I'm sorry. The stress made me do it. Feed me chocolate.

(My house, not my blog.)

Can I be brutally honest?

The blog post I wrote a couple of hours ago sucked on multiple levels, so I took it down. Basically I overreacted by writing about a situation that hurt me deeply. It involved my child and someone's feelings about him, and there's very little that makes me more defensive and quick to bite than that. I should never have written about it, because it serves no useful purpose, and it could hurt the person involved. I don't want to do that, because I don't want to be that asshole.

I am not an asshole.

Usually.

If I get enough sleep.

And if I'm not about to get my period. I recommend nobody talk to me for the two days preceding that monthly event.

So, if you read it, I apologize for dragging you down that thorny path of negativity with me. I made a mistake. I have a lot of other things going on right now and I think I'm focusing on the wrong one. So, in an attempt to clear the air and start the year off right, here's what's really happening - the stuff just beneath the surface.

We are moving.

Well, if we can sell this house. That's stressor #1.

And if we can't sell this house? Well, that's not really an option. Not a good one, anyway. We need to list and sell and make enough that we can get another home in a different part of the city.

Well, technically it's a different city. Which is in a different province. Stressor #2.

We live in Gatineau, Quebec right now. We have a lovely old house on a half acre. It's surrounded by great neighbours and close to some pretty amazing schools. I'm on a first name basis with much of the staff at our elementary school both because I've been a parent volunteer for many years and also because I do sub work there. My folks live three blocks away in the house I grew up in. We even have a magnificent barred owl living in our backyard I've nicknamed McPimp. It's so perfect in so many ways. Stressor #3.

But for a lot of reasons we need to move 30 minutes away and into a suburb of Ottawa, Ontario called Kanata. We lived there for a couple of years before we had kids, but that was 20 years ago. My spouse and our hearing impaired kids struggle with French, which, while not a requirement in this area, makes Gatineau difficult for them. Geekster would like to live a lot closer to work. The services for our kids are better in Ontario. Our particular situation would be improved if we moved.

And yes, I totally made that rhyme on purpose. McPimp would approve, as I'm quite sure he's in the rap game.

I've outright sobbed over this (the sale, not the owl). You know those women on Dr. Phil who won't stop doing the ugly cry the entire segment and you're all, "Ok, lady. Can you get it together for at least a minute so I can understand what you're saying?" Like that, but with brief moments of respite in which I'll cram a chocolate bar down my throat.

But while a part of me is heartbroken over the idea, another part is excited. New house, new neighbourhood, new schools, new friends-- Oh, yeah. Friends. I like having those. I have a lot of them here; amazing, insightful, funny women and men who just get me.

... What if nobody there gets me? What if nobody likes me? What if we fit in perfectly over here and we're that weird eccentric family over there? What if they don't need volunteers at the school? Or at least curly-haired writer volunteers who have a bit of a control issue surrounding craft making and library book organization? What if they say, "Sorry - uh, what was your name again? Raven, or something? Our fundraising board is all filled up as is our friendship quota"?

My stress eczema is very eczema-y at the thought.

The gremlins are all eager to try out a new city and make new connections. Geekster has his work and work friends there. I go back and forth between hopeful and panicked. I'm the unknown in this equation. As a person who isn't thrilled with change, this shit is hard. Leaving everything I know is hard, even if it's only a half hour away. Even whining about it on the internet is hard, because I realize a move like this is nothing to a lot of people. It is to me, The Maven, who prefers mundane to mayhem. I like a life with few upheavals.

But I understand this is how people grow. And I also understand that, despite all logic, it can't be about me all the time. Sometimes, it has to be about them. This will be better for all of them.

All this to say that, while I'm generally not right in the head, I'm really not right in the head right now. (That's so many rights it makes a wrong.) And this means little things upset me, and big things that normally wouldn't upset me as much are really upsetting me. (That's so many upsets it equals a crazy.) Hence the blog post earlier and all the pouting and frowning I've been doing lately.

Have any amazing advice to share? I mean, other than telling me to stop being a big drama queen, which is probably not ever going to change. I'm a flawed individual, folks. Just don't tell any of my potential new neighbours.

He's a Rockstar - or Maybe a Billy Goat

Spawnling and I have been butting heads lately like a couple of enraged mountain goats. The other night I stood outside his door for nearly an hour, telling him I wouldn't tuck him in until he was ready to apologize for his rude behaviour.

