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Owl turned five last Tuesday. It was also his first day of school.

 Sounds like a big day, doesn’t it?

Except that his first day of school was barely 30 minutes long, and he had both of his parents in the room the whole time because apparently these days kids are eased into kindergarten at pace that can only be called geological.

His “first day of school” involved going to school, entering a classroom that wouldn’t even be HIS classroom, meeting a teacher that wouldn’t even be HIS teacher,  and listening to a story while Perfect Husband and I found his name on a list and signed up for a time for his “meet and greet” with his teacher the next day – a 15 minute time slot which would constitute his ONLY time at school for the next TWO DAYS.

I spent the rest of the day spoiling Owl heavily. It was basically a “yes” day. Anything he wanted to do, we did.

That included a long walk, a game of SET Junior, a game of pretend-restaurant, and baking cupcakes while babywearing.

It was exhausting. But he had a good day.

His birthday party was Sunday.

Last year’s party had been simple and had worked well, so we planned to duplicate it. I emailed the lady in charge of our complex’s party room bookings and reserved the room. The morning of his party I went to pick up the keys from her mailbox, but they weren’t there. I rang her doorbell and she looked surprised to see me.

“I thought I put them in the mailbox,” she said as her three year old peered out from behind her.

“Nothing in there,” I said. She reached behind the door and produced the keys.

“Sorry about that,” she said, handing them over. I thanked her and headed over to the room so we could start setting up.

But the party room was already set up. Beautifully. There were pink table clothes laid out on the tables, chairs neatly set in front of paper plate table settings, a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign on the wall, and quotes from the Mad Hatter’s tea party scattered around, written on paper tea pots.


“Why is that stuff there?” asked Owl.

“I… don’t know…” I said. After a quick consultation with PH, I decided to go back to the key-lady.

“Hi,” I said to her when she opened the door again. “This sounds weird, but do you know why the room is already set up for a little girl’s birthday?”

The lady covered her mouth. “Oh my God…” she pulled out her phone and started scrolling frantically. “Oh my GOD…. I double booked it… I told you it was available Sunday but I meant to say Saturday… Oh MY GOD…”

She picked up her phone and called the other set of people. “What time is your event?”

At the same time as ours, it turned out.

I said we could have the party outside and that their kids were welcome to come out and join us.

By the time all of this was worked out, there wasn’t much time for setting up decorations outside. Our earliest arriving guests ended up hanging balloons for us.

 But with all of that, the kids had fun. They bounced in the bouncy castle, they chased each other on the playground, and after the cake, we went in to the pool and I let them all swarm me in a slightly-frightening, Lord of the Flies kind of way.

So now I present to you – my five year old.

He is rambunctious, but kind.

He loves his baby sister.

He loves to learn new things, and while he likes for me to read Roald Dahl or Mrs Piggle Wiggle to him, or to listen to my made-up stories about Rude Ronnie, Fraidy Freddie and other kids with behaviour problems, I can already see a preference growing for non-fiction books.

He likes to have the facts straight. “But actually,” is a common phrase as he corrects the tiniest of semantic details.

He loves to watch his father and I play video games like Spore, Minecraft and Super Mario Galaxy.

He’s a gamer who loves board games and picks up new games with ease.

He loves connect the dots, mazes, and other sorts of puzzles.

He loves other people, and doesn’t always understand how to react when they don’t embrace his company with the same enthusiasm.

He doesn’t understand “wanting to be alone for a while”.

He loves to swim, and is slowly improving through repeated lessons.

He has trouble sitting still, and treats all objects including other people like pieces of climbing equipment.

He is brimming with confidence. “But actually, Mom, I’m already a pretty good reader. But actually, Mom, I can probably do a rocket-ship under the water for FIVE SECONDS.”

I hope he keeps his confidence, and his kindness. I hope the keeps loving science but doesn’t lose his enjoyment of a good imaginary story.

I hope I can enjoy him for who he is without pushing him too hard to be someone he is not.

I hope I can help him be the best Owl he can be.

I hope that I’m doing an okay job.

I hope that it’s going to get even better.

Because my baby is gone. He has transformed into a school age kid, and I can’t believe it.

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Farewell to Four, or, F*** You, FOUR.


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I need to tell you something, and it’s hard to admit.

As a disclaimer, I want you to know that I love being a parent IN GENERAL. I loved Owl’s babyhood, I enjoyed his toddlerhood, and until recently I never once regretted his growth and change into a bigger and ever-more-complex-and-complete person.

