We Now Return to Your Regularly Scheduled Programming
Being a role model is hard sometimes. Whether it's taking a bite of those nasty strained peas to demonstrate good nutrition to your baby, not wincing during your flu shot because you don't want to pass along a needlephobia, or stepping back from the computer for a week as a nod to Turn Off the Screens week, being the good example is often inconvenient.
My favourite moment from this TV free week was probably during Diva Girl's umpteenth rendition of "The Cell Block Tango." I'm usually pretty controlling with media The Ladies watch, adhering to a fairly strict "G" rating policy, but I tend to bend the rules when it comes to musicals. Ordinarily I would never allow then to watch movies with the subject matter dealt with in Chicago or Rent, but somehow the addition of showtunes and jazz hands makes it ok in my mind. I've rationalized it by telling myself that, dazzled as she is by all the singing and dancing, Diva Girl doesn't really notice the darker aspects of sex, drugs, murder, and disease that form the core of these stories. This belief was borne out by her assessment of the monologues the Merry Murderesses offer up to explain their crimes.
This is her favourite number; she's had it memorized since she was six years old, but clearly hasn't thought much about the words until now.
"She doesn't belong in jail, Mama."
"No? Why not?"
"She didn't kill him. He killed himself! He ran into her knife. It's not fair to put her in jail for it!"
It's not as easy as you might think, teaching a very naive, literal minded eight year-old about irony and sarcasm. After I finish explaining that she did indeed stab her husband, that no one could "run into" a knife 10 times by accident, Diva Girl was quiet for a minute, digesting this information and readjusting her worldview accordingly.
"So...I'm guessing that those weren't warning shots, either?"
Taking Our Relationship to the Next Level
Karl, over at Secondhand Tryptophan, is hosting this week's Carnival of the Mundane and I've decided to let him have his wicked way with me. I didn't exactly give him the keys to the blog, but I did tell him he could use any post of mine that he fancies.
I can't wait to see what he chose. Or how many more of his "harem" are featured this week.
You Do the Math.
It's TV Free Week.
It's pouring down rain outside.
It's early dismissal today.
I Blame the Gods
Everyone knows the story of Pandora, the nosy girl who just couldn't resist peeking in the box and thereby releasing misfortune into the world. And hope. Not everyone knows, however, that there are two schools of thought on that hope. On the one hand, there's the argument that that hope was the mitigating gift, meant to soften the blow of the evil the gods had allowed to be released into the world. That's the version that I was taught in fourth grade, and the version I believed in until university, where my Mythology professor opened my eyes to an alternative interpretation. According to many scholars, hope is, in fact, the ultimate evil--the kicker that really drives home the gods' punishment by allowing man to delude himself that there are options and possibilities outside of the pain and misery of life.
I'm of the second school of thought. You see, I am, at heart, an unwilling optimist.
I want to be a pessimist. I want to just accept that the world sucks, that I will never get what I want, and move on, safe and comfortable with that knowledge. I don't want to take that leap of faith into the scary unknown of possibility and possible heartbreak. And yet, I find myself jumping off of that particular cliff over and over again, no matter how many times I land like Wile E. Coyote at the bottom.
In a classic case of "be careful what you wish for," we got The Letter today. She didn't get in.
I knew that that was a possibility. Heck, I knew that it was a probability. And yet, once again, I found myself seduced by hope. At the start of this process, I absolutely refused to entertain the possibility. But, as time went on, hope snuck up on me and beguiled me with its charms. Without my ever realizing it, my attitude began to change and I began to dream about her acceptance letter and the ways that that would change our family. I began to hope.
And then landed flat in reality again with a few impersonal lines written on school stationary.
It's not the end of the world. I actually quite like Sabrina's school. It's got some great programs, such as instrumental music, an award winning choir, and a specialist for a gym teacher as part of a truly outstanding staff. It's both ethnically and economically diverse, which I don't think the other school would be, at least not to the same extent. I have always been impressed by the sheer variety of normal there is at this school--welfare kids mingle with the children of university professors and the family dynamics run the gamut from nuclear and step to solo and gay, each one accepted as having the same value as any other within the strong school community. Of any of the dozens of schools in the city, this is the one I'd choose for my daughter.
And yet it stings me, that this other school did not choose her. That they did not see her value and invite her to be a part of their community. I understand that it is not personal and that their decision in no way reflects on Diva Girl's value as a person, but....the niggling questions are there. Questions without answers. Questions that don't need to be asked, because even if there are answers at this point they are irrelevant. Questions my daughter will ask when I tell her the news.
And how do I tell her? How do I do it without dashing her hope and making her wonder what's wrong with her, why didn't they pick her? Those were the thoughts racing through my head as I walked to school after opening the letter. There's no section on dealing with Baby's First Rejection Letter in the parenting books; I'm on my own here.
