As a child, my bedroom was my sanctuary, my haven from the harsh realities of having an annoyingly perfect little sister, a big brother who liked to throw me onto the floor, sit on me and dangle big wet loogies in my face and parents who obviously loved everybody more than they loved me.

Middle child syndrome, I has it.

I spent a lot of time in my bedroom listening to my stereo, playing my parents’ old 8-track cassette tapes and staring at the posters of John Wayne and River Phoenix I had taped to my brown wood paneled walls while dreaming of the day I would wake up and no longer be a dork.

I’m still dreaming of that day, for the record.

After years of renting, one of the things that most excited me about home owning was finally being able to decorate my kids rooms. Living with brown wooden walls for most of my childhood made me want rainbows for my childrens’ rooms.

It wasn’t long before I fell into a paint can and soon a tradition was born. Every two to three years, I do a mini-room makeover for both of my children for their birthdays. I kick them out of their bedrooms for a few days while I toil away, and on their birthday I reveal to them their ‘new’ rooms and revel in their adoration and praise for how cool I am.

It’s like Extreme Home Makeovers, only less extreme and more rednecked.

It’s been three years since I last touched a paint brush and tackled the kids rooms and it was past time. I meant to do Fric and Frac’s room last year but between the arrival of Jumby and hurting my back, I never got around to it.

But seeing as how I was starting to twitch every time I walked past Fric’s room, I figured I couldn’t put it off any longer. My daughter’s room was driving me crazy.

Just looking at the pictures makes me itch.

Fric was 11, in love with lime green and pink. I did what I had to do to make my kid happy. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea.

I mean, who doesn’t enjoy waking up to having their retinas burned out by bright lime green walls each and every morning?

So it was with great glee and gusto I kicked Fric out of her room to bunk with the boys and started the redecorating process.

After a day spent sanding the walls and painting two coats of primer on the wall to cover the darned dots, I was thoroughly annoyed and muttering about how stupid I was not to use vinyl stickers instead of hand painting each dot. This was definitely a home decorating FAIL.

But slowly the room started to take shape. After a mishap or two. Like spilling half a can of red paint on the linoleum. Or having the dog lick the paint off the walls just as fast as I could roll it on. And I don’t even want to discuss how many times I tried to wire a new ceiling lamp in. My husband insisted a blind monkey could wire in a new lamp.

Apparently I needed a blind monkey because I couldn’t seem to do it myself.

Twelve days after I started the room was finished.

Fric loves it.

I love the fact my eyes no longer bleed when I walk into her room. It’s a win-win for everyone.

The ceiling lamp was the inspiration and jumping off point for the entire room. After listening to Fric ask me a gazillion times if she could write on her walls, and then seeing this lamp I knew exactly how I wanted to paint her room.

There is a black shag carpet on the floor. You can see the corner of it in this picture. You can also see every piece of lint and dirt on the carpet itself. It shows everything. Not my brightest idea.

The prints are from Story People. I adore their art.

My daughter is still laughing at my stick figures. I like to think they are retro chic.

God Bless the inventors of chalkboard paint. It went on really easily and it works like a charm. I have big graffiti plans for these walls when Fric’s not looking.

Every time I paint the kids walls I always paint a heart somewhere in the room to remind them I may nag them, discipline them, bore them, annoy them, anger them and disappoint them, but I will never ever stop loving them.

Next up, the boys room. Except I’ve run dry on ideas. Feel free to pitch any you may have in the comment section. Because at this point, even polka dots are sounding good.

Apparently, according to my children, I have been failing at this parenting gig.

Now, if I had force-fed them nothing but the dried up rosehips dotting the shrubs around our home, I could perhaps understand this. But since they have a healthy diet consisting of popsicles, sugar cereals and jam I’m a wee bit confused.