It was pretty epic. It began with him punching me in the gut and ended shortly after him sobbing about how he doesn't have a mother anymore. The kid knows every button to push, and if I wasn't a disgruntled, seasoned parent already, I might have burst in there with a big hug, a declaration of "yes, you do have a mother, you poor thing!", and a promise to try and dodge his punches better so as to avoid these sorts of fiascos in the future.

But I didn't. I held my ground until he apologized - profusely, I might add - and then went off to reclaim my part of the mountain.

When it comes to stubbornness, I'm the goat with the biggest horns - but only by half an inch or so. And I'm pretty sure he files his to a point in an attempt to get any advantage he can.

Part of the reason for his behaviour is fatigue, no doubt. It's been a long and busy holiday season that's nowhere near over yet. And he's bored; the kid is so extraverted he makes me look like a recluse (and if you know me at all, then you know what an impressive feat that is). He practically burst out of my uterus demanding to be amused by all around him.

This afternoon, Spawn had spent a good twenty minutes getting himself dressed up in his best rocker look, only to find out that no one wanted to play "band" with him. He was heartbroken. So, rather than spike my hair up and jump on the couch tour bus (I'm not that good of a mom), I grabbed my camera and asked if I could be his official photographer.

Here's how the diva fared during his session:

When he was done, he said, "Ok, that's it. No more pictures!"

I replied with, "Can we get one more of you leaning on the guitar? Please? Just one?"

He got up and handed me the instrument. "Look: When I say 'no more pictures,' it means 'no more pictures.' No means no, right? Right. Ok, then." And he walked out of the room.

I don't think he was playing rockstar.

Finally! A Pain Chart for Parents

No holiday season is complete without a trip to the emergency room, am I right? Parents and people with icy steps and drunk uncles everywhere are unwillingly nodding in agreement.

Today I brought Gutsy to our local children's hospital. We suspected pneumonia (he's had it several times for some unknown reason), but thankfully it just turned out to be a very long, very rotten cold. He's in bed now, and every time he coughs I wince and create worry lines on my beautiful face. Welcome to the premature aging process called motherhood.

Speaking of which, while were waiting for the doctor, I came across a handy-dandy chart of faces in various stages of distress. Gutsy said, "I think it's so little kids can tell them how much pain they're in."

Seemingly valid use, but I call bullshit. I think they stole this thing from a parent support group. The therapist probably gets distraught mothers and fathers to point at it when they're too emotional to use their words - which, in my case, would be often.

See those faces? I have made all of those faces.

0. The face I make when I gaze upon my cooperative little children and forget anything before 10 minutes ago. I'm pretty sure this forgetfulness is a mammalian trait that ensures the survival of our species.

2. This is the face I made every morning for the first 18 months of all my children's lives as I stumbled blurry-eyed to the coffee pot.

4. And this is the face I made when I realized we were out of coffee.

6. Poop in the bath. I am weeping because there is poop in the fucking bath.

8. That's how I looked every time Spawnling bit another kid at playgroup. There's no 9, but the time he hit a friend's kid across the face with a truck and made him bleed all over his mom's white designer sweater? That was a 9.

10. HOLY MOTHER OF AGONY YOU JUST CLAMPED DOWN ON MY NIPPLE.

My only complaint is that there's no 12. Clearly the person who made this has never stepped on Lego.

Hug them Tightly, Always

We will remember you.

"Hey, mommy?" My six-year-old poked his little head into the kitchen as I was making tonight's dinner. "I just want you to tell how much I love you." 

I smiled, and he smiled. He tells me that often. He left and went back to setting up his umpteenth concert stage in the living room that consists of ottomans and a catwalk of chairs. The minute he disappeared, I broke into tears - again. 

I've been crying on and off since the tragic news came out of Newtown, CT on Friday. Twenty-six people died at the hands of a gunman. Twenty were children around the same age as my baby boy. And every time I look at him, hear his voice, listen to him laugh, or watch him do silly things like dance to Justin Bieber on a stage of ottomans, I think of the families who will never again see their child do silly things, laugh, or say"I love you." 

