Stairs and I are working through our issues. Mostly trust issues. On my end.

Yesterday I got in a really big argument with Gutsy over wearing protective gear while inline skating. He kept insisting that he "never falls" and therefore doesn't need to wear anything but a helmet. I told him that it only takes one fall to hurt oneself badly. We eventually settled on a helmet and wrist guards, at the very least. And the whole process only took about an hour of intense negotiation - which, if you know how stubborn eight-year-olds with behavioural issues can be, is pretty damn good.

But here's my secret weapon: I'm even more stubborn than he is. I am the stubbornest. Epically stubborn. Stubborner than thou. Supreme Ruler of Stubburnia. Not only that, but I have learned that in order to teach children a lesson, one must traumatize the shit out of them.

So, to show Gutsy how quickly people can hurt themselves, I threw myself down the stairs last night.

Okay, maybe it didn't quite happen like that.

It was about 9 p.m. and I had finally convinced Spawnling that bed was a good thing. I tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, and tsk-tsked about how messy his room was (because stressing kids out by showing dissatisfaction at bedtime is a great way to make sure they go to sleep; Maven parenting tip #164.) I told him we would clean his room in the morning, turned to leave - and then, in a moment of near-OCD coupled with the desire to set a good example, I picked up the littlest gremlin's clothes off the floor and carried them in a heap down the stairs.

Did I use a basket? No. Did I carry more than I could safely manage? Probably. But whatever. I was being a good mom and getting a head start on what was bound to take a fair bit of time the next day.

I felt pretty good about the whole thing, right up until an article of soiled preschooler clothing fell right in front of me. And I stepped on it, and, of course, I slipped. And this resulted a rather dignified tumble down the stairs.

I figured my ass had taken the brunt of the impact - which is good, because it's quite a sizeable ass with ample shock-absorbing ability. What I failed to realize in that moment was that I had put out my right hand to brace myself, and had thus absorbed a great deal of my fall that way. More on that later.

The first thing I yelled when I hit the bottom of the stairs was "It's okay, it's just me!" in an attempt to reassure everyone that it was no big deal, it's just mom, and mom's invincible, and there's no need to be panicked. I picked myself up, smiled reassuringly to the family members who came running from all directions, and even laughed as I collected the fallen laundry. See? No big deal, everyone. Just a little fall. Mommy's perfectly happy and not at all broken! Now, goodnight!

And then the shock slowly left my body, and my reassuring smile turned into a creepy grimace of pain. But I kept it up like some sort of deranged funhouse painting. I'm pretty sure that was more traumatizing than the fact that mom was hurt, and if any of the gremlins wind up with a fear of Bubbles the Clown, I'll take full responsibility.

This morning, I woke up in a fair bit of pain, and far too early for Mother's Day, I might add. I winced through my shower, winced through getting dressed, had to have Geekster help me do two-handed things like fastening my bra and putting on my coat. I was getting ready for a family brunch, but it had become apparent my shoulder was going to require some medical attention. Priorities first, however. Mother's Day brunch (AKA bacon-fest), then doctor. B ( bacon brunch) comes before D (doctor), so we could also argue alphabetical sequencing.

At brunch, my mom decided that it would be very motherly of her to take me to the hospital to get x-rays, so that's exactly what she did. Her love for me may or may not have been amplified by the gift I gave her, which is quite possibly the funniest parody book I've ever seen (and probably one of only a handful of parody books I've ever seen, but that in no way diminishes its hilariousness.) We had a great mother-daughter bonding experience, and she only once asked me to turn the music down while we were driving. What better way to spend Mother's Day than with my own mom who is mothering me? It was pretty much perfect-- well, minus the germy hospital and the pain and stuff.

As it turns out, I have a sprained shoulder. I need to keep my arm in a sling and the Advil a-flowin' for the week, but I should be just fine. Not that the Advil is making much of a dent at the moment, mind you.

My husband is a superhero of a man who cleaned the house (including Spawnling's tornado debris of a room), did the groceries, did and put away all the laundry, watched the kids, and cooked me a fantastic dinner. After eighteen years together, he has figured out that doing the dishes is the ultimate foreplay.

(Too bad about the constant pain in my shoulder. You win some, you postpone some.)

But fear not, fiends. I'm taking this whole thing pretty well. Yes, I'm fairly uncomfortable and pretty frustrated with my current limitations, but at least I made sure I couldn't lift a finger this Mother's Day. Maven: 1, Domestic Duties: 0.

The moral of the story: Never argue with your mom about safety rules or she'll fall down the stairs just to prove you wrong. Never, ever, underestimate your mother, little boy. She is epic winning incarnate.

Happy Mother's Day.