Happy Unniversary

Nine years ago today, I didn't get married.

I was supposed to. The church was booked, the hall reserved. The menu was set and the flowers were chosen. The invitations were printed and addressed, but never mailed.

I didn't exactly leave him at the altar, but it was close.

I knew the Man I Didn't Marry for two years before we dated. And we dated for three years before he asked me to marry him. I wore his ring for a year before I gave it back, five weeks before the wedding.

Leaving that relationship wasn't an easy or capricious decision. It was incredibly hard, and made more difficult by the fact that I did love him, and he was (and is) a good man. He wasn't abusive. Or even mean. He made it clear that he loved me. But in the end, none of that was enough. Sometimes, it's not.

Eventually I realized that the person I would become if I became his wife was not a person I wanted to be. I couldn't do that to either of us. Become someone I wasn't, someone who would make both of us miserable, simply because I wasn't brave enough to face the truth and bear the consequences. That, much though we both wanted it to be, it just wasn't right.

So I did possibly the hardest thing I have ever done in my life: I told him I wouldn't be marrying him afterall.

It was the best decision I have ever made. I wouldn't be the person I am now, or have the life that I do, had I ignored what I knew to be true and just gone through with it. I like who I've grown into over these past nine years. I am very close to being the woman I knew I could be, the woman I knew I'd never have a chance to be if I had said, "I do." I can imagine my life many other ways, but none of them appeal to me. This, right now, is where and how I want to live. I have no regrets about not getting married. I'm sorry the man I loved was hurt in the process (and that my parents lost their deposit on the hall), but it was the right choice to make. It was so right, it really wasn't a choice at all.

To quote Norma Kelly in Chicago (which I bough myself as a little present today) : "Oh, I'm no one's wife/but oh, I love my life/and all that jazz!"

Just a Regular Monday at Our House

Reason Why I'm a Bad Mother #4872

It wasn't like I was unaware. I was paying attention. I was watching where I was going. I saw it sitting there. I even stopped for a moment and considered the ramifications of my actions.

And then I vacuumed up that Polly Pocket horseshoe without an ounce of pity or remorse.

I'm Not Sure I Wanted To Know The Answer

"What did you learn in school today, Sabrina?"

"I learned that Dylan has headlice!"

Perspective

Today is Victoria Day, the final day in the first weekend of the summer season. Although its stated fucntion is to honour the birthday of Queen Victoria, its unofficial name more accurately describes how it's celebrated in my neck of the woods. Around here, we call it the May 2-4. That's "''two/four," like the slang for a case of beer. And that pretty much sums up the point of the holiday right there: Camping and beer.

Well, it used to, anyway. I remember a time when this weekend was one of breathless anticipation. Skipping school to get a good spot in the campgrounds. Pitching a tent without bothering with timewasters like groundclearing, tarps, or any clue as to how the poles aligned to create a working structure. And drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.

These day, not so much. These days, my holiday weekend is a lot more reminiscent of my childhood than my misspent youth. Because what idiot decided that the third weekend of May would be the perfect camping weekend? Did I mention that this is Canada? And that we sometimes still measure the temperature in windchill at this time of year?

I remember enjoying huddling together for warmth inside a nearly collapsing tent, listening to the rain drip into the corner where the tarp hadn't been properly secured. I remember not minding so much being woken up at the crack of dawn by the incessant twittering of birds, knowing that I could simply pull the pillow over my head and sleep off the hangover. Somehow my adult self refuses to believe that these activities could possibly be fun.

Partly it's the knowledge that unlike nature, small children cannot be ignored in favour of recovering from indulging in the previous night's excesses. It's just a fact of life as a solo mom: No matter what you did the night before, you're still the one who is going to get up with the kids. And everyone knows, the hour they wake up is inversely proportionate to what time you went to bed. But even without the partying, I'd rather stick flaming toothpicks in my eyes than brave the elements with a bug phobic Diva Girl and a barely pottytraining Zen Baby. So now, instead of campfires and cute outfits and drinking 'til dawn, it's sparklers and jammies and bed by ten. And really, I'm ok with that.

Except for the sparklers part. No sparklers here this year. I'm a pretty laid back mom, but I kind of draw the line at giving toddlers fire to play with. I'm mean that way. (Or at least, that's what Sabrina tells me.)

Epiphany

The only differences between my Friday nights now and my Friday nights at 15 are that now I have to buy my own damn chips and I already know what's in the medicine cabinet.

