The Alpha

The Omega

In The Blink of An Eye

Nothing charts the growth of a child quite like the progression of a school year. Sure, there's the marks on the doorframe, the lost teeth, the birthdays....All great markers of the passage of time. But there's something about that movement from the first day of school to the last that captures the seemingly plodding yet ultimately fleeting nature of childhood.

Older children are different than babies and toddlers. With the wee ones, everything is new and breathlessly anticipated, so the changes are dramatic. With big kids, there's a subtlty to the changes; it's a more cumulative effect. All those moments pile up unnoticed thoroughout the year, and then suddenly it's right there in front of you. While you were busy with the day to day business of life, your children were busy growing. The freshly scrubbed, slightly uncertain child who was sent to school back in September has, by June, become infinitely more confident, if somewhat more worse for wear. Baby fat gives way to planes and angles, freckles sprout, and shoes are outgrown overnight. All major changes, but made someow minute in their enormity. Babies are often watched with a microscopic intensity, while kids are often looked at without really being seen. It's nice to have moments like the last day of school that encourage us to stop and take notice of the changes our children have undergone over the past year as they progress towards adulthood.

Yesterday I dropped my second-grader off at school, just like I have for an endless parade of mornings; in the afternoon, I picked up a newly minted third-grader.

T-Minus 6.5 Hours

Today is the Diva Girl's last day of school. As of 3:30 this afternoon, she's free for the summer. Home, for two whole months.

We're going to spend a lot of time at the community pool for swimming lessons and at the community playground program. Splash pads, and cottages, and barbeques, oh my!

Lazy Sunday Morning

I love that feeling when you wake up slowly with sunlight streaming in the window, birds twittering outside, and a sense that all is good and right in the world.

Even better if, as you lazily stretch, you realize that the kids are still sound asleep. You can roll over, snuggle back in to your perfectly plumped pillow, and bask in the decadence of another hour or so in bed, secure in the knowledge that you've got nowhere to be.

I don't, however, love the realization that dawns just as I am about to drift off into perfect slumber that it's actually Monday.

Moving Day

I didn't expect to see the moving van this morning. I've known about the move for months, and I knew that today was the day, but even so, seeing the movers busily carrying items out of the house as we walked by on our way to school came as a shock. Suddenly, the reality that there would be no more Thursday playgroup meetings, no more keeping each other company during seemingly endless assemblies and school performances, no more playground playdates, it hit home. Susan is moving. Today.

They say that it takes a village to raise a child, but in this age of far flung relatives, overpacked schedules, and stranger danger, it often feels more like being stranded on a desert island. I'm very lucky in that I do have a village--a wonderful network of family and friends who provide both emotional and practical support. And for the past three years, Susan has been a very important part of my village. She's one of the best moms I know. And not in the way that makes you feel like a bad mum in comparison. She's an incredibly grounded woman, and it gives her a patience and empathy as a mother that I often envy. It allows her to communicate her high standards and expectations to her children in ways that make sense to them. However, she also yells at her kids sometimes, and occasionally contemplates her escape plan when the pressures of raising three small children just seem to be too much to bear. Knowing that even the best mums feel like that sometimes did a lot to make me feel better about my own failures as a supermom. In fact, knowing that even the best mums drop the ball sometimes inspires me to stop beating myself up over all those times I've failed to measure up, and just get on with the business of doing better.

We met on the first day of Senior Kindergarten. Sabrina was new to the school and after she was ushered inside by the woman I would come to know as the Kindergarten Mussilini, I was left standing alone in a corner of the playground as all the other mommies caught up after the summer apart. Susan came over and introduced herself. I didn't know then how much I would like Susan or what an important part of my life she would become; I just knew that I was grateful to her for reaching out to me. Over the years she's been a shoulder to cry on and a friend to laugh with as we work our way through this parenting journey as well as an invaluable support.

Susan is one of those rare people who possess a true generosity of spirit. When Regan was born, she organized a food shower and delivered over a week's worth of homemade frozen dinners to my home. More than once when there was an unwieldly project to deliver or I was too sick to walk her, she's picked Sabrina up and driven her to school, even though she lives across the street from it and I live out of area. And she genuinely listens to people when they talk to her. You never get the sense that she's not truly present in the conversation; you do get the sense that she is honestly interested in you and in what you have to say. I am a better person for having had the gift of her friendship.