Note the “until recently” part.

I have not enjoyed age Four.

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The Wilds of Babywearing – An Introduction To The Amusing Intricacies of Babywearing Culture


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Now that I have a baby again, I am have re-immersed myself in the babywearing world, from which I have been absent for approximately 3-4 years.


Or, I should say, the culture around it has grown and become more intricate, complex, and occasionally bizarre. I’m fascinated, delighted, and amused by it.

I would like to take you into the wilds of babywearing because it is a whole microculture that is entirely ignored by the rest of the world, including Wikipedia (to my surprise). So, for those of you who have never heard of babywearing, or are curious but have not yet ventured into it, here is…

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I’m an only child, and my parents rarely fought.

That means that I am completely alien to any kind of family discord. A sharp word is devastating. A disagreement is the end of the world. I have never had to fight for what I wanted with an equal. The only people at home were my parents and they outranked me so if I asked for something and the answer was no, well, that was the end of the matter.

It may have led to a peaceful childhood, but I’m not sure it did me any favours.

So I always knew that I wanted two kids, and Owl’s personality confirmed that before he turned two.

But I am dreading sibling rivalry.

PH is the youngest of 5 kids, so he probably won’t be horrified when the kids fight and hit each other and claim to hate each other, but I will. Such things simply NEVER HAPPENED IN MY HOUSE when I was growing up. They are not normal to me.

We did a lot to prepare Owl for the baby. We explained how babies were made when he asked, although we refused to give him a live demonstration despite his repeated and eager petitions to witness one. Instead we got him a book.

We explained carefully what babies are like. The baby won’t be able to play with you. It will cry and dirty its diaper and that’s about it. Murmel Murmel, by the way, is a great book for explaining what babies do and what they are for.


We explained the importance of being a big brother. One of my friends didn’t want to make her son into a second parent and placed a lot of weight on him NOT having to help, but we decided to go another way and tell him how important it was for him to help us and help her. He likes to help.

He was very pleased with the idea of having a baby sister and showed no signs of anxiety before she came, but I was still worried about how he would deal with the change. I braced myself for acting out, jealousy, all sorts of stuff.


Guys, he LOVES her.

In fact, his behavior has actually IMPROVED since she was born. He loves to hug her (unfortunately he grabs her head and squeezes so she doesn’t really appreciate his hugs) and coo over her and he will drop whatever he is doing rather than miss a chance to come upstairs with me and hand me a clean diaper when I change her.

He even tries to play with her. One of his favourite games is to  pretend that one of her flailing fists has hit him. He then throws himself down on the bed as if she has just sent him flying.

It’s adorable.

Better yet, in the last month or so she has started noticing him and she loves him right back. When he is in the room she watches him and smiles, and sometimes she’ll just stare at him and chortle, and then he chortles back, and it is SO CUTE.

I know that she’s going to get bigger and start knocking over his block towers and messing up his stuff and she’s going to start pestering him and their dynamic will change.

But for now, they love each other and I am SO, SO, SO RELIEVED.


On Our Own

So, our inlaws flew home at the end of July, and we’ve been hacking it on our own for the first time since January.

That’s right. We haven’t had to be proper, full fledged adults in EIGHT MONTHS.

I’ve forgotten how I did it all – how did I get dishes washed and Owl’s face wiped and keep him entertained ALL ON MY OWN?

Luckily, PH’s mood is more stable these days. He’s still struggling, but he’s further from the edge. He has a bit of energy – enough to get Owl his breakfast in the morning and help him into bed at night, and sometimes help out during the day either with laundry/tidying/dishes or simply taking our extrovert out of the house. Of course, he still thinks that he isn’t doing enough but compared to what he was able to do eight months ago, I consider this level of help freaking miraculous.

Besides, we’ve organized a bit of help for ourselves.

Last week we put Owl in a preparing for kindergarten camp which took him from 9 am until 3 pm every day, which was fantastic.

This week we could only find a gymnastics camp from 1-3 pm, so that’s where he is.

It’s wearing us out, but we’re managing.

PH deals with Owl in the morning and lets me sleep until Fritter wakes up between 8 and 9 am. Then I get up, shower, dress, have a diet pepsi, put Fritter in a carrier and her and Owl out on a looooong dog walk with Beloved Dog. Sometimes Fritter falls asleep on the long walk and so when we get home I can do some dishes and clean a bit while she snoozes.

