And This is Why I Blog

Remnants of two weeks ago

The next time someone says, "Hey, weirdo. Why do you blog, anyway?" I'm going to throat punch them for calling me "weirdo" and tell them nobody likes a bully. And then I'm going to direct them to two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, I was having a day that not even chocolate could cure. That not even chocolate could cure, you guys. That's serious. Let that sink in. My child was in the midst of a mental health crisis. He and I had spent the day at a hospital ER and two clinics. We had no way to make things immediately better, only the promise that help was on the way - eventually. We came home to wait for phone calls and answers.

He was now fast asleep after his ordeal. I was drained in ways that took me back to colic and engorged breasts and 3 a.m. Law & Order reruns.  Worse still, none of the things I normally do to de-stress after an eventful day were working. There was no unwinding this band; it had wound so tight it had snapped.

I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone. I wasn't returning phone calls or replying to texts. I just didn't know what to say anymore. I had talked too much, cried too much, and yet still had enough emotion pent up to pull a Mount St-Helen.

So I blogged.

And I can't tell you why, exactly. I can't explain why I couldn't talk to people but could internet my shit all over the internet. Maybe it's because I was just too overwhelmed. Maybe it's because I'm an attention whore. Maybe it's because I could say what I needed to say on my terms, without being asked questions I had no answers for. Maybe it's because I was hoping there would be one person, just one, who could tell me they understand what we're going through. Maybe it's all of those things (with a heavy emphasis on the attention whore bit.)

So I wrote, and I didn't care what it said. I didn't even bother editing it (writers everywhere are hyperventilating right now.) I didn't expect many people would read it, to be honest. It was too deep, too serious, so beyond the lighter, funnier stuff I normally write. But I had something to say and I just said it because, well, it needed to be said. Writers write things and sometimes it makes us feel a little better like this did.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, and woke up in the morning to an explosion of kindness and compassion.

There were thoughtful comments on the blog; more than on any other post I've written in the past seven years (which practically makes me a blogging dinosaur.) There were so many wonderful comments on Facebook and Twitter.

There were emails - countless emails - from people who shared their stories of mental illness with me. Some were parents who get it, others were recovering adult children who wanted to tell me we're doing all the right things. Every single one told me I was a good mom (they clearly haven't been over during PMS week when I morph into a foaming-at-the-mouth harpy) and each one offered tremendous support and reassurance. I still haven't been able to reply to everyone, although I'm trying. Please don't think I'm a jerk. I mean, I am kind of a jerk, but I'm one who tries to reply to her emails.

Then BlogHer syndicated it, and Schmutzie featured it, and there were others that I know I'm forgetting. As people read, the support would come in like waves, and each one helped carry me closer to shore.

I've spent the last two weeks trying to psychoanalyze what happened. I can't. I just know that blogging, as always, is helping me through a tough time. In turn, I'm better able to help my son through his tough time. I'm able to read words of support to my husband, and I know it's helping him, too. We don't feel alone in this anymore.

I know it's strange to put your life online for everyone to see. I know it's not for everyone. But while I'm sure there are downsides to leading a more transparent existence, I haven't seen them yet.

Well, unless you count the bizarre hate mail I occasionally get.

Oh! Or the stalker who was convinced I was a demon and tried to exorcize me by posting scripture and threatening to burn me out. But other than that it's been pretty sweet.

So thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my cholesterol-filled mavenly heart.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for understanding.

Thank you to the local peeps for the hugs, the cookies (especially the cookies), the offers of help.

Thank you to those who are too far away to give hugs for your outpouring of compassion. I felt hugged every single time.

Thank you for helping us lift the stigma veil off mental illness, so that we can reach a time when no one has to hide it or live in shame because of it.

Thank you for encouraging me to find a local family support group. I did, and it's exactly what I needed.

Thank you for letting me know that our story has aided you somehow, has encouraged you to find the help you need for you or your children. Those messages will stay with me forever.

Thank you, most of all, to my sweet middle child for allowing me to write about this stuff (yes, he knows and he's okay with it. But he finds me boring and old so he doesn't read my blog.)  I hope you never lose sight of the beautiful, amazing soul you are. We all have our struggles, but trust me when I say they can make us stronger. When you find yourself in the dark, know that I'll always come find you. I love you. We all love you. And we're going to figure this out.

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

You are all why this weirdo blogs.

How to keep it together when your child is in crisis - or not.

I cried far too much today.

I cried because I have a sweet little ten-year-old boy who needs me to be a lot stronger than I am.

I cried because I can't seem to give him what he needs, get him what he needs.

