On the dashboard of the software that powers ParentDish, there's a little box that tells each blogger how many words and how many posts he or she has written.

The dashboard tells me tonight: you have written 527,463 words and 1854 posts. That is a lot of words; that's an unfathomable amount of posts.

I started writing here to supplement my income when things were tight financially during my maternity leave with my infant. My son was just a tiny baby, not yet walking, not yet talking. This blog has taken me through Nolan's first steps, my many parenting blunders, and provided me with perspective and sustenance during what was certainly the most emotionally wrenching year of my life. During my tenure here, in the beginning, I was my fiance's partner -- now I am just my son's Mother. We're doing so well, our hearts are full, I'm on a journey of learning to be a better parent.

Your comments, over the years, have helped immeasurably. I consider many of you friends, and sometimes I lie awake in bed thinking about Anji's suggestion or Meagan's words of solidarity and your sharing has helped me be a better Mother -- and in many instances, a better person. Even some of the crazy trolls have helped -- I've grown a thicker skin, become more secure in my own convictions and strength.

This is a slightly long winded way...

In the drive through line-up this morning, I heard a story that disturbed me so much that halfway through, I flipped the sound off and glanced worriedly at my son in the rearview mirror. He was thoughtfully eating his cinnamon raisin bagel and looking out the window and I thought: sometimes I really don't want to let him out into the world.

But I turned the radio back on, because I needed to hear the rest, to hear the ending.

An 11-year-old British Columbia boy is making headlines, for horrific reasons. The boy was playing basketball outside with his friends at his local elementary school when he was attacked by a pit bull, who at first licked him, and then viciously assaulted his face. The attack was so violent , the young boy required 100 stitches. The situation would likely have been even more grave had a witnessing 20-year-old neighbor not stepped in with a baseball bat and some serious moxie. A second pit bull at the site circled while the attack was in progress.

This story gives me shivers. Sean Bajwa was playing basketball at 4:30 in the evening in a public space, a child's space. The dogs were not on leashes, and apparently unsupervised. The man who intervened will likely have nightmares for a long time to come, and Sean Bajwa will likely be scarred forever, both physically and mentally.

Sean's father says that the owners of the pit bulls should be punished. I agree, and moreover, I think the punishment should be hefty. I've heard about too many of these attacks on kids -- if there were a serious penalty for dog attacks -- say jail time or a hefty fine -- perhaps more dog owners would be apt to keep their dogs in leashed, supervised areas.

I know there are a lot of pit bull owners who say that the breed is safe and wonderful and that the problem with vicious animals is due to owner neglect. Perhaps this is true, maybe it's not -- but the fact remains that we hear a lot more about pit bulls attacking than Schnoodles and Labs. We need licenses to drive a car. Maybe it's time we think of granting - and not granting -- licenses for dog owners.

Yesterday, summer lurked in the air. It was the first day I could smell the mini daisies in bloom on lush April-rained grass, in the air I located the tinge of barbecue, summer night swims, and sea-salt crusted legs. I turned off my computer a little earlier than usual and slapped SPF four million on the pasty paleness of my son and I: we were going to walk down to the beach, inhale the promise-filled air.

We were about halfway down the rolling hill to a small ocean-front park when a dark blue station wagon almost knocked us clean off the road, halting haphazardly on his brakes at the last possible section. I don't know why, but our quiet residential street does not have sidewalks. We need to walk tight to the grass of the houses when we're going anywhere. Though traffic is light, there are a lot of blind corners, and this particular station wagon has almost knocked us over before.
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For several months now, we've been working behind the scenes here at ParentDish. Our goal: a fresh, dynamic update to our beloved old blog. We're now the official online parenting destination for AOL Living.

You'll notice some obvious changes right away: a sleek new color palette and logo, streamlined categories and easy links to dynamic content. We're also introducing new features and easy-to-navigate bundles for those of you looking for information on specific topics, like breastfeeding, sibling number two, celebrity parents behaving very badly, and more.

We've tried to keep the stuff you've told us you love, and we'll continue to be a place where discussions can be held and opinions can be aired. We hope to provoke thought, provide insight, and be a daily destination point for all parents -- all while looking much more polished than before. Welcome to the new ParentDish, we're very excited to have you here!

It's a pretty well known fact that fast food is bad. It's fast food, right? It's convenient and you can drive up to it and pay for it with the crusty quarters filling your car ashtray and sometimes vegetable chopping for salads is too much of a pain in the butt when you have three disgruntled and hungry kids. Right?

I am normally pretty health conscious but I have to admit that I have eaten fast food and at chain restaurants with my pre-schooler on occasion. Since I'm a vegetarian, I usually stick to Wendy's baked potatoes, but I have bought chicken nugget meals for my son on occasion. There will be no more of that.

According to this article about the Twenty Worst Foods in America, McDonald's premium chicken breast strips (5 of them, with ranch dip) have 830 calories and 55 grams of fat. For those keeping track at home, that's more calories and fat than most kids need in an entire day. Gross.

