Partying Like It's 1989

I feel like I should be writing some sort of insightful reflection New Year's post, like I'm some sort of blogging Janus, simultaneously looking back at the year that was, and forward into the possibilities of 2007. But....I'm not a fan of New Year's.

For one thing, it just doesn't feel like a fresh start time of year to me--post Christmas toys strewn to hell and gone all over the apartment just don't put me in the same new beginning frame of mind as pointy crayons and unblemished notebooks. Then there's the pressure to have the Best! Time! EVER! Nothing ever lives up to the hype of the possibility of New Year's Eve, so why ruin a perfectly good evening out (and pay at least double for it)?

Of course, the fact that everyone here, including the cat, is sick isn't really helping to put me into a party frame of mind.

Now that I think of it, tonight looks to be shaping up to be very much like the New Year's Eves of my youth, and yet not. There's the puking and the children, but there was no alcohol involved, and nobody is paying me to clean up the barf. Plus, tonight I'm the one shelling out the cash for the video and the chips. It's like all of the downsides of a teenager, but with none of the perks.

Hunh. I don't think I recall reading this in the "Welcome to Your Fabulous Life as a Grownup!" brochure. Must've been in the fine print.

A Moral Dilemma

Is it wrong to answer, "thanks! My boyfriend* gave it to me." when the Creepy Neighbour Guy compliments me on the beautiful necklace I got for Christmas?

If it is, I'm in such big trouble. At least Diva Girl wasn't there to bust me on the lie this time. We had a pretty good chat about fibs and white lies after last time; while other parents are having the sex talk with the technical details, I've breezed right past the mundane and onto advanced relationship tactics such as the graceful refusal and letting yourself off the hook with a little white lie.

I'm not sure what would happen if she heard me spin many more fantasies about this mystery man, though. And I'm not sure which would be worse, the awkward outing in front of CNG, or the even more awkward belief that I'm hiding some guy under the bedskirts.

*My brother and sister-in-law gave it to me; I don't have a boyfriend. I also have no interest in providing CNG with any encouragement.

Merry Christmas

After a day filled with family, food, and fun (a day that incidentally began at 5:25 this morning), I'd like to wish each and every one of you peace, joy, and the love of good family and friends.

Thank you for sharing a part of my life, and, to those of you who comment, thank you for sharing part of yours in turn. Shayna, Kate, Thordora, Mary P., landismom, Lady M, Lisa R., Teresa, Julia, Ann, and all the others who have become a special part of this blog, I hope your holiday has been as filled with laughter and love as mine (and that it started at a far more reasonable hour).

Waiting on Santa

The cookies have been baked (they’re surprisingly edible this year) and set out for Santa. The stockings have been hung and the magic key left on the doorknob (what? How else is Santa supposed to get into an apartment building with no chimneys?) Both The Christmas Story and A Visit From Saint Nicholas have been read and the children are tucked all snug in their beds (resplendent in their brand new Christmas jammies). No visions of sugarplums here though. Not yet.

Right now, The Ladies are too excited to sleep. NORAD says that Santa is in Peru, and Sabrina, at least, is practically vibrating with excitement at his imminent arrival.

Such is the agony and the ecstasy of Christmas Eve. Right now I’m putting in time doing the “If you don’t sleep, he won’t come” dance. Once The Ladies finally succumb, I’ll be able to get down to the real work of Christmas: breaking into those impenetrable boxes, undoing those interminable twist ties, and inserting enough batteries to power a small third world nation, and, of course, dealing with the dreaded "some assembly required." Not really what I want to be doing during the wee hours of Christmas morning, but I've learned through harsh experience that I'd rather do it now, in the stillness of Christmas Eve, than during the hectic rush of Christmas morning. There's nothing quite like trying to simultaneously wrestle a Barbie from a box and an overtired toddler hopped up on Christmas magic to inspire you to find the screwdriver on Christmas Eve.

Once I finish ripping packages, deciphering instructions, and disposing of the evidence, I get to indulge in my favourite part of the Santa experience. No, not the beverage, although I enjoy that too. After I'm done the scut work, I get to fill the stockings. For me, this is Christmas. It doesn't matter that there's no snow this year, or that I haven't been able to find Christmas music I like; filling the stockings fills me with the Christmas spirit every time. The hair clips, lip gloss, stuffed toys, and odds and ends that go into them are my favourite gifts. They're the ones The Ladies didn't ask for. The ones they didn't even know they wanted until the pull them out of the sock. I won't get any credit for knowing my daughters so well; it, along with all the thanks for toys lovingly chosen (and assembled) will go to the big guy in the red suit, but I'm fine with that.