I cried because he told us he's sad all the time, he can't make his brain shut off, he feels weird and out of place in this world and he wishes he could be more like his brothers.

I cried harder still when he saw me crying and reassured me that he was going to get better.

After an early morning of panic-induced rage and tears, we made our way to the children's hospital ER. We have very limited health coverage in Ontario until we get our provincial health cards next month. But the hospital is covered and has a good crisis team. Things were better, I thought to myself as we were driving. Things were better after we moved. He was happier. He smiled more. He slept better. He left his room. He went outside. Shame on me for believing it could have been that easy. Shame on me for not staying on top of things. And the tears fell again.

Things have been steadily going downhill for the last three weeks or so. I haven't wanted to admit it. I've wanted to keep believing that a geographical cure did the trick; a later school start time, a new neighbourhood to discover, a family more relaxed and happier than we've been in a long time.

But mental illness isn't fooled by a new postal code. It knows exactly where to find you.

I know this. And I feel stupid for losing sight of that. I let my guard down and, in turn, I let my son down.

Depression. Anxiety. Sleep deprivation. A referral to the anxiety and mood disorders clinic. Wait time: 6-8 months. Keep seeing his psychologist, get a pediatrician.

Medication is something to strongly consider at this point, as his symptoms are so pronounced, the psychiatrist on call said today. More tears. I never wanted my son to be medicated, but I also don't want him to keep feeling like this. You're doing everything else. Maybe he just needs a little more help. 

All those judgments I've heard from people ran through my head: Parents are too quick to medicate. Medication screws them up even more. People who don't want to actually fix the problem turn to medication. It's clearly something going on at home. He's just not eating the right foods/getting enough exercise/needs more structure/needs more discipline. Why aren't you thinking of the side effects?

Oh, we are thinking of the side effects. They worry me immensely. Know what else worries me? That our child is miserable most of the time. That he hates himself for being so different and out of control. That he's going through life with mountains of stress and sorrow on his shoulders every day. That he's tried everything that has been asked of him and felt more and more discouraged each time it hasn't worked. That he believes he will never find peace or happiness again. That things can get worse - a lot worse - if we don't do everything we can to help him now.

There's something everybody who doesn't have a mentally ill child needs to understand: that unless you have a mentally ill child you do not understand.

You can sympathize, empathize, try to imagine what you would do if you were there, but you do not and will not know because you're not there. And I envy you for it. I envy that safe space you stand in that allows you to scrutinize the lives of other families and decide whether or not you agree with their decisions - their often very difficult, very painful decisions. I was there, once upon a time, thinking I would never be here. Things look very different when you're here.

And I'm so not trying to be a giant bitch here. I don't have all the answers and I don't pretend to have them - ever. Like most parents with a mentally ill child, I question myself enough for everyone. We don't need more questioning. What we need is understanding. We need support. We need hugs. We need breaks. We need people to love us as we are. We need people to know that we're trying very, very hard and that our son's best interests are behind every decision we make. We need people to believe in him as much as we do.

When he saw me crying after talking to the doctor today, he got up and gave me a hug. "It's going to be ok, Mom."

I laughed and said, "I think I'm supposed to be supporting you, kiddo."

"I think we're supposed to be supporting each other," he replied with a little smile. "That's what family does."

He's a superhero, that one. His cape might be a little tattered at the moment, but I can't wait to watch him fly again.

It's coming. I can feel it.

And now we're making up family members

FML

Today I went on a field trip with Spawnling's class. It's been a tough time for the little guy. He said goodbye to his teachers and all his friends, changed schools just weeks before the end of the year, and jumped from the end of kindergarten to the end of grade 1 - where a lot more is expected of him.

And did I mention the second language component? Grade 1 French Immersion is a lot harder than Kindergarten French Immersion. Reading, writing, speaking in full sentences. He's been working really hard.

But overall, he's been doing ok. I mean, if you ignore a few things. Like the fact that he's been kind of a jerk lately.

Oh, don't look at your screens like that. I've called him worse things in my head. Unconditional love and a fear of emotionally scarring my offspring means I don't say them out loud, that's all.

There was that time a couple of days ago when I had taken him out to practice riding his new bike even though I was dead tired and wanted to do nothing more than watch Teen Wolf episodes and eat carbs. He had a blast riding in a large concrete play area behind a nearby school. The sky was spitting raindrops, and when a downpour hit, we hid in a doorway, half soaked, and laughed ourselves silly. I cheered him on as he rode, he stopped, smiled and gave me a hug. "I love you," he said. I told him I loved him, too.

Then it was time to go home.

"Can you walk my bike back for me? I'm not ready to ride on the sidewalk yet," he explained.

