Learning From History
I have to say that I never actually thought someone would be brave enough to let me post on their blog, not to mention one that is actually famous!
So many thanks and I hope I don’t make this too messy for you to come home to!
I have been a solo mum for as long as I can remember (just kidding), well maybe not quite that long, my oldest daughter (Big Girl) has just turned 6 but some days I wonder what on earth I did before she arrived in the world.
Its not like I have memory difficulties (now where was I again?), my memory just has a selective switch on it and things that are unimportant to my current situation are forgotten, I am starting wonder if my selective memory is causing me to repeat the mistakes of the past though.
When I became pregnant with BG, I was engaged to her father, we were due to be married on valentines day (yes I know how romantic!) in 2001, but….
Yes there always has to be a but! but in October 2000 he got cold feet, so cold in fact that he actually had the indecency to invite a potential girlfriend to come and spend the weekend in the house we were sharing!! I admit to spending most of that weekend drinking myself stupid for the entire weekend and then to top it all off I discovered in early November that I was four weeks pregnant.
Solo mummyness here I come.
That is where it all began, BG was born in July 2001 (needless to say valentines day sucked that year!) but I had the luxury of nearly 8 months of pregnant singledom to get used to the looks, the comments and the reality that the sleepless nights would be all my privilege.
I did go through a stage (I think all solo mothers do this at some point) where I started to look at men from a different point of view “will you make a good daddy?”.
It was scary for me as a fairly independent woman to be thinking that I just wasn’t good enough to parent my girl on my own, I made a pact with myself that if I was to start dating then there would be criteria for me to meet.
* There would be no contact between BG and potential man until at least 6 months had passed
* Dating would be done at a time when it would provide the least amount of disruption to our routine
* Potential man would be aware of single mumness and it would be available as a discussion point, but would not be the sole topic of conversation.
* Oh and I wasn’t going to get into a relationship until after BG was at least one year old.
Yes we did make it through that first year, in one piece with a long distance relocation which put us closer to my parents and friends from before my engagement.
When BG was 3 I got a little bored and obviously a lot careless, after a one night stand I discovered I was pregnant again, the funny thing was that she was conceived at around the same time of year that BG was (do you see what I mean about memory letting me relive past mistakes) and arrived in August 2005.
Wouldn’t change a thing, two amazing little girls, totally different personalities and both beautiful but still a solo mum.
By now the “will you be a good daddy” thoughts had left my head but as another valentines day rolled around and Jboo was six months old I broke my old pact and started going out with a guy who I had known for a while, he started staying the night and before I knew it we had decided to make it official and he moved in. No six months of dating, didn’t stick to the no contact with the kids rule or even wait for Jboo to make it to one year old.
Then it all fell apart, the honeymoon was over, he became manipulative, controlling, emotionally and verbally abusive, finally one day I got out of the shower to find him yelling at BG for eating her breakfast instead of putting her clothes on and when I had made sure that BG was out of the way in her room, I told him that his behaviour was not acceptable. He faced me down and started to have a go, he got so loud and so vicious that I picked up the phone to call a friend to come and intervene, he took exception and pushed me slamming me back against my desk in order to disconnect the phone. Sadly I had baby Jboo in my arms, she had witnessed all of this and that was when I realised that by breaking my code and following my mistakes of the past theme at valentines day I had put my kids in a huge risk.
I took the kids outside and put them in the car, explained to BG that I had made a mistake and that I would fix it and she would never be in a situation where she was that scared by mum’s boyfriend again.
Once he was at work I found him somewhere to live and my friends all came by and moved his gear out for us.
In my pursuit of avoiding repeating past mistakes I had managed to do it anyway, I hadn’t realised that I was still looking for a daddy for my girls, I had jumped in with both feet and tried to fill a hole that I thought they had in their lives, succeeding in only making it bigger because they now knew what it was like to be mistreated by a man.
Okay so you would think that with my past track record I would be learning aye.
Nope, all in all I have recently concluded that I have been a bloody idiot and that my lastest spate of idiocy has only recently been played out, not to mention the added bonus of a pregnancy which makes it in the to be continued list.
