The adult version of “you get what you get” is when you have a baby. Not a lot of social engineering is involved so you can’t exactly order a baby of a particular gender or personality type. You can’t even count on baby being healthy so parents everywhere have to take what we get.

When my son was diagnosed with autism, I was pretty darn sad. I quickly realized that it was time to look myself in the mirror and scream the mantra. Being upset was not going to help me and it certainly was not going to contribute to my son’s development.

My SIL had to say the mantra to herself a few years ago upon discovering she was pregnant for the third time. She had two little boys already but being pregnant again was not the issue. Indeed, she had decided to quickly squeak in one more baby, preferably a girl, before changing her mind on going for a third child altogether. You can likely predict the ending – instead of that little girl, she got identical twin boys landing her in the glamorous position of being a mama to four boys under four.

Despite our reproductive plans going a bit pear-shaped, both my SIL and I have survived our adventures with laughs and a lot of love. Strangely, we’ve experienced some disapproval from those on the outside. While pregnant with the twins, my SIL had to listen to comments such as “oh, how awful!” when announcing she was having two more boys. People have expressed that I must be crazy to have more kids considering my risk of having another child with autism. I get that raising a kid with autism or having babies two at a time may not be on everyone’s “bucket list” of things to do before dying, but I can think of worse things.

So we grown-ups get what we get, and as you have probably figured out for yourself – getting upset is pretty much pointless. I can’t imagine a world without my boy and I can assure you that my SIL wouldn’t trade in “Thing One” and “Thing Two” for the most adorable girlie pink princess up for offer.

Like any kiddos, mine are big fans of critters and creatures. They are particularly fond of chipmunks, and at the cottage they spend a lot of time feeding and basically domesticating these little creatures.

Turns out they have made fast friends with the little critters at home as well. That was all fine until I noticed the filthy little rodents started tunneling everywhere and patio stones were sinking all over the garden. Daddy-o basically went nuts and started threatening rat traps and shot guns – he experienced “Chipmunk Rage” and it was not pretty. It became his obsession – every conversation became about chipmunks and I even caught him one night on Google using words like “chipmunks” and “death” in the same search.

He went to war with the chipmunks, and it became a battle he was losing. Badly. We were overrun with the little garden wreckers.

The kids were delighted when we picked up some chipmunk traps and began planning a chipmunk relocation. The rock quarry two kilometers up the road seemed the perfect destination for our furry friends.

I was explaining our little plan to another mama one morning at summer camp drop-off. She explained that some animals don’t relocate well but couldn’t comment on how chipmunks fair. When passing along this information to daddy-o, it became clear that he was not concerned about the stress levels or survival statistics of the relocated chipmunks. Fair enough – I think the chipmunk rage daddy-o experienced took a good few years off him.

We set our traps and began to catch them one after the other. When I went to do the first re-location, I noticed dear chippy had a bright orange spot on his back. Apparently daddy-o and the kiddos thought it appropriate to implement a poor man’s tracking system. If chipmunks with orange paint were in our backyard a few days later, it meant that we need to relocate further afield. It seemed I was the only one concerned about how the little critters were going to camouflage with the bright orange spots on them.

Needless to say, 11 trips to the rock quarry later, no orange chipmunks have returned to our property. While driving past the rock quarry last week, I noticed a little orange splat of something on the side of the road. Now my only concern is that the animal services folks might catch wind of our chipmunk relocation. If they rock up to the house asking questions, I think I’ll spray daddy-o with some orange paint and tell them to relocate him.

It was discovered at an early ultra-sound that the baby was going to have a cleft lip. Although minor on the scale of things that can go wrong, it is still news that parents need to digest. The mama and papa (to-be) were amazing - they digested the news quickly, did their research, met with professionals and spent the rest of the pregnancy excitedly anticipating the arrival of the baby. This baby is definitely getting some family favourite status – she is the first grandchild on both sides, has loads of adoring aunts and uncles, and a handful of kids like mine all wanting a piece of her.

The day after Claire’s arrival, my three little ladies begged to go to the hospital for a visit. The new parents are good sports and confirmed they were up for some little visitors.

