Soon into our Hallowe’en night trick or treating adventures, my three Biggies ditched me and the smaller siblings and hit the neighbourhood with a couple of cousins. The five master trick or treaters went off into the night with a plan – to collect as much candy as humanly possible. There were strategies and maps – and they identified speed and perseverance as keys to their success. They factored in occasional pit stops to drop off their current candy load so it wouldn’t weigh them down, thereby slowing them. After three hours of relentless hitting of pavement, they returned home victorious – pillowcases full of loot.

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.

You’d think the statement “It’s not fair” would be commonly heard around our house. Strangely, it’s not. Or at least it wasn’t. I’m not sure why we had the good fortune of escaping it for so long, but it has recently become a part of our family’s vernacular.

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?