And at least then I got paid to watch crappy tv.

I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mrs. N.

Sabrina is happily pawing through her dressup box, searching for the perfect costume. All thoughts of last week's heartbreak are forgotten in the face of her exciting news: Her class is putting on a play and she gets to be The Princess!

In case you haven't figured it out, the teacher and I had a little chat this morning before school. It went well, I think.

Being a teacher myself, I always feel caught between the proverbial rock and hard place in these situations. On the one hand, I know how hard the job is, and I know the party lines (no small parts...learning to accept disappointment...teamwork). I also know how "That" parent--the one who doesn't seem to grasp that her child is unique, just like everyone else's-- is talked about in the staffroom. But on the other hand, my child was the one reduced to tears, a fact that requires some sort of response even if it does place me in the ranks of "That" parent.

To make it worse, I like this teacher and I've always gotten the sense that she genuinely liked my high energy, high strung, high maintenance daughter. Which made confronting the apparent favourtism of the casting of the prinary productions all the more difficult. I truly did not want to be making the accusation that I appeared to be making, but didn't see how I could possibly call myself Sabrina's advocate if I didn't address the issue.

Turns out that the teacher immediately agreed that the situation had been unfair. The music teacher had made the final casting call and Mrs. N didn't realize until it was too late that the same core group of children had once again been given the lead roles. Among other things, this revelation certainly sheds some light on Diva Girl's newfound dislike for music class. On a professional level, Mrs. N. did bring out the arguements of learning to accept disappointment and work as a team. On a personal level, however, she aacknowledged how difficult it is to watch your child be passed over when you know how desperately she wants her chance to shine.

I really respected Mrs. N for being willing to acknowledge the unfairness. Her stock rose even higher with me when I heard her plan to make it right. She had been planning to do a reader's theatre literacy centre of The Little Red Hen. After thinking about all the kids who had been forced to be happy (or not) with the chorus due to the lack of parts in the play, she added The Chicken Princess to the playbill and decided to present them on stage and invite parents to watch.

Apparently she told Sabrina she would make an excellent Little Red Hen, but bowed to Diva Girl's preference for the princess role. Because really, who wants to dress up like a chicken when there are sparkly crowns and floorlength gowns to be worn?

I may very well be "That" Parent. But I'm that parent who is watching her daughter shine with the excitement of playing the lead in the class play, so I think I can live with it.

Goodbye CancerBaby

I had planned a post for today about Mother's Day as a solo mom. About getting "Mom and Me (aka Make your own) Cookies" and crafts made at Brownies that need "some parental assistance" to put together at home and breakfasts in bed that require that you get up to supervise the burning of the toast and the scrambling of the egg shells before rushing back to bed to be "surprised" by your lovingly prepared feast.

And then I learned that Cancerbaby died this week. And the highs and lows of doing this motherhood thing on my own just didn't really seem all that important anymore.

Cancerbaby was one of my favourite friends I've never met. We are friends in that peculiar way that bloggers sometimes are. We never knew each other's names or saw each other's faces, but we shared each other's lives. Through posts, comments, and email we supported each other through our struggles, cheering on victories and commiserating over defeats.

I like to joke that The Universe is out to get me. That these past few years struggling with a seeming incredible confluence of bad luck have been the repayment of some sort of gigantic Karmic debt. But really, Cancerbaby's story puts my life into stark perspective.

Shortly after she and her husband decided that they were ready to start their family, Cancerbaby began to have symptoms. As is so often the case, by the time the correct diagnosis of Ovarian Cancer was made her reproductive system--and her dreams of having a baby--were sacrificed to save her life. Her blog chronicled her journey to accept this. To incorporate this devastation to her being into her sense of self. To survive it and own it. Cancerbaby spoke intelligently and passionately, and often hilariously about the state of cancer in America. She was heartbreaking and inspiring in her eloquence.

And she appeared to be thriving. To have embraced her life and begun making plans for a future. A future that would include children and motherhood, regardless of her cancer-induced infertility. I and many others were exicted for her. She so deserved this chance at happiness, at having some variation of the life she'd dreamed of.

Then the rug was pulled out from under her again. The cancer recurred. And in spite of all the latest and best treatments, the cancer killed her.

I first "met" Cancerbaby when my own Zen Baby's tumour was diagnosed. I was tickled and moved by a brilliant post railing against the "mood oglers" of the world, those people who exhort you to "cheer up" or "smile" without having any clue as to your personal circumstance, just a feeling that your emotions--or their perceptions of them--are ruining their day. I was moved enough to make my very first comment ever on a blog. In it I briefly referenced Regan's cancer diagnosis and how it had redefined my own response to mood oglers.

