A Series of Excuses as to Why I'm Avoiding a Field Trip

Today Gutsy's class is going on a field trip. (No, Ottawa, we don't have a snow day on the Quebec side). They're walking from the school to the park to go skating. They asked for volunteers.

I live three blocks from the school. I could meet them there and walk another three blocks to the park.

But I'm not.

Then I'd just have to help a few kids tie their skates up and stand watch to make sure nobody breaks their incisors or gets a finger sliced off.

But I won't.

I'm feeling kind of guilty, and yet I have sound reasons for staying home.

First of all, it's not like I'm a stranger to volunteering at the school. In fact, I went on a field trip just last week with his class to the Museum of Nature. It was awesome. Well, other than the kid who kept wandering off. Not that he wasn't awesome (he was - especially when in my line of sight), it's just that I kept thinking I was going to have a heart attack every time he disappeared.

Which leads us to the second reason: My dad had a heart attack. An actual one. It's been a little stressful this week, and I'm tired in a way that coffee can't fix right now.

Which leads me into the third reason: Even if coffee could fix it, I can't drink it anymore - the caffeinated version, anyway. No, for real. I'm very really quite sure I have a caffeine allergy. It's possibly the worst dietary tragedy that could have befallen me, and I think I'd benefit from therapy to work through my grief. But I have to stop drinking it. I have to. Why?

Fourth good reason not to go on today's skating excursion: The eczema on my hands? I'm 99% sure the caffeine brings it on and the stress keeps it there. I took it out and everything cleared up. I added it back in and my hands broke out again. I'm now back on decaf but my hands are still very angry with me. You know when you cheated on your girlfriend but she couldn't move out for another couple of months because the lease wasn't up yet and her parents live four hours away? That angry. What's going to make my hands worse? The cold and gratuitous skate tying, that's what. So the rink at the park is out - for my health. I was in so much pain this morning I couldn't make lunches. My hands need a rest.

Wait.

Hold up.

Did I just manage to thread all four reasons into each other? Holy shit, I'm a good writer sometimes. Not always - only when I notice and make comments about it.

I just don't get why I feel bad. I mean, really Maven? It's been a crap week. I volunteer all the time. I'm not an overachiever by nature, so I don't quite understand why I'm wracked with guilt over bowing out of a single trip to the park. My slacker side should be patting me on the back when she gets around to it.

Yesterday I went to the hospital for the afternoon while my dad had a procedure done (he's doing much better today and he should be able to come home!) Then I came back to Casa Maven, ate dinner, transformed the place into a show home and got everybody out of the house while a prospective buyer came over. When we came back home, I did four pages of homework and a project with Spawnling (for some reason we'd fallen a bit behind on his work).

I'm an unintentional superhero.

And that was just yesterday.

So yes, Maven needs a break. Deserves a break. So very badly.

And that's why I volunteered to go over to my parents' place today and get it ready for my dad to come home.

I might be a little broken inside.

Thank you so much, everyone, for your kind words on the blog, on Facebook and on Twitter about my wonderful dad. You've been a great support system. I wish I could buy you all coffee.

And watch you drink it.

Sigh. 

My Dad Had a Heart Attack. Very Uncool.

So my dad went and had himself a heart attack. Not very thoughtful of him, really, considering how many people love him.

Also, he's 59, so way to spring health scares on us early like that. One day you're pushing the snowblower around like a boss and the next you're all "I don't feel well" and "Oh, it looks like I've had a heart attack."

Not cool, dad. Not cool.

Everything is ok right now. He's in the hospital awaiting some tests and possible repairs depending on what they find. He's in good spirits, cracking some jokes, being awesome like usual. The rest of us? Well, let's just say I had three brownies and four cookies last night, and leave it at that.

The irony of eating cholesterol-laden foods when your dad just had a heart attack has not escaped me.

Also, I had three slices of pizza for dinner. I figure if we're going to be forthcoming, let's do it right.

My mom is keeping everything together like the strong woman she is. But her health has been poor for years, and if she wears herself down she'll get really sick. Given she also has Mike at home, my youngest brother (who has Downs Syndrome), the rest of us are trying to help out where we can. Yesterday I had Mike over for (evil pre-brownie) pizza. He's coming over today too.

