I was online the other night participating in a Twitter party. The topic of discussion was food – kiddo food, healthy snacks, on-the-go foods, etc.

Since I’m not a big foodie type, I didn’t think I’d have much to contribute to the conversation. My kids eat well, but I’m not a health nut and don’t spend hours in the kitchen creating beautiful meals for my family. In short, my kids have not had a Twinkie-free existence and occasionally they have had frozen meatballs for dinner – still frozen. Two nights in a row.

But as the chit-chat went on and people were exchanging stories about weird food their kids love and delicious food their kids hate, I discovered I did have some interesting things to say. I made some valuable contributions including:

- One kid of mine has a favourite snack that is horribly embarrassing to admit. In fact, when I tell people what it is, they throw up a little in their mouths. My kid loves hot dogs but in the form of a cold wiener straight from the fridge. Just gagged while writing that.

- Another kid loves avocado with a squeeze of lemon. I don’t think I had avocado until I was about 30-years-old. In my humble upbringing, we would have called avacados “fancy food”!

- My kids and all of their cousins have the same favourite fruit called “sour apple”. It is sliced apple in a bowl, drenched in lemon juice.

- The one food I can serve up that each kid will eat without complaint is pesto on pasta. Now, it’s interesting to note that they actually make the pesto. They plant the basil in the backyard and when pesto making day is upon us, they pick the basil and go shopping for the other ingredients. This begs the question – is there a connection between kids being involved in their food and liking their food?

A strange food fact about me also made its way into the conversation, leaving people shocked and horrified. What is this shocking food news? I’ve never had a milkshake. Ever. Not once in my 39 years of life.

So go on – what creepy, weird food does your kid like? Or, have you reached the age of 40 and never tried sushi or tasted kiwi fruit? The best thing that came out of this whole Twitter party food chat is all the milkshakes I’ve had promised to me in the last few days!

You spoke and thankfully, I listened.

To all of you who commented with moving advice on my blog post over at www.thebabymachine.com – if I could reach through this computer screen and give you a big squeezy hug, I would. I owe you my sanity. What those comments confirmed was that if you want the very best advice – go straight to the mamas.

There is no question, the move day was a monster – 13 hours of non-stop action, cardboard boxes galore and the odd dropping of the F-bomb. But we survived it, largely because I implemented what you told me to!

Here are a few of the gems that blog readers provided:

- GET MOVERS. I did that and even got them to pack up the house for me. There was one stressful thing about this – I wasn’t prepared for them. I needed to do a “pack for the packers”, much like you do the “clean for the cleaners” the night before the house gets cleaned. Because I didn’t prepare for them, I was unwrapping empty yoghurt containers in the boxes marked “basement office” when we got to the new house. I would have liked to avoid that, but not this time around. Having said that, this move would have been impossible without movers;

- Farm out the kids. Check;

- Keep drawers taped in the dressers and move them that way;

- Don’t take clothes in closets off hangers. Use the closet moving boxes;

- Have kids pack up their own desks and decorate the boxes. It makes them feel involved and gives them a sense of ownership and responsibility;

- Keep all special items (loveys, blankies, etc) and necessities (toilet paper and toothbrushes) IN THE CAR so as not to get lost in transition;

- Make the beds FIRST, so that when exhausted at end of day, at least people can crash in bed;

- Make the kitchen an unpacking priority;

- Label all boxes very clearly;

- Keep perspective – you will survive and it’s only STUFF! Your home is about the PEOPLE;

- If you cannot be there to direct the movers to the right rooms, colour code each room in the new house and colour code the boxes. Colour code furniture too;

- Use numbers to prioritize boxes – 1 means open now, 2 means later, 3 means no rush.

I’m still taking life one box at a time, but it’s done. We did it. And I don’t know how I would have done it without you.

I’m not always completely honest with my kids, and it is done in the best interests of all parties. It’s not like outright lying to them – more like faking it. These top the list:

1) I fake that I like food.
Don’t get me wrong – I like food, but not the way most people seem to. For example, I would never in a million years cook myself something to eat. You see, the work involved is not worth the result. I’m quite happy having a bowl of cereal for dinner. But, I feel like I have to be a good food role model for my kids. So, I may tell them that I had a soup and salad for lunch, when in reality it may have been a Kit Kat.

