What is your time zone?

Alright, friends. Let’s talk about question time here at Sweet Madeleine.

I, like most people, love answering questions because it’s kind of awesome thinking that people care enough to not only show up here and read this word salad on the daily, but also want to know more, and ask me things as though I know about stuff . It’s immensely fantastic and guys, level with me, it means we’re BFF’s, doesn’t it?

I will always answer questions about me, happily share my meager knowledge on parenting or crazy-hippie enviro-nonsense, expound upon my thoughts on marriage or world politics, or even whether or not Gus’ farts smell worse when they’re loud or silent (silent. oh god. SILENT.)

BUT, although I get crazy-excited whenever I see that someone has asked a question, lately there have been a few that I haven’t been answering and I thought I would explain why, just in case one of them was yours and you’re starting to think I’m being a dick.

I haven’t been answering what I think of as “small-talk” questions- things like “What’s your favorite fruit?” or “Which season do you like the best?” because I don’t think that anyone really cares.

Please believe me when I say that I am not interesting enough, or a good enough writer to make my answers entertaining for you.

I mean if I’m wrong, if you do actually want to know, if there is some burning desire deep within you that will only be satiated by knowing whether or not I prefer apples or oranges (apples. but only if they’re cold and crisp), please let me know and I will definitely answer (it’s not like I have anything else going on) but every time I get one of these I’m like “Really?” It feels somehow egotistical to think that people actually want to know my seasonal preferences.

I’m not Beyoncé. No1curr.

And secondly: guys, I can’t give out information about where we live. This particular question isn’t the motivating factor for this post-there have been a few others- but I thought it would be a good time to discuss.

I’m already crazy-lady conflicted about mommy blogging in general – I’m too good at overthinking to ignore articles like this and this and not start to convince myself that I am destroying Olive’s childhood and any future career prospects by posting pictures of petting zoos and updates on potty training – I can’t start worrying about that spilling over into real life, too.

I’m not a luddite. I am aware that if anyone were motivated enough and savvy enough, they would be able to suss out where we live fairly easily but I am trying to keep that aspect of our lives private because dang, a girl’s got to have some secrets, you know? So while I am proud to say that we live in British Columbia, Canada, I won’t really getting more specific than that and I hope you understand.

Internets, I wish I knew how to quit you. But until I figure out how (pleasegodnevernevernever), I hope you’ll keep bringing on questions about why Olive always looks like she’s stuck eight fingers in a light socket (bad hair genes), or why Gus almost had to get a gold tooth a few weeks ago (long story).

Now, to take the edge off of this post, here is a picture of Adam and I with smoky eyes.

Because it’s Tuesday.


We’re still BFF, right?

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