Acceptance Takes Time. And Conspiracy Theories.

"What if I told you you're going to get through this without too many stress lines?"

I saw The Matrix six times in theatres, although one of those times was at a drive-in and my husband was trying to feel me up, so maybe we won't count that one.

Anyway, I know the movie pretty well. If you've managed to see it without someone trying to grope your boob, then you know that one of the ways to realize you're in the matrix and not in real life is if you notice little glitches. Like one time, Neo was walking up a flight of stairs and saw a cat. Then he saw the same cat again in the same spot, and the Pleather Posse knew they had to get out of there.

While I was making tacos in the kitchen the other day, I looked outside and saw a cute little black cat walk across the end of our driveway.

I looked down again, stirred the meat on the stove, thought about how I need to make a hair appointment for Gutsy so she can get a more feminine look going on, glanced over at Dr. Phil telling someone off for being a bad parent, and looked outside again.

And I saw a black cat walk across the end of our driveway.

It occurred to me at that moment that I might be living in some kind of machine-induced coma, my marrow being sucked out for battery fuel, and that I am not actually a mother who's child recently told her she is transgendered, and that this overwhelmed feeling I've been having is just a part of the imperfect utopia set up by the evil robots that took over our planet.

So I ran to the window to prove my glitch theory - all the while wondering where I was going to get a flip phone and cool sunglasses on such short notice - and saw two identical cats walking down the road, one following the other. 

Well, fuck.

You know, everyone is saying we're handling this really well. And I think we are, overall. Pat on the back for Geekster and I. We're not perfect, but we are rather attractive and pretty open-minded when it comes to letting our kids be who they are.

Honestly? I have no strong attachment to Gutsy being male or female. I have a strong attachment to Gutsy being happy, free, and comfortable in her own skin. I want her to be her, through and through. That's all I care about. That is my focus. That's why I'm taking a hiatus from school, scaling back on work, and making her transition the priority for the next little while.

But the world can really suck sometimes. She and I have talked about it, and she's well aware that not everyone will accept what she has to do to lead an authentic life. This has not dissuaded my brave child from going ahead with this transition. She's just amazing. Absolutely amazing.

Thankfully, she has a solid wall of love to lean against when times get tough. We are so fortunate that our families have been nothing but supportive. Everyone has changed the pronouns they use. Everyone is calling her by her new name. Everyone is reading books and articles and watching documentaries so that they can understand what she's going through.

She will never be alone, but the harshness of the world might make her feel that way sometimes anyway. That's what scares me. That's what makes me cry sometimes. It's what I know I can't entirely shield her from that has me lying awake at night.

I woke up on Thursday morning covered in a heavy blanket of sadness. It felt like a physical weight, pinning me down. I knew I had to get up, but the task seemed too great, too overwhelming. I was crying before I even lifted my head off the pillow.

Just a couple of days before, I had to deal with an adult in a position of authority who said and did all the wrong things. It was my first encounter with any kind of negativity surrounding Gutsy's transition, and it was like a slap in the face. This, I knew, was just the beginning of what we're going to have to deal with over the next few years.

I carried the pain and the stress of that encounter through the next few days, unable to shake it. It consumed me, sapped my energy, and stole my joy. My brain and my heart have had a very tough few days.

Today, I'm letting it go. I am not going to stay sad and angry. I'm going to learn from this and get better at dealing with these situations in the future. Like a boss.

I'm also letting go of the pain of not hearing from friends who I thought for sure would have reached out after hearing our news. We have had nothing but radio silence from some of them. But you know what? That's ok. I told people to walk if they weren't going to accept our new reality, and they can do that. Some of them might come around later on, and some might not. But there are others who have surprised us by demonstrating an immense amount of love and compassion; they have more than filled the hole left by those who can't or won't do the same.

Life, like transgenderism, is all about transition.

I feel a warrior emerging within me. An educator. An advocate. My daughter is already teaching me so much about me. She's showing me strength and assertiveness I didn't know was in there. And here I thought I was all fun and movie jokes.

Today I asked a group of parents of transgender kids if this will become our new normal soon. Will I stop obsessively thinking about everything that lies ahead? Will I be able to sit and read something that isn't transgender-related again? Will I feel less overwhelmed soon?

They said, "Yes, this gets easier."

Nobody said anything cryptic, like "There is no spoon" or "Follow the white rabbit," which I'm pretty sure means this is our real life. This is really happening. I will fully embrace it in my own time. I won't let other people's negativity drag me down. I will eventually stop running to the window to check for signs of science fiction conspiracy plots.

But I'm thinking I should probably invest in some pleather pants.

Just in case.

