Every winter, parents start asking each other a question that sends a shiver down my spine: What are your kids doing for camp?

For some families, the answer seems fairly straightforward. Their kids go wherever their friends or family are going. Maybe there’s a bus. Maybe they go to the same camp all summer because they love it so much. The parents fill out a form, sign up for the optional lunch program without a worry, and wave goodbye.

I realize I may be simplifying this process. Presumably these parents also have to enter their credit card information and buy a new bottle of sunscreen.

I kid, I kid.

But I know for a fact that for some families, it’s not the same minefield it is for others—like mine. Choosing summer camp for my kids feels less like arranging childcare and more like assembling furniture from some random Amazon seller with incomprehensible instructions and several missing screws. In the end, it’s finished, but the door is slightly unhinged, the shelf is crooked, and there’s a leftover piece that probably means the entire thing is going to collapse.

Each camp needs to match each kid’s interests, despite those interests being complete opposites. The camp needs to be structured, but not too rigid. Engaging, but not overwhelming. Social, without any pressure to make friends. Fun, but not overstimulating. Creative, but not too many crafts. Active, but not competitive. Low pressure enough to feel safe, but interesting enough that it’s not boring by the second day.

And ideally, no swimming. Swimming sounds like something you’d want in a camp until you have a kid who is anxious in the deep end, or uncomfortable with splashing, or doesn’t want to get their face wet, or isn’t a fan of other kids behaving like wild animals in a pool—which tends to be what happens when you throw a hundred kids into a pool.

Then there are the logistics. I have to handle both drop-offs and pickups, so they either need to attend the same camp or two camps close enough together that I can get them there and pick them up on time, without either of them melting down because I’m thirty seconds late.

The age groups need to work. The camp has to have available spots. It has to be reasonably affordable. And, ideally, both kids need to not completely dread going based on the three-sentence description I read to them.

I spent months researching camps, stressing about camps, comparing schedules, carefully planning each week, considering and balancing all the variables.

The registration forms asked, “Anything else we should know about your child?” How much time do you have? Because this adorable three-inch line isn’t going to cut it.

Our city camps run in one-week sessions, which means I get to introduce my kids to a brand-new group of staff every Monday. New building, new counsellors, new kids, new routine, same hamster-on-a-wheel mother sending another email to advocate for my kids and explain their needs, while also making very clear that they are lovely and awesome and will not cause any problems, so nobody needs to worry, even though I’m worried, obviously, and my kids are definitely worried, but you don’t need to be worried, you just need to do these specific things, avoid these other specific things, notice several subtle cues, and then everything will go splendidly and everyone will have a GREAT TIME because summer camp is all about having a GREAT TIME, RIGHT?! I said a BOOM CHICKA BOOM!

I explain their likes and dislikes, their strengths and struggles. I suggest ways the counsellors can connect with them. I try to provide enough information to make the week go well without writing something so long that they ignore the entire thing.

I’m always trying to strike the right tone. Helpful, but not demanding. Honest, but not alarmist. Detailed, but not overbearing.

They should already have all of this info from the several pages of paperwork I filled out in advance, but those forms have a mysterious way of never reaching the people actually working with my kids. So I distill everything into a neat and tidy email and send it directly to whoever’s in charge.

But even when the counsellors are thoughtful and accommodating, the week can still get off to a rocky start, because all the planning and preparing in the world can’t change an environment that isn’t set up for kids who experience the world differently.

And even after all the meticulous strategizing and coordinating, and the usual blend of reassurance, cajoling, and cautious optimism, someone will inevitably feel anxious, bored, unwilling to participate, or accuse me of ruining their life by sending them to the camp I spent months carefully selecting because it seemed like the one they were least likely to hate.

Even on a good camp day, a big chunk of my brain remains at camp with them, worrying, wondering—Have they joined the group? Did they eat? Drink a sip of water? Are they lonely? Did they ask for help? Did someone notice they needed help even if they didn’t ask?

I am constantly wrestling with when to intervene, when to encourage, when to let them work through discomfort and when a “tricky” experience has crossed over into a genuinely bad one.

Meanwhile, other families send their kids to sleepover camp for two weeks. Or a month. Or the entire summer.

The kids get on the bus with their large personalized lock box thingies, big smiles on their faces, arms wrapped around their camp besties. The parents go out for dinners, travel to Europe, cook and eat whatever the hell they want, spend quality time with each other, and live their best kid-free lives before returning for a tearful reunion. The kids have gained independence, lifelong friends, and the ability to water-ski. The parents have slept in past 6 AM, read books without being interrupted by someone asking for a snack, and left the house each day without bringing a single goddamn water bottle.

Obviously, I know sleepover camp is not effortless for every kid, or every parent. But, man—how I envy the families who can pack a duffel bag, wave goodbye, and trust that their kid will find their footing.

I truly can’t imagine that parenting experience. We all only know the children we have and the lives we’ve built around them, and that version of summer is a far cry from mine. Like, outer-space far.

My kids are funny as hell, sharp as tacks, sensitive and kind. They notice, question, and analyze things most people pass right by. I love who they are. But that doesn’t mean I never wish things came more easily—for them and for me.

It blows my mind that some parents can just choose whichever camp the neighbourhood kids are attending, drop off their kid with some teenager whose prefrontal cortex is still a work in progress, and assume it will probably be fine.

Imagine assuming it will probably be fine.

I’d love to look forward to summer the way other people seem to. And I do look forward to parts of it: cottage trips, no homework, warmer weather, less illness, low-pressure weekends. And I love watching my kids find something they genuinely enjoy and seeing how proud they feel when they do something that once felt impossible.

But summer is not automatically easier, and it’s not a break from parenting.

School, for all its challenges, is one consistent place. The adults know the kids. The kids know the environment. There are familiar routines, expectations, and supports that do not reset every week or two.

Summer means constant rebuilding and a lot of unknowns. Preparation matters, but it’s not magic. It can’t make hard things feel easy or guarantee success. It just gives my kids a better chance. I want them to be resilient, but resilience comes from facing manageable challenges—not from being chronically anxious and overwhelmed.

So I keep doing the research, writing the emails, and trying to remove the barriers that make an already challenging experience harder than it needs to be.

And then one of them looks at me, teary-eyed, and asks, “Why are you making me go?!”

Sometimes I want to present the notes, browser history, and dozens of email chains like a prosecutor laying out the evidence and scream: “Do you think any of this is fun for me?! Like I sit here with my Mr. Burns fingers, whispering, ‘Excellent. Now, what else can I do to ruin their summer?’ Like I have nothing better to do than give up hours I could be sleeping, getting paid, or binge-watching Off Campus for the second time so I can research a hundred nearly identical camp programs and compare them like I’m choosing a university major?”

Instead, I tell him I know it feels hard, that it might end up being really fun, that the week will eventually end, and that however it goes, he can get through it.

And I tell myself the same thing and almost believe it.

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Like millions of others around the world, on Friday I watched the Artemis II crew return to Earth (or “splashdown” which I now know is the accurate term because I learned a lot in the last week), joined by my six-year-old. He was fascinated, eyes glued to the screen, full of awe and wonder, and I was equally enraptured.

I’ve always loved space movies. Not because I’m a huge space or science geek. I’m not, and don’t know much more than whatever I learn from my kids’ encyclopedias. But I love movies about astronauts because of the human stories underneath—the friendships, the struggles, the emotional rollercoaster I get to go on. I even watched the ridiculously farfetched Armageddon a hundred times as a teen, not because it was some masterpiece but because of the feels. That final scene with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck and the elevator? “I love you, son.” OY! I can still remember how hard I cried. And the blackout re-entry of the crew in Apollo 13 while all the families crowded around their TVs? I want to stand up and cheer just thinking about it.

We don’t get to witness many of those movie moments in real life, but the Integrity crew of the Artemis II mission gave us that chance.