When I'm not writing, I replace support staff at my sons' elementary school. I know how deeply I've come to care for the children there. I can't imagine an entire class gone, just like that. An entire class full of beautiful, bright little kids. I can't fathom the pain, the loss, the anguish. I feel this tragedy both as a mother and as a school employee. It's heartbreaking twice over.

It's not fair. It's not right. It's an incomprehensible wrong. This terrible event shook so many of us to the core and we're nowhere near pulling ourselves out again. Newtown's grief is being felt around the world. 

There's been a lot of discussion about gun control, mental illness awareness and access to treatment, and even whether or not keeping faith out of the public school system is somehow to blame.

I have views, of course. If you don't want to read them you can skip over the next three paragraphs. Our society has been full of opinions over the last few days, so I won't take it personally.

I think America needs to take a serious look at why semi-automatic weapons are available to the public. I know it's your constitutional right to bear arms. But it should be a child's right to go to school safely, and a parent's right to watch their child grow up without worrying that someone is going to spray a classroom with bullets. Maybe it's just me, but I think that trumps your right to own a deadly weapon a million times over.

I don't believe adding prayer and worship back into the school system will put an end to senseless violence. I know someone who attended an Ottawa Catholic school in 1973. An eighteen-year-old came in and shot 6 kids in a religion class. I am all for a person having their faith, but it’s not going to protect you from a man with a gun.

I believe the US - and Canada, for that matter - needs to take a proactive approach to treating mental illness; things have to escalate to a frightening level for any public help to be available. As a mother who has a child with mental illness, I know how expensive private treatment can be. This mother knows more than I do. Her son deals with issues that are far more serious than my son's. Why can't she get him the help he needs?

I've engaged in several head-on debates about all these things. There have been some very heated discussions with and around me as we all try to comprehend what happened; as we all try to gain some control of the situation any way we can. Maybe this will prevent another mass murder. Or maybe this. Or maybe both of those. Or neither. Post another meme. Another quote. Talk some more. Yell some more.

But really, underneath all that anger and judgment and fear is grief. We're hurting for you, Connecticut. No matter where we stand on these issues, we all stand united in our hope that you find peace and healing and comfort in the days and weeks to come. We are all connected, and we share your loss deeply.

I know that when I send my children off to school tomorrow, no matter how late they are getting out the door, I will tell them how much I love them. I will hug them tightly. I will remember what a gift it is to see them walk through the door at the end of the day. I will not take it for granted like I usually do. 

Rest in peace, little souls and those who fought to protect them. We will remember you.

I Suck at Christmas

"Martha Stewart 2012 Holiday Decorating Guide: NAILED IT."

I'm terrible at crafts. Terrible. Going into a craft store makes me break out in stress hives, and the thought of spending all that money to slap together something I could buy for half the price makes my logical side wince. Besides which, researching, finding, preparing and creating a craft is completely beyond my skill level to begin with. In short, Pinterest is like my porn: It looks nice on screen, but the truth is that it's never going to happen in real life.

But when the holiday season rolls around and everybody starts taking out their glitter glue and card stock and Instagramming the shit out of it, I feel like I need to do that too. I tell myself I'm going to start early. I'm going to wow people with my homemade amazingnesses. I'm going to serve up so much holly jolly the neighbours will choke on it. 

And then I don't. Suddenly, it's December 12th and I haven't made a damn thing. Instead, I've gone to craft shows and bought things other people made, which I'm pretty sure is cheating. So now I'm unmotivated and a cheater. Awesome. Thank you, Christmas.

Every year I say I'm going to bake like crazy. I don't. I bake a little bit and there isn't enough to go around. Then I end up eating half my measly yield before it even hits the freezer. Taste testing turns into a feeding frenzy fuelled by shame. Shame on me for not starting this sooner, shame on me for thinking I could make layered snowmen cookies found on Pinterest because they now look like snowmen with leprosy and a yeast infection, shame on me for eating an entire village of yeasty leper snowmen. 

Every year I say I'm going to send out Christmas cards. I even bought some beautiful ones a month ago from Urban Fete and put them in a bag on my desk. Want to know where they are now?

On a bag on my desk.

When a festive card arrives from friends or realtors who are far more organized than we are, I spend the rest of the day guiltily glancing over at it. Those people are not getting a card back this year, or likely any year until I can get my village of diseased snowmen to make them for me in exchange for not eating their young. 