"It would be easier if you walked it back because I'd have to bend over a lot and I might hurt my back," I countered.

He glared at me. "So you're not going to help your son?"

"You can walk your bike back, buddy. It's your bike."

"And I'm your child. Nice. Thanks a lot for NOT HELPING ME. You suck. You're the worst mother ever."

Zero to ten, just like that. And with sarcasm, even.

And you are being a dick, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Instead, we had a talk about respect and kindness and the proper usage of sarcasm, which is not to insult one's mother.

It's been happening a lot lately. The other night, after spending a wonderful evening of video games and books and fun with his youngest son, Geekster told Spawnling it was time for bed.

"What? It's bedtime? No. I'm not going."

"Yes you are," said Geekster.

"No, I'm not."

I'll spare you the back and forth, but within three or four minutes it ended up with Spawnling in his room, swinging at his dad and yelling, "You're the worst dad EVER! You suck! YOU SUCK! I hate you! I want mom! She's way better than you!"

He had clearly already forgotten that whole worst-mom-ever-won't-bring-my-bike-home shit I pulled.

And you need to stop acting like the poster child for vasectomies and get your pyjamas on, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Eventually, we calmed him down and he apologized to his dad. But it was like an entire year of my PMS days thrown into a six-year-old for an hour. I almost threw chocolate at him and backed out of the room.

Add to this that he's been physical with some of the kids at school, teasing classmates, and getting so distracted that he now sits alone at a desk instead of in a group. I spoke at length with his teacher about it during today's museum field trip. I tried not to take any of it personally. I really did. I was doing a good job at it, too.

And then I found out about Spawnling's sister.

"So you also have a little girl at home?" the teacher asked conversationally.

I told her we did not.

"Really? I could have sworn Spawnling told us about a sister."

"You must be thinking about someone else. We have three boys. We--" And that's when I saw his face out of the corner of my eye. That mischievous, knowing, thankfully adorable little face.

"I lied," he said. And giggled.

What. The. Flipping. Christ.

It turns out Spawnling's imaginary sister is named Julia, although now he wishes he had named her Bartholomew because it's better. She's 4, and she just had a birthday. She's gone on all our vacations and she's quite funny. She's also annoying, but that's what little sisters are like.

Spawnling apparently wove tales of hilarity around life with Julia. He made the class laugh several times with stories of her antics, and made her so believable that there was never a doubt in his teacher's mind she was real.

I'm sort of half embarrassed and half amused and half concerned and completely sure I need to brush up on my fractions right after this post. I'm also feeling a tad guilty because this isn't the first time Spawnling has insisted on a sister, and we have absolutely no intention of giving him one. Like, ever. If you're unsure as to why, please read the first half of this blog post over again. Then pour yourself a shot of something strong and drink it in my honour.

And again.

And again until half the bottle's gone. Do it for Maven.

This is completely uncharted territory for us. Neither of Spawn's brothers ever made up a sibling. Of course, he might come by this honestly. I once lied about it being my birthday at my daycare centre so I could get cake and a party hat. When my parents showed up, they were berated for not mentioning my birthday, while I sat there reminding myself that chocolate sprinkle cake outweighed the trouble I was about to be in.

And look at me. I turned out just fine.

Anyway, um, is this normal? This lying stuff? This extreme attitude stuff? Could he be having a delayed reaction to moving? Is he just taking this opportunity to reinvent himself? Get a fresh start? Is this worthy of a trip to Dr. Psychologist?

Oh, don't be surprised. This is my family. Of course we have a psychologist.

Why there's nothing wrong with staying home. Or being an astronaut.

Pretty sure I'd look just like this if I played this game. Maybe slighter fatter. Just slightly.

On a good day, I'm feeling on top of my proverbial game.

I'm not exactly sure what my game is, but it's the life equivalent of a sport that's awesome and quite possibly up-and-coming, like lacrosse, and I rock at it. On those good days, I'm, like, the quarterback of the lacrosse team (I don't know a lot about sports) and I'm scoring touchdowns or whatever with that net-pole-thingy, and everyone is cheering and my jock strap fits just right.

On those days, I'm centred, focused and mostly calm in the brain. On those days, I love my life and I'm comfortable in my own skin. I laugh a lot, sing in my car, am excited to meet people and say funny and/or occasionally insightful things. On those days, I spread joy like an STD at a Las Vegas bachelor party.

And then, there are days like today. The days when my joy wears a condom, which I'm realizing now is a really bad analogy because wearing condoms is a good thing.

Except when they're joy condoms.