I know Santa's been under fire this year, branded as a vicious lie that will cause children to lose faith in the parents who perpetrate it, but I do not agree with that assessment. I believed in Santa the Man until I was 12 years old. When I finally entered the inner circle of adult knowledge I didn't feel betrayed that my parents had lied to me for over a decade; I felt incredibly loved and blessed that they had allowed me to live with magic in my life for so long. As an adult waiting to sneak presents under the tree so that I can pass them off as rewards from a world travellling elf, I believe in Santa the myth. I believe that magic is a right of all children, that the ability to believe is a gift, and I feel blessed that I can pass that on to my children.

If only they would go to sleep.

Oh Christmas Tree

There are certain brand loyalties that people hold onto ferociously. These are those pop culture markers that define identities: Coke vs Pepsi, Cloth vs Disposable, Real vs Fake.

I'm old enough to remember when fake trees first made a splash on the Christmas scene. They were alternately embraced or reviled, seen as either a brilliant invention or a sure sign that Christmas was going to hell in a handbasket. To this day, people remain divided by their love of the fresh cut pine or their love of the convenience of plastic. When my mother brought home our first fake tree, no one was more appalled than I. Where was the pine smell? The needles that pricked you mercilessly as you attempted to hang tinsel on the tree and seemed to infest the entire house, jumping out at you from unexpected locations in the middle of August? The inevitable baldspot? A fake tree was most definitely not Christmassy.

But...it sure was convenient. Especially those newfangled prelit ones. And if there's one thing I hate more than being the assembler of the some assembly required items, it's stringing lights on the Christmas tree. Last year, when the top strand of lights on our handmedown tree blew a fuse, I could have gone in, untangled the whole mess, and restrung the tree with working lights, but I didn't. We just had an unevenly lit tree.

This year, for the first time ever, I bought a new Christmas tree. I could have gone with a real one, but the prospect of wrestling a firehazard up to the eighth floor, combined with the idea of then stringing lights around those stinging branches, didn't exactly fill me with the same holiday spirit as the 50% off all prelit trees sale at WalMart. So, I bought a new tree.

To bring home and decorate with pretty glass balls and candy canes and jingle bells in a house with a toddler and a kitten. I don't know what I was thinking then, but after stepping on the 97th jingle bell last night, I'm thinking that they're the fake tree equivalent of the pine needles. But, so long as I don't have to string any lights, I'm cool with that.

It may not show up in the pictures I post, but Diva Girl is a small kid. Tiny even. Half of the Grade Ones are bigger than she is, and even some of the Kindergarteners. Because she's so little, it's pretty much a given that in any grouping, she'll be placed in the bottom row. But not this time. This time, she got to stand on the top riser. It wasn't quite as good as getting to sing a solo, but it was still a pretty big deal to a kid resigned to life in Shrimp Row.

I ended up deciding not to be "That" parent. I didn't talk to the the music teacher afterall. It was a difficult choice; nobody likes to see their child disappointed, and I really do think the teacher is wrong. But in the end, I didn't see how Mommy rushing in to fix things would help Diva Girl learn to deal with the many injustices life will throw her way or to stand up for herself when it inevitably happens. So, instead of talking to the teacher myself, I encouraged Sabrina to speak for herself.

We spent a couple of days brainstorming what she should say, and then after she'd worked up her courage, Diva Gril went to the music taecher and asked her why some kids always get the good parts, no matter what. SHe didn't really get a satisfactory answer, and she didn't get a solo, but she did get the sense of accomplishment that comes from standing up for herself. And honestly, that makes me more proud than any solo in a Christmas concert ever could have.

Traditions.

Diva Girl is eight years old. How in the world did that happen?

I mean, I know how it happened, technically. The whole birds and the bees thing followed by the bad skin, enormous belly, pushing a fully functioning human being out of my body trick, and then that business of the earth having rotated 2920 times since then. But really, how did my baby get to be eight?