Every year, once I accept that I won't be making homemade gifts, I say I'm going to start shopping early and get great things for everyone. But I suck at gift buying more than I suck at making things. I search endlessly for that "perfect gift" because advertising has convinced me I can find it, that it's out there somewhere and I just need to look hard enough. 

It's not out there, Maven. Not unless it's at the top of someone's list underlined three times with gold stars around it. If I don't have that list to go on, you're likely getting a sweater or some ugly coffee mugs. I'm the type of person who should have been rich so she could hire a personal shopper. But then I might have to get a gift for my personal shopper and that would stress me out on a whole new level. Shopping for someone who shops for a living? That's a trip to the therapist just waiting to happen.

And just when I wasn't feeling inadequate enough, there's this Elf on the Shelf business. If you don't know what that is, let me explain it to you: Somebody wrote a book about an elf on the shelf, and you can buy said book with - get ready for this - an elf that you put on your shelf. 

Sounds cute, right? Wait.

The whole point of the elf is that he shows up a little while before Christmas because he's a spy for Santa. That's just creepy.

And it gets worse. 

The elf doesn't stay on the shelf, you guys. It's false advertising. You, the parent, place him around the house and make him do naughty things. He spills stuff and pulls stuff over and whatever other mischief you can come up with. And then you get to clean it all up. What fun! What delight!

What the hell, everybody?! Seriously? We don't have enough to do around the holidays already? Why are we making work for ourselves? And I say "we" as a general statement, and not one that includes yours truly. I do not and will not ever have one of those make work projects in my house unless it can bake better snowmen cookies than I can. If they get that advanced, sign me up. 

So what can I do? Does The Maven completely fail at Christmas? Not entirely. I can decorate a mean tree, clean a house, bake a bird or two and have family over. I rock at watching Christmas specials. And I can pretend to carol very well as long as there are enough people singing who know the words and can drown out my made up ones: 

"Noel, Noel, the angels did things, was to surplus the bluebirds at newbie the king."

I'm better at Christmas karaoke.

I'm Pretty Sure I'm Supposed to Take This Seriously

Gutsy would rather attend the school of phat beatz.

I'm pretty sure when the teacher's aide told me Gutsy said he didn't need to do his work because he's just going to get a job as a DJ when he's older anyway, that I was supposed to have my Serious Mom Face on.

Unfortunately, my Serious Mom Face was replaced by my Hysterical Laughter Face, and this lasted for many seconds and perhaps nearly a minute until I realized I was the only one laughing and that I should probably stop.

People involved in the education system, please stop frowning at the screen and waving your naughty finger at me. I get it, ok?

I know it's not cool that DJ Gutsy-Gutz threw down the beat pencil and refused to do his work.

I know he really needs to drop the bass attitude if he's going to succeed in school.

I know I have to tell him not to be a treble shaker troublemaker and do what's asked of him.

Yeah, I'm still totally laughing. It comes in waves. I'm trying my best to be mature and mom-like, but I'm having a hard time.

I think I basically snapped yesterday. Went off the deep end. Packed my bags and moved into the yellow submarine. Hiked deep into the woods of my mind and started living in a tin cabin and whittling things and growing a beard and shit.

I am so damn sick of living in the seriousness that is special needs parenting. I'm tired of being worried, of crying, of stressing, of watching him struggle, of wishing things were different for him. I'm tired of the scheduling and advocating and meetings and appointments and expectations and targets and individualized education plans and everything else that has become our family's life.

And all I could think of when I was told about his DJ dreams, was that this kid hates school because he can't understand half of what's going on, we don't have a plan in place yet for this processing disorder stuff. We don't know yet how best to help him. So each day the poor boy has to go to school, get frustrated, feel stupid, be told to work harder, and come home exhausted.

Every.

Single.

Day.

But you know what he's not half bad at? Using a mixer and some software to blend songs together. That's what makes him feel good and in control. That's what gives him a shred of confidence. So you know, I get why he said that. He has a goal, and that's more than he used to have. He has a plan, and that's keeping him from falling apart again. He has his sights set on becoming the next big EDM star. He might actually do it, too. He's a ten-year-old with talent.

If that dream is going to keep him from feeling like shit about himself, I'm ok with it. In fact, I'll be his biggest cheerleader.