When I break the news, her lip quivers for a minute and her eyes film with tears. I brace for the torrent ahead while internally I berate myself for ever setting us up for this kind of disappointment. And then, Diva Girl rallies.
"Did I at least get on the waiting list?"
"Yes, but..."
"Ok. Well that's good."
Hope truly does spring eternal. Much like that coyote.
I Feel So Dirty (and Free!)
After a morning spent in Grade One ("That's not the way our teacher does it!"), an afternoon cheering Diva Girl on at the school board dance festival (she was the uncoordinated one in the back row who, by dint of mixing up her left and right, did the entire routine backwards, but not in heels), and an evening of the homework from hell (that's what three days absent and an afternoon off for the dance festival will get you), the last thing I needed was to look at the agenda and find a reminder for the bakesale tomorrow. The bakesale for which I am expected to bake something.
I hate baking. Well, to be fair, I hate cooking in general, but baking falls squarely under the umbrella of that hatred. I only bake on very specific occasions. Unfortunately, the bakesale tends to be one of those specific occasions.
I have never not sent a homebaked treat to the class bakesale. I don't know why, exactly, other than the fact that my own mother always baked something herself, and so it feels like I must carry on this tradition. Somehow, the class bakesale makes me feel like I am living in Harper Valley, and that if I stoop to simply cutting up frozen squares from M&M or artfully arranging bagged chocolate chip cookies on a tray, the other mothers will judge me. Perhaps even my own mother, who did bakesales for five children without ever resorting to the bakery department at the grocery store.
My own mother scoffs at this idea, at this need to measure up and not be unmasked as a fraud in front of the other mommies. My own mother points out that while she worked, it was from home, and while she was busy, it was a different kind of busy; a kind of busy that left time for homemade cupcakes with jellybeans on top. My own mother, it turns out, hated those cupcakes and sees nothing wrong with the dark idea percolating at the back of my mind: The possibility that maybe, just maybe, I don't have to bake the treat myself.
My daughter rebels against this notion, insisting that the goods must be baked. My mother counters with "well, somebody must have baked it, right?" I'm stuck in the middle, seduced by my mother's logic, but afraid my daughter is right, that somehow it doesn't count if you didn't (swear) slave over it yourself.
It's the mommy guilt again. Somehow I feel like I should be trying harder to meet the gold standard of yesteryear instead of taking the easy way out and using a busy lifestyle I chose as an excuse. Somehow, the fact that other moms are in the same boat, and will do the same thing for much the same reason doesn't make me feel any less....less for buying instead of baking. I wonder if my own mother struggled with these same feelings the first time she used a mix instead of starting from scratch?
That, at least, poses no moral dilemma or maternal quandry for me. So far as I'm concerned, all baking starts with a box. And I'm really ok with that. So, I headed off to the grocery store for brownie mix.
I had the best of intentions, I really did. After all, how hard is it to make a batch of premixed brownies? But then I realized that realistically, I would have to bake two batches, one for school and one for home. And that would require washing the pan out twice.
Besides, Oreo cake is way better than brownies, right?
Hey Mr Postman!
The last time I was this obsessed with the mailbox my hair was considerably longer, my skirts were shorter, and I was planning( my escape from) my wedding.
Diva Girl is supposed to hear about her arts school tryout this week, and waiting for that letter has sent me straight back to waiting for Grad School. The continuity of experience between the fourth grade and the fortieth. Just like when her mother tried to get into grad school, Diva Girl has jumped through all the hoops. She's done the testing, filled out the applications, and given it her best shot. And now, it's out of her hands and all she can do is wait to see if she's judged worthy.
These days it's a mad race to the mailbox. We both paw through the junk mail and the bills, eagerly searching for an official looking envelope with a school board logo. Each day, we come up empty. No letter.
While I really, really want the "pleased to inform you" letter, getting the "many qualified applicants" response wouldn't be the end of the world. The uncertainty though, the waiting to find out which one it is, is killing me. I just want them to put me out of my misery (and to accept her into the program).
All was not lost at the mailbox today, however. I didn't get The Letter, but I did get a package from Eden. She sent me "You Are Not the Boss of Me!", an hilarious momoir by Erika Schickel. It wasn't what I was looking for in the mail today, but I think it was just what I needed to take my mind off things. Until the mailman comes tomorrow, anyway.
Ratburn
We're big Arthur fans here Chez Solo Mom. Five years after first being introduced to the bespectacled aardvark, his annoying little sister, and the rest of the population of Elwood City and Diva Girl still knows every time and channel that the show is on throughout the day; she'd watch them all if I let her, too.
Today's episode is all about Mr. Ratburn, Arthur's incredibly tough, demanding third grade teacher. I have to say, I heart Mr. Ratburn. He's the teacher with The Reputation. He's mean. He's hard. He expects things from his students. He expects their best and constantly challenges them to do better. And yet, he's got a full life outside of teaching, filled with hobbies and friends, and ways to interact with his students that show that he values them as people as well as receptacles of knowledge.
