Yesterday I took Spawnling to get his twelve month vaccines.

Yes, I said twelve months, as in one year. And if your brain cells aren't completely fried from the college days - or, in my case, the junior high days, as the truly gifted users tend to leave you wussy dabblers in the dust - you'll notice that he would be about 15 months behind schedule.

A mistake? Nay. A carefully coordinated attack on a sensitive issue.

I'm a little scared of needles; not only because they're sharp little bastards that hurt even when I'm promised they won't, but also because they do funky things to the immune system that I can't fully wrap what's left of my brain around.

Then there's the alleged autism link, the mercury now removed from most - but not all - vaccines, the unknown longterm effects of immunization against something more or less benign (such as chicken pox). The worry that even after several needles given to a terrified and screaming baby, there is no guarantee of safety from the many strains of meningitis.

On the other hand, I'm not completely against them, either. They're not a cure-all for our health, and truly we need to care for our immune systems through diet, rest and stress-reduction, but they do serve a purpose. For example, I don't think any amount of organic tofu will prevent polio. And when I pierced my leg on a rusty nail last summer and learned all about the horrors of watching people die from lockjaw (thank you for that, emergency nurse) it occurred to me that my supplements probably won't keep tetanus from doing me in.

I wish I felt either black or white on the subject, but, in true Maven fashion, I have a stunned look on my face as I straddle the fence. I've read just about everything I can read on vaccines from a variety of sources and have come to a solution that seems to work perfectly: The Gremlins get vaccinated, but on a schedule I think their scaled little bodies can handle better. That's why Spawnling received the dreaded MMR yesterday and not a year ago. He tried his best to bargain his way out of it, too: "No, it's okay," he said to the nurse. "You can have the needle. I don't want it and I don't need it. I will colour over there and you can get it. Or maybe Mommy. Ok? Bye!"

I had to bribe him with a Doodlebops movie. Ever heard of them? Neither have the four stores I looked in afterwards in my attempt to buy/rent a DVD of his favourite show. After dragging him out for nearly two hours I found something else that was satisfactory to the tired terror. He sat on the couch feeling grumpy while eating chips and Peanut M&Ms.

Oh, yes. Didn't you know? I feed him nuts at the age of two. He's been eating them for over a year. So while we vaccinate very late, we also introduce high allergens very early.

It's all part of my master plan: his immune system is like the rival football team. I don't let it see my team's plays and that's how I win. No vaccines on schedule! TOUCHDOWN! Introducing nuts two years early! TOUCHDOWN! Letting him lick things at playgroup and roll around on the grocery store floor! TOUCHDOWN!

The Mavenites win!!

Now, isn't that far more exciting than following a boring ol' parenting book? Doing that would make way too much sense, and when do I ever make sense? And then what could I blog about? Making all the right choices? Boring! Besides, all my readers would go away and cry in their rooms because they feel bad about themselves. I don't want to destroy anyone's self-esteem or anything.

I can't win. I've concluded that there is no perfect answer to parenting. It's a series of mistakes covered up by other mistakes and all done under the guise of unconditional love. We have so many choices to make: Homebirth or hospital birth. Breastfeed or bottle feed. Spank or don't spank. Home school or public school. One income to two incomes. Nursery rhymes or Eminem. Regular baths or washing them down with a hose in the backyard once a month. Tooth brushing or straight to bed with a goodnight chocolate bar.

Who can say which is the right answer? It's enough to make your head spin.

Naturally, I spoke to Pixie, my life advisor, about my frustrations. How do I know if I'm making the right choices? Will the gremlins grow up to resent me for screwing them up so badly? Will they point their clawed fingers at me in hatred? Will I find dog-eared self-help books about how to overcome a dysfunctional mother on their bookshelves?

'Maven,' Pixie said in her sweet voice. 'It's not about doing a great job raising them. All you have to do is instill a strong sense of forgiveness. Then they can't stay angry at you for all your mistakes. Isn't that easier?'

Somebody call Oprah, because that's an a-ha moment if I've ever seen one.

While I've been spinning my wheels for twelve years trying to make everything right in the gremlins' upbringing - making sure their horns are filed, fangs are brushed, not letting them cry it out at night in their pods, stuff like that - I could have been preparing them to forgive me for making them screwed up adults who form weird diseases due to being vaccinated off schedule.

I feel so cheated that I hadn't thought of this sooner.