My father died in December. He had spent the last several years very unwell, and my mother spent a lot of her time taking care of him. That is a difficult situation for any family, but it is even more difficult when the person you are caring for continuously makes choices that contribute to their bad health. And so, although he was a loved man, the result was a team of fairly frustrated family members.

My biggest frustration was trying to understand why he didn’t make choices that would allow him to be involved more fully in the lives of his grandchildren. He adored each and every one of them. Every morning he asked my mother which of his grandbabies was going to visit that day. He had frequent visits from his collection of loving grandkids, who called him The Gaffer. Kids would disappear into his man cave and they’d have the place trashed instantly – toys everywhere, cushions off the couches and the TV channel changed to their station. Every visit was a kid invasion into The Gaffer’s space. Interestingly, he was not at all bothered by the noise or chaos. He was never impatient with them and he certainly never snapped at any child. Visits ended with hugs, kisses and “I love you’s”.

I felt that relationship wasn’t good enough because he didn’t actually DO anything with my children. His illness made it so he couldn’t – that pesky illness that didn’t really have to be there. My dad never read to the children, and certainly never played a board game or did a puzzle with them. He didn’t take them out for walks or do any of the other things I see active grandparents doing with their grandchildren. It made me sad that he was missing out. And, so were my kids.

Apparently, I was wrong. A couple of weeks after his death, my 9-year-old daughter emerged from her bedroom at midnight to share a drawing of him. Included in the illustration were several messages and statements – one for each day since he had died. The most striking message to me was “I loved EVERYTHING about you”.

All that time I thought he wasn’t DOING anything with his grandchildren, he was very actively doing the thing that was most important to them. He was loving them. And it was all they needed.

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.

Sometimes my kids may ask for a bowl of snow for dinner. And when they do, they may just get it.

That is what I call the dinner hour at my house – feeding time at the zoo. It’s not news – families that eat together regularly are better and the rest of us suck. Time Magazine reports that the more often families eat together, the less likely kids are to smoke, drink, do drugs, get depressed, develop eating disorders and consider suicide. They have a better chance of doing well in school, delaying having sex, eating their vegetables, learning big words and knowing which fork to use.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that all sounds fine, and although I want my kids to learn big words, there are a few reasons gathering around the dinner table only happens on weekends for our family.

Practical:
My biggies get home from school at 3:00pm absolutely “starving” and Daddy-o doesn’t get home from work until 7:00pm. I refuse to spend four hours listening to kids complain about being hungry. I am also not willing to shove snacks in their gobs in an effort to hold them over until the adults are ready to eat. I prefer to take advantage of that after-school appetite and fill their bellies with a healthy dinner at that time. It sets them up with lots of energy for their evening sports or outdoor play. Sure, they get hungry again later, at which time I’ll happily serve up toast, cereal, fruit or veggies as an evening snack.

Emotional:
So is our family falling apart? Have we become a huge non-communicating mess? Hardly. There are many other times in the day when parents and families can connect that don’t involve food and sitting. Growing up, I had dinner with my family every single night. Did I enjoy it? Not really. You see, for a kid who didn’t like food, the dinner table often represented a place of conflict. My mom was rightly frustrated that she spent time preparing beautiful meals only to have me and my sisters turn our noses up at them. My dad would inevitably get grumpy with us, falling into those ridiculous parenting platitudes like “you’re not leaving the table until….” And I can assure you, not every child will eat “eventually”. I found hunger pain more appealing than many foods.

Meaningful conversation didn’t always happen around our table, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. My memories credit family walks and bedtime tuck-ins as those special moments and important times.

Parenting is a tough gig these days. There are a lot of studies and research directing us. While I think it’s important to consider the information that we are bombarded with, I like to integrate that with my experiences, some common sense, and the knowledge that I’m the one best fit to make the decisions for my family. The dinner table is not going to make or break my family. I’m quite capable of doing that all on my own, thank you. Check back with me in a few years though – if no one is using three syllable words, I may reconsider.

I often speak about how I do not have the “I’m done” gene when it comes to babies. Whenever I have a newborn, I think, “Yeah, I could do this one more time”. The problem is, I say that EVERY time – whether it’s baby #1 or baby #6.

As a result of my gene-lacking situation, some practical decisions had to be made so I wouldn’t one day find myself in the awkward position of being unsure if I was pregnant or experiencing menopause.

Because Daddy-o is sensitive about this topic, I need to remain somewhat elusive. Having said that, I’d like to share my feelings about a minor surgical procedure that he *may* or *may not* have had.

Having the baby door slammed shut on me didn’t hurt the way I had expected it to. I thought I would mourn the end of an era. Seems quite the opposite happened, as evidenced by a few things:

1) I packed up all my maternity clothes to give away and didn’t secretly hoard my faves “just in case”. That is how I always packed away my maternity clothes in the past. I didn’t really pack them away – they were never too far out of reach.

2) I got rid of my newborn baby clothes and blankets and didn’t shed a tear. In fact, once I cleared out all those teeny tiny things, I gave myself a pat on the back for decluttering and then repurposed the plastic storage bins.

3) I acquired a baby niece and didn’t abduct her. This was the true test. When my sister had baby Isla in January, I was worried. Usually when I hold a newborn, I can feel myself immediately ovulate. But I’m fine. I’m actually GOOD. I don’t need to have one of my own! Remarkable.

I believe that as long as the possibility of another baby existed, I would always have thought “Maybe just ONE more”. Strangely, as soon as the option was taken off the table, it’s as though I got injected with a healthy dose of the “I’m done” gene. This was a huge surprise and wonderful relief – or a certain Daddy-o *may* or *may not* have found himself back at a clinic getting another surgical procedure to undo the first surgical procedure.

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