I have – as anyone who follows my Twitter feed knows too well, because I’ve been prattling about this all day – abandoned my children and husband to spend 24 hours in Chicago, mostly to speak about social responsibility and social media (as a guest of Edelman, which commissioned a study on social responsibility) (there’ll be live-tweet coverage here, tomorrow morning, if you’re interested), but also to eat Reese’s Supreme Peanut Butter Cup cookies and to contemplate the unique humiliations involved with being a traveller in a post-terrorist age. Oh, and, also, sleep. I hope. Because this will be my first night away from my kids since my dad died and I pretty much haven’t slept since then, what with emotional turmoil and toddler growth spurts and children with hair-clutching fetishes and respiratory illnesses and whatnot. So, yeah. I will sleep. And dream of making the world a better place, maybe.

That, and Reese’s Supreme Peanut Butter Cup cookies.

(More on the subject – and my history with the subject, which may or may not contain references to Josh Holloway, Gloria Steinem, and Nietzsche – over at Their Bad Mother.)

I’m not sure, exactly, what we’re celebrating with Canadian Thanksgiving – other than, as the Act of Parliament decreed in 1957, “General Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the bountiful harvest with which Canada has been blessed,” which could mean anything, really. Hey God, thanks for all that maple syrup! And bacon! And stuff! – but whatever, it’s an excuse to eat pie. I like pie. So I’m taking a few days off to eat pie.

If you’re stuck for reading material during that time, you could join me in contemplating…

* Why Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize.

* Why Dan Brown’s Robert Langdon has nothing on Indiana Jones.

* Why designers make ugly shoes.

* Why monsters are awesome.

* Why I’m so flummoxed about God.

* Why we need to talk about SIDS more.

* Why Gwyneth should not be a role model for anyone, at least not anyone who dresses themselves.

* Why talking about boobs and bottles can be as tricky as resolving a peace in Afghanistan.

* Which, really: what about that Nobel Peace Prize thing?

* Why gorillas are just like monkeys, but not.

See you Tuesday. Eat some pie.

Lo, it is Friday, and today, we shall have ice cream.

Or rather, she will have ice cream, and I will struggle to recover from whatever bizarre stomach virus is causing me to huddle under the bedcovers trying to not vomit.

(No, I am not pregnant. The husband got his boy parts snipped to avoid exactly that. That, however, is another story for another day. AM NOT PREGNANT. Am just probably dying from guinea pig flu or roostermonia or some such.)

I will struggle to recover, because it is Mother’s Day this weekend, and I am determined to milk that for whatever quantity of pancakes and maple syrup it’s worth. Also, I have a party to go to. When you get out as infrequently as I do, you don’t let a little thing like projectile vomiting interfere with an excuse to put on dancing shoes.

While I’m recovering, you can amuse yourselves with the following:

1) My Mother Of The Year Award. Hard-won, I’d say. Most of you deserve it more than I do. Hell, you should probably just go ahead and steal the crown from me. Go ahead: do it.

2) My Letter To My Mother. It’s mushy, but it’s Mother’s Day this weekend, so. What do you want from me?

3) My reflections on birth stories: the good, the bad and the sublime. See above re: mush, and bring hankies.

4) My new blog. Yes, really. After coming so very close to quitting blogging, what do I go and do? Build another blog! But it’s a necessary thing, a pressure-relieving thing. It’s a new space for me to stretch some of the mommy blogger muscles that I haven’t really been into stretching here. It’s a space for me to really play with topics and ideas and stories that have sort of fallen out of the narrative of Her Bad Mother. It’s going to help me to be happier blogging here, because it will provide me with a there – and a their – if that makes sense. It’s… well, go read it for yourselves.

5) My beautiful, beautiful boy, who gives Narcissus a good name, and who justifies, perfectly, the art of being amused and entranced by one’s own reflection. Which, you know, suits me just fine.