Or, if I locked them in their room with nothing to do but chew on their toenails I may be in agreement with their judgment. But in order to lock them in their room I’d have to drag them out of the swimming pool or off the trampoline and let’s face it, my kids are slippery little devils. For the most part I happily spend obscene amounts of money on playthings to keep them out of the house. Having them locked in their rooms would mean subjecting myself to listening to them fight and whine. Contrary to my blonde hair, I’m smarter than that.

So it was with a bit of confusion that I looked at my kids, who were standing side by side, frowning at me as I held Jumby in my arms, and asked just how I failed at parenting.

“It’s no fair!” One whined.

“You don’t play with us!” The other complained.

“Excuse me? Don’t play with you? My retinas are still blurred and my lungs are on fire from all the chlorine I ingested yesterday when you ganged up on me in the pool and tried to drown me, repeatedly. For hours. The blisters on my hand from holding the Wii remote are threatening to fester if I play anymore video games with you and might I remind you how I whooped your arses in Scrabble this morning?”

For crying out loud, the only thing I have done since my children went on summer vacation is play with them. I’m tired of playing. If I worked as hard at cleaning my house, or um, blogging, as I do at playing with my children I’m sure my life would be far more successful. Or at least my toilet wouldn’t be fuzzy.

“No, that’s not what we mean,” Frac said. “We mean you don’t play with us the way you play with Jumby.”

“Ah, well if you want sweetie, we can play Patty Cake right now,” I teased.

“Very funny Mom.”

“Well of course I don’t play with you the same as I play with Jumbster. He’s six. You’re almost 13 and 14. He’s developmentally delayed. Your report cards indicate you are on the bright side of smart. He’s a quadriplegic; the two of you walk on your hands for fun. Are you seeing the difference or shall I go on?”

“We know all that MOOOOM,” my daughter countered. “It’s just, um..” she trailed off.

“It’s just that you cuddle with him and not with us,” Frac finished the sentence his sister started.

“Ahhh. I see. You’re jealous. Of your blind, deaf brother who eats from a tube and will never walk.” I took a moment to nuzzle Jumby’s neck.

“We’re not jealous! We love Jumby! It’s just we want you to cuddle with us like you cuddle with him.”

“I cuddle with you all the time. Heck, I can’t even sit on the couch by myself because you two want to sit beside me.”

But the words sat with me, long after the conversation ended and my kids moved on, satisfied they had been heard and that I had listened.

Do I cuddle Jumby more than the older two? To some extent, I had to admit to myself, yes. For the past year I have slobbered more on Jumby than I do on my husband, whom I’m legally required to slobber on. I’ve been trying to establish a maternal bond with him, trying to reassure him through my touch that I will be his forever mommy, always.

Had I neglected the older two kids in the process? Have I made them feel lesser in my efforts to make Jumby feel like this is his home? Mommy guilt haunted me. Yes, I kiss and hug Fric and Frac every day. Our house is an affectionate household. Even before their brother Bug passed away, I dribbled my mommy love onto my kids through my hugs and kisses. I didn’t grow up with parents who openly showed affection and I have always been careful to make sure my kids feel my love through my touch.

But have I been committing the cardinal parenting sin and blatantly favouring one sibling over the others?

This called for an immediate investigation. So I called my husband.

“Do I favour Jumby over the other two kids?” I immediately asked when he answered his phone.

“Um, hello to you too. Why yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“I’m serious Boo. I think your kids think I love Jumby more than I love them,” I worried aloud and then explained the situation with him.

My husband, ever the rock that keeps me grounded, laughed. “Um, no. They are just being brats. You abuse them equally. You’re fairly fair in your distribution of maternal slobber. I think you are worrying for nothing.”

Clearly my husband would be of no help with this.

So I asked my Dad. He’s here almost every day and has an inside view of the maternal-child relations. He’s a straight shooter. He’ll tell me like it is.

“Dad, do I spoil Jumby? The kids think I love him more than them.”

“Ah, just put a boot up their arses and tell them to go clean their rooms and stop bothering you.”

Right. Perhaps my father isn’t the foremost authority on tactful parental relations.