The Twenty Worst Foods in America also lists the Worst Kid's Meal (hint: it's macaroni and cheese at Macaroni Grill -- like feeding your kid a pack and a half of Kraft Dinner! Most interesting to me is the Worst Food in America -- an appetizer at a well-known restaurant chain which holds the caloric equivalent to 14 Krispy Kreme donuts - and 182 grams of fat. Yech.

The article is useful in that it can help understand which restaurants should be blacklisted (hint: On the Border) and why some seemingly benign food choices are really very dangerous.

Yet another case for chopping and slicing at home.

In the few years I've been writing at ParentDish, I've linked to Rebecca Woolf's blog on numerous occasions. Rebecca, otherwise known as the dynamic voice behind the blog Girl's Gone Child, has an indescribable talent for putting very complex topics into simple, provocative words. She's been one of my favorite bloggers since 2004, when I first discovered this medium.

So, I was excited but unsurprised to hear that Rebecca had landed a book deal, and delighted to learn that she would be embarking on a book tour that would stop in my own city. I marked the date on the calendar and placed a call in to the shy babysitter down the road.

On the night of Rebecca's pit stop in Vancouver, I received a call from a suddenly sickly babysitter. Though the book signing started at 7:30, smack in the middle of my son's bedtime, I looked at him and asked: "Wanna meet some pretty ladies at a book store?"
"Yes!" he cried, though the "s" was a "th", and then we were off.

He's been potty trained for several weeks, almost a month, and so I didn't think too much about the fact that he was wearing his hilarious old-man briefs and no diaper. I kept asking him on the way to the store: gotta go, Nolan? Tell me if you gotta go."

Although initially excited about our destination, a two-and-a-half year old's enthusiasm is a fickle thing, and by the time we got to the store, my son was manic and destructive with alternating glee, boredom, and a fierce determination to wet-willy an unsuspecting participant.

We had to leave before we got to hear Rebecca read. Nolan had an accident in the middle of the bookstore. Rebecca, adorned in chiffon and softness, presented us with some wet naps. And, cringing, I bought a few books and limped out of the bookstore. On the way home I sneaked glances at the book during red lights and when I got home, I put Nolan to bed and inhaled the whole book.

Even if I didn't really like Rebecca as a person and respect her immensely as a blogger, I would still have to say this: Rockabye is perhaps the best book on Mothering I've ever read. And it's certainly the best memoir. Alternating between streaming-eye touching and stomach-hurting funny, the book is one of the first honest books I've read about the bumpy journey from woman to Mother. I feel proud that Rebecca is one of the blogosphere's own, and the trip to meet her and try to support her reading was definitely worth the accident on the steps of the bookstore.

Since discovering the Mama blog world some time in 2004, I've pretty much stopped watching TV. I rarely read the newspaper, instead finding relevant tidbits about the world through the blogs that resonate most with me.

I read about 70 blogs a day, most of them parenting blogs. Many of them are funny, most are well-written, all are provocative. Of my seventy favorite bloggers, three have lost babies in the last two years.

The first time I read about a normal, everyday Mama losing her newborn, I cried. Alone in front of my computer, tears streamed for hours in hurt, horror and dismay. I had not yet given birth to my own son, but even at eight months pregnant, I understood that there can be nothing worse in this world than losing a child. Karla has remained one of my favorite bloggers, and there is rarely a day when I don't think of her lost baby girl Ava, and all she meant to her parents.

I died a little inside when I read about Kate's loss of her baby boy last year, and then again recently when my blog friend Jen lost her brand new girl. It's not a topic we like to talk about, the death of an innocent new soul, but it is one that needs to be acknowledged and addressed, supported and discussed, in order that healing might begin. Until now, there have been few online resources that have even attempted to address these kinds of unfathomable loss.

Kate emailed me the other day to tell me about the birth of a new site: Glow in the Woods. The site is, according to its mission statement:

"For mamas of still babies, tiny babies, lost potential of all kinds.

In the beginning you stagger, disoriented, through this storm.

We want to be a glow through the trees, a golden refuge of log and glass. Stumble up the steps, shake off the snow and the crust and the stiffness, cross the threshold to be encircled by figures welcoming, nodding, easing you to a roaring fire and piping hot tea and wine and whoopie pies and whatever else warms you from the inside out."

It is an example of something good and well-meaning and hopeful in this tangled forest of blogs, and I already know its presence will help aching souls who are experiencing the deepest dread of any parent.

I have the utmost respect and admiration for the women who have come together to bravely share their stories and experience, in hope that others might take comfort. That's what Mama love is all about.

Women in their thirties can wear take-no-prisoners red lipstick without looking like a clownish kid in a candy store. They can wear sky-high heels with panache, easily relate life experience and favorite quotes from famous authors, without sounding laughably pretentious. Many have started families: they finally understand the mind-blowing power of their own bodies. They know what they want and who they are, so much more than they did in their twenties. So why do so many feel inferior to twenty-two year olds when it comes to desirability?

