Crocs Rock

When my friend Mandi first showed me her Crocs, I mocked her mercilessly. I believe I described them as "a crime against fashion." Which they are. Just because it hasn't been mocked on go fug yourself and Stacy and Clinton don't have a rule for it yet doesn't mean it's not a sartorial Don't.

The odd, bulbous toe....the ventilation slots....the strange rubbery texture....there's no denying the sheer ugliness of the world's trendiest garden clog. There's also, I'm now willing to admit, no denying their comfort and practicality.

My seduction by the dark side of shoes was a gradual process. First, there was the comfort factor; walking is Crocs is like strapping pillows to your feet. Massaging pillows. Between the cushiony softness of the strange rubbery sole and the little nubblies that pepper it, I defy you to find a more comfortable shoe. But they're still the very definition of fugly, and I'm all about suffering for my shoe art.

But I'm also all about bright, bold colours. And crocs seem to have redefined the rainbow. Against my will, I found myself staring at the riotous displays seeking to break my resolve with orange, fushia, aqua, and a host of other exciting colours. Maybe, just maybe, the loud, ridiculous hues could work to distract the eye from the sheer hideousness of the design.

Then there was the feature I'd initially used to justify my position that Crocs are the antithesis of style: The washability factor. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against washable shoes, but I firmly believe that they do not belong in the dishwasher. Which is why I powerwash them. Between the sand at the playground, the water from the pool, and the fact that we walk almost everywhere, and the most offensive feature has become a huge selling point--no mess, no nasty foot smell....Hooray for shoes you can just hose down at the end of the day!

The final nail in my anti-Crocs coffin though was this. Crocs, more than any other item I can think of, prove the axiom that anything can be adorable if it's made in a small enough size. (Regan calls them her "crocodile shoes. How cute is that?)

So, my name is Kimberly, and I love my Crocs. Wanna make something of it?

(Hey, if you'd like to see actual real pictures of people's adorable children and not just shots of some fugly shoes, go visit this site. Heck, why not upload a photo or two of your own while you're there?)

A Most Just Verdict

There's been a lot said this week about the Andrea Yates verdict. I debated jumping into the fray because that sort of political commentary really isn't what this blog is all about. But what it is about is being a mother, and the trials and triumphs that that entails. So I decided to heck with it. My thoughts on the verdict are relevant because this is an issue that I think is relevant to all mothers.

I am thrilled with that verdict. I thought the initial sentence was a travesty, and that this is the most just outcome possible under the circumstances.

Yes, she did it; she chased down and methodically drowned her five children. She has never claimed otherwise. But she didn't do it for love or money or vengance. She did it because she was sufferring from a severe, untreated psychosis. Not merely intense depression, which can be crippling enough to a mother. Psychosis. Horrific though it is, I can totally believe her chasing them down and then laying them out one by one. Because she was psychotic . It was an awful thing, but really, I feel it was at least as much a tragedy for her as for everyone else. Because she was denied the help she needed, because she was dismissed and belittled and made to feel like she didn't matter, like her very real, obviously dangerous illness was simply a ridiculous display of self-indulgence, she will now have to live with the knowledge of what she did for the rest of her life.

Personally, I think her husband shuld be charged with something. He played a huge role in creating the situation that lead to this. I find the fact that he's allowed to simply move on and begin creating a new family deeply offensive.

He refused to allow her to take medication for her PPP. He refused to take measures to limit their procreation, insisting that she bear as many children as she possibly could in spite of the fact that her doctors made it clear that she was not psychologically capable of positively dealing with the hormonal stresses of pregnancy and childbirth. When she recognized that she was teetering on the brink and checked herself into a psychiatric ward, he promptly dismissed her concerns and her illness and checked her back out. He insisted that she homeschool the boys, effectively trapping her inside her worst nightmare all day. He isolated her, moving her to a remote trailer and controll ing access and support to her. Andrea Yates' faulty brain chemistry created this nightmare, but her husband's presumably lucid mind gave it life. She might not have been in the right mind to know what she was doing, but he sure as hell was. And yet she is the only one on trial.

