Category: Mothering without a licence

Easy come, easy go

I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.

I posted an online classified ad about looking for daycare for the boys, and one of the first people to respond seemed, on paper at least, perfect. I know, nobody is perfect, but I had a hard time finding anything to complain about with this one. She is closer than my existing daycare, wants a maximum of three kids, and when we met in person, I liked her right away. We met for coffee a week ago Friday at Starbucks, and made arrangements to get the kids together to meet each other yesterday. She e-mailed me mid-week last week to ask if she could bring contracts to sign. I was so relieved and happy to have found someone I could trust, someone I genuinely liked, and someone who was conveniently located. It was all perfect – until I opened my e-mail Sunday morning and found out she crapped out on me.

She said she had only one space left as signed two other contracts, which must have happened after we met because she told me I was the first person she talked to, and she said that going to Tristan’s school would mess up the routine of the other kids too much.

I mean, whatever. If you don’t want my boys, I really don’t want them to be with you. I was – and, quite frankly, continue to be rather pissed. Mostly, though, I’m hugely disappointed. I only realized how deeply relieved I had been to have this taken care of when it came unravelled.

I do have a few positive thoughts. Luckily, I showed an amazing amount of restraint and didn’t say anything to our current caregiver. We had told the boys that some friends were coming over to play, but nothing about changing caregivers. And it has become more clear to me than ever that I’m not entirely satisfied with the daycare situation, and that it’s worth some extra attention to rectify it. At least now I know.

I’ve had a few other responses to my ad, but none worth pursing. Not, for example, the one who told me in her contact e-mail that she’s just subscribed to the Treehouse cable TV service, so the kids will always have something to watch. Nor the one who lives 15 km from my house in the opposite direction from downtown. Nor the one who stated emphatically, with at least a dozen spelling and grammar mistakes, that she would work only specific hours with no deviation, and would not charge less than a full-time rate for Tristan, even though he is in school part-time.

Sigh.

WWBD?*

So. Birthday parties. My parenting manual seems to be missing the chapter on birthday parties (I may have used them to scoop up the dog barf from the living room carpet last week) and I find myself a little unsure of the protocols.

First issue: other kids’ birthday parties. Now that Tristan is in school, he’s started to be invited to the birthday parties of kids in his class. This is fine and dandy for him, who gets to simply show up and play games and eat cake, but not so fine for his socially repressed and angst-ridden mother. First of all, he’s four (almost five) years old. I’m not so fond of the idea of simply dropping him off at some strangers’ house for a couple of hours, but I’m even less impressed at the idea of accompanying him and trying to make small talk for two hours with people I’ve never met before, people who are undoubtedly not going to be their very best selves what with a house full of junior-kindergarteners hepped up on sugar terrorizing the place.

Do I just drop him off or do I plan to accompany him? What if the party is not in a house, but at one of these Cosmic Adventures / Chuck E Cheese kind of places?

Second issue: the boys’ birthdays fall a little less than five weeks apart. Is there a precedent for joint birthday parties? Can I have the same cake at both parties, since they both say they want a “Cars” cake? (Their favourite part of a trip to the grocery store is pressing their noses up against the cake display and discussing the relative merits of each design, then following up with a free cookie.) And, horror of horrors, can I have a party for one and not for the other? (I imagine this will be the last possible year I might get away with this.)

Third issue: who do you invite to a birthday party? They’re too young to have natural sets of friends yet – when do you transition to inviting kids of your child’s choice from kids attached to parents you are friends with? Because Simon’s birthday is first (two weeks from yesterday), we’ve gotten organized enough to invite my cousin’s son, the boys’ godparents and their daughter, and my brother and sister-in-law are coming from out of town with their two kids . Perfect number of kids for a three year old, IMHO, and a great crowd because (a) the adults outnumber the kids and (b) I dearly love all of them.

My brother won’t be able to make it back for Tristan’s birthday at the beginning of March, and I worry that Tristan will notice that we had a party for Simon’s birthday but not for his. But I’m not sure I want to start manufacturing a party and inviting his classmates because I’m unfamiliar with all the protocol (see first issue above.) And I’m equally reluctant to either have a house full of sugar-crazed five year olds or fork over hundreds of dollars to let one of the party places host it for us. And if you don’t invite the whole class, how do you choose when it’s not obvious which kids your child is close to? And even if we only stick with kids at the daycare, there are too many of them and can I invite some without inviting them all? And do I have to invite the 18 month old little sister of one of his daycare buddies if I invite her big brother, one of the ones I would be comfortable inviting? And, back to question one, should I expect their parents to join us for the duration?