Of course, in between feeling a bit of rebel pride for my little square peg in a round hole, I also talked to him about the importance of doing his school work, told him how important language and math skills are to a DJ, and talked to both the teacher and the aide about our latest findings. We still have some testing to do before we know exactly where the processing issues lie and how best to help him, but it's like light bulbs went on around the room. Suddenly, why he's struggling makes more sense to everyone.

The psychologist was hesitant to talk to Gutsy about his processing disorder just yet. He wanted to wait until we were finished testing and had a plan. But I'm tired of hearing the pain in my child's voice when he talks about school, so I used the powers bestowed upon me as his mom to discuss it in the car yesterday.

"Now, I don't want you to bad about yourself because it's a 'disorder,' Gutsy. All it means is that your brain is wired differently. You can still do great in school, you'll just need to do some of your learning in new ways"

"Don't worry, Mom. I'm not sad or upset or anything. I feel a little better, actually. Now I understand why I have such a hard time. It makes a lot of sense."

Relief in his voice. I felt him relax. That was definitely the right thing to do.

See? Serious Mom Face. I've got it. I'm not just all rebel yells and fits of laughter.

I hope he remembers how awesome I am and, more importantly, how much I like vacations when he's a wildly successful club star.

Think Your Child is Picky? You Haven't Met My Sister

Most delicious murder weapon EVER.

I'm pretty sure my sister tried to kill me.

With cake.

She brought it over on the weekend while we were celebrating family birthdays, and was all, "Hey, Maven, my only favourite sister! I made this gluten-free cake for you and Spawnling. And I made a second cake for everyone else. Enjoy! Keep the leftovers!"

Tuesday was kind of a crap day. And there was leftover cake sitting on the counter, all convenient and shit. Lots and lots of cake. Cake I shouldn't eat, but can. And that's a very bad thing. 

I had cake for breakfast. 

I had cake for lunch.

I had cake for after lunch snack.

And then had some as a warmup for dinner. Kind of like stretching before a workout.

And then I threw the fucking thing out before my pancreas exploded.

I woke up on Wednesday with the worst case of cake hangover I've ever had. No, scratch that: the only case of cake hangover I've ever had. I have never eaten that much baking in a single day in my entire life. I was on toxic overload. 

And it's all my sister's fault. She's Dexter with boobs, I tell you.

Why is she trying to end my life? It might be because I'm our mom's favourite. I can tell because mom gives my sister a great deal of attention; That's what you do when you feel guilty about not liking one child as much as you like another. They go out all the time, they talk on the phone every day, and they drive the same kind of vehicle. Classic overcompensation maneuver, Mom. It's sad to watch, really.

And the fact that I'm older wiser and heavier better nourished than my sister clearly breeds the sort of jealousy that creates homicidal tendencies.

When I showed up to our brother's birthday dinner alive and well on Wednesday night, she tried very hard to hide the shock on her face. We made small talk, but we both knew what she had done.

The subject of her picky eating came up. She let it slip that her friends have compiled a list of all the things she won't eat so they can keep track. No joke. I told her I'd forgive her for trying to prematurely end my life if she'd let me share the list on my blog. 

Here is her current list of dislikes:

- Caramel
- Creme brûlée
- Blueberries
- Banana cakes
- Butterscotch
- Wine
- Beer
- Olives
- Ring-a-los
- Water
- Cinnamon
- Ginger
- Pickled Turnips
- Relish
- Pickles
- Tapioca
- Raisins
- Fruit on anything
- Toffee
- Maple syrup
- Cranberries
- Pumpkin
- Chai
- Nutmeg
- Allspice
- Cloves
- Caraway seeds
- Gingerbread
- Molasses
- Nuts in anything
- Macadamia nuts
- Cherries
- White chocolate
- Steak
- Lamb
- Peas
- Cream corn
- Shellfish
- Dark meat
- Anything on a bone
- Dill
- Squash
- Zucchini
- Canned beans
- Eggs
- Marmalade
- Apricots
- Curry
- Cumin
- Licorice
- Fennel
- Grapefruit
- Anything lime flavored
- Mint
- Anything lemon flavoured
- Dates
- Figs
- Prunes
- Beets
- Blue cheese
- Vanilla cake
- Radishes
- Horseradish
- Dried fruit
- Party mix
- Eggplant
- Veal
- Turmeric
- Garam masala
- Pho
- Hot sauce
- Sauerkraut 

So basically she hates all spices and every condiment. And water. 

