I'm realizing as my boys grow up that they would be a perfect focus group for marketers trying to create the best brand.

It struck me first when I started up an iPad on the weekend. YoungerSon walked over to the screen, and looked at the logo as it powered up.

"Apple." he said. He paused and smiled. "Apple," he said again, excitedly.

That's it. Perfect brand recognition -  even a 22-month-old can identify it. (I'm pretty sure at this point I won't hear YoungerSon utter "PC")

And then there's the "Yellow M" where we sometimes have lunch. Though I hate to admit it, OlderSon recognizes this place from miles away.

OlderSon knows Treehouse. And Dodge Ram (He likes the sheep's head).

It makes me a little sad that all these brand names are already such a part of their life, so we try not to emphasize them. A Mercedes is no better than a Kia, for example: they're both just cars, that help you get from A to B.

But even the branding of cars can be ubiquitous. Last night, Husband took the boys to the local Mazda dealership.

"Zoom zoom," OlderSon said when he walked into the showroom. Husband was stunned that he recognized the car from the commercial. This is a boy who is about 11.5 years from driving a car, but as far as Mazda is concerned, the indoctrination has begun.

As we drove to daycare he said to me, "Mummy, can we get the blue zoom zoom car?"

Okay sisters, let me start by saying I firmly believe your hearts were in the right place.

You fought for my right to come into the office, to be treated with respect, and to have the same opportunities.

In that respect, you succeeded. While I work in a newsroom, I'm not called a 'newshen', as I might have been in the Mad Men era.

Btw, thanks for that.

But really, let's be honest - the scales are now anything but equal.

While you were honourably burning your bras and fighting to get me into the office (never mind the corner), you forgot one pesky detail: the kids.

Yes, you fought for decent daycare - but what about the after hours? Someone has to take care of the kids, after all. And yes, as a parent, I understand that this is my other job.

The New York Times had an article titled 'A labour market punishing to mothers' about the women appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court. The opening statement struck me: "The last three men nominated to the Supreme Court have all been married and, among them, have seven children. The last three women — Elena Kagan, Sonia Sotomayor and Harriet Miers (who withdrew) — have all been single and without children." The article went on to detail how few women are in upper management positions of top companies.

Women can do as well as men, one expert stated - as long as they don't have kids. They can come in early and stay late. Women without kids tend to take less time off work (to care for sick children, I presume). In short, these childless (preferably single) women are more promotable.

And there it is, sisters.

For me, working late requires lots of extra planning, including a husband who can pick up the kids from daycare and put them to bed. I'm lucky, in that I have a husband who can do that.

But most days, life for this average working mom is a constant balancing act, it begins with making breakfasts and lunches, and dropping the kids off at school/daycare in order to rush into the office, proving yourself all day while NOT worrying about your son's sudden habit of calling people "losers". The day doesn't end when you leave the office, it draws to a close after tucking the kids in, kissing them good night - and then checking in with the office in between mountains of laundry. It has come to this: my blackberry has been banned from the bedroom.

I'm grateful for the NY Times article - there really is no honest discussion about this. I asked a female colleague to look at this before I posted it, asking her if it was perhaps career-limiting. Talking about this can be considered whining, when in fact sisters, it's the working mom's reality.

I'm not complaining, I chose this life. I chose to have a busy career and  to have my wonderful boys - and I don't regret that. And please sisters, don't think that I'd choose to go back to the life of a fifties housewife.

But really, it is exhausting, my Feminist friends.

When I watch the housewives of Mad Men, I study them. Sometimes they cook up their own gossipy melodramas to entertain themselves, other times they are extremely bored with the lack of a mental challenge. But these pre-women's movement housewives, all of them look so well rested.

Do I hate them for that? Probably not. But I do envy them for it.

"Iderman," YoungerSon purrs, in his wonderful husky voice. "Iderman."

He smiles, touching the Spider-man bandaid on his finger. He looks up at me once more.

"Boo boo," he he says to me. "Iderman"

I small back and wipe a leftover tear from his cheek to give him a kiss.

Five minutes ago, it was no so happy a scene. Following the lead of his 4.5 year old brother, YoungerSon danced around his bedroom, jumped off the bed and did a few spins. And then turned into a bookcase... and kicked over an air purifier... and cut his finger.

