Sleepless

I've not traditionally been a fan of the sleepover. As an adult, I mean. As a child--particularly as a teenager--I loved them. As a parent, however, I've been lukewarm on the idea at best. Even though it seems like all of Diva Girl's friends are having them--they've been the favoured birthday party theme this year--I've been reluctant to allow her to enter this new phase.

I'm just not comfortable with the idea of her sleeping at someone else's house. Part of that stems from the fact that she's only been sleeping her in own bed for a few months now, and part of it stems from the scary world we live in. I don't have any real concern about the dads and older brothers who might be present during these events, but I have to admit, I feel better knowing that she's tucked up safe in her bed at night with just me and her sister for company. And the idea of having a sleepover at my house? That's just a whole new set of terrifying possibilities.

Diva Girl has never shared my reluctance, however. She just knows that she's been missing out on something fun-- something that has begun to take on almost mythic proportions in her mind--and she doesn't like it. It's not fair she tells me whenever the subject comes up, which seems to be frequently. The rub is, she's right; it's not fair. I mean, there's really no good reason not to have a sleepover here, other than the fact that every time she mentions it, I start to think of all the work it would entail. (In case you haven't noticed, I tend towards the Slacker category when it comes to my mommy philosophy.)

Sensing a chink in my armor, she's been slowly wearing me down. Her room is tidy--perfect for long hours playing with her friend. She'll be good. She's got that fabulous new tent for them to sleep in. She'll be good. And, the capper, it's Summer Vacation. So, this weekend I took a big breath and an even bigger step, telling Diva Girl that while she still isn't allowed to sleep over at her friends' houses, she can invite a friend to sleep over here. To say she was happy would be an understatement. An invitation was immediately issued (before I could change my mind, I think), and plans began to be made for The. Best. Sleepover. EVER!

There will be pizza for dinner and movies and junkfood--candy skewers and chips and maybe even rootbeer! There will be Build A Bears and Groovies and Pollies galore, plus skipping ropes, soccer balls, and bubbles. If they're really lucky, even the pool. Of course there will be late night giggles and threats to go to sleep RIGHT NOW. Most of all, I hope there will be fabulous memories and another layer to what looks to be a beautiful friendship.

And at least some sleep.

A Title Eludes Me

There is a reason I am a solo mom that goes beyond my overall contentment with my unfettered status, unwillingness to subject my children to the vagaries of my personal life, and plain old fashioned commitment issues. The fact of the matter is, I'm just not good at the whole dating thing

True story: When The Man I Didn't Marry called and asked me out on our first date, my response was, "Gosh, I'd love to go to the movies on Saturday, but I don't get paid until next week." Seriously. And that is still a step up from the time a couple years earlier when one of the very cute, very popular, very out of my league boys in my class asked me on a date. That time my answer was, "Why? Is this some kind of a trick?" Because I am smooth like that. (Needless to say, Mr Popular and I did not end up going out.)

All this ancient history is to illustrate the fact that even back when dating was supposed to be easy--before I had kids and when most men my age were not yet married--the whole mating dance was a bit complicated for me. And now? What used to be a simple shuffle around the dance floor might as well be competitive ballroom dancing. Even if you do find an attractive single man, exactly how do you go about letting him know you're interested without devolving into Creepy Neighbour Guy territory? The mere thought of it is exhausting enough to make another season spent with Grey's Anatomy reruns seem like a perfectly delightful way to spend your evenings.

So, I've been dateless for a long, loooong time. And it's really been ok, because it's not like there's been anyone around that I'd consider dating anyway. Not since the Cute Blockbuster Guy moved away, that is.

Back in the Spring of 2004, I rented a lot of videos from Blockbuster. A lot. The variety store on the corner had pretty much the same selection at a better price, but Blockbuster had The Cute Guy, which made it worth the longer walk and higher rental fees so far as I was concerned. For a few months that year Diva Girl and I made regular trips to the video store--she rented her way through the Mary Kate and Ashley oeuvre, and I danced around with The Cute Guy, waiting for him to ask me if I wanted to get a cup of coffee sometime. Then he got transferred, Sabrina started getting her Olsen Twin fix from the library, and we never did have that coffee. It was kind of a bummer, but not the end of the world; I had Regan, life went on, and I filed the Cute Blockbuster Guy under "Roads Not Taken."