I remember this case vividly because Regan is the same age as Mary, the Yates' youngest child. I remember the horror at the the thought of what had happened to those poor children, and I remember the demonization of Andrea that followed. The media spin and much of the righteous talk on the playground was about what a monster the woman clearly was, to have committed such a heinous act. I think some of the cry for blood was because Andrea Yates is everyone's worst nightmare--she forced people to confront the dirty little secret that motherhood is not all sunshine and rainbows.

Sometimes you hate your kids. You love them desperately, but sometimes you want to climb the walls because they are eating your brain. Sometimes you maybe even, in the darkest reaches of your soul, want to drown them in the bathtub. But we don't do it, because we know those feelings are fleeting. Because we are not crippled by the chemicals running through our brains.

But if we're honest, I think we do understand the impulse, and I think that frightens people. They need to make Andrea an abberration in order to continue on with the fantasy that everything is fine and mothers are infinitely patient women who adore all children with their every breath.

Motherhood is hard. Exhausting and soul draining even on the good days. Personally, I look at Andrea Yates with compassion and pity, understanding that there but for the grace of brain chemistry and hormonal balance go I.

Back to Reality

Gone Fishin'

We're going to the cottage! We're going to the cottage! A whole weekend at the beach--the good beach. The "faraway, I haven't been there since Sabrina was born" beach!

I'm so excited that I woke up this morning with a case of vacation anticipation the likes of which I haven't felt since I was a child. You remember that feeling, right? When you'd wake up super early filled with a sense of intense possiblilty on the day you were to leave on whatever trip had been planned to break up the tedium of two whole months knocking about the house. A feeling that anything could happen, and whatever it was, it was going to be wonderful. That's how I bounded out of bed at 6 am--and trust me, I don't bound out of bed at 10 am, so this is a very big deal. The Ladies, with no idea what delights are in store for this weekend, are still sleeping soundly.

Me? I've showered, shaved (I'm going to be wearing a real live bikini! Not the "momkini" I wear every day to the pool!), painted my toes a stunning shade of electric blue (Blue Siren by Revlon. I highly recommend it), and put the finishing touches on the packing.

Ugh. The packing. It's times like these, as I look at the bags and paraphranalia cluttering my entryway, that I think back very fondly on my life pre-kids. It used to be that for a trip like this I'd toss a towel, a tee, and a toothbrush into a bag and be out the door and on my way for a weekend of cottagey goodness. Now I'm hauling around a packed-to-bursting duffle bag filled with clothes for The Ladies, a backpack full of towels, Regan's Dora backpack (a whimsical alternative to a diaper bag, and one she can carry herself to boot), a pack of diapers, a pack of swim diapers, a bag of beach toys, a car seat, and a booster seat. Oh, and the toiletries "bag"--Sabrina's school backpack making it's final journey, stuffed to the gills with toothbrushes, Motrin , Tylenol , Gravol (all in children's and adult formulae), babypowder, sunscreen, bug spray, Bactine, and boo boo sticks.

And yet I'm still just taking a towel, a toothbrush, a tee and toothbrush for myself. Oh, and an extra suit. For the hot tub.

We're going to the cottage! We're going to the cottage! And we're bringing a bunch of stuff.

Note to Self: Addendum

Nor is it a good idea to share Raspberry Iced Capp with your two year old, no matter how meltingly hot it is or how adorable she sounds saying "Pretty peas!"

The Mommy Trap

I've been having a hard time writing lately. Usually I have no trouble sitting down at the computer and spilling my thoughts onto the screen. But usually, I have time in my day to just sit and think my own thoughts. These past two weeks, between the simple fact of summer vacation, the insanity of essentially tuning Diva Girl into triplets by adding a 6 and a 7 year-old to the mix, and the lures of unlimited TLC thanks to the wonder of TiVo, not so much.