I've been having a day filled with latex blockades, turning away my happy swimmers at the border. I probably could have just said "I'm having a bad day," and skipped all that hullabaloo, but that's not how my mind works. And, if we could be honest with ourselves for a minute, isn't that why you come to my brain zoo and tour the weird animal exhibits?

I suppose, if I had to sum it up like normal people do, I would put it like this:

Today, and for a few days now, I've been feeling guilty about not having a "real" job.

Now that we've moved, we're able to get by on one income again. I should be overjoyed, because it means the very best of things: I get to stay home and write. How great is that? That's like an explosion of joy bursting through a pinpricked prophylactic.

But it's not like I've been doing a whole lot to advance my career as of late. I've been giving myself an adjustment period that involves unpacking, meeting people and finding my footing (I have high arches, so this can be tricky. It's a wonder I let me on my lacrosse team.) 

But this adjustment period, as busy as it is, feels very much like doing, well, nothing.

I love staying home. I look forward to planning my days as I please; taking on as much or as little work as I feel up to; keeping the place as clean as it can be with three boys, two dogs and an inbred hamster who poops in her food bowl. On good brain days ungoverned by old toxic messages and/or hormonal fluctuations, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Life is fleeting and you simply can't put a price on time.

On the bad days, however, various message appear like spammy pop-ups on a porn site (so I hear): 

Maven. You should be working! Contributing! Doing great things!

It's so selfish of you to stay home, Maven. 

Every time your child complains that "everyone in my class goes on vacation each year but we don't" it's your fault, Maven. 

You should go out and get a 9-5 because this isn't 1950 and that's what women do these days, Maven.

And stop kidding yourself: You're never going to make it as a writer. Do you know how many writers there are? They're everywhere, and most of them are still waiting for that big break. What makes YOU so special?

And on these bad days I listen to those messages and feel inadequate and insecure. I feel like I can't do anything right. I feel like maybe I'm wasting my life prepping meals at 3 p.m. and trying to be a writer. 

(And then, like a true writer, I blog about it.)

The thing is, I like being home.  If I didn't like it, I'd go to work. If we couldn't sustain our lifestyle on one income, I'd go to work (as I have in the past). But I like having a flexible schedule that allows for sick kids, off-peak grocery shopping, coffee with friends, and volunteering at the school. I like the quiet that comes with an empty house. (Three boys, remember?)

And I love writing. There's nothing I'd rather do in the world. There's little else that fuels me, emotionally sustains me, brings out that inner goddess who would lay dormant if she lacked an outlet. It's the one and only thing I would choose as a career.

So why do I feel so conflicted at times? Guilt. Societal norms. Lack of chocolate. 

I think I'll go with lack of chocolate.

This is the year 2013. Feminism has taken us far. Women can now get a good education. We can achieve great things in the workplace. We have female astronauts, neurosurgeons and CEOs. Some of our sisters seem to balance a full-time career while simultaneously dicing carrots, doing pilates, closing a deal and changing a diaper. I can hardly make soup and blog at the same time, so I have endless respect and admiration for this delicate balancing act.

But I seem to beat the crap out of myself with feminism at times. Somehow, because I'm not a neurosurgeon or an astronaut or earn a salaried income of any kind, I'm less than. I'm less than because I chose to stay home with my kids instead of gaining seniority in the workplace. I'm less than because I'm choosing a form of artistic expression as a career instead of getting a "real job." 

I'm less than you, and you are more than me. 

The worst part about all of this is that I'm creating a problem where there is none. Why do people work? Usually because either they need the money or they love the job - or both. It can be fulfilling to have money in the bank and it can also be fulfilling to be recognized for our efforts. But work should never be what defines us. We are so much more than what we put on a resume.

After a couple of great chats with wise women today, I've concluded I need to get over myself and get back to doing what I do best: Thinking I'm awesome. 

And hugging my kids. And planting flowers. And writing something insightful, if I can ever come up with something insightful to write about.

I'm more than my piddly resume and I'm more than my writing and I'm more than my kids. I'm more than the choices I've made and the choices I will make. Life is about balancing responsibility with happiness. And you know what? I think I'm doing a bang up job of that.

Lesson learned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go poke some holes in some condoms.

In Which My Husband is a Creepy Dream Stalker

Image courtesy of: Wikipedia Commons (I love you guys.)

I had this really weird dream the other night. This is odd, because normally my real life is crazy and my dreams are normal. That's how I know I'm dreaming, because I'll be doing things and all of a sudden I'm like, "wait, my clothes match" or, "wait, my desk is inordinately tidy," or, "wait, how am I talking without making others uncomfortable?"