I had already prepped the girls about the cleft lip but thought I should do a quick refresher with them before heading over to the hospital to meet wee Claire. The highlights of the refresher course included information about what cleft lip is. I explained that her lip would look different to our baby’s lip and talked about the operation she would be having in the months to come. I knew they would worry that Claire’s lip would hurt, so assured them that Claire was in no pain at all.

Sounds like a fairly reasonable amount of information, wouldn’t you say? Well, apparently not. When we walked into the hospital room, the three girls ran over to the baby when one of them promptly gasped, grabbed my leg and said “why does her lip look like that?”

Are you kidding me? I went through that whole educational piece TWICE with the kid. I turned a slight shade of pink and gave a little smile to the new parents then went through the whole cleft lip explanation once again. The new parents were not even remotely fazed by the faux pas which is an early indicator that this parenthood stuff is going to come easily to them.

The third explanation did the trick then she immediately started fighting with her sisters over whose turn it was next to hold the baby. I guess the lesson here is that no matter how much you think you have prepped your kiddos, you just never know what they are going to blurt out. If embarrassing us is their job now, I look forward to the teenage years when the roles are reversed and embarrassing them becomes my job. I suspect I will find that new role quite fulfilling.

As some of you know, my oldest kid has autism. We take this autism stuff pretty seriously and as a result he has made remarkable gains. Indeed, to the untrained eye he is indistinguishable from his neuro-typical peers.

Last weekend four of the kiddos did a triathlon. When “Number One Son” finished the running component too early, it was obvious he got confused somewhere along the way. Turns out he went around the wrong pylon cutting the run short.

That evening my 8-year-old daughter came into my office to have a chat about her brother:

Kid: “Why did he get confused in the run today?”
Me: “Well, there were no marshalls directing the kids so he went around the first pylon and came back.”
Kid: “What is his ‘diagnostics’? I heard talking about it at a meeting once.”
Me: “Was it the Autism Ontario meeting?”
Kid: “Yes”
Me: “Well, uh, autism. But he has worked pretty hard and kind of outgrown it.”
Kid: “Like I outgrew my milk allergy?”
Me: “Yes, kind of.”
Kid: “Does he still have autism?”
Me: “Do you think he does?”
Kid: “I think he still has it a little bit.”
Me: “Yeah, I think you’re right. Listen, I have not talked to him about it yet so you need to keep this private until I speak to him about autism.”
Kid: “no problem.”
Me: “Thanks for being such a cool kid.”
Kid: “you’re welcome. Can I have a cheese stick?”

Although I was shocked that the conversation happened, it’s actually kind of weird that it took so long to come up. I mean, we have an autism logo on our car, we do Cycle for Autism, hang out with people whose kids have autism, and participate in all kinds of activities within the autism community. Didn’t they ever wonder?

I got to wondering about their lack of wondering – do all the siblings and cousins know about his autism on some level but just not question it? Maybe it’s a kiddo case of “it is what it is”.

My mother often reminds us of the time she sat us down as children to discuss her sister, who has a mental disability. Mom first asked us if we knew anyone with a mental disability. We rhymed off the names of kids at school, a neighbour and other random people who did not actually have a mentally disability. The one name we didn’t say was that of our aunt, and this was an aunt we were close to and saw regularly. My mom always says that to us, our aunt was just herself – no title, label or explanation necessary.

I’ve been dreading the day when I have to “out” my son to himself. I’ve played the conversation in my head a thousand times. This incident got me thinking that maybe all this worry is for nothing - maybe he is just like his siblings and cousins and already knows and accepts his autism.

In the build up to BlogHer, all the talk was about fashion. This fashion chatter started early on and only got worse. In the final week before BlogHer, the topics flying around Facebook and Twitter focused on what we were wearing, or whether there was time for a French manicure or to lose that last pre-conference10 lbs. It felt like I was getting ready for a really long first date, but one with 1,500 women What was I getting myself into?

I got to thinking about all this fashion fuss. As it turns out, all the fashion hype was in good fun and no one seemed to take themselves too seriously. I did, however, consider a few theories as to why physical appearance was getting so much attention from a bunch of people who spend most of their time getting excited about words and the latest iphone applications.

