Maybe Sometimes the Fish Just Doesn't Feel Like Swimming

I've lived my entire life by the principle that I do not need a man to complete me. That I am a wholly capable being unto myself. And I'm pretty ok with that. Sure, it's required some attitude adjustments over the years, but I've rolled with it.

I can open my own jars (I highly recommend those under the counter mounted thingies. So much more effective--and quieter--than bashing on the lid with a knife). I know how to correctly plunge the clogged toilet and clear the drains. I have even killed the biggest, ugliest, scariest bug I have ever seen, all by myself. I accept these tasks as part of the territory. Responsbilities that, since they must be shouldered in the absence of a Y chromosome, should be met head on.

But man, I hate putting stuff together. I loathe looking at pages of incomprehensible diagrams. I abhor allen keys. If ever there were a time I wished there were a man around this house, it's when I'm faced with those three horrifying words: Some Assembly Required.

I was reminded of this embarrassing chink in my feminist identity yesterday as I struggled to put up The Ladies' new tent. The sun was shining, the breeze was not attached to a windchill warning, and some nimrod had scheduled an Early Dismissal day smack in the middle of Turn Off The Screens Week. The tent seemed like a perfect idea. Until I spread the poles and instructions out on the balcony and attempted to magically transform a piece of shaped canvas with only 4 segmented poles, an x joint, and my imagination.

It wasn't even that difficult, really. Once I figured out where the slots for the poles were, all I really had to do was apply a little muscle to make them bend into the joint. And yet, I found myself wishing that I didn't have to do this. Grumbling to myself that this was not in my job description. Thinking that I'd give just about anything to have someone else here to do this for me.

Well, maybe not anything. The awe on Sabrina's face that her Mommy had put the tent up all by herself is something I wouldn't trade for the world.

What Should We Name The Baby?

It's the first, and quite possibly biggest decision you make for your child. One fraught with emotional landmines and potential for some spectacular standoffs. Watching my brothers undergo the process with their wives and my girlfriends work through it with their husbands, I've come to the conclusion that it is probably the ultimate exercise in negotiation. And, as Monica pointed out in my very first comment ever, one of the greatest perks of being a solo mom.

I named both of my daughters. I talked about their names with people and considered the suggestions and explored the possibilities those converstations opened up, but when it came right down to it, I named The Ladies what I pleased because it pleased me.

Sabrina, my Diva Girl, was named because I loved the name Bree (pre-Desperate Housewives, but unfortunately at the height of the Teenage Witch era), but I didn't want to name my daughter Brianna or any variation thereof. In 1998 it seemed like every baby not named Madison or Emily was a Brianna. As a Kimberly from the 1970s, I know what it's like to share your name with three or four of your classmates; it's not a fate I wanted my daughter to share. So I set my mind to coming up with a name that could be shortened to Bree, but that was not Brianna. When Sabrina came to me, I knew that that was my daughter's name.

I had no such certainty about Regan's name. For one thing, I'd thought she was going to be a boy. I had a boy name--Quinn--picked out that I felt as certain about as I had with Sabrina. So, when the midwife in the delivery room asked me what my daughter's name was, my first answer was "I don't know."

I love the name Piper. It sings to me. But my Zen Baby was born during the last gasp of Aaron Spelling's Witchcraft 90210: Charmed. Now, in the 5 years of being Sabrina's mother, I had already heard enough "Teenage WItch" comments to last me a lifetime. So, much though I loved the name Piper, I just couldn't get behind the idea of naming both of my daughters after television witches. Piper was out.

From the first time I read King Lear, the name Regan has captivated me. It's different. Strong, yet feminine. Sure, she's one of the evil daughters in the play, but the name strikes a chord in me that has lasted for over a decade. Plus, Cordelia, the good daughter, is also the name of one of the lead characters on Angel, another supernatural tv show. So, when I was at a loss for what to call this new little pink bundle, I reached back for the one name that has stuck with me all these years, and christened her Regan.

I need to add the disclaimer here that I am not a fan of scary movies. I'll admit it; I'm a big girly wimp and they give me nightmares. So I don't watch them, and I don't really know much about them. You can imagine my horror, then, when when Sabrina's crossing guard, hearing the new baby's name for the first time, looked at me and said, "Oh, like in The Exorcist."

Blink. Blink Blink.

Seeking to avoid naming my daughter after a semi-famous witch, I instead managed to name her after one of the most famous demonically possessed children in all of media.

Oh well, I still like their names, and fortunately, that's all that really matters.

The Price of Sanity

I cannot be the only mom who does this. Who goes to the mall to replace a worn out pair of jeans and comes out of a "'Quick Look" in The Children's Place with 2 pairs of capri pants and some matching tee-shirts for Diva Girl and a sundress for Zen Baby. Not to mention the inevitable sunglasses (2 for $8! How can anyone be expected to resist such a deal?). But no jeans.

In almost every instance, if given the choice between spending money on myself or on The Ladies, I will choose The Ladies. Not because I'm so unselfish, because lord knows if there is only one Oreo left I'm gonna lie and say they're all gone so that I can eat it myself. And not because I'm all about sacrificing myself on the altar or martyrhood; I truly do not believe in that model of motherhood. And yet, I haven't had a haircut in nearly a year. The Ladies though? Have enough ponys, clippies, barrettes, and hairbands to coiff a small South American country.

I don't begrudge my daughters their stuff. (Well, maybe when I'm doing laundry or staring at the debris strewn around the playroom, but who doesn't then?.) I enjoy their treats and cute necessities as much as they do. But sometimes, like when I realize I've had the same sandals for 4 years, or that no amount of creative patching is going to save the knee of my overalls, I start to feel a little left out. Like in my desire to make sure that The Ladies are well provided for, I've forgotten about me.