And all that before we even get into what kind of party to have, and what to do, and what to serve…

As you can see, I’m ill-equipped to deal with the trauma of birthday parties. Your input on any or all of the above questions (I think I’m wearing out the question mark on my keyboard) would be greatly appreciated. Don’t do it for me, do it for my poor boys, blissfully oblivious as they are to their mother’s haplessness.

*What Would Bloggers Do?

On changing child care providers

And you thought I’d gotten over the angst-ridden navel-gazing that has predominated the past month or so. Ha, I mock your naivité. In my world, there is ALWAYS something else over which to fret.

I think I might be in the market for a new child care provider.

Our decision to consider changing (could I possible hedge any more?) isn’t precipitated on anything cataclysmic, which almost makes it harder. The boys love their current care provider so much they call her ‘auntie’. They’ve been with her since Tristan was 16 months old, and way back then Tristan was the only child in her care. But lately, it seems like every month there are new kids there. She has two of her own, both school-age, plus my two (although Tristan is in school half time), plus two more preschool boys, plus one or two toddlers, and a handful of other kids under six on a rotating basis. A lot of them are part-time or kids of shift workers, so they’re not all there all the time, but the house always seems full to capacity. She has a helper, but still – that’s a crazy amount of kids. There’s one new kid in particular who is rambunctious and rough, and the boys complain about him regularly. This week, he broke one of Tristan’s new Christmas toys, and the boys have said he likes to run into them and knock them down. Not an ideal situation.

Last August, the caregiver took a two week vacation and we had to find substitute care. Both Tristan and Simon still talk longingly about when they went to Tanya’s house, and how much they liked her. Unfortunately, she only had openings for the summer, and is too far from us to consider for regular care. However, I find this above everything else very telling. It was a week and a half over five months ago, and they still ask about her.

But – and, isn’t there always a ‘but’? – my fear of change is banging a gong of alarm at the idea of finding a new caregiver. What if a new caregiver isn’t as flexible, or as loving, or as patient? What if we make a really bad choice and she’s an axe murderer, or she lets them watch Barney?

But then, cries the barely-repressed optimist, maybe Mary Poppins is just around the corner, waiting with cuddles and crafts and nutritious meals for two loveable boys to complete her otherwise perfect life. Hey, it could happen!

Most of my friends have struggled with daycare, going through several providers and even being stuck without anyone and having to miss work to cover off, which makes me even more leery to risk our current stable, if not ideal, arrangement. It’s the old “devil you know versus the devil you don’t” connundrum.

And it’s hard to find the perfect daycare provider when you are forced into it because you change neighbourhoods, or your caregiver closes up shop, or something like that. But to willfully bring on the experience of not only searching for the right caregiver, but then making the transition and then learning to live with the peccadilloes of another person taking care of your most precious possession… ugh. I must be crazy to even think about it.

But I can no longer ignore the whispers of concern from my gut. Over the last several months, I’ve struggled to decide whether the idea of change was worse than the idea of stasis, and the accumulated weight of many small concerns has finally tipped the scales far enough that I’m tentatively looking for a new care provider. I’ve put up ads on two popular free online services, and had a few responses already. At least I have the luxury of being able to take my time and find what is hopefully a perfect fit.

Hey, at the very least I can milk the hell out of this for some good blog fodder, right?

The price of a Christmas coffee

It’s midafternoon on Christmas day. The boys have been up since 5:25, after having stayed up many hours past their bedtime on Christmas Eve. Presents have been played with, DVDs have been watched, and no healthy food has been consumed. They are, in a word, done.

And yet, they are refusing to nap. I wouldn’t ordinarily expect Tristan to nap, except he outlasted his brother the night before by a solid hour or two, and has been sneezing all over the house, shooting snotrockets onto toys, books, DVDs, and his unappreciative family. The boys desperately need a nap. So, for that matter, do I. Since I’m unlikely to get one in any circumstance, I figure I’d rather they nap than none of us nap and I bundle them up for a ride in the car.

I hope that by the time they are old enough to drive they overcome their car-triggered narcolepsy, but for now I am grateful that in the five minutes it takes me to drive through the nearest Tim Hortons and head for the country roads south of Barrhaven, they are inevitably fast asleep.