PS: I want to thank the hundreds of you who have emailed, tweeted, facebooked, commented on and shared last week's blog post. Your responses were nothing but supportive and empowering. My family is incredibly grateful. I haven't had a chance to reply to all of you yet, but I'm trying to. (And when the tentacle machines take over and try to stuff us into food pods, I promise not to sell you out.)

My Son Has Changed. My Love Hasn't.

Image credit: http://touchgasm.deviantart.com

I have never struggled with writing a post like I have with this one.

I have never questioned myself so much, gone back and forth on committing words to print so many times, or asked for the input of so many people before doing so.  And I ate my weight in chocolate as I considered all the pros and cons - legit.

Ultimately, there were far more pros.

Deep breath. Here we go.

When you lead a semi-public life as a personal essay blogger, your world becomes a bit of an open book -- uh, blog. You guys know a lot about my family and me. I've been inviting you into our mayhem for the last several years and have shared some pretty personal stuff.

One of the very basic things you know is that I am a mom to three amazing boys. I've worn that hat proudly for years.  It's part of my identity. It's part of what makes me me. It's the badge I earned thanks to all the gouged baseboards and dirty shoes and apprehensive pets. It's the war wound I pull out at parties ("I have three boys" "OMG! Three boys?! How on earth do you manage?") to show everyone that yes, you can survive being grossly outnumbered in a testosterone-rich environment.

I am queen of the land of penis. Here me roar.

... Or whimper in the bathtub when everyone finally goes to sleep. One of those.

But not very long ago, everything changed. Our middle son, my Gutsy, told us in words far too advanced for an eleven-year-old, that he is a girl trapped inside a boy's body. That he wants, more than anything, to be female. And that is why he's been so depressed and anxious. That is why cognitive therapy didn't make a dent. It's why he couldn't find a way out of the darkness. It is very likely why we had to turn to medication, because until he could identify and accept the source of his pain, there was no way to make it stop.

My child is transgendered. She has a boy's body and a girl's brain.

And just like that, I no longer have three sons. I have two sons and a daughter.

She identifies entirely as female, and is now taking steps to live as one so that she finally feels at peace in her own skin. There are many steps to take over many years. We will be supporting her 100% through all of this, with the help of some great professionals, supportive friends and family, and a caring school environment. All pieces are in place to make this as easy as possible - even though we all know it will be anything but easy.

Let me answer some of the most common questions we've received. Please feel free to ask me more. I'm happy to answer those too. 

Is this a phase? It's possible, yes. But at this age and with this level of insistence, probably not. There is a very good chance this will be a permanent thing. She waited a long while to tell us so she could be sure it wasn't a transient feeling. She is a very bright, highly introspective child, and I have to believe her when she tells me she has to do something she knows is going to be very challenging. Nobody would choose to do this unless they had to. Not even me, and I'm worn down to insanity from years of parenthood.

Were we shocked? Absolutely. We knew very little about transgender. I've been reading, researching, making appointments with specialists, talking to the school and even signed us up for a parents' support group. I've also cried, wondered when I would wake up from this surreal dream, and questioned about 8,000 times if we are doing the right things.

Why am I telling you, blogosphere? There are good reasons not to, aren't there? My child's privacy and safety at the top of that list.

First of all, you should know that she feels entirely ready to shine. She has  already "come out" to the people that matter most to her, including a bunch of her classmates and friends, who have been nothing but supportive. She was scared to tell anyone, but knew she had to if she wanted to live an authentic life. She does not want this to be a secret, and it upsets her to think we might consider it one.

Secondly, unless you are a friend or family member, you do not know Gutsy's real name or what school she goes to. I can assure you my child's name is not "Gutsy." I mean seriously. I am not an asshole who hates children and calls them things like "Gutsy." There are no recent pictures of her on this blog, and she will look quite different soon enough anyway on account of her getting down with the feminine. She has also chosen a female name for herself, which she will be going by from now on. I am not concerned for her safety when it comes to this blog; I am concerned when it comes to peers and community, but that's a reality whether I write a blog post or not.

So why am I writing this post?

I am writing this post so that I can speak freely about the fact that I now have two boys and a girl. Now you won't be confused when I say "my daughter." You're welcome.

I am writing this post so that, when you see us on the street, you will not be surprised that we have a tween girl with us. Gutsy felt this was the best way to "tell the truth," and after a lot of contemplation, I agreed. She wants to avoid the initial awkwardness as much as possible. This post gives everyone time to process and prepare, as a lot of people we know read my blog. (The others are missing out and quite possibly lack taste.)

I am writing this post because our motto throughout all this process is NO SHAME. There is nothing to be ashamed about here. Transgender is not a lifestyle choice. It is a medically necessary transition to a happy life. And believe me, Gutsy's happiness is all we are concerned about. With the attempted suicide rate higher for transgender youth than any other minority group, we will do everything in our power to ensure that happiness.