This meant I only had one choice left.

Operation Slobber Puss.

I decided I would make sure every time I kissed or held Jumby to make sure I immediately shared the affection with his older siblings.

At first, my kids lapped it up. It was a free love festival around here all the time. My kids couldn’t walk past me without me stopping to hug them and lay a big smooch on them. My lips were getting chapped from all the kisses I was doling out. Apparently, I cuddle with Jumby a whole lot more than I was aware of. But since the kid doesn’t walk and requires me to carry him everywhere for his basic daily needs, he tends to be in my arms a lot. Which meant, since I was insistent on equally sharing the love, seeking out the older two for random moments of affection.

It didn’t take long for my kids to begin to grow weary with the constant cuddles. Apparently interupting their game of tag or making them stop their video games in a critical moment to kiss me can get a bit annoying. Who knew?

The weariness quickly grew into aggravation and it wasn’t long before my children would twitch every time they saw me walk towards them. At one point my kids even held up their hands in the sign of a cross and hissed at me like they would a vampire. “Enough Mom!”

Still, I persisted. It’s always been an active concern of mine that in my quest to parent first Shalebug and now Jumbster, that my kids would be neglected as my maternal efforts are swallowed by the needs of the disabled child. It’s always been a struggle to find a balance at parenting the healthy children when their disabled little brother waves his overwhelming needs in our faces. It isn’t always easy being the healthy kid in a family with a child with special needs. I recognize that and want my healthy children to know that even though I can’t always be there for them, I see them.

If my kids want more cuddles, than darn it, cuddles they will get.

Then the straw that finally broke my camels’ backs finally dropped. I was trying to be an affectionate mother with Frac as he was trying to read his book. As I leaned in and blew a raspberry kiss onto the side of his neck like I do his little brother, he stood up and slammed his book down.

“All right! Enough! No more kisses. Just leave us alone!” His sister, who was in the other room, sauntered in and nodded her agreement with her little brother.

“It’s too much Mom! You’re always touching us. It’s driving us bonkers,” she said.

“But I’m just cuddling with you like I do with your little brother!” I insisted, somewhat taken back.

“But we’re not six! And we’re not a baby in our brain like he is! It’s different!” They both retorted.

I looked at them, as Jumby rolled around on the floor in a little patch of sunlight, softly cooing to himself and then I smiled. Wickedly.

“Well, thank heavens that is over! Come on Jumby, let’s go play Patty cake,” I said as I scooped him up and into my arms.

I mean, showing maternal love is all fine and dandy. But there comes a time when giving your child raspberry kisses needs to come to an end.

Because let’s face it. No matter how much you love your children, once they have body odour and pubic hair, smooching on them while making monster noises just ain’t the same.

In what can only be described as a momentary blip of insanity I decided my children and I needed to escape our house and hit the road in a quest to break up the humdrum of summer vacation.

Since my sister, Mouse, had the week off of work, I decided to make it a real family vacation and invite her and my nephew along for the terror. I admit I wasn’t just being nice. The idea of being alone with three kids and no father figure to help supervise was less than palatable. I’ve never vacationed with my children without their father. I wasn’t quite sure I was up for the task without a little adult supervision.

Knowing me, I’d likely revert back to childhood myself and feed my children nothing but cotton candy and gummy worms for the duration. Although Fric and Frac would surely appreciate the lack of effort, Jumby requires an adult who is capable of remembering his medication schedule.

So with great excitement we piled into the vehicles earlier this week and set off on the open road with no discernable destination in mind. Because nothing says family vacation quite like wandering from one highway gas station to the next with no map, no plan and no destination in mind.

Hours later and the realities of traveling with children quickly set in. The whole ‘discover Alberta’ with no real plan was not going to fly since my children actually wanted to get out of the vehicle at some point.

Just as Fric and Frac were attempting to murder one another in the back seat and Jumby was trying to escape his car seat by gnawing through his straps, I looked in the rear view mirror and snapped, “You are acting like you belong in a zoo! Stop that!”