I head to the nearest Tim’s, already yawning myself, and am shocked when I arrive. They are closed. Tim Hortons is closed. I take this for an abberation, and drive to one that is attached to a convenience store, reasoning they must be open.

They are not. Neither are the other three Tim Hortons to which I drive in an increasingly agitated state. I am not impressed. There should be some sort of national ordinance compelling Tim’s to be open every day. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no scrooge. I know it’s Christmas Day, and the minimum wage workers deserve to be home with their families as much as the next guy. But the boys are by now asleep, I have at least an hour to kill in the car, and I’ve had about half my required sleep the last couple of nights. This is no minor inconvenience. I NEED A COFFEE.

I briefly debate the merits of running in to a gas station for what will inevitably be a really terrible cup of coffee, but guiltily remember what happened the last time I left the boys sleeping in the car and decide against it. No cup of coffee is worth that kind of anxiety.

Then, it occurs to me that Tim Horton isn’t the only game in town. In fact, just this past summer, a Starbucks drivethrough opened – the first one in Barrhaven.

The Canadian coffee drinking world falls into one of two camps – the Starbucks crowd, and the Tim Hortons crowd. And ne’er the two shall meet. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I am almost praying as I pull off Woodroffe and peer into the windows of the Starbucks – and sure enough, they are open.

I really can’t stomach their regular coffee, but I’m a fan of the occassional skinny latte. I order myself a grande, and tip the barrista half the price of the (already ridiculously overpriced) latte in gratitude.

For close to 90 minutes, I make my usual contented loops through the countryside south of Ottawa, from Manotick to Kars to North Gower to Richmond to Stittsville and back. I sip my Christmas latte contentedly and consider switching teams. If it weren’t four times the price, I could get used to this.

The class Christmas party

Sometimes, I worry about silly things for no reason. I can work myself into a pretty good lather over them, too. (Stunning revelation, no?)

For the better part of a week, I’ve been angsting over Tristan’s class Christmas party. The angst reached a fever pitch last night, with me near tears in the dollar store. I was having a massive inadequacy attack, worried that all the other mothers would be sending Martha-esque frosted snowman cupcakes and stained glass candycane cookies, while my best effort was some popcorn and pretzels in a holiday-themed tin.

My anxiety was ratcheted even further into the stratosphere by the fact that I had volunteered and been accepted to be one of the special mom helpers for the day. Not only would I be sending a treat unworthy of the other class mothers, but I’d get to see it all live and in-person.

(The volunteer thing itself has layers upon layers of misery and guilt woven into it. I continue to feel disconnected from Tristan’s school because I neither drop him off – Beloved does that – nor pick him up. The guilt, oh the guilt, of being a working mother. I ply Beloved with questions to gauge Tristan’s interactions with the other kids, his opinions of the other parents, his thoughts on the teachers, and he generally shrugs nonchalantly and says “I dunno, fine I guess,” to every question I ask. Further, a not-insubstantial part of my joy at being pregnant was the whole year of maternity leave, where I envisioned myself able to drop off Tristan regularly, and even volunteer occasionally in his classroom. It was one of the most painful ideas to let go of after the miscarriage. Layers upon layers of misery, I tell you!)

So, ask me how it was… (pause)

WONDERFUL! Oh, what a great morning it was.

I got there early. I either missed or didn’t get the notice that said to be there for ten, but the teacher welcomed me to stay for the whole morning. I was a part of circle time, got a preview of their Christmas songs during the last rehearsal, and helped with their printing books. When the other mommies arrived, we helped hand out treats and clean up afterward.

It was great to have insight into Tristan’s day and his interactions with the teacher and the other students. I was more worried about his socialization this year than his learning, but I can see he’s doing just fine at both. He is neither the quickest nor the slowest, the most obediant nor the least. He does seem a little bit bored, but he was obviously so proud to have me in the class for the day.

I now have a much greater understanding and respect for his relationship with John, the child who has become his best friend. John’s parents were sending some mixed signals earlier this year when they complained about an incident with Tristan, which I thought at the time was a ridiculously overprotective reaction on their part.

However, it appears John might have some sort of developmental delay, just a minor one but one that is fairly obvious after just a few minutes of watching him. I find it sweet that Tristan has singled this boy out of all the others to be his friend, but even moreso, I was touched when John was crying and upset and the teacher asked him if having Tristan come and sit by him would be a comfort. John said yes, and immediately settled down once Tristan was there. Tristan spoke to Johnny in a soft and kind voice, reassuring him that he would have a wonderful time once the party started.