He cried when he fell, as he always does. But when he looked at his finger and saw blood - he cried harder. It was a tiny little cut on the inside of the pinkie finger - but right on the joint. Every time he moved, blood gushed out.

I tried to hold some kleenex on it to stop the bleeding, but he didn't want to keep his hand still. He was crying, with big fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

"BOO BOO!" he screams. "BOO BOO!"

And then, like a white night, Husband comes to the rescue - with a box of Spider-man bandages.

"What about a Spider-man Band-aid?" he asks YoungerSon.

The crying stops instantly at the mention of his favourite superhero's name.

"Iderman?" he asks, tentatively.

"Yes, Spider-man," I say, as we wash and wrap the wound. He sits spell bound by his finger, and the bright blue Spiderman band-aid.

And so the webslinger swoops in to save the day again. Thank you, Spider-man.

I know this sounds crazy, but I'm sure I heard YoungerSon in his crib last night, practising shouting, "NO!"

We put him to bed at his usual 6.30 pm, and he wouldn't go down - not without a fight. After some crying-that's-really-complaining, he started playing with the toys in his crib.

And then I heard it... "babbble, babble... babble... NO! NO! NO!"

Husband peeked in YoungerSon's bedroom: he was sitting up, batting a stuffed horse around. (the poor thing), saying "No! No! No!"

This continued past 8.30. This boy is now ready to go pro with his negativism.

OlderSon is now 4.5, and I always say that four year olds are tougher than two year olds.

But YoungerSon is gearing up. In three months he turns two, and he's getting ready. And while four year olds are a rough ride, I forgot these toddler tactics:

- the body straightener when you're trying to buckle them in the carseat (and they don't want to go)

- throwing food they don't want (and shouting NO!)

- throwing drinks they don't want

- hitting

- biting

- screaming

- throwing himself to the floor when told no! to any of the above

- stomping his feet (But I've got him fooled - I just stomp my feet back.)

Okay, my little man - bring on the terrible two's. I'm ready. Kind of.

This being the week of unwanted critters at the Coulson house (see earlier post on maggots), I thought I'd take a moment to write about this little beast, who has been turning up a lot lately:

Yes, the earwig. While he doesn't disgust me like his maggoty pals, his little pincers gross me out. (Thanks to Wikipedia for the image, read more about earwigs here if you can stand it.)

When the boys see them, there is much excitement.

"Earbug, earbug!" OlderSon will shout.

"Bug! Bug!" Youngerson will offer.

Both stand over the bug and point at it, waiting for me to come over.

This, my dear reader, is an improvement. When we first started seeing these mini-monsters, the boys, aged 4.5 and nearly two, would run away.

Now, they know that mummy will properly deal with the bug: that is, approach earwig from above with a piece of toilet tissue, and flush him down the toilet. As it swirls around the bowl, the earwig's last vision is that of a human mother and her human boys, waving 'bye, bye bug!'

I'm not sure if this is indeed the correct way to deal with earwigs, but since they seem to like hanging out in the bath, on the shower curtains, in the sink and on crumpled wet towels left on the floor (which are now picked up by ALL members of the household - this bug has achieved more than my years of nagging ever might), down the toilet they go.

Of course, this might be confusing to our youngest boy, who now thinks the toilet acts primarily as a home for bugs.

He will often go over to the toilet at random, and point into the bowl "Bug, bug" he will say, in his raspy toddler voice.

"Bug all gone," I tell him, trying to ease his concern. "Bug gone bye-bye." (toddler speak is not my forte)

Toilet training is going to have a whole new level of adventure now.

First, I can say with some relief that my day did not start with maggots.

But it did start at 3.15.

That's when OlderSon came into my room, feigning tears. It's amazing how all preschoolers start to believe they're pretty good actors, and if they sniff just a little, they'll get what they want.

"Mummy, I had a bad dream. I need to sleep in your bed."

"Oh sweetie, let me tuck you back into your bed."

His room has just been painted, so he was spending the night in the guest room as the paint dried. I tucked him into the big guestroom bed, and kissed his forehead.

"You're okay now. Good night."

I got back to bed. Blink. Blink. Blink. I'm wide awake.

It's now 3.30.

Thunk! I hear him stomp across the hall again.

"Mummy I had another bad dream. I need to sleep in your bed."

