I’ve been doing a bit of complaining about having to find a car that suits our family. I was whining about this on my other blog (www.thebabymachine.com).

The biggest issue has been that it seemed like no one wanted to help us out. I e-mailed contacts in the car industry and didn’t hear back. We went to a car lot and looked at a bunch of vehicles and the guy said he would call if something suitable arrived and we never heard from him again. I actually wanted to be pitched by the stereotypical cheesy car sales guy and he was nowhere to be found.

In despair, I blogged about my car issues, threw it on Twitter and it got re-tweeted a few times. The next thing I knew I received an e-mail from GM Canada. Finally someone had heard my cries for help and responded.

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t’s been years since I was on the preschool ‘playdate’ circuit, where I scheduled my kids’ social interactions, but I still remember one of the best perks, which was when I discovered a mom with whom I clicked. I’d go over to retrieve my kid, and we’d end up chatting for another hour, thrilled to find someone to talk to in complete sentences. At that age, the kids were young enough that they’d play with just about anyone, so it was easy to make most of their playdates with kids whose moms I enjoyed.

One of those preschool moms has become one of my dearest friends, so yesterday we met for a quick lunch at the Nordstrom Cafe, where we used to meet when our older boys were in preschool and our 2nd kids were in strollers. We reminisced about those ‘good old days’, remembering where Hannah (her perfect little girl) charmed the grandmother at the next table, or looking at the dent in the chair I’m sure was left by Ben (my rambunctious one). And we fretted that as our schedules (and kids’ lives) have gotten more complicated, we no longer have those long, leisurely playground outings and Burger King lunches.

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My first-born turned 16 recently, and that was just the latest in a series of reminders of my own aging - roots that need touching up way more often than I can afford, having two children with hair on their legs, my own dear husband referring affectionately to his ‘50-something’ sweetheart (I’m 50, not 50-something!). But it wasn’t so much the fact of the birthday that made me feel old - it was the celebration.

Between starting his summer job and exhaustion from the end of the school year, David was too wiped out to plan anything but let me know he’d be okay with it if I took over (by saying discreetly, “Mom, just in case you feel like giving me a surprise party, I wouldn’t mind, and Danielle might know who I would want to invite, because you know my guy friends are clueless about this sort of thing.”) So with the help of his friend, Facebook, and a quick trip to Costco, I was ready for our house to be invaded by teenagers.

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One week down, eight more to go.

This week four of the kiddos were enrolled in a little tennis camp in the neighbourhood for two hours a day. The plan was that in those two hours I would have enough time to clear out my e-mail inbox, update my Facebook status, spend a few moments on twitter, read a couple of blog posts and run an errand. The rest of my day would belong to the kiddos.

It rained this week and while I don’t mean to carry on and complain about the rain, tennis camp gets cancelled at the first detection of a dark cloud. It’s a far cry from soccer night where parents are forced to shiver on the sidelines while cheering on their little players during a torrential downpour.

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When you have kids, making plans is hard work. Even if you only have two kids, it seems that as soon as you are walking out the door, someone comes down with fever. Plans are never made with complete confidence.

When you have a bunch of kids, there are way too many variables involved. At any given time someone either has a cold, pink eye, fever, rash, the vomits, head lice, a broken leg, or all of the above. On the rare occasion that every single child is in perfect health, plans are often interrupted by hockey play-offs, music recitals, and dance lessons.

If the stars are all aligned, we actually have a chance of getting to our destination.

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It was a monumental day. Six months after giving birth and I was back into my regular clothes. Rushing through the Vancouver airport wearing a beyond fabulous DVF new dress and smashing stilettos to match.

Was so preoccupied with not falling over as I teetered along (it had been at least a year since I wore really high heels) that I almost didn’t notice men looking at me. Business men in lovely tailored suits.

At first I thought it must be a lucky one-off; an I’m-wearing-a-beyond-fabulous-DVF-dress glow. But no. One fellow even stopped mid-tracks and nudged his friend.

For just a moment things went into slow motion and became a bit surreal. I had gotten so used to being invisible to the opposite sex. Not that men didn’t find me attractive. It was more like I had a big imaginary mommy-off-limits “X” crossed out in front of me.

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