We've built a strong friendship based on mutual respect and understanding in spite of the fact that we are in some ways very different people. .Susan's a fairly traditional woman while I'm...not. And she has a calm and soothing presence whereas I tend to be more voluable. It's helped that for all their differences--she's a stay-at home mom who's been married for going on 15 years whereas I, in addition to parenting solo, have been out of the home for either school or work for Sabrina's entire life--when you scratch the surface our lives have some fundamental similarities: Our older children are the same age and have been "best enemies" since kindergarten--on any given day they are either joined at the hip, or at each other's throats. We had our last babies the same year--two little girls who would have gone to kindergarten together in a few years.

I knew I was going to miss her, but until I saw that truck this morning I didn't realize how much I was going to miss her. I feel like my village just got smaller.

Argh

It was one of those moments when I felt like I was living in a sitcom: At 8:34 PM, Sabrina presented me with a note from her teacher. A note informing me that the next day was "Pirate Day" and the children should dress in costume to celebrate. A note, judging by the date, that had been lingering in my daughter's desk for over a week. Where's the laughtrack when you need one?

So. I needed to come up with a pirate costume. For the next day. With stuff already lying around my house. Because even if she'd told me about this in time to get there before the stores closed, we're 4 months away from Halloween and not even WalMart gets that much of a jump on the holiday merchandise.

On television, this is where we'd break for a commercial. In real life, this is where I swear quietly to myself and wrack my brain trying to come up with ideas. My first thought was the costume box. We have a pretty well supplied tickle trunk, but even though I've always made a point to have "boy" costumes like fire fighter and construction worker in addition to all the princess gear, there was no readymade pirate outfit tucked in there.

There was, however, a flouncy peasant blouse that I had bought in a fit of trend inspired madness then chucked in the tickle trunk once I came to my senses and a rapier left over from last year's Romeo and Juliet unit. It was a start. Some capris, a bandana, a quick trip to my jewelry graveyard, and Diva Girl was ready to sail the Spanish Main.

Even though I solved the problem in 28 minutes with my sense of humour intact, life is not a sitcom. The next time she does this to me, I'm making her walk the plank.

What On Earth Was I Thinking?

Sure, they were on sale. But I'm thinking any money I saved is going to be spent on laundry detergent.

Too Much Of A Good Mom

You know, she's called Diva Girl for a reason. And I'll admit, sometimes I'm not the nicest of mommies. I lose my patience. I get frustrated. I yell. But given the week we've had, I think the whole "You don't love me! You're the meanest mommy ever! You never do anything nice!!!" trip is a wee bit uncalled for, even if I did clean her junk up out of the livingroom using the garbage bag method. (But only after politely inviting her to get on that herself for the past two days). Let's look at the week in review, shall we?

Friday: Took Diva Girl and Zen Baby out to dinner, and then to an evening playdate at her best friend's house that lasted far longer into the night than it should have.

Saturday: Hung out at my parents' garage sale all day so that Diva Girl could expereince the thrill of the sale. Then took her to a farewell barbeque for her other best friend, who is moving. Again, allowed her to play far longer into the night than was really rational.

Sunday: The Ladies spent the day being spoiled by their grandparents.

Monday: Allowed Diva Girl to play hookey. She was so tired after her weekend, I figured she could use a day to rest.

Tuesday: IWent on her class trip to the park, and then spent thirty dollars on raffle and bouncy castle tickets, in addition to getting myself covered in cotton candy, all in the name of supporting Sabrina's school.

Wednesday: Just an ordinary day.

Thurday: Pizza Day. So I ponied up $5 for a couple of pepperoni slices and a bag of chips, rather than inflicting a nutritious lunch on the kid.

Friday: IAllowed Sabrina to skive off school again; her sister was going to see Barney, and I didn't want her to miss out. And took her shopping. And bought her a new outfit. That she got absolutely filthy at the birthday party I took her to tonight.

Then I asked her to help out by picking up the myriad craft supplies she had strewn about the livingroom. That's when the screaming started.