In the dream, we were driving by our old house (the one we officially sold a couple of weeks ago), and Geekster said, "Hey, I still have a key. We should go check it out!" And then I said, "You're not supposed to still have a key, Geekster," and then he ignored my statement about legalities and pulled into the driveway.

We went inside - some of us more reluctantly than others - and started walking through the rooms. The place looked like someone had just moved in. There was no sign of the couple we sold to, who I guessed were at work or perhaps breaking into their old house in an attempt at universal balance.

The boys ran in front of us, picking up things that didn't belong to them and commenting on half-finished renovations. "Everything looks different," commented a confused Geekster, who was starting to worry me about as much as the time he eagerly said 'I do' to a girl who now puts her dreams on the internet.

"That's because this is not our house," I emphasized. "Now let's go."

But we didn't. Instead, Geekster and the kids decided to do really creepy things straight out of a made-for-tv stalker movie, like eat the new owners' food and sit on the couch and watch television. I kept waiting for someone to boil a bunny or try on some lingerie.

The day was wearing on. I suddenly realized the new owners would be back soon.

"We have to go," I pleaded in a very sensible tone. Never mind the out of character B&E. This is the part where I should have started to realize I was dreaming. I am rarely sensible. In fact, I'm certain Jane Austen wrote Sense and Sensibility in 1811 because she knew I wouldn't be alive for a very long time yet and thus she could avoid getting tweeted about how disconnected I feel from the title.

"But we haven't really sold this house yet..." Geekster mused.

I waved my arms around at all the things that were not our things, and all the painted walls that were not our painted walls because I wouldn't be caught dead with a chartreuse dining room no matter how many HGTV designers use it. "Uh, yes, we have. We signed the papers and handed over the keys, remember? ... Well, most of the keys."

My husband put another chocolate bar wrapper on top of other chocolate bar wrappers on the counter. I started to wonder if maybe it was the undiagnosed diabetes talking. I was running around picking up all the mess my family was leaving behind. There was garbage everywhere. This part was basically like real life except I would have been yelling that no one bothered sharing their candy with me.

"You know," he said between mouthfuls, "I never realized how much this place meant to me."

"What?"

He continued: "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss it. Let's see if we can get out of this sale and move back in."

I just about died/strangled him with the handle of a chartreuse paint can. This was the man who fought me tooth and nail for years to move to the city we live in now. This was the man who spreadsheeted the shit out of our finances to prove to me we couldn't afford to keep living in an old fixer upper in a province that cackled with glee every time we filed our income taxes.

And now he was acting like a total douchebag, which should have been clue number two that I was dreaming. Normally, I'm captain of the douche canoe, thank you very much.

This is about where I lost it (see "douche canoe captain" above) and started telling him how this wasn't our home anymore. "We don't live here! We live in Ottawa! I like Ottawa! I like our new house! Stop this-- and stop eating so much fucking chocolate! What is wrong with you?"

It's funny, because I'm the one who cried about leaving and then cried about leaving some more and then wrote about how I cried about leaving on the internet for thousands of my closest friends to read. And now I was convincing him we couldn't be here anymore. I was telling him we have to go back to our suburban two-storey on a postage stamp because it's where we belong now.

And that's when the new owner pulled up and I had to go outside and do damage control. "Ok, I'm pretty freaked out right now," she admitted with wide eyes when I walked out of her house. I explained that I just needed to coax my husband with apparent blood sugar issues back into the car. This somehow became ok with her, and she gave us a tour, introduced us to extended family members, showed me some of the (often strange) improvements they had already made to the place.

The whole time, I felt completely disconnected from the experience. This was not my house anymore, and I couldn't wait to leave and get back home.

Hours later, I finally managed to get my family out of there. I had to first let them go through people's drawers, then rename a puppy (who mysteriously popped up just as we were about to walk out the door), but eventually they piled into the car and I drove us home.

I woke up relieved it was all a dream, and kind of wanting a puppy.

My husband initially found the whole thing amusing, then less so when he realized I was mad at him most of the day for not sharing dream chocolate.

I'm no dream interpretation expert, but I'm thinking my subconscious was trying to tell me the following things:

• I'm starting to let go and move on (this is a good thing)
• I'm growing quite fond of our new 'hood (and not just because I'm here)
• Must start subtly counting my husband's keys before and after real estate transactions
• People should always share chocolate with me
• I apparently really hate chartreuse
• I could murder someone with a paint can if I had to, which is impressively MacGyver of me

Dear Chubby Kid at the Park

Dear Chubby Kid at the Park,

Yeah, you.