One of the best things about having a family of your own is the traditions--some fondly carried over from your own childhood, others that you create yourself as you go along.

From my own childhood, I've taken the cupcakes and a second verse to the "Happy Birthday" song that I've never heard outside of a family celebration. Diva Girl's holiday birthday lead to the traditional Santa photo (always taken on December 14), and the nontraditional unbirthday celebration. And this year, the Shaolin Toddler's inability (or unwillingness) to grasp the "Birthday Girl" concept has started a new tradition: the family birthday.

I guess the seeds of this particular tradition were planted during Regan's second birthday, when I allowed Diva Girl to have her very own candle on her cupcake. They took root this year when, seeking to head off a toddlerific meltdown over the presents, I gave the Shaolin Toddler a gift of her own to open.

We've been working on the concept of birthday with Regan for a while leading up to her sister's big day. Each time we talked about it, telling her that her sister's birthday was coming up, she would chime in "yeah. And my birthday too!" To help give her a sense of time, we would then list off all the birthdays that happen between now and then until she was able to recite it as her personal birthday mantra: "First S'Bina, then Mummy, then Tyler, then REGAN!" I honestly thought she understood, until the big morning when she answered my announcement that it was Sabrina's birthday with, "And Mummy's. And Tyler's. And mine."

The entire day, Regan remained convinced that it wasn't just Sabrina's day, it was the whole family's. Which really, when you think about it, is a pretty awesome way to look at it. Unless you're the person whose birthday has been co opted, that is. But the Diva Girl was surprisingly zen about the whole thing. I thought she'd lose her cool when, after the second special verse of "Happy Birthday" was finished, Regan demanded "my turn!" She didn't though; she drew a big breath and started to sing. And then they each blew out the candles on their respective cupcakes. After which Regan announced, "soon it's my birthday. And Mummy's. And S'Bina's."

I think we'll be following this tradition for years to come.

Talismans

I don't usually participate in things like Love Thursdays, but these cupcakes demanded it. These cupcakes are love. They are everything I feel about being Sabrina's mother, every little ounce of maternal feeling I have, iced and topped with a Smartie.

We all have those non-negotiables; those purely personal markers we cling to to reassure ourselves that we are doing a good job, that we are good mothers. I'm not talking about the external things, the things that strangers see--a meltdownfree trip to the mall or a good report card. And not the intangible "raising positive human beings," either. I mean that thing that deep in your mind you believe represents your success as a mom. I mean the one thing, no matter how frivilous or trivial, that you believe real mothers do, and that you yourself must do in order to be a "real" mother.

For me, it's the cupcakes. You see, I hate cooking. And baking. The cooking is somewhat non-negotiable (although I'm not above caging meals off of my mom to avoid it), but the baking? The baking is utterly negotiable. But not really, because I pretty much only bake 4 times a year: Cookies for Thanksgiving, brownies for the class bakesale, and birthday cupcakes to take to school and share with the class. That's it. Any other time of the year, and I'm all about the storebought.

But, for me, "real" mothers bake for the bakesale, and they certainly don't send in storebought treats to celebrate their daughter's big day. Real mothers bake cupcakes, even if they end up accidentally starting a fire in the kitchen (everyone's fine! no damage to speak of.) or teaching their toddlers an exciting new word after burning themselves on the oven for the third time. Real mothers have beaters and bowls and spoons to be licked, creating sticky faced memories that will last long after the treats themselves have been devoured. Real mothers go the extra mile and add the candy on top of the icing , declaring to the world that these cupcakes are special.

I dread the annual baking of the cupcakes. It's time consuming and messy and something inevitably goes wrong. But year after year, I pull out the bowl and the measuring cup, dust off the mixer, and bake cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. Enough for every kid in Diva Girl's class to have one. Enough for her teacher. Enough for her grandparents and sister and whatever aunts and uncles and cousins might be celebrating with us. By the time I'm done, I've had more than enough of cupcakes, but I make one for me too.

I make them because I love my daughter. Because being her mother is the central core of who I am. And so long as those homemade cupcakes are iced, topped, and ready to take to school on the birthday morning, I can assure myself that I've got it together, that I'm not doing too badly at this whole motherhood thing. Because real mothers bake cupcakes, and if the cupcakes are baked, that must mean I'm a "real" mother, even if the kitchen is a mess.

