“God gave you two hands,” is what the English warn about raising more than two children. One, two, seven children –– I don’t know a single mother who doesn’t wish for more hands. It’s how I felt this morning, as I pegged it up Spadina chasing an Uber that had sped off with two of my three children in it. The third, a tiny-just-turned-four-year-old, stood alone on the curb in a flowery rain jacket as I ran away from her, screaming at the white Toyota. We’d decided to Uber to school because it was raining, and I told the driver we’d be making a stop at Bloor and Spadina to drop off the littlest one. Goodness knows how, but the driver misunderstood and thought I meant that I was getting out also, and that he would be driving the other two solo. Even as I watched him drive off, (with my phone, too) I was almost certain that that was what he had assumed. But almost certain turns mothers into Nike. It did this mother. I didn’t run, I flew. Variations on these crazy seconds play out for us all, regardless of how many kids you have,  and how much help you’ve got. Even super efficient, got-it-all-under-control Mums get caught in torrential thunderstorms with no umbrella. We’re human. With superhuman qualities, when required. We turn our bodies into a canopy. We learned a lesson or two; communicate better. Speak up when in doubt (neither child said a word). We did all burst out laughing though once I was back in the car.