I was shocked when later that day Cancerbaby emailed me to ask how my daughter was doing. That first email began a correspondence between us that was at times made awkward by my guilt at my daughter's miraculous survival, and even her very existence, in the face of Cancerbaby's own tragedies, but was always smoothed over by her generosity of spirit. She acknowledged with shocking honesty that, as an infertile woman who bore a certain amount of healthy bitterness about her state, she didn't particularly relish conversations with friends about their children. But she made an exception for Zen Baby, counting her among her own personal ranks and cheering on milestones both extraordinary and mundane. She expressed as much joy and interest in Regan's first steps as she had at her successful debulking surgery. She truly cared about me and my daughter, and I cared about her.

Her death was not a surprise. Certainly by the end, every one who followed her blog knew that it was coming. Even before it got really bad, before she stopped posting because between the pain of her disease and the pain of its treatment, simply living life took so much effort that there was nothing left for publicly private reflection. Cancerbaby knew, and had accepted her fate. One of our last email exchanges was about this newfound attitude of peace she seemed to have found. She certainly wasn't willing to lay down and allow the cancer to claim her, but she had a calmness about the prospect of it. A feeling that she had made sense out of her journey and could see the end, one that wasn't what she had hoped for, but one that she thought she could accept for herself.

Cancerbaby's journey is done now. I do not have the words to express how saddened I am by that. But I feel priviledged that I was allowed to share in it along the way. She was an extraordinary woman, and she will be missed.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

I was supposed to be at Sabrina's school play tonight. Instead I sat on my couch in my jammies, cheering on a little car with big personality while stuffing my face with candy and potato chips. And while I really don't mind being spared the horrors of the Grade School Band, or having to listen to the same songs I've been hearing around the house for a month now, I am pissed off at how we came to be sitting in our living room watching a movie rather than in the high school auditorium watching the primary division put on a play about saving the environment.

Two long months of hard work and disappointment came to a head last night. As we were getting ready to head out, Sabrina sat in my lap and sobbed, finally exhausted by her prolonged effort to put a good face on the sheer injustice of it all. Diva Girl, you see, didn't get a part. While this was assuredly an injustice (more on that later), it would have hardly lead to our catastrophic meltdown. The problem was that, trying to placate Diva Girl after crushing her by not giving her a part, The Teacher made her The Understudy. Of every part in the class.

Sabrina is a fairly optimistic and naive little seven year-old. And she likes her teacher, who talked up the honour and responsiblity of being The Understudy. As a result, Diva Girl was proud of her “important” role in the play, and set about doing it justice. She learned "her" lines -- all of them, for all 7 parts. She stepped in for rehearsals when one of the actors was absent, and eventually tried on every role. She preferred the Butterfly or Owl parts, but happily confided in me that she didn't mind if she ended up being Skunk or Beaver. I don't think she ever really understood that in real life, The Understudy rarely gets a chance to jump in and save the show.

At yesterday's dress rehearsal, all the leads were present and accounted for and Diva Girl spent the entire show as a member of the chorus. It was then that she started to get the idea that she wouldn't be playing Butterfly, or Owl, or even Skunk. That she would be expected to simply wear her white shirt without any sort of special animal hat and blend in with the crowd. You might already realize this from her name, but Diva Girl? Not a fan of the blending.

So she embraced denial. At dinner she listed off for me all the different colours of shirt she needed to bring to make sure she was appropriately attired no matter what part she was called upon to take. When she went to her dress up box to dig out her butterfly wings "just in case," I knew I had to step in and burst her bubble.

"You know honey, I think you're just going to wear your white shirt. That's what the note said to wear as your costume."

"But Mama! That's just if I'm only in the chorus! If I'm Beaver or Owl I'll need a brown shirt. For Skunk we need to bring a black one! I need my green one for Frog. Wanna hear my French accent?"

"I'm sure you have a great French accent, baby. But I don't think you're going to need those costumes. And if you do, I'm sure Mrs N. can work something out."

My unwillingness to pack a large duffel bag fill of costume changes that she wouldn't need was the final blow to her reality distortion field, and she threw herself into my lap sobbing, "It's not fair!"

I tried to soothe her, using all of the proper adult arguments and rationalizations for such situations:

"Not everyone can have a turn." "Heather and Zoe and Sarah had turns last year and this year!"

