So I managed to do my ankle in, which landed me in an Aircast and crutches. I know what you’re thinking and for the record, I was not walking and texting. In fact, I was attempting to walk and talk at the VERY same time and managed to go over on my ankle. It’s a good thing I wasn’t chewing gum or I may have ended up in a full body cast.

Clearly this cast/crutches thing is not an ideal situation for a multi-tasking mama. To further complicate the matter, Daddy-o was out of town for the week and the affected ankle was attached to my driving foot. The already difficult task of getting various children to various activities at the same time reached a whole new level of crazy.

It was an interesting experience for me, and this is what being on crutches taught me:

- My friends who deal with real-life chronic pain, illness or disability – I know you find it annoying and even a little condescending when people tell you how amazing and brave you are, but yeah, that. I am not amazing or brave – mostly just whiney.

- Six-year-olds can pack their own school lunches and will include fruits and vegetables. They will also feel proud. Kids step up when they need to.

- Crutches take the focus off a sore ankle by causing excruciating pain to your armpits. Did the people who made the crutches plan it that way? Is it some twisted method of trying to distract from pain by creating new pain?

- Not being able to drive was like a forced holiday. I contemplated prolonging the appearance of injury, but convenience and reality won out.

- There are friends and family members who are extremely helpful. But when help is offered, I must be clear with instructions. I should specifically say, for example, that “picking up bread” means a minimum of three loaves in a family of our size. That one loaf that was dropped off lasted 20 minutes.

The top lesson, of course, is to watch where I’m going. Curbs have a way of jumping out at you when you least expect it. Have you had an injury or illness that has caused temporary disruption to family life? How did everyone manage?

My "Number One Son" with his life-long buddy. They met at "Moms group" when they were a couple of weeks old.

Twelve years ago I gave birth to my first beautiful baby. When he was a few weeks old, I was invited by a local midwife to a neighbourhood centre to meet other women who had also just had their first babies. It was my introduction to the “moms group”.

Moms groups get mixed reviews. Some say that having a same-aged child in common is not enough to form a social relationship. Others report that these organizations are a breeding ground for competitiveness – whose kid is rolling over, who toilet trained first, which mom has already lost the baby weight…Sometimes people have different expectations around what the group will provide for them.

These are only things I have heard. From that first moms group and through the following years I’ve spent completely immersed in the mama community, I have never experienced these things. Instead, I have been supported by other moms who want nothing but my kids to flourish and succeed. They have been my cheerleaders, friends, confidants, reliable advice-givers and opinion sharers. We have laughed and cried together, us mamas.

There is one less mama to laugh and cry with now. One of the beautiful and talented mamas I met in my very first moms group passed away on Christmas Eve. I still picture her as I saw her that very first time – sitting peacefully at the neighbourhood centre before our first meeting, nursing her beautiful daughter, Harper, with a look of love and adoration in her eyes.

You share something special with the mamas you have travelled the whole journey with – those in that first moms group. These are the people you filled the days with – walking the neighbourhood together with your strollers, chatting as you pushed toddlers on the swing at the park, taking care of each other’s kids when a sibling arrived. For over a decade we have watched each other’s children transform from newborns to pre-teens.

Of course, I can’t stop thinking about my friend’s now motherless children and what that will mean for the rest of their lives, but this passing has been a reminder to me of how special our mama relationships are. I am thankful that she was a part of my amazing introduction to the mama community, a community that will never be the same without her.

Her loss also made me think about moms groups and the very different experiences we all have. What does “moms group” mean to you? What was your experience?

Good big brothers don't expose the Santa lie to little brothers.

I spoke last year about the difficulty of outing Santa to my son. He was at an age that most kids no longer believed, so he needed to know – I didn’t want his ‘believing’ to potentially embarrass him among his peers.
I took the opportunity to spill the beans about Santa to him last June. The timing was good since absolutely no one was talking about Mr. Claus. My son was shocked, but generally it went over well. I positioned it in a way that he felt a part of the inner circle of maturity – he now had the responsibility not to ruin it for his younger siblings. He was on the same team as us parents, and it seemed to have some legs.

Not long after that, my 10-year-old daughter came downstairs one morning in tears. Apparently that slacker of a Tooth Fairy had forgotten to visit for the third night in a row. I guided her into the mud room, shut the door and said: “OK listen, I’m the Tooth Fairy and I suck at it, so (reaching into my pocket) here’s five bucks. You’re getting a couple of bucks extra as hush money”. She started laughing hysterically and asked who else was in on it. I said her big brother knew so she sought him out for a quiet meeting for those “in the know”. Big brother assumed she knew about all of the parental lies so blew the Santa secret. No great surprise for her – she admitted to having some suspicions on the Santa front.