The biggest problem is not the baby, although she complicates things and fills my arms for the majority of the day. It’s TALKING TO OWL. He wants to talk all the time. He wants to move all the time. If I take him out of the house it’s not so bad, but in the house he wants to be bouncing or swinging or climbing within my personal space while saying “Mom? Volcanoes esplode lava, right mom? Lava is hot rocks. Mom? The rocks are hot. Right Mom? Hot rocks make lava. The lava is so hot. Mom? What if lava esploded IN YOUR HEAD?”
It’s exhausting to introverts like PH and me.

So we take him out places. 

On really good days, I can arrange to meet a friend for a playdate, and then I can stand around and cuddle my baby and watch Owl playing with his friend and it’s adorable and I feel happy.

On days like that, I have time to reflect on how lucky I am. I’m lucky that so many of my friends have boys about Owl’s age. I’m lucky that I live in such a beautiful place. I’m lucky that Vancouver hardly ever has rain in the summer and so I can take Owl outside because otherwise I don’t know what I would do.

I was lucky to have so much help for so long.

And I’m lucky to still have a husband who can take Owl for a couple of hours in the morning, and help him brush his teeth at night, and sometimes even clean the house while I’m out on a playdate.

We have each other.

So really, we’re not on our own at all.

In Which I Feel Both Geeky And Fabulous

It all started with this Mugglenet article. 

It was full of photos of amazing Harry Potter related babywearing wraps and I fell in love.

As you may remember, I wore a colicky Owl as a babby frequently. He hated the car and screamed, so he rarely slept in his car seat. He was much happier in a carrier, so I wore him in a hand-me-down Sleepy Wrap until he got too heavy for it, and then transferred him to an Ergo.

I loved wearing Owl and joked that my carrier was “baby bluetooth – hands free”. I even wondered why people bothered with strollers for tiny babies, because I found them bulky and annoying compared to the lightweight, hands free freedom of a carrier.

But I never felt PRETTY.

Whether I was wrapped in yards of grey cloth, or wearing Owl in what is basically a front backpack, my carriers were utilitarian.

I occasionally mooned over a stock photo of a woman in a classy ring sling, but I couldn’t justify spending extra money.

My mother made me a faux rebozo, which was not as useful as the Ergo but much prettier, so I used that occasionally.

But now my eyes were opened to a whole world of nerdy babywearing and I WANTED TO BE THAT COOL.

Unfortunately, so do a lot of people, and these quality woven wraps are pretty niche and hard to come by. Used ones actually cost MORE than retail because the wraps are broken in and often limited edition. We’re talking HUNDREDS of dollars.

I shared a photo of some beautiful woven fabric, a Natibaby “Indivisibility Cloak” (get it, because you wear your baby and you two become INDIVISABLE) and bemoaned the fact that they are so expensive.

Then I got a facebook message from my cousin.

I love my cousins. As an only child, they became my surrogate brothers, and I miss them a lot. I keep trying to cajole them out here. The older one is single with a good job as a computer programmer. He was offering to buy me the wrap.


I asked him for a ring sling, since I don’t have one, and they look so pretty. A wrap would be more versatile, but ring slings are easier for in-and-out sorts of trips, and I already had an Ergo for long treks.

It arrived the week before a friend of mine got married and I worked frantically to break in the fabric in time.

It’s purple. I also happen to have a purple dress. The purples totally match. I went to that wedding feeling SO coordinated and geeky and over all fabulous. I can’t remember when I have worn an outfit that made me feel so together.

This must be what it feels like to be one of those fancy, with-it people who wear coordinated outfits all the time. It is amazing. I highly recommend it.



Neighbourhood Friends


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I met up with an old friend the other day.  She lives in Ontario, but her father and step mother live on Vancouver Island, so she and I got together for lunch while she was passing through Vancouver on her way to the ferry.

“I’m trying to remember when we met,” she said.

I couldn’t remember either. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t in my life.

We lived down the road from each other, on different streets but only a two minute walk away, when I was a young girl in Ontario. I’m pretty sure I was playing in her bedroom and she was swimming in my pool when we were three and four years old.

I remember the names of her Siamese cats and I remember the crisp, British voice of her live-in grandmother. I remember playing in her back yard and sharing popsicles on my back deck.

We haven’t lived in the same city, or even the same province, since we were nine years old.

We aren’t particularly close nowadays. We don’t call each other for a chat and we don’t know the intimate details of each other’s personal lives. But we send Christmas cards, and get together whenever we find ourselves in the same city. She visted me in Nova Scotia when we were teenagers, and again when we were in University. She came to my wedding.