"Lots of people wanted roles. You're not the only one left out." "Matty didn't want a role! Mrs N. made him do it! And Madison didn't even have a part to start!"

"I'm really proud of you. You worked really hard on this." "I did, Mama! I did work really hard. Harder than anybody else. And it's NOT FAIR!!!!"

The rub was, I agree with her. It wasn't fair that Heather and Zoe and Sarah got the leads two years in a row. It wasn't fair that she, who so desperately wanted a chance to shine, was passed over in favour of shy little Matty "because he needed it more." Even the kids like Diva Girl who naturally shine need a chance to be validated for it sometimes. And she did work harder than anyone else--she memorized the entire play. It wasn't fair.

And she was looking to me to make this right for her.

"Do you want me to talk to your teacher and tell her how you feel?" I asked her, wincing at the prospect of being "that" parent, but knowing that she needed to see me doing something.

"YES!" She turned her little tearstained face to me, her eyes alight with hope. "Let's go right now! And tell her to let me be the Butterfly." Clearly we had different ideas about the intent of the conversation, and it's probable outcome.

"I can't do that Diva Girl. I can tell her how upset you are that you don't have a part. But it wouldn't be fair to Heather to take away her part. She worked hard on it too."

"But not as hard as me!!! And I don't want to be in the chorus!!!"

I didn't know what to do to lessen the sting. I could see that this had to the potential to be her first defining Moment. You know the ones. The ones you can recall with total clarity and a visceral feeling of despair the unfairness of it all. The stories you tell your friends when you're sharing the ice cream container and the damage of your childhoods. I didn't want this to be her Moment.

"Well, you don't have to be in the chorus."

"Yes. Make Mrs N. give me part."

"I can't do that Sabrina. You can go to the play and maybe have a part, or be happy as part of the chorus. Or, you can stay home and we can have a movie night.We'll go out and get some chips and you can have Kool-Aid and maybe stay up late."

She chose the movie night. Not out of pique or a sense of punishing them by withdrawing her presence, but because the option of staying up past her bedtime, gorging herself on junk food, and watching a *gasp* PG movie was far more attractive to her than standing in the background singing her little heart out. Which is what I was banking on when I made the offer.

In the end, we had a really great night. I turned off the computer and refused to answer the phone. We hung out and connected in a way that wouldn't have happened if I'd been sitting in the audience and she'd been on stage. I know she would have been happier if I'd been cheering her on, but cheering on Herbie together was almost as good.

Monday I'm going to the school, and I'm going to try very hard not to be "that" parent. But Diva Girl is right. It's NOT fair. And nobody makes my baby cry.

Even Better Than A Ceramic Handprint

Today I got exactly what I've always wanted for Mother's Day: A Day to myself. A day to slough off the constraints of motherhood and just be Kimberly for a while. Not that I'm not always me; for good or bad, my insistence on being true to myself is one of my defining characteristics. But I am almost always being some variation of the Mommy Kimberly. You know how it is, even when the kids are at school, or asleep, or playing nicely in the other room, you are still on mommy duty. And when you're a solomom, there really isn't anyone to hand off to at the end of the day. So, I am always on.

Except, not today. Today I played hooky from motherhood. Today I pulled the parenting equivalent of Senior Skip Day. Today I dropped off the Ladies (Diva Girl at school; Zen Baby at Gramma's) and then I hit the road with one of my best friends.

Not once during the 90 minute trip to the happiest place in the world did anyone ask, "Are we there yet?" complain that someone was touching them, or demand to stop at McDonalds for a potty break. And that wasn't even the best part of the day!

We wandered through at a leisurely pace. I took as long as I wanted looking at things. Picking up objects, touching fabrics, and, I confess, even hugging this rug.Without having to worry that anyone was going to break anything or listen to any whining about how boring this whole day is. In the rougly two hours it took us to tour the store, not once did I utter any of the following phrases:

"Don't touch that."

"Put that back."

"Come back here please."

"Please Keep up."

"No, I'm not buying that."

Pure bliss. But that wasn't even the best part.

The best part was that I didn't even realize it. Not in that "didn't recognize how great it was until it was over" way, but in that "so thoroughly enjoying the moment I have no time to stop and analyze the moment" kind of way. I was too busy talking and laughing with Karla about anything and everything in our lives to even realize that I had let that constant mom-vigilance go. That absloutely no part of me was not fully present in my conversation with my friend. No part of me was tracking Sabrina, or searching for a sippy cup for Regan, or frankly, thinking about my kids at all.