I'm trying to keep my cool about it all and recognize that maybe the problem is that I've been too nice lately; in not wanting her to miss out, I've said yes to too many things and overloaded her system. And seven year-olds aren't exactly known for their longterm memory skills or their gratitude. But in all honestly, while I don't subscirbe to the martyr school of motherhood, I'm finding the total lack of appreciation a bit hard to take right now. Especially since I'm not getting any presents on Sunday.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

One of my favourite things about toddlerhood is watching the eolution of language. From hilarious mispronunciations to unique truns of phrase, language acquisition in children is an insight into their personalities, and the ways in which they process the world around them.

Both of The Ladies talked early--at about 5 months. And both of them said "'Mama" as their first word. When Sabrina did it, I dismissed it as meaningless baby babble until other people pointed out that she only made that particular noise while looking at me. When Regan followed her sister's lead, I wasn't surprised; I just figured it was par for the course.

Once Sabrina mastered her voice box, there was no holding her back. She talked constantly (and still does). At first I wondered if her words had any real meaning; when I heard her talking in her sleep it seemed obvious to me that she was well on her way to figuring the whole language thing out. While my Diva Girl has always had a strong vocabulary (one of the side effects of being the only child of a highly educated single mother), there are a couple linguistic gems that I will always treasure from the time when she was first learning to express her understanding of the world.

"Circle money." When Bree was a bout two and a half, she was telling a story that involved coins. Although she'd seen coins, and was aware that they were a form of currency, she didn't know what they were called. So, based on the information at hand, she made an educated guess.

"The Chimney Guy." Until she was about 4, Sabrina was far more interested in Frosty the Snowman than Santa Claus. The big guy in the red suit clearly didn't make much of an impact on her, since she for years, she couldn't remember his name.

"Pollimop." Sabrina has always had very good pronunciation, but for some reason, she just couldn't master the word "Lollipop." Quite possibly because I so loved hearing her say "pollimop" that I never bothered to correct her.

When Regan began speaking, I just took it for granted that she would be a talker like her sister. She said the same word at pretty much the same age, so that didn't seem like too unlikely an expectation. And when she was saying "Spongebob" shortly before her first birthday, it seemed pretty much a given. Then she got a debulking surgery for her first birthday and stopped speaking altogether.

She'd always been a reserved baby, and tended to save her verbal exchanges for Mummy, but by the time we left the hospital she wouldn't even talk to me. For months she was utterly silent. Not a word, not even a sound. Although I understood why she wasn't speaking, I'll confess that her silence was disconcerting. Two way communication, particularly verbal communication, is one of the key ways that we can judge that our children are developing on track; that the world is a comprehensible place for them and one that they are capable of processing and exploring in meaningful ways. I have one friend whose son is Autistic and another whose little boy has just been diagnosed with severe Apraxia; I needed Regan to speak to be assured that she really was ok.

I am a very lucky mother, because in addition to the miracle that was Regan's tumour, I was also, after much patient waiting, given the gift of her speech. And what a gift it is! Clearly I need not have worried about her verbal skills; at not quite two and a half Zen Baby speaks in complex sentences. She doesn't chatter constantly like her sister, but she can certainly keep up her end of the conversation. And like most toddlers, she's putting her personal twist on the language. A particular quirk of hers is her use of nouns as adjectives:

In the Zen Baby lexicon, "Barbie" means anything that is pretty. Or wearing a dress. "Chocolate" describes more of an experience than a flavour for Zen Baby. Chocolate is " chocolate," but so are strawberries and oatmeal cookies.

Sometimes I want them to just. stop. talking. But then, Regan asks me for "oh yeah juice" (Kool Aid) or a "boo boo stick" (band aid) and I just can't wait to hear what they'll say next.

Everyday Ordinary Supermom

It all started with the fieldtrip. And not just any fieldtrip. Oh, no. The Big! Year End! Trip! The vaguely educational but really just an excuse to run around the park and play in the nifty splashpad trip. I don't know what possessed me to sign up for yet another fieldtrip this year. Between the library walk that took place in a torrential downpour and the train that backed up, leaving me trapped in a tin can full of hyper seven year-olds for a millisecond longer than infinity, I think I've done my time.