In the beginning the kids are afraid of Mr. Ratburn. Then they simply dislike him. Soon, however, that changes, as the most important lesson they learn from Mr. Ratburn is not spelling or math or science, it is respect. Respect for a job well done, for a challenge well met, for themselves and for those people who refuse to underestimate or undervalue their potential.
Everyone should have a teacher like Mr. Ratburn.
Diva Girl, it appears, is one of the lucky kids who does. "You know," she tells me, "Mr. G is a lot like Mr. Ratburn."
"Really?" I ask. I agree with her--he is a lot like Mr. Ratburn--but I'm curious to see why she thinks so.
"Yeah," she says, "he gives lots of homework (he really doesn't) and he's hard (he is)."
"Is that a bad thing that he expects you to do your best?"
"Well, no," she answers. "I like learning stuff, and I like it when I do a good job. I just wish we had less homework. Then I could watch two Arthurs."
Karl, over at Secondhand Tryptophan, is indulging his inner Barbara Walters with an interview meme. Since Karl is my boyfriend (Karl is everybody's boyfriend, but I knew him before he stormed BlogHer), I decided to play along. So, here's the questions he asked me, and my answers. Rules for the meme are after the jump.
1. What causes you the most heartache?
Motherhood. Having children is like inviting that ache into your heart. You are never going to be able to protect them from the world, and you are going to screw it up in ways both small and spectacular. There is no such thing as a perfect mother, and yet we all set ourselves up for that failure. I think every mother has, tucked into the back of her head, a litany of failures that she takes out and obsesses over in those long dark tea times of the soul.
My love for my children causes me the most joy in my life, but the price for that joy is the heartache. It's a price I'm willing to pay. Most mothers are.
2. Where are your body's most erogenous zones?
Dude! My Dad reads this blog!
I'd have to say my brain. Engage my brain, get me thinking and excited about ideas and conversations, and I'm there. Of course, kissing my neck doesn't hurt either.
3. Describe your perfect man.
Smart, witty, kind, interesting, genuine, snarky, lives in Florida, is a former Air Force guy (I don't know the technical term, and his initials are 2HK
4. What are your three most favorite books?
I have trouble with the concept of favourites. I own all of the Robert Jordan Wheel of Time series in hardcover and live in fear that he will die before he finishes them. I also own all the Harry Potters in hard cover, but since I've got The Deathly Hallows pre-ordered, J.K. Rowlings health doesn't concern me quite so much. As a kid I was a huge Nancy Drew fan, but I don't read many mysteries anymore. I also have a kickass Graphic Novel collection, but I'm strictly a Marvel Girl.
5. Are there any TV shows you're embarrassed to admit you watch?
Dancing With the Stars. I blame The Ladies. They like to dance around the living room along with the routines, and who can resist that? I also have a secret love of Montel, although I rarely watch him. I especially like the shows with the psychic. And I watched Alien vs Predator last night
DIRECTIONS FOR THE INTERVIEW MEME
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
525600 Minutes
525600 moments to write.
How do you measure a year in a blog?
In postings? In memes? In comments and spam?
I've been writing this blog for a year now. Exactly one year ago today I posted my first entry, not sure that anyone other than family and friends would read it. Not sure that I really had anything to say.
One hundred and eighty-eight entries later and I'm still finding new stories to tell and the one thousand, two hundred andforty-six comments (not one of them from my mom) tell me that people are reading them. I cannot tell you how flattering that is, that people from all over the world pop by to share stories about their lives while reading about mine. I've gotten advice on the proper care and handling of fish, support for tough days, shared experiences and ideas about girl bullying, and best of all, gotten to meet some very intelligent, interesting women and to make some new friends.
I was looking through old posts, looking for things to highlight here, posts I particularly liked. Posts that represented this blog and things I'm proud to have written. There are other posts, of course. I rarely, if ever, hit publish on something I don't feel good about having written. But these ones stand out to me. Plus, eight is a lucky number, and I'd like to start out this next year of blogging the right way.
How do you measure a year in a blog?
Let's talk about links:
My Friends Are So Smart
First there was Thorodora over at GNM Parents. Now I'm going to brag on Eden for a sec.
In addition to being a real live writer (she actually just finished not one, but two books), and a really interesting kitchen sink blogger, Eden is also an amazing editor. She's helped me a few times and trust me, my writing has always been the better for her advice.
I'm very lucky that Eden is so generous with her time and talent, since she's also one of the co-founders of Toasted Cheesel. Toasted Cheese is an online writing resource. It offers a forum for a community of writers to get together and share their work, resources to improve writing, tips on getting published...it's the full package.
It's also one of Writer's Digest's 101 Best Websites for Writers 2007. Way to go Eden!