On April 6th, after the crew had just passed the farthest distance from Earth humans have ever travelled, (Canadian!) astronaut Jeremy Hansen radioed down to Houston. He described the location of a crater on the moon, a “bright spot” that they wanted to name “Carroll” after Commander Reid Wiseman’s wife who died of cancer in 2020.

Wiseman then reached over to embrace Hansen, and the other two crew members floated over to join in the most emotional group hug I’ve ever seen in my life.

I mean, come on. 😭

I watched the clip over and over, as did most of the internet. I imagine many of us felt the same thing, which was more than grief and empathy for the Commander, although I definitely felt those things, too. But it was also a kind of catharsis, with so much ugliness being shared online and so much horror across the globe, to get to share in this beautiful, powerful, authentically human moment. It was this lovely, rare communal experience, where there was nothing to disagree about, nothing to fear, nothing to spark outrage. It was just four people, hundreds of thousands of miles away, crying and hugging—a magical scene we didn’t know we needed in our lives, but so desperately did.

A couple days earlier, pilot Victor Glover spoke with CBS and spoke profoundly, off the cuff. He reflected on how he felt looking down at our planet from way out in space, saying to all of us back here on Earth: “You are special. In all of this emptiness—this is a whole bunch of nothing, this thing we call the universe—you have this oasis, this beautiful place that we get to exist together.”

At the post-mission press conference, Wiseman got choked up and said, “Before you launch, it feels like it’s the greatest dream on Earth. And when you’re out there, you just want to get back to your families and your friends. It’s a special thing to be a human being and it’s a special thing to be on planet Earth.”

It’s a special thing to be a human being.

I think about these things a lot, as someone who thinks too much about literally everything. How small we are in the grand scheme of the universe. How lucky each of us is to be here to see any of it. We get to watch our screens, from wherever we are in the world, and witness these four incredible humans doing unbelievable things, sharing joy and sorrow like something straight out of the movies, except it’s real.

There are still so many good things. Pay attention and look up.

We are so, so lucky.

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When I heard the news that James Van Der Beek had died, my heart sank. And I haven’t been able to shake the sadness, which is bizarre because it’s not like I knew him in any real sense. I’ve never met the guy, and he certainly didn’t know I existed.

And yet the heartbreak feels so visceral. Personal. Like I just found out something horrible happened to a long lost love I hadn’t seen in decades.

I grew up with the gang from Dawson’s Creek as the show aired alongside my teenage years. I never missed an episode, the highlight of my week. I loved the cozy coastal town of Capeside, the way fifteen year-olds spoke like college professors, the angst, the melodrama, the love triangles, the friendships. I loved that Dawson worshipped Steven Spielberg, because I was a kid who geeked out over movies too. Oh how I wanted to climb up that ladder and through the window and watch E.T. in Dawson’s bedroom. The show wasn’t just background noise, it was formative, running parallel to my own coming of age story.

I rewatched the series when I had cancer in my twenties, the familiar faces and storylines a balm I desperately needed. I turned it on again during those sleepless late nights of postpartum fog. It was pure comfort, a time capsule of who I was when anything and everything felt possible.

And now that James is gone, it doesn’t just feel like some actor died. It feels like part of my youth has died. Because I’m not only mourning a person. I’m mourning a chapter — a version of myself that exists only in the past.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. Certain celebrity deaths just hit harder. When Robin Williams died, I was devastated. I still have trouble watching his movies without getting emotional. And I haven’t been able to watch a single Friends episode since Matthew Perry died.

It’s the strangest thing, to feel so connected to these people we didn’t really know at all, apart from the characters they played on our screens. But those characters were markers of time, holding entire eras of our lives. The shows we watched with friends after school. The movies we quoted endlessly, folding them into our everyday vocabulary. The innocence of believing that famous people were somehow invincible, mythical, immune to the pain and hardships that rest of us mere mortals had to face.

Dawson Leery isn’t supposed to grow up, get married, have a bunch of gorgeous kids, live a spiritual and love-filled life, and get cancer and die.

The death of James Van Der Beek forces us to reflect on our own mortality and the unfair, but completely ordinary fact that we are all human, and all susceptible to the same inevitabilities of life and death.

And I guess that’s why this hurts more than I expected it to. Because in my memory, Dawson never grows up, he’s forever a young, hopeless romantic, pining after Joey, dreaming of being a filmmaker, untouched by everything that came after.

And maybe that’s the real grief. Wanting him — and that time — to stay exactly as they were.

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When you become a new mom, everyone wants to give you advice. And you kind of want it too. You’re exhausted, overwhelmed, full of self-doubt, and suddenly responsible for keeping this tiny thing alive. So you ask those who’ve already been through it: What should I do? What tips do you have? What do you wish you’d known?

Most of the answers tend to be things like: Sleep when the baby sleeps (LOL). Accept help if someone offers. Stay hydrated. Wear your baby. Lower your standards. All of it well-meaning, some of it even useful, or at least comforting.

But I’ve been thinking if I could jump in my DeLorean and go back in time to give one piece of advice to my newly postpartum self—or offer something different to a brand new mother looking for wisdom today—I’d say to her:

When you read, read for pleasure.

Don’t spend all your time reading parenting books. Don’t use your baby’s nap time or feeding time to read about sleep training or wake windows or brain development or all the ways you might kill them.

Just read books you enjoy. Fiction. Stories. Read something that transports you, that distracts you, that inspires you, that feels like a warm hug for your sleep-deprived, spit-upon body.

I spent so much time reading about parenting when my kids were babies and toddlers. Books, articles, forums. I had an endless podcast queue with all the parenting experts who could teach me about sleep and child development and emotional regulation and attachment and what I should or shouldn’t be doing to ensure my kids would thrive. Some of it helped. A lot of it didn’t. And much of it, in hindsight, just fed my already high baseline of postpartum anxiety. It felt like there was always something else to learn, something I could and should be doing better. And nine years in, it still feels like that a lot of the time.

What I didn’t do during those early years—what never really occurred to me as an option—was read books for fun.

With such limited time, I figured if I was going to use any of it to read, I should read about how to be a parent. And fiction or non-fiction, reading an entire book felt daunting, something I’d given up long before having kids, in favour of short essay and articles and bite-sized thoughts I could scan quickly before something else stole my attention. But especially as a mom, reading for joy felt indulgent, the kind of thing people did who didn’t have other important things to do, like learn about baby-led weaning and how to properly cut cucumbers so they were safe for a one year-old.

But now that I’ve found my way back into reading fiction, it’s been a balm in a way I didn’t expect. I’m not reading to solve anything, to find an answer to a question, to discover some secret way to simplify my life. Reading novels doesn’t make parenting easier or the days less chaotic. It lets me escape to a place where nothing is expected of me, where there are no demands, no decisions—where all I have to do is enjoy getting lost in a story. And right now, when the real world feels relentlessly heavy, that kind of escapism feels even more essential.

I’m not about to say that new moms should avoid seeking out information and support. I mean, I’m literally here writing about parenting and motherhood (although I have no idea how to get your kids to sleep… sorry). I’d just like to bring forth a bit of a counterbalance, a permission slip, if you will. I want to tell all the new mothers: you don’t have to spend all your reading time trying to fix, optimize, or manage your motherhood. In fact, you shouldn’t, because that’s how you lose yourself, and losing yourself shouldn’t be a given. You can change and transform. You can adapt. But you don’t need to lose yourself completely.

You’re allowed to disappear into a good book.

You’re allowed to feed parts of yourself that have absolutely nothing to do with your children.

When you become a mother, it can be so all-consuming that it’s easy to accept the pre-mom version of you, who had interests and passions and desires—that she’s gone, never to return. That the person you were before has been replaced instead of expanded. But those old selves can resurface when you finally give them some air to breathe.