But before that, my sister and I brought "get well soon" cards to my dad in the hospital. Here's a sample:

Spawnling's card, complete with a picture of he and grandpa, who are quite possibly on some kind of hallucinogen.

Feeling slightly threatened, my sister felt she should make a card like Spawn's. But in her version, they're on their way to get more botox.

Mike made a card as well. It has my dad's favourite snack; peanuts. And the heart is um, well... uh.... Yeah. Appropriate.

I make light, but honestly I'm just a giant stress ball. With spikes on it, like that heart. The eczema on my hand caused by stress? There's so much of it that it's now growing an extra hand out of my hand so it can occupy new, itchy, painful space.

My dad is technically my step dad, but that just makes him even more amazing. My biological father left when I was a baby, and my dad stepped in to take that important roll before I was even out of diapers. It takes a very special man to not only love his wife, but love her child like his own. While my parents went on to grow their family, I've never felt like he loves me any less. I'm his little girl and he's my dad, plain and simple. I'm so lucky.

So if you could please think good thoughts for my awesome dad with the not-so-awesome ticker, I'd appreciate it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about due for a cookie and a stress cry.

And then maybe another cookie.

When I Think About Me, I Neglect Myself

I did a bad, bad thing.

In all the chaos and stress of the last few weeks, I let myself go. I didn't pay homage to the glue that keeps shit together in this household, the humour maker, tantrum tamer, disillusioned cookie baker. That awesome chick was put on the back burner for a while.

She's the easiest to let go of. The first one to forget.

There's guilt (and possible legal ramifications) when you neglect your child. There's loud griping or, at the very least, passive-aggressive pouting that will alert you to the fact that you're neglecting your partner. The dogs will whine, the cat will paw at your face in the middle of the night and/or pee on your clothes, and if you forget to feed your hamster she'll try to eat your hand (I speak from experience.)

So when the chips are down, the to-do list is long, and the stakes are high, who's the first to get shoved into the "deal with this later" category? Me, that's who. The loud, the proud, the obnoxiously amazing Maven gets put into the corner, told to be quiet and to get those mom jeans on.

My hair was a mess. I was a good three months overdue for a trim. Like I said on Twitter, if you put Cousin It in a bra he would look just like me... Or I would look just like him. Or something. I'm not sure how that works anymore. He's older, but fictitious. Grammar hates me.

A picture of me, pre-haircut.

And my clothes are gross. They're old and some of them have holes. Know where the biggest holes are? The inner legs. As my pudgy thighs rub together, the fabric gets thinner and thinner.

Rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-WEAR.

Rub-rub-rub-WEAR.

Rub-rub-rub-rub-rub-HOLE.

Rub-rub-rub-rub-HOLE.

This is starting to sound like bad porn. It's not, I assure you. It's just bad jean design. I'd say it's bad body design, but come on. I know a lot of women who's inner thighs touch when they walk. How about reinforcing the fabric in that area? Chubby-legged girls everywhere would love you.

I generally throw said pants out at that point and get new ones. But guess what I haven't done in a long time? Buy myself anything to wear. If my kids needed pants I'd be out the door faster than you could say "free coffee for burned out writers." If my husband needs pants I'm always insisting we go out and get him some (granted, I use any excuse to get out alone with him. We turn errands into date nights because we're excellent multitaskers.) But if my pants are worn/don't fit well/make me feel like I'm wearing old work rags from that pile in the garage, I suck it up. That's what moms do. We're shitty to ourselves like that.

My feet? Disgusting and dry and cracked. My makeup? Old and desperately in need of replacing. My food choices? Well, I don't have scurvy - yet.

My emotional state? Certainly not helped by this refusal to take care of my most important person.

Our eldest is 16. We had our children spaced an average of 5 years spart. I've done the new mom thing three separate times. I remember how hard it is to be up all night, have no energy, look like poop, stink like poop, feel like poop and have no time to do anything about it. It's not fun. Those days are a staple for most new mothers. But my youngest is six now, and this shouldn't be happening. I can make time for me. I haven't made time, though. That's made me feel worse, which then in turn makes me have less energy or desire to take care of myself.