Until this week. This week, four years and a preschooler later, I ran into the Cute Blockbuster Guy. He's not the Cute Blockbuster Guy anymore, though; now he's the Cute North By Northwest Guy. But he's still cute. And funny. And just...I don't know. I just know that there's still something about him that makes me, Captain Oblivious, sit up and take notice. Something that makes me want him to notice me.

But it's complicated. Heck, it was complicated back when Diva Girl and I were hanging out at the Blockbuster, so how much more complicated is it when I'm buying teeny Crocs for my younger daughter? The one who didn't even exist the last time we flirted over a cash register. Spark or no spark (and I feel the need to point out here that he recognized me, too), is it really worth it to dig out my dancing shoes at this late stage in the game, or should I just curl up on the couch with my bunny slippers and hope there's something good on TV this season?

School's Out

So, Summer Vacation is here for another year, and not a moment too soon. The crayons are all broken, the markers are streaky, and the endless possibility of first page of a brand new notebook has given way to the finality of stories written on crumpled, stained pages.

Part of this ennui stems with my growing dissatisfaction with Diva Girl's school, brought to a head by the Great Playground Kerfuffle of '07, but I think the fact that I've been working pretty much full time since switching to Gramma Daycare also plays a role. The simple fact is, I'm burnt out. I don't know how you all do it--balancing the soccer games and the dance classes and the Brownie meetings with the homework and the healthy dinners, all while working full time. All that shlepping around is exhausting, and I can't say that I'm sorry to have one less thing on my plate (although I will miss the paycheque). What with swimming lessons and summer camp set to begin next week, I suppose I haven't really lessened the load much, but knowing that I don't have to get up at 6 am to bus to one school or another in addition to taking The Ladies to their various activities certainly makes it feel like less work on the horizon.

I've been thinking a lot about work this week, staring at the box on my supply teacher renewal form that asks if I'm interested in a full time assignment and wondering if I'm going to check it or not. On the one hand, it's nice to have a stable paycheque. But it's also nice to set my own hours and to be able to take the day off to supervise a fieldtrip or to take Diva Girl on a special outing. I've really been thinking about this since someone insinuated that by choosing to continue to work as a supply teacher, I am not doing enough to support my kids. It's left me wondering if that's true, if my children are being shortchanged because I'm comfortable with the fact that I don't have a full time teaching job right now.

There are some very good reasons why I work as a substitute teacher, starting with the fact that there simply aren't jobs in my area right now. If I wanted a full time teaching gig, my only choice would be to move to another city which in turn means uprooting my daughters and taking them away from the support network--in particular their grandparents--that forms a major part of their lives. I'm not convinced that the benefits of a fulltime job--even if they do include dental--outweigh Saturday night dinners with Grandma or the luxury of having Grampa pick Diva Girl up from school on rainy days. Especially in light of the fact that even though school is only in session from 8-2, those aren't the only hours a teacher works. When you've got your own class, there's the planning, the marking, the meetings and co-curriculars to think about; as a supply teacher, I work 8-2 and come home with energy and time to devote to my children, not my work load. To be honest, I don't know if there would be Brownies and Soccer and Dance Classes if I had to work in marking and planning too--I'm just not that good at multitasking.

I suppose I could quit teaching, find a different job that doesn't require the same out of office commitment, but I won't. For one thing, it's hard to beat the pay/work ratio of a substiiute teacher. Sure some days are hard, and some classes are more work than others, but for the most part, it's a pretty good situation. I only really need to work between 10-12 days a month to keep our bank account at a comfortable level, and now that I've spent this past year remaking my reputation after an extended hiatus, I'm pretty confident that most months that won't be a problem. The other reason I won't trade in my chalk holder for a nametag isn't based on financial considerations, but I think it's at least equally important in the decision making process: I love my job. I love teaching. It's my thing. And I think it's important for The Ladies to grow up seeing me do the thing I love, not just trudging off to work each day because that's what I do to pay the rent.

