/smell/taste like you could use a break."
Um, thanks. Here's my golden rule: Don't tell me I could use a break unless you're offering to give me one. All that's going to accomplish is remind me that I haven't had a break in a long time and that I seem to look like ass-on-a-stick as a result. The best thing you can do for an overwhelmed mom is suggest she take a break and follow that up with times when you're free to watch the kids while she gets one.  That will make you an A-lister in her books. Moms love guilt-free breaks.

3. "Don't forget to make time for yourself."
As in, you would like me to manufacture more hours in the day? That's a neat trick.

I'm actually guilty of saying this to people on occasion, because getting a break is essential at any stage of the parenting game. As the kids get older it does become easier, I promise. When I can't leave the house and I need immediate "me" time, I generally just lock myself in my room with loud music (blocks the screaming) and the internet (dancing cat videos distract my eyes from seeing the door shaking as it's being pounded upon) and cookies (no explanation required). This is actually how most of my blog posts are made.

4. "My children would never have acted like that because if they did they would have had it coming. You should just put your foot down."
Buddy, you're about to have something coming.


Let me just get out my clue bat for you. Hold still: If all you had to do was "put your foot down" there wouldn't be so many parenting books, blogs, seminars, websites, psychologists, psychiatrists, wine bottle purchases and anti-depressant prescriptions. Parenting is simply not that cut and dry.


If your kids didn't drive you crazy sometimes, they were either extremely atypical or terrified of you. Both of those things likely required therapy in adulthood. So get of your high horse - you are not a hero.

5. "Enjoy every single moment! You'll miss this in 10 years."
Things I will miss:
Smiling babies, preschool crafts, snuggles, play, laughter, Christmas morning magic.

What I won't miss:
Everything else.

What I'm missing right now:
Tranquility, sanity, cleanliness, low blood pressure, being able to finish an entire cup of coffee without having it go cold on the counter.

6. "I knew someone with a child like yours. Boy, the teen years were tough!"
Thank you so much for that infusion of hope. I'm going to go find a tall bridge now.


7. "Hi, Honey! What's for dinner? Is it ready? I'm starving."
Well, I wasn't sure until just now because I've been so busy picking up toys and breaking up fights and helping with homework. But I think we're having lasagna with a slice of homicide pie, dear. Go wash up.

Today I got a speeding ticket, and other great things

It pretty much went down like this.

One day I was minding my own business and I got a speeding ticket.

That was today, by the way, and I really was minding my own business. I was minding it so much, in fact, that I completely overlooked the sign where 70km/h goes down to 50km/h and I sped through at 75. And I also overlooked the not-so-ghost-like police car at the corner, until the officer pointed at me, turned on his lights, and pulled me over.

I would like to say he let me off. I would love to say that I burst into tears in front of him and he took pity on me with a warning, or that I flashed some cleavage or did some other very inappropriate girl thing and he winked and reduced my fine. Sadly, neither of those things took place. I didn't cry (until I got home), I didn't flash any cleavage, and he most certainly dinged me for the full amount.

What sucks about this whole ordeal is that I had a very legitimate reason to be going that fast. And the universe seemingly screwed me over, which was not very nice of it considering how saintly I was today.

Yes, I also like how I used "legitimate" in a sentence in which I blatantly broke the law. We may all stop laughing now so I can get on with my story.

And I'm actually not even close to saintly, but I'm going to stop at that and leave it up to your imagination-- not yours, mom. Please skip this paragraph entirely before you rent me my own confession booth.

Today I cut my workout in half, put aside submitting bids for two contracts and turned down a shift as a noon hour supervisor at Gutsy's school so I could hang out with my baby brother. Making money is helpful right now, but it doesn't hold a candle to my Michael. Mike has Downs Syndrome, and he needs a buddy at all times. My mom - who's about eleventeen times more saintly than me - had to take my grandma for a medical procedure and I offered to take Mike for the day.  My mom does so much for us, so it's the least I could do.

But let's keep going like I'm some kind of a big deal. Feeling sorry for me is an important component to the tale.

The day was going swimmingly. I don't spend nearly enough time with Mike, so I was more than happy to hang out for a few hours. He bought me lunch (my mooching knows no bounds), we had lots of laughs, everything was great.