I’ve been tearing through books in a way I haven’t since I was a kid, when I used to hide under my blanket with a flashlight so I could read another chapter. I’m taking full advantage of audiobooks too, allowing me to read while making sandwiches, folding laundry, driving. There’s no way I’d be able to read this much during this season of life without audiobooks. It took me a while to get used to the medium, but now I always have one on the go and I’m so grateful they exist.

So if you’re a new mom, or an overwhelmed mom, or a mom who hasn’t read a book that had nothing to do with children in years, this is me giving you a gentle but firm nudge: pick up a book just because you want to. Not because it will help. Not because it will teach you. Just because it brings you comfort. And if you’re lucky like me, you might rediscover part of you you thought you’d lost between the lines.

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So now it’s January 1st, 2026. I’m one day late. And, miraculously, the world is still spinning.

Nothing magical happens when the year changes. You don’t wake up with clarity. You don’t automatically feel lighter or wiser or more evolved. You wake up just as tired as always, probably a bit more, with the same thoughts you had yesterday. Any day is as good a day as any other to reflect. Any day is a good day to start over, or keep going, or simply change your mind about things.

So I’m letting go of the pressure to do a formal “Year in Review” here, or anywhere else.

I also don’t want to recap the state of the world in 2025. We all know. It was pretty bad, and it still is. Everything feels scary and unstable and uncertain in a way that feels heavy even when I’m doing very normal things like making a sandwich or picking my kids up from school. I need to compartmentalize all that for a minute just to survive.

On a personal level: 2025 is the year I started exercising regularly. Which still feels strange to write, because I very much was not that person for most of my life. I got strong and moved my body, and it wasn’t life-changing in the way that an Instagram reel might make you think, but it was a change—and a good one at that.

In the last couple of months, I fell out of my exercise routine, for all the many reasons one does. And I felt guilty and like I had ruined the whole thing. Now I’m getting back into it, slowly, imperfectly, trying not to punish myself for having ebbs and flows. Twice a week, or even once a week, is better than zero times a week. I’m not a fitness influencer for crying out loud.

2025 is also the year I started reading again. Like, really reading. Which somehow feels very… big.

Somewhere along the way—probably in university, gradually, without me even noticing it was happening—I stopped reading novels. I replaced them with nonfiction, articles, productivity books, personal development, learning-something-useful reading. Reading had to be productive in some way, it has to improve me. It had to justify its existence.

And let’s be honest, I also replaced reading books with social media and scrolling. Ugh.

A few months ago, I had a bit of a quiet epiphany. I realized that a lot of the things I’m drawn to exploring through my writing—the thoughts, the questions, the observations that don’t quite fit inside an essay—could fit better inside fiction. And out of that I began to think: maybe I should try to write a book. Like a whole freakin’ novel. A story. And as I began to feel lit up by the thought, I realized if I want to write fiction, I probably need to start reading again. For fun. For pleasure. Can you imagine?

So I bought an e-reader, borrowed some books and audiobooks on Libby, bought some hard copies on sale, and started reading. And now I can’t stop.

For a long time I felt a lot of guilt about not reading, and a lot of regret. The sense that I was “behind.” All the must-read books everyone else had read. All the unopened books gathering dust on my shelf. All the titles on my TBR list mocking me quietly. But maybe I wasn’t behind. I was just somewhere else, doing something else.

More than that, I’m tired of always feeling like I’m supposed to be keeping up. With goals. And habits. And challenges. And lists. With optimized versions of myself.

I’m reading because it brings me joy. Because I was a voracious reader as a kid and a teen, and I want to remember that girl.

But I’m mostly reading because I want to write. Because I’m 41, and it’s easy to feel like that’s too old, but it’s really not. I’m not dead yet. I can still begin things. I can still wake up old dreams and see what they might become.

How cool is that?

So there’s my somewhat brief, somewhat late 2025 reflection.

Happy New Year, and as always, thanks for being here. ❤️

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There’s too much.

Too much to read: so many books on my shelf, an endless TBR, hundreds of Substack articles bookmarked to read “later”, news articles and headlines, unopened emails taunting me with their bolded subjects, reviews for Amazon products I don’t need, Google classroom notifications from my son’s multiple teachers, think-pieces, fluff-pieces, all of the pieces.

Too much to learn: courses I want to take, nonfiction books on every interesting topic in the world, how to be a better/good enough parent, how to be a better/good-enough human, how to declutter my home and life, what supplements I should be taking, what is creatine and should I take it, what is mushroom coffee and should I drink it, how much protein is enough, how much protein is too much, how to live longer, how to prepare for perimenopause, how to exercise the “right” way, how to manage my time and complete my tasks and have good sleep hygiene and optimize my life.

Too much to worry about: climate change, antisemitism, women’s rights, gay rights, everyone’s rights, political unrest, the size of my body, the shape of my body, the bags under my eyes, is my cortisol too high, are my children healthy and happy and safe, the future, money, retiring, mortgage payments, cancer, germs, my parents getting old, the rising cost of everything, job security, AI, screens, social media, technological doom.

Too much to do: unload the dishwasher, reload the dishwasher, return the library books, tidy up the clutter, throw out the trash, donate the old stuff, make room for the new stuff, grocery shop, meal plan, feed everyone, feed myself, teach my kid to read and write, help my kid with homework, meet all my work deadlines, buy the clothes, wash the clothes, fold the clothes, put away the clothes, get rid of the clothes, exercise, take photos and capture every memory to avoid a life of regret, research cloud storage plans, make the appointments, reschedule the appointments, update the calendar, buy the tickets, go to the birthday parties, buy the presents, reply to texts, get ready for the holidays, plan outings for winter break, fix all the broken things.

Too much I want to do: be more patient with my kids, be more fun with my kids, spend more time with my husband, write more essays, write a children’s book, write a novel, take a class or enjoy a hobby, go on a vacation, sleep, read, binge-watch TV until my eyeballs fall out, see all the movies, eat better, drink more water, see friends, make new friends, meditate, listen to all the podcasts in my queue that I’ll never get to but keep adding to anyway.

Too much to decide: what should my password be, what should I make for dinner tonight and tomorrow and every day until I die, what show to start, what to wear, what to prioritize, what to let go of, low-fat or non-fat, almond or oat milk, intermittent fasting or calorie deficit, whether this weird pain is from working out or something more sinister, whether to push my kids or intervene, which battle is worth fighting, save or spend, go or stay, speak up or stay quiet, productivity or rest.

It’s all too much, and now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go do something about some of it—or perhaps just sit here a little longer, enjoying my coffee in silence while I stare into space, letting myself just exist for a moment, before the next thing begins.

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The first major snowfall hit this week (unseasonably early, yay!), and of course the kids were excited, and of course it looked beautiful. Fine. But within 24 hours, I was over it, and doing my “Why do we live here/let’s move immediately/but we can’t actually do that/we’re stuck here forever in this frozen tundra hellscape” monologue that I can’t help but repeat every year, because WINTER IS THE WORST AND YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT.

Here’s my current, but likely incomplete, list of why winter is, objectively, the absolute worst.

Getting kids dressed

Getting kids dressed to leave the house is fairly awful even in the best of circumstances, but outfitting them for winter is its own special kind of pain.

Every morning is a full-body workout that ends with me in a sweat-filled rage. There’s the snowpants battle (“I don’t need them!”), the after-school regret/blame (“Why didn’t you tell me to wear them!”), and finally, the discovery that the snowpants were in their backpacks the whole time.

Every hat is too itchy. Every pair of boots is too tight, too loose, too wet, or just wrong. Mittens vanish faster than I can order new custom name labels. And that new coat I bought after careful research and waiting for it to go on sale? Nope, it’s too new, they want the old one with the broken zipper that doesn’t fit anymore. Or, better yet, they don’t want to wear a coat at all, because it’s only minus a million degrees outside, BRUH.

