So, I have to wonder: Do the 57% of iVillage respondents who felt that cocktails have no place at a playdate also agree with Meredith Vieira's implication that there's really not much difference between a babysitter and a parent?
I've been leaving this particular can of worms alone for a variety of reasons; for one thing, a lot of bloggers out there have spoken very eloquently on the subject, and for another, I work for NBC. Hand that feeds you and all that. But the babysitter comment, and the dismissive attitude towards motherhood that it implies, was offensive. I get the intent behind the question Meredith Vieria asked--"what's the difference between the babysitter choosing to have a glass of wine at playgroup and a mother making that choice?"--but I do not accept the premise.
It bothers me that a media outlet as powerful as The Today Show is playing into the Mommy Wars this way, and that a personality with as much pop culture clout as Meredith Vieira--herself a mother--is calling me a babysitter. I've worked hard for my credibility as a mother--as a solo mother, a working mother, and a stay-at-home mother. I refuse to accept that my role in my children's life is interchangeable with that of the woman I pay $4 an hour to watch my daughter while I'm at work.
I have the utmost respect for caregivers. My mother was a home daycare provider for my entire childhood, and I do understand just how much work this job entails, and how valuable it is. My point, however, is that it IS a job. No matter how much a babysitter or caregiver may feel like she is raising someone else's children, the fact is, they are someone else's children and she is not the parent.
I think the question was meant to be provocative, to make us question why it's ok for one group of people--mothers--to enjoy a glass of wine while supervising a playdate, but not another. However, the question ignores the central fact that mothers are not babysitters. We are the parents. We make the rules, decide on the values, and bear the full brunt of responsibility for these beings. Motherhood, while occasionally a chore, is not a job. It's life.
That's the final answer to Meredith's question, if you ask me. It has nothing to do with Melissa Summer's point about alcohol tolerance and everything to do with the fact that there is a very real difference between reality and pretend, between living your life and doing your job. When you are a mother, you are a mother 24/7, regardless of the circumstances of your day or where your child is. You are still the person in charge, the person ultimately accountable for the health and well being of those children. You may share that responsibility for a time with a caregiver, but it's still your responsibility, and one that the caregiver, unlike a parent, can assume or discard at will. When the time is up, the babysitter is off duty to do as she pleases; I've yet to see a time sheet for motherhood. And I wouldn't want to clock out on one even if I did. Like the majority of parents out there--single, partnered, working, and staying at home--I want to live my life with my kids, not around them.
Karma Is A Bitch
Eden wanted to see how the Universe paid me back for my random act of kindness last week. Well, let's see....
So far my camera has given up the ghost, requiring a $300 replacement, which probably won't happen until after I receive a tax refund cheque that is likely going to be much smaller than I'm used to.
My DVD player is on strike. At first I thought it was just protesting the 473rd viewing of the Leapfrog Letter Factory, but when it wouldn't play Firefly either, I knew something was up. No idea what; I'm still waiting for it to bring a list of demands to the bargaining table.
My daycare bill this period is 2/3 of my take home pay. And my next paycheque will only be for 2 days. Nevertheless, I've been cut off of government assistance because I make too much money now. I've not received actual money from the government for months, but it was nice to know the safety net was there (along with the dental and drug benefits) if I needed it.
My glasses, which I love, are broken, and the manufacturer doesn't make them anymore. So, even if I could afford to replace them, I can't replace them.
And I desperately need a haircut. Which I also can't afford right now. So I'm stuck with mom hair. Too long bangs held back by a hairband, bottom flipping in opposite directions mom hair.
Fabulous. I think I want my $10 back.
Guess I'm Not the Only One Feeling A Little Lonely
The Perks of Renting
Why is it that the toilet never makes those ominous burbling sounds when it's clean? And that it only fills alarmingly, threatening to spill its contents all over the floor when those contents are...less than pristine?
Standing in my bathroom doorway at 9 o'clock on a Sunday night, watching the plumber lift the toilet into the tub, the better to deal with the clog, several thoughts ran through my head: A mental note to scrub the bathtub with bleach. Disappointment that the grizzled old man sticking his hand down that hole looked nothing like Mike Delfino. Impatience that I might the start of Studio 60. And relief that I wasn't the one paying for this service call.