And So It Goes
Kurt Vonnegut died this week, and even though he's not done much in recent years other than to remind us to wear sunscreen (excellent advice, btw), the cacophony that is the post modernist voice sounds a little quieter now.
I haven't read anything by Kurt Vonnegut in years, but like most of my peer group, I went through that phase in my late teens. That moment where you are just starting to read good books on your own, and to know that they might be good, although you aren't certain why. That moment where you are feeling all edgy and antiestablishment and inspired by Kerouac and the like, and you are filled with a passion for the avant garde and the left of centre. The Vonnegut moment, if you will.
I mostly remember Vonnegut because my senior English essay was on Slaughterhouse Five. I remember struggling to wring meaning from the book, to follow his style and to understand a narrative so radically different from the staid, linear works I was used to. I remember handing in the essay, not sure I'd really gotten the book, but confident that I'd managed at least a basic understanding of it. And I remember reading my teacher's comments on that essay and realizing that he didn't get it either. I think Vonnegut would have been pleased by the irony there.
I've decided not to believe that he's really dead. I've decided to believe that he's simply unstuck in time, whiling away his time in a Tralfamadorian zoo and advising them on the benefits of sunscreen.
My friend Thordora is a thoughtful and interesting writer. Her blog tends to be a brutally honest exploration of a psyche shaped by bipolar disorder, motherloss, and a horrifying bout with postpartum depression and the entries range from the heartbreaking to the hilarious.
She's just started a new gig over at GNM Parents, continuing her exploration of what it means to grow up motherless and how that experience shapes the mother she is to her own daughters.
April's a hard month for her. It's the month she lost her mom, and, in the way these things go, she's struggling to make it past the anniversary. I know she'd like it if you popped over and gave her some support.
Two Viruses, No Waiting
Dealing with all manner of biohazardous materials was not how I had planned to spend my day. Not that I had any big plans, but still...
The Ladies are sick. And, just to keep it interesting, they have different bugs.
Diva Girl went to bed last night with the sniffles and woke up this morning stuffed and frog throated. So, no school for her today.
And no rest for me after a night holding the bucket for a feverish Zen Baby, who started puking yesterday afternoon and is just now showing signs of stopping.
Sigh.
Oh well, at least now that Sabrina has lost her voice I am no longer treated to comments like, "Chicken? That piece looks like chicken. I don't remember the last time we had chicken, do you Mama?" Uh, no. But I can assure you that we won't be having it again in the forseeable future.
The best part of this double whanny is, you know that by Friday the roles will be reversed and Diva Girl will be heaving her guts out while the Shaolin Toddler croaks out a running commentary on the contents of the bucket.
Eden nominated me for hottest mommy blogger. And I'm shallow enough to be thrilled by that. (She also loves me for my mind, though)
If you don't have anything better to do for the next 30 seconds of your life, you could go vote for me. If you had a minute, you could even tell a friend to go vote!
Let's Do Lunch
Who had Day One in the pool? Because you won.
Yep, Diva Girl lost her lunchbox. The first day she brought it to school.
Other than that, the angst surrounding the new routine doesn't seem to have affected her much. She greatly enjoyed doing luch with her friends today. She even liked the ham sandwich I packed for her. We'll see how long that lasts.
According to her, the best part of staying for lunch is that getting to eat with the Heather and the rest of the girls means that she's not "out of the loop" when the afternoon starts. I had to hide a smile when I heard that. And a bit of a wince. Seems that the politics of female relationships are alive and swiriling in the tween set.
I haven't written much about Heather lately because there really hasn't been much to write. Things have been much more equitable since September. There are still fights and hurt feelings and odd girls out, but it's no longer a given that that girl will be Sabrina. And really, that's all I was asking for.
The simple fact is, kids fight. Especially girls. They can be both casually and calculated in their cruelty, and sadly, it's often not a dynamic that they grow out of. They begin practising these skills young, and hone them to razor sharpness as they grow. Just check out the swirling politics of a moms message board or a debate on one of the frontline issues of the Mommy Wars and you'll often find yourself right back in junior high.
So now when it's Sabrina's turn as the odd girl out, we talk about that. We talk about how it makes her (and every other girl in that position) feel, and about how it happens and why. I don't pretend to know all the answers to those big questions, but I do try to share whatever small bits of wisdom I"ve managed to glean, and to help her to chart her own map through these treacherous waters by teaching her to recognize the patterns that tend to repeat, like the fact that when she's on the outs with Ally, she's close with Sami, and vice versa.
She's by no means mastered this yet--Hell, I'm 35 years old and I still haven't mastered picking my way through this minefield. She is starting to think about it though. She's starting to realize that partly, this is the cost of doing business as a girl, and that she's just got to figure out how to ride the currents. So far, she's trying for neutrality, but I think she's learning that it's hard to be Switzerland, and that often we get drawn into the fray despite our best intentions. Hopefully, she's also learning to try to be kind and to take the moral highroad whenever possible. It's a lesson I'm trying to teach her, but, since I'm still learning it myself, I'm not too sure how that's working out so far.