See the ugly cycle? It's uglier than my ugly cry when I watch The Notebook. (And that's pretty ugly.)

This weekend I broke that cycle. I went for a haircut and even ordered the - please get ready for this - hair conditioning treatment. Yes, I did. I've never paid for the extras before. And it came with a cranial massage and a face treatment, too.

I sat under that hair dryer just... being. I hadn't sat with myself, fully aware of my surroundings, for weeks. All I've been doing is making sure life doesn't fall apart while the house is on the market. Making sure the gremlins get off to school (not always successfully). Making sure we make all our appointments. Making sure I meet my work deadlines and responsibilities. Thinking ahead, playing the "what if" game several times daily. Being crotchety (I see the irony.)

So to sit - just to sit without thought, without purpose, without expectation - was such a gift.

Today I went to the gym for the first time in about three weeks and made it my bitch. In a few hours when I'm rubbing Rub-A535 all over my aching, overworked muscles, I'll be singing a different tune. But until then: gym  = my bitch.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm mad I neglected me. Glad I stopped before I became a thigh-hole-ridden, nasty-haired freak show. It's so much harder to showcase my awesome like that.



PS: Incidentally, if you type in "A535" into Google to make sure you're writing it correctly and the first suggested search is "Rub-A535 on your balls," you realize it's totally fucking Monday right now.**

PPS: Also... On your balls? Really, guys? Do I even want to know?

This is What We Do During the SuperBowl

No cable, no satellite, no interest. We're not football people, alright? And I can watch the cool  commercials online anyway. I already have. I'm that up on the current technologikagoogles.

But we do like to do special stuff as a family on the weekends. Trauma-making Memory-making type stuff, like this:

Pure hotness, y'all. Pure, sexy hotness.

(Edited to add that Spawnling insisted I post this. Like, won't-go-to-bed-until-you-blog-this type insistence. The kid is weird. No clue where it comes from.)

Cloudy with a Chance of Losing My Shit

I'm anxious. Really anxious.

The entire month of January, I struggled with it. First we decided to put the house up for sale. Then we had to get it ready. Then we had to keep it ready.

I've become a crumb crusader, a dirt dictator, cruising the house for the slightest little thing out of place. There's a tipping point when you have three kids, two dogs, two frogs, a cat and a hamster. Impeccable floors quickly turn into sullied wastelands of hair and food and lego with hair and food in it. And then it takes forever to get it back to near perfectness again before the next visit.

We've had something like 15 showings in the last 2 1/2 weeks. I've lost track now. There's one at least every couple of days, but usually every day - sometimes more than once. But no offers yet. Nobody has wanted to buy this house and save me from my neurotic self. Some of them think about it but don't end up biting the bullet. One couple was here for nearly the entire scheduled hour before deciding the place was "too much house" for them.

Um, hello? The listing says it's 2,000 square feet, right? It says it has four bedrooms, right? Why did it take you an hour in my house to figure that shit out? Meanwhile, we're driving in our car with three kids and a couple of dogs, going through the Tim Hortons drive-through so often we've probably paid for someone's college tuition by now.

And one of the dogs farts a lot no matter what we do to his food, and it's a really bad fart, ok? The kind of fart that makes your eyes burn. And the other dog is a puker. She throws up when she gets nervous. And you know what gets her nervous? FUCKING CARS, THAT'S WHAT. She hates them. She shakes when she looks at them. She becomes a ten pound vomit maker. It's like an ice maker except disgusting and not at all like an ice maker. So one farts, the other barfs, we ask ourselves how we ever became dog people, the kids fight about who has to hold Pukey McSpew on their lap this time and people are in our house for an entire hour so they can decide they don't want it.

So yeah, I'm anxious. Really anxious.

Know what else happens when I get anxious? My hands break out in this awful eczema-like rash. So they break out, then dry up, then crack and bleed. It's really attractive. I'm a sexy stress beast who desperately needs to find time to get a haircut and has hands that look like she's having a religious experience. I've thought about using my divine stigmata powers to see if I could impress people enough to get free coffee at the drive-through, but I think I need to actually be religious to pull that off. Also probably be in a Dan Brown novel. And maybe actually being Jesus would help a lot. But I'm pretty sure I'm not Jesus because I would have cured my dogs of their unpleasant digestive issues by now. That's one of the perks of being the messiah.