These past two weeks have been filled with swimming lessons, library programs, trips to the park, and all the insanity and heartmelting moments life with 4 wee girlies can produce. I'm not complaining; it's been wonderful to be able to give Sabrina this kind of summer. But it's been exhausting too. I'm not used to having 3 little girls underfoot all the time, and it's taken its toll. By the time things are quiet enough around here for me to grab a few uninterrupted minutes to write, I'm just not in that headspace. Once bedtime calm has been achieved I'm far more inclined to chill out with an episode from the Law and Order franchise than to wrestle with putting together coherent thoughts using complex sentences.

Today, however, I have time. Regan is napping, the wee girlies are out with their mom, and Sabrina is busy in the backyard transforming the picnic table into a fort. I finally have the time and space to myself to write. And I feel guilty. I feel like I should be out there spending one on one time with Bree--something she's not had a lot of lately-- not holed up in here spending time by myself--something I've had even less of.

It's the ultimate trap of motherhood: I need this time, and what's more, I deserve it. But, so does she. She's been very patient with this whole sharing her mommy thing (well, about as patient as the Diva Girl gets, anyway). She's not even whining at me to play with her right now; she'd rather that I were, but has graciously accepted the fact that I'm not going to. Which, rather than making me feel better about my choice to focus on myself for a hour, only adds to the guilt. Frustrating though it is, in some ways it's easier to feel good about saying "no" when they're bugging you.

What am I going to about it? I'm going to do what mothers do best: I'm going to compromise. I'll give a little, and I'll take a little. First, I'm going to give myself some time to think my own thoughts; then I'm going to take my Ladies out for a swim. Will it be as perfect an afternoon as if I were left to my own devices to eat ice cream in bed and immerse myself in a book? No. Will it wash away the twinges of guilt I feel when I look out the window and watch Sabrina have a tea party with herself? No. Will it open the jaws of this mommy trap just enough that I can squeeze through? I think so.

Things That Are Only Funny When You're Seven

So, the Punchbuggy incident inspired me to begin compiling a list of Things That Are Only Funny When You're Seven. I'll start, but feel free to add your own personal pain to the list.

1. Knock Knock Jokes. Do I really need to say more?

2. "I don't like it." Long Pause. "I LOVE it!!!" You know, I remember this as being the height of wit when I was seven. I'm starting to suspect it really wasn't that funny then either (a suspicion that was enthusiastically confirmed by my mother).

3. "I know you are, but what am I?" Irritating. You? Are irritating.

When is a Volkswagen like a Ping Pong Match?

There are many activities in life that are almost as much fun to watch as they are to participate in. Hence the phenomenon of televised poker games and the continuing popularity of golf as a spectator sport. Punchbuggy, however, does not fall into this category.

I like a good game of punchbuggy as much as the next person who was born in the 70s, but after a day spent in a van listening to three little girls call "no punchbacks!" over and over and over again, I'd be happy if I never saw another Beetle. Or PT Cruiser. Or Mini Cooper. Or really any vehicle with a vaguely rounded shape.

Game, Set, and Match: Zen Baby

Regan quite often gets the last word in most of our conversations. Not because she's argumentative; she is, after all the Zen Baby. The fact is, so many of the things that come out of her mouth either leave me speechless or howling with laughter. It's hard to keep up your end of the conversation when you're met with answers like these:

"Look, Mama!" Regan sticks out her tongue to show me the half-chewed pea sitting on its tip.

"Don't do that, Baby. It's not nice manners."

"No it's not. I sharin' wif you."

"Come on, Re!" I cajole, trying to get her to settle in for her pre-bedtime drug of choice. "Bear is on!" She ignores me, her attention firmly fixed on the Groovy Girl in her hands. I pull out the big guns: "You're going to miss him sniffing you. If you miss him sniffing you, you won't know what you smell like."

"Yah, I do." She replies, not bothering to look up from her accessories.

"Really? What do you smell like?"

"I smell like pee!"

Now, the proper response to this would be, "Ok! Let's go change your diaper and get ready for bed." But that's hard to get out when you've just snorted lemonade out your nose and are trying to remember how to laugh and breathe at the same time.