I left feeling wonderful about Tristan, about his teacher, and about myself. It was one of those rare touchstone moments, when you get concrete validation that you must be doing something right.

Oh, and the angst about the treats to share? Yes, there was one tray of lovely frosted cookies, and a few goodie bags stuffed by overachieving parents. But I had to laugh as one little girl pulled an unopened bag of potato chips out of her backpack to share, and another a bag of leftover halloween treats. Looks like I’m in good company in the lazy mothering club!

Kids online

In this post, I will either come across as indecisive, self-deluding or a hypocrite. I’ll let you be the judge.

One of the debates around our house this Christmas has been whether or not to get Tristan a video game for Christmas. I’m not overly fond of the idea.

The boys already love the games on the Peep and the Big Wide World website. (I too love this site, and the cartoon.) Each night after dinner, Simon asks, “Peep now? Peep now? Peep now?” with the regularity of an atomic clock. I’ll hold the laptop and move the cursor for them, but won’t let them play by themselves. I’m not sure if this is a parental influence issue or a “you’ll not be touching MY laptop with your sticky fingers” issue.

Video games for the preschool set seems to be the latest thing. I see that Leap Frog, a company to which I generally give a lot of credence, has come out with Little Leaps, a DVD/video game console targeted to the 9 – 36 months set. (Seriously? A video game for 9 month olds?)

I’ve given up a bit of ground, and we’ll be getting the Zoooos game set for the boys. It works like the Little Leaps, turning the DVD player into a video game console. Oh well, at least the games are educational. And more importantly, not handheld portables so (a) I can see when, what and how much they are playing and (b) they won’t wander away and get lost under somebody’s bed or in the closet or any of the myriad other places our toys seem to end up.

I was doing some research yesterday and came across this article from topix.net about how kids as young as eight are logging in to virtual communities:

Hundreds of thousands of Canadian children are signing up to online social networking communities where they can chat, play games and create virtual worlds. But unlike sites like Myspace or Friendster, which encourage members to leave
personal information on their profiles, social websites for the younger set do the exact opposite.

Webkinz, Club Penguin and Neopets are sites aimed at kids between eight and 14. They allow members to take on a character – usually in the form of an animal or creature – and create a world for them.

Eight years old and online social networking. Yikes!

What do you think? At what age do you introduce your kids to computer games? Are they evil, or educational? Do you have a fave kids’ website?

Bed switching

It’s been a little more than a week since we switched Simon from his crib to a bed. He’ll be three in six weeks and he weighs somewhere around 40 lbs, so I’m thinking it was about time.

You might have noticed it’s not so much a bed as a mattress on the floor. We’re working on that. The bed frame has been ordered (no bunk beds for now) but in the interim, he’s thrilled just to be in a close facsimilie of a ‘big boy’ bed. And the bedding isn’t even a close match to Tristan’s because when I bought it on sale seven months ago, it was supposed to go in the purple and yellow room next door.

By the time we finally got around to boosting Simon from his crib, there was no longer any need for the boys to share a room, but we had done such a fine job of selling the idea of room sharing that we couldn’t have convinced them otherwise.

They’ve been surprisingly good. One night, Granny came over to babysit and there was giggling and shenanigans until well after she left after 9 pm. Other than that, though, they’ve both been great about settling in and actually going to sleep.

Even more surprising, Simon is actually staying in his bed. Those of you who have known me for a while will remember Tristan’s nighttime wanderings when we liberated him from his crib at the tender age of 21 months. He was so incorrigible in his midnight-to-three a.m. wandering and I was so sleep deprived and exhausted (still working full-time, eight months pregnant, in December) that one night I checked that the gate to the stairs was in place and locked my bedroom door to keep him out. The next morning, I woke up to find him curled up fast asleep against the door. It was one of my worst bad-mommy moments and I can still taste the bitter guilt three years later.

That’s why I’ve been nothing short of astonished (relieved, but astonished) at how easily Simon has made the transition that I’ve been dreading for three years. The only hiccup came this past Saturday night, on the one-week anniversary of his liberation from baby-jail. On my way to bed, I checked in as usual to kiss both boys goodnight. Tristan was snoring lightly, and when I turned to look at Simon, the half-smile on my face faded in confusion.

Simon’s bed was empty, and we hadn’t heard a peep from him. I checked his crib, thinking maybe he had crawled back into it, but it was empty, too. I finally found him deeply asleep smack in the middle of my bed, duvet pulled comfortably up to his chin.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. I was laughing so hard I could barely call Beloved to come and see, and was still snickering when I finally crawled under the – still warm! – covers myself after putting Simon back in his own bed.