It was like a light bulb went off in my head. The Zoo! We can go to the zoo! And so the destination had been set. I always knew my children behaving like rabid monkeys would one day work in my favour.

The upside to taking the kids to the zoo is if they misbehave you can always threaten to leave them behind. Or feed them to the lions. The zoo is a magical place for a stressed out mommy’s imagination.

Of course, the Calgary zoo isn’t a regular zoo. It has dinosaurs. That roar. And twitch. And cause four-year-old nephews to lose their dinosaur-loving minds.

I admit, I wasn’t thinking of the swarm of screaming ankle biters that would be running lose in the zoo, alongside my children when I decided to take the kids to the zoo.  I mean, why would other parents want to take their kids to a public place to run alongside the exotic animals? Who does that?

Nothing makes a parent feel old like realizing they can’t keep up with a herd of excited, sugar-high stampeding children as one navigate the slopes of the zoo.

My children were in heaven. They have a twisted sense of humour.

Turns out if you place me in a public park with hoards of children that don’t belong to me, I tend to get annoyed. Quickly. I sucked at this road trip business. After tripping over one small child after another, I knew that an attitude adjustment was quickly needed before I threatened to put my foot up some random innocent child’s arse.

The best way to adjust one’s attitude when stuck in a dinosaur park in a huge zoo, with no coffee or alcohol and the sun is rapidly sucking the life out of you? Kiss a dinosaur. Heck, since my husband is out of town it’s the most action I’ve had in weeks. A girl can never bee too choosy you know.

Apparently all I needed was a little love because the day seemed to improve after I slipped the monster the tongue. What can I say? I enjoyed making a public arse out of myself.

We wandered the park and eventually made our way from the dinosaurs to the living-breathing animals. The kids got a kick out of seeing all the exotic animals and I got my kicks from watching all the other harried mothers wander about the park.

Misery does love company and I am a bit of a sadist.

Eventually, all the animals had been seen, all the parks had been played in and all my dollars had been spent on soggy hotdogs and snow cones. It was time to seek shelter at a family friendly hotel.

Which meant navigating a foreign city during rush hour traffic.

Have I mentioned I’m a nervous driver at the best of times? Here’s where I desperately wished for my own little GPS machine that has a Darth Vader voice. Trying to cross the freeway would have been much easier if only I had Darth breathing out instructions like “In five hundred meters turn left Luke!”

Fate was merciful though, and a hotel was quickly stumbled upon. A hotel with a pool. My children were in heaven. It became abundantly obvious as they ooh’d and ahh’d over the minibar and the pre-wrapped soaps and sample sized shampoos that my children really need to get out more often.

Somebody get on that for me, will ya?

It was hard to be jaded and cynical (and face it, completely bitchy with fatigue) when the world was just. so. exciting. to my kids.

Oh, to be fourteen (and perky) once again.

The thing is, as much as I grumped and groused and as exhausted as I still am, from all the merriment, I wouldn’t change any of this for the world. I want my kids to experience life, and I selfishly want to be there to witness when they do. They are growing up faster than I can slow them down and no family knows better than we do how quickly life can suddenly end.

My time actively parenting Fric and Frac is quickly coming to an end and I want to take advantage of the few years I have left.

Plus it is so much more socially acceptable to gorge out on junk food while watching Glee in your jammies and have a pillow fight when you are in a hotel room. If my kids tried that at home I’d likely lose my mind.

My children now know to fear my pillow-swinging prowess. Heh.

The road trip was a success. Defined by me not losing my mind, children sleeping soundly and a sister who is still alive even after snoring loudly beside me all night long.

The only down side of the trip, besides not having Boo along to share the memories with us, was realizing, I’m not as young as I once was.

There was a time when I’d stand in a hotel lobby and young men would approach me to flirt.

Now young men approach me to ask how old my daughter is and if she has a boyfriend.

She’s never allowed to swim in a public pool again.