Most importantly for right now, though, when she tells me that Heather is one of her best friends, I dont roll my eyes and bite my tongue anymore. Now I think that maybe we should invite that little girl to lunch.
Dooced
I really should have known better. I'm not a neophyte in the world of blogging. And even if I were, one of the first things you learn about when you start is the cautionary tale of dooce--uberblogger Heather Armstrong's experience of having been fired for her blog content. And yet....
Buddy's mom reads my blog. Or at least, she read that blog.
I honestly never gave that any consideration when I wrote that post. I guess I knew she knew about the blog--it's not like it's anonymous or a secret or anything. But, I just never really thought about her reading it. Which was stupid, I know. First rule of blogging is "assume everyone you know reads your blog." Which is incredibly narcissistic, but can help to keep you out of trouble. And besides, nobody ever said that blogging isn't a narcissist's paradise.
Buddy's mom is pissed. She left a comment on this blog that I took out until I could decide what to do with it. It wasn't pleasant, but that wasn't my major concern. It was a concern--nobody likes to have mean things said about/to them--but mostly, I was concerned about wagons circling and Buddy's mom being picked apart. I've seen it happen on other blogs, and, to a very light extent, here. So, I took the comment out until I could decide what to do about it. Buddy's Mom thought that I did it out of fear and cowardice, and continues to post needling comments. She wants an apology for that post.
In reflecting on things, I realize that she deserves one. Not for the reasons she thinks, but because I never meant to hurt her. Although I was careful not to put names and identifying information in that post, it was still thoughtless and careless. And for that, I am sorry.
So, Buddy's Mom, I am sorry. I am sorry you felt hurt and embarrassed reading that post. I am sorry that I misread your cues and simply assumed that the termination of our daycare arrangement was a mutually understood situation that we were both ok with. I'm sorry that a relationship I had valued was destroyed by ongoing miscommunication and avoidance of the issues. Certainly I bear at least part of the responsibility for that. And I bear all of the responsibility for airing that here.
Blogging is a weird thing. It's like a diary, but one that you shape for public consumption. Bloggers choose the incidents that they will share. Even the most open of bloggers has a privacy line that he or she will not cross, and stories that will remain untold. The stories we do tell, we create and refine out of a series of details and events. We decide the tone we're going to use, how we're trying to portray ourselves--serious? smart? for comic relief? What to put in and what to leave out. We tell stories.
But those stories are about us. What we did, what we think, how we feel, this is our content. We are both the narrator and the main character of our tales. When I wrote that post, I did not do it with the intent to publicly revile Buddy or to humiliate his mother. To be honest, I wasn't thinking about them at all. I was thinking about myself, and my response to the situation. I was thinking about how hard it had been for me, the impact that that experience had had on my life.
I was being very narcissistic. And that narcissism bit me in the ass.
Given the sitter's emails since she left that comment, I doubt we would have remained friends after Friday. To be honest, even before she read that post, I was not looking forward to setting foot on the playground tomorrow morning. I was dreading the fallout from Friday. I felt like Sabrina must have in those early days of this year, hoping that things would be ok on the playground and that the other girls would accept me, but dreading the possibility that I would be left on the fringes.
But regardless of the fact that it wasn't the post that I was worried about, I should have been more careful. I should have recognized that the supporting characters in my blog are real people. I should have assumed that my blog would be read by the people who feature in it. And although I don't feel like I've treated those people unfairly in my descriptions, that's not enough. I need to consider how they will feel they've been portrayed, and choose my stories accordingly.
I am so easy. Cheap, even.
I just saw the trailer for Spiderman 3 and, to quote an old (and kinda offensive) saying, my lips say "no," but my eyes say "yes!"
My not so inner geek is outraged.
Tobey Maguire's somewhat wooden and angsty performance aside, I've enjoyed the Spiderman movies. I wasn't wild about the organic webshooters, and I raised a geeky eyebrow over the reimagining of the girlfriend tossed from the bridge sequence, but in the face of Sam Raimi's obvious love and respect for the material, I was willing to let those things go. But this? This is an outrage not to be borne.
The Sandman did it??? Are you kidding me? Are they seriously going to throw away over 40 years of canon just because the sequel well had run dry, but they wanted to milk that cash cow one more time?
One of the driving forces behind Spiderman's actions as a superhero is the responsibility he bears for Uncle Ben's death. Although he did not fire the shot that killed him, the fact is, had Peter Parker done the right thing, his uncle never would have died that way. It's this tragedy that forms the core of Spiderman's being and informs every decision he makes. To absolve him of all responsibility simply guts a character who has already been been weakened by being spared the trauma of his other defining moment--his failure to save Gwen Stacy from that fall off of the bridge. Having already taken away one of the keys to his psyche, the decision to take away the other seems cheap at best.