Yet, there I was a 9 am, boarding the bus with a horde of overexcited first and second graders and a few other suckers...uh, parents. Aside from a serious caffeine withdrawl on my part, the trip to the park wasn't too bad. School buses are always noisy; it's the nature of the beast. But it wasn't unbearably so. The kids were excited, but in that restrained way that characterizes the start of a trip when the threat of missing out due to bad behaviour still looms large. The trip home? Not so much. The trip back home was characterized by an unbridled enthusiasm for the day's events, coupled with a laissez faire, "what's the worst that could happen now?" vibe. The ride home was "The Wheels on the Bus," and "Jingle Bells," and god help me, "The Song That Does Not End." All sung at top volume by 60 some odd children and amplified by the fabulous acoustics of the tin can on wheels.

In between, there was a field trip. There were Science activities ("When are we going to the splash pad?" "Can I have a snack?" "I wanna go on the climbers!") There was a picnic lunch (or, more accurately, a Lunchable picnic). And then, finally there were activities--Climbers and Animals and Splash Pad, oh my! I only had to climb to the top of the giant spider web twice to rescue stranded children, and Diva Girl only dissolved into tears once when she wasn't awarded line leader status based on the fact that her mom was the mom in charge (I'm so mean!), so all in all I'd say the day was a success. Exhausting, and stressful in the way that being responsible for someone else's children always is, but all in all a great day.

A day that, much like that damned song, seemed destined to never end. Because after the fieldtrip, there was The Summer Sizzler--Sabrina's school bbq fundraiser. Had I realized earlier these two events were on the same day, I never would have signed up to work at this event Of course, then I never would have discovered a hidden talent for spinning candy floss.

How many moms does it take to run the cotton candy booth? Well, if it's the booth I was working at, 3. One to take the tickets, one to handle the sticks and push the button, and one to do the actual spinning. Which is not as easy as it looks. After two and a half backbreaking hours spent bent over a a hot drum of spinning sugar, I have a whole new respect for carnies.

I was also covered in the the sticky pink fluff--not eactly the casual yet put together look I generally try for at school functions. I was a little embarrassed by my turn as Flossie the Candy Monster until I looked around at a gym filled with children holding cotton candy sticks and heard my daughter proudly telling a group of her friends, "My Mom made that you know." That made the whole long day worthwhile.

Some days in motherhood are just a long slog of getting it done. Some are magical. When I got up this morning thinking about everything else I had on the go this week and how this day was essentially wasted, I thought this was going to be a grit your teeth and bear it kind of day. Instead, it was a reminder of how wonderful it can be to just surrender to the rhythm of motherhood sometimes.

Chore or Child's Play? It's all in the Perspective, I guess.

"It's my turn, Regan!"

"No! I doin' it!"

"You already had I turn! I want to do it too!"

"No! My turn!"

"Mama! Regan's not sharing!!!!"

What is this fabulous toy that has The Ladies so utterly enthralled? Polly Pocket Jewelry Maker? Elina? Cars Happy Meal Toy?

No. The Ladies are fighting over the toilet brush. Yes, the toilet brush. My seven year-old and my toddler are nearly coming to blows over whose turn it is to scrub the toilet.

I think I need to go video this for future reference in the years to come.

Sense Memories

"This stuff smells like summer," Sabrina tells me as I spray Bactine on one of her many mosquito bites.

She's right. Even in the dead of winter the sharp, antiseptic tang of the spray immediately brings to mind the feeling of playing outside on a warm, sunny day, each knee wrapped in its own protective covering of gauze. The smell of Noxema conjures a similar sensation in me, evoking memories of sunburns past as soon as I open the jar.

When I stop and think about it, there are a few smells, sounds, and tastes that can immediately call to mind the elisive feeling of a perfect summer day for me, no matter what time of year I experience them.

In addition to the medicinal smells of Bactine and Noxema, wood smoke sends a little tickle of memory through my mind whenever I happen upon it. Woodsmoke is my first camping vacation--no parents, no rules, just me and my friends hanging out in the woods. I wasn't a big camper as a kid, and I'm not one now either, but the smell of woodsmoke always makes me nostalgic for the freedom of that first campfire.