When I asked him the next morning why he had slept in my bed instead of his own, he answered logically, “Because I just did, Mummy.”

Tristan was my well-sleeping infant. We had to wake him up every three hours to feed him when he was a newborn. Simon, by contrast, didn’t sleep a full six hours straight until until well after I went back to work, sometime around 14 or 16 months. As toddlers, they have switched places and Tristan is restless through the night where Simon falls asleep in minutes and stays that way.

Funny how that happens.

Kid fears

Simon seems to be going through a fear stage, and I don’t remember Tristan ever going through something similar.

The first time I noticed it a couple of months ago, we were at the Farm and when the cows mooed in the next field over, he practically leapt into my arms and buried his face in my shoulder. Also at the farm, he was terrified of the bleating sheep. He curled his whole body into mine as I carried him through the barn; I’ve never seen him react like that, but could feel his fear in his posture.

Lately, the list of things that he says he is afraid of has grown to include clowns (okay, so I get that one), the sirens and truck horns at the Santa Claus parade, ghosts, and… snowmen. It’s going to be a long holiday season if he’s afraid of snowmen, considering they’re one of my favourite holiday icons and I’m sure I have a dozen or more iterations on the snowman theme in my box of Christmas decorations.

He doesn’t seem overly troubled by most of what he claims to be afraid of, but when he saw clowns at the parade (even across the street) he curled himself into me and averted his face until I assured him they were well out of sight.

I’ve been dismissing this as a two-year-old phase, but now that the list of things is growing incrementally toward pantophobia, I’m beginning to be concerned. This past weekend, at least a couple of times a day he would tell me he was afraid of something. Not to mention the fact that he’s getting to be a big boy – close to 40 lbs – and cradling him in my arms with my own growing belly is getting to be a problem!

Care to share your experiences with kid fears? Is it a phase to be indulged and waited out, or would you try to confront the fears?

Talk to me about rewarding good behaviour

Today’s parenting dilemma is behaviour modification through the use of rewards. Is Dr Skinner in the house?

We seem to have painted ourselves into a bit of a corner with the use of rewards as an enticement to encourage Tristan to eat his dinner. Over the last few months, we have encouraged him to eat “a few more bites” with the reward of a treat after dinner. Lately, the treat has been a piece of Halloween candy. Before that, it was a few gummy bears or a lollipop or some other candy. (Thanks to Beloved’s sweet tooth, we almost always have candy in the house.)

In general, although I have some qualms about giving the boys (because you can’t give to one without the other) candy every single night, I don’t see too much difference between a small piece of candy or five smarties or the equivalent and say, a piece of pie or cake or a bowl of ice cream that an adult might have for dessert.

Except, now Tristan sits down at the table, looks at whatever is in front of him, and before taking a single bite asks, “How many bites do I have to eat?” The whole treat/reward thing gets mixed results, I’d say.

And yet, I’m thinking of implementing some sort of chart system to see if I can get some improvement on some other areas. Again with the dinner table, we cannot convince Tristan with any amount of cajoling, reminding, hollering or threatening, to stay seated in his chair for 10 minutes in a row at mealtimes. He squirms, he pops on and off his chair, he clatters his silverware, he plays with the salad dressings or condiments or whatever else he can reach, he fidgets, he clowns to make Simon laugh, and half the time he just stands in front of his plate, picking through whatever he deigns to eat. If you’ve been there, you know – there comes a point when you’re just so tired of fighting the battle that close enough is good enough.

So I was thinking of drawing up a chart with four or five daily behaviours that I want him to work on. I’m thinking: “eats dinner”, “sits at table nicely”, “cleans up toys before bedtime”, “puts shoes/boots on rubber mat” and “puts clothes in hamper”. Some of these he’s quite good at, some not so much. At the end of each day, we’ll review to see if he got a yes or a no in each box, and at the end of the week, we’ll figure out some sort of reward for all the good behaviour.

Since he’s really interested in the computer lately (he loves the games on the Peep and the Big Wide World site), I’m thinking one minute of computer time for each yes. Or, maybe making up a bunch of slips with different rewards on them like a candy treat, a dollar store treat, a new book, computer time, choose a DVD from the movie store, etc, and letting him pick from a jar.