There are many things I don't love about renting. The guy next door who can't tell time and doesn't understand how the volume knob on his stereo works. The beige box aspect. Creepy Neighbour Guy. But I do love that I never need to worry about fixing things. I don't worry about not having the know how (I wouldn't anyway; my dad's a pretty handy guy), and, even better, I don't worry about how I'm going to pay for the repairs.
I do, however, worry about the embarrassing state of the toilet. Kinda makes me happy he didn't look like Mike afterall.
A Peek at the Bookshelf
In honour of Family Literacy Day, I'm going to share one of my Lists of Essential Books. It's by no means a comprehensive list; it's more of a starting point, really. These are the books that form the basis of the The Ladies personal libraries--For each birthday, I buy them each a copy that is theirs and theirs alone (all the other books on the shelves are community property. Unless they're mine. Then keep your grubby paws off!). I'm hoping that by gifting them with these libraries, I'm fostering in them a love of books and a sense of their value. I'm all for using the public library, but there's something special about owning books that I think
is key to promoting literacy. When you own something, you understand its value. A book that sits on your shelf, that you can leaf through any time you choose, has a power that can't be matched by the temporary nature of a story that is living on borrowed time in your backpack. So, because I want to raise readers who share my love of a quiet afternoon spent devouring a good story, I gift my children with books.
1. My Very First Mother Goose by Iona Opie
2. The Complete Winnie the Pooh by A. A. Milne
3. The Tales of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter
4. The Complete Adventures of Curious George by Margret and H. A. Rey
5. Mad about Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans
6. Bonjour Babar by Jean de Brunhoff
7. The Ultimate Eloise by Kay Thompson; Absolutely, Positively Alexander by Judith Viorst
8. The Compete Ramona books by Beverly Cleary; The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
9. The Little House on the Prairie Series by Laura Ingalls Wilder; The Great Brain books by John Fitzgerald
10. The Fudge books by Judy Blume; The Soup books by Richard Peck
11. The Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling
12. The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis
12. The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander
13. The Adrian Mole Diaries by Sue Townsend
14. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants series by Ann Brashares
15. The Time Quartet by Madeline L'Engle; His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman
16. The Chronicles of Pern by Anne McCaffery
17. The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkein
18. The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
19. The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant by Stephen R. Donaldson
20. The Foundation Series by Issac Asimov
21. The Collected Works of William Shakespeare
It's by no means a comprehensive list. There are a lot of books missing: Goodnight Moon, Little Women, Charlotte's Web, Harriet the Spy, The Mixed up Files of Mrs Basil E. Frankenweller.....It's not that I don't value those books as well. In fact, I'm looking at all of them on the book shelf, along with a raft of Roald Dahl and E. Nesbitt, right now. But these are the Birthday books. Chosen partly for their age appropriate value, and partly because, if you clicked on the links, some of them are bloody expensive, and it's hard to justify that kind of money on books any other way.
The other important thing to know is that it's not enough to give the books. You have to read them too. But, for me, anyway, that's the best part: Taking these wonderful stories that I loved and sharing them with my daughters. I may give them the gift of the books, but they return the favour by allowing me to read with them.
Edit: After you chime in on your essentials, head on over to Bumblebee Sweetpotato for a discussion on books that suck (Lemony Snicket, we're looking at you!)
Life Lessons
Tickets to Charlotte's Webb: $11.00
Mini Combos for everyone: $15.00
Dinner at McDonalds: $12.00
The Ladies' decision to give their dinner to the homeless man at the bus stop: Priceless*
*Well, not exactly. In reality it cost me another $10.00 to buy him a sandwich and a coffee from the Tim Hortons down the street, but it was worth it give my daughters in a real life lesson in generosity and in being part of the solution, not the problem.
We are very lucky, The Ladies and I. According to any sort of financial definition, at best we qualify as "working poor;" we have more than we used to now that I'm working again, but like most single parent families, we don't have a lot of money. Thanks to a phenomenal support system, we do have enough, however. More than enough, really. Our family is incredibly generous, showering The Ladies with cool toys and cute clothes for Christmas, birthdays, and sometimes "just because." Handmedowns from friends, and even classmates, mean that their wardrobe is quite possibly nicer, and definitely more expensive, than mine. So, I never really worry that The Ladies will have to go without toys or nice clothes while I struggle to make the rent or put reasonably nutritious food on the table (and the occasional pizza).