I am writing this post because it gives you time to decide if you can accept my child on her terms; if you can see her for more than her gender; if you can understand how important this is to her. If you can't do this, please exit our lives, stage left. I won't be mad, just relieved that we didn't have to have a big ugly confrontation about it. See, we can only have people in our lives that support her. I'm not trying to be a jerk, just a mom. Kid trumps unsupportive friend or family member. I hope you understand.

Mostly, I'm writing this to show my daughter how much I love her. I want to show the world that the bravest person I know lives in the same house as me.

We will be going through some big, scary stuff in the next little while, but that little smile I'm seeing more and more? That makes it all worth it.  Here's to an incredible journey.

I'm the Most Romantic Spouse of ALL TIME

(Credit: Wikipedia commons)

Dear Husband,

Happy Valentine's Day! I wanted to be extra romantic this year, so here are some of the things I've done today in the name of our love:

I had a shower - a long one, with a smell test afterwards and everything.  I shaved my wintery armpits so they no longer resemble a baby gorilla's forehead. Best. Gift. Ever.

I vacuumed all the dog hair! Well, most of the dog hair. Ok, only the stuff on the main floor, but first impressions are everything, right? You'll be so blinded by the clean floors in the front hall that you won't even notice the balls of fur collecting on your feet as you walk up the stairs and make your way to the bedroom later. Sasquatch lovin'.

You know all the toys and art supplies the boys leave all over the living room? The ones that drive you crazy because there never seems to be a spot for them? I sorted them and put them away! And by "sorted" I mean "thrown into a basket" and by "put away" I mean "stuffed precariously in the corner of the living room". It's like our very own plastic leaning Tower of Pisa.

I created art for you! See above paragraph.

I ate all the Reece's Pieces a few minutes ago so you wouldn't be tempted to eat them later. I care about your health goals.

Finally, I wrote you a few poems. I can't decide which one is my favourite:

Roses are red

Daisies are yellow,

Come sit next to me,

You fine fellow

#BustAMove

Are you happy to see me?

Hey, what's in your pocket?

Oh, is that what it was?

I'd hoped it was chocolate. :(

Roses are red,

Coffee is brown,

Brew me a cup,

Or I'll never go down

You can pick your favourite and we'll have it tattooed on your fine self.

You lucky, lucky bastard.

Love,

Maven

A Mother's Step-by-Step Guide to Dyeing Her Hair

I spent an inordinate amount of time here. See step 2.

Step 1:

Check out you grey roots in the mirror. Sigh a lot. Curse under your breath about the stress of creating life that then runs around breaking shit and/or not doing its homework without the threat of "serious consequences." Realize that your serious consequence is the serious lack of pigmentation shooting out of your scalp.

Step 2:

 Go to the store. Scrutinize all the hair dye colours. Discount half of them immediately by reminding yourself that you are not 15, you do not look 15, nor do you want to resemble a groupie who recently stepped off Ozzy Osbourne's tour bus after twenty years who is still trying to look 15. Also, you do not own any snakeskin leggings to complete the look, which ruins the entire thing.

Step 3:

Spend an additional 20 minutes agonizing over the remaining 6 colours you might consider putting on your head. Daydream what you'd look like with a completely different style.  Imagine what friends and loved ones would think. Would this be a life-changing colour? Would people treat your differently? Would your partner want you even more? Would going blonde make your kids do homework without so much exuberant prompting?

Leave with the exact same colour you've used for the last four years.

Step 4:

Put dye on the counter so you can use it later, in your spare time.

Leave it there for several days.

Step 5:

 Dust off the top of the box. Apply the dye to your head. Make a bigger mess in your bathroom than a drunken toddler. Check out your eye wrinkles in the mirror. Sigh a lot. Wonder briefly if snakeskin pants and a bolder colour would offset said wrinkles.

Step 6:

 Google "aging groupies." Find your answer. Wish you could un-see things. Pat yourself on the back for not celebrating years of successful stadium shows with lines of cocaine with the drummer.

Step 7:

When the alarm goes off indicating that it's time to wash out the dye, walk back into the bathroom.

Remember that you have "resistant greys."

Sigh again. Walk back to the computer and Google "how to grow old gracefully" for another ten minutes.

Step 8:

Wash out dye. Clean up what looks like a natural disaster in your bathroom. Be grateful you don't have drunken toddlers.

Step 9:

Stare at yourself in the mirror for a few minutes. Smile a little. Realize you've still got it, you sexy, sexy bitch.

Step 10:

Load up an Ozzy playlist.