Taking What Life Hands You

Last week I got handed a big ol' bag of lemons. Plump, juicy, sour lemons. The summer teaching gig I'd been counting on during this stay-at-home year wasn't offered to me. To say I was knocked for a loop would be an understatement. I've spent the month of July figuring out creative and interesting ways to get a bunch of teenagers excited about Holden Caulfield, Macbeth, and the intricasies of the English language for four years now. So, the fact that the principal's goddaughter was offered the position...well, it came as a blow.

Even when I've spent the entire school year teaching fulltime, I look forward to July. It's a pressure cooker, compressing 5 months of curriculum into 110 hours, and the marking load is killer, but the sense of accomplishment that comes from fighting through the teenage allure of days on the beach and nights spent who knows where to deliver a fun, successful course really has no compare. And this year, as I slowly watched the professional me slip away, as I embraced staying home and all that entails, in the back of my mind was the thought that "there's always summer school."

I'm not used to being a stay-at-home mom. I've never stayed at home for any length of time. Sabrina was born on semester break--3 weeks to the day later, I was back at university without having missed a day of classes. I taught the summer Regan was born, and continued to work through last year's tumour ordeal. Being the woman schlepping around in overalls to playgroups and school events or knowing the entire kids CBC programming schedule by heart just wasn't how I pictured my life, or myself. I've enjoyed the experience, and I'm convinced taking this year off was absolutely the right decsion for my family, but I'm ready to get back to my real life

Or at least I was until I listened to my answering machine last week.

My first reaction was to howl at the injustice of it all. Then I panicked a bit about the money--$3000 for a month's work, when you haven't worked in the previous 12, is pretty hard to let go. After I realized that while I'd be no better off financially than I am, I wouldn't be any worse, I stopped hyperventilating and went into a deep funk. I wanted to go out into the world every day. I wanted it to matter if I was wearing lipgloss and cute shoes. I wanted to be acknowledged and validated for my efforts. And it really sucked that that wasn't going to happen. Especially as it dawned on me about then that this also meant two months home fulltime with both girls. I have never, in all my time as a mother, done that. In fact, I haven't spent an entire summer home fulltime since Sabrina was 18 months old.

I wasn't exactly feeling warm fuzzies about the prospect of spending two hot sticky months cooped up in an eighth floor apartment with a bored Diva Girl and a discombobulated Zen Baby; cold sweat would probably more accurately describe my reaction to that possiblity. A possibility that thankfully didn't become my reality. It's a horrible cliche, but then again, most cliches are cliche because they're true: one door closed, and another one opened. Into a life staying with friends who live 5 minutes from the community pool in one direction, and 5 minutes from the neighbourhood playground program in another. Friends who have built in playmates (or, partners in crime, depending on the activity) for Sabrina in the form of 6 and 7 year-old daughters.

In exchange for babysitting, I get to sit in air conditioned comfort watching the premium cable channels and I don't have to cook dinner. That's a pretty sweet deal for someone who hasn't seen What Not To Wear in over year, and has a dysfunctional relationship with her oven. Even better though, is the fact that I get to enjoy my summer in ways I never imagined.

I get to take the kids to swimming lessons every day and watch as they master new skills. I get to spend the morning pushing swings, tracing out countless hopscotch boards and running in the sprinklers. I get to sit outside with my laptop, writing this post while watching all four girls happily play together at the water table. I get to enjoy my lemonade.

Note To Self

No matter how tempting, it is NOT a good idea to indulge in a Raspberry Ice Capp at midnight.

There was a time when that would've been no problem. But that time is long past. It was in the life before swimming lessons, playdates, and toddlers who instinctively know when not to nap.

I. Am. Canadian.eh

Happy Canada Day!

Around here, it's not about the Barbeque--not a good idea on a eighth floor balcony--or the fireworks--that's the August Civic Holiday. Around here, it's all about the books.

Admittedly, a lot of occasions around here involve books. Birthdays, Christmas, the monthly arrival of the Scholastic catalogue (cut off for two whole months! sob)....a lot of opportunities for the book buying. But Canada Day is a little different.

Canada Day books give me the opportunity to ensure that The Ladies develop an appreciation for and pride in the literature of their nation. We have a tonne of books in our home. Books on shelves. Books in baskets. Books in boxes. Books on the bed and under the couch. It would be easy for really great Canadian authors to be overlooked in this avalanche of children's literature, and that would be a tragedy. So each year, I take this opportunity to celebrate my country by celebrating its literature.

Over the years, we've amassed quite the collection of Dennis Lee, Marie Louise Gay and Phoebe Gilman, among others. This year we're adding to our Marie Louise Gay collection by expanding the world of Stella with a Sam collection for Regan. While Sabrina still enjoys picture books, she's a full fledged reader now and to celebrate, she'll get her very first Classic Canadian Novel this year: Jacob Two Two Meets the Hooded Fang.

Some of it's prizewinning, some of it's not, but I hope either way, it serves to help my children realize that there is a wealth of wonderful literature in the world, some of it in their own backyard. It's a reminder I need too sometimes, so I include myself in this tradition as well. In addition to books for The Ladies, I treat myself to a new piece of Canadian fiction each July. This year I had been planning on The Penelopiad, but when I saw this, I just couldn't resist.

I've been a Gordon Korman fan since I could read, which coincides pretty well with as long as he's been writing. The Macdonald Hall Series, Bugs Potter, and Don't Care High all hold special places in my heart. As a child and young adult reader, Gordon Korman's world, filled as it was with crazed, improbable, hilariously funny situations, over the top characters, and plots that had just enough nuggets of reality to allow you to suspend disbelief and jump right in, rocked mine. But then I grew up and so did he. And as I struggled to find my place in the adult world, Korman seemed to be struggling to find his adult voice in the literary one. Sadly, as often happens with childhood friends, we lost touch. Until I saw him sitting on the shelf--in hard cover, no less---and decided to give our adult relationship one last try.

I'm so glad I did. I respect an artist's need to stretch and challenge himself, but the serious yet formulaic vein he's been working in for the past few years has really not beeen the best showcase for Korman's talents. Korman is a master of the fish out of water scenario. His most memorable stories often centre around a normal guy surround by capital C characters who constantly disrupt his life by sucking him into their zany antics. Leo Carraway, the Young Republican suddenly thrust into the world of a group of middleaged punk rockers on a comeback tour fits this mould perfectly, and takes it to the next level. Leo is not some boy caught up in high school shenanigans; he's a young man coming to terms with himself and living life as an adult for the first time, and his perspective on the events that take place reflects this. While the themes of self-discovery and personal growth through extreme circumstances are fairly whitebread in the world of young adult literature, the vehicle Korman chooses to tell his story is not. This is no tale of a wild and crazy band trip complete with accidental rockstardom and idiot jewel thieves or a story of a high school election prank run amok. In Born To Rock, the basic premise centres around the consequences of sex, drugs and rock and roll--or what happens when you find out that you're the product of a one night stand between your mother and the Angriest Man in rock and roll.

Heavy stuff, but told with that signature Korman style. It seems that after some false starts and experiments in other genres, Korma has finally managed to meld his comedic instincts with his maturity as a writer. Where he used to be manic, he's become wry. From the opening line, "The thing about a cavity search is this: it has nothing to do with the dentist," Born To Rock elicits smiles and chuckles, as Leo narrates the events that lead to this watershed realization. This is classic Korman, but it's a young adult novel with a grown up twist. The themes are more mature, the characters, even the minor ones, are fully fleshed out, and the plot, while returning Korman to his zany roots, doesn't demand nearly the suspension of disbelief as some of his earlier work. Like his original fans, Korman's talent has finally grown up.

So, even though he's not technically a Canadian writer anymore, I can't think of any other book, or author, that could have possibly made me as happy to be Canadian as this one did this weekend.