Diva Girl doesn't really get it, the financial realities of our lives. Which is great; I really don't want her to be burdened with the type of responsibility that comes with knowing where the money comes from and where it goes. I mean, I'd like her to appreciate what she has, of course, but I don't want her childhood to be tainted by my adult responsibilities. What I do want is for her to grow up knowing that she has a responsibility to her community. To confront the problems she sees and seek solutions rather than simply accept that this is the way things are.
We all had a lesson in that tonight as I try to rush us past a panhandler on our way to the movies. Clutching our fast food bags, pressed for time and half frozen, I barely noticed the man, simply shaking my head "no" as we hurried past his doorway. Sabrina saw him though, and wanted to know what he was doing, sitting out there in the cold. She was shocked to find out that that was his home, that he didn't have a nice apartment, a warm bed, and good, warm food to eat; in her childish innocence, she thought that everyone had that. I was shocked when, after digesting this information, Diva Girl demanded that we return to the man, so that she could give him her Happy Meal.
We didn't give him her chicken nuggets. Or Regan's either, although she offered. We did buy him a dinner of his own, however. Because, even though it was a pain in the ass to go back, and it nearly made us miss our show, Diva Girl was right: We had a responsibility to do something. To see this man and acknowledge his value. To commit a small act of kindness that shows him that he matters, that we care. And I had a responsibility to my daughters. To live the way I want the world to be. To show them that convenience should never trump conscience and that what we can do, we should do. Which, I'll admit, is not how I always live my life. But I'm going to do better now. I owe to The Ladies, and to every person who has ever helped me to keep me from struggling to provide a good life for them.
Drills
I was watching Heroes when the alarm went off, so for the first minute or so I didn't really notice it; I just assumed that it was part of the background of the show. When I finally clued in that then noise wasn't coming form the tv, it took me a couple of minutes to figure out what it could be. When I first moved here to the eighth floor, just days before the Zen Baby was born, I worried about what I would do in case of a fire. Visions of huddling on the balcony, waiting for the ladder truck competed with thoughts of wrangling Diva Girl and a newborn down 8 flights of stairs. But in the nearly three years we've lived here, the only alarms I've heard have been easily traced to my penchant for forgetting about whatever I have going on the stove, and I've grown complacent; it took me a few minutes to realize that what I was hearing was the building fire alarm.
It was nearly ten o'clock at night. Roughly minus ten degrees outside. We were all in our jammies, and Diva Girl had long since been put to bed. The door wasn't warm when I felt it, and there wasn't any smoke in the hallway. Still, there was no question of what to do next.
This may come as a shock to you, but Diva Girl isn't always the best listener. Lately it's become the norm that I need to tell her something several times before she follows instructions. She's got her own ideas and has no problem with sticking to her guns when she thinks she's right. She's also often pokey at the exact moment that I need her to move quickly, caught up in her own daydreams and oblivious to what is going on. She likes to be helpful, but quite often her idea of what would be helpful are at odds with what I really need, and just end up complicating things. Rousted from her bed by the fire bell, however, my difficult, dawdliing Diva rose to the challenge beautifully.
She didn't balk at being routed from her (new loft) bed. She didn't take her time doing the snowpant dance or embark on an endless mitten hunt. Rather than offer endless suggestions or run around in a blind panic gathering up her most beloved possessions, she stood by calmly while I got her sister dressed for the cold, following each instruction as given. I anticipated an argument over using the elevator, but she headed straight for the stairs; she even stopped to feel the fire door before entering the stairwell.
I was amazed by how grown up she seemed as we fled our home. Her Blankie, Squeaky Baby, and even the cat (don't ask about the fish) had been left behind to an uncertain fate, but instead of the wailing and gnashing of teeth I expected, Diva Girl was calm and focussed. The tears came later, after she was reunited with her toys.