And for what reason? So that they can turn the very cool alien symbiont costume costume into some lame metaphor for revenge? (I was going to rant here about The Secret Wars and how Spidey really got that black suit, but I think I've geeked out enough.)
The problem is, that costume does look awfully cool. And I was just as wowed as anyone by the webslinging sequences. I was holding firm however, until the scene of Spidey in his classic pose--hanging upside down on a thread of webbing. At that moment, my geeky heart sang.
So, much though I'm repelled by the movie, I'm also beguiled. I know that however much I rail against this movie, no matter how much I complain that this is not really Spiderman, come May I will be begging my mom to babysit and eagerly lining up to pay way too much for a ticket to this travesty and the giant bucket of popcorn in which to drown my sorrows.
I feel so dirty (and yet all atwitter with anticipation).
You're Fired
I have to hand it to Donald Trump, those words are harder to say than you might think.
Things have not been going well at daycare lately. Regan has been happy there; she's blossomed socially and looks forward to going to play with her friends. Sabrina, however, is another story. She dreads going. I practically have to drag her there the mornings I work, and she's miserable when I pick her up in the afternoon. The kind of miserable that leads to the epic tantrums only Diva Girl can throw. And, since she goes to the babysitter's for lunch everyday, she's always at least a little unhappy with her day. She likes the other daycare kids well enough. The problem is the babysitter's son.
"Buddy" is in Sabrina's class at school. They are most definitely not buddies. In fact, it would be hard to find two more diametrically opposed personalities if you tried. Buddy finds Diva Girl to be an irritating chatterbox (which, to be fair, she certainly can be); Diva Girl, in turn, finds Buddy to be sulky and mean. The perfect scenario would be for them to ignore each other, but they are eight. They are not going to ignore each other, they are going to control each other. Buddy tries to make Sabrina stop talking. Sabrina tries to talk to him to resolve the problem. You can imagine how well this all works out.
It doesn't help that Buddy is somewhat of a tyrant. At first, he told Sabrina that if she told on him, she would be the one to get in trouble because it was his mom. I had hoped that after we worked out that everything would get better. And it did, for a while. Then, inevitably, Buddy started picking on her again. Because that's what kids like Buddy--and, to be fair, eight year old boys in general--do. It started with the snowmen. Every single time she built one at the sitter's during lunch, he knocked it down. Because it was "his" snow. Then came "The Rules." Buddy has rules for walking home for lunch. Apparently, she's not to speak to him (ok, fair enough. I've been trying to convince her not to waste her time on him for months), near him (what?), or to any of his friends, like the older boy who walks her to the sitter's for lunch (WHAT???).
I've been struggling with what to do. Yes, Diva Girl hated it there, but Preschooler Formerly Known As Zen was the one who had to spend the bulk of her day there, and she loved it. Plus, Diva Girl was unwilling to give up a hot lunch at the sitter's in exchange for whatever happened to turn up in the lunch box, regardless of whatever abuse Buddy heaped on her. And, to complicate the mix even further, the sitter is a friend of mine, I woman I like very much, and see every day on the playground. So, how to leave her care without straining the friendship and sparking awkward encounters at playgroup was also a concern.
Hoping to avoid unpleasantness, I'd developed a few strategies to lessen Buddy's impact on Sabrina: I had taken to picking and choosing my jobs based on how long Diva Girl would have to stay at the sitter's, asking my parents to pick her up after school if I was working late, and encouraging her to sign up for whatever club ran during lunchtime. Buddy still occupied a lot more of our time and thoughts than I would have liked, though.
When I heard about "The Rules," I was livid. I do not pay Buddy's mother so that he can boss my daughter around. I was ready to pull Sabrina out then and there, but she, ever the optimist, wanted to give it one last try. So, armed with a script of what to say when Buddy started in again, I took her to school.
Turns out she didn't need the script. Partly because Buddy's mother would be walking her that day, and partly because, after hearing why, I was done.
The older boy who walks Diva Girl was going to his own home for lunch today, so the sitter decided to walk Diva Girl because "it was easier than making poor Buddy do it." As though she acknowledged the conflict, and it was clearly that Buddy was the victim. Of Diva Girl's very presence.
I think my jaw might have dropped when I heard that. I'm certain I blinked. Poor. Buddy.
More than the statement itself, what bothered me was the casual, offhand way it was said. To me. Sabrina's mother. I think I made a comment about "poor Sabrina," but honestly, I was too gobsmacked to do much more than kiss Sabrina goodbye.
Poor Buddy. I stewed over those words all day. Wondering how to react. Wondering if I was overreacting. In the end, those two words helped me get over my reluctance to say two of my own, "You're fired." That night I informed Diva Girl that Buddy was no longer going to be an issue, that Gramma would be providing daycare, and the lunch box was coming out of storage. She doesn't like change, but she was ok with this one.