The front hall entrance disaster

Our front hall now resembles a crime scene: a trail of melting snow, splashes of hardened mud, coats thrown in piles despite the hooks WITHIN PLAIN SIGHT, and unidentified damp objects. There’s a constant rotation of wet mittens and toques laid out to dry overnight.

There’s also the baffling mystery of how one glove can disappear between the front door and the car. It’s ten steps. Where did it go.

The outdoor fun

Ah, the wonder of winter family activities. Nothing says making memories like pretending my toes aren’t about to fall off while standing knee-deep in a pile of snow.

Tobogganing? That sounds fun, until someone flies off the sled and cries because there’s snow in their mouth. Building a snowman? Fine, until someone’s glove fills with snow and now it’s an emergency and, no, sorry, I don’t have a carrot and a top hat because I don’t live in a cartoon movie. Skating? A sport that combines bruised butts, frostbite, and humiliation? Pass. You know what my favourite winter family activity is? Watching a movie and being cozy underneath a blanket. Inside. Where it’s warm.

Winter driving

It’s time to switch to winter tires, again, even though I swear I just took them off. More money, more time I don’t have. Scraping snow off the car while the wind whips it back into my face? Not enjoyable. And the snow flying off the cars of people who couldn’t be bothered to brush theirs off, landing on my windshield while I’m driving? Also not great.

Time to pick up the kids from school, but I can’t park there because there’s a snowbank, and oh, there’s another one. So I’m parking three streets away and sprinting to beat the bell, trying not to wipe out on the un-salted, un-shovelled death trap we’re calling a sidewalk. This is so much fun, walking in a winter wonderland, fa la la la la!

The viral plague months

Also known as: everyone’s sick, all the time. Someone’s coughing, someone’s throwing up, someone’s a little bit warm, but they’re fine, you’re fine, WE’RE ALL DOING FINE.

And because it’s winter, there’s no escaping the infection zone. You can’t open a window for fresh air or take a walk without risking hypothermia. So we just sit inside, breathing in each other’s germs, arguing about who forgot to order more Kleenex.

Socks and slush

I’ll admit that fresh fallen snow is lovely, but slush? Nothing magical happening there. No matter what boots I wear, I will end up stepping in a slush pile deep enough to soak my socks. And it even follows me indoors, somehow leaving puddles everywhere I walk, no matter how careful I am.

There’s nothing like a cold, wet sock to kill whatever joyful winter spirit I had left.

The darkness

How is it already dark outside? Didn’t the day just begin two hours ago? By mid-January, I’m pretty much a vampire who survives on vitamin D supplements and blind optimism that the sun still exists.

The illusion of cozy

I’m down with the hygge lifestyle and love a toasty hot chocolate while I read my book peacefully by the fire, but that is a mere fantasy because HELLO I HAVE CHILDREN. “Cozy winter vibes” is a scam. You think my kids let me sit down in peace while they quietly prepare themselves a snack and calmly play a board game without someone ending up in a chokehold? Excuse me while I try not to spit out my stale coffee from laughing so hard.

The silver linings (because I’m trying to be less Grinch-y)

I can admit—the powdery white snow sticking to the tree branches is beautiful. I do love those brief, silent moments before it all turns brown and gross. And I love winter holidays, which involve happy times with families, favourite rituals and traditions, and lots of yummy treats.

Plus, there’s a special sense of camaraderie that comes from how so many of us collectively complain about winter sucking for five straight months. It’s kind of a national pastime. So I’ll acquiesce: winter isn’t all bad. Maybe it just gives us something to bond over while we wait for spring to save us.

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They’re home.
I’m so glad they’re home.

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A few weeks ago I wrote about being Jewish in the world right now, and I’m pleased to report that instead of being cancelled (because these days you never know), it turned out to be my most-liked, most-shared post to date—and it brought in a bunch of new subscribers, some of them even paid (thank you! 🙏). What a relief.

So hello to everyone who’s new here! I don’t only write about Jewish topics—though I often do, especially lately, as it intersects with the broader theme I focus on here: the emotional minefield of modern parenting.

Mostly, I try to tell the truth about whatever I’m experiencing, even when it’s uncomfortable. But truth gets complicated when you’re navigating small talk and social norms.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the kinds of harmless lies we tell—especially in grocery store bump-ins or after-school pick-ups—when someone asks, with an upbeat, hopeful tone, “How was your summer?”

It seems the only socially acceptable response is: “Great! How about yours?”

Statistically speaking, that obviously can’t be true for everyone. It doesn’t add up that everyone had a “great” summer, everyone’s kids had a blast, and we’re all so sad it’s over. There has to be some variation in there.

Sure, some families had magical summers. The kids loved sleep-away camp. The parents enjoyed wine on the dock. There were overseas adventures, backyard movie nights, and core memories made.

There were also summers with kids who found camp more stressful than fun. Meltdowns in the heat. Sunscreen battles. Sibling fights. Parents stretched thin from overplanning and overstimulation, counting down the days until September arrives.

There are parents who feel like they failed—like they yelled too much and didn’t make enough memories. Who scroll through Instagram reels about how heartbroken people are that summer is ending, and feel guilty for not sharing their sentiments.

My hunch is that most of us fall somewhere in the middle. Some of it was wonderful. Some of it was hard. Some of it was forgettable. Just like most of the year, and most of life.

And for those of us with kids who have extra challenges, who may struggle with new routines or social settings, summer can feel less like a break and more like an extra anvil on the ol’ mental load. One that’s invisible to others.

I try to be authentic in most of my daily interactions, but I’m also conscious of being perceived as a complain-y, grumpy mess of a human. My answer to, “How was your summer?” has been something like, “It was okay, but I’m glad to get back into our regular routine.” Kind of vague, not a lie, but not the full truth.

Most people don’t really want the full truth. I’ve noticed that when casual acquaintances ask, “How’s it going?” and I respond with something like, “Eh, you know… it’s going,” they get kind of twitchy, unsure of what to say next. It’s a rare person who knows how to sit with a less-than-sunny answer.

So it’s easier to just say: “Great! How about you?”

But you won’t find that kind of polite fiction here. This is literally why I write—to have a place to say the quiet things out loud. No lies, no sugarcoating. Just the messy, muddled truth.

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THANK YOU for your support. I notice and get giddy with every single name that comes through, and I don’t take it for granted. As much as I’d love to say money doesn’t matter, and writing is just about passion and the craft… let’s be real. Money is great, both for fuelling my Starbucks habit (and my six year-old’s) and motivating me to carve out the time to write. So again, thank you! ❤️❤️

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I keep trying to write about the usual things—summer chaos, my kids, the exhaustion of daily life. But I can’t, because my mind is too full, my heart too heavy. Everything I try to say feels forced or small next to the unrelenting grief and anger I’m carrying.

There’s a version of my life that looks completely (ok, mostly) fine from the outside. I drop off the kids at camp, run my errands, smile at the cashier, exercise, work, and reply, “It’s going great!” when asked by a client how my summer is going. And then there’s what’s happening inside—where I feel frozen, endlessly scrolling, constantly distracted, trying to function in a world that feels increasingly unfamiliar and distant from the one I used to live in.

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There are few things I find more satisfying than unsubscribing—from daily emails from a store I shopped at once three years ago, loyalty programs I’ll never remember to use, or push notifications telling me my photos app made me a collage I didn’t ask for.