She’s my friend, one of only two people from that time in my life with whom I am still in touch.

I had other neighbourhood friends. The boy next door, Joey, into whose house I often burst without knocking. Colleen, who was my bike riding buddy. I have lost touch with them, but they fill my childhood memories of hot summer days, trick or treating at Halloween, and building snowmen in winter.

It’s funny how you make your own community when you live in a big city. A small city block becomes its own small town. These neighbourhood friends were not my only friends, but they were special because they were also my community.

Now Owl is getting old enough to be able to run and play outside without my direct supervision. Our housing complex is made of clusters of townhouses, doors facing each other, with green quads in between. They make perfect meeting places where children can play and neighbours can talk.

We are lucky to have several fantastic neighbours, and even luckier that the family directly across the quad from us has two small boys right around Owl’s age. One of them is 5 months older, and the other is less than a year younger.

Not only can we swap babysitting, but our boys are starting to realize that they have ready-made playmates living just steps away.

“Owl! You’re my friend, Owl!” is a constant refrain whenever Owl is outside and the neighbour boys spot him through the window, and if Owl hears their voices outside he drops what he is doing, tugs on his shoes and runs outside to greet them.

Sometimes they play tag outside. Sometimes they crash into our house and sometimes they barge into the other house. They fight and make up, run and shout. Screen doors bang and small childish voices fill the air, and I am just so, so, grateful.

I’m grateful that these boys provide distraction for Owl, whose constant need to interact sucks me and even my doting mother in law dry by the end of the day. Heck, by the middle of the day. Okay, by mid morning.

I’m grateful that they are good kids from a loving family, and they don’t fill Owl’s head with corporate characters or guns or gender stereotypes.  If anything, they run around in Ramones tee shirts and have little familiarity with many of the things Owl brings home from the kids in his daycare.

I’m grateful because there is something inexplicably peaceful about sitting on one’s stoop at eight in the morning, sipping a Diet Pepsi (normal people can replace that with the word “coffee”), nursing my baby and listening to the joyful shouts of small children.


But most of all, I’m grateful that Owl has neighbourhood friends. Maybe they’ll still be in touch 30 years from now. Maybe they won’t be close. Maybe they won’t even live in the same provinces.

But I like to hope that if one of them is in town, Owl will meet them for a lunch and a drink, and they can sit back, and talk about old times.

Maybe Owl will say, “hey, remember my bouncy castle?”

Maybe they’ll say, “hey, remember going out on our Dad’s boat?”

owl on boat

Maybe they’ll ask each other “when did we meet?” and then realize that they have known each other since birth, that their parents witnessed each other’s pregnancies, and that they are part of each other’s life stories.

In the meantime, I’m enjoying the peace.

An Open Letter to McDonalds, Subway, and All Other Purveyors of Gendered Toys


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(For those of you joining me from Reddit, welcome! I don’t post my child’s real name on the internet for obvious reasons. Owl is clearly a pseudonym – a blog nickname chosen by my readers. In case you read any of my other posts, my daughter’s name is also not really “Fritter”.)

Dear Fast Food Industry,

Tell your employees to stop using my child’s genitals to define his toy choices.

Let me tell you a story. Actually, let me tell you a series of stories about how my son has been reduced to a set of genitals by your employees.

McDonald’s recently had a line of Nerf brand toys on display. They had a line of blue toys and some of their pink/purple Rebelle line (because apparently girls can only play with pink weapons).


My 4 year old’s favourite colour is pink, so he decides that he wants a pink one. He loves things that throw and shoot so he’s very excited.

I get to the cash and order his happy meal and ask for a pink weapon.

“He wants a girl one?” says the cashier.

“He wants a PINK one,” I said firmly.

He got a pink throwing star type thing and he was happy.

The next time we went to that McDonald’s he decided he wanted the cannon toy, which he had seen at a friend’s house.

The cannon toy is also part of the Rebelle line.

So I order his Happy Meal, and the cashier (a different one from before), “for a boy, right?”

“Actually, do you have that pink cannon that shoots a ball? He has his heart set on that one.”

“He wants a girl one?” asks the cashier incredulously.

“He wants the PINK CANNON THAT SHOOTS,” I said. “Do you have it in?”

“Uh, I’ll check,” she says, and marks his happy meal as “girl” on the cash register.

