Happy Halloween

Keeping the world safe from evil, one (Hershey's) kiss at a time.

At Least It Wasn't A Gerbil

Yesterday Meredith Viera wrote a great post about pets, and how they change the tenor of a space, helping to make a house into a home. It was a particularly timely post for me, because this weekend, I finally broke down and bought The Ladies their very first pet.

I'm a cat person. I remember getting my first cat, Muffin, when I was just a little bit older than Regan is now. She was a great cat, a quirky stray who was a charming combination of goofy and vicious. I remember dressing her up in doll clothes, pushing her in my buggy, sharing my Smarties with her, and watching her terrorize the neighbours' dog. She liked to fight raindrops and pencils, was afraid of paper, and forced my dad to shoo her off his chair every dinnertime of her entire life. I adored that cat; having her around enriched my childhood immensely. I loved the cats we had after Muffin--a pair of Siamese who were quirky in their own ways--but I think there's something special about your first pet.

I'd always intended for The Ladies to have a pet, but somehow we'd just never gotten around to it. Too small apartments, not enough money, and the general stressors of keeping the human members of the family thriving all conspired against adding a furry member to our family, and we've remained petless. When Sabrina was a baby, it wasn't much of an issue, but as she's gotten older, our petless state has become an ongoing issue.

At nearly 8, she's old enough to be trotting out all of the standard arguements: "I'll feed it and take it for walks!" "I'll clean up after it!" "It doesn't have to be a kitten (even though that's what I really want). I'd be happy with a hamster." Me? I've hung tough on the standard mom position of "I have enough to do keeping the two of you alive. And with the Shaolin Toddler still untrained, our apartment is too small to be adding more poop."

On Saturday, we went to Old Navy so that I could look at work clothes. The PetSmart is right next door. We went in to coo over the kittens as a reward for their good behaviour in the changeroom. We left with Princess Sparklefairy, our brand new Siamese Fighting Fish.

It wasn't the hamster Diva Girl had lobbied for, or the skinny pig that I secretly found pretty cool, but it's a pet of their very own, and that seems to be enough for The Ladies. They are absolutely enamoured with their pet, greeting her in the morining, feeding her together, spending long minutes just watching her do her fishy things in the bowl. She may not be cuddly, but she's theirs, and they are thrilled with their newfound responsibilities.

Fall Back

I hate daylight savings time.

I hate it when we spring forward into darkness, and I hate it when we fall back into the chaos of an "extra" hour. There is nothing good about daylight savings time when you have kids. It just messes with them, and by extension, you.

Diva Girl was up at 5:30 this morning. 5:30. Bright eyed, bushy tailed, and ready to start her day (and everyone else's). And I don't need a crystal ball to tell me that she has every intention of taking that extra hour the clock now tells her she has before bedtime.

It doesn't even help that there has been sunshine streaming through my windows since 6:00 this morning. Sure, it was a beautiful sunrise, but I'd have rather been sleeping.

Everybody's Workin' For The Weekend

I'd forgotten about weekends during the last two and a half years. I'd forgotten that bone tired feeling at the end of a busy work week; it's a different bone tired than the exhaustion that comes with the constant care of a tiny human being or a full playdate schedule. Tonight, though, it's all coming back to me, the meaning of TGIF.

Lately, weekends just meant that I'll have 2 kids home all day, not picking up their toys and demanding snacks. And that the Shaolin Toddler will probably forgo her nap, choosing instead to chase her sister around and get in her business until they are both whining uncontrollably. Weekends in the land of this accidental SAHM were certainly a break in routine, but when you've got a high strung Diva and a Toddler Formerly Known As Zen in a small apartment, changes in routine aren't always...restful. Tonight, however, I'm sitting here, utterly exhausted and grateful that it's Friday. Two whole glorious days to sleep in, laze around, and do absolutely nothing......Or, you know, spend quality time with The Ladies, do the laundry (normally I wouldn't bother, but the underwear situation is nearing critical levels), and get the errands done I didn't have time for during the week.

Still, I'm thrilled that it's the weekend. Even more than that, I'm thrilled that I'm thrilled that it's the weekend.

I've been a mom for going on 8 years now, and for the first five, I was a working mom. For the first year and a half of Diva Girl's life I was in school, getting my teaching credentials. And by the first year and a half, I mean all of it. For a completely....unexpected baby, Sabrina had the good grace to be born over Christmas Break. I attended my last class of the year, went home, had a baby, and showed back up at school three weeks later without missing a single class. After I got my teaching certificate I went to work pretty much fulltime, first as a supply teacher, and then, the year she was in Jr. Kindergarten, as a teacher at Diva Girl's school.