2) I fake that I was good at math in school.
When someone asks a math trivia question, I have an easy out. I just say I don’t know because I suck at math. It recently occurred to me that I don’t want my kids to hear me say that. Why? Because it’s an excuse not to try. Accepting how much I suck at math has somehow given me a free pass from having to do anything mathematical. I don’t want my kids thinking they can have free passes. Not yet. They don’t think they suck at anything and I’d like to keep it that way.

3) I fake that I think the Olympics are super exciting.
Other than some recent hockey excitement, I generally don’t get all that jazzed about the Olympics. My total watching time included only one period of one hockey game. Even if I was terribly interested in the Games, I’m not sure where I’d find the time to commit to watching them. I mistakenly told the kids they could stay up for the Opening Ceremony without knowing anything about the start time being a full hour after bedtime. Regardless, I mustered up some fake excitement, got out the craft supplies, dressed in the appropriate colours and cheered the kiddos on as they created a medal count chart and drew some flags to hang around the house. Certainly watching them get all excited helped out where I was lacking.

One day my kids will realize that they have a mother who will call chocolate lunch, is mathematically challenged and athletically uninspired. But that day does not have to be today. What are your dirty little mama secrets?

50 years ago my Aunt Joan was born. Hers has not been an average life. She arrived prematurely, possibly having an unfortunate run-in with the umbilical cord on the way out. Regardless of the cause, she has had a special place in our family because she did not develop in a typical manner.

From all accounts, it was not easy in those early years. The doctors made grim predictions about Joan’s future based on what they thought her IQ was. Grandma once threw a social worker out of her house for suggesting that Joan should be removed from the family and raised elsewhere.

She was the seventh born in a big Irish family and everyone rallied around their baby Joan, sharing feeding responsibilities and surrounding her with love and support. Joan was a part of that family and although it was a family forever changed, from their enlightened perspective, they were better for it. To this very day she lives with my grandparents who are in their mid-nineties.

Joan is a remarkable person. Embraced by a supportive school and staff, she has spent the last 25 years working as a classroom helper in a centre for children with special needs and who are medically fragile. Joan has a special place at Mabel’s Labels as well. She helps out when brochures need to be stickered, she decorates posters and cards for special events and contributes her famous brownies for staff functions. Most of all, she is our biggest fan. If you’ve ever been on a city bus and had the woman next to you ask if you have Mabel’s Labels, chances are it was Aunt Joan. She hands out her Mabel’s Labels business card to anyone and everyone – a business card which appropriately lists her job title as “Superstar”.

To get the full picture of the positive impact Joan has on those around her, let me tell you how her 50th birthday was celebrated:

- The school board threw a surprise party for her. 50 staff members and retired staff were in attendance to celebrate;
- Our family had a surprise dance party/open house. More people than I could count were in attendance;
- Of those people at the dance party, a ridiculous number of us were wearing t-shirts featuring Joan’s picture and the words ‘Joan is a Superstar’;
- Even the babies in the family got involved. They all wore custom-made shirts that said “Great-Aunt Joan is a Superstar”.

I know when we all have babies we want them to be perfect in every way. However, Joan has taught me that sometimes it’s only when they are not “perfect” that they are able to become Superstars.

So we’ve made it to February, which is usually the time when folks have either fallen off the New Year’s resolution wagon or take a step back to assess how they are doing.

I am happy to report that I am doing great! OK, it might have something to do with the fact that I don’t really do resolutions. My theory is that I suffer enough. So, while I’m raising small kiddos, I get a resolution “free pass”. Do we mamas really need extra stress and self induced pressure?

I get that everyone wants to be healthy and lose a few pounds. I’ve got a postcard on our fridge that has an illustration of a goddess woman, with the words “Can you pinch an inch? Do you give a shit?” It’s just a reminder that maybe mamas need to cut ourselves a bit of slack – a few pounds and an extra inch or two is a small price to pay for getting to grow humans in our bodies.