New Summery Wrap Around Skirt: $3.99
Gap Jeans at Consignment Store that give me MomAss, but were on sale for 50% off: $3.50
Cute Polkadot Summer Purse: $7.99
Ballet Flat Sneakers: $24.99
Kickass Sparkly 40s inspired Black Pumps: $9.00 (gotta love BOGO)
Knowing that I actually did something for myself for a change: Priceless

Playground Prognostication

Apparently, when Diva Girl marries The Boy of Her Dreams she will do so in a bikini. They will go on to have 11 alien children with one set of twins in the mix. They will live in a mansion, which is somewhat odd, given their jobs in the food services industry.

But hey, the skipping rope never lies.

Generation Gap

"'I two!" Zen Baby proudly proclaims to her older cousin, waving her contorted fingers in the air as emphasis.

"No." Her cousin disagrees. "I'm two."

"Ya." Zen Baby agrees, still trying to force her fingers into the proper configuration. "I'm two."

Benjamin shakes his head vehemently. "NO. I'm two."

Regan nods companionably. "Ya. I'm two."

Benjamin is becoming frustrated that this baby is trying to muscle in on his Big Boy status. Afterall, she doesnt wear Pull Ups. She doesn't go to preschool. She can't even form her fingers into a two, for crying out loud. He pulls out the big guns to put an end to this affront to his dignity. "I'm a BIG BOY."

Regan smiles at him in happy adoration. "Ya." She agrees. "I a big boy. Too."

At some stages in life, a generation can be measured not in decades or even years, but in months. And at no age is this more evident than in the difference between a newly minted 2 year-old and an almost 3 year-old. Afterall, whether or not you remember when Mr. Snuffalupagus was invisible, or saw your John Hughes movies in the theatre or on television, or used Eminem and not Violent Femmes to piss your parents off are simple matters of pop culture. But Preschool over Playgroup? Strolling vs Stroller? Panties and not Pampers? These are the issues that separate the Big Kids from the Babies.

I'm Just a Mom

I'm trying to write this inaugural post, but it's not going well. Sabrina, aka Diva Girl, is home from school today--with a bad case of vacation entitlement. And Regan, my Zen Baby, is on a nap strike. After all, if her seven year-old sister doesn't have to sleep away the afternoon, then she's certainly not going to submit to the indignity of it all. (This is much the same attitude she has towards diapers these days, but that's a post for another time.)

(Excuse me while I go rescue Zen Baby from the spurting horror of the carpet steamer.)

When did this become my life? When did a trip to the laundryroom become an exercise in precision planning?

Well, pretty much the moment the stick turned blue, actually. This has always been my life. My life as a Mom, anyway. I have never, ever, parented with a partner. Like most solo moms, I get asked every once in a while--usually when it's pouring down rain but we need to make a trip to the store for diapers with a disgruntled Diva Girl and an unZen Baby in tow, or similar circumstances--"How do you do it?"

And I don't really know how to answer that. How do I do what? Parent? The same way you do, I would imagine. I make rules, break rules, hug my kids, shout at my kids, adore my daughters and am worn out by them. I change their diapers, kiss their boo-boos and do their laundry. I read to them, sing to them, play with them, and occasionally lock myself in the bathroom to escape from them. I really am just like you in so many ways.

That said, being a solo mom is so much more than being the only one there at the battle of the bedtime. We've all been there, single and partnered moms alike. And it's not about having someone else to pick up the slack around the house. Although I'm sure that when you are used to that support and it is withdrawn, it must seem doubly hard to get those floors washed or the laundry folded. (Heck, I don't remember the last time I folded the laundry.)

The real difference in being a solo mom is living with the knowledge that no one will ever love or be enthralled with your child as much as you are. I watch Zen Baby sing along to her favourite Doodlebops song or conquer the ladder up the slide. I watch Diva Girl mimic her Bella Dancerella DVD or listen to another gem drop out of her mouth. I live all those "Honey, look at what the baby's doing!" moments knowing that I can share them with grandparents and friends and here on this blog, but they will never be meaningful in the same way. And that is one facet of what it is like to be a single parent. Probably the hardest one.

On the other hand, my Big Girl tells me she loves me, and that I'm the best mommy ever. Or my Little Girl gives me a wide sloppy kiss and simply beams at my attention. And I know that while I will always be the "bad cop" (Diva Girl has settled in to sulk on the couch as I write this, upset at being reprimanded one too many times for teasing her sister), I will never not be the favourite parent. After all, only I hold the keys to the ice cream.

Sure, there's no one to work out the Really Big Stuff with -- Catholic School or Public? Time-outs or Time-ins? Chocolate cake or brownies for breakfast? But there's also no need to worry about anyone secondguessing or contradicting those choices once they're made. For me, that's where much of the "sanity" comes in. I don't need to lose my mind over things like the kids still needing a bath when I get done work, or always being the one who has to remember the vaccination schedule and scrub the toilet. When there is no expectation that someone else could be doing those things, it's far easier to just get on with doing them yourself. (Or, you know, putting them off until tomorrow in favour of curling up on the couch and watching Justice League with The Ladies.)

I love my kids. I make choices for them. I do it alone, and I do it happily. I accept that while they are loved by many people, they live in my heart, and my heart alone. And that is what it is like to be a solo mom.

Welcome to my blog. I'm really looking forward to talking to you. But right now I'm going to go check out the ominous silence from the playroom.