We had just brought my friend a coffee because she had injured herself and hadn't had one all day (a serious emergency, if you ask me) when my mom called. She needed a hand ASAP back at my grandma's house. This was the plan in my head:

2:00 p.m.: Help mom and grandma because I am an amazing daughter/granddaughter
2:15 p.m.: Leave grandma's house with Mike and bring him home for dinner because I am an amazing sibling
2:20 p.m.: Pick up Spawnling from school because I am an amazing mother
2:35 p.m.: Drive across town and pick up Gutsy from his school town because I'm an amazing mo-- wait, I already earned that achievement at 2:20... because I'm an amazing driver.

Except I'm not an amazing driver, apparently, because I failed epically to notice that cop around 1:58 p.m. in his so obvious lame-o burgundy cop car, and now I have a $125 ticket and 2 demerit points gone.

And the worst part? It was my very first ticket, ever.

And the worst-worst part? I felt so very sorry for myself on account of it being my very first ticket ever that I got because I was running around being a great everything for everyone. How is that fair? How could the universe do that to me?

So I ranted to my friend Liliane, and I ranted to my friend Robyn, and I ranted to my friend Christie, and I ranted to my husband (yes, I really needed to rant four times to get through all of that). And know what I did when I was done ranting? I texted Jes Lacasse, who is my brand new friend, mutual admirer, and, I've decided, my attitude sponsor.

A couple of weeks ago after I posted the dark sobby emo post, I received an incredibly insightful letter from a near-stranger. In it she acknowledged how blue I was, but didn't sit in my puddle of despair with me for very long. In fact, she threw on her rain boots (which I'm sure were quite lovely, because she has a serious passion for fashion) grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out of it with her positivity. She suggested that I needed to reshape my thinking; that I had so much in my life, including my wonderful partner and kids. She said I needed to try, as hard as it might be right then, to look at life from a place of abundance rather than lack, and that doing so has done great things for her. She even said I could call or text her any time if I wanted to.

An email out of nowhere from a random creeper (well, we met briefly at BOLO last year, but I had to look at her picture and see the attention-grabbing pink hair to remember that. Until then she was a creeper, albeit a thoughtful one).

I figured had two choices:

- Electronically slap her in the face and climb back into my puddle, or,
- Give what she said some serious thought because, after all, the water I was sitting in was getting kinda cold.

I took door #2, and behind it was a new friend. I even graced her with a text, which turned into a fabulous conversation.

Once she started pulling my hair she just couldn't get enough, obviously, so she dragged me back to Twitter, too. I'd never fully embraced the ADHD-like business of the platform, but I've been giving it a shot and I rather like it. You can find me as @StayAtHomeMaven. I can almost be witty with 140 characters or less. Almost.

I got together with Jes yesterday for sushi and manicures, the combination of which made me feel incredibly upscale. We couldn't be any more different in most ways. I listened in fascination as she brought me into her world - the world of a childless, unmarried fashion entrepreneur. I was captivated, and yet confused. This chick did know that I'm a stay-at-home-mom who gets her hair cut at the bargain place and owns 4 pairs of pants and half a dozen pairs of shoes, right? I was quite sure I had mentioned that this was my first manicure since my wedding day in 1997, and that my excitement normally begins and ends with a Friday trip to the children's section at the library. Totally boring, fairly predictable. That's how I roll.

And yet she's totally into me. She may not put it quite like that, but she is. I suppose it must be my charisma. I am basted in some pretty spicy awesome sauce. On the other hand, it could also be my hotness. Because next to modesty and charisma, that's what I have the most of. Whatever the case, I'm glad I can send her random texts like this:

"I am trying to see the abundance in the $125 speeding ticket I just got while I was rushing around helping family members. PMS is not helping." 

And receive this:

"Oh honey pie that's balls. Here is the lesson: do everything at the right speed"

Do everything at the right speed.

How deep is that shit? I know, right? Out of a parking ticket. Amazing. Acknowledge that it totally sucked, and then throw something good at me to change my mood.

If she can do that to my psyche, imagine what the girl could do for my wardrobe.

One step at a time, Maven. One step at a time. Do everything at the right speed and all that.

So let's not tell her how dull I am, okay? We'll let the hip manicure-getting, sushi-eating, clothes-savvy, abundance-receiving text stalker of mine keep on thinking I'm full of greatness.

I'll feel much more full of greatness after I pay off my debt to society.

On the other hand, being a wanted criminal takes my stay-at-home-mom street cred to a whole new level.