Step 11:

Remind yourself to repeat the process the next time you find some "spare time." 

Have a jolly good laugh.

I Guess We Can All be Inspirational - Even Me

Everybody has baggage. I have a blog so I can unload some of mine.

When I made the decision to finish high school, I thought I would feel really awesome about it like I do about my hair and my face and how I can make the most pretentious espresso on the entire street.  (Organic, fair traded, locally roasted - this is serious snob shit, y'all. We don't even own a drip machine.)

The thing is, going back to high school has made me feel a little... small. And not small like I've lost a few pounds, which would be totally rad, but small in the way where I don't feel like I hold the same space I used to in the world. Like maybe I don't hold much of a space at all.  

I'm 37 and I'm a high school dropout. It's not like I've gone and done big, great, amazing things I can be proud of despite my lack of education, either. I'm not wildly successful in any major way. There is nothing super fabulous about my life. There is no way my career track would pay for my elitist coffee habit without the help of a spouse with solid employment (raising a mug to you, honey).

Basically, I am not to high school dropouts what Bill Gates is to college dropouts. Not even close.

If you've been following any of my social media streams, you know I've struggled with motivation, with finishing assignments in a timely manner, with understanding what the fuck Shakespeare is talking about in Macbeth, and have worried myself sick over getting decent grades. I've even thought about dropping out again to free up more time for money-making contracts (the winter months are always a lean time around here).

Not too long ago, a friend of mine asked me if I regretted being so candid and public about going back to school. Did putting it out there for everyone to see make me feel more ashamed? My reply was something like, "too lunch owl" which means "too late now" when you're the worst smartphone typist this side of the equator.

But I thought about it for a long time afterwards. As a blogger, I struggle with exactly how much I should put online for everyone to see. There's a line you don't want to cross, although that line is in a different spot on the floor for every blogger I know. Some are intensely private; some are far more open than I am. There are many things I don't talk about on here, which is funny considering it's no secret that I'm a recovering addict high school dropout anxiety sufferer with a mentally ill child.

Oh, and I'm gluten-free.

So I was having a particularly rotten week and was carrying all this shame around like a really heavy, really ugly suitcase, when I got a tweet (I'm not imbedding it for privacy - even though Twitter is not terribly private):

You should know that you have inspired me to go back to school.

WHUT.

Really?

I thanked her, and then I sat for a moment, stunned. And then I got a little teary, but I quickly composed myself because I was about to go into the boys' school for a meeting and had to look like a mom who has her shit together and not a falling apartmom who's son currently hates school and refuses to speak French in class.

That lasted about five seconds, because then I got this reply:

I think we should thank those who inspire and challenge us to do better. So they know that what they do is worth it.

The fuck, dude. There went the mascara, all down my face with five minutes to spare before I had to be in a room full of people.

I managed to pull myself together just before I walked in to the school, and figured if the teacher asked why my eyes were puffy I'd just tell her I was at home watching The Notebook.

She'd probably still assume I had been drinking.

But my suitcase felt a little lighter after that. And less ugly, like maybe it was chevron now instead of paisley.

And then, this morning, I got an email from someone who told me I inspired her to tell a loved one that she never finished high school. She had been carrying the shame of her life circumstances around for years; by the sounds of things, her suitcase is even heavier than mine. Now she's thinking about going back.

Wow.  Good thing I'm not wearing makeup today.

I write this blog for no other reason than because I love doing it. And I share what I do on it because it's both my therapy and my small, sarcastic voice in a big, serious world. It's my space to unpack my suitcase, if you will; to slowly unencumber myself from the weight that holds me down.

I didn't think my words - my story - would ever have a profound impact on anyone else. I know other people inspire me daily, but I never saw myself as someone who inspires others. Maybe that's a confidence issue, or maybe it's because I know I'm not Gandhi or Oprah or Grumpy Cat. 

But I'd be lying if I said that knowing I made a difference to people didn't totally rock my world. The decision to go back to school was a big one, and far more emotionally challenging than I thought it would be. However, these messages from people make me feel a bit surer of my footing; they've made me hold my head a little higher.

Also, they're making me think I need a new suitcase: smaller, ergonomic, hot pink, maybe sparkly. Can you get a suitcase shaped like a unicorn?

I don't want to carry so much baggage anymore, but whatever I have to carry should look fucking fabulous.

I can't thank you all enough for your continued encouragement and support. When I'm feeling low, I often think of the day when I can post a picture of me holding my diploma with a stupidly huge grin on my face. That will be an amazing day.

And it will be in large part because of you.