Rather than putting pressure on myself this year, I am relieving myself of it. I have two examples:

1) My photo dilemma: I had five years worth of unprinted photos hanging around my neck like an albatross. I finally admitted that there was no time in the foreseeable future that I could dedicate to this project, and it was only getting bigger with each photo taken. A quick Facebook status update asking if anyone was up for a project put an end to my photo woes. Project has now been completely outsourced. The weight that has been lifted from my shoulders is indescribable.

2) The next outsource came in the shape of a teenaged homework helper who has a 95% average in French Immersion. My son’s FI was causing me an incredible amount of stress. My lack of French rendered me useless – throw in the fact that I don’t really get Gr. 5 Science either and I was a complete waste of space. Now, three times a week my angel teenager relieves me of that aggravation. My son does well on his homework, understands the material and I am no longer pulling my hair out every evening.

Outsourcing these little projects certainly ends up costing a mama a few bucks, but I am a strong believer that at whatever cost, you can’t put a price on mama’s sanity!

This week I was feeling a little glum. I had a few close calls with the kiddos that really threw me off my game.

One kid didn’t hold the bus buddy’s hand on the way to the bus stop the other day. She stepped onto the road but jumped back quickly when a driver honked. I spent the rest of the day feeling like I was going to puke.

The very next day, I left baby alone rolling around on the floor to put something in the garbage. When I returned 10 seconds later he seemed to be doing something weird with his mouth. After some serious fishing, I pulled out the remnants of an old balloon. Gasp. I don’t even know where it came from. And here I thought I left him in a safe place.

So in my world, I had a couple of near disasters, though I find it a bit weird using that word in light of Haiti.

I didn’t want to hide Haiti from my big kids. We went on the Internet and heard political leaders speak about the tragedy and watched some Haiti footage. I even told them about all the deaths. I know they will have an answer to the question “Where were you when you heard about the earthquake in Haiti?”

It was a teachable moment and if I played my cards right, they would experience appropriate empathy and feel empowered to help without being totally traumatized. We made a family plan about how we, as a family, were going to response to this tragedy. Our plan included a donation made by me and the Daddy-o. In exchange, the kids had to decide what they were going to give up so that we would have the funds available. It was important to me that they had to do without so that we could give. In addition, each child contributed all of their “donate” money. Each week the biggies get allowance and it is divided between their “spend”, “save” and “donate” piggy banks.

It all ended in tears (by me) when my 10-year-old son asked if he could be a rescue worker and go over the Haiti to help out. Maybe one day.

Did you tell your kids? How much information did you share? Do you worry about protecting them from such news? Does your family plan to help in any way? Please share!

Around our house, we have great fun celebrating Christmas. This year was also fantastic, with one exception. Nagging at me all day was how baby boy was breathing. Not good.

At 7:30pm I couldn’t take it anymore and made the trip down to the hospital. Before getting admitted, they put us in the trauma room to get him on some oxygen and begin other treatments.

I was sitting there holding a ventolin mask over his screaming face, telling myself that the situation sucked. I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, and a lot sorry for my baby boy. It was no way for my little man to spend his first Christmas, thought I.

Then I had a quick reality check. The guy on the other side of the curtain, who seemed to be getting treatment for pain of sorts, started speaking:

Guy: “Nurse? I kinda feel like killing myself”

Nurse: “Hmmm, what are you thinking about doing?”

Guy: “I dunno, maybe cut my wrists, find a gun or take some pills”

Nurse: “Do you have a gun?”

Guy: “No”

Nurse: “OK, we can have a chat with the Doctor about all this”

I looked down at my wheezing boy and thought about the guy on the other side of the curtain. What was his first Christmas like? How would his mother feel if, on his first Christmas, she knew that in about 40 more years he’d feel like killing himself on Christmas Day?

I gave my baby boy an extra squeezy hug and decided my Christmas didn’t suck after all.

So this baby of mine has been a chronic bronchiolitis guy. I’ve never had a bad breather so it’s all new and exciting. In fact, I’m just home from a few days in the hospital with him. Throw some pneumonia into the bronchiolitis mix and you’ve got yourself a weekend pass to paediatric paradise. Baby and I have had the pleasure of spending quality time together wrestling ventolin masks and guzzling pediapred.