It turned out to be a short in the wiring, not a fire, but it was a sobering experience, seeing fire truck after fire truck pull up. I was pretty sure it was a just a false alarm--although there's a thin line between denial and certainty--but watching more firemen than I could count pour into our building, I pulled my children a little closer and said a quick prayer of thanks that we were outside shivering and not inside, trapped behind a wall of flame. I was relieved that our home wasn't going up in smoke, but I was also reassured by the fact that even if it had, we would have been ok. We not only knew the right thing to do, we did it.
There's been a lot of replaying the scenario and whatifing the possible outcomes in the past couple of days. Now that she's had time to think about it, Sabrina has taken a mental inventory is worried about all the things she could have lost. I keep praising her for her actions and reminding her that stuff can replaced, but she and her sister could never be. I think she gets it, but she's also finding comfort in leaving Squeaky Baby by the door, the better to grab in case of evacuation. And me? I'm looking into renter's insurance. Because even though that stuff can be replaced, paying for it all? Easier said than done.
The End of an Era
I never intended to be a co-sleeping parent. In fact, for the first two years of Diva Girl's life, I wasn't. She had her own crib in her own room and she happily slept there every night. Then came the toddler bed, and the end of bedtime as I knew it. Gone were the days of popping a sleepy baby into her crib at 7 pm, turning out the light with a cheerful "night night!" and then happily going about my business for the rest of the evening. Instead, I now spent what seemed to be all night, every night, trying to get Sabrina to stay. in. that. bed.
It soon became clear, however, that the only bed Diva Girl would sleep in was mine. I could have continued the fight to force her to sleep in her own bed--in fact I did for awhile--but. . . I'm nothing if not a pragmatic mama, and I realized fairly quickly that I cared a lot more about getting a good night's sleep than I did about where Sabrina slept. And after all, it's not like there wasn't enough room in the bed for her. It did get a wee bit crowded when we added the Zen Baby to the mix, until I had the brilliant idea of shoving Sabrina's unused twin bed up against my overloaded double. After that there may not have been much room to move around the bed, but there sure was more than enough room on it. I've tried a couple of times over the years to get Bree into her own bed, but no dice. Finally, I decided that she'd let me know when she was ready and left it at that.
The upside to this arrangement--aside from the uninterrupted sleep--was that I got to use the second bedroom as a playroom. It may not have kept all the toys out of the livingroom, but believe me, when you are trying to cram all the stuff accumulated by two very lucky little girls into a small apartment, every little bit of space helps. So, even though I wasn't planning on sharing my bed with a growing Diva forever, part of me was sort of dreading the loss of playroom square footage that would inevitably accompany regaining my bed. Until I discovered the loft bed, that is. A bed of her own for Diva Girl and the floor space; once again, what is not to love about Ikea?
Well, aside from that whole pesky assembly thing. We all know how much I love that. I have to admit, this time I wussed out and called in reinforcements: Faced with an overwhelming array of pictograms and parts, I asked my dad to do it. And not only did he put the bed together, he let the Ladies help. He let an overexcited 8 year old and her not quite three year old sister help put together Ikea furniture. The man is a saint. And the only casualty of the experience was a light fixture that I never really liked anyway.
It's a little strange, having a room to myself again after 6 years of co-sleeping. When I first looked at my bed, sitting all alone in the middle of my room, it seemed so small--lonely even. Sleeping in it, however, was another story; it felt huge. Empty, even. After so many nights spent sleeping with 2 warm little bodies pressed against mine, dreaming of the luxury of an entire bed to myself, I find myself tossing and turning all night, unsure of what to make of this new space. I think I'm lonely. I knew that moving The Ladies into their own beds would be a transition. I just didn't know it would be for me.
Remember that rug at Ikea? The one I hugged? It's on my floor. Finally. It only took 8 months, but it's finally sitting in the middle of my livingroom, and every time I look at it, it makes me happy. Of course, it doesn't match my beige floral handmedown couch at all, but that's ok; it matches this one.
(And yes, there was more hugging involved.)