I just finished reading this People blurb about Jenny McCarthy, bubbling over about her relationship of several years with comedian Jim Carrey, 46. McCarthy -- a beautiful and vibrant 35 says of her Carrey:

"He could have any 20-year-old perfect girl with perfect breasts, and he stays. He has really opened his heart and his life to us. I'll forever be grateful."

The insinuation is that a nubile girl barely past her teens is preferable to a beautiful famous Mom in her thirties. She'll forever be grateful? Why, because she is a 35-year-old woman with a child and he still chooses her? Man, I might be too sensitive on this topic, but it makes my heart rumble.

A lot of my friends are skidding up toward the mid-thirties mark, and my stomach catches in my throat each time one of them says wistfully, looking at the skinny waist of a 23-year-old "I remember when I looked like that."

I can't say I've never been envious of a prettier, more dewy-faced girl, but I do realize that I'm in the prime of my life. I've had a baby, learned who I am, understood that my body is more amazing than I ever gave it credit for before. I am finally comfortable in my own skin, understand a little more about the soul underneath it.

I wish celebrities wouldn't perpetuate the notion that youth is better. I wish the tides could somehow gently turn to celebrate motherhood, fine lines and work-worn hands, the wisdom of age and the real beauty that comes from experience.

Sure, Jim Carrey could have any 20-year old with perfect breasts. But he'd sure be missing out.

One of my best girlfriends had a baby last year, and we've been making plans for her impending visit here since the day her baby girl was born.
"We'll take walks in the forest!"
"We'll sip lattes and carry matching purses!"
"We'll talk about our long-lost days of debauchery and disheveledness!"

We've been talking about this event for nearly a year now, but she hasn't come to see me yet. Airline prices have been so high, and, well, maybe we'll wait for a seat sale.

Finally, I asked: "Can't your husband help out with the fare?" He is working full time, after all, and he makes a good living as she stays home with their baby.
"Well,"she paused,"You know, I look after my own expenses, he looks after his."

It's the way it is with them: they keep their finances completely separate, and she, the stay-at-home-wife, is expected to cover any incidentals and luxuries with her own moneymaker. That moneymaker tool, however, is a little hampered by the daily grind of life with a baby: it's difficult to establish a high-flying career when one has a baby attached to one's breast at all times.

My friend's situation made me wonder. Financial arrangements within marriages aren't a topic of everyday conversation amongst most of my friends, but (having never been married myself) I've been assuming that most couples just divide the bacon 50/50. Evidently, this isn't the case, and as I probed more of my married friends (for research purposes) I learned that most of them keep their own bank accounts.

In many ways, I guess it's prudent. But it seems to me that marriage, in its shiniest light, should connect all life's big forces: love, sex, children, money.

Over at about.com, they have some common-sense advice about the best financial practices within a family unit . Number one? Maintain separate accounts.

It makes sense, I guess, but it's not very romantic, is it? But I'm beginning to understand that in long-term relationships, very little is.

I'd heard of the blog Petite Anglaise before, likely from scanning through the blog rolls of parenting blogs I do read everyday. But I hadn't really devoted any time to getting to know it, until a friend told me: Petite diarizes her life as a single Mom in Paris. And she left the father of her child for another man. And now she has a book deal.

Those three sentences were intriguing enough for me to go to her site late one night, where I promptly devoured all of her archives and then, still hungry, searched for more of her writing. It turns out she has a book, based on her true story, popularized in her blog.

It's a bit of a new phenomenon, the blogger turned author, and I find it intriguing. In this case, it's also especially voyeuristic: Petite (who never revealed her true name in her blog, but does in her book) talks specifically about the fact that she left her child's father for another man, a man she met through the comments section of her blog. It's true: real life is stranger than fiction.

I read the book and enjoyed it very much: Petite Anglaise (aka Catherine Sanderson) is a talented writer with a gift for capturing tangible detail in her text. But what is lingering with me, bothering me, are the reviews of her book on Amazon.com and around the web.

Ms. Sanderson is, in my opinion, not being fairly judged on her merits as a writer -- her book is not being judged as a book. Instead, she is being judged as a person, and raked through the coals by readers who do not approve of her choice to leave her baby's father, who call her selfish and horrible.

The author was clear in her description of why she left her toddler's father: they had not been intimate in more than a year, they were placid strangers inhabiting the same space. She craved more.

The whole notion is interesting. Is it OK for a Dad to leave the Mother of his child if he does not love her any more? Is it OK for a Mother to leave her baby's Father if he does not desire her physically anymore? If she does not desire him?

To read the reviews of Petite Anglaise, it would seem that the world has decided that splitting a family for the hope of something emotionally greater is an emotionally stunted decision. What do you think -- is it ever all right to leave your child's parent? I know it can never be an easy decision, but I do think there are just some situations where a divided family is better than a whole.