They had it in stock and he was overjoyed. He was playing with it in the Play Place (sans ball, because I didn’t want him to shoot another kid) and an older boy kept asking him “why do you have a girl toy?”

Owl ignored this questioning completely, perhaps not even realising that it was aimed at him. He’s not a girl. He’s a boy. He’s a big, loud, messy, active boy who loves to shoot things but also happens to love pink.

“Uh, why does he have a girl toy?” the older boy finally asked me.

“Why is it a girl toy?” I asked with a note of exasperation. “It doesn’t say “girl” on it.”

The boy looked stumped.

“Because it’s pink?” I asked him. He nodded slowly.

“Does that seem fair, to tell boys that they can’t play with anything pink? Girls can play with blue,” I pointed out. The boy wandered off and I tried not to be afraid.

Owl is going into kindergarten soon. He will be told that pink is for girls, that he can’t enjoy it or wear it or play with it. I wish I could tell him that this is silly childish nonsense, but in the end, where are kids getting it from?


From the amazed ADULTS who insist, in a BUSINESS ATMOSPHERE, on calling pink toys “girl toys”.

From the BUSINESSES who actually have separate toy lines for boys and girls, as if genitalia should be relevant when it comes to choosing playthings.

I’m sorry, but even sex toy shops don’t divide toys based on the genitals of the purchaser. Dildos are for everybody.

When we go to McDonald’s drive through, I have no idea what to say when they ask if my happy meal should be “boy” or “girl”.

How do I know which my son would prefer? If they said “Skylander or Barbie?” I would say “Skylander”. If they said “Blue or pink?” I would say  “pink”.

My son has often wanted a toy from the supposed “girl” selection, and while that’s easy enough (though annoying) to deal with when we are inside, at the drive through we are denied even the opportunity of knowing what the choices are.

So it’s a crap shoot.

“Boy or girl?” we were asked recently at the McDonald’s drive through.

“It doesn’t matter,” said my husband. “Whichever.”

“…Sorry, was that boy or girl?” asked the voice on the other end.

“Whichever!” said PH loudly. “Just pick one.”

“I still don’t… is it for a boy or a girl?”

“BOY!” I said loudly over PH’s shoulder, just to end the exchange. I felt like saying “HE HAS A PENIS, DOES THAT REALLY TELL YOU ANYTHING ABOUT HIS TOY CHOICES?”

They might as well say “penis or vagina?” when I order a Happy Meal at the drive through.


He has a penis, but sometimes he likes My Little Pony. He has a penis and sometimes wants the Skylanders toy. The two are not especially related.

But don’t worry, McDonald’s, you aren’t the only company I am pissed at.

Subway, I’m looking at you.

Owl LOVES Subway. He likes McDonald’s for the toys and the Play Place, but he loves Subway for the FOOD. He always gets a kid’s tuna sandwich and piles six different vegetables on top.

The kids meals at Subway are a good deal.

You don’t get a toy but you do get a drink and apple slices along with the sandwich and they put it in a reusable shoulder bag featuring characters from whatever animated movie is playing in theatres right now.

Inside Out is playing in theatres right now.


Owl liked the green one, featuring the Mindy Kaling “Disgust” character.

Who is female.

“Oh, but that one is for girls,” said the lady behind the counter, hesitating and looking at my husband in dismay.

He glared at her. “THAT’S FINE,” he said with gritted teeth.

Seriously? You’re going to tell a little boy that he can’t have a particular bag because it is “for girls”? Why? Because it has a female character on it?


Listen, Fast Food. You need to stop. If you insist on carrying different toy lines for different markets, then you need to train your employees. This has been going on for a long time.

It isn’t enough to say you don’t train your employees to say girl or boy, because that’s how your frigging machines register the difference. Of course your employees will ask “girl or boy” because that’s the button they need to press.

Besides, they are part of our global culture which general recognizes that pink is for girls and boys can’t touch it. 

So it’s not enough to say that you don’t TRAIN them to be sexist. You need to make efforts to train them NOT to be sexist.

Don’t mark certain toy lines as “boy” and “girl” in your cash registers.

Change your POLICIES.

Train your employees in what to say.

Teach them to say “what colour of bag do you want?”

Teach them to say “Do you want a blue weapon or a pink one?”

Teach them to ask at the drive through “standard Nerf toy or Rebelle line?”

And when a boy asks for a pink toy, tell them to say “sure!” and deliver it with a smile because feminism starts here. Freedom from gender restriction starts here.

Otherwise you are a purveyor of sexism, and I’m not buying that.