In Which I Felt Like a Terrible Mom and Almost Left the Internet

Cute and vicious, like someone I once gave birth to. (Copyright: Jonathunder)

This morning I fought with Spawnling for over an hour to go to school. I eventually picked him up, stood him in the front hall and pulled his boots on as he tried to kick them off. I stuffed him into his coat and walked him to the car. I counted fiercely until he got into his booster seat. I took him by the hand and lead him through the main doors as he scowled at me. It was really stressful, dealing with this on top of a nasty cold, and I wanted to cry a few times.

I wouldn't know firsthand, but I believe the experience was much like trying to get a rabid badger into a bath. And we have bathed this badger every school day since before Christmas break - without the help of tranquilizers. (So unfair.)

Our seven-year-old doesn't want to go because his Grade 2 French immersion class has transitioned to speaking French only, and, having missed Grade 1 because of our move from another province last year (the age requirements are different here, so he was bumped up a grade), he is lagging far behind his classmates in both comprehension and speech.

I've done nothing but email back and forth with his (amazing) teacher, talk to Spawnling, talk to friends, talk to my husband, use up every ounce of creativity I have to try and make French fun - and nothing has changed. He's still foaming at the mouth and snarling at the mere mention of school. So, I've spent most of my day trying to come up with new solutions.

Sometimes parenting is really challenging. Sometimes I feel like I'm just not cut out for it. And I think that's why I almost left Facebook this weekend.

Ok. Not really. But I thought about it. I wanted to, for a little while.

I was interviewed by a journalist last week and asked my thoughts on the costs and rewards of parenting. Essentially, she wanted to know if raising a child in 2014 was worth it.

Of course it's worth it, I said. My kids are great. They bring me a lot of joy. But there are days when I have to step back and wonder if life would have been easier if I hadn't let anyone check in to the Uterus Motel.

I posted the article on my Facebook page and received responses, which I expected. But what I didn't expect were the kinds of responses. Instead of commiseration from other tired parents, I had responses questioning why people feel that way, and why the media portrays parenting as something fraught with sacrifice.

I had parents pointing out that it's all perspective and attitude.

I had parents telling me that life would be just as stressful without kids, just stressful in a different way.

And I thought to myself, really? Because it doesn't feel that way to me. It feels like it would be a lot easier.

If I was a childless individual, I might have a really demanding job outside the home, like maybe as an air traffic controller (ok, definitely not, but let's pretend.) And maybe I might work a lot of overtime, guiding planes and passengers safely to the ground and back up again. I might even have a terrible boss who yells at me every time a plane crashes on my watch - even little ones with only a few people on board, the jerk. But when I came home, my time would be my own to do with as I wished. I wouldn't be making sure everyone eats their vegetables, negotiating homework time, breaking up fights, threatening consequences if chores aren't done, driving everyone around, having difficult talks about everything from bullying to safe sex, making healthy meals everybody will eat, and figuring out how to do it all on a budget that supports five people.

I don't think it would be just as a stressful to be childless. I don't always enjoy the chaos of my life. I sometimes daydream about who I would be if I weren’t a parent. I thought that was normal, you know? I thought that made me human. But when I started seeing that so many people seemed to disagree with me, I began to feel, well, awful.

Guilty.

Narcissistic.

Like a totally ungrateful asshole.

So I removed the post out of shame. And I signed out of Facebook. And I thought long and hard about this whole online deal full of social media, about putting my life on the internet, about thinking I was part of something bigger instead of this stand-alone island of apparent misery.

I talked to my husband. I talked to my best friend. I spent a lot of time with my boys. I went to that dark place where I often go when I feel less than. Why don't I flow with this parenting gig as easily as some other people seem to do? What's wrong with me?

 And then, eventually, it dawned on me: Nothing. There is nothing wrong with me. Life is just complicated, and so my emotions are complicated.

I have three very awesome but very unique boys. One has significant hearing loss; another one has significant hearing loss, struggles with mental illness and has a tricky processing disorder; and right now the youngest, who is naturally headstrong, is having a really hard time at school, which is only amplifying his badger-like behaviour. Together, they are a full time job and then another full time job on top of that one.

Our appointments related to special needs easily number in the hundreds by now. The days we've had serious, long-lasting meltdowns related to those needs could be counted near 1,000, maybe more - ok, definitely more. I've had to commit to not doing anything outside the home full-time so I can meet those commitments and deal with those issues. It can be, like, really exhausting. Maybe more exhausting than what a lot of other parents of more typical kids go through. Or maybe not, and I'm just not good at handling shit. Who knows? Does it really matter in the end?

But I don't regret having those great boys of mine, not for a second. The love and joy parenting brings knocks any of the bad stuff out of the park even on the worst days. I have moments, but they fade quickly. Those hugs from my former Uterus Motel visitors melt away the stress. Their little awards, their talent shows, their drawings, their jokes, their laughter. All worth it. All of it. I recognize all the good stuff that comes out of the parenting box (the manual, however, was never found.)