And I ask myself, isn't supporting my children more than just supplying them with things anyway? Isn't the time I spend with them, my availability for gluing glitter, rolling playdoh, or reading a book important too? Doesn't my responsibility to nurture my children extend beyond making sure they are fed and clothed? The way things are now, The Ladies have enough--a nice apartment, nutritious food, pretty clothes, and fun toys (not to mention Brownies and swimming and soccer and dance class and camp)--and they have me. If I check that box, will it upset the balance? Will we find a new balance that allows us to enjoy the fruits of my increased labours, or will we slog through our days, wishing for more time and fewer toys?

I don't know the answer. I don't think anyone really does. What I do know is that with no more pencils and no more books, just a couple months of swimming lessons, summer camp, and soccer games, I've got the luxury of enjoying some serious time with my daughters while I try to figure it out.

I am Offically a Soccer Mom

I've never been a team sports kind of person. Well, truthfully, I've never really been much of a sports person at all. But team sports even less so than others. I'm just not much of a joiner. Or an athlete. So, I'm a little bemused to find myself sitting on the sidelines, a soccer mom of all things.

Sabrina's wanted to play soccer for years, but something--new baby, tumour, poverty--has always gotten in the way. Until this year, that is. This year, she's lacing up her cleats and warming the bench trotting out onto the field. And twice a week I'm hauling a lawn chair on the bus to sit on the sidelines with the other parents, cheering the kids on. I'm thrilled that Sabrina has this opportunity this year, that she finally gets to experience being part of a team, but I'm a little lost.

For one thing, other than the whole "no hands" thing, I have no idea about the rules of soccer. Shifts? Cards? Offsides? I haven't got a clue. And I have to confess, I'm a little intimidated by the other parents. Not that they're psycho soccer parents or anything, but the constant exhortations from the sidelines--"Come on Green! Help out!!" "Attack the ball!"--kind of freak me out. I'm the type of gym teacher who forgets to keep score during the game, so all the focus on competition and winning really isn't my thing.

Fortunately, it doesn't seem to be the coach's approach, either. Watching the...enthusiasm of some of the other coaches, I was worried about that. That the expectations would be too tough, and that it would be all about winning, and not so much about the love of the sport. Diva Girl having never played soccer before, isn't exactly well versed in the ins and outs of the game; plus, she is my daughter, which means that she's not exactly the most coordinated kid on the field. I was worried that playing in a league with a bunch of girls who have been playing for years might be too much pressure, but so far, it seems to be going fine.

She hasn't scored a goal or anything yet, but she gets to play--or at least run around on the field sometimes--and seems to be having fun doing it, which is all I was really hoping for. And maybe for her to actually kick the ball before the end of the season.

Date Night

I'm hanging out over at Karl's tonight.

One of the few good things about having your best friend move 3 000 kilometers away is that you get to meet new and interesting people, if only by proxy. And sometimes, those people have amazing skills and talents that mean that you have access to all sorts of cool stuff, like handmade toy diaper bags without ever having to pick up those skills for yourself.

Amber is one of those people, a sort of "friend in law" who I have never met, yet sort of know through Kirsten. She's also the owner and designer of Skookum Baby, where I got those adorable mini diaper bags The Ladies are sporting.

Funny story about Skookum Baby: It all started with Kirsten's passion for babywearing. Being a crafty person on a budget, Kirsten soon figured out that it was cheaper to support her habit by making her own slings and wraps rather than buying them at the local baby boutique. Soon, she was starting to have visions of starting a business and selling her creations. Fortunately, she remembered that she doesn't particularly like sewing before cooler heads had to step in and rain on her parade. For her, it's more about having the slings than about making them. Amber, on the other hand, realized that she did enjoy the creative part of the process, and that she was good at it. And thus was born Skookum Baby.