Then I had the Zen Baby. I took the full year maternity leave and really enjoyed it. Well, I did teach summer school when the baby was four months old, but other than that, I was home fulltime. It was a unique experience for me, this life of a stay-at-home-mom. I hung out on the playground and made friends with other mommies. I attended school assemblies, went on fieldtrips and to playgroup, and napped when the baby napped. But I'll confess, when I was offered my dream job just a few days after Regan's first birthday, I was ready to go back to work. Especially since it was only one 70 minute high school English class, meaning I would still be able to drop Brina off at school in the mornings and pick her up in the afternoons, and would only be leaving Regan with my mom for about 2 hours a day. It was perfect, and I was thrilled.

Three days after I started work, Regan's tumour was discovered. My immediate instinct was to quit. In fact, I walked into the Vice-Principal's office later that day and tendered my resignation. He didn't accept it, telling me that a decision shouldn't be made in such an emotional moment. Part of me was very relieved, because terrified though I was for my baby, I really, really wanted that job. And I kept it. The day after her surgeon removed a tumour the size of a grapefruit from the Zen Baby's belly, I returned to my class, commuting from the hospital until she was released a week later. After that contract ended, I again worked summer school , basking in the fact that my baby was healthy.

But, the entire drama had taken more than a physical toll on my family. By August, Regan had stopped talking. At. All. No words--not even Mama, or NO. No baby babble. Really, no sounds at all. And she was painfully shy. People terrified her. Not just random strangers, pretty much everyone who wasn't me. I never had to look around for her, I simply needed to look down to see my little shadow standing silently, no more than an arm's length (hers, not mine) from my leg. This was not a child who was going to be able to cope with daycare, not even the fantastic home daycare where I'd secured her a spot.

So, I took the year off and instead of lesson plans, report cards, and parent teacher interviews I immersed myself in a busy schedule of playdates and circle time as I tried to socialize my traumatized little girl. It worked beautifully. With the help of some great friends, including the aforementioned daycare provider, Regan is a different child from a year ago. She's happy. She's social. Last week, she walked up to me holding another little girl's hand and said, "This is Emma. She's my friend." It was time to go back to work.

So, this week I walked back into a classroom for the first time in 14 months. And started to remember what it's like to look forward to the weekend.

What's In A Name?

This blog is called "Sanity and the Solo Mom" for a reason. Partly because it's about me, raising The Ladies on my own. But mostly because when iVillage and I were coming up with the title, my one hard and fast, non-negotiable position was that it not be called the "single" anything. I hate, hate, hate the term "Single Mother." Actually, I'm not wild about "single parent," either.

Truth be told, I'm not wild about putting any sort of adjective in front of the word "parent." I think that in a lot of ways, being a parent is a pretty universal experience that has less to do with your committment to a partner than with your committment to your children. And yet, we tend to qualify our parenting as though marital status makes a difference. If you are married, you are simply a parent, no questions asked. Unmarried, and you lumped into a complicated category called "single parent," also often without any other explanation.

What, really, defines the single parent experience? Is it simply the absence of a wedding ring and someone who hogs the covers? What about divorced parents? Even though they were once simply parents, and often continue to share parenting responsibilities long after they cease sharing a phone number, the fact that they no longer share a bathroom labels them "single parents." But, don't two singles make a double?

Which is not to say that people who independently co-parent are not single parents, just that they aren't the only type of single parent out there. There's a whole other breed of single parents--a group who share their responsibilities with no one. There are no "every other weekend and half of summer vacation" breaks and no discussions about report cards or doctor's appointments for these parents; they do it all, all the time, all on their own.

Recently, someone on the iVillage Single Mom's message board suggested that these parents are "true" single parents. It understandably caused some controversy on the board, implying as it did that one single parent experience is more valid than the other. I don't think one situation takes priority over the other, but I do think that they differ in some very important ways.

That's why I chose to define myself as a "Solo Mom." I think that if my experience has to be qualified, it more accurately describes my situation while respecting all those single parents out there. Because really, parents of all types deserve all the respect they can get.

This Is How It's Supposed To Be

One of the cool things about having a blog is that you get to shamelessly show off stuff like this.

I'm Youneek!

Maybe I Should Use Their Real Names More Often

"What's your name?"

"REGAN!!!!"

"Regan what?"

"Regan Regan Bo Began!"

"What's your sister's name?"

"Brina Squiggies."

3 am Eternals

It's 3 am and I'm staring at the digital reading on the thermometer, trying to decide where my line is before the numbers stop flashing. The line where I decide that I'm not overreacting, that the waves of dry heat coming off of Regan are indeed serious enough to warrant medical attention.

But, it's 3 am. And I don't have a car. What I do have is another child sleeping in the next room as I sit here with this feverish, listless baby in my arms, desperately calculating what number I can live with. A child who will have to be woken up and bundled into a cab to spend the rest of her night sitting in an emergency room should that magic number appear on the thermometer.