I think the sitter knew this was coming. When I called to tell her that Diva Girl would no longer be part of the lunch bunch, her response was a breezy, "ok, bye!" And she brought The Ladies daycare stuff to school to give me at pick up, saving me the need to actually say the words "You're fired" out loud. In the end it was awkward, but not awful. And even if it had been, my only real regret is that I didn't spare "poor Buddy" the horror of my daughter's presence and embrace my inner Donald a lot sooner.
Ch...Ch...Ch...Changes
Diva Girl, not surprisingly, does not do well with change. It's not that she's not an adaptable kid--I think that the children of single parents are, by necessity, adaptable--but she's too high strung to simply roll with the punches. She likes to know the structure of things, especially new, unfamiliar things. What it will be like, how things will work, those sorts of things. And when a monkey wrench gets thrown into the works, it can often be cause for a meltdown.
This week Diva Girl has been hurled headlong into the unknown. She's at a strange school, auditioning for an exciting arts based program. It's a perfect fit for her, and somewhat of a rarity in today's educational climate: a full curriculum supplemented and enhanced by a strong focus on the arts. Unfortunately, due to funding constraints, it's also a very exclusive program--only a third of the applicants will be accepted.
That's a lot of pressure for an eight year old. Especially for one who doesn't traditionally do well under pressure.
I struggled this year with the decision to allow her to try out for this school. I wasn't sure if Diva Girl could handle the higher stakes expectations in an unfamiliar environment. Even though the process is workshop based, I wondered how she'd deal with the unavoidable feeling of competition. And, obviously, I agonized over willfully exposing her to such potential for rejection. Could I subject my daughter to that kind of disappointment? Should I?
Diva Girl has come a long way this year, and I wondered if it was fair to disrupt all of that progress just for the possibility of success. Particularly when that success would mean leaving behind all the social gains she's made and starting fresh at a new school. I also questioned if I was interested in this program for the right reasons; was it the fabulous opportunity for my daughter that was the driving force behind this decision, or was it simply parental ego--a desire to feel special because my daughter was in The Program. Who would be getting more out of this experience, her, or me?
It's when struggling with questions like these that I really feel the weight of single parenthood. How much easier it would be to have someone else equally invested in the situation to weigh in with an opinion. I might still make the wrong choice, but at least I wouldn't have to shoulder all of the blame.
In the end, I let Diva Girl's enthusiasm decide for me. After talking about the pros and cons, the exciting possibilities of the program, the necessity of leaving her friends behind, the competitive nature of the selection process, and the 3:1 odds against getting in, she still really wanted to give it a shot. She understood that maybe (probably) she wouldn't make it, but that didn't stop her from wanting to try. How could I say no to that?
I tried not to let Diva Girl see my swirling emotions this morning as I sent her off with a friend to brave this new challenge on her own. I was more than a little proud og my big girl, but at the same time, I couldn't help being nervous about how my baby would handle it. I did the best that I could, reminding her that all I really expected from her was to try her best, and, more importantly, to have fun. Her beaming smile and bouncing enthusiasm as the car pulled out of the driveway went a long way towards erasing my fears, so I felt doubly unprepared when my phone rang and the woman on the other end identified herself as the selection coordinator for the school.
Immediately, my heart started pounding and my brain started throwing out worst case scenarios. It was only ten am. Diva Girl had only been at the school for half an hour. What could have possibly gone wrong already? Was it too much for her? Was she hurt? Sick? Had she even arrived at all? The possibilities were endless. And terrifying.
Turns out she was fine. Just early. Very, very early. Apparently I'd been careless when I wrote her workshop dates on the calendar. Oops.
I expected there to be tears over this mix up. In fact, given her usual reaction to this kind of stress (not that I routinely send my kid to the wrong place on the wrong day) , I expected Diva Girl to have dissolved in a writhing, sobbing mess. I did not expect her to be happily making the best of a bad situation, helping the coordinator with various odd jobs while she waited to be picked up. And I really didn't expect that she would use the opportunity to sell the woman a box of Girl Guide cookies!
My daughter may not like change, but she's certainly changing.
You Know You're a Grown Up When...
...you get excited by household utensils.
I had an inkling, of course. The unholy love I bear for my bagless vacuum cleaner was a strong indication, as was my boundless excitement over receiving towels for Christmas this year. Towels. I used to mock towels. And yet, this year, their fluffy beauty caused me to squee with joy.
So, this development was not entirely unexpected. Still, I'm a little embarrassed by how much I love my new potato masher. It is shiny and pretty and oh so easy to clean--everything I've always wanted in a masher, and yet despaired of ever finding. For years I have coveted my mom's masher, with it's easily cleaned wavy wire design. "If I had that masher", I would tell myself,"instead of my stupid, gross, never gets clean because I don't have a dishwasher honeycomb masher, I would actually make The Ladies the mashed potatoes they love." And I was right!