Adventures in Exercising

My new Frienemy

I've done a lot of great things for myself over the years. I quit drinking and smoking, I gave up gluten, and I now eat a 95% whole foods diet low in grains and sugar (PMS week chocolate excluded). All these things were done gradually, when I felt ready to do them. I don't rush into things because it always leads to serious inner rebellion. This has happened several times when I've tried to add exercise in because 'That's what healthy people are supposed to do." I lost my motivation because I wasn't doing it for the right reasons, and that was always my downfall.

Anyway, as we all know by now, I was sitting in my puddle of emo recently, feeling oh-so-awful about myself and lamenting about how I never have time to do anything for me. I whined to people, I cried into my pillow like a brokenhearted pre-teen, I got angry at the world. I sang the same song over and over to anyone who would listen: Boo-hoo, my life is so hard. I have three kids and two have special needs and I do everything for everybody else and I try my best to lose weight and it never works because I have hormone imbalances and a thyroid that hates me and I try to do nice things for myself but all I feel is stressed out, and blah blah blah, cry cry cry.

But eventually this grotesque display of self-pity stirred something within me. By Wednesday I had finally had enough of the sadness, the anger, the excuses.

So I went out and spontaneously signed up for a gym.

For a year.

And I was there the very next morning with my shoes and my water bottle and my workout clothes, ready to tackle my demons, physical, mental, and emotional.

Anyway, I've never really been a gym member. I was ever so temporarily in early 1996, before Intrepid graced my stomach and I got too sick and too tired to trek down to the gym for several months. After that, I developed a phobia of sweaty skinny people. As a fat girl, there's a serious confidence issue when faced with size six sorority sisters looking fabulous as they run like gazelles on the treadmills beside me. I had to get over that. I think I have. In fact, I've come to a few key realizations in the last couple of days at the gym:

- I'm ridiculously out of shape. No, for realz.

- I'm doing more than just losing weight; I'm breaking down the walls of fat I've been hiding behind. I kept them up for so long because a part of me felt safe behind them. In a way, I was trying to protect myself from the world. But I'm stronger now. I don't need them anymore.

- Other people make the elliptical look nice and easy, just getting on her and riding her like that. It turns out that's a lie. She's not easy at all; she's nun-like, nun-ish. She's a nunliptical. I'm sore all over after trying to ride her for 20 minutes on Wednesday. I think we could have something special, but we're going to have to do some serious work on our relationship.

- I have far more reasons to get healthy than I do excuses not to get healthy.

- Joining a gym costs money, but it also costs if I don't invest in my health today. Eventually I'll likely end up with various treatments, medication and visits to specialists. Because of my weight and hormonal condition (I have PCOS), I'm a prime target for several serious health conditions, including type 2 diabetes, heart disease and cancer. I don't want to be told in 10 years that I'm really sick and then wonder why I didn't do something about it sooner. Right now my body is a walking timebomb. This isn't about vanity, it's about living to see my children grow up; it's about being healthy enough to be an active grandparent down the road. I owe it to my boys to be at my best.

- I do not - and likely never will - look good in spandex. No spandex for me, ever. Yoga pants all the way. And my black ones had better be clean because oh my god, if I wear the grey ones I might come down with a case of Sweaty Ass Syndrome.

- As it turns out, I'm very concerned about the amount of sweat penetrating the base of my sweet cheeks.

- I only had the grey yoga pants today. Major 7 a.m. panic. I may or may not have tried to subtly check for signs of Sweaty Ass in the mirror a few times during my workout.

- By the way, checking yourself out in the mirror at the gym is never subtle.

- I've spent way too much time putting other people before me. As a stay-at-home-mom, I flex and stretch my life to fit the schedules of everyone else in the family. It's time to make me a priority. I should have always been a priority. What I failed to realize for along time is that I can be good to me and also good to my family.

- Coming home from the gym and yelling, "Honey, quick: I need six eggs and a pound of bacon!" may become commonplace. The protein cravings are overwhelming.

- I love working out. I missed working out. I love the endorphins, the sweat, the zen-like trance I get into when my heart is pumping and the music's going and I'm in my zone. I leave the gym feeling happy, accomplished, and far less anxious.

- Most importantly, the gym may very well help The Maven get her groove back.*



*May or may not include a case of Sweaty Ass.** 


** Okay, probably will including a case of Sweaty ass.

Smart is important. Happy is more important.