(Sorry about the crap picture. I was working with an unfamiliar camera.)

Dating 101

Creepy Neighbour Guy asked me out again.

I knew it was coming--we've been "accidentally" running into each other a lot lately, in the laundryroom, the elevator, the mailroom. The kind of encounters where a bit of casual conversation is required, where it would be rude to simply ignore him and go about my business, which is what I'd like to do. In fact, I try to, pulling my tried and true trick of making sure to involve the Ladies in conversation to avoid the encounter, but Creepy Neighbour Guy ignores my signals as studiously as I attempt to ignore his. I'm generally pretty clueless about these things, but not even I can mistake his interest; maybe it's the scent of desperation mingling with his cologne. I desperately want to avoid this situation. Avoid his interest. Avoid the moment when he finally works up his courage and makes his move. Again.

At least The Ladies weren't with me last time. Unlike this time. This time, they are milling about in the entry way, eager to see who has knocked on our door at 6 pm on a Wednesday (and no doubt hopeful that it will turn out to be the Pizza Man). It's Creepy Neighbour Guy, returning the mitten I lost in the elevator earlier today, and taking the opportunity to make his move.

Last time, I let him down gently, a polite yet kind refusal (I am, afterall, Canadian.) This time, I grasp wildly at a reason to explain my refusal. A reason that will put an end to this. A reason that does not contain the phrase "Creepy Neighbour Guy."

"I'm sorry," I hear myself saying. "I'm already seeing someone." I see the skeptical look on his face and realize he doesn't believe me. After all, the only man who visits this apartment on a regular basis always arrives carrying a pizza. And so, I find myself elaborating, "He lives out of town, so he's not around often. And when he is, he arrives pretty late and has to leave fairly early. You know, the commute. I'm not surprised you've never seen him."

"Well, you can't blame me for trying, " he says, accepting the lie.

"You have a boyfriend???"

Busted. I'd completely forgotten about Diva Girl, lured to the hallway by the possibility of the Pizza Man, and rooted there by the drama playing out on her doorstep. But at least, at nearly 8, she had the tact and the patience to wait until I'd closed the door to question me. Last year, she would have said it right in front of the guy.

(To be fair, I'm sure that Creepy Neighbour Guy is a perfectly nice man--in a potentially "he was such a quiet guy; no one ever would have thought" kind of way. But he's a weird sort of agressively milquetoast that just skeeves me right out. I imagine he's the kind of man who rather pompously orders for you in the restaurant, but has a limp handshake. And if I'm going to go to the trouble of getting a sitter and shaving my legs, the last thing I'm looking for is to spend the evening with a limp handshake kind of guy.)

Me Time

My mom gave me an early Christmas present this weekend: An entire evening to myself. More than an evening, actually; she took The Ladies for a spontaneous sleepover on Saturday night and didn't return them until after lunch the next day.

Best. Present. Ever.

When you're a solo mom, you grab your "me" time on the fly. Outnumbered with no backup in sight, nap time, the day care commute, an afternoon playdate become your sanity savers. These are the times when you catch a few minutes peace, attempt to impose order on the toys that seem determined to stage a livingroom coup, or maybe read a couple of pages of a book that doesn't contain pictures. It's a break, but it's an infinitely finite one; you always know that you're working on borrowed time, that your reprieve can be revoked at any moment--the baby will wake up, the bus will arrive at its stop, the kid will come home from her friend's hopped up on sugar and eager to share every moment of her time away. Times like these you may be technically off the mommy clock, but in reality, you're still on. Still listening for the first stirrings from that nap, still thinking about the kids, and what to make for dinner, and whether or not anyone still has clean underwear in the drawer. It's me time, but with a side of mommy.

When I left The Ladies with Gramma on Saturday, I felt like I left their Mommy there with them. My step was lighter, the air was sweeter, the world was filled with possibility. I felt free. Not that I don't love my kids, but they're work. A lot of work. And it's been a long time since I've had that kind of break. The kind that isn't born of any sort of situational need, but is just a break. The Ladies weren't with Gramma because I had a birthday party to attend or a work thing to do (don't even ask about a date. Seriously). They were just there because they wanted a sleepover and Gramma said yes. Leaving me with an entire evening to myself.