Tonight, I made mashed potatoes, giddy with the power of my shiny new masher. And, even though I realize how sad that is, and how small my life must be, that a kitchen utensil could bring me such joy, somehow it doesn't dimish my glee.
Oh, an pink camo pants? I don't get it. Exactly what are they trying to blend into?
Late!
Diva Girl is going to be late for school today.
It's 8:07, and so far, I'm the only one up. Both of The Ladies are still fast asleep, and although I should be rousing them for a mad rush to school, I'm not. Instead, I'm enjoying the solitude.
Even though by adult standards I live alone, I am rarely alone in this house. Diva Girl often rises before me in the morning, greeting me with the dulcet tones of Arthur, High5, and demands for breakfast and juice as I stumble bleary eyed into the living room. I am not a morning person, but she is. From the moment her eyes open in the morning, Diva Girl is on. The Preschooler Formerly Known As Zen, on the other hand, needs time to ease into her day. Too harsh an awakening will result in the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Once she's had time to adjust to the concept of being awake, however, she's good to go. And go. And go. And go. She's a night owl, that one, happy to stay up until all hours. The end result of these differing circadian rhythms is that it's rare that at least one of the children isn't on the scene.
It's particularly rare that me time occurs at a time when I'm not exhausted by a day filled with balancing conflicting needs and desires, refereeing The Ladies, and chasing Cherrios off the rug. So I'm savouring this quiet time this morning. I'm enjoying the utter silence, broken only by the sound of my fingers on the keyboard. I'm relaxing into my day instead of throwing myself headlong into the madness. I'm reveling in naughtiness of being a little bit late for school.
Sunshine, singing birds, and an hour to myself. I've got a good feeling about today.
On Firm Ice
It's almost a requirement of citizenship, on par with use of the word "eh" and an understanding, if not appreciation, of poutine. It's not hockey, although that is often the outcome of this near mandatory rite of Canadian passage. I'm talking about the age old Canadian tradition of sliding across slick surfaces with knives strapped to your feet.
Ice skating is a big part of the Canadian identity, and it's the rare child who hasn't spent some time at the rink. I was a rare child; I took exactly one turn around the ice during my childhood. For the longest time, a teeny pair of skates hung in my dad's workshop, small enough that any firm recollection of my wearing them has long been obscured by the mists of memory. All that remains is the impression that this activity is not something I enjoy. It's a very strong impression, however; one that kept me off the ice until I was forced to learn how to skate as I taught a group of fifth graders the same skilled I had eschewed throughout my childhood. See what I mean? One way or another, if you live in Canada, you're getting on the ice.
Be that as it may, if left up to me, Diva Girl's status as a truly Canadian kid would most likely be in jeopardy. Sure, I can skate now (barely), but I can think of few things I'd rather do than hang around a skating rink, lacing, tying, unlacing, waiting, freezing my butt off as my child learns to stumble across the ice. Fortunately, however, it is not left up to me; Uncle Ed has taken on this aspect of my daughter's national identity, buying her skates--Sale & Pelletier models that would make any little girl's heart thrill with dreams of Olympic gold--and taking her to lessons every Saturday morning for the last 12 weeks.
Twelve weeks of tying skates, adjusting helmets, and standing by the boards in the freezing cold arena, watching Diva Girl slowly go from sliding across the ice on her butt to gliding across it on one foot. And he's not even really her uncle. He's my parents neighbour, a sort of shirttail relation who has been a part of The Ladies' lives since they were born. He's also part of the reason why I'm not too concerned by the lack of a dad around here.
My daughters may not have a "father figure," but they do have several strong male role models, including their grandfather, my four older brothers, and of course, Ed. These are the men who have been there for The Ladies throughout their lives. The men who do dadthings like take them up on scary ferris wheels, let them help with the power tools, toss them in the air and hang them upside down until they dissolve into a mass of giggles, and do stuff like stand around hockey arenas on Saturday mornings so that my girls can learn how to skate.
These are the men who teach my daughters what real men are like. They are the men who show them that men don't always leave. That often they stick around to change diapers, kiss boo boos, and give cuddles. They teach them funny faces, ridiculous songs, knock knock jokes, and that they have value in the world. That they are important, interesting women who deserve to be listened to. That they are funny, and fun, and worthy of love and attention. These are the men who will help my daughters form their sense of themselves, and I'm very grateful to have them in our lives.
I'm also pretty proud of my Diva Girl, who passed her level 2 skating and is now a pink elephant!
Big Day
I'd especially like to thank my friends Kate, Thordora , and Zoo for helping to make the dream a reality. I truly couldn't have done it without their support and inspiration. I'm so lucky to have such good friends both in real life and in the computer.