So there I was in February 2007, I had successfully managed to keep myself to myself and was back to being a confident self assured woman and mother. The previous relationship had reminded me to be extra vigilant, extra protective and I was constantly putting my kids first, but as happens, I was wearing thin again, I felt like I couldn’t keep putting one foot in front of the other without getting something in return for myself.
I started noticing that I was attracted to the guy who was renting my sleep out, we had known each other for four and a half years, and he had lived in the sleep out on and off for a very large chunk of that time. He loved the kids to pieces and was always there when I needed a helping hand. It blew me away that I would feel like that so I started to think hard about the implications, what would it mean for the girls? What would it mean if our relationship failed and the girls lost a valuable male role model? What if he turned out to be a chameleon like the last time and the girls were put at risk again?
I really did think about it, I ran it past all my friends, and when I finally sat down with him and we realised we were having the same feelings for each other we agreed that we should take it slow and make sure the kids came first.
So with that all said and done we dated for a few weeks, and then he asked me to marry him of course I said yes, meanwhile he asked if I would be willing to go through another pregnancy so that he could have a child of his own blood.
Pregnancy for me is hellish to say the least and I agreed on the terms that we wait a couple of years.
Shortly afterwards we discovered that despite being on the pill my body had taken matters into its own hands and I was about to enter at least 4 months of hell. At this point I would suggest heading over to my blog and reading this link to discover how this all turned out.
Welcome Kate
I'm on vacation. Kate will be your blogger this week. Please give her lots of love, because she's teh awesome.
Hmmm how to be a guest blogger, how to take the reins of someone else's blog and hope like hell you don't make it into the most boring place in the world.
Earlier today I spent several hours writing screeds of my life story in an attempt to come up wth something that maybe vaguely postable, I look back now and find it all positively yawn worthy but our wonderful host told me it was great. I allowed her editing rights to ensure it fit with the general look of the blog because lets face it I am not likely to get one of those writers prizes!
Now that the kids have gone to bed my brain is free to conjure up all sorts of wonderful things and I am feeling much more able to put them down onscreen.
So Im thinking this one may not need the editing of its previous counterparts (which ironically may end up being posted after this one anyhow!).
For those of you who haven't previously visited my precious little portion of the blogosphere I should maybe introduce myself, although don't expect me to remember anyone's names!
Im Kate, have been a long time reader and quite often commenter on this here blog, in fact I am happy to say that this one was my very first addiction, I now have a list of URL's as long as my arm and am fortunate enough to be able to make the time to read all of them (have to admit to recently taking advice and employing a blog tracker to make it a little easier though) during my day.
Although a dedicated stay at home mum (New Zealanders spell things different) to my two beautiful girls, I am also a mum of the solo variety. I work two jobs from home and everything fits nicely around the children so that I am able to still find a small quantity of sanity time somewhere in each day (and if I don't then the blog doesn't get posted to because that is my breathing space!).
I have dabbled my toes in work outside the home, as a caregiver, a cleaner and at one stage as a mechanic, but I object to paying someone else for the privilege of raising my children in their own image instead of mine!
That is pretty much me in a nutshell, I have views and morals and my children's safety, health and general well being come before anything else. I am happy being a solo mum and have recently come to the conclusion that I wouldn't trade it for the world.
So here's hoping Kimberly had fun editing my previous contributions and we can get to know each other a little bit over the next couple of weeks, if she decides to keep me on that is!!
Linky Love
I'm on vacation. Here's some great SIngle Mom sites to visit whole I'm gone. Because I'm confident enough to share the love.
Diary of a Single Mom on the Edge
Living the Life My Fourteen Year Old Self Dreamed Of
I have some news. I've been keeping something from you all. Not on purpose; I just couldn't figure out how to break it to you. So, I finally figured I would just put it out there.
I went on a date.
At least, I think it was a date--I'm not quite sure. But, since a man asked me to go somewhere with him and I felt inclined to change my underwear and put on makeup for the occasion, I'm calling it a date.
