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.

My firstborn is a very cautious child.  At three, he sits at the top of the slide muttering ‘Brave! Brave! Brave!’ to himself before changing his mind and climbing back down the stairs.  I’ve never had to worry too much that he’s going to climb too high or run too fast.  Then my second came along and she’s a wild woman.  She climbs everything in sight and it’s not uncommon for me to find her standing on top of the toilet or making her way onto the kitchen table.  “Babyproof” has taken on a whole new unattainable meaning.

When I looked after other people’s children, I developed a heightened anxiety around bumps and bruises.  After all, the goal was to return them to their parents in roughly the same condition as I got them.  I often had my heart in my mouth as I watched kids on playgrounds, praying that these childhood rites of passage wouldn’t happen on my watch.

Now I’m faced with the challenge of finding a balance between letting my kids learn from experience, and doing what I can to avoid knocked out teeth and stitches.  I don’t panic over every cut and scrape, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t look at our favourite climbing tree in my parents’ front yard and wonder if I’ll ever loosen up enough to let my kids climb as high as we did.  I don’t think this is an area where anyone can give too much advice (though a dear friend of mine once said, “When you have nine children, sometimes its best not to even look!”).  There will be laid back parents and there will be cautious parents, and neither is right or wrong in my book.

So where do you fall on the scale?  Do you wish you were more laid back or more cautious?  Do you have a daredevil or does your child play it safe?

People say that I’m brave for having six kids. My take is that it’s nothing compared to those crazy mamas whose kids are out of the baby stage when they go and immerse themselves right back into it. Imagine ditching diaper bags, sleepless nights and poopy bottoms only to return to them several years later. At least in my situation, I have not had a chance to come up for air and experience what it feels like to be out of that phase. Once I have a taste of the sweet life, I’m thinking there is no going back.

A couple of years ago, Daddy-o turned 40 and my sister and BIL hosted a party. We arrived with a bucketful of newborn baby. My BIL had a big chuckle and noted that at his 40th a few years down the road, he would be on easy street – his kids would be teenagers. There were many laughs as we predicted that Daddy-o would never be in a position to retire seeing that he’d likely have kids still in university when he was in his sixties. Funny thing is, that bucketful of baby was only #5 – baby #6 came a couple of years later. Yes, no retirement plans for Daddy-o.

So you can imagine the fun we have had welcoming my sister and BIL’s new baby into the world last week. You can also envision their shock and horror upon discovering baby #3 was on the way, just as they were plotting their “Freedom 40” plan. And you can definitely picture how much fun Daddy-o had reminding BIL that he will now have a toddler at his 40th birthday party.

The shock and horror I refer to lasted for only about a minute before they were absolutely thrilled. OK, the shock hung around for a while. You see, they actually always wanted three kids but had a rough baby-making history and in the end it seemed they were extremely lucky to get the two they got. So, this little “baby-that-could’ is pretty darn special in our books.

During my sister’s surprise baby adventure, I’ve spoken to a lot of mamas who have had a similar experience. They all reported that, while the news initially took some digesting, in the end it was the best thing that ever happened to them and their families.

That may be true. Still, don’t expect to hear about any surprises from me.

Big thanks to Photog friends for these awesome images. Nicola popped around to see baby Isla at home and took this beautiful baby shot. Julie saw Isla and her big sibs at her studio and worked her usual magic!