Thank goodness for Kirsten's ability to get other people enthused over her craft obsessions, because without that push, The Ladies would never have gotten these awesome bags and that would have been a tragedy, because they love them. They're prefect for imaginative play--an utterly realistic, childsized version of a real life product. They even come with a dollsized changepad and an inner pocket that's just right for holding the toy cellphone. All this and they're uniquely stylish, too! I doubt you'll find anything half so adorable at the local toy boutique, let alone the toy department at WalMart. Plus, unlike a plastic toy diaper bag, these ones are multipurpose; I've used Regan's as a real diaper bag, allowing her to tote her gear, and I'll totally be "borrowing" one to take to BlogHer in July to use as a purse. Sabrina adores hers, and is begging me get her a schoolbag for next September.

As for Kirsten, she's still busy with the crafts. She's returned to her first love, wool, and now has a thriving business as well. If you're a knitter, you should totally check out Yummy Yarn. Just keep your mitts off the Grapes and Olives--Kirsten doesn't know it yet, but she's going to make me some socks out of it. Because even when your friends move 3 000 km away, that doesn't mean you have to lose their skills. It just means that sometimes you have to pay for postage.

Happy Father's Day

"I bet it's so busy tonight because it's Father's Day," Sabrina says, looking around the crowded restaurant. "But I bet it's busier on Mother's Day."

Well aware that Mother's Day is one of the busiest restaurant days of the year, I nod in agreement. And am left speechless by the question that follows.

"Why are mothers so much more important than fathers?"

How do I answer this? How do I explain to my daughter, given our personal family dynamic, that mothers are not more important than fathers? How do I affirm the rightness of our family, while acknowledging the value of the cultural norm. Particularly when she's right; for good or for ill, our society does place the role of Mother above that of Father when determining parental relevance.

I think of some flippant, sexist joke pointing to how much more childrearing work moms do than dads, but as I look across the table at my own father, the words die on my lips. I think of the countless diapers he has changed, the boo boos he's kissed, the songs he's sung, the sheer numbers of parenting hours he's put in, both with me and with my children, and I don't want to dismiss him like that, to denigrate his parental contributions simply because he's a man.

I think of some joke about mother guilt being a powerful motivator, but I don't want to go there either. I don't want to imply that we celebrate our fathers because we want to, but our mothers because we have to. That doesn't come any closer to the idea about parenting I'm trying to impart to my daughters--that all parenting is valuable, regardless of the gender of the caregiver, that it's the love and commitment that counts, not the name of the role--than the joke about dads not really doing much of the work.

I'm still looking for an answer when my perceptive Diva Girl supplies one of her own. "Maybe," she says, "it's because a lot of people just have moms. And times like this just make you notice it more."

That they do.

Father's Day can be tricky for solo moms, what with there often being no father in the picture to celebrate on this special day. In the early years, it doesn't really figure into the occasion much, but once your child enters school, with the primary obsession with crafts for every calendar holiday, it becomes a force to be reckoned with. Suddenly, you--and more importantly your child--are confronted with the glaring difference between the actuality of your family and the rosy, nuclear norm that is still celebrated despite its growing statistical malaise. June brings cards cut in the shapes of ties or folded into origami shirts and acrostic poems of "Dad" and "Father" to be laboured over and rarely, if ever, are there exemplars for any relationship other than straight up "Dad." Despite the variety of families that exist nowadays, Dad (and just one, never two) is still the default, which leaves children who fall into the category of "other" feeling slightly left out and like their choices are somehow second best.

I know some solo moms who have claimed Father's Day as a sort of second Mother's Day. We don't do that here, although I do buy The Ladies a gift (and often use the day as an excuse to do something frivolous for myself).

We're lucky. Since preschool, Sabrina has brought home many lovingly made crafts or cards for her grandfather. But she could have just as easily addressed her art to one of her godfathers, or any of her four uncles. All of these men are strong, positive role models in her life, men who show their love for her in the time and attention they spend on her, in the value they place on their relationship, and her place in it. That's what Father's Day is about, and it's why my fatherless daughters celebrate the day, and the men who make their family so very special.