1) Bloggers spend a lot of their time hiding behind computer screens. The conference provided an opportunity to come out of hiding and show our faces in the light of day. Breaking free from behind-the-screen justifiably warrants some highlights and a mani/pedi.

2) Many bloggers there were mamas. Any opportunity to shed the mama uniform should not be missed. All of our overworked yoga pants deserved a three-day holiday. What a great excuse to go shopping.

3) Our gorgeous profile pictures. No one puts a crappy picture of herself on her profile. That profile picture can be a tough standard to live up to, inspiring all of us to go for that last minute eyebrow wax and other grooming procedures before our in-real-life debuts.

I had the added complication of having to glam up my 12-week-old son. His baby uniform consists entirely of sleepers at this point, so I was hard pressed to turn him into a fashion statement. My solution was to put him in sleepers that had only gone through one or two of his five siblings and if they didn’t have stains on them, I considered it a decent enough effort.

A highlight for me was meeting some other “Mamas of Many”. Mom of quadruplet boys, Jen Murray, was there. I was chatting with Christine Young and Tara Kuczykowski. and discovered that between the three of us we have 17 children.

I returned on Sunday, excited and head spinning from the non-stop conference action. Although overwhelmed and exhausted I’m already counting the days to BlogHer in NYC next year — which leaves me about 12 months to figure out what I’m going to wear.

**Looking glam at one of the parties with my Mabel’s business partner, Mumby.

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.

The response was a shiny Buick Enclave on my doorstep for a two-week trial with no strings attached. Why? Well, basically they knew we were a tough family to suit up with a car and they wanted to help me out. Shocking, I know. Finally my customer service woes had turned around.

Obviously I was concerned by my family’s potential to either trash or crash the big fancy-schmancy car. I drive cars that get me from point A to point B without caring if there is food on the floor or ice cream smeared on the windows. This car was just too good for me and the likes of my offspring. To add more stress to the situation, I learned that the owner of the vehicle was the President of GM. Yep, my stinky, dirty kids were driving around in Mr. President’s vehicle.

Since we were finally able to travel as a family, we decided to head to the cottage last weekend. After 3.5 hours in the car and only two kilometers from our cottage when we got the call from the back of the fancy-schmancy car: “GET THE BUCKET!!” Not being in my regular van, I did not have my trusty vomit kit with me which meant there was no bucket to pass. Next thing we knew, the big almighty vomit had taken place all over Mr. President’s vehicle. We got the kid beside the puker out just as she started gagging in reaction. It was a bad situation, but at least we were able to limit the damage to only one puker.

The two weeks ended and my friends from GM arrived at the doorstep to collect the fancy-schmancy vehicle. I had a moral dilemma – do I fess up about the puke disaster? I figured if the car couldn’t come clean, then I had better. The reaction was fantastic – they didn’t expect anything less from my family. I’d never been so happy to have such low expectations set for my kids.

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.

And then this morning I read an article (in the New York Times, so you know it’s got to be true!) about how unstructured play time is good not just for kids’ developing minds, but for over-stressed adults, specifically those raising teenagers. It was as if the article were written just for me - how did the author know I was play-deprived? We all get so loaded with work deadlines, household chores, kids to drive, volunteer commitments, and the idea of doing something just because it’s fun has become alien - these days, my ‘fun’ tends to be a few stolen moments doing a computer jigsaw puzzle (which I hide the minute the kids come in the room since I told them I needed the computer for work). 

Now that I know my stress is aggravated by being recreationally deprived, I finally have an excuse to schedule some play dates for myself. I just emailed my flute-playing friend about scheduling some time to play piano-flute duets (which I used to do with my best friend in 5th grade), and I’m meeting another friend for late afternoon tea. And I even decided married couples need play time. I’d just read a vintage copy of The Sheik, the hugely popular novel from 1921 which inspired all those romantic Rudolph Valentino movies, so I made Husband 2.0 get up earlier than the kids this morning to attempt a harem-fantasy-based quickie. (Unfortunately, his ’sheik’ impression made me laugh so much that we ran out of time . . . but it was still fun! Plus I have scientific proof that play does reduce stress - this was the first morning in weeks that my not-a-morning-person-teenager’s grouchiness didn’t make me snap back!)

