Back in September, and again in November, the entertainment section of the internet nearly exploded when pictures of Suri Cruise surfaced wearing high heeled shoes. A three-and-a-half year old Suri.

Is it appropriate? Is it safe? Is three years old too young? I personally think it’s too young, but that is my opinion. Do I let my own daughter wear heels? Well, she has a pair of Barbie shoes that have, like, a half-inch heel on them. She wears them, but there are certain rules that go along with wearing them: no running, no climbing stairs and she can’t wear them all day. I understand the dress up aspect-just about every little girl has gone into their mother’s closets and tried on some heels.

Some doctors are more concerned with the effect one-inch-plus heels could have on developing kids’ feet-

Unlike other trends, heels pose physical risks that include a tightening of the heel cord and changes in the growth plate.

Would you let your toddler wear high-heels?

My son turns two in August. He’s been exhibiting a lot of behavior that falls squarely into the “terrible twos” category since about 17/18 months. I’ve been told this is normal. I’ve been told it gets better at two, then bad again at three. I’ve been told “just wait until two.” Whatever the answer, I’m hoping it either ends soon or I’m granted about 500 more patience points by the divine.

 Seemingly overnight, my son transformed from a kid we could take anywhere—WOULD take anywhere thanks to his perfect restaurant behavior—into a child that can’t handle sitting in a shopping cart for five minutes while in Target because all he wants to do is squirm and run around and knock things over.

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Since my son turned eighteen months old, I’ve discovered a disturbing trend among friends and family–the questions about “second child” turning from merely inquisitive to downright hostile. When my son turned a year, it apparently was a magical number in which people deemed it socially acceptable to inquire about the timing of “the next one.” I mainly just shrugged my shoulders and made a big production of pouring myself a nice fat glass of Cab. I mean, my kid didn’t sleep through the night until six months, people. I think I’m still recovering.

But now that he’s a year-and-a-half, the shrug and wine-drinking no longer quiets them. I get bombarded with, “Don’t you want your son to have a close sibling?” and “Do you want to change diapers until you’re sixty?” As if I would stop, put the wine glass down and skip off to the bedroom with my husband to avoid diaper changes in middle-age.

And for the record, yeah it would be great for my kid to have a close sibling and no, I don’t really want to be changing my diapers and my kid’s at the same time. But there’s this thing called “sanity.” And I’ve barely recovered it due to the aforementioned non-sleeping and three months of colic and constant zombie-state and being pregnant in the middle of August and swelling up to the size of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man.

So.

Where does this leave me?

I’m not sure. But I think I’m going to pour myself a nice glass of Cab.

I was sitting on my couch tonight, finishing some editing work on my latest novel, when I decided to take a mental break and do some internet surfing. As I pulled up one of the trashy celebrity news websites, I read that John Travolta’s teenaged son had passed away in an apparent accident while the family was on vacation. It immediately struck me and I said a prayer for their family. As a parent, I wanted to run down the hallway, scoop up my little munchkin out of bed and squeeze him good and tight.

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Guess what? It’s winter! In fact, the windchill in Chicago today was -20 when I woke up. And it isn’t going to get much better until, oh, APRIL.

Which, in addition frostbite, snow and ice, means that my husband and I are trapped inside on weekends like caged animals. Gone are the leisurely trips to the park, strolling around the zoo and long walks around our neighborhood. We’ve already started to go a little stir-crazy trying to occupy our toddler with indoor activities.

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