The one looking sad the other day. The one who was so nice to my little boy. The one so obviously filled with sweetness inside that quiet shell. The one who was getting picked on by those other kids. The one who said not a word as they were teasing you, adding "fat" to your name, calling you over and then running away because they might catch your "fatness." The one who looked so incredibly hurt while the wolves tore into you. 

The one who broke my heart.

There were so many things I wanted to say to you, so many things I wanted to do besides what I did. Nobody deserves to be talked to like that. And my son? He's only six. I watched him watching you, watching them, watching me to see what my reaction would be. He's learning what's right and what's wrong, and I sure as hell wasn't going to teach him that the proper thing to do when someone is getting bullied is to sit on the bench, play with a smartphone and pretend it's not happening.  So I stepped in, and I gently told them they needed to stop, and that it wasn't funny, and that I was the one on the receiving end of words like those once upon a time, and it hurts in ways they probably don't even realize. 

It stopped, of course, but who knows for how long? And that's why there was so much more I wish I could say to you.

First of all, I'd tell you I've been there. And in some ways, I'm still there. I mean, I'm kinda still chubby, in case you hadn't noticed. 

Alright, fine: I'm downright obese. You could probably even throw "morbidly" in front of that and no doctor would bat an eyelash. 

But guess what? They don't actually care that you're overweight, dude. They're just looking for a way in, and that happens to be an obvious one. But it could be anything. Anything. Trust me. I wasn't always two Kit Kats shy of a Costco crate, and kids just like those ones still found stuff about me to tear down.

Today I walked into the school yard - your school yard - to pick up my kids. I do this every day, and I have yet to talk to a single parent. They all have their little groups formed and none of them chat outside of those groups. Adults can be just as cliquey as kids. 

And while I was walking, I tripped and fell onto the gravel. Bare legs met rock. A bunch of people noticed, but not a single person asked me if I was okay. I got up, dusted myself off and walked the rest of the way into the yard with blood trickling down my shin. No one said a word to me. It was like high school all over again. 

But here's the thing: I'm at the point in my life where I realize those are their issues, not mine. Kind people show concern for others. If they're not kind, they're not worth my time. The good news is that the school yard isn't my entire world these days. It's only tiny fraction of my afternoons. The rest of my life is filled with friendly people, helpful people, wonderful people. I hope you have people like that in your world, too.

You are worth so much more than those boys at the park realize, and probably more than you realize. I saw your hopeful look when they called you over to the play structure. They had just finished going back and forth between hurling insults and ignoring you, and yet you still hoped it was all a misunderstanding, that they were going to make everything right and be your friends.

I've had that hope. I've wasted time on those who weren't worth it. Until you realize you deserve better, you won't seek out better, you won't insist on better, you won't receive better. You have to invite it in. Those guys are not worth your time and energy, even if they sometimes pretend to be your friend. And if you waste that time and energy, you won't have it for someone better.

I have great people in my world today because I'm a great person. I know this for a fact. I'm not a perfect person or a gorgeous person or a wildly successful person, but I'm great. Seriously.  I really want you to know that you are, too. You shine brighter than you can ever imagine, but that light is on the inside. You have to stoke the fire of awesome until it grows big enough to be seen from the outside. It can take a really long time to build a fire that big, but you do it a little bit at a time. 

First, you tell those boys where to shove it next time they tease you. Find your voice, find your power.  There's some kindling for you. 

Then, you start walking taller every day, and you start smiling. More kindling.

You speak up when something's not right, you mentor a younger kid, you volunteer somewhere and meet other amazing people of all ages, you give a damn good presentation and wow your class, you hang out on the weekend with that other quiet kid in class and build a real friendship, you go into that park without fear... and before long, that is one incredible fire in your belly, and it's shining everywhere.

I was you, little dude (except with pigtails), and it's not an easy way to grow up. It can be lonely and dark and you might feel like it'll never get better. But what you're going through right now, while painful and challenging, is going to give you wisdom and strength beyond measure, if you let it.

Confidence is a hard thing to hold onto when people always seem to be trying to beat it out of you. But once that fire gets going, believe me, it would take an ocean to extinguish it. 

Trust me. I'm full of it - confidence, I mean. I'm The Maven. Or, as you probably know me, The Weird Lady at the Park who Distracted Those Boys Just Long Enough That You Could Get Out of There That One Time.

I hope you went off to find some kindling.

What. The. Cluck.

I'll admit to having done the big ugly cry a few times lately, particularly around the signing away of our old home on Friday.

And that afternoon I was feeling rather melancholy. Not in a "I regret moving" kind of way, but more in a "I hope I'll feel as at home here as I did in our old place" kind of way. 