I can't imagine a life without kids in it. I mean, I can, but I wouldn't want it. I like to daydream about it sometimes, though. (In my daydreams I have a super sweet urban condo with only one bedroom and a cat and things that stay where I put them. That's practically porn for moms right there.)

But like all high quality things, parenting, at least for me, came with a hefty price tag. There is nothing wrong with me for acknowledging that. I won't feel bad for feeling bad sometimes. Looking after little humans is a huge responsibility and a ridiculous amount of work.

And so I will keep bathing my badger with one hand while cutting up green veggies he won't eat with the other, and even emailing his worried teacher with my toes, and I will acknowledge that I made some sacrifices in my life to get here.

And then, at the end of the day, when we curl up and read Harry Potter, and he gasps at all the good parts and laughs at all of the Weasley Twins' jokes, and his little belly shakes up and down, I will be so very grateful I made those sacrifices.

And I will not feel bad for being human, even for a second.

I'm a good mom. I really am. And I need to stop trying to convince myself otherwise.

And This is How Grownups Should Make Friends

I am queen of all the things. Especially subtlety.

Some of you might recall that I've been having a difficult time making friends at my kids' new school. It bothered me a great deal. I even penned an open letter to the school parents at one point, and it made absolutely no difference because apparently not everyone reads my blog. (Yes, I was also a little shocked by this.)

I had pretty much resigned myself to only being insanely popular beyond the school walls when, while sitting in the main office waiting for Gutsy one day, I saw some pictures of the new Parent Council members.

And I recognized one of them.

And not just any old one - like the treasurer or the fun day organizer - but the president. THE PRESIDENT OF THE SCHOOL. Holy shit.

But this was tricky; I had had exactly one good conversation with her on a fieldtrip late last year, but we hadn't spoken since. I wasn't sure if she even remembered me. It's not like I'm terribly memorable, what with my poor verbal filtering skills and great looks and all. But I knew her son is in Spawnling's class this year, and that would mean she would have to talk to me at some point, right? Like, even if I had to corner her next to the chalkboard after craft time, I could get her to talk to me; I knew I could. And then I could charm her with my wit, or maybe say something inspirational, like "Be my friend or I'll cut your hair while you're sleeping."

But when I saw her in the schoolyard that afternoon, I decided to try a more subtle approach:

"Hi, I'm Maven, Spawnling's mom. We talked once last year and you probably don't remember me, but I see you're the Parent Council president and that's fantastic."

Keeping it nice and smooth so far. Good job, Mave.

She smiled. "I remember you. We were on the fieldtrip together."

"Yeah, and our boys are in the same class this year, which is great because I need to get to know you."

Easing in. Excellent.

She gave me that I-think-you're-kidding-but-I-can't-really-tell face. "You do?"

"Well, see, here's the thing: I'm a pretty big deal and definitely worth knowing, but nobody here seems to realize that because they're stupid and they don't talk to me. So I need to get to know someone in a position of power that can introduce me around. Everyone will benefit from this, especially you. You'll love being my friend. I'm great."

Sometimes you don't have to be very direct. You can drop little hints, like I did, and the more astute people will still pick up on what you're trying to say. She seemed pretty astute.

As soon as I said it, I knew that this "I don't know anybody, so I'm going to make you laugh and then we can be friends" approach was either going to make or break my career as a school mom. With five years to go at that establishment, it was a pretty big risk to take. I suddenly wanted to throw up.

She shrugged. "Sounds good. I'm in," she said.

BAM. And just like that, I became friends with the it girl.

"You've made a good choice," I said. "Together, we're going to inject some serious awesomeness into the parent population of this school. We will be unstoppable."

We're now a few weeks into this budding friendship. It's going pretty well. We live in the same neighbourhood and I make her snobby coffees with my espresso machine. I'm her volunteer bitch whenever she needs an extra hand on popcorn day, and she's been introducing me to all sorts of people, thus bolstering my popularity and making pick-up time far more bearable. I make her friends laugh, and I'm pretty sure they walk away thinking she knows some really cool people with great hair and are a little bit jealous.

We're a power couple, the Bill and Hilary of the elementary school. It totally works.

I'm not sure what the lesson is in this story. Maybe it's: be yourself if you're not worried about completely screwing up your social life.

I realize not everyone gets my sense of humour, so that could have gone very badly. But I tire of inauthenticity - particularly my own. Life is too short; I'd rather someone know who I am and what I'm like right away.  It weeds out the haters before I invest too much time or make them too many pretentious caffeinated beverages. (Good coffee isn't cheap, you know.)