I really need to thank all of you for the outpouring of support over last week's emo post. You have taught me that I get far more attention being whiny than being funny. Now I understand Munchausen Syndrome sufferers a lot better. I have no interest in faking illness to get attention because that sounds like far too much work, but I may, like my five-year-old does, embrace my inner whiny baby more often.

It's Monday, it's beautiful out, and all the gremlins exited the pod and made their way to school. That, in itself, would make me do cartwheels if I wasn't 35 and rather bottom-heavy.

It's a quiet week for me - no big contracts, no bidding for contracts (although I really should be) - and I'm going to try and blog a lot. Why? Because I need to get back into writing. Writing will make me money (don't laugh) and that means we can pay our bills and sleep at night again. So even if it's dreadful, embarrassingly bad writing, it shall be written and published.

I apologize in advance.

It took me what seemed like eons to drag the kids out of bed today. None of us slept well. Gutsy wound up in our bed because he had a dream about being eaten by a giant orange tarantula (valid reason, if you ask me) and Spawnling woke up an hour afterwards due to his own bad dream of non-specific origin. Thus, Geekster and I split off in the middle of the night: he in Spawnling's far-too-little-for-two bed and I playing keeper of the alarm clock in our room with Gutsy.

My alarm went of at 6:25. I hit "snooze."

The alarm went off at 6:30. Not my alarm this time. It was coming from somewhere else in the house. I realized it was originating from Gutsy's room - the same Gutsy, of course, who was sound asleep in my bed.

I tried to put a pillow over my head. That only made my hair sweaty. I begrudgingly shuffled my way across the house and turned off his alarm. Then I went back to bed.

And this is when my alarm went off again.

I may or may not have used inappropriate language, then whipped around when I remembered that Spider Bait was sleeping on the pillow next to me - thankfully still sound asleep.

Anyway, that about ended any chance I had of getting a few extra Z's. It took a good half hour to extract the nine-year-old arachnid appetizer from my bed, but he did eventually answer the siren call of cereal and great conversation with his mom.

Well, okay, maybe just cereal. As far as he's concerned as a non-morning person, he needn't speak to me beyond asking for breakfast.

He opened up his laptop and started fiddling around for a few minutes. I asked him to get dressed. He went to close a program and it crashed. I said "Don't worry about that. You just go get dressed. I'll take care of it." A message had come up that the program had unexpectedly quit. It asked if I would like to send an error report or not. I clicked "DON'T SEND" and closed the laptop.

He glared at me. A Monday morning, you-displease-me, I-should-probably-start-drinking-coffee glare.

"Mom," he said, disapprovingly, "why didn't you send the error report?"

"Huh?" I replied intelligibly. "Oh, that? Because I didn't want to type in a description of the crash."

Gutsy sighed in the same way teenage me used to sigh at my mom. "If you don't send the error report then the developers will have no idea why their program is crashing. They won't find the bugs and they won't be able to fix them. You need to report these things so they can make their software better."

I looked at him in that I'm-not-sure-if-I-should-be-impressed-or-insulted way. "Sorry, Bill Gates. Go get dressed."

He kept his glare for a moment longer, as I had obviously offended him with my ignorance. He then turned around, sighed again, and walked into his room.

The problem Gutsy and I have is that he's smarter than I am. Oh, sure, he may not understand the world as I do, but that's only because I have twenty-six years on him. Give him time. All three of our boys are smart in their own ways, of course, but Gutsy's technological interests mean that I don't stand a snowball's chance in Hell of even pretending I know my shit with him. The boy started grasping basic computer programming language over two years ago and has been fiddling with it in various forms ever since. He's nine. I should be able to run circles around his knowledge. I can't.

When he and his dad - the sexy computer nerd I married - chat about their shared passion for programming, things like "login scripts" and "compiling errors" and "forms" and "button events" start flying out of their talk holes. They do it right in front of me, which is really inconsiderate because usually I was thinking about something far more interesting before they started.

And the worst part? They often want to involve me in the conversation, like I understand and care about the topic. And I don't. I tried to grasp the concept once or twice, but it flew over my head and left me alone on the shores of indifference. If a computer program is available and I need it and it works, excellent. And if programming computer thingies makes my husband money to pay for my sexy car, excellent. And if my smarty-pants son can make more money than God someday (does God even have money? I hope He wasn't invested in the US mortgage market) and it buys me a cute little manor in the English countryside, majorly excellent. That's as deep as my caring for software development goes.