Right now, the only way we have of protesting is with our wallets. But I hope you won’t do it because you want my money. I hope you’ll do it because it is RIGHT.


A Pissed Off Consumer

Electing A Lovey… AGAIN


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Some of you remember Owl’s sleep.

Or lack thereof.

You may also remember my frenzied research into classically conditioning sleep using sleep aids and my selection of a toy to help with this project.

That didn’t go so well.

At the time, I was really thinking of Pavlov’s dog and researching toys that made noise to help Owl sleep. I thought that if he could mash a button and turn on a conditioned sleep response, that would be wonderful.

Unfortunately, the toy I chose was large, firm, and not very cuddly.

Then, one night, he developed an irrational fear of it, and that was that.

It might amuse you to know that he found it recently and had no memory of it. I showed him how you could press the button to make music. He listened to the music for a few seconds and then quickly demanded to know how to turn it off.

“I’ll save that for the baby,” he said firmly.

He never did develop a true attachment to the seahorse or any other object. My sister in law made and sent a cute blankie for him when he was a baby and while he still likes to lie on it occasionally, he never developed the kind of fixation on it that I had for my own “blankie”.

Anyway, lately I’ve been wanting to try again with Fritter.

Fritter is actually a pretty good sleeper. At night she’ll sleep three to six hour stretches and naps frequently during the day, although they’re generally cat naps.

That being said, sleep experts all recommend a “lovey”, and as someone who had one herself, I know the comfort it can bring. I want her to experience that.

This time, instead of thinking Pavlov, I just started researching popular lovies. What do kids fixate on?

Well, it seems like every site I find on the topic votes for a blanket with a head.

I’ve seen these around. My neighbour’s oldest son had a blanket with a dog head called Puppy that he lugged around everywhere. I think they’re weird looking, personally. What do they represent? Is the dog’s head severed and tied onto the blanket? Is it a skinned dead dog?

But you can’t argue with results, and according to the internet, kids love it. A blanket with a head combines the physical comfort of a blankie with the friendship of a teddy bear.

The most commonly recommended lovey is a product called Angel Dear. They have dozens of animal-headed blankets all under $20 in price. Price is important because parents warn you to buy multiples for when the original inevitably gets lost  or destroyed (I never lost my blankie, but I do remember my mother doing major repairs on it at regular intervals). Parents also claim that they wash really well and hold up to heavy loving.

Except I don’t like their lamb version, and I have it in my head that Fritter needs a lamb, because she’s an Aries who was born in the Year of the Sheep/Goat/Ram.

angel dear sheep

Besides, the Angel Dear blanket really is a head on the corner of a blanket. You can’t even pretend that it’s a whole animal.

Then I found the Gund Huggybuddies. huggybuddylambThe lamb version is darn cute, and it looks like an actual lamb, albeit either a skinned one or perhaps just an anorexic. Out of 49 reviews on Amazon, not one is below 3 stars. Parents claim that they wash well, too, and kids love them. The only complaint is that the head is pretty big – much bigger than the Angel Dear version.

So I ordered it in.

We’ll see how this goes.

Dear Fritter – if you have a horror of sheep as an adult, it’s probably my fault.

In Which My Anxiety Fixates On Something That Is Completely Impossible To Prevent


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In the days following Fritter’s birth, I got a lot of questions about my mood from the public health office.  They called to check on me when we got home from the hospital, a week later, and again when Fritter was six weeks old.

Through some sort of file sharing with the hospital, they know that I have a history of depression and so they kept reminding me to expect baby blues. In fact, you could tell they expected it to turn into full on post-partum depression given the whole depressed-husband-and-a-four-year-old life situation.

I expected baby blues too. I mean, that’s pretty normal. Weepiness, sobbing over Skittles commercials… that sort of thing.

But it never came.

In fact, when they took me through a depression questionnaire at the six week mark, I passed with flying colours.


Look at me, all not-depressed

I don’t know why I have been spared any sort of bizarre hormonal fluctuations, or post partum depression, but I am grateful.

Maybe it was having the support of my parents and mother in law (who flew out here again once my parents returned back to Nova Scotia). I haven’t had to behave like a fully fledged adult since the nightmare that was early January.

Support. It helps.

In any case, I’m feeling pretty happy, but I DO still have my generalized anxiety gnawing at me.

When Owl was a baby, I used to fret over his head. I kept having images of accidentally crushing it like an egg or melon.

With Fritter, I am terrified of SIDS.

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