Now that the holiday season is upon us, my son said to me last week “Mom, I’m really mad at you for telling me about Santa, but thanking you since no other kids my age believe in him. But, it’s still OK for me to believe in the Christmas spirit, right?” Yes son, permission granted.

And so, I have four believers in the big guy left and suspect by this time next year I’ll be down to three. The good news is, the two biggies are a great help. I can take them shopping and not worry about buying presents for the other kids. Also, they are in charge of relocating that ridiculous Elf on a Shelf every day. If you think I’m a bad Tooth Fairy, that’s nothing compared to when I had Elf-moving duties. Let’s just say we had the laziest Elf in town – and that’s exactly what I’d tell the kids.

Do you have a houseful of believers?

It's a sad day when you sit your kids down to warn them about being too trusting of coaches and mentors.

Last weekend, the whole family was in the truck and Daddy-o needed to dash into a shop. The rest of us waited in the vehicle, talking about capital cities. By the time he returned, we were in a big conversation about Penn State. He shot me the “How the heck did that happen?” look. As it turned out, the conversation went in a direction that provided an opportunity for this discussion. Besides, I had the undivided attention of all of them and had to take advantage of that.

I tried to explain the situation in simple terms – it was discovered that a trusted and loved coach was touching children in their private areas over many, many years. The point of the discussion was three fold; it was a chance to:

- remind them that people we love and trust can hurt us;
- once again say if an adult ever tells them to keep a secret from me, unless it has to do with a gift, it’s a red flag. Adults don’t ask children to keep secrets from their parents;
- re-state that no one is ever allowed to touch them or make them touch. If there is touching of any kind that makes them uncomfortable, they are encouraged to speak up and self-advocate, knowing that they will be supported by their family.

Then came the question period, and boy, did they ever do a good job of it. Three questions were particularly difficult and I was completely unprepared for them. I fielded them with honesty and think it went as well as it could.

Question #1:
Why would a grown-up WANT to touch a child like that?
(Insert my sad explanation about creepy pedophiles and the things they will do to “groom” a child).

Question #2:
What if the kid didn’t tell the coach to stop? What if the coach didn’t know the kid didn’t want to be touched?
(Insert my explanation that adults KNOW it’s wrong. Even when kids don’t speak up, adults know it’s against the law).

Question #3:
What if the coach didn’t actually “hurt” the child?
(Insert my explanation of different kinds of abuse, and how the ones that don’t physically hurt can be just as/even more damaging).

How did you deal with Penn State? Did you use it as an opportunity to speak with your kids about the hard stuff, or was it just too difficult to go there?

Just prior to taking this photo, someone may have attempted a triple back flip off of the diving board....

I’m all about dads playing hard with the kiddos, but around here I’ve noticed that “playing with” the kids has a tendency to transform into “showing off” for the kids. Unfortunately, when the showing off starts, the risk of Daddy-o injuries increases. That famous quote from Top Gun often comes to mind: “Your ego is writing cheques your body can’t cash”. I must admit that when such adult injuries happen, I’m not exactly sympathetic.

One particular incident occurred a few years ago. Daddy-o had the kids outside to demonstrate some bike tricks. Before long, he entered the house, bracing his arm and saying I had better drive him down to the hospital. I quickly determined that the arm injury was the result of falling off his bike – the bike that he was standing on… while riding down a hill. I suggested that rather than have me pack up all six children for some quality time in the ER, he use his good arm to get himself to the hospital. My compassionate nature does not always shine when our family experiences a showing-off induced injury.

I know other families have suffered such mishaps as well. I recently ran into an old high school friend shopping with his family. When we were kids in the same neighbourhood, this guy lived on his skateboard – riding it everywhere and doing impressive tricks with all his boarding buddies. As we stood chatting in the shop, I noticed his arm was in a brace. When asked about his injury, he told a tale involving breaks in several locations, hospitals, surgeries, pins and rehabilitation. Curious, I asked about the cause of the injury. His wife sighed and rolled her eyes. Yep, you guessed it – he’d dusted off the skateboard to show the kids a few of his old tricks.

Other injuries we’ve encountered have come from lifting heavy items, and an unforgettable one involved wood chopping and an axe. How about you? Has the show-off injury phenomenon made its way into your home? Who do you take to the ER more often – your kids or your spouse?

I’m like most parents – I look at all the crap and wonder what the heck we’re going to do with it. Two weeks ago I found the last remaining bag of candy from last Hallowe’en hidden in the back of a bedroom closet. I hope never to relive that experience. Parents have varied opinions about how to deal with the sweet treats – divide it into portions, have them gorge themselves sick, steal the good stuff when the kids are in bed, or donate it.