Being such a chesty baby, both his sleep and mine have been pretty dodgy over the last few months. Baby’s breathing antics paired with the shenanigans of some of his finer siblings has seen my usual 5-6 hours of sleep a night dwindle to the 3-4 hour mark. It’s not much, but we all know that mama steps up to the plate when she has to, and we can’t underestimate the power of a bit of adrenaline.

Last Saturday night Daddy-o announced that I was to go to bed, shut the door and have a night of uninterrupted sleep. He was volunteering for night duty – sleeping elsewhere and ready to respond to each and every night-time disturbance.

Imagine my shock (OK, pretend shock) when at 4:00am Daddy-o comes bursting through the bedroom door. He was all disheveled with red eyes and crazy hair. He looked as though he’d been sleeping in the wilderness for days. Out of his mouth came the words we mamas have often felt but rarely said: “I can’t do it anymore! Help me!”

Uh dude, you know I do this every day, right?

Since I had already had more sleep than I’m used to and was feeling as fresh as a spring morning, I let him off the hook. He settled into bed feeling all defeated and in awe of me.

I’ve got some mama friends who are exceptional at making milk. I’ve got other mama friends who are incredibly skilled at tricking their kids into eating veggies. It would seem my specialty is getting by on very little sleep. It is a talent that serves me better than any musical or artistic genius would. So what are you good at? Can you predict and intercept a toddler fall before it happens? Perhaps you breastfeed, dress a toddler and get ready for work all at the same time? Do you have some ridiculous mama talent that in any other circles would not exactly count as “talent”?

Picture of SIL and business partner, Julie Ellis, teaching me the ropes. She has survived parenting two chesty babies.

There are a few things that are irresistible about the Holiday Season:

1) Dressing your kids like idiots. Yes, I dressed my daughter in a Santa suit dress for her violin recital. Why? Because I can.

2) Elf Yourself – really, we can spend hours doing this using different combinations of family members. Go on, have a look: http://elfyourself.jibjab.com/view/XIf7mBPW2SSHOgIG

3) ‘Tis the season to throw all parenting rules out the window. The notion of Santa watching for good behaviour is really just a combination of bribery and empty threats.
Bribery: “If you are good, Santa will bring you presents.”
Empty Threats: “If you are naughty Santa won’t bring you presents”.
Yeah right, I know some pretty naughty kids who have never woken up to lumps of coal in their stockings.

So go on, take advantage of your bad parenting free pass and be sure to engage in what at any other time of year would be considered cheesy behaviour. I’m enjoying every minute of it!

Today marks the 20th anniversary of the Montreal Massacre.

I was 18-years-old when the 14 women were gunned down. As an earlier adopter of feminism, I had already done much of the reading required of a budding feminist and had some very decent mentors in place.

When the Montreal Massacre happened, it rocked my young world. Twenty years have gone by and never have I forgotten that day. Throughout my life, I have remembered.

I remembered the 14 women the year after the massacre, as I sat in my first year university lectures, imagining what it would be like for someone to walk into my lecture hall and kill me – because of my gender.

I remembered the 14 women as a graduate student working with women’s groups – planning memorial services for December 6th.

I remembered the 14 women when I was at law school, choosing subjects like Feminist Legal Theory and writing papers that focused on gender, violence, Battered Women’s Syndrome, etc.

I remembered the 14 women when I worked at a women’s legal service, having to go through security to get into the building and working behind bullet proof glass. All that because of the men in the lives of our clients.

I remembered the 14 women when I gave birth to my first daughter on International Women’s Day in 2001, wondering what her life would hold and what the women of her generation would face.

And how do I remember the 14 women now?

I remember them as I raise my sons and daughters. I remember them in simple ways – conversations with my children, the way I use language, through setting expectations and by bucking gender stereotypes within our home. Feminism is not a big scary word. It is founded on the basic principle that women have choice – the choice to have six kids, the choice to have none.

The choice to become an Engineer.

When do you remember the 14 women?