If I could unsubscribe from everything else hogging precious space in my brain and life, here’s what I’d click on first:

• Thinking about what to make for dinner every day until I die

• Taking inventory of our food supply while making mental grocery lists I’ll forget about when it comes time to shop

• Finding expired food in the fridge, ignoring it, then finding it again a few days later with alarming amounts of mold

• Making school lunches

• My kids saying, “I’m still hungry”

• Being interrupted twice since starting this list to give my kids food

• Dealing with everyone’s preferences, aversions, dietary needs, and restrictions

• Scheduling doctor/dentist/haircut appointments for my kids, then forgetting about them and needing to reschedule

• My kids fighting over literally everything

• Keeping track of who outgrew which shoes and locating the next-sized ones I bought months ago and stored in some mysterious spot

• Loot bags

• Comparing myself to the mom who is homeschooling four kids, raising chickens, baking bread, writing her second novel, and going viral on TikTok for her 5AM self-care routine

• The kitchen and toy explosions that magically appear five minutes after I’ve tidied up

• My kids getting sick

• Laundry—staring at it, procrastinating doing it, washing it, forgetting it in the dryer for two days, folding it, ignoring it in a basket, pretending I’ll put it away tomorrow

• Missing socks

• Applying sunscreen on my kids

• All the extra *everything* that comes with parenting neurodivergent/highly sensitive/differently-wired/“tricky” kids

• Signing them up for extracurriculars, worrying they should do more, then wishing we could just stay home and watch a movie instead

• Overstimulation from the TV, my kids yelling at the TV, Alexa, my kids yelling at Alexa, and me yelling at all of them

• Being a slave to the attention economy and doomscrolling despite reading books and listening to podcasts on how to break free

• Rising antisemitism and the extra mental load of worst-case scenarios and exit strategies

• The speed at which AI is replacing the need for humans to work, think, or create

• Tween girls shopping for anti-aging skincare at Sephora

• My kids getting bigger and older, and time doing what time does

• My declining metabolism

• Clutter—physical, mental, all of it

• The inevitable progression towards menopause

• Mortgage payments, bills, budget planning, being a financially responsible adult

• My kids still waking up at night

• All the actual email lists I’m still on

• Articles telling me to get 8 hours of sleep when I’m up at midnight watching Bachelor in Paradise
  

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I never wanted to live in the suburbs. Not even a little.

Growing up here, all I could think about was leaving. The plan was to live in a cool neighbourhood in an exciting city, with cute little coffee shops at every corner, and never look back. I didn’t even drink coffee back then, but I liked just knowing it was there.

Suburbia, in my mind, was for people who wanted simple, boring things. It was for minivans and chain restaurants and Walmarts. A place for those who didn’t want or need more.

And I wanted more. Or at least, something that looked different from what I’d always known. Something that didn’t feel like settling.

While some kids wanted to stay in high school forever, I graduated a year early, so desperate to leave. I moved to Montreal, which felt like another universe: secret dance parties in lofts, indie concerts in dive bars, art shows and drum circles. I was surrounded by endless creativity, great fashion, and incredible food. Everyone seemed cooler, edgier, more alive. It was love at first poutine.

After university, I lived at home for less than a year—just long enough for my exciting new marketing job to cover first and last month’s rent on a tiny-but-all-mine apartment in a trendy neighbourhood in Toronto. It was exactly what I’d always dreamed of: vintage stores, music venues, street festivals, patios with overpriced cocktails that made me vomit thanks to my recent GERD diagnosis. It felt like freedom.

Even after I had my first son, we stayed in the city, in another very hip neighbourhood, walking distance to the best restaurants and cafes, where I could still feel like I wasn’t a sellout, even while pushing a stroller. Then we moved to the east end of the city for more space, which I was initially hesitant to do—it felt a bit like aging out of the cooler side of the city. But I loved it there too. I was a mom, now with two kids, but I was still interesting—and still definitely not a gal who would end up back in the suburbs.

I had a whole story in my head about what it meant to live in the suburbs as an adult. It meant giving up. It meant yoga pants instead of skinny jeans (RIP), pillows that say “live, laugh, love”, and having to get in the car and drive for every minor errand. It meant I’d become one of those people, a suburban pod person my younger self would have silently judged.

And then we bought a house in the suburbs.

It wasn’t some grand decision or aha moment. More like a slow crumbling of resistance and realization that we couldn’t afford what we wanted if we stayed in the city. We looked at so many houses downtown, paid for multiple inspections, and tried getting comfortable with the idea of asbestos in the walls and neighbours we could hear snoring through the wall.

We kept telling ourselves it was doable. That we’d be fine sharing a tiny bathroom with two growing boys. That cozy charm made up for a cramped space. But after exploring some houses on the outskirts of the city, our mindset shifted. We knew we wanted more—especially if we were about to spend an absurd amount of money on something we weren’t even excited about.

I tried to deny it even as I saw reality unfolding before my eyes: we were moving to the suburbs. The same one I’d been so eager to leave.

After we moved, I clung to my identity as a city dweller. I drove back downtown to see friends, complained about how empty the sidewalks were, lamented dining in restaurants sandwiched between optometry clinics and dry cleaners in sterile strip plazas. When people asked how I was liking it, I’d say we loved the house, but I was still coming to terms with the move, like I’d suffered some great tragedy instead of gaining a garage and access to a toilet whenever I needed one.

But as time passed, my attitude changed, bit by bit. I stopped pretending this was temporary and started realizing I didn’t actually hate living here—I just thought I was supposed to. Because admitting I liked it meant admitting I wasn’t who I thought I was. Or at least, not anymore. I stopped trying so hard to be unhappy and started paying attention to what I actually liked.

I like that we have room for all our stuff, and for all of us. A large kitchen with counter-space. A backyard. A garage I can put my car in whenever it snows.

I love that my kids can ride their scooters around the neighbourhood without me panicking about aggressive cyclists or their wheels getting caught in a streetcar track.

I love that my laundry room is on the main floor. I love that I have a laundry room.

I love that I don’t hear sirens or noisy trucks outside my window. I love the quiet. The trails. That no one is crowding me on the sidewalk.

And I really love not having to choose between paying for parking vs. spending an absurd amount of time looking for a spot only to find one a kilometre away from where I need to be, with a one-hour limit and a lingering fear I might get towed. Now I can always get a spot, and it’s always free.

I love that I live ten minutes from my parents. They can watch the kids or pick them up from school in a pinch, come to karate ceremonies or meet us at the park. I love not having to pack the car like we’re about to go on a cross-country road trip just to have lunch at their house.

I love that I reconnected with friends from my childhood and now know their spouses and their kids. That my children get to grow up with people who knew me when I was their age. That I can say things like, “This is where I used to play hide-and-seek with my friends at lunch” and, “That’s the street where my best friend lived.”

I love my kids’ amazing public school and our local community centre. The great parks that are never busy, with wide-open fields where the kids can run around and I don’t have to keep eyes on them every second. I love that there are so many young families, so many kids, and that Halloween turns our neighbourhood into a tourist attraction. I love having a mall. I love that every grocery chain is within a 5-minute drive.

I love the lack of mice in my house and absence of rats in my backyard.

And sure, I’m still an introvert, and seeing someone I know every time I leave the house can be a lot. But there’s a comfort in that, too. There’s comfort in knowing that if an emergency happened, there are so many people a quick walk or 2-minute drive away I can call—people I’d trust with my kids with zero hesitation.

I now see that I missed the idea of “my old life” more than the actual reality of it. I read a comment buried in a Reddit thread that summed it up so perfectly. It was something like: “I don’t actually miss the city, I miss living in the city in my 20s, but that’s not the life we were living now anyway.”

We had all these cool things around us but how often was I really using them? I wasn’t going to bars anymore. I didn’t need artisanal cheese shops and organic grocers and cute boutiques I couldn’t afford to shop in. I needed somewhere I could buy cereal, school supplies, and a sled all in one place, with a big parking lot out front.

It’s my pre-kid city life—my pre-kid life, in general—that I miss, but that doesn’t exist anymore. I’m nostalgic for that time, and it was fun while it lasted, but I’m in a totally different phase of life now. And the suburbs, weirdly, fit that phase better than I thought they would.

The hustle and bustle of city living works really well for a lot of people. It just stopped working for me.