I also picked up a box of 100 stickers from Disney’s Cars movie, which has actually supplanted Thomas the Tank Engine as the coolest thing on wheels at our house lately, and was thinking I could either use the stickers in lieu of the yes/no in each box, or use a sheet of stickers as one of the rewards.

BUT – and isn’t there always a but? – I have a few niggling concerns. First, I can’t really see how I can implement this for Tristan without doing something similar for Simon. Except, Simon is not-quite-three. Separate charts? Maybe.

Second problem: the same problem we have right now, that the behaviour is performed solely for the treat, and not for the sheer joy of being a pleasant child and not incurring mommy’s considerable hormonal wrath.

Third problem: I fear spoiling them. We don’t need more stuff, especially with Christmas and two birthdays within the next four months. I wouldn’t mind weaning them of their candy jones, either. Any ideas for non-stuff, non-sugary rewards?

Fourth: this whole thing seems a little uptight to me. I rolled my eyes when the teacher suggested we do something like this to monitor Tristan’s behaviour in class – and yet, it’s working. In fact, I’m tempted to send a note saying I don’t think we need to continue anymore. So yes, even though I rolled my eyes at the idea, props to her because it has seemed to work. Tristan tells me right away, before I even check his bag, on the days he gets all smiley faces from her, and it’s obvious it matters to him. But how long will that last?

Anyway, this is very much an attempt for me to sort out my own convoluted thoughts on the subject, but I thought I’d do it via the blog just to see if any of you have had any resounding successes (or noteworthy failures) using a chart-based reward system. Ideas, opinions and suggestions are welcome!

The day the soothers didn’t go away

Last night, Simon forgot about his soother. We were going through our usual bedtime routine, and we read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and Clifford and Spot, and we cuddled for a minute on the rocking chair, all with the usual nightly ration of three soothers sitting on the dresser at my elbow, garnering absolutely no interest from Simon.

I put him in his crib and gave him another book to read – and can I pause here to say how much I love the fact that Simon, like his mother, reads himself to sleep at night? How cute is that?

And still he didn’t ask for his soothers. I kissed him goodnight and went downstairs, and figured I’d be up there in about three minutes when he realized his my mistake, but through the Rick Mercer Report and then the entire taped episode of Sunday’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (LOVE! that show), not a peep. When I checked on him on my way to bed, he was sleeping peacefully with his arms splayed over his head, his mouth empty.

“Well,” I thought to myself smugly. “That was easy. No fuss, no bargaining, no problem.” I’ll put the soothers away in the morning, never mention them again, and we’ll be done. It’s a little earlier than Tristan (reluctantly) gave his up, but so much easier.

And it lasted until exactly 3:12 am.

“Mooooommmmmyyyyyy,” came the plaintive wail in the darkness. I stumbled into his room, and he tried to convince me he was ready to face the day. “It’s morningtime,” he informed me brightly. “I go downstairs!”

“No no no,” I pleaded insisted. “It’s not morning. It’s nighttime. It’s sleeping time. Go back to sleep.” And without a waffle or second thought, I reached into the basket and handed him every soother I could wrap my fingers around. “Here, look, soothers. You go back to sleep now. Nighty-night!”

I really have to work on my nighttime parenting skills.

***

I have a bit of an apology to offer. I know this is my blog and therefore my space to do whatever the heck I want, but I feel like I haven’t been able to get out of my personal headspace lately to blog anything outside of arm’s reach.

There was all sorts of blogworthy stuff in the paper today – the Democratic victories in the US (hooray!), some scary information in a Lancet article linking childhood and prenatal exposure to industrial toxins to autism and Parkinsons, and even the breakup of Brittney and Kevin.

In the last little while, though, any time I try to blog anything except an anecdote, organizing my thoughts into a rational argument is like pulling teeth. I’m having a crisis of confidence on my capability to think critically. I think part of it comes from the Motherlode conference, where I served up some fluffy, lightweight stuff compared to the fascinating research put forth by my friends. Part of it is work-related, too: I’m supposed to be a strategic thinker, and mostly I find myself doing the equivalent of sitting at a meetig with my mouth gaping open, a runner of drool escaping the corner of my mouth, as I realize how completely I’m failing to see the big picture. Of course, everything is only exacerbated by the season (post-Halloween sugar crash + pre-holiday ennui + dreary weather pretty much constantly since Labour Day) and my own hormonal condition.

I’m not looking for sympathy or reassurance or anything… just coming clean with something that’s been bugging me for a while now.

This, too, shall pass.