"Ah, sweetie, why don't I tuck you in and rub your back," I say, and we head back to the guestroom (I'm well aware this is part of the problem, and will be moving him back into his own room tonight.)

I get into bed with him, rub his back and stay with him until his breathing deepens.

I crawl back into my own bed, and stare at the ceiling. Blink. Blink. Blink. Wide freakin' awake.

At 4.30, I get up and go for a run. The dog was happy to get out with me in the cool air. When we get back, I make lunches, have a shower - and have a nice breakfast ready for everyone by the time they wake.

As we drive to daycare, I ask OlderSon about his bad dreams. What were they about? I ask.

"Well, first I was chased by a lobster, and then I was chased by a bear," he explained.

"Wow," I said, "That's quite an imagination."

"No, it's not my imagination - it's a dream," he says.

"Well, you don't have to worry about lobsters around here sweetie," I say, "And I'm pretty sure you could out run a lobster."

"Maybe," he says wistfully. He yawns.

Yeah, it has been a long day already little man, I think. And it's not even 8 a.m.

I was fine until I saw all the maggots. At that point I knew to abandon any hope of getting to work on time.

4 a.m. - It's pouring outside. YoungerSon is crying. Unusual, since he has pretty much slept 11 or 12 hours through the night since he was about four months old. I go into his room and realize his nose is pretty runny. I cuddle him, give it a wipe and put him back in his crib.

While rubbing his back I hear the stomping of JK feet - OlderSon was up. Ugh.

4.15 - YoungerSon is asleep, and I tip toe back to bed. There lies OlderSon, grinning in the darkness. "Mummy, my bed is all wet," he says. I pull back the covers to reveal our 4.5 year old (so desperate to be 5!), naked as a jay bird. He giggles.

"I took my jammies off because they were wet."

"Well let's go check your bed," I say. I find him another nighttime pull up, and go check his bed. It's dry, but his pyjamas are soaked. Hallelujah.

4.30 - Dressed in new pyjamas and a fresh pull-up, I tuck him in. He asks for a back rub, and I comply.

4.45 - Back in bed. Rain pounding against the windows. Dang! I remember those 20 bags of tree branches from part of the apple tree, out and exposed, getting soaked and falling apart.

'I should put a tarp on those so they'll make it to the curb,' I think.

4.50 - No time. YoungerSon is crying again. I go in, and he is completely congested. There's no way around it, I'm going to have to find the baby nasal spray. I cringe as I put the spray up his nostril, but he sneezes and is clearly relieved. He leans in for the second nostril. As I wipe away more boogers, I look up to see two eyes watching us, wide with disbelief.

"What are you doing mummy?" OlderSon is up again.

5. - How nasal spray works is explained, and OlderSon is shoo'ed back to bed. I rub YoungerSon's back. Now able to breathe, he falls into a slumber.

5.05 - I listen to the rain pelting against the window. Those bags!

5.30 - After tossing and turning and listen to the rain disintegrate the paper yard bags I get up. If I find a tarp easily in the garage, I'll go cover them up, I think.

5.45 - Tarp is now on the bags, I'm back in bed. My wet hair slides across my face. I try to fall asleep - but the alarm is set for 6 a.m.... what's the point.

6.30 - I wake. The folks on the radio are jabbering, and have been for awhile. I slept through the alarm!

6.45 - I let the kids sleep, and take the food waste out to the green bin in the garage.... covered in maggots. Even the word is repulsive. On the handle, crawling up the sides and on the garage. It was disgusting, and I only hop they weren't there when I was looking for a tarp, in my bare feet.

7 a.m. - I go back in to compose a note to my boss: "It was a rough night, and I'm going to be late. My apologies."

Then I went upstairs for a shower and tried to wake myself up.

I need to just let him get out and play. I need to just let him go. and play.

It has come to this: our kids are fatter than ever, will have a shorter life expectancy than their parents - and now we're told that many suffer from 'nature deficit disorder'.

 The gyst is this: children spend an average of six hours a day in front of a screen, and not enough free play.  (read more about it here)

Not enough playing with buddies. Being boys. Not a structured play date, or a soccer practice, or a trip to the park. Just open the door... and let him go.