These thoughts aren’t profound and my experience isn’t unique. I’ve known many people, read many essays, and seen countless social media posts with the exact same story—parents with young kids decide they’ve had enough of the city, move to the suburbs, and live happily ever after.

I don’t know if we’re quite at happily ever after, but we’re at something pretty close to happy. Sure, I may be writing this while sipping from an absurdly large Stanley cup—but I’m still me. Just a little more hydrated.

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💌 P.S. This post took several hours to write and edit, and an embarrassing amount of time on Canva to create the graphic. If you enjoyed it and want to receive more writing like this, becoming a paid subscriber is a great way to help me justify the time it takes to write these things.

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I keep thinking about what an absolutely bonkers time this is to be alive—just to exist as a human on Earth right now through everything.

The world was already topsy-turvy, and now we have this tariff nonsense and the sinking of our economy and even more doom and gloom.

I feel a bit stuck in this strange holding pattern, somewhere between outright panic and numbness. I’m getting oddly accustomed to waking up to batshit crazy headlines every morning. Sometimes I think I must be stuck in a prolonged dream (nightmare?), because reality feels entirely too unhinged.

There’s so much uncertainty about the future right now, and I can feel the ripple effects everywhere—including work. My ability to make a living as a freelance writer feels increasingly precarious, with promised projects disappearing, clients ghosting, and timelines pushed indefinitely. Lately, it feels like I spend more time chasing, following up, and hopping on calls that go nowhere than actually writing. Between AI and a looming recession, it’s tough times out there for us wordy types.

I see a lot of chatter about pivoting and reinventing. But, like… I don’t want to? I’ve already done that so many times. And then finally—finally—I felt like I found the thing. And now I’m supposed to go find another thing? Like my five year-old whines when he doesn’t want to clean up his toys: I don’t want to!

I know it’s part of the human experience to adapt and grow. Change is inevitable, change is good, blah blah blah. But it’s also quite exhausting and time-consuming when I’m already exhausted and time-poor. Reinvention doesn’t feel empowering right now. It feels like a perky TikTok influencer shouting at me to rebrand while I’m crouched under the kitchen table, picking up scattered Cheerios and trying not to hit my head.

There’s this constant push to be shifting, pivoting, optimizing. But maybe some of us don’t want to make a change. Maybe some of us just want a little stillness. A job that feels secure. A week of boring headlines. A routine that isn’t constantly interrupted by existential dread.

I just want to keep doing the thing I’m already good at: telling stories, translating thoughts into words, bringing a relatable voice to ideas that might otherwise get lost. That still feels like valuable work. I just hope there’s still a place for it before the robots and orange-faced guy totally destroy civilization.

💌 P.S. Since drafting this post, a rush of work came in (because the universe loves to play mind games, of course). Still, if you or someone you know needs a writer, let me know. I’ll be over here doing my best not to pivot.

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Buy me a coffee ☕

I’m forever grateful for any and all support. Truly. Madly. Deeply. 🙏

I hate that my children keep physically growing.

I know it’s a good thing, in theory. Tiny humans are supposed to grow into bigger humans.

But every time they sprout an inch here or there, it creates work.

Suddenly, the shoes don’t fit. Boots, running shoes, indoor shoes—time to switch them all out and get new ones. And it sounds so simple. I used to believe these things were simple! They are not.

The mental load here is a heavy one. What do I do with the old shoes? Are they in good enough condition to pass down to the next kid? Good enough to donate? If not, do I toss them? That feels weird. Should I put them in a pile and then ignore them for the next two years, and just live with a mountain of abandoned shoes in my basement, taunting me, begging me to do something with them?

Why do kids need so many shoes?

And now on to procuring new ones. I don’t want to take them shoe shopping—that sounds like a nightmare for all involved. I’ll measure their feet. Stay still! Can’t you keep your foot still for just five seconds?!

I forgot to write down the measurement. I’m just going to wing it. One size up from the last size.

I go to the store to buy the shoes. Nothing expensive, because they are children and they will grow out of the shoes two weeks later. Discount shoes are my friend. I look through the racks. Why does this store have EVERY size except the ONE size I need? It’s a shoe conspiracy.

I finally find what I need and toss it in the shopping cart. I better get a pair for the other kid, because god forbid everything isn’t always equal, even when it comes to a boring pair of shoes. Should I get sandals while I’m at it? Water shoes? Winter boots for next season? I’m here so I may as well get them, put them deep in a closet when I get home, and completely forget about them until they’ve outgrown them by at least two sizes.

I bring the shoes home. Please try them on. It will only take one minute! How do they feel? Can you lift your big toe? No, not your whole foot. Just lift your big toe so I can feel if there’s enough space. Is there enough room to wiggle your toes? What do you mean you don’t know? Walk around and tell me if they’re good. They’re fine? Are you sure? Are they too tight? How about too loose?

He doesn’t like the shoes because they’re too hard to put on. He wants me to take them back and get the other ones. No problem!

What did I do with the receipt?

Summer is coming, which means I need to have summer clothing ready to go—swimsuits, rash guards, shorts, t-shirts.

I take the big guy’s wardrobe from last summer and move it to the little guy’s closet. I take the little guy’s wardrobe from last summer and shove it to the back of the closet because there’s no time to sort through everything right now, and why simplify things when I can just spend the next few months in clothing purgatory hating all of my life’s choices? That would be too easy.

I search for empty boxes to store the small clothes for hand-me-downs and donations. I can’t find any boxes. Why didn’t I hang onto those boxes? I start shoving clothes into a black garbage bag, which will then sit in the corner of the room for the next year, driving me nuts, but not nuts enough to do anything about it.

The older kid needs new clothes. Nothing fits! I check online to see what’s on sale. Why are all the swimsuits already sold out? It’s February! I check Marketplace for an hour and try to decide if it’s worth driving an hour for three pairs of shorts that my son will probably hate, when the seller still wants more money than I’d like to pay for some kid’s worn-out clothing. I decide it’s not.

I look through the old clothes once again to see if there’s anything that may still fit, untying drawstrings, comparing waist widths. Didn’t I accidentally buy some large-sized t-shirts last year? Where did I put those?

I look through piles and boxes in the basement. There are those snowpants I was looking for last November. They still have the tag on them, but they won’t fit anymore. I should donate them. Where’s the closest donation bin?

Eventually, I hit my breaking point. I always do. I tell myself I’ll deal with it all later. Or maybe I’ll just go buy a bunch of new clothes and pretend the old ones don’t exist. I’ll cut off the tags from the new clothing and sort everything for the wash, while I curse all the tiny plastic fasteners that have scattered on my floor. I’ll collapse on my child’s bed, surrounded by half-folded laundry and mismatched socks, take out my phone and scroll through real estate listings in warmer climates where seasonal wardrobes don’t exist, and no one ever needs a new pair of winter boots.

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Hey, sitter! You’re probably thinking the hard part is over now that you’ve played with the kids, fed them, and made it to bedtime. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but your job has only just begun.

Please follow the below step-by-step instructions for putting the 5-year-old to bed. You’ll also need to put the older one to bed, but that likely won’t be possible, because the 5-year-old will never let you leave his side. Good luck and godspeed.

1. Bath negotiation

• First, he will refuse the bath. He’ll say, “I promise I’ll do it tomorrow!” Do not be fooled. This is part of the process.

• After some more protest, he will enter the tub and immediately transform into the world’s biggest fan of bath time.

• Give him lots of toys, but not ones that are actually intended for the bath. Why would he want those? He needs only the ones that will likely be destroyed by water.

• There must be bubbles and there must be a lot.

• He will scream when he rubs his eyes and gets bubble bath soap in them and yell at you to give him his washcloth. You won’t be able to find the washcloth because it’s buried and lost forever under the bubbles.