And the other thing I can't do very well when I'm this anxious? Write. I can't write a damn thing. I get blocked and I mess around on Facebook posting pictures of shaved llamas.

Admittedly, that came across far dirtier than I intended it. I really meant shaved llamas, not shaved hootenannies. See how my mind went there? That's how I know I'm not Jesus. Well, and the lack of beard, I guess. But if you give me a few years and some menopause I might be able to pull that off.

Back to the writing. I can't write and stuff. So you know what I decided to do? Write about how anxious I am and how I can't bring myself to put words to a page. It's not glamorous, it's not intelligent, it's not witty, but it's here. Maybe this unedited brain dump will help clear my head so I can be awesome again.

Maybe it'll help me not stress out so much.

Maybe it'll help me realize that the swollen gland behind my ear is because I'm fighting something off and not dying of a terrible disease that makes people tired and cranky and cleanliness-obsessed. My mind goes to strange places when I'm this wound up.

So, the house will sell eventually, we won't have to do the whole pukey-farty-fighty car thing for much longer, I don't have a terminal illness and I'm not going to stop being able to write because I'm feeling overwhelmed.

Right?

Write.

I think.

Oh, hug me.

School Mornings: A Special Kind of Hell

Getting children off to school is the most stressful thing I* have to do in a day. And, after whining to numerous people, I'm starting to see this is an issue that extends far beyond our home's four walls.

I don't understand. Kids, school is awesome. You get to draw and take naps and run around and shit. You get to answer really easy questions like "what's 2+5?" and look like a total boss in front of your friends. These days nobody says to me, "Yo, your super important job this week is to learn to play Ba-Ba Black Sheep on this recorder. Work really hard, ok? There are stickers waiting for you."

What? Best life ever.

Do you scrub toilets in school? No.

Do you pay bills in school? No.

Do you pick up other people's socks stuffed into couch cushions at school? No.

Do you make everyone's meal in school and then get told that it's not what they wanted and they're not going to eat it and that maybe you should remember that they don't like bread with seeds in it and apples are only good if they're cut up and why don't you know by now that the fruit snacks in the green box are gross? Hell, no. You just eat your damn lunch. That you didn't even make. Holy Hannah, it's a utopia.

So why - why!? - do they not want to get up in the morning? I have to bring one kid cereal in bed and get the other one dressed while he's half asleep. I have to carry one to the kitchen table and give him 10 different breakfast ideas before he picks one, while running back and forth to the other one's room to wake him up again and remind him - not too firmly or he'll melt down and that will throw our entire schedule off - to get dressed eight thousand times**.

He'll say he's cold. "Here's a crazy idea," I'll suggest helpfully. "Instead of wearing a t-shirt in subzero temperatures, why don't you wear a sweater?"

"No. I'll just stay in bed."

"Okay. But you can't. Would you like a hoodie to go over your t-shirt, then?"

"No. I'm cold. Nothing will change that."

"But... If you... hoodie... head hurts... reasoning gland... exploding..."

"I DON'T WANT A HOODIE! I'M JUST COLD!!!"

"And I'm just about to take up morning drinking," I'll mutter under my breath.

"What?" He'll ask, his hearing aids still sitting on his desk.

"Nothing, sweetheart. Let's wrap that blanket around your bare arms and get you to the front hall since school started ten minutes ago."

"Don't stress me out! I don't care when school started!" He'll complain.

"Have you learned what contradictions are yet?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Here are your hearing aids and here's a blanket. Let's go." I'll give him a hug and wrap him in a blanket and be grateful I have no way of checking my blood pressure. Then we'll spend 10 minutes coaxing the winter gear on, and then another 3 getting him into the car, and then, if we're lucky, no time getting him out of the car and into school. (We're not always lucky.)

I have to be the cheerleader. I wake up before everyone else, throw on my cheerleader outfit (I don't, really, but pretend. Also, maybe pretend I have a cheerleader's body for good measure), and wake the beasts with a huge smile on my face. I don't know how I do it. It takes immense effort. I'm likely going to be canonized after I die, and they can paint me with a cross over the cleavage-riddled cheerleader's uniform.