Another Reason To Love Scholastic
A lot of companies, when they can't fill your order, will either offer you a substitution or refund your money. Scholastic does both, and then still fills your original order
In our last order, one book we wanted was back ordered and another was no longer available. Instead of just saying, "oops, sorry." Scholastic not only sent me coupons for the amounts of the books and a replacement for the one that's not available, they also sent me the backordered book. They refunded my money, and then sent me the product anyway. Scholastic rocks!
In other news, we're having a different sort of difficulty with this month's order. Diva Girl and I are having trouble agreeing on our choices; other than a new copy of Charlotte's Web, our circles aren't matching up. Even there, we're having a bit of debate: She wants the copy with Dakota Fanning on the cover, and I don't. Call me a book snob, but I really, really hate movie tie in covers. I'm a purist; I prefer my books with their original art, not a movie poster, on the cover and that "Now a major motion picture!" banner that is inevitably plastered across the front makes me cringe. I hate the idea that that somehow validates the novel; that if it's a movie, it must be ok to read.
The rest of our choices are even farther apart. Sabrina wants the new Hannah Montana and Zach and Cody novels while I'm leaning towards the Sir Cumference pack. I've had my eye on it for awhile now, and I'm trying to keep my promise to bring more non-fiction home this year. Diva Girl is understandably unimpressed. Afterall, how can the adventures of some math geek possibly compare with the shenanigans of those crazy twins?
I'm not sure, but one of the great things about being the grown up is that I'm the one writing the cheque, Maybe I'll get lucky, and there will be so many mean mommies out there that Sir Cumference will be back ordered. If he is, do you think that they'll send me some Greg Tang to make up for it? Well, a mom can dream.
Don't Be Shy
Hey, it's national* delurking week. So, instead of just sitting there silently, click on the comments and say something!
*I think we need a new word. Can you really use "national" when talking about the net? It's sort of borderless. And while we all still have our affiliations (You'll notice that I posted about Canada Day, not the Fourth of July), there's a lot of overlap when it comes to net events. When bloggers from all over the world are doing NaBloPoMo, or participating in Delurking Week, can we really call it National? What nation, exactly, is holding the event?
There Were Also Comic Books
Thanks for all the birthday wishes.
It was actually a kind of inauspicious beginning to my 36th year: I chose to work, rather than follow the tradition of declaring my birthday to be a personal holiday. But, after two weeks of unpaid vacation, the paycheque was enough of a present. So I took a grade 7/8 assignment at a school on the other side of the city.
It was only a one bus commute, but it meant literally riding the bus from one terminal point to the other to get there. In order to get to work on time, I had to be on the 7:53 bus. Before that, I had to get myself and The Ladies up and out the door, drop them at the sitter's, then walk the 15 minutes to the bus stop. And, since we've been pretty much housebound for the past week or so, I also had to pick up bus tickets at some point along the way (actually, at the variety store down the street from my house, since it's the only place along this circuitous route that sells them).
I set the alarm for 6:30, and double checked to make sure it was AM before I went to bed. 6:30 would possibly be cutting it a bit close, given our detour, but it was still my birthday, and no way was I getting out of bed before then.
At 7:19 I shot out of bed, hauled The Ladies out after me, and began a mad scramble to make the bus.
At 7:44 I kissed The Ladies goodbye--thank goodness for babysitters who provide breakfast--and took off for the bus stop. I didn't think I had a hope in hell of making it, but I was determined to try (that way I wouldn't feel guilty about wussing out and spending the $20 for a cab).
I did catch the bus, after a hail mary sprint, but at 7:54 I remembered that I didn't stop for bus tickets. Sweaty and dishevelled, with a hat hiding my uncombed hair, my makeup tucked into my bag for application in the staffroom washroom, and my skirt hiked up over my snowpants, I poured out my sad tale of woe to the bus driver. Who not only let me ride for free, he made sure to drop me at the best stop and give me easy to follow directions to get to the school since my map was conveniently sitting on my desk, and not tucked into my bag where it would actually be helpful.
Have I ever told you about grade 7/8? 7/8 is the ninth circle of hell. They are hormonal timebombs, either on the cusp of, or in the throes of puberty. They are cocky; exuberant in their entitlement and adorably infuriating in their misplaced sense of maturity. They are hardwired to challenge authority; their very identities depend, in large part, on separating themselves from authority of any kind, and showing their superiority over it. When it comes to supply jobs, there are few things more challenging than spending the day with a 7/8 class.