Although my kids love sweets as much as the next guy, I know that Hallowe’en is more about the hunt. When I heard that a local dentist set up a candy buy-back program, I knew that my kids would love to get in on that action. Now they’d be making cash for their hard-earned candy. The dentist offers up two bucks for every pound of candy, then the dental practice donates it all.

My theory that trick or treating is all about the hunt was verified when the kids divided their haul into a ‘keep’ pile and a ‘sell’ pile. The particular child pictured ditched two full shopping bags of candy, and kept only the one very small package she is holding in her hands. The other kids were remarkably similar.

What did you do with your loot? Do you have super-motivated Trick or Treaters or are they more the ‘hand-the-treats-out-at-the-door’ type?

This past weekend I was supposed to go on my first “girls weekend” in three years. Instead, I was sick so lounged on the couch with children piled on top of me. But, I did pull up one of my old posts and reflected upon “The Rule”. How much do you talk to your friends about your kids?

My ninety-two-year-old grandmother has given birth to a lot of babies. She had babies in the 1930s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. She was collecting the baby bonus and old-age pension at the same time. Grandma is as wise as she is old, so when she talks, this humble creator of five babies drops everything and listens.

Grandma thinks women should not gather and talk about their kids. At first I found this to be a very strange perspective. I have five small kids and can turn every conversation into a discussion around their accomplishments, challenges, teachers, activities, poops, pukes, and sleeping patterns. What more is there going on in my life? If not for kiddie-gab, is there much else I can say?

That is precisely her point. I once returned from a weekend away with my longtime girlfriends. You know the kind of gals I’m talking about — the ones who have been around since the beginning of time. They were there holding your hair back while you puked up the peach schnapps you guzzled in the school parking lot before the dance. They remember when you got your driver’s license, cried with you that first time your heart was broken, and would share your single dorm room bed during a weekend visit. These are the gals who were your bridesmaids and actually knew what you were like before you were someone’s mama.

The weekend was geared to be a fantastic catch-up with the old gang and Grandma gave me strict instructions to report back to her with all the gossip and antics the weekend held. However, come Monday morning, the two of us sat with our cups of tea and I delivered a shockingly boring report. I walked away from that weekend knowing that Little Johnny was an exceptional reader and Little Janey is the best player on her soccer team, but didn’t know much else.

Lamenting this, Grandma perked-up and told me it was time to implement “The Rule.” As a young mother, Grandma occasionally gathered with a group of women. It was one of the very rare occasions they did not have their children with them. She set a rule for the group. No one was permitted to talk about her children. “The Rule” was complied with and these women enjoyed many years of social gatherings, discussing every topic imaginable — except their kids.

The next year came quickly and our annual weekend together was around the corner. The e-mails started flying — deciding who was driving, who was cooking, who was bringing the wine! Now was the time to suggest “The Rule,” but I was concerned with how it would be received. I was telling people I didn’t want to hear about their kids — the bonus was they didn’t have to hear about mine! The two childless friends immediately responded to me. I had been elevated to hero status in their eyes. The other e-mails started trickling in. Everyone agreed that it was time for “The Rule” to be passed onto our generation.

No one will dispute that your children are all consuming and have a way of taking over your entire existence. Even my grandmother would readily agree. I once heard someone say having a child is like watching your heart walk around outside of your body. True enough, but every once in a while you need to step back and find that little piece of yourself that sometimes gets lost in the school meetings, hockey practices, and music lesson drop-offs. For this busy mama, it is officially one weekend a year, but I try not to let the lesson of “The Rule” stray too far.

It’s actually kind of surprising the kids didn’t think to use it before. I suspect there are plenty of occasions in our biggie-sized family that they could have. Like on movie night when I put out one big bowl of popcorn and it’s every kid for him/herself. It never crossed my mind to evenly divide the popcorn prior to handing it out, but now that my kids are dishing out the statements about fairness, who knows where this nonsense will take us? It never bothered me hearing other kids say it, but when it’s coming out of the mouths of my kiddos I get all anxious and uncomfortable. Believe me, it’s no fun raising children who sound like entitled little brats.