And I do it every bloody weekday morning, despite knowing there's a high probability of high frustration. In all likelihood, I will be yelled at least once, but probably three or four times. There's at least a 75% chance that, despite our best efforts, they won't get out the door on time. It's a war that can't be won. Oh, sure, we get pleasant mornings of reprieve that smack of Christmas day in the trenches, but they're short lived. Then it's right back into the fray.

Know what makes up for it all, though? This, right here. Me and my pajamas and my caffeinated cup of companionship, all alone with only the trendy sounds of dubstep music filling the house. Me, blogging. Me, screenwriting. Me, freelancing. Me all alone with glorious me. And that's what Saint Maven keeps in mind every time she contemplates hanging herself from the hooks in the front hall while waiting for grouchy gremlins to scuttle into their winter coats. That's what she tells herself when she reaches into the freezer to discover that, in fact, no one has yet invented prozacicles.

(But they will, and it's going to be a thing, and I will buy them by the Costco-sized crateful.)



*Actually, I usually have help from Geekster, but I'm a bit of a victim type and I like to make it seem like it's all me.

** I might be exaggerating a little. It's more like 800 times. Fine. 8. Still, that' a lot of times. Also, I lose count after banging my head on the counter repeatedly in between trips to his bedroom.

Why Your Baby is Like A Bad Ex-Boyfriend

Spawnling, circa 2007

Two friends of mine have had babies in the last month.

Well, one is a close friend and one is a person I stalk on social media sites who will become my friend once we move to Kanata. I've made it abundantly clear she doesn't have a say in the matter (she doesn't seem nearly as concerned about this as she should be, but that's fine. Let ignorance reign for a little while longer.)

Anyway, these babies are behaving badly. One refuses to gain weight in a manner that helps those around her feel comfortable, and the other was hospitalized at less than a week old with an infection. Not cool, mini humans. Not cool.

A few days ago I wrote an email to the person I'm stalking befriending, and told her flat out that babies can be jerks sometimes. She apparently had a good chuckle over this. I'm glad I could make her laugh, but she clearly doesn't understand how true that statement is. Babies can be jerks, much like the quarterback in every 80's high school movie or that guy you dated in high school; in fact, exactly like that. And if you don't believe me, here's a handy dandy quiz based heavily on science and a strong knowledge of popular 80's films. I'm about to prove you wrong and myself incredibly right. Here we go:

IS YOUR BABY LIKE A BAD EX-BOYFRIEND*?

Is your baby gorgeous?

A) Yes. Clearly. Hi, have you seen me?

B) Only to relatives.

C) No. Can you believe it? Oh, wait. That's a fern. Fuck, I'm tired.

Is your baby a poor conversationalist?

A) Yes. I've forgotten what words with multiple syllables sound like.

B) Does colic count as conversation? 

C) Convuh-sashi-what? Coffee, bitch. Now.

Does your baby do nothing but eat, sleep and have you clean up after her?

A) Yes. God, yes.

B) No. Haha, kidding. YES.

C) Please stop. I'm getting depressed.

Does your baby demand all of your attention all of the time?

A) Is there such a thing as a time vampire? Because I'm pretty sure I grew one.

B) I'm pretty sure if my baby could text I'd have to change my phone number.

C) No. My baby is very easygoing. Oh, wait. This is a fern... OMG WHERE'S MY BABY?

When you're at your absolute limit, does your baby flash you a smile?

A) Sigh. Yes. And then I remember it's all worthwhile.

B) No, but I'm holding tight to the promise that she will. Any day now. Any. Freaking. Day...

C) Really. Any day. Just have to keep...staring... hard.

Does your baby whine until he gets to touch your boobies?

A) Yes. All the time.

B) No, but only because he doesn't know about boobies. (Don't you dare tell him.)

C) Not only that, but I bet if he could talk he'd tell all his buddies about it.

BOOM!

Game, set, match.

*Not to be  one to discriminate, I should state that this would also apply to many ex-girlfriends too. Not that I've ever had one, but I'm pretty sure she would have texted me a lot and left her empty chip bags around as much as a dude.