This sounds so easy, doesn't it? I remember as a kid loving those summer evenings, riding around the neighbourhood on our bikes (in the days before helmets) and coming in only "when the lights come on."We would explore, make mud pies, and laugh.

But now there are all those 'bad things' out there, right? How can I watch him if he's over at his friend's house? (his buddies live behind and two doors down - I realize how ridiculous this sounds). What if he gets hurt? Will the other parents call us? Give him a hug and dust him off? Isn't he too young to let him go?

I confess I only let our four-and-a-half year old 'go out to play' with his neighbourhood pals this week. We had ground rules: come and tell me if you're going to another buddy's house, make sure a grown up knows where you are.

He came back sweaty and beaming.

"Can I have my dinner now? I'm starving!" (It was 6.30, he went out immediately after we got home from work.)

"Did you have fun?" I asked.

He nodded, wolfing back a dinner he might normally have picked at.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Um... We played. We found worms. It was fun."

I looked at his dirty knees.

"Can I go play with them again tomorrow night?" asked, clearing off his plate.

I nodded, and ruffled his hair. Summer nights. Perfect for unstructured play.

I've only been at this for four and a half years, but there are some mysteries emerging with my kids.

And I don't think it's just my kids.

Here's what makes me wonder:

- Why do I have to drag the boys into the bath, and then I have to drag them out, even if the water has grown cold?

- Why does applying sunscreen make them writh around the floor, as though I'm burning them with my touch?

- How can they decide not to eat something simply because of it's colour? (in our house, the bigotry is against anything green)

- Why do they eat ketchup by the barrel, love tomato soup, but won't touch a tomato?

- Why does every long slender household item become an imaginary hockey stick?

- What's the attraction to drawing on the walls?

- Why are farts funny? (okay, this one could be applied to grown men too)

- What is so hilarious about kicking mummy's tower of clean, folded laundry over - even after they clearly have been told that's 'not cool'

- What is it with puddles? Scratch that. I know what it is, I like driving through them.

- Garbage trucks? Fire trucks? Dump trucks?

Don't get me wrong, some of these are wonderful mysteries - and all of them teach me to look at life again, in a different way.

Oh yeah - why do they have to be woken before school on weekdays, and then get up before six a.m. on weekends?

That one really bites.

I must like working on deadline, I thought last night, as I roared to the kiddie shoe shop.

It was closing in 20 minutes. I had to get OlderSon a pair of sandals/water shoes.

Why did I have to do it last night? No, I wasn't driven by the heat wave.

He's heading to a sprinkler park with daycare today, and I realized last night when I picked him up (just before 5) that I still hadn't gotten him any sandals this year. Please don't judge.

While YoungerSon has his choice of hand-me-down sandals every day, OlderSon is wearing through another pair of sneakers at a record pace. (I just realized this is my second footwear post - I should just bite the bullet and have my salary go directly to Kiddie Kobbler.) And a pair of well-worn Iron Man (don't judge) sneakers and socks is not ideal sprinkler park footwear.

So, we walk in the store's door, with about 15 minutes to closing to find sandals.

In July. Should be plenty of pairs left, right? Yeah, sure.

"Going for some water play tomorrow buddy," the clever teen salesman asked.

How did he know? It must have been the urgency in my voice as I announced "We need to get this boy some water shoes or sandals!" as I marched in the door.

I'm not kidding myself, I know this teen was as motivated as I to finish up this deal, close up shop and get on with his summer evening. Six pairs later (it turns out OlderSon's feet have grown half a size in the past month - who keeps feeding this boy?), we found a winner, a brown pair of closed-toe Stride Rights. I give them six weeks before he burns through these also.

"They're super fast!" OlderSon cheered, as he skipped along beside me to the car.

"And you can wear them tomorrow," I told him. I looked at the clock in the car - 6.03pm.

He smiled. I smiled back.

Here's my ruling on being a last-minute mom: It doesn't really matter whether you're working on deadline or not. As long as you get the job done.

And I'd say OlderSon was thrilled with his new sandals. Against my protestations, he snuck them up to his room. And then promptly fell asleep with them on.

I knew something was wrong when YoungerSon lay so still last night. His skin felt like scorched earth, and he shivered as he cuddled up to me.

When his temperature went up, and not down, after three hours and two doses of medicine, I got concerned.