Then I went outside to mope and do some yard work.

And then, I suppose, the Universe decided I needed a sign. A big, flashing neon sign that screams THIS IS DEFINITELY YOUR HOME, MAVEN. NOW STOP BEING A DRAMA QUEEN AND GET OVER YOURSELF.

Or something.

And that's when I spotted this in the grass:

Dear Maven, Your prayers have been answered. You're welcome. - Universe

I don't know who she is or where she came from, but she's clearly had... life experiences. For one, she's  missing a limb.

Possible reasons: Shark attack while surfing Cujo Pole dancing/stiletto mishap Machete-wielding clown

Oh, but it gets better. If she was just a rubber chicken, I would have thrown her out.

But she's wearing a bikini. And... and...

It took everything I had not to Photoshop some tassels on there. See? I can be mature sometimes.* (*while posting cleavage shots of dismembered rubber chickens.)

SOMEONE DREW NIPPLES ON HER WITH A SHARPIE.


And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, I turned her over and this happened:

TRAMP STAMP! Things this ink could possibly be: Flames Deformed crab A drunk phoenix Sinking of the Titanic

That is totally something I would have done if I had a rubber chicken and a permanent marker and was the type of person who still giggles every time she hears the word pianist (I do. Every time. Try it sometime.)

Except I didn't do it. That's the best part. Someone else who was in this house has the same sick sense of humour I do.

Oh, right. The as of yet nameless rubber mascot of my life has a point. It's important that we not judge this poor chick. Who knows what her story is? Not everybody gets the same opportunities in life, you know. Maybe she never made it through poultriversity. Maybe the roosters she roosted with were dicks. Maybe she just loves wearing a bikini because it shows off her ink and, uh, nipples. That's what feminism is all about, people. We need to support our sisters. Empower them. Lift them up. Take pictures of them standing next to solar lamps on the deck.

All I know for sure is that she was my sign that I need to be here, in this house. This treasure was undoubtedly meant for me, and I'm certain the two of us will spend lots of time together.

Outside.

Several feet away.

Because I'm pretty sure my new BFF is filled with toxic spores and shit.

How to Win Friends and Obsess over People

So here's a confession for you, but only because I'm PMS-y and I can't stuff the feelings down with chocolate because I'm pretty sure it's giving me heart palpitations lately:

I'm kind of lonely.

I miss my family and friends in Aylmer. Even though they're only half an hour away, it takes some planning to get together. There's no more of this spontaneous, "Let's have coffee! Right now! Because we're so close!" stuff going on. It's more like, "Are you free on the 12th? Let's sync our calendars" or, "I might be in your part of town next Wednesday. If there's time maybe we can get together" planning going on. But life is busy and plans don't always work out. So I miss my people. Lots.

In some ways, this move has been harder than I imagined it would be. Everybody in my semi-dysfunctional family goes off to school or work five days a week, and I'm left here with the dogs. That would be fine, except one dog farts all the time and the other barks at everything, so either I'm grossed out or annoyed all day. Then there's the cat, but she's just old and glares at me when I try to engage her her in conversation.

Mondays seem to be the hardest so far. After a weekend filled with boys and laughter and parks and fighting and me yelling at people to put their damn dishes in the dishwasher for once instead of leaving them on the counter to get loaded by the Invisible Domestic Fairy, the house feels so empty. Add to that some PMS, and today I'm feeling particularly low.

"So why don't you just make friends with the neighbours, Maven?"

Um, did you read last week's post? Obviously not, and shame on you for that. What is the meaning of your life if you're not keeping up with mine? Priorities.

"Why don't you stop staring at your phone and meet new moms and dads at the park or the school, Maven? You're all chatty and shit on the internet." 

Because I'm stupidly shy around new people, that's why. Stop laughing. I'm serious. Public speaking doesn't count, because I rock that shit. I'm in my Happy Safe Bubble when I'm reading at a public event. But if I feel miles out of my comfort zone, I clam up tighter than virgins at a nunnery.

But it's not all doom and gloom, people. I'm making friends here.

Clearly. I mean, come on, now. The fact that I'm a kind of not really a big deal on the internet had to count for something, right?

There's the fabulous @PrincessDoubt who has been the best welcome committee a Maven could ask for. She's doubling as my social planner, which is great because I've been really busy unpacking and being shy around people. She's come over to check up on me, coaxed me out for coffee and surprisingly keeps wanting to spend more time with me. I think she has a weird-person fetish.

And then there's @Stephdesign who I met for the first time in person last week. The Starbucks barista decided we were destined to be friends and wrote as much on her cup.