• Remind him to tilt his head back when you rinse his hair, so shampoo doesn’t spill down his face. Rinse as quickly as possible, or he will tire and let his head droop, and IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT when shampoo gets in his eyes.

• When you tell him it’s time to get out, he will cry and beg to stay in. You can remind him that ten minutes ago he was begging not to get in, but this will have zero effect whatsoever.

• Once he stands up, you must wrap him in his towel before any cold air touches his skin. If you mess up this step, he will wail that he is FREEZING and get back in the bath and you’ll need to rinse and repeat.

2. Pre-bedtime stalling

• He will insist on playing just one round of hide-and-seek. This is a trap. There is no such thing as one round. There is no such thing as three rounds. It will never end. Do not fall for this.

• He will ask to watch a music video or a magic trick lesson or some YouTube clip of kids being annoying on your phone. He will say “just for one minute.” It will not be one minute, it will be many minutes while he enters an endless loop of content.

• He will attempt to lure you into watching with him, subtly framing it as if this was your plan all along. Resist the pull of the screen and do not engage.

• He will say he doesn’t need to pee. He does. He will say he already brushed his teeth earlier. He didn’t. You will then be forced to summon your last ounce of creativity to turn basic hygiene into a fun activity, like a backwards bunny hop to the bathroom or a beat-the-clock tooth-brushing competition. Either way, you will lose.

3. Reading time

• If you’ve managed to make it to this point, you deserve a raise, but you won’t be getting one because paying for a babysitter plus a night out is already putting us into debt.

• He will suddenly panic that the reading lamp—securely placed on a shelf above his bed as it has been his whole life—might defy physics and fall on his head. Don’t waste time reasoning. Just move it somewhere else, even if it means you can’t see what you’re reading.

• He will tell you to present him with book options, only to reject every single one with increasing disgust. You’ll tell him to choose what he wants but he’ll insist you have to pick. This will go on until you finally snap and beg him to JUST PICK A BOOK, at which point he’ll miraculously discover the perfect book, which was one from your initial selection.

• He will clearly be falling asleep as you read, his eyelids half-closed, but if you dare suggest actually going to sleep, he will rise like a zombie from his grave and demand you not only finish this book, but begin another.

4. Sleep arrangements

• He must have a very specific group of stuffed animals in bed with him. If even one is missing, he will know and you will be forced to join him on a lengthy search and rescue mission.

• Every stuffed animal must be placed under the blanket so they are cozy. It doesn’t matter if they’re crowding him so he’s forced to the edge of the bed, the stuffies need to be COMFY and warm.

• He will require his fleece blanket on top of his duvet, and then freak out from overheating like a menopausal woman mid-hot flash. But the blanket must stay on.

• Before turning off the light, his nightlight must be on. To get the “right” brightness, turn it up to a level so bright no one could reasonably sleep like that, then carefully dim it when he’s distracted. If he catches you, reset and repeat until you either succeed or lose your mind.

5. The question period

• You will think he is about to fall asleep. You will be wrong. This is when the questions begin.

• He may ask things like:

  • How long does it take to fly to Mars?

  • How many minutes ago did I get home from school?

  • Do you believe in God?

• He will demand real answers, so be prepared. Any sign that you’re making shit up will result in meltdown and/or an onslaught of new questions.

6. Think you’re done? Not so fast…

• You will remember that his older brother a) exists, and b) also needs to go to bed.

• After ensuring the 5-year-old is in a deep sleep, get up and walk SILENTLY to the door. Open the door with surgical precision, and close it without a sound, because if he wakes, you’re starting this whole nightmare over.

FAQs:

Will he sleep through the night?

Absolutely not. And if he wakes up before we’re home, get comfy on the floor, because you’re not leaving his room again.

Will his brother be okay even though I’ve mostly ignored him all night?

TBD. By the time you get to him, he will either:
a) Have fallen asleep reading after growing tired of waiting for you
b) Be sitting on his bed in a silent rage, awaiting his full-length bedtime routine, which you are now too emotionally drained to complete.

Will you ever hire me to babysit again?

If, by some extraordinary miracle, you actually manage to put both boys to sleep before we’re home, you must be some sort of magical child whisperer, and we will never let you leave. For real. You live with us now. Welcome to the family!

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A mother clutches her baby and toddler in her arms, a blanket wrapped around them, their bright orange hair glistening from the sun on a day that should be shrouded in darkness.

You’ve watched the vid…

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A few months ago, I was at the grocery store with my 5-year-old, who was jumping with excitement over spotting one of the elusive shopping carts that doubles as a vehicle.

As I struggled to lift him into the police car cart, a woman approached us, smiled, and said, “You’re going to miss this one day, I promise.” She explained she had just finished having lunch at a restaurant with her teenage son and remembered him at my son’s age like it was yesterday.

“It really does go by so fast,” she said, staring at my son with a mix of joy and sadness on her face.

I used to internally roll my eyes a bit at these types of comments. It goes by in a flash! Enjoy every minute! When every day with littles can feel like an eternity, it’s hard to fully grasp the passage of time.

But now that my boys are 8 and 5, I find I’m constantly grieving the end of their childhood, even though I’m very much still in the thick of it.

I hear the way my youngest mispronounces some words, and then I panic that he’ll soon lose his “baby voice” completely. The other day, my oldest told me he was too big for me to hold his hand while crossing the street, prompting me to squeeze his hand even harder, worrying if I let go he’d stop needing me.

I crave time alone, without my kids, in an almost desperate way. I am perpetually overstimulated, overwhelmed, and burnt out from taking care of them. But I also feel physically unwell when I think about them one day not living with me, not always knowing where they are, not being their #1 person for anything and everything.

I want them to grow, thrive, become independent, and do all the amazing things I know they’re going to do. But watching that reality begin to unfold is also painful in a way I didn’t expect.

It all feels so bittersweet.

@annaleegrace15The concept of time moving is something i struggle with deeply. How can it feel so exciting and lovely yet also so heartbreaking? Recorded a video about this last night so more ramblings coming ❤️ #momlife #momsoftiktok #babiesoftiktok #toddlerlife #marriedlife #husbandandwife #toddlermom #momreels

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As a deeply nostalgic person, I often mourn moments before they’re even gone. I’d love to be a zen Buddha type, grounded in the present, but that isn’t my calling. I’m more of the filled-with-existential-dread type.

I recently found my eldest’s first walking shoes at the back of my closet—those little slipper moccasin shoes that toddlers wear when their feet are still developing. Holding them in my hands, I was instantly transported to those first glorious steps.

He was a “late” walker at 18 months, and I worried about him hitting that important milestone. Now he can’t stop running, always on the move, quick as lightning.

It’s all so fast.

Wasn’t it just yesterday he wore these miniature brown suede slippers I’m looking at?

Blink and you’ll miss it! That’s what they say.

We never know when it’s the last time something will happen. The last time we change a diaper. The last time we sleep on their floor. The last time we give them a bath. The last time we push a stroller. These things just disappear without warning, and I hate it. I want a warning! I want sirens and flashing lights and someone screaming at me: PAY ATTENTION!

@cameronoaksrogersMotherhood is wild #momtok #momlife #momsoftiktok

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I like to inflict a form of self-torture where I go down a rabbit hole of nostalgia and heartache as I scroll through old videos and photos of my kids as babies. Eventually, I force myself to put the phone down when I realize how depressed it’s making me. The days I thought would never end are now just memories in the cloud (note to self: figure out a better solution for backing up photos).

And before you tell me to practice gratitude and be thankful for my blessings rather than feel so darn melancholy… I do and I am! Duh! I know I’m fortunate and blessed and grateful and yadda yadda yadda. Fine. It helps for maybe a few seconds. And then I see a video of my firstborn feeding his baby brother with a bottle and I’m sobbing again.

I don’t have a solution for the ache of watching your kids grow up. Ultimately, I think the pain is a good thing. It speaks to a strong bond and deep love, and it can make us more intentional about appreciating tiny moments. But it sure hurts like hell.