I took a chance, made a friend (and a few more), and all I had to do was be me.

And maybe kind of a bitch.

But I didn't have to cut anyone's hair.

The end.

10 Imperfect Life Confessions

I've decided the internet tries too hard to be perfect. And I, being part of The Matrix The Internet, am also guilty of this.

The way we present ourselves and our lives borders on ludicrous and sets an unrealistic standard. Our profile pictures are beautiful. Our homes are immaculate. Our dinners are perfectly photographed on charger plates and beside linen napkins. And don't even get me started on the bento box lunches, people. Those had me contemplating a tall bridge for a little while.

Today I read an article about home organization. Sweet, I thought to myself. I could use some organization ideas. So I clicked on the link - and felt instantly insert-female-version-of-emasculated-here.

First of all, their house is pretty much entirely white and cream coloured. And they have three kids. How does that even work? I have three kids and my house looks like a crack den. Also, they have a hearth room. Not a den with a fireplace in it. No. A fucking hearth room, everybody. I think that means "a living room clean enough that you can notice the fireplace" but I've never experienced that so I'm not sure.

And if all of this was the abnormal view through my web browser, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But it's not. And it seems, to me, that we're upping the ante every year with immaculate countertops and flawless skin.

We've gone too far, folks. Too far.

Instead of calling my therapi$t, I decided I would help everyone by injecting a little bit of reality into the internet again. Goodness knows we need it. And so, here are a few confessions of my imperfect life.

1. First of all, this is what I look like on the internet because I understand camera angles and lighting and am a vain little bitch:

And this is what I actually look like most of the time:

I love a good profile picture, but they don't reflect how puffy and stress-faced I am. I'm really digging the #feministselfie365 project going on right now. I'm far too lazy to do it, but I salute those of you who are.

2. I am not listening to folk music or jazz or anything remotely classy right now. I'm listening to Snoop Dogg. It's a pretty degrading song. And I know all the words. And I'm enjoying it. And I still somehow consider myself a feminist. Who takes selfies.

3. I do not have a "special writing space" like other writers seem to have. I have an ugly old desk in my bedroom and a breakfast bar in the kitchen with a laptop on it, and I write from whichever place is quietest. Usually, both are loud. Also, both spaces are almost hoarder cluttered like my brain.

4. There is a dog bed next to my desk in the bedroom special writing space, where I am right now. The little dog - we have two - just barfed on her bed three times, then licked it up and went back to sleep. I kept listening to Snoop, pretended none of it happened, and can pretty much guarantee I won't be washing the dog bed until at least tomorrow.

5. I felt like writing instead of making dinner, so my kids will be having nachos and carrots. Not even oven nachos, but the microwaved kind. And then we will probably sit down and eat them while watching television.

6. I am really, really tired of feeling like the only school mom on the planet who can't seem to get her shit together. I hardly ever get back to teachers in a timely manner, forget to send the kids' library books back on library day at least 75% of the time, and have lost more permission forms than I've sent back. Oh, and my kids are sometimes late because I hit the snooze button one too many times. Every year I say I'm going to do better, and every year I realize I was lying to myself.

7. We don't have an organized mud room. In fact, we don't have a mud room, unless you count the rooms in the house where there is mud, which is probably all of them. And if that's the case, we have way more mud rooms than you do so no wonder we can't organize them.

8. Every ceiling in our house is a stucco "popcorn ceiling" and it doesn't offend my senses in the least. I'm completely indifferent to them. It's hardly noticeable unless you decide to look up all the time, and that would tell me that you have very boring decor and/or no children who occasionally throw projectiles at your head. I always snicker when people go into homes on HGTV shows and are completely disgusted by popcorn ceilings. You know what's more disgusting? Pretentiousness. First world problems. People who have too much time on their hands. Also people who judge other people for their likes and dislikes, but let's pretend I never said that.

9. Pretty much none of the meals I make can be photographed because snapping pictures takes precious seconds away where I could be stuffing the food into my face. Proof that I love food more than picture-taking foodies. Legit.

10. My chin had a baby chin a few years ago and now I have two chins. I would lose weight, but I think separating them would be cruel, like taking baby orcas away from their mothers. Also, see #9.

Wow. That was deliciously liberating. Maven out.

The Secret to Our Long-Lasting Marriage (hint: duct tape)

Pawnshop wedding rings. Legit.

I like to regularly remind my husband how lucky he is to have me in his life. There are many ways I'll do this. Sometimes I use the selfie approach, where I send him random pictures of myself along with "you lucky bastard."

And then there's the Dateline approach:

"Good coffee, honey," he'll say, sipping from the cup I just handed him.