My house is immaculate. My brain is a mess.

There's a FOR SALE sign on our front lawn. It's official: we're moving.

It's in French. I assure you it says "for sale" and not "condemned" or something.

Well, if someone will buy the house. The realtor says it has "the cute factor." I don't know what that means, but I'm pretty sure it sells homes. I kind of wish I had "the cute factor." Maybe I'd sell more writing.

I keep hoping someone's going to come in, look around and go, "OMG HONEY I THINK THIS IS THE MAVEN'S HOUSE! We need to buy it RIGHT NOW."

I somehow don't think that's going to happen. I'm not nearly as popular in real life as my vision board indicates I should be. In fact, I think if anyone knew there was a woman who called herself "The Maven of Mayhem" living here, they might be out that door faster than they can say "crazy bitches be livin' here."

Good news, at least: Somebody got laid a lot last weekend.

And by "somebody" I mean "something", and by "something" I mean "tile". Lots and lots of tile was laid. It wasn't a terribly exciting lay, but it sure looked good. And sometimes that's all that matters. I even bumped a few with a mallet to make sure they were firmly in place, so now I can casually point at my floor and say, "I hit that."

And if I installed a hidden camera nearby, I could make a photo album of troubled looks that could potentially fund a better downpayment on the new house.

And paint. There has been a lot of painting going on. It's funny how you don't notice the destruction of your walls until you start thinking about how other people are going to see them. It's like I had blinders on; I think they're a requirement for households containing three boy children.  Scratches, peels, bumps and mystery smears were around every corner. The hallway looked like the set of the Jerry Springer show after a few chairs get thrown around.

Probably because there were actual chairs thrown around.

Did I mention I had to buy new chairs? Nobody likes to see a table for twelve with three chairs around it.

And tablecloths to hide Spawnling's Sharpie drawings. One of them is of a bum. Awesome.

At any rate, I have not stopped working for days. And that's not even including the birth I attended (that's a separate blog post) and the writing I've done (what little I've managed to do.) I'm exhausted.

And I'm so exhausted that I have these big crying jags about moving every day or so. I'll be completely fine, and then I'll start thinking about the great people, the neighbourhood, the schools we're leaving behind, and I sob. Or I'll think about people coming through this house - our house - and picking it apart, and I sob. Or I'll see our listing online and think "what a pretty house" and then remember that it's my house but probably not for much longer, and I'll fucking sob.

Basically I just cry a lot, but I don't feel depressed most of the time. I feel good, and actually quite excited -- until I don't. And then I sob. I don't understand this process. If you do, please tell me what's going on. I'm totally broke because I had to pay for all that laying (not all of us get it for free, you know, even if we say "Hey, baby. I'm The Maven.") But I'll pay you in compliments or possibly a coffee if you're local and not totally creepy with a crying chicks fetish.

This selling thing sucks. Now I remember why I never, ever wanted to do it again. It's tiring and stressful and I've thought about ripping the sign off the front lawn and throwing it at someone I don't like. But I also know that my family will likely benefit from this move, so there won't be any sign rippage going on. Also, rumours of assault charges aren't something you want to take with you to your new neighbourhood.

Wait. Or maybe you do...

My brain is broken. Well, more broken. It's no longer being held together effectively by pony stickers and wads of gum. I just hope that the selling process is quick and that the buying process is relatively painless in comparison.

In the meantime, our house is spotless and rather pleasant for the first time in since we lived here. I could get used to this.

Must go. I'm going to try a glue stick on my prefrontal cortex.

Sometimes All You Need is a Revelatory Bitch Slap.

Please check out my insanely organized cupboards. After the house sells and I have nobody to impress anymore, they'll never look like this again.

I had a bit of a revelation yesterday.

To be honest, I don't know if you can have a "bit" of a revelation. I wonder if that's like being a little pregnant, or slightly crazy.

At any rate, it's all thanks to my friend F (which is not short for "Fuck," in case you were wondering) who came over a couple of nights ago to help me do some deep cleaning before we put our house on the market.