Years from now, I’ll probably be the person stopping a young mom with her preschooler at the grocery store to reminisce about when my kids were that age. She’ll brush it off and go on with her day, while her kid whines about wanting a specific flavour of ice cream that no one else in the family will enjoy. And I’ll think, man, she has no idea that these are some of the best days of her life.

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I keep writing draft posts and abandoning them. Not because I don’t have ideas, but because everything feels too inconsequential compared to global events. Where do you even start when the world is quite literally on fire?

Trump is back on the scene, stirring up chaos from day one, further polarizing an already divided society. Wildfires are spreading through LA, destroying homes and businesses, wiping out complete neighbourhoods. A ceasefire and hostage deal has finally been reached, but at what cost?

It feels like every day there is a new crisis, a new sad story, a new thing to panic about.

And don’t even get me started on Elon Musk.

All this on top of inflation, a housing crisis, climate change, the collapsing of our healthcare system, a mental health epidemic, social media ruining pretty much everything, etc.

It’s a tough time to be a human.

The collective vibe feels pretty bleak. It’s like we’re all just going about our lives with this dark cloud hovering above us as we wait for the sky to open up and unleash the next storm.

We’re all one doomscroll away from complete despair. And it’s making it really hard to focus, to write, to dream, to hope.

And then there’s the “regular” stuff, like juggling the everyday demands of being a mom, trying to stay sane while my kids fight over who gets to sit next to me on the couch, schlepping them to swimming lessons, figuring out what to make for dinner, wiping noses and emptying barf bowls, middle-of-the-night rescue missions from bad dreams and scary monsters.

And that barely scratches the surface of the daily grind of raising my kids (insert obligatory but I swear I love them more than anything and I know one day I’ll miss it all, etc.).

How totally bizarre to live in a time where it feels like we’re one minor catastrophe away from a full-blown apocalypse, yet our lives are still full of these mundane tasks and obligations.

How am I supposed to hold the enormity of the world crumbling in one hand and a meltdown over who gets the last red freezie in the other?

But maybe that’s the paradox and—dare I say—blessing of being a parent right now.

The weight of the world is unrelenting, but so is the urgent need of my kids to have me untangle their headphones, fill up their water bottles, and referee their wrestling match.

Life may be a massive dumpster fire, but those bento lunch boxes aren’t going to fill themselves.

I have no choice but to shut off the news and the noise, because someone needs a hug, or a snack, or an answer to a question followed by more questions.

I have to be present—because while the world spins out of control, I still have to cut off the itchy tag from the neck of a t-shirt and track down the missing library books before we’re put on the borrowing blacklist.

And maybe it’s these small acts, as trivial as they may seem, that keep us grounded when it all just feels like too much to bear.

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It’s a hard time to be an empath out here, y’all…

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Happy new year, friends!

Sorry I’m late to the party. I contracted whatever hell virus has been floating around and spent New Year’s eve and day in bed (which is actually my dream way to spend new year’s, but the fever and body aches spoiled the fun).

I’m mostly recovered now, and I’ve been reading lots of new year-themed articles filled with inspiring goals and motivational wisdom. I feel like I should join in, but I’m not exactly a lifestyle expert. I’m not sure anyone should be taking advice from me since I consider it a win if I make it out the front door with my kids each morning without everyone crying.

I do like the idea of a more/less list, however, for its simplicity and low stakes. I see this as more aspirational or hopeful, rather than defined objectives I must achieve in the next 365 361 days. So here is what I want more and less of for myself in 2025.

More…

Writing
Movement
Focus
Calm
Salad
Money
Sleep
Water
Gratitude
Mindfulness
Self-compassion

Less…

Comparison
Yelling
Catastrophizing
Procrastination
Clutter
Overwhelm
Self-doubt
Sugar
Scrolling
Task-switching
Viruses

What do you think? I feel pretty good about my list. I wish I had the time or energy to write it out in pretty handwriting or make it into a cute graphic, but I’m trying to employ a “done is better than perfect” mentality, since I tend to waste a lot of time caught up in the details. I guess that’s another good one for the list: more doing, less thinking. Maybe I am a self-help guru after all.

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On the drive home from my son’s swimming lesson the other week, my five year old said, “Hey, that sign said a baby is missing!”

“What?” I asked, assuming this was typical little-kid nonsense, until I saw the now familiar KIDNAPPED written in all caps on a poster hanging from a street pole. I turned the corner, knowing it was a photo of Kfir Bibas on the poster. A missing baby.

“Hmm, I’m not sure what that was!” I said in a weirdly upbeat tone, despite being sure what that was.

“It was definitely a missing baby poster, like when there’s a missing cat,” my precocious child continued. “How can a baby be missing, Mommy? It just crawled out the door?”

“Haha, no, I don’t think so, that would be very strange. Who knows! Wow, look at all this traffic…”

I changed the subject, which is something I’ve become skilled at since I have kids who often ask questions I can’t or don’t know how to answer.

It’s been more than a year and I’ve somehow avoided talking to them about the gruesome details of October 7, keeping discussions about the war in Israel vague and distanced so as not to terrify them. I’m all for honesty with most tough parenting topics, but explaining that Jewish children were stolen from their beds and no one knows if they or their parents are alive is a bit more real talk than I can stomach. My kids already wake up at all hours, worrying about all the things that might go bump in the night, so I’d prefer not to throw more oil on that fire.

It’s been 437 days. It’s inconceivable.

I wrote this piece for Kveller last month. It’s the only byline I’ve had in a long time, apart from my corporate writing. I keep trying to write about other things, but the hostages and war and antisemitism and and and… it all takes up a lot of space in my brain.

In fact, if you glanced quickly at my Substack for the first time and only saw the recent posts, you’d assume my whole shtick was being a Jew. Before, it was always there, but it wasn’t really a thing. And now, it’s THE THING. Even when I’m thinking about all the other things, I’m still thinking about THE THING. And if I don’t think about it for a while, I feel guilty, or like I should be doing something to stop all the bad stuff from getting even worse,

I went with my sister to see Wicked last week.

When I first heard they were adapting one of my favourite musicals into a movie starring Ariana Grande, my expectations were quite low. I’ve seen the live show several times, and I couldn’t imagine how that magical experience could translate to the screen.

Then the movie came out, and everyone started FREAKING out over it, saying I had to see it, I’d love it, it would change my life. I was still skeptical about seeing the film, not to mention its 160-minute runtime. But I hate missing out on a cultural moment, and I know every single word to every single song, so of course I had to go.

And whaddya know, the masses were right on this one. It was so good. I thought the length would kill me, but I loved every second so much I didn’t even risk a bathroom break. I sang, I laughed, I cried. I pumped my fists in the air like some sort of crazed sports fan. The movie unleashed a deeply repressed sense of joy that I didn’t realize I could still feel between the exhaustion of parenting, the hardships of life, and the crumbling of the world.

@fredasquithWell that shut me up #wicked #movie #sobbing

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After exiting the theatre, my sister and I both remarked that we felt like our bodies were vibrating as we re-entered the world in a sort of Wicked hangover state. The power of art and music is truly wild. I’m still not even sure if it really was that good or if it’s just precisely what I needed in my life at that moment. And now my expectations for Part 2 have gone from zero to extremely inflated. I doubt it will match the transcendent experience I had with Part 1, but if it’s even half as enjoyable, sign me up.

It’s hard to grasp how anyone can enjoy anything right now, when there are so many sad and scary things to preoccupy our minds. But maybe these unexpected bursts of pure delight and escapism are exactly what we need to keep going. For nearly three hours, I sat in that theatre, defied gravity, and released the heaviness that had been pulling me down. The movie may not have changed my life, but it reminded me that amidst all the bitter things, there’s still some sweetness to be found.

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