All I was thinking about was my unabashed love of polkadots and talking Karla into getting the perfect bedding to inspire a whole new room. The shiny, pretty, cheap things at Ikea inspired me to really put some thought and effort into my home. To put my stamp on this bland beige box of a space and make it a home rather than simply a place to sleep and store our stuff.

The changes in our home aren't just limited to decor, though. It's a whole new attitude. Even though we were only gone a few hours I arrived home a renewed mother. One who is excited, relaxed, and refreshed. And that--the space to reconnect with myself that allowed me to rekindle my enthusiasm for my life, all of my life--is the best Mother's Day present ever.

Never Underestimate the Power of an Excellent Diversion

My Zen Baby has discovered the concept of "scary." Which, given the last two years of her life, is hardly surprising. Of course, she's probably had the concept mastered for a while; now, however, she has the words to go with it.

"Mama I skeered," she tells me, looking at the old lady lingering in the foyer of our buliding.

"Ssssh, Baby. There's nothing to be scared of'," I quietly reassure her, searching for my keys.

"No Mama! That skeery. I skeered!" She insists, pointing at the woman, who looks like Central Casting's idea of a wicked witch.

"It's ok, Regan." I tell her, mentally smacking myself for not having the key ready when we came in the door. I saw the woman there. I thought to myself for at least the thousandth time how stereotypically frightening she looks with her small, shrivelled frame, her babushka and shawl, her hooked nose so prominent in a sunken face endlessly folded with wrinkles. I even wondered if Zen Baby would comment on her, given her toddler-driven impluse to narrate her experiences. But then I dismissed the possiblity for such a social faux pas as unlikely. For one thing, we've passed this woman hundreds of times since we've lived her, and Regan hasn't ever given any indication that she is even aware of her. And, more importantly, my daughter doesn't speak in front of strangers. At all. It's one of the constants of life with Zen Baby.

Except, not today.

"No!" She tells me forcefully. It NOT okay. That lady skeery!"

Well, there goes any hope that the "Skeery Lady" isnt aware of our conversation. Isn't that just the way with kids? I spend the past year hoping that Regan will overcome her shyness and talk openly in public. And now? Now I just want her to be quiet.

"Hey!" I say brightly, finally wrestling open the heavy door. "Wanna push the elevator button?"

A Day in the Life

Well, I have to say, that was the least traumatic medical procedure I've ever been through with Zen Baby. There was absolutely no screaming. (None that I heard, anyway. I've chosen not to think too hard what it means that her hair was soaked with sweat and she was doing that hitching sob thing when they returned her to me after the procedure.) No flailing around. No vehement protestations of her displeasure.

She allowed the Dentist to administer the sedation drug nasally without a peep. Last year she freaked out about having to swallow candy flavoured medicine even when I was the one giving it to her. This year she allows a complete stranger to squirt drugs up her nose. Oh what a difference a year makes.

The sedation though, that was small potatoes. I figured the real fireworks would start when they tried to take x-rays of her teeth. Because I'm not thinking your average 2 year-old is really down with that particular procedure. And Zen Baby? Less inclined to suffer the indignities of medical probing than most. And really, really strong. But she surprised me. I was prepared for a scene out of The Exorcist as I held her jaws clamped shut against the film. I expected tears. At the very least, accusation. I didn't expect her to lay there with this horrible bit of plastic gagging her, looking up at me with a heartbreaking mixture of bewilderment and trust. I was so incredibly proud of her.

And then, well, I'm not proud of what happened next. Because I fled. They said, "ok Mom, we're ready to start. You need to go to the waiting room now." And I did. At an unseemly pace. My father, who is Zen Baby's back up support in all things medical, lingered in the doorway, asking to stay with her. But not me. Nope. Her mother, who was with her every step of the way last year, present for every iv insertion, blood draw, needle stick, and sedation, couldn't get out of that room fast enough.

When they brought her out a half hour later she sweaty, sobbing, and swollen. But basically ok. The minute I had her safe in my arms I started singing her special song--the one I used to settle her in the hospital. I was so relieved to learn as she slowly relaxed in my arms that not everything changes in the course of a year and that it stilll has magic for her. It made it easier to leave her in her Grandpa's capable hands and move on to the next part of my day: Diva Girl's field trip.