I should be proud that Gutsy's brain is on steroids. I am, sometimes. And sometimes I'm annoyed because I feel as though my solar panels are facing north around him. But most of the time I'm simply fascinated that he knows how to do this stuff, and make and edit movies, and build crazy inventions, and more or less just be good at all the things I suck at.

There are also times that I worry because his interests set him apart from some of his peers. How many grade 3 students can easily relate to a kid who finds compiling a C++ program the highlight of his weekend and then talks about it incessantly? When the class was asked to write compliments about each student, nearly all of Gutsy's were about how smart he is. I don't know if that's good or bad for him socially. Being happy and feeling comfortable in your own skin is far more important than being intelligent.

This is why I drill into him that everyone is smart in their own way, everyone has something they're really good at. I firmly believe this. I once knew a kid who was anything but an academic superstar, yet he could disassemble and reassemble bikes and engines like nobody's business. He later became a tradesman and entrepreneur and has done so well for himself. There is immense talent in every human being. This is how I hope Gutsy learns to connect with people; by seeing the innate intelligence within them and helping them to see it, too, if need be. In turn, he can learn about fixing bikes, playing sports, and many other things that will help him become a well-rounded guy. A happy, comfortable-in-his-own-skin kinda guy.

Like Albert Einstein once said:

"Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid."

For now, I'll let him talk over my head. I'll do that amazing mom trick and pretend I'm listening while I'm actually compiling the grocery list.

See, Gutsy? Mom can compile things, too.

It Can't Rain all the Time

Some days even I, The Maven, spiritual guide and moral compass to the masses of motherhood, gets down on herself.

The inside of my head these days. It's a neutral colour, so it goes with anything.

I feel sorry for the few close friends I've been opening up to lately. It's been a tough few weeks emotionally, physically and financially, and I'm pretty sure most of my peeps are tired of hearing me complain. Heck, I'm tired of hearing myself complain. On top of it all, whining about how things suck only makes me feel guilty about whining (because I really should be grateful all the time, I figure, as I have a lot to be grateful for). This guilt then leads into worrying that maybe people are going to start avoiding me and that I'll wind up standing in a lonely little emo puddle of self-inflicted misery.

So before I break out some Robert Smith, I'm going to get all my complaining over with in one shot where everyone can read it. I'll likely get embarrassed that I shared all of this online, and then go back to feeling grateful to save face.

See? Super healthy thought processes abound. I'm pretty sure I missed my calling as a therapist.

Here's what happened in my world over the last couple of months:

• I left my part-time job in January to become a writer.
• Surprisingly, this did not immediately generate mass amounts of income and notoriety.
• We are now broke. Not just broke, but scary broke. Not cardboard box broke or repo man broke or "dude, where's my dial tone?" broke, but broke enough that if anything unexpected happens - any repair, any sudden expense - we can't cover it. We just can't. Every drop of income is going into bills and food and other really boring stuff. Our meagre emergency savings of yesteryears are no longer. Looking at the budget spreadsheet the other night made me burst into spontaneous laughter song and dance tears, and I spent 20 minutes wondering if my running mascara made me look more like Courtney Love in the 90's or that dude from A Clockwork Orange. (These are important things to consider as you're sobbing into a Kleenex box. Vanity, ladies, first and foremost and always.)
• I have contracts coming in, and I'm grateful for those contracts because they're helping me build my business. But I need it to build faster, dammit. I crave instant gratification. This whole startup thing is not nearly as glamorous as The Social Network made it out to be. I feel lied to. It makes me want to punch kick make out with make a "talk to the hand" gesture at Justin Timberlake, who made that movie interesting. I need more Benjamins and I need them now.
• (Technically, we don't have "Benjamins" in Canada. Our $100 bills feature former Prime Minister Sir Robert Borden. But saying "It's all about the Bordens" doesn't have the same rapper ring to it. And as we all know, I'm pretty white suburban hybrid-driving gangsta.)
• Because I'm so stressed, I can't write. I can't create. I feel completely blocked. Shut down. And that means I'm not generating as much income as I could or really need to be. I'm an artist who isn't making things, which is the worst kind of artist. It's also the most broke kind of artist. *Insert vicious circle motion here, whatever that would look like. Use your imagination.*
• And then there's the whole feeling of being caught between a rock and a hard place.. Or maybe between home and a workplace. I have kids who need me here (and yes, they really do. Special needs families have different requirements than typical families, and at this point my special needs family needs someone home at 2:30 when school lets out). But I also need to make money. And I'm stressed about balancing it all, which means I'm not doing a great job at either parenting or working right now. I need to be writing. I need to be writing from home. There are many, many good reasons why this should be my career, and at the top of that list are three boys named Intrepid, Gutsy and Spawnling.
• And then I got sick. It was the first time in about a year that I came down with something nasty. This says loads about the stress I'm under, because the gluten-free lifestyle has been very kind to my immune system. This virus knocked me out for most of March Break and made me feel even worse.
• And this whole thing has taken a toll on my self-esteem. I feel rather ugly. And fat. Very fat. I know I'm actually fat, believe me. But I'm usually good at accepting this about myself and thinking I look plus-size smokin' most days. With this perfect storm of insecurity and stress brewing, however, accepting me for who I am on any level has been a challenge. So now I just feel frumpy and gross.
• And I'm trying to cut sugar out of my diet again and finding it very hard, which is only fuelling the self-deprication because my jeans are getting tighter again.
• And come to think of it, I probably could have summed this all up by saying that I'm in a bad place all over, so please be gentle and send coffee and hugs.

