I’m not going to say much about my own writing, but one thing I am confident enough to say is that I know good writing when I see it. Or in some cases, when I don’t. I haven’t read a purely commercial novel since probably Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in Heaven, which might give you some idea of what I think about what I’m reading now.

It’s for a “book club” kind of thing. That’s all I have to say.

But I just can’t seem to turn off my writer’s brain and read it for the story. Because it is a best seller, after all, so there must be something to learn from it. There must be a good story or people wouldn’t read it, right? And when “normal” people discuss a novel, it will be the story that is discussed, not the writing. I keep forgetting that. I have become that much of a lit snob.

I will never again underestimate my glorious adult immune system. For the first time this winter I can say that my baby is not sick. No cold, no flu, no ear infection. That means he is happy. And when baby is happy, mommy is happy

I wouldn’t go as far as to say he’s sleeping though, because this week he’s discovered how fun it is to throw his binky on the floor, over and over again!

I never even thought about cold/flu season until this year. I just don’t get sick. I never get a flu shot. I haven’t thrown up (with the exception of pregnancy, of course) since I was 9? But then Dylan comes along and he catches just about every little sniffle, runny nose, mucusy cough, and ear infection there is to catch. Crash course #367 in parenthood: babies get sick, even ones who were breastfed for the first 7 months of their life (dammit!).

So we are happily welcoming spring and the end of all this germiness.