How adorable is she? Totally sit-across-from-me-at-a-table worthy.

She was right. We have a second coffee date coming up, which I think makes it pretty official.


And finally, my crowning achievement was getting @1qtnewf to agree to hang out with me yesterday. I heard her read a most captivating and honest piece of writing that moved the room at Blog Out Loud Ottawa a couple of years ago and informed the table I was sitting at that she and I were going to be good friends. "Do you know each other?" someone asked. "Nope," I replied. "But we will. And she will really like me." Then someone else might have mentioned stalking, but I was too busy planning out how she was going to learn to love me.

Two years and a fair bit of online harassment later, we finally had our first date. And it was awesome. She's totally into me. And who can blame her? I was very well behaved. Like, I talked about myself a lot, but I also asked her about her life and didn't always try to relate back to mine. And, while I admired her hair a great deal, I didn't even touch it once.

Okay, maybe a little when I took the picture. Also, how freakishly big is my head?!

Anyway, it's not so bad here.

And it won't be long before I run out of Candy Crush levels and have to actually talk to people in real life that I don't already know on the internet.

In Which I Get Awkward with the New Neighbours

There's something really nice about a fresh start. Sure, I was pretty awesome in Aylmer, what with all the friends and coffee dates and the "That was really weird what you did with the empty pad box" type comments from people who read my blog. But this quasi anonymity business in Kanata has its upside. I can go to the store and not run into anyone I know, as opposed to seeing at least 3 or 4 people every time I went out before. (Did I mention popularity already?)  I love talking to people, but sometimes I'm PMSing and I just want to get out without anyone seeing the calorie mountain in my shopping cart.

The downside? Meeting new neighbours is nerve-wracking when you're an awkward tool every time you get nervous. Remember the chicken thing? Well, that was at a store. When I insert my desperately-in-need-of-a-pedi foot in my mouth while standing in my driveway, that's a whole different rotisserie.

We lucked out again and got great neighbours on both sides. They love kids, dogs, and chaos. (Okay, I added the "chaos" part in. Oprah says you have to manifest what you want, and I'm manifesting the shit out of that.) Things went really well for the first week: Short, polite greetings and a few "getting to know you" type conversations in which I did not bring up my blog whatsoever for fear that they might actually go read it and question what I do with empty boxes.

But then, a couple of days ago when I was on my way to pick up the kids from school, I noticed my lefty neighbours (as in, the ones on the left) chatting in their driveway. I was all neighbourly and said, "hello". Then they said, "hello" and I should have kept walking down the street with my coffee.

But I didn't keep walking down the street with my coffee, because that would have been smart.

"I love what you've done to the place," I said, admiring the new construction on their home.

The houses in our neighbourhood aren't large, and some people have converted their garages into extra living space. The Lefties' home is no exception. They have a big, beautiful bay window where their garage door used to be. Below that window is a pile of gravel and construction debris. Not a huge amount, just enough that you can tell it's newly renovated.  The siding on the main floor is a different colour than the siding on the rest of the house, which I assume simply means they're slowly upgrading it.

I was met with blank stares and silence.

"The renos? You guys have been pretty busy!" I said, trying to fill the empty space where conversation is supposed to go.

The Lefties exchanged confused looks.

"The garage conversion?" I offered up helpfully.

"Oh!" they said in unison. "Yeah, it was like that when we got here."

"Oh..." I mirrored back.

"We thought you were referring to the mess in the front yard."

Uncomfortable chuckles ensue.


Oh. 

My.

God.

My neighbours think I was being a snarky bitch and insinuating they should clean up their yard.


"No! Oh, goodness, no. I just thought that it was, um... That you were in the middle of..." I believe I might have been stammering by that point.

Shit. Shit, Maven. Great. Now it sounds like I'm saying their construction debris looks nice. More unintentional backhanded insults from the new neighbours.

"I mean the conversion. Not the mess.. I mean, not that it's a mess, honestly. I didn't mean that."

Yep. Balls out stammering.

"It gives us a lot more living space," Mr. Lefty offered up helpfully.

I'm dying inside. You both hate me and I will never be invited to a makeup party at your place.

"I'm sure. We've already toyed with the idea and we've only been here a week."

I'm lying. I'm totally lying right now because I need to recover from this neighbourly nosedive of epic proportions.

"Well, have a great day!" I excused myself - quickly - and walked to the school with my proverbial tail between my non-proverbial legs.

And yesterday I hid inside all day so they didn't think I was out in the yard, silently judging them.

First impressions should come with a panic button. Can I get a fresh start from my fresh start?