So, take the normal 7/8 vibe, and add in the just returned from Christmas vacation energy. Then, just to keep it interesting, imagine that this particular group's regular teacher went off on maternity leave over the break. And that their new teacher had only been there one day before calling in a sub. Yeah.
And I had to teach art. I hate art. At least I actually understood the math.
So, that was pretty much my birthday in a nutshell. That and adjusting to this whole 35 thing. It still doesn't feel right. Like a pair of pants that don't quite fit. They're the right size and the right cut, but something is just a bit off and they chafe. I guess I just have to break it in a bit.
Happy Birthday to Me
So, I turned 35 today. I'm not sure how I feel about that. 35 feels old, and I don't feel old, exactly. Although I do feel old enough to worry about it.
I loved turning 30. None of that "29 and holding" stuff for me. I proudly embraced entering my thirties. Thirty was exciting, promising the credibility of maturity coupled with the possibilities of youth. It was the gateway to the adult world, and I happily skipped through to take my rightful place at the grownups' table, confident that the best was yet to come.
A lot has happened between then and now: I moved out of the basement apartment--lovingly referred to as "the hovel"--that Diva Girl and I lived in for the first 4.5 years of her life into the 8th storey beige box we now call home. I had a second baby and went from holding my own to being outnumbered by the inmates in my asylum. We spent the longest three weeks of my life living in a pediatric oncology unit and walked out with a miracle I hadn't even let myself hope for. The Zen Baby has grown from a scared, silent shadow into a vibrant, sociable chatterbox, something I worried I'd never see. I gave up fulltime teaching and fulfilled a dream I'd forgotten I had by becoming a professional writer (of sorts). I reconnected with the best friend I thought I'd lost forever, and didn't lose her again when she moved 3000 km away (although I miss her every day). I made some friends (and enemies), killed some fish, got a kitten, and recovered enough from the trauma of a really, really bad haircut to not only embrace the idea of short hair, but to act on it.
But, in spite of all that, I just don't feel like 5 years have passed. That I'm now halfway through my thirties.
Thirtyfive year olds are not just grown ups, they are Grown Up. I guess I just didn't picture this being my life at 35. I'm not quite sure what I did picture, but I'm pretty sure eating dinner off of the Spiderman plate didn't figure into the plan. And if I'm honest, I guess at some point, a husband did figure into that. Thirtyfive year olds have car payments and mortgages and 'm pretty sure Spongebob will get his license before I get mine and I have no interest in homeownership. The thing is, though, I'm ok with the way things are now. Happy with it, even. I may not feel like your typical Grown Up 35 year old, but I feel like me, which is even better, I think.
And I still think that the best is yet to come.
| Your Birth Month is January |
 Strong and powerful, you tend to overshadow those around you. Your soul reflects: deep love, fascination with life, and a distinctive persona Your gemstone: Garnet Your flower: Snowdrop Your colors: Black, dark red, and dark blue |
| You are 33% Capricorn |
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| You Should Be An Aries |
 What's good about you: you're fearless about taking charge and grabbing the spotlight What's bad about you: if you're annoyed, you're not going to hide it! In love: you jump in quickly and don't mind risking your heart In friendship, you're: likely to have a new best friend each month Your ideal job: detective, butcher, or surgeon Your sense of fashion: ultra trendy and sexy You like to pig out on: appetizers, especially buffalo wings |
| Your True Birth Month Is March |
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Recovery
The thing about feeling better is, all the stuff you let slide while you were is sick is right there, waiting for you. The dirty dishes filing the sink. The overflowing pile of laundry. The crayons, clutter, and crap strewn about the livingroom. The mystery spill on the kitchen floor. The kitty litter.
None of this really mattered while I lay groaning on the couch. But, one of the uglier realities of solo parenting is that it didn't bother anyone else in the house, either. So long as there was a steady flow of juice, cheese strings, and Treehouse, The Ladies really weren't overly concerned about cracker crumbs and substances of suspicious origin. Which is fair enough; I wasn't too concerned about that stuff when I was 8. But now I'm The Mom, and it's my job to care.