F uck is one of the most intelligent, dynamic and resourceful people I know. But she hasn't had an easy life. For a long while, she was a single mom to three living well below the poverty line. She finally found true love, and just two years ago married a man who also has three children of his own. Right now the couple is in school hoping to provide a better life for their family. They make due on very little, far less than most people I know. Everything is precariously budgeted down to the wire. It's not easy living that close to the edge all the time.

But if F has one big thing I've been lacking lately, it's joy and gratitude. Which is actually two things, but whatever. Quit judging me and go troll a sleep training debate or something. She knows her situation could be worse, she knows it could be better. Most importantly, she knows it will get better, and that's what keeps a smile on her face. I love her perspective, and I especially love that she gave me some. She's a breath of fresh air.

While I was organizing my cupboards and she was taking a cloth to my baseboards (which, by the way, are not grey but white. You learn something new every day - or at least when your friend cleans your baseboards once every five years), F and I got into why we were putting the house up for sale. I gave her a big, long explanation. I might as well have just pulled spreadsheets and psychological evaluations out of my ass and made a powerpoint presentation with them. I don't know which one of us I was trying to convince, honestly. I wasn't so much justifying the move as justifying why I was so stressed about it.

Know what she said?

"Well, you can look at it this way: At least you have a house to sell."

Boom, boom, shake the room. Epiphany.

Or revelation. Yes, that's what I said it was at the beginning. Did I not send you off to fight with strangers on the internet instead of poking holes in my writing? Somewhere, there's a conversation on vaccines just waiting for your input.

I don't know why that particular thing said by that particular person hit me the way it did, but did I ever need it. I was properly bitch slapped awake. It seems I was so buried in worry that I couldn't see the caffeine for the coffee.

Are we better off if we move? Probably, yes. But are we in dire straights if we stay? No, far from it.

I left home at 16. For a few months, I bounced between friends' couches, rooming houses, and even a couple of apartment building stairwells. I spent a few weeks at the local YM/YWCA. Some of the elevator numbers were burned out, but I could tell it was my floor when the doors opened to reveal a stain that looked suspiciously like a old blood. I owned very little, counted every penny. I went school hungry many times.

Then I met Geekster, who obviously fell in love with me quickly and easily. The first apartment we rented was above some drug dealers, who controlled our shared hallway with a massive, angry rottweiler. To get out of our apartment, we sometimes had to walk down the slippery fire escape in the back. We broke our lease and moved at 6 a.m. when they were stoned and sound asleep.

The house we brought baby Intrepid home to had cockroaches. Try finding that out at eight months pregnant when you flip the light on in your kitchen and notice them mating on the ceiling.

The house after that? The neighbourhood was pretty! Pretty awful. We had our junky old car stolen and our shed broken into, and sirens and arrests were a regular occurrence. The neighbour's kids threw dog shit at our front door - at the request of their grandmother.

My grandchildren will likely not hear very much about how great things were in the good ol' days, but I guarantee my stories won't be boring until I tell them for the seventeenth time.

I'll never forget the day we bought our first home and left all the dog shit slinging behind. But I've always been a person who tries to remember where she came from. I knew that if I lost sight of that, I'd have no point of reference anymore.

And guess what happened this week?

That.

"F uck, you're so right," I declared as the lights came on in the sensible part of my brain (it's very small, worn and pocked, but still there.)

Those nights where I used to lie awake in my room at the YM/YWCA listening to the odd person turn the door handle to see if it was locked, I would tell myself, "it won't always be this way," and imagine my future life. That life is pretty much what I have right now. We live in a safe home in a safe neighbourhood. My now non-imaginary-but-far-less-behaved children are happy and their bellies are full. What more could I ask for?

We're going to try and move for many good reasons, but if we can't right now it's not the end of the world by any means. If the house doesn't sell for what we need it to, we'll stay here for a while. But all this stress? This sickening worry that paralyzed me for days? That's not going to happen anymore. What a waste of energy.

I woke up yesterday feeling so much better about things. I smiled a lot, laughed some, took notice of all the good stuff around me. What's changed? Not a damn thing other than my perspective. Life will do what it does and I have little control over it, but happiness and gratitude are mine any time I want them.

"Thanks, F uck," I said, wholeheartedly. "I needed that."

And I did.