The apartment felt different without at least one of The Ladies present. Quieter. There was a stillness to it that is never there, not even in the silence of Regan's naps. At first I was positively giddy with all the extra oxygen. What should I do first, bask in the sweet silence, free of the dulcet tones of Ruby and Dora, or shatter it with music that definitely earned its parental advisory sticker?

Dancing around my livingroom, it struck me that it was 8 o'clock on a Saturday night and I could do anything I wanted. I could see a late movie. Go out dancing. Take a bubble bath without anyone lobbying to join me or taking advantage of my incapacitated state to make an unauthorized run at the cookies.

What I found myself doing, strangely enough, was missing my kids. They've become so much a part of me that not having them with me felt a bit like missing a phantom limb; their absence was a presence all its own. I'll admit I was surprised by that. The Ladies were with Gramma, safe, happy, and certainly not thinking about me at all, and there I was, unable to stop thinking about them. I even woke up at 5:51, the Shaolin Toddler's normal waking time, convinced that she was inconsolable, wailing for her mummy. (The little rat fink slept in until 7:30 without making a peep.)

I guess it just goes to show you that you can never truly separate the "mom" from the "me." But that doesn't mean that you shouldn't take full advantage of the opportunity should it arise. Lord knows I did.

The Things We Do For Love

One of my girlfriends got forced out to see Apocalypto tonight. She really didn't feel like going out to the movies at all--after a Snow Day, I'm thinking her preferred options were either bed or out for a couple of stiff drinks--and if she was going to see a movie, this one would not have been her first choice. Or her fifth choice, for that matter. But her husband really, really wanted to see this movie. So, she went. Because sometimes, being in a relationship means going to see a movie that you really, really don't want to see.

Which is one of the reasons I love my solo life. I never have watch movies I don't want to watch.

Well, not grownup ones anyway. Apparently being a solo mom does not exempt one from repeated viewings of that Mary Kate and Ashley holiday classic, To Grandmother's House We Go.

See? The things we do for love.

Overheard

As part of our Snow Day fun, we've been using the snow on the balcony to make candy. Diva Girl is about to head out to get another batch, and in deference to the elements, she's decided to put on some PJs first. The Shaolin Toddler wants to go too, but is unwilling to change from her natural state of au natural to something slightly more weather appropriate.

With nearly 8 years of parenting experience to my name, I have a black belt in Toddler Fu; so I know that if I insist on the jammies, The Toddler Formerly Known As Zen will commit to her nakedness with a conviction that would boggle the mind of the most rabid religious fundamentalist. I must be crafty to accomplish my goal; I have to make it seem like I don't really care either way while convincing her that walking outside into the snow without a stitch on really isn't the best idea. While I'm pondering my strategy, Diva Girl takes matters into her own hands.

"Regan, if you go outside like that, you'll freeze your butt off!"

"Yeah. But then I will pick it up and put it back on again."

It's really, really hard to argue with logic like that. Mostly because I'm laughing so hard.

It's Just Not Fair!

Things have been going really well for Diva Girl at school lately. Her grades are good, she's been happy, and she even got the Friendship Award last month. Not too shabby, considering how we started this year.

There was a small bobble a couple of weeks ago when she announced that Heather was "losing friends." At first I thought that Heather was finally getting her comeuppance, and I'll confess that I didn't feel too badly for the Queen B. Turns out that Heather herself had decided it was time to lose some friends--seems she felt she just had too many, and needed to cull the herd. That part of the story made me roll my eyes. The part where Sabrina told her that it was ok if she didn't want to be her friend anymore, that she understood and would be sad but not mad, brought tears to them. The fact that Sabrina made the cut didn't really do much to change my opinion about the whole affair, but other than that incident, things have been so quiet that I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then came the Christmas concert.

Guess who has a solo. For the third time in a row. And guess who isn't very happy about it.

It's a tricky situation. On the one hand, this isn't Heather's fault. For once, I don't believe her manipulations have much to do with the situation. Unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that the music teacher has a habit of playing favourites, arbitrarily assigning the plum roles to the same students, year after year. It wouldn't be fair under any circumstances, but in a primary choir it seems to be a particularly odious practice. If ever there was a time to allow every student who wanted the opportunity a chance to shine, this would be it. After all, it's awfully hard to get across the message that you have to do the best with the gifts you have, even if sometimes that means shining in the chorus, when the kids see same people singled out every. single. time. As a teacher, I'd be very disturbed by what is going on here, even if my child wasn't the one singing the "it's not fair!" blues.