Whether it's at the height of a summer heatwave, or in the chilly autumn days before they move off to greener pastures, the screech of seagulls always stirs in me a strong desire to hit the beach. The heat of the sand. The roar of the waves. And the pure indugence of french fries soaked in ketchup and vinegar, eaten with a toothpick while watching the sun set over the lake.

Grape Crush is the drive-in. I haven't been to one in years, but that first sip sends me hurtling back in time to a nest in the back window of my parents' station wagon every time. The excitement of peering around my father's head to see Herbie, Benjy, and the Apple Dumpling Gang; fighting with my brother for control of the cooler and therefore the snacks; the struggle to stay awake long enough to discover the mysteries of the "grown up movie." All those feelings and more are wrapped up in the sweet grapey taste of that purple nectar.

These are the sensations that define for me the experience of "summer." The tastes, sounds, and smells that remind me of my childhood even as I create a whole new host of sense memories with my children. I wonder if years from now the taste of a banana popsicle will call to mind sweltering walks home from school or the scream of peacocks will return Sabrina to the park where she spent countless school fieldtrips and visits with Gramma and Grampa. I already know that she's got the smell of Bactine covered.

June 17 2007: This is now my official entry for the Pulsate Olympics. Keep your fingers crossed for me, because I really want that Creative Wanderings gift certificate; I've already picked out what I'd buy!

Hungover

I am currently fighting the urge to vacuum.

I know, you're shocked. Or, you feel there is false advertising going on. Afterall, it says right in the little bio over there that I'm not really into the whole "cleaning" thing. And really, it's generally not so much a priority in my life. Trust me, no one is more shocked by this development than I.

But...There was a party. And now there's crap all over my floor. Seriously, everywhere I look, little bits of stuff. And it's really getting on my nerves. There is nothing I'd like better than to whip out the vacuum.

But I can't. Not even I am mean enough to suck up all of these beads and sequins and clickits and assorted other bitsies just one day after they were freed from their boxes.

Tomorrow, however, is another story.

A Very Merry Unbirthday

Back when I wrote for dotmoms, I put up a post detailing the issues involved in celebrating the birth of a holiday baby. Suffice it to say here, I have learned through experience that a)I feel like I should be including an apology for adding to the holiday stress along with the invitation, and b) I should not expect a good turnout for the party. So this year, Sabrina and I decided to try a little experiment, and we postponed her party. For six months.

In addition to the holiday season, winter parties are at the mercy of the weather. Sure, you can plan a tobogganing theme, but that will pretty much guarantee no snow. And unless you want to budget about an hour for tying and untying laces bookended by roughly 15 minutes of actual ice time before your guests start complaining about the cold, I do not recommend the skating party. Moving our party to the nice weather allowed us to take advantage of one of our city's landmark attractions, a nursery rhyme themed fun park that is a summer rite of passage for every child. I was still somewhat at the mercy of the weather--I changed the date once due to an intense storm system, and the actual party date occured the day after the heatwave broke, but they still got to see the animals, play on the structures, watch the shows, and, most importantly, spend an hour in the city's finest splashpad. One little girl was so eager not to miss out, she attended in spite of the fact that her broken arm kept her from participating in many of the activities.

If only because of the fact that every girl Sabrina invited came, I would call the experiment a rousing success. The fact that every single one of them appeared to be having the time of her life, and not once did anyone express boredom, balk at participating, or cry, was just icing on the cake.

I was a little worried about how the Diva Girl would handle this rather unorthodox approach, but she did great with it. I didn't, as I had feared, have to spend the past six months hearing about her party ad nauseum. In fact, aside from revisions to her invitation list necessitated by the vagaries of second grade playground politics, I hardly heard a word on the subject. When all was said and done, I think she actually liked spreading her loot out over the course of the year rather than having it all over with in a two week orgy of gift wrap.

And boy, did she get loot! A seven year-old girl's Nivana of birthday goodness: A Groovy Girl. Polly Pocket Jewelry Maker. Clickits. Bandana Creations. She'll be crafting until her next birthday. If her sister doesn't get to all those shiny beads first. Even if she does, it's only six months to her birthday.