This is the hard part of being a solo mom. The part that reminds you that while all parenting is a high wire act, when you do it without a partner, you're working without a net. There's no one here to stay with Sabrina if I do decide that I have to take Regan to the hospital. Worse, there's no one to talk to about it. No one to soothe my fears or to help decide what that magic number should be.

It's 3 am and I'm the one with all the responsibility here. Tthe closer that readout gets to the arbitrary number I'm willing it away from, the more I feel it; no matter how supportive my family and friends are, I'm the one who has to deal with this. Who needs to figure out how to balance the needs of both my daughters against the limited resources at my disposal.

As the blinking green numbers begin to slowly climb above my mental line, I wish I wasn't sitting here alone in the dark. It would be nice not to be the only one slowly freaking out as Regan's temperature rises. To help decide how high is too high. To distract me from thoughts of febrile seizures and other side effects. To hold the baby while I pee. It would be nice, but it really wouldn't change anything; I'd still be sitting here, holding my feverish daughter and wondering if I have cab fare to the hospital.

I'm not a nervous mother. Tonight is one of a handful of times I've used our thermometer since receiving it as a shower gift 8 years ago. I know the mommytricks. I know that fevers spike at night. That you can piggyback Tylenol and Motrin to break a fever. I even know that it's ok to let a fever run its course unmedicated.

104.6. That's where the thermometer finally stops. Before the numbers started climbing I'd decided on 104. Anything above 104 was too high. 104 was my freak out line. But that was before the thermometer stopped at 104.6. That was when I thought there was no way it would make it to 104. Now what?

How much does that .6 matter? Does it change anything? I've still got another daughter sleeping in the next room, and I'm still not certain about the cab fare. I could call my parents; I'm sure they'd help out. But nobody really likes to be woken up at 3 am, not even for .6 degrees.

Regan is sleeping now. Still scorching hot to the touch, and whimpering softly, but sleeping in my arms. Should I wake her? Or wait? It's my responsibility to decide how important those six tenths of a degree really are. Like so many other decisions, it's all up to me.

I reason that it's far more acceptable to wake someone up for a most likely unnecessary ride to the hospital at 6 am than at 3 and decide to wait. If she's still burning up in a couple of hours, then I'll call in the cavalry.

When her fever breaks around 5 I'm drained, but exhilirated too. I didn't fall off the high wire. But I still really need to pee.

Guess I'd Better Actually Write Something Soon

I scooped this up this from Lisa R, because who doesn't like to know how smart they are?

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

Something Light

As Eden says, all the hot chicks are in Ravenclaw.

There Aren't Words

Stories like these ones are why I don’t watch the news or read the papers. I don’t want to live in a world like this, and I certainly don’t want my daughters to know that they live in a world like this. I won’t be taking the advice of any of the talking heads currently guiding shocked parents through the process of how to explain Pennsylvania, Colorado, and Quebec to their children. I won’t be taking it because Diva Girl has no idea those events occurred, and I intend to keep it that way.

Maybe that’s selfish of me. Maybe I’m avoiding a moral responsibility here. Maybe it’s unfair of me to shield my daughter from this world of hers. Maybe I should be preparing her for this world we apparently live in–a world where women and girls are lined up and shot, execution style, in front of their classroom blackboards.

But how do I explain to her that there are men in this world who hate her simply because of what she is: a bright, beautiful, bubbly little girl who will grow up to be a breathtaking, brilliant, vibrant woman. How do I explain to her that while it’s true that all people are equally valuable in this world, there are men who will resent her for her value (and the value of every other woman) and who will use any means necessary to take it away from her and every other woman in the world?

We’re up in arms over female circumcision practices in Africa. Afgan women sporting burquas cause a political outcry. The idea of “throwaway daughters” in asian countries leaves us incensed. And yet, we’ve somehow accepted that we live in a world where this happens.

We live in a culture of violence. First person shooter games. Casually violent song lyrics. A government bent on war at any cost. An entertainment industry that glorifies murder and mayhem.

We have a news media that has taken the axiom “if it bleeds, it leads” to a whole new level of lurid. The coverage of these tragedies becomes so all encompassing that it loses all meaning. We become numb to the images and the horrific becomes the mundane.

School shootings, once a terrifying aberration, have become almost commonplace. It’s only a matter of time until “columbine” joins “going postal“ in our vernacular.

Dateline becomes “All Predators, All the Time” and what was once a shocking expose on internet predators becomes a weekly exercise in the ridiculously pathetic.

School shootings, accidental shootings, snipers, all routine occurrences on the evening news. And every attempt to stem this tide of violence by curbing access to the guns that allow it to be perpetrated with such distanced ease are met with the rallying cry, “guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” As if that makes it ok. As if that makes it better.