Now I’m remembering that although raising toddlers was incredibly stressful, we had all that mommy play time to help us cope, and I’ve missed it! I know how easy it is for us all to become ‘mommy-martyrs’, but now we have scientific proof that denying ourselves isn’t good for us, or for our kids. So after I finish up some work, I’m going to email a couple of friends about getting together, then I’ll go get a pedicure - not for me, but for the good of my family!

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.

It all worked perfectly - Husband 2.0 got David out the door for a driving lesson, his friends showed up on time to help me frantically set the party up (getting 24 helium balloons out of my car, where I’d hidden everything), and he was suitably surprised (yelling something unprintable). I was definitely in the thick of things, supervising the set up, telling kids where to put their coats, suggesting good hiding places, but once the party got started, I realized that despite my internal sense of youth, I was not a peer, I was merely the party planner/caterer/maid. The kids thanked me for the sodas I distributed and the pizzas I cooked, a few even politely asked where to put recyclables, but that was it.

At least I was used to being a wallflower as a teenager, so that sense of being ignored was familiar. For husband 2.0, it was an unpleasantly novel experience. He’d been one of those popular kids in high school who wouldn’t have deigned to socialize with a geeky nerd like I’d been (although the biger obstacle to our early romance might have been the fact that when I started high school, he was in first grade). So after he’d made a trip through the living room collecting used dishes, expecting to be fawned over like back in his glory days, he came back crestfallen. “When did I become invisible?” I reassured him that I still thought he was fascinating and the girls who ignored him had no taste . . . . 

As I refreshed platters, cleared garbage, and tried to keep the 12-year-old little brother from being too much of a pest, I felt a weird sense of being a housewife from a 50s sitcom, like June Cleaver chaperoning one of Ward’s parties and reminding Beaver not to annoy his brother’s friends. (At least under my apron I had on cute jeans and platform wedges, instead of a starched shirtdress & pearls.) Sure, in many ways we’ve changed as parents (I listen to my kids, I never say “Wait til your father gets home”, and I don’t roll my eyes at their taste in music, since they like what I like), but on a basic level some things never change. Teenagers have always ignored parents at parties, little brothers have always been moderately annoying, and adults have always felt weird about getting older. 

I went to wake David up the next morning and looked at his long leg sticking out of the covers, thinking, “Wow, that tall hairy man was once my baby”, I realized June Cleaver, my own mom, and generations before them have had the same feeling - and it was actually comforting to realize I was a cliche, sometimes. Then I touched up my gray roots, put on some Lynyrd Skynyrd, and washed the rest of the party dishes.

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.

So the kiddos and I spent a decent chunk of time together this week - indoors. As our family has increased in size, I’ve noticed some changes in our actual house. The volume has increased so dramatically I’m convinced someone secretly installed invisible microphones into the walls. There seems to be a noise switch hidden somewhere that can never be turned off. I’ve also noticed some structural changes in our house - the foundations seem to be shrinking and the walls are closing in.

During the week I also had a chance to closer observe the strange and confusing relationship my kids have with each other. They are best friends and playmates while simultaneously teasing, bickering and generally annoying the crap out of each other. How do they manage all that love and torment at the same time without getting hurt or offended? Don’t these people know how to hold a grudge? Engaged couples should observe them for a lesson on how to be angry and then just let go of it. My guys don’t even seem to remember that they are in a conflict situation before they move onto the next activity together.

This summer will provide plenty of opportunity to observe the strange and unusual behaviour of my kiddos – I’m on maternity leave and other than a few half day camps, the kids are hanging with me. Since my house is kid-centric, “their” backyard is suited up with a pool, trampoline, swing set, sand pit, and even backs onto a park. No need to camp up when home feels like summer camp.

While I have already had moments thinking it’s going to be one long summer for mama, I’ll just keep my wits about me and have some fun surviving rainy days, bickering siblings and my ever shrinking house.