I'm pretty sure she slipped "vanilla cake" in there so I wouldn't be suspicious about how much of it was left on my counter last weekend. Nobody hates vanilla cake. Nice try, sis.

Solving Parenting Issues One Crappy Analogy at a Time

That's me. With a beard. And no pants. And what looks like a highly ineffective parachute. Oh, and I'm in Italy in the 1400's. (Yes, I was OBVIOUSLY a Doctor Who companion. Duh.)

"Gutsy has issues with processing information," said the psychologist this morning.

I knew that already because I was scanning the results on the table and noticed the huge dip in the graph when it came to the processing component. But I pretended to act surprised, like if I was on the Maury show and finding out the 7th guy tested is not the father. That kind of surprised. 

Because, really, if you're a psychologist and you sit in an office all day, what's the thrill? 

Rare diagnoses and shocked looks from people, that's what.

I provided one of these today, which I'm happy to have done. Merry Christmas, Doctor.

"So he has a processing disorder," I said.

"That's what the preliminary findings seem to indicate, yes."

"But they're in line with the tests we did with another psychologist a couple of years ago and it totally fits on so many levels, so I'm going to say he absolutely has a processing disorder." I said, taking it upon myself to make the call. My PhD in Awesomeness was clearly paying off by this point.

And then we talked about further testing to pinpoint the exact ways his processing is affected, potential modifications at the school level, in the home, long-term prognosis, and all that other stuff I've become increasingly accustomed to with each diagnosis.

Intrepid has hearing loss. Gutsy has hearing loss, anxiety and now a learning disability. Some days I would very much like to kick special needs in the balls. Today is one of those days.

Nothing can prepare you for parenting. It's like jumping out of a plane for the first time; you don't know what to expect. And if your child has special needs? It's a whole new ballgame - or terrifying extreme sport, whatever. While there are varying types and degrees of special needs, they're all challenging in their own way - especially at first. 

We all want our kids to be typical. Or, if not typical, only atypical in the exciting ways, like excelling at sports or reading or piano. We want them to shine. And hearing your child has a disability or twelve seems to put a cap on all that brightness. It says, "Your child is not who you envisioned them to be. They're different, and therefore the path their life will take is going to be different. Be prepared to take a detour."

It can be heartbreaking to hear there's something "wrong." It can feel overwhelming and sad, and overwhelmingly sad. 

(See what I did just there? That's because I'm a writer.)

And I feel that way every single time we get a new diagnosis. It's like someone just kicked me out of the plane blindfolded - but not before handing me an anvil. I'm hurtling towards the scary unknown and I can't find the damn ripcord. 

How do you parent a child who doesn't fit the descriptions in the parenting books? How do you help him reach his potential when you have to go about it in a way that isn't instinctive? How do you find the energy and the time to give him without taking too much away from his siblings, your marriage, your friendships, your career, and your passions? 

And all the while you're falling fast, and things need to get done now, and you have to think, and make decisions, and advocate, and act like you know what you're doing when really you have no fucking idea at all. 

That's when I usually panic a little, then cry and feel sorry for him, then sorry for us, then beat myself up a little for being kind of a shitty drama queen mom. And once that's all over - which only took a couple of hours this time. Progress! - I work at gaining perspective.

First, I remember that Gutsy is still Gutsy. He's still the same boy he was before we knew he had hearing loss, before we knew how anxious he was, before we knew for certain that he had a processing disorder. He's creative and kind, soft and so sweet. He laughs at nearly all my jokes (yes, I pay him), and gives a hug that's hard to beat. This diagnosis changes none of that. All it does it give us new insight into how to help him. That's a good thing. 

(Good job, Team Maven!)

Next, I remind myself that there were never any guarantees when we decided to have children. Those ideas I had about what my kids would be like were just that: ideas. Dreams. And the boys who have graced our lives are so much better than the dreams*. One of the best things I ever read about parenting is this: Let go of the child you thought you would have and accept the one you do have. Very important. And he's not that hard to accept, honestly. He's an amazing little human just the way he is. Our job is not to change him, it's to help him be the best person he can be. That part of parenting remains the same, special needs or not.