Not a lot, mind you. My house is never going to pass a white glove test, and there will always be clutter. But in the three days I spent directing the action from the couch, my cheerful chaos degenerated into a cheerio decorated disaster. Just looking around at this mess makes me want to go back to bed.
Sadly, that's not really an option. Not just because of the mess. It's the children. They know, you see. That I'm feeling better. And any slack they may have cut me about playing with the Little People or helping to dress Barbie is gone; those apronstrings have been pulled taut again. So not only am I stuck dealing with the piles of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes, I'm juggling the demands of two very bored children while I do it.
And let's not even talk about the merry mess making that takes place in the wake of my cleaning spree. I might cry if we do.
Kids Are Work
They get you up at 5:07 am because they have to use the potty. Which, admittedly, is better than the alternative, but still, 5:07! AM!!
They need you to take the lids off markers, wrap the dollies in blankies, and referee fights over the television.
They show you their dances, bring your their pictures, and ask you to play Lucky Ducks with them, again.
They want juice and cheerios and tummyrubs.
Normally none of these things are much of a problem. (Well, the 5 am potty break kinda sucks, but again, when you consider the alternative, it's not so bad.) These are the things you sign on for as a mother. The fetching and carrying and wiping and rubbing are just part of the job, and you learn to just cope with the constant interruptions and distractions that are life with kids. But when you're sick, it's a whole different story.
I don't want to stagger from my bed to fill a sippy cup with juice or change the movie in the dvd player today. I don't want to read books, ooh over scribbles in a colouring book, or wipe anyone's butt. I want to simply lie down in peace, safe from the intrusions and inconveniences that are my children. I'm sick too, and I'm tired after too many nights up with sick children. I've started to respond to any sentence beginning with the phrase "Mommy, can you" with an automatic no that cuts off the speaker before she finishes the demand. In fact, if I hear the word "Mommy" one more time, I might just lose my mind (and the small shreds of my temper that I'm currently holding on to.) And woe to any crayons, lidless markers, or any other toys left scattered about the livingroom floor for me to stumble over as I'm summoned to fulfill their latest requests.
Being sick sucks. Being sick with kids sucks even more. But being sick with kids and no one to pick up the slack? Pretty much the pinnacle of suck. I want someone to rub my tummy and bring me juice. Without spilling it all over in the process. Because we all know who's gonna end up cleaning that up.
Things That Make It Hard To Blog
1. Alternating between holding the bucket for one child and the toilet paper for another.
2. Realizing that Cheaper By the Dozen 2 has become the soundtrack of my life.
3. My fulltime job as referee of the WWF (World Whinging Federation).
4. The lazy spinning of the livingroom.
5. A cat who thinks the cursor is her new favourite toy.
Not Quite A Year in the Life
It's a meme of sorts--the first line of the first post of each month. I found it at landismom's (a blog I strongly suggest you check out; she's great. I sort of wish we were RL people, because I just know Diva Girl and The Bee would be best friends.)
04.14: I'm trying to write this inaugural post, but it's not going well.
05.01: There's an old saying that in parenting, the days are long, but the years are short.
06.04: Back when I wrote for dotmoms, I put up a post detailing the issues involved in celebrating the birth of a holiday baby.
07.01: Happy Canada Day!
08.01: I've always loved the beginning of the school year--even before I was old enough to go to school.
09.01: Remember when I got a little defensive about my friend's father getting bent out of shape over a flippant remark I made?
10.02: I've written before about the insidious nature of bullying, Heathers style.
11.01: Well, that was quicker than even I expected.
12.01: Don't hate me because I have fabulous hair (it won't last anyway)
A year (or 9 months, as the case may be) seems like such a long time. And then you look back and realize that it was just the blink of an eye.
This was a fun exercise because it stirred memories. From the terrifying, exciting first days of starting the blog, through the exciting milestones, birthday parties, and a long hot summer, to a fall filled with Heathers, hari kari, and haircuts, it's been an interesting year. I'm eager to see what comes next.
I'm also interested to hear what you thought. Which posts did you like? Did the blog turn out like you thought it would? What would you like to see in 2007? (no promises--my mom reads this, you know!)
Happy New Year everyone.