Official Entry

Thordora's been funning an event she likes to call The Pulsate Olympics for a while now. She picks a theme, asks other bloggers to write about it, and then declares a winner--sometimes based on what she feels is the best entry, sometimes using the dartboard method, sometimes through actual voting. It used to be all you won was the glory, but now she's got prizes.

This month's theme is smell, and when I saw that I thought, "I have the perfect entry for that!" So, I'm entering this post, written last year. Not because I'm too lazy to write a new post (although I suppose the point could be argued), but because I really don't think I could say it any better than I did then.

Exactly How I'd Want to Go

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Plan G

"It's as easy as riding a bicycle."

I've never understood that expression. But then again, I've never had a very positive relationship bicycles. Or tricycles. Or Inchworms. Pretty much anything with wheels, really. I'm not good with wheels. And so, I've been dreading the arrival of that childhood rite of passage: Mastery of the two-wheeler.

Yes, Diva Girl is 8 years old, and does not yet know how to ride a two-wheeler. Possibly a shocking admission for you, until you consider the fact that I'm 35 years old, and I don't know either. Which, when you think about it, probably explains why Diva Girl still can't ride without the training wheels.

It's not that I've actively discouraged Sabrina from learning how to ride. I've just never really encouraged this particular skill. Part of it has been my own prejudice--afterall, I got through childhood just fine without a trusty rolling steed, so is it really all that important that we sit her on some sort of unstable, rolling contraption and shove her out into the world? Money has also been a factor--when you're not bringing in much of an income, bright shiny bicycles tend to be a pretty low priority on the list of ways to spend what little cash you do have (and definitely come after "Scholastic Orders" on that list). But mostly, it's been plain old ineptitude. The simple fact of the matter is, I don't know how to do this.

Solo parents encounter this dilemma more often than you might believe as you look at us and wonder how we manage to do it all. The truth is, sometimes we don't. We're good at covering it up and patching the holes that are left when you're working with one parenting brain and not two, but the truth is, we're not superwomen and we can't do everything. So, sometimes there's a little parenting sleight of hand at work. A diversion here, a distraction there, and you never have to admit that there's an elephant in the livingroom.

Until, of course, the day your daughter hops on and demands to go for a ride.

Then it's time for Plan G. Because while I may not be qualified to teach my daughter to ride a bike (and trust me, I'm not. At least one of my brothers is reading this unsure whether to laugh or cry at the image that idea conjures up), my dad is. Sure, you couldn't prove it by how well I ride, but I've got four older brothers who all successfully mastered the art of the wheel under his tutelage, so I'm hopeful that by the end of this summer Diva Girl will have shed her training wheels on her way to conquering another milestone of childhood*.

Watching my dad assume the traditional posture, bent over in a crouch, one arm straight out, hand clutching the seat, the other hovering, reading to catch her if she falls, my heart swells with love for both of them. For my Diva Girl, who these days seems to race faster and faster towards the world of big kids, and for my dad, who's helping her on her way. He's already done his time at this particular task, but has once again taken up his position running along side the wobbling bike, shouting encouragement and offering a steadying hand when it looks like she might fall. Because he's a parent, and that's what parents do--run alongside, and help steady you over the bumps when you can't do it yourself--even when they're grandparents. Because he loves us.

A part of me wishes that I could teach Brina how to do this myself, that I could be the one to share this quintessential experience of childhood with her, but mostly I'm happy that my dad and my daughter are sharing this. And grateful that we have Plan G to fall back on. Because as long as we have that, I don't think whatever we don't have will be an issue.

*I am in deep denial about how this will change my little big girl's world, offering her up an entirely new world of potential freedom, so let's just not go there, ok?

A Peek At Your Soul

If you're a fan of the His Dark Materials series (and really, why wouldn't you be? Seriously, if you haven't already, go read these books. They are brilliant. Plus, by the time you're done, Harry Potter should be here), this is a fun little time waster.