Okay, that's it. I think I feel a little better after that exhibitionist-like venting session. And now, when someone asks me how I'm doing, I'll just send them a link to this blog post instead of sharing the verbal equivalent of throwing on the goth garb and writing poetry in my own blood.

To quote The Crow, it can't rain all the time. The sun is going to shine again. I know it is. And it's going to be brighter and warmer and require much more sunscreen than it has before. I just wish it would hurry up. I miss being me.

And does this qualify as writing? Because I'd really like to think I wrote something today.

Some ideas for Kindness Week

It's Kindness Week in the city of Ottawa, Canada. I only found out this morning when Don from FoodiePrints made a comment about buying coffee for the person in line behind him.

I live in Gatineau, which is across the river from Ottawa, and therefore don't quite know what "Kindness Week" entails. I can only assume there are cameras and undercover officers everywhere, and they're watching to make sure you're busily spreading joy and niceties to your fellow citizens. That has to be pretty nerve-wracking.

My mind immediately started worrying for all the folks on the Ottawa side. What happens if they can't find something nice to do? Does The Man come knocking on your door? Can you get fired from your job? Will you get banished from the city and have to live in a hovel in the outlands?

I went looking online and found out that acts of kindness are not, in fact, compulsory this week. Or so they say. Maybe that's just at trick. Maybe it's a test to see just how thoughtful you are when you think no one's looking. And when you don't hold the door open for someone - SLAMMO! - you're thrown in the stocks outside city hall and getting rotten tomatoes lobbed at you.

I have a good friend who works in Ottawa, and I'm concerned for her. I wonder if she needs to be spreading the happy around, too. What if the Kindness Week applies to all who enter the city, regardless if they live there or not? Was she aware of the potential peril she's in? How could I help?

So, being the great friend that I am, I did my best to save her. I texted her to let her know about Kindness Week:

"It's Kindness Week in Ottawa. So be sure to do something kind for me while you're over there, ok?"

She laughed at this like I was telling a joke or something. How frustrating. I was trying to save her.

I figured that maybe she's just tired today and needs me to be more direct. Perhaps some step-by-step instructions would help. So, I sent her this email:

Here are some things you can considering doing for me during Kindness Wek. I know there are only a couple of days left, so I'll keep them small:

Hugh Jackman would be more than acceptable. Can you try and get the vintage car thrown in?

Hugh Jackman AND a private island would be like TWO acts of kindness rolled into one. Way to avoid the stocks!

A parade in my honour would seriously boost my morale. Major kindness points!

Or, if you're on a budget, you could just get me this. See? Now I'm being kind to YOU! And I'm not even in Ottawa this week! You're welcome! xo

I sent the email, confident that I had reached her. But no more than a couple of minutes later, I received this reply:

"You f*cking wish!!!! LMAO!!!!!"

You can't save everyone. But at least I tried. Reaching out to help her was, well, rather kind of me.

Happy Kindness Week, everyone! No matter where you are, do something randomly awesome for someone else. Give change to the guy on the street, buy someone a lottery ticket, smile big. Here are some other ideas from official site. 


(And if you can't manage to do those things, I can still point you towards some great private islands I'd like.)