It's got to be heat stroke, I thought. Though we avoided the outdoors at midday, OlderSon's soccer practice was out in the scorching heat - and we were all feeling a little baked.

Especially my poor little 20-month-old, who was curled up like a rabbit and didn't want to budge. I made the critical error of going online.. which according to some sites, he was ready to expire from dehydration.

I need a professional, I thought - and so I  took him to Queensway-Carleton Hospital's Emergency Room. The triage nurse asked me what I thought was wrong. "I fear it's heat stroke," i said. I think she could tell I was near tears, the motherly guilt washing over me. She asked me if I left him in a hot car, had been out all day in the sun (no to both). "But we were at soccer... it was so hot..." I started. It was past 11 pm, and I knew I wasn't making sense.

I also knew I just needed them to make him feel better.

Then she put her hand on my shoulder and said, "I don't think you need to be so hard on yourself mum. I don't think this is anything you did, or heat stroke."

Nurses are amazing people. Really, I could never be a nurse. I think of all the crap that nurses deal with every day, and I have no idea how they are still able to be so kind. By midnight on a holiday Sunday night, I'd be a whole lot crankier.

While interested in his surroundings - and the Dora stickers the nurses gave him - YoungerSon rested listlessly in my lap while we waited. My heart ached.

I looked around the waiting room, and saw four other moms, all with their boys, waiting for attention. Some of the boys were actually grown men, some were in their teens, another a young child - but all of us were united in motherhood, just wanting to see our children well.

When we did see a doctor, he checked YoungerSon over, and told me that it was probably a virus.

Both YoungerSon and I were a little bleary-eyed when he ran through a schedule of piggy-backing medication, so he wrote it down - Tylenol every four hours, Advil every six. (I know, seems simple now, but by then we were both exhausted)

"Treat the temperature aggressively, but the fever with patience," he advised.

What? What kind of medical haiku was this? This sounded like advice Yoda would dispense.

I don't remember driving home, putting YoungerSon into his crib, or falling into bed with my clothes on.

But when I woke this morning to get ready for work, I found the doctor's written medication instructions in the bathroom.

Thank God he thought to write it down.

"I'm so happy and so proud of you," I told OlderSon last night. "Do you know what pride means?"

He nodded. "It means you like what I did. And you're proud of me. And happy. And smiling. But why are you crying?"

And there it is - graduation boiled down to its basic sentiments.

The daycare program holds a ceremony - which the kids went through brilliantly - to mark their transformation to 'school age kids' where they leave each day by bus to go to 'big kids school. It doesn't matter that OlderSon was graduating Junior Kindergarten, I'm sure the feelings I had last night would be as strong and as intense were it high school or university graduation.

Only four and a half years ago, this huge (9lbs, 11oz) baby was handed to me - all wonderfully plump and gooey, and ready to face the world. The nurses all gathered around the scale, amazed by his size. (He came out looking like a six month old, not a newborn.)

I remember how proud I was when he learned to walk, when he shared his first word ("boot"), and when he was first able to print his name (with a capital 'E'!).

But last night, in that crowded daycare gym, it struck me that my big chubby baby is now a big boy.

Tears welled up as I watched him shake his teacher's hand and receive his diploma, He beamed out into the audience, wearing his cap and gown. This was a moment.

Husband had the camera on rapid fire, Papa had the Flip camera going, Nana and YoungerSon applauded madly. I couldn't contain myself, I was that mom - I jumped up and waved and hooted, now crying.

His smiled from ear to ear and waved back. My heart burst.

This is motherly pride, I thought. So basic, and fundamental. It makes us so happy for our child's achievements, so moved - it moves us to smile, to laugh, and to cry.

And yes, I'm tearing up now writing about my big boy, standing on that stage.

And yes, I will always be that mother who jumps up and waves, and I will applaud his every achievement.

Yesterday, I was rattled.

I wear the badge of 'control freak' with honour, and moving ground just doesn't fit very well with my persona. So I'll admit, when the earthquake hit yesterday, I was rattled.

And then I worried about the boys.

A quick phone call to Husband, who was working from home, gave me some relief: my family was fine, he was going to pick them up.

YoungerSon was having a nap when the quake hit, and slept through it. Knowing how my 20-month-old sleeps, this does not surprise me. He teachers woke them all up, and took all the children out of the building.