My daemon is a black cat named Thaleron. (if only I'd know that before we named Nyx!)

It may not be a milestone that they leave space for in the baby books, but it's one that's close to every English teacher's heart: Baby's First Shakespeare.

Today I introduced Diva Girl to the wonder that is The Bard, taking her to a puppet show performance of The Tempest. She enjoyed the show and seemed captivated by the magical story unfolding before her eyes (brilliantly staged for a grade school audience), but, like many of the experiences we eagerly look forward to sharing with our children, I think the whole thing meant more to me.

As Sabrina gets older she, and consequently our relationship, becomes more complex. It's not a simple matter of board books and Raffi anymore (although she remains ready and willing to shake her sillies out, so long as her friends aren't watching). She's developing her own likes and dislikes and her own pop culture. It's an exciting thing to watch, but difficult too. My baby, quite simply is growing up.

Barbie is giving way to Britney, and Raffi to rap music and rock and roll. Animated heroines have already fallen by the wayside, and even Mary Kate and Ashley are losing their cachet, to be replaced by Hilary and Lindsey and a more "sophisticated" class of divas. It's just starting right now, this shift from little girl to tween, and for a little while at least, I can still hold it at bay. But it's coming. That great cultural divide marked by my disapproval of her music and the switch from Disney Princesses to a different kind of media darling adorning her walls. It's hard, watching the little girl who couldn't say "lollipop" fuss with the perfect hairstyle. It's hard to let her grow up.

But, there's an upside as well. Because now that's she's growing up, we can share things like Shakespeare. We are no longer limited to Judy and David or The Doodlebops, or even Broadway musicals for our live entertainment. Now that she is growing up, there are other things we can share too. Like an exciting tale of shipwrecks, fairies, betrayal, forgiveness and love at first sight, told at least partly in iambic pentameter.

Diva Girl like the parade of the goddesses best (I know, you're shocked). Me? My favourite part was when she turned to me and made a case for Prospero as the villain of the piece. At that moment, both my mommy heart and my English teacher's soul were bursting with pride in this intelligent, articulate person my baby has become.

I Love....ME!

Thordora tagged me with a meme during my hiatus, and I just realized that I've never gotten around to it. Sorry. One of the things I most emphatically don't love about me is the fact that I am an Olympic caliber procrastinator. I keep meaning to work on that, but I just can't seem to get around to it.

However, back to the original point...Thordora tagged me with this meme and I was actually a little excited, since I never get tagged (which only feeds my already raging outsider complex, you know). So, without further ado, Things I Love About Me:

1. I love my dna. Particularly as expressed through my clones...er, I mean children. I have to confess that I love that while each of The Ladies is so completely, uniquely herself, no one will ever question the fact that these are my kids. (I also love that both of them are utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous, but it seems a little vain--not to mention shallow--to point that out.)

2. I love my sense of hearing. I have really, really good hearing. Like, freakishly good. Which totally rocks when you're a teacher. I love being able to bust kids whispering at the back of the room by repeating or responding to bits of their conversations.

3. I love my brains. And I love that I love them. I'm really, really smart, and I'm really, really ok with that. As a woman, I love that.

4. I love how well read I am. When I was a kid, you weren't allowed into the big kid section of the library until you were 12. I got my card at 10 due to the simple fact that I had read every single book in the children's section that I had the slightest inclination to read. I cannot imagine being me without the love of reading, and I love the worlds and knowledge that that love has opened up for me.

5. I love my memory. It's not quite photographic, but if I've ever heard or read it, I can pretty much always pull up the answer on Jeopardy. It comes in quite handy when people try to change the story they started with, be they students or adults in my life, too.

6. I love my back. An odd choice, I know, but I have a really sexy back.

7. I love my life, and the way I live it on my terms. I think I might love that most of all. Because what that really means is that I love me, and I really love knowing that.

I'm tagging Eden, Landismom, Kate, Karl, Lady M, and Karen Rani of the newly rechristened Vodkarella just because of this post.

Oh, and if you want to tell me what you love about yourselves in the comments, I would really love that.