The smile that lit my daughter's face when she saw me walk into her classroom made the knot in my belly a little looser. The fact of the matter is, Zen Baby was sleeping and oblivious as to whether or not I was waiting on her every breath. Diva Girl was sitting there waiting with baited breath to see if I would walk through that door. I'm glad I didn't disappoint her.

The field trip itself was, well, a field trip. There was a bus ride--oh how I love being trapped in a tin can with 60 hyped up seven year-olds. Each and every time I am astonished by the sheer wall of noise that is produced. The stop at the train tracks was a special treat. Especially when, after taking 10 minutes (which is more like an hour in bus time) to make it through the railway crossing, the train then proceeded to back up. Yeah, that part was awesome. There was an afternoon spent attempting to contain the excitement of the aforementioned second graders while not dampening their enthusiasm for the play; a really good, nearly professional quality highschool production of a Broadway musical. Aside from the one gentleman who had quite the fascination with the velcro closure on his shoes and the fact that some genuis seated our group behind a class of eighth graders, leading to a near constant murmer of "I can't see!!! ," it was great. And then there was the inevitable bus mixup/delay on the way home. So, all in all, pretty standard. But the point of the trip wasn't the trip, it was that I was on it.

Which of course didn't stop Diva Girl from complaining that I never do anything with her and demanding that I spend the evening playing with her. Because that's just who she is.

Kimberly's Choice

It is one of the inevitables when parenting multiple children that at any given time, they will have conflicting needs and wants. And the greater the need of one child, the more intense the want of the other.

After three months of waiting and watching her teeth slowly deteriorate, Regan is finally scheduled for her surgery to have them cleaned and capped. On the same day that I had already agreed to supervise Sabrina's field trip. Regan needs this procedure. Sabrina desperately wants me to go on her field trip. And so I am left feeling pulled between my conflicting responsibilities as a mother.

To up the ante, this is not the first time I have been put in a position to choose between my children. Last year I spent a month living in the hospital with Regan while Sabrina stayed with her grandparents. Sabrina was loved and spoiled and taken care of in every way possible. And Regan, at barely a year old, needed me with her as her tumour was dealt with. I did the best that I could to do right by my girls. But the fact remains that I am only one person and I could only be with one child. And I chose Regan. It was the right choice, but it was a choice. And at six years old, that's all my Diva Girl was really able to understand: That I didn't choose her.

This scheduling conflict is the same drama in a smaller scale. I need to make a choice as to which daughter will have my time and my attention. And much though I am sure Zen Baby will want me to be there with her as she recovers from this most recent indignity to her small body, Sabrina needs me to be with her. To choose her. So this time the roles will be reversed and I will choose to spend my time with Diva Girl and the Zen Baby will rely on Grandma and Grandpa to take care of her in my absence.

And me? I'll toss another quarter in the therapy jars to cover all the mommy guilt. Or just blog it. That works too.

Milestone Moment

There's an old saying that in parenting, the days are long, but the years are short. Essentially, although the daily routine of diapers, tantrums, homework, and bedtimes seems like an endless grind of "lather, rinse, repeat," in reality, when you look back, it all changes in the blink of an eye. Which, as the mother of a seven year old, I can tell you is true. And nothing brings it home like the arrival of another milestone moment. Each one is a reminder that the time has flown by and that slogging through all those individual moments of motherhood have culminated in another event that stands to mark the passage of that time. First steps. First loose tooth. First day of school. And, for Catholic families like ours, First Communion.

Sabrina made her first communion on Sunday, and I have to confess, I was more moved than I thought I would be. We're pretty small "c" Catholic. We belong to a parish and attend church fairly regularly, but the Pope doesn't really play a role in my daily decision making (hello...2 kids, no man). I have a crucifix up on a wall, but I don't think Sabrina would have a clue as to what a rosary is for. So it was a bit of a surprise to me how excited and proud I felt watching my oldest daughter skip down the aisle in her party dress and sparkly hot pink sneaks (no freaky mini-bride for me. One little girl wore a veil. I mean, seriously??). Looking around the church where I had made my first communion, watching my child enter into this community that I hadn't even realized was so important to me, was more than a milestone. It was a Moment.

It was a moment for me to reflect on what this community meant to me, and how happy and secure it made me to be able to share it with my daughters. And how proud I was to be able to share my daughter with it. To stand up and say, "this is my girl. I have loved her and raised her and am now ready to trust her to you." It was a moment where the tiny pink bundle that I spoke for in front of the baptismal font stood up and spoke for herself for the first time. My baby is truly growing up, moment by moment.