The thing that irks me most is their improper use of the phrase. When they say “It’s not fair”, what they’re really saying is “It’s not going my way right now” or “I don’t want to do it”. Often it has nothing to do with actual justice or fairness. In a fit of frustration, after hearing it again the other day, I decided to give the kids a tour of our house. I went through their bedrooms, looking out the window at their pool and trampoline. Then we peeked out the front to see the court where they spend their time biking, playing basketball and rollerblading. Next we wandered into the mudroom where their hockey bags are stored, along with dance shoes, baseball gloves and other equipment for the many activities they do. We walked over to the big harvest table where they gather to eat/waste beautiful food. And finally we wrapped up the tour at the kid-designated computer. We sat down and I pulled up images of children in Third World countries. If they want to talk FAIR, then it’s GAME ON!

So I’m done with hearing the word fair. Until they are able to use it in an appropriate and meaningful way, “fair” is a place they go to get cotton candy and ride on unsafe roller coasters. Fair or unfair, that’s how it’s going to be.

Mabel’s Labels student staffer alum, Nikki Cochrane, worked in an orphange where this little Emma is the newest arrival. Emma knows all about unfair.

Sweet, yet powerful. www.clbuchananphotography.com

The youngest of my six children has had a pretty sheltered existence to date. He has only been cared for by three people: Me, Daddy-o, and Nanny Hazel. Even my very involved mom has noted that he’s the only grandchild she has never babysat. Part of the problem is that he’s a bit of a quirky guy and I wouldn’t describe him as my best-natured child. Although there has been a lot of recent growth, development and general temperament improvement, he spent much of his toddlerhood awkward and grumpy. Not exactly the kind of kid you want to burden some unsuspecting caregiver with.

When you have an awkward child, there is a fine line between supporting their little personality quirks while not feeding into – and becoming a slave to – them. For our family, this line got blurred and the result was the creation of our own little monster, known as the Pint-Sized Dictator (PSD). Our PSD is very good at getting what he wants – he throws out non-verbal demands to his team of siblings and they run in hopes of avoiding a fuss or tantrum.

We all consider ourselves the servants of the PSD and he is happiest when he is surrounded by his team of humble staff. In fact, he does not like to welcome outsiders into his sacred circle of trust (and servitude). I can remember a time when a visiting child was sitting at our dinner table and the PSD was offended by her presence. He angrily tried to order the child away from our table. Imagine that cheeky neighborhood kid thinking she had a place among “his people”?

He is now approaching 2.5 years old and I’ve begun to feel like we need to rein in our fearless leader. I thought a good first step would be a couple of mornings a week at nursery school, to get him out of this house and socialized with other people. But the idea of it made me so anxious. Here is an odd child who has not been around strangers. I was especially concerned that, because of his language delay, he would not understand me when I explained that I’d be back for him. So, in a bold move that was either brilliant or evidence that I am a PSD enabler, I sent him off to his first day of nursery school with his 4-year-old brother there as a little “helper” (which is a code word for “spy” and possibly “buffer”).

All went swimmingly, and on day two of nursery school he went solo and had a wonderful time, following routines and listening to his teacher. And so, our little PSD has been dethroned and we’re working very hard to ensure that his little crown stays well out of reach from now on.

By the time I had my sixth kid, I figured I had this parenting thing wrapped up.

Well, this cheeky toddler has knocked me square off my parenting high horse. One of our babysitters describes him as an adorable weirdo. One of his weirdo things is that every night for the last six months, he has insisted upon falling asleep on the family room floor. I later transport him to a suitable floor upstairs when I head to bed. Maybe it’s not a big deal, but for this “establish good bedtime routines and habits” mama, this sleeping on the floor stuff is outrageous!

What’s strange about it is why it started happening. During the Christmas holidays, we stayed in an old farmhouse that belonged to Daddy-o’s deceased grandparents. The house sits empty unless family members wish to have a farm stay. Not all will stay there because of the stories and rumours that it is possibly haunted.

I didn’t let those rumours deter me – when a family of our size can stay somewhere for free, we don’t turn it down. On about the third night, my little guy woke up in his crib screaming in a way that made me run so fast my feet didn’t touch the ground. I rescued him from his crib, resettled him then went back to bed a little confused. Next night, the same thing happened, except this time there was no way he would go in the crib or the room. I took him into the family room, fell asleep on the couch and he fell asleep on his little blanket on the floor beside me. He has remained on a floor ever since.

I spent the next morning shaking my head in confusion. He was not unwell and his mood was otherwise fine. Daddy-o finally solved the mystery for me when he got a sheepish look and said: “I think he saw the ghost”. Suddenly, everything made sense and this non-believer started re-thinking my ideas on the subject. Thanks to that pesky ghost, all my perfect baby routines have gone down the crapper and I have a toddler who is a floor dweller.

Have you had an experience that has turned you into a believer? I’ve heard that children and animals may be more sensitive and aware of this kind of activity. Is it true?