The reason I couldn't figure out how to break it to you is...the "date" was not with Cute Blockbuster Guy; It was with Facebook Guy. If I'd had a date with Cute Blockbuster Guy, I'm pretty sure I'd know it. But Facebook is complicated.
I suppose if it was a date it would fall into the category of "fix up:--one of those friend of a friend things. Back in the old days it might have been a blind date, but this is the twentyfirst centruy and it's all online now. Code words like "great personality" are at the mercy of Google, and why engage in some sort of awkward phone ballet when you can Facebook instead? You might be able to get away with being 5 inches taller, 15 pounds lighter, and 20 I.Q. points higher on Match dot com, but on your Facebook profile? Chances are you're checking out the real deal.
So we Facebooked. We poked. We walled. We messaged. We took the movie compatability test and found out that we are a terrible match, and then decided to test flixster's predictions with a movie.
It was nice. I had a good time. But...does it count as a date when you take the bus to the mall, eat dinner at the food court, and have to be home by ten?
Cognative Dissonance, part 2
Let me just start by saying that I agree with the commenters on the previous post who pointed out that the burqua does not necessarily preclude the presence of the sexy undergarments. In fact, it makes a certain sort of sense that when you are committed to modestly keeping the bits under wraps, you might feel a bit more freedom in immodestly wrapping the bits. At any rate, I was utterly charmed to see the frothy scraps of lace clutched in that gloved hand--and not just because she had such excellent taste in lingerie.
I was less charmed by today's adventure in cultural diversity, however. In fact, I believe the correct term would be "weirded out."
The subject of today's sociological inquiry is again an Muslim woman. This time observed with her tween daughter in the toy department at the local WalMart. The woman is clearly Orthodox, marked out by the veil and gloves complete her chador. Judging by the small rectangle of skin that reveals her eyes, I don't think she's Arab, however. The eyes are bright blue, and the skin around them is as pale as mine. Her daughter, dressed modestly in jeans and a tee shirt but without the hijab, looks to be about Diva Girl's age, and her colouring bears out my assumption about the mother.
I confess, my internal eyebrow raises a bit at this; it's just so unexpected, to find a Western woman covered up like this. It challenges all of my Western sensibilities, living as I am in a culture where the tramp stamp reigns supreme. But I have to confess, part of me admires this challenge to the type of feminism that has a burning bra as it's defining symbol. Not that I will ever don a burqua myself, but there is something about being so confident in yourself, so comfortable in your place as a woman that you willingly choose to hide yourself from the world like this that is very powerful. I am impressed by the confidence and faith this woman shows, proudly wearing her veil among the bellyshirted masses.
I am less impressed by her taste in toys. And definitely confused. I do not understand how any mother would buy her tween daughter a Bratz doll. I mean, given the way they've muscled Barbie out of the pink aisle, clearly there are lots of mothers who do understand the appeal of buying dolls that look like they belong on a streetcorner, offering Ken a "date" for their daughters. I just really never considered that a woman who believes in female modesty to the point that she is only shows her eyes in public would be among them.
I can easily reconcile the seemingly antithetical ideas that a woman who hides everything from public consumption will not necessarily display the same degree of modesty beneath those robes. I cannot for the life of me, however, figure out how a toybox full of Bratz will help her to pass those values along to her daughter.
Crueller Than The Wickedest Stepmother
I am the Meanest Mother Ever. You might thing that you're tough, but trust me, you've got nothing on me. I am Medea, Joan Crawford, and Cinderella's stepmother, all wrapped up in one neat little package.
How did I earn my title? I didn't let Diva Girl watch High School Musical 2.
That's right. I denied my 8 year old daughter the joy of participating in the tween event of the summer. Told you I was mean.
How could I do such a thing? How could I deprive my daughter of one the defining moments of her generation? It was really, really easy: I said "no," and I meant it.
Much like almost every other tween girl in North America, Diva Girl has been looking forward to this event for weeks. I've been indifferent, but not opposed. I have nothing against this Disