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?

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.

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.

My kids love hanging out with Shane and his team from Adamson Lawn Care (www.adamsonlawncare.com)

I recently popped down to my local grocery store with a bottle of wine and farewell card for my favourite cashier, who was working her last shift. Some complications as a result of MS have forced her to retire. Every time I see her, I get a hug as she makes fun of my monstrous grocery bill and comments on how many or how few children I happened to have with me on that particular day.

I find it hard saying goodbye to community helpers. When my mail carrier died a couple of years ago, I was pretty torn up. I got to wondering if everyone gets attached to community helpers the way I do and, wanting to do a temperature check to see if this was “normal”, did some asking around.

From that bit of digging, I now hypothesize that people whose kids have special needs feel particularly connected to community helpers. We become very attached to the various people in the lives/health/development of our children, and perhaps it carries over to community helpers in general.

I’ll never forget how I felt when I found out, a few days before the new school year began, that our school principal was being transferred. This is the kind of news that keeps parents like me up at night. We think about the years spent relationship building, advocating, winning that principal over – all that time, energy and investment, gone. A new principal means having to start all over again.

The same goes for those in the medical profession. When friend and Mabel staffer, Melissa, found out that her daughter’s very first nurse was leaving their hospital, she experienced extreme distress. How can these people just up and move on when we rely on them? There is no such thing as a “simple” transfer in our worlds.

Last month, my son’s young, vibrant and extraordinary speech therapist, Kim Pace, finally lost her incredibly courageous battle against cancer. She leaves behind countless devastated parents of children with special needs.

They say that it takes a village to raise a child. I, for one, appreciate and value every one of those villagers. I will miss Bonnie the cashier and Kim the speech therapist. My village won’t be the same without them.

Rather than "shush" my kid, I just throw another plug in his gob

I’m a little bit nosey and don’t pretend otherwise. On my recent travels to a conference, I injected myself into a couple of situations that were none of my business. I just couldn’t help it.

The first was on my way to the conference. Across the aisle from me sat a mother and her surfer dude teenaged son. He was polite, respectful, handsome – he pretty much had all the qualities I hope my kids have as teenagers. He also happened to be living with Down Syndrome. At one point he was making a few noises. I didn’t take much notice because I’m surrounded by noisy people all the time. Then, from somewhere nearby a random passenger let out the loudest, rudest SHUSH I’ve ever heard. I was angry and determined to find the culprit. I wanted to give the SHUSHER a piece of my mind. All my investigations were pointless – the SHUSHER would not come forward and admit to the SHUSHING.

On the way home came Nosey Parker incident #2. A young dad was sitting behind me and having a cell phone conversation with the mother of his baby. They were discussing her plans for the next day. It sounded like she had a fun event to attend with a group of friends. The dad expressed a bit of concern about taking care of the baby because he was exhausted from his work travels. He did the right thing – told her her to carry on with her plans but that he would find a babysitter for a couple of hours to get some rest before enjoying the rest of the day with his kid. Their phone call ended and a few quick calls to babysitters from the tarmac were made and he had it all sorted out. Happily, he called his baby mama back and explained that all was organized and that he was thrilled that she would have a well deserved day out with her friends. She must have announced that she decided to cancel the plans because he spent the next few minutes saying things like “but you deserve to go out” and “it’s not a hassle at all, I’m looking forward to having the day with my daughter”. Despite begging her to go, she could not be convinced. When he got off the phone, I heard a huge sigh of defeat and frustration.

Clearly, I know nothing about them, their relationship or how they share parental responsibilities. However, I couldn’t stop myself from turning around, admitting to eavesdropping and congratulating him on trying so hard to make it work – for wanting his partner to have a day out with her friends. Sure, I risked having him tell me to mind my own business but it was worth it when I looked at his exhausted big brown eyes and heard his whisper: “Thank you so much”.

It’s tough to know when to inject ourselves into a conversation or situation that we’re not directly involved in. For me, often my gut responds before my brain has the chance to make a decision. The greatest risk for the Nosey Parker is humiliation. For those of us who have experienced enough of that already, it’s not a risk that gets a whole lot of consideration.

One Lucky Mama!

A couple of weeks ago, my bad-breathing baby landed us in the Trauma Room in the Emergency at our local hospital. On about his fifth Ventolin treatment, a woman was brought into the bed beside us.

The woman was explaining her symptoms as they were going through triage a few feet away from us. Now, I’ve only seen ER twice and maybe half an episode of Grey’s, but it was pretty darn clear to Dr. Mama that this woman was about to have a massive heart attack. During the chit-chat, I learned that her two young daughters had brought her in and were waiting in the lobby. I also learned that she was 50 years old, the same age her mother was when she died of a heart attack. At that point, I started to feel panic – I just wanted the questions to stop and the treatment to start. I kept thinking “If that were my mother…”

No great surprise, just as the question period was finishing, she went into full-on cardiac arrest. After 40 minutes and 7 shocks to the chest, she was pronounced dead. I was selfishly thankful that I was there with my only kid who would remain completely clueless that someone just died beside us.

Then I thought about the daughters in the lobby. The doctors bickered about who was going to take them into the Family Room to deliver the news. They managed to get the girls to call in their aunt and uncle before telling them their mother was dead.

Within a couple of hours, I was heading home with my son. As I got into my car, I noticed two sisters standing by the hospital entrance, embracing and crying. So this Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about how they have no mother to celebrate with. And 10 years down the road, they may have babies of their own, who will never know Grandma.

In perfect honesty, I’m still frustrated that when that very sick woman entered the Trauma Room, there was too much chat and not enough action.

We only get one mother – there is no time to waste.

On March 5th, 1971 I was born. Yep, I just turned 40. All year I was talking about the big birthday bash we were going to have at our house – it was going to be quite the event! But the closer my birthday got, the more the idea of throwing a party became one big headache. So I started saying that I would have a party when the weather improved. When friends and family asked, I pitched it as an outdoor event – people swimming in the pool, drinking summer cocktails, and possibly even a band on our balcony. When I started talking about it, I believed I would do it. Before long, it became the perfect “out” and I just said it as a way of not having to deal with this party nonsense. Summer is far enough away that my birthday will be long forgotten. Having a “plan” also let other people off the hook who may have been feeling like they should organize something.

As a “Mama of Many”, I throw a lot of birthday parties every year. I simply don’t have time or energy to celebrate my own. In fact, I figured I’d better schedule my mid-life crisis for a time that better suits – so if you’re looking for me in May 2014, I’ll be cruising around in a sports car with a Botoxed face, looking for Ashton Kutcher.

How did I celebrate my birthday? I got a zit. Seems I’m fighting acne and wrinkles at the same time. Note that I use the term “fighting” loosely since I barely have the energy to splash water on my face at the end of each day. I also celebrated by bringing my normal “casual style” to a whole new level of casual. I was at the office last week and noticed that I was wearing cargo pants – with an elastic waist. And I love them. I was also wearing Blundstone boots that I’ve had so long that I think our Marketing Assistant must have been a toddler when they were purchased. My kids also took me out for a birthday dinner at their favourite restaurant. It’s called Philthy McNasty’s. Yes, it’s all class around here. I got to wear a hockey helmet while all the servers sang to me. My head is still itchy thinking about that helmet.

So I’m being 40 and fabulous in my own way – it just so happens that my fabulous includes zits, dirty boots and possible head lice. I may not have actually dodged 40, but somehow managed to escape the party, and I couldn’t be happier.

**photo cred to the wonderful Karen Walrond who refuses to alter pictures of women to make us look “better”. See her blog: http://www.chookooloonks.com

When I posted my last blog about the “meanie at the mall”, I was shocked by how many mamas had experienced the exact same thing. That encounter was a first for me – never before had I been so openly criticized by a complete stranger. I certainly get some funny looks when I’m out with my crew, but never has it been the stink eye (that I have noticed, anyway!)

But the silver lining of this experience was that it made me reflect on the ridiculous number of kind people I have met during this crazy mama journey.

There are all those encouraging nods I get regularly from other mamas. There are the countless elderly women who surround me in a public place, showering me with compliments about how beautiful my kids are and how lucky I am to have them. I remember all the nice people who eat at the same restaurant as us and take the time to come over to comment on my kids’ good manners. I think about the server at that restaurant and how our food is brought out promptly and there is patience about our messy table. I remember the person at the public swimming pool who offered to hold the baby while I got the others ready for lessons. I think about that mom at the park who compliments my son for playing nicely with her children or my daughter for being able to pump her legs so well on the swings. I think about the dad at the ice rink who always laughs and plays with my little guy as his kids play hockey with my big kids. I remember other passengers on a flight with my puking toddler who were quick to help with the other children and grab paper towels, and pat me on the back for not completely losing my mind.

Last summer our family was out hiking and my son got way ahead of us. I wasn’t worried about it, until I ran into the situation you can see in the picture. I was horrified at the thought of him breaking up her meditation with “Hey! What are you doing sitting on that rock with your eyes closed?” My kids have a knack for ruining any peaceful moment.

As it turns out, he did interrupt her but it was an interruption that was welcomed. She explained meditation to him and invited her new friend to join in, which he did. As you can see from the picture, he was having a very Zen moment.

So, it made me realize that for every crabby meanie at the mall, there are a thousand “Good Ones”. Not a bad ratio, by my standards.

Have you encountered any strangers who have made your journey a little bit easier?

I took my three youngest kids for lunch at the food court in the local mall the other day. My toddler had a meltdown and was doing the high-pitched scream. Yeah, you know the sound.

As I’m trying to manage my stressful moment, an elderly woman looked over at us and shook her head in disgust. I had to take her to task on it because I hate passive aggressive communication. I wanted her to say the words – that my kid was out of control and I was a crappy parent. I wanted her to stand by her dirty looks. When I asked her why she was shaking her head, she stood by them alright, informing me that I should do a better job of “training” him. I almost had a temper tantrum myself at that point.

I suggested that if she found it too noisy, perhaps a café rather than a mall food court might better suit. Another suggestion I offered was that she come to my house and reform my entire collection of unruly children, all the while giving me some parenting lessons. Then I asked her to consider that next time she sees an exhausted mother struggling, why not offer to give her a hand? Mrs. McJudgerson was all criticism with nothing helpful to offer.

When the spectacle came to an end, another elderly woman made her way over to us and supported me, reminding me that people like that are not worth a second thought. Her support turned my anger into sadness. My lip began to quiver, then came a quiet tear and then another.

Why was I so sad? I was confused myself at first.

I was sad because this woman is the reason mamas worry that we are doing a bad job. She is the reason mamas feel too overwhelmed to take their three small children on an outing. She is the reason mamas get trapped at home, socially isolated – because they are afraid of going out there and being judged.

I was also upset because I’m worried about this toddler of mine. His tantrums are outrageous because his language is so delayed. He’s almost two years old and has no words. I’m scared that I’m about to travel down the autism road for a second time – a trip I really didn’t want to have to take. It felt like this woman in the food court was rubbing my face in it.

I took comfort in a couple of things. First, that karma has a way of repaying debt. Second, I am eternally grateful that she is not my mother-in-law. Imagine being related to that parenting expert!

What would your reaction have been?

Daddy-o smootching Fin

A friend on Facebook recently posted some Valentine’s Day advice to all the men out there. In short, she suggested that all women gush over Valentine’s Day and appreciate special gifts and attention in celebration of this holiday. Even the women who say they don’t care, really do – deep down.

I looked deep into my soul to see if I wasn’t being honest with myself. After some serious self-analysis, I have to speak up on behalf of the unromantic – we think Valentine’s Day is at best, hokey and cheesy, at worst, bordering on pervy and creepy. Don’t get me wrong, I let my kids give out cards to their classmates and even sneak a heart-shaped chocolate treat into their school bags. It’s the fake romance stuff that freaks me out.

I considered some of the most traditional romantic Valentine’s gifts and thought it might be useful to give an explanation as to why I am not interested in them.

1) Flowers
I think of flowers as something that is going to take up valuable counter space for a week. When that week is over, I’ll have to get rid of the dead flowers and scrub the skanky vase. Don’t even get me started on the money – I’d rather not have to re-mortgage the house to cover the cost of my dozen Valentine’s Day roses.

2) Jewelry
I’m just not a jewelry gal. Daddy-o was pretty gutted back in our courtin’ days when I rejected the idea of having an engagement ring. In the end, I generously agreed that we could exchange engagement rings. Mine has now been sitting in a jewelry box for well over a decade, alongside its little friend, the wedding band.

3) The romantic dinner
I prefer our usual date night, which includes putting the kids to bed and sitting together with our laptops, side by side. In my books, there is no need to pay two babysitters and an expensive restaurant bill for some quality time together.

4) Cuddles from your adoring husband as you watch “Grey’s” on the couch together
Quite frankly, after cuddling with six small humans all day long, I just want a bit of personal space. Oh, and I don’t watch “Grey’s” or any other romantic-type shows anyway.

5) A lovely bottle of wine
I’m a beer drinker. Straight from the bottle.

I can’t be the only one out there? Speak up, please! I feel like I need to put an ad in the classifieds: “Unromantic Married Mom Seeks Like Women for Friendship and Understanding”.