"Yep. And it's not even poisoned," I'll reply as I pour some cream into mine.

"What?"

"It's not poisoned. You could have one of those evil wives from Dateline who slowly poisons your food because she wants the pool boy and all your money. But you don't. This is coffee not served to you by a psychopathic soulmate."

"...Ok."

I'll smile and give him a big hug. "You are so lucky to have a wife who doesn't want to kill you."

But seriously, I would never even think of murdering this guy - even after twenty years. And even if we were rich and had a gorgeous pool boy. Or, like, maybe a pool.

***

We met when we were seemingly far too young to have a meaningful relationship. He was in college, living with some weird roommates in a place with cockroaches. I was sixteen and living in a halfway house for women in recovery. I had been sober just under two years. I was their youngest resident ever, there strictly on compassionate grounds (you had to be 18) because I had nowhere else to go. I had already spent a few scary weeks at the downtown YM/YWCA, fending off approaches from much older men and safeguarding my meager belongings from would-be thieves. This place was a huge step up, although it wasn't perfect by any means. My roommates weren't the friendliest bunch, and the one across from me was regularly off her meds. And she needed those meds - believe me.

Then, one night, some guy I barely knew invited me to a party full of people I did know, so I decided to go. I found out on the bus ride there that he was a narrow-minded, racist asshole who had a swastika tattooed on his arm and really liked how white my skin is. Oops. So I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not be spending any time with him at said party, but thanks for the invite.

When we got there, I found some friends at a table and sat down with them. We chatted for a bit and I got up to mingle for a few minutes. When I got back,

there.

he.

was.

Looking all gorgeous and shit. Sitting at the table and talking to a friend of mine.

What do I remember most about that night? How we were immediately drawn to each other. How we talked for hours and never ran out of things to say. How he seemed to have a real, genuine interest in what was inside my head and not just what was below it. How, before long, the room narrowed, the periphery vanished, and all I could see was him.

We moved in together a month later. We signed a lease on a one bedroom apartment above some drug dealers. It was very romantic.  

Before I left the halfway house, the program director sat me down in an office full of people and tried to yell some sense into me. She told me I was a naive little girl with no idea what I was getting myself into.

"I know that I'm not happy here. And I know that I'm in love," I said.

"You're sixteen years old! You don't even know what love is!" she screamed.

"I beg to differ," I replied. Sixteen-year-olds know everything, of course.

"You'll lose your spot here and you'll never get it back because we have a huge waiting list! And then, when things don't work out, you'll be on your own. This is a big mistake."

"Thank you for everything you've done for me," I said with tears in my eyes. A part of me knew she could be right; another part was deeply wounded by her condescending tone and complete negation of my feelings. It's one thing to try and talk sense into someone you feel is making a bad decision, another entirely to belittle that person, regardless of her age. And, me being me, it only furthered my desire to prove her wrong.

***

Sometimes I want to find that program manager and show her my wedding ring (that we bought at a pawn shop when Intrepid was 6 months old). I dream of bringing her to this house full of children, filled with happiness, and containing a certain now-husband who isn't even poisoned.

I want to tell her about all the times he's held me when I've cried, and cheered me on when I've needed it most. I want to tell her how happy he makes me, and I him, and how I still get a little flutter in my heart when he walks through the door after work.

But I also want her to know that we have had some really tough times, too. We've been poor, we've been angry; we've endured heartbreak, stress and loss. We've had fertility woes, health scares, children with special needs to raise. Life is unscripted and unpredictable, and at times has left us so raw, wondering how we're going to get through the next day.

But we do. Unbelievably, we do. My theory is that we're cosmically duct taped to each other. It's invisible because it's cosmic duct tape, which I've decided is invisible and impossible to break and I'm the boss of this story so don't even try to argue with me. In the end, we always seem to emerge stronger than we were before.

I guess my sixteen-year-old self wants Ms. Program Director to know we made it. But the grownup part of me is ok with letting the whole thing go. While her approach was worse than a Simon Cowell moment, I'm sure her heart was in the right place. And, statistically speaking, I realize we're the anomaly. We are relationship freaks.

I don't know how we made it, I just know we did. Communication, dedication, empathy and love? A willingness to change what isn't working? An ability to celebrate what is? Recognition of all our accomplishments because we've come such a long way? I think it's been all of those things. And duct tape.

He is pretty great, my husband. So, while I joke around a fair bit about how fortunate he is to have such an amazing wife - ok, I'm not joking, actually. He's pretty lucky - I have to admit I'm positively smitten with the guy. That's why I make sure to kiss him every day and serve him the non-deadly kind of coffee.

See? Best. Wife. Ever.