OlderSon, however, was much more aware of what was going on.

"I fell off my chair," he told me, when I got home after an extended day working on our online coverage. "I was sitting on my chair and the floor moved."

"And then I bumped my head," he said.

My heart broke. He got hurt?

"You bumped your head during the earthquake?"

"No, just now. Can I have some ice?" (why does ice solve every minor injury for a pre-schooler?)

I forgot how kids live in the moment. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I hate that he was away from me when this happened. Call it a mothering instinct, but when the world turns upside down, I want to have them under my wing. I want to make sure they'll be okay.

Control freak, remember?

"Were you scared during the earthquake?" I asked him, looking for signs of shock.

"No, I just fell off my chair. Then all the teachers sent us outside to play. That was fun."

Talk about resilience. He's over it.

Now I just have to worry about aftershocks.

It doesn't matter what time you leave the office, you never really finish working.

That thought struck me last night as I bathed the family dog in the driveway. It was 8pm. The kids were bathed and in bed, and here I stood, working a lather into Dog.

"Hey Mel," a neighbour said as he walked by.

Great, I thought, now he thinks I"m a lunatic, out washing the dog at 8pm.

"Are those your work clothes?"

"Yup," I said, "I haven't had time to change yet," I said, looking down at my trousers, which were now wet to the knee. Doggie shampoo covered my shirt.

I do look the part of a lunatic, I thought.

He walked on, and I was left with Dog, whimpering as I washed away whatever it was he found to roll in. (Smelled like fish, washed out in dark brown water, so who knows).

You don't really clock out as a working mom, until you're in bed, unconscious.

Take Monday night as an example: the kids were bathed and playing, when a man showed up to give us a quote to paint OlderSon's room (you can't put a price on a paint job that will take him a day to do and will be far better than mine, in my opinion). Quote accepted, painting booked, I turned to getting the boys to bed.

YoungerSon, now 20 months, has learned that if grabs the rail of his crib just so, his bed becomes a nifty toddler-sized trampoline. And so he jumps, and jumps. I gave up and left him to it. He was happy, so why bother him? Perhaps he'd tire himself out.

I read OlderSon a story and kissed him good night. When I closed the door to his room, I could hear YoungerSon - no longer jumping but lying down singing to himself. Sigh.

Husband was outside, working on our 11-year-old car's brakes. Dog lay beside him. I went inside to start folding what seems like 15 loads of laundry.

(God, is my life really this mundane?)

Not really, as it turns out. When husband came in to ask where Dog was, I got concerned. Laundry got put aside, and we went outside and called. and called. And called.

The neighbours across from us were having a garden party (clearly no kids, how civilized to have a garden party on a Monday night!!). I heard laughter from their backyard.

And then I heard shrieking.

"I think we just found Dog," I told Husband.

Husband went over, and got him. I silently prayed that Dog hadn't eaten one of the DINK's three declawed house cats.

He hadn't, but man did he stink. I can't imagine having this smelly mutt in the middle of my garden party - with or without the invite.

And so I washed, and washed, working to get the rotten fish/stinky cheese/old sport socks smell out.

Still in my work clothes.

This morning, while dropping off OlderSon, nature called.

I left him to go to the bathroom while I filled out permission slips and paid $10 for the daycare's summer activities. He took awhile but I can only assume his mission was successful, as he returned with a smile on his face.

All done? I ask when he returned to the main play area.

Yup.

Toilet flushed? I ask. (Far too many brown submarines have greeted me hours later in the bathroom for me not to reflexively ask this question.)

Yup.

Hands washed?

Yup. He smiles.

When I smell them, will I smell soap?

Oops, he says, and runs back to the bathroom.

His teachers laugh, and we talk about how we did the same thing as kids.

I remember telling my mother that I'd brushed my teeth, when all I'd done was run the brush under the tap.

She always knew.

I also recall coming home from a few field parties with my lips and mouth stained from drinking Blue Caracao (my stomach just flipped at the thought).

'Oh, we were having popsicles,' I told her when I returned.

She just smiled.

She knew, she told me a few years ago - but I was of age, wasn't driving, and was home by curfew. What was the big deal, she said.

It makes me realize how much we as parents really know about our kids, and don't let on.

And how much we as kids think we're getting away with.

Such an elaborate dance.