(OMG, Maven. Seriously. Would you like some fries with your awesome? Keep going.)

And I remember that it is my pleasure to raise Gutsy and Intrepid and Spawnling. It's a privilege to help them grow up. It's an honour to be their mom.

(Beautiful. See? You can pull off this mom stuff sometimes. You can! Now just finish up with an insightful analogy or something.)

Then I drop the anvil and let it fall to the ground. That's the weight of guilt and worry and stress. It was always my choice to hold on to that extra weight. Nobody said I had to carry it all the way down. 

Then I can take off my blindfold - my fear - and let that go, too. 

Finally, I open my parachute and, just like every other parent, try and enjoy the ride. It's quite a nice ride, really. I forget that. Every now and then, I have to give myself permission to appreciate it - while it lasts.

*Exceptions: public tantrums, launched ottomans, the time they used my purse to mix mud, drawings of me with stink lines, barf. My imaginary children never barfed. 

PS: If you have a child with a processing disorder I would love to hear from you. I might even jump up and down a little. You can find my email to the right and up top. I promise I'm not this creepy in email - I'm significantly more creepy. Thank you!

Top 10 Signs You Are a Mother

To some people, all minivans will always look like this. They are the misguided. Clearly they have not seen YOUR minivan.

1. You smell funny. Every day of your life. It could be baby spit up or a leftover stench from washing someone's hockey equipment. Maybe it's because you were so tired last night that you dropped your clothes on the floor and the dog slept on them, then you put them back on again in a rush and only later smelled your sleeve and realized what happened (might be a true story). Whatever it is, you give off an olfactory aura that is only noticeable to those who do not live with Chronic Family Stink (it's a real condition I just made up). That's why moms all hang out together. True story.

2. There is always a stain on your shirt. Always. Even if you wash it, and then wash it again, and don't go anywhere near the kitchen, a stain will appear on it the minute you leave the house. It's a universal law.

3. Yoga pants are the new jeans, and jeans are the new dress pants. Unless you work in a fancy dress-up workplace, in which case you might wear wrinkled dress pants. But not by choice. And you probably have a framed picture of your yoga pants on the desk because you miss them so much.

4. You are the only person in your household who knows how to change a toilet paper roll. Everyone else had their bathroom etiquette memories wiped out by aliens or something, and stare at empty toilet paper holders like they're a Chinese finger trap that should not be touched. As such, you will find new rolls next to the toilet or, if you're really lucky, on top of the empty roll still sitting in the holder. The rest is up to you, bathroom superhero.

5. It doesn't matter how long you've slept: 6 hours, 4 hours, 3.7 hours... If it was uninterrupted, you're going to be convinced it was the best sleep of your life. Because you have forgotten what the world was like before sleep deprivation.

6. Your standards are far lower than they used to be. Dishwasher got loaded by someone other than you? The nicest thing anyone's ever done. Stack of papers from the counter stuffed inside the microwave minutes before company arrives? Excellent housekeeping and time management skills. Stick figure drawing from your child in which you look like your head is a weather balloon and that you maybe have a penis? Greatest piece of art ever made. That's going in a frame right next to the yoga pants.

7. You can't remember the last time you were in the house all by yourself. Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, you can. Everyone else went out for the afternoon about two years ago. You were really excited when they left, spent half an hour reading a book and sipping tea, then got kinda bored, then got a little scared when you heard that noise, then realized it was the fridge motor turning on but you don't normally hear that because the kids are too loud, then got sad because you missed the kids, and shouldn't they be back by now, and your life would be meaningless without them, and this home would be so very empty, and by the time everyone came home you were crying on the floor into their baby albums.

8. Neighbourhood guys (if you like guys to begin with) start looking mighty fine when they're carrying babies around in slings. And just kind of okay when they're not.

9. Absolutely everything bad you're feeling can be instantly cured by your child's smile. It's like crack. Crack made by babies. Little dealer babies who are just buttering you up so they can get a car and tuition in a few years. So manipulative.

10. You will go to great lengths to justify your minivan. It has heated seats. It has sliding doors. It has a voice activated stereo. Childless people will try very hard not to snicker or possibly feel sorry for you. They will listen politely. You will up the ante with the integrated DVD player. You will feel like you've won them over and held on to your youthfulness for just one more day. You haven't. But perspective is everything.