Wednesday, November 08, 2006


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.

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