As a mom, I'm not sure what to do here. I do not want to be That Parent. You know, That Parent who is always complaining. The squeaky wheel parent who is convinced that without her vigourous defense, her child is destined to get the short end of the stick. That Parent who goes into to school and makes the teacher take the part away from Heather and give it to her child. That is exactly the parent Diva Girl wants me to be, though.

She wants me to "fix" this. And while I know that in her view, fixing it means telling the music teacher to give her a solo, I'm not sure that would really fix anything. Even if the teacher did bow to my will, it would simply be trading one injustice for another. And that's not fair to anyone.

Silver Lining

One good thing about the temperature dropping into the negatives: Between the snowpants, the scarf, and the toque, nobody can tell that you've just rolled out of bed and haven't bothered to get dressed yet when you drop the kid off at school.

Unless, of course, said kid decides to anounce to the assembled mommies and daddies that Mama isn't wearing any pants.

I'm Watching

Have you seen this?

I think it's my new favourite show. And I don't even generally like sitcoms; I usually lose interest after the first ten minutes or so. Which, come to think of it, might be the genuis behind Nobody's Watching.

It's not on my "Must See TV" list, but I do have to admit to enjoying How I Met Your Mother. I don't know if it's the Joss Whedon withdrawl or the morbid fascination with the idea of Doogie Howser as a player, but whenever I stumble on this show, I'm always drawn in.

Mostly though, I'm a complicated, involved drama kind of a viewer. None of this neatly wrapped up in 47 minutes, stand alone episode tv for me. I like the kind of tv that requires you to actually watch it. To invest in the characters and the plotlines and to try to keep up. I like tv that starts with the premise that the audience is smart and goes from there. Needless to say, the TV this season makes me squee. I haven't been this happy with TV since Angel got cancelled.

In addition to the current Grandaddy of them all, 24 (although really, just how many truly horrific/world definingly important days can one guy have, even if he is a super secret CIA agent?) and the still mind bogglingly complicated Lost, there's Jericho (I love me a good conspiracy. And Skeet Ulrich is yummy.), The Nine (again, loving the slow dribble of the story, doled out detail by tiny detail. Although I confess I find the idea of Baily Salinger as a jewish doctor somewhat disconcerting. Plus, am I the only one wondering if Scott Wolf has an eating disorder?) , Studio 60 (Chandler who?)...

And of course Heros. But I don't get Heroes. Which makes me sad, because if there is anyone who should be all over a show about superheroes, it's me. But I missed a couple of episodes and now I can't figure out how the Cheerleader made it back from the autopsy and the weird mirror chick is just weird and well, if someone could explain it to me, maybe I'd get the appeal. BUt until then, I've got plenty to watch.

T Minus 24 Days

Don't hate me because I have fabulous hair (it won't last anyway). Hate me because I am about 97% finished my holiday shopping. And I didn't have to set foot in a single Black Friday sale to accomplish this. With a list that includes 20 family members plus various friends, babysitters, and teachers, that's an accomplishment.

I never used to be this organized. There was a time when I wouldn't have even started my shopping yet. Wouldn't have even thought about starting it. I was a last minute shopper, and proud of it. I enjoyed it even. Then I had a baby. Maybe it was the whole nesting thing, or the fact that I spent that first Christmas in the deep sleep deprived fugue state that only comes with the first weeks of parenthood. I think the tight budget of a solo mom still in school probably contributed too, but however it happened, I became a preChristmas shopper.

I used to tease my mom about her Christmas shopping, back in my procrastinator days. This is a woman who has bought Christmas presents years in advance. Yes, you read that right. Years. I haven't reached quite that level of..um...preparedness, but I have to admit that I have bought Christmas presents in July.

Getting all of your shopping done on sale without have to actually brave a Sale is nice. Being able to spend the entire holiday season focussing on the holiday and not the shopping is awesome. Not having to worry about how I'm going to afford Santa's visit this year is priceless. (Rubbing it in is just the icing on the cake.)

Ahem: Edited to add that I am done I tell you. DONE!!!!