More so even than gun violence, the thing that terrifies me about these instances is the focus on female victims. Maybe this lack of randomness in the choice of victims shouldn’t make these crimes all the more chilling to me, but as a woman, and the mother of daughters, it does. Somehow, it’s easier to accept that some madman simply opened fire than that he methodically and deliberately chose out his victims, separating the boys who would live from the girls who had to die. And I wonder, what does that do to those young male survivors? What message is imprinted on their young pysches?

The rage at women, the power structure that fosters that hatred, the society that allows it to fester, I think these are the issues we need to be looking at. We need to take our heads out the sand and really look at the gender politics of our society.

It’s all well and good to be raising strong, confident, independent women, but are we doing so at the expense of our men? How do we balance the needs of both sexes? How do we create a world where my daughters’ sense of their worth and confidence in their choices does not leave someone else’s son feeling disenfranchised? The "hapless hubby" jokes and the "dumb blonde" jokes. The absence of positive, nurturing male role models in our popular culture today. The lingering image of the shrill, manhating feminist. All of these things contribute to the seething societal stew that allows this type of aggression to breed and grow and eventually to explode.

Today I no longer feel confident that my daughters will have the place in this world that they deserve. I don’t feel confident that anyone’s daughters will. But I still have a fierce belief that they do deserve that place. Every person does, regardless of gender. But until we figure out how to support one without failing the other, we are continuing to create the type of society in which exacting wholesale vengeance on young women, while still unthinkable, is, sadly, not undoable.

A Healthy Spirit of Competition

One of the perks of being in Grade Three is that you get to join teams. Real teams that go to actual events and compete.

Diva Girl went to the cross-country regionals today. It's her first experience with being on a team and with athletic competition. I've spent a lot of time this past week assuring her that placing wasn't the important thing, that the key was to enjoy the experience.

I'm glad to hear she was listening:

"At first we were running really hard, you know, competing against each other.But then we decided to stop and talk for a while to see if we wanted to be friends."

She came in 77th. Her new friend was right behind her at 78. They were wearing daisies in their hair.

Untying the Gordian Knot

I've written before about the insidious nature of bullying, Heathers style. Bullying is bad enough when you're dealing with an obvious aggressor, and this type of bullying is anything but obvious. The Heathers are masters of plausible deniability. They rely not on direct confrontation and physical intimidation, but on six degrees of separation and emotional manipulation.

While I'm sure that the Heathers have their own emotional damage and insecurities that lead them into this behaviour, these girls are not the angry, disenfranchised children on the playground. They are not acting out because they are lonely and unliked and retaliating against a social structure that excludes them. These are the popular, well liked girls--the ones who decide who gets invited, who gets to play, who matters. Unlike Butch, whose power stems from a reputation built on fear, Heathers build fear through a reputation based on power.

Obviously, the key to ending the cycle is to take that power away. But the subtle nature of the of the offenses, the difficulty in pinpointing the vicitmization--even in the face of a clear victim--and the generally positive perceptions of the bully, it can be an almost impossible situation to sort out. With teachers stretched so thin by weapons in the classrooms, violence in the schoolyard, and sex in the bathroom, it's hardly any wonder that seeming non-emergent issues like "Heather won't play with me" fall through the cracks. And on the parental end of things, well, who likes to hear that their child is not the little angel she's perceived to be?

I'll admit, I've been loathe to contact our Heather's mother to hash this out. For one thing, I don't really know her; she's not one of the Playground Mommies. She doesn't do drop off and pick up, so I don't have the same casual, chat a bit in the grocery store familiarity with her that I have with other mothers in Diva Girl's class. I do, however, know many of the other mothers, a fact that allowed me to stumble on the secret to untying this web of pwer and manipulation:

I talked to them.

In the course of just regular playground conversation, the saga of the Heather came out to a couple of sympathetic mothers. Mothers who then had conversations with their daughters about power and control and the politics of popularity. Mothers who made it clear that excluding Sabrina--or anyone else--just because Heather said so, was not ok. Mothers whose daughters left for lunch as part of Heather's gang, and returned to school as individuals. Individuals who refused to be mean just because one girl said so.

In pulling these individual strings, I think I may have untied the stranglehold Heather had on the third grade. Since those conversations, Sabrina has had playmates. Playdates. Even a birthday party invitation. And now that the dynamic has changed from "If you want to play, you can't play with Sabrina" to "If you want to play, you can't exclude Sabrina," my Diva Girl sparkles again.

Not that Heather took the loss of her power easily or graciously. There were a couple of days where she did, in fact, choose to be the odd girl out rather than suffer the indignity of playing with the Crybaby. But the other girls, with their mothers' words fresh in their ears, simply left her to stew and joined in a game of King's Court with Sabrina. By Friday, Heather had had enough of her own self-inflicted medicine: She apologized to Diva Girl and asked if she could play too.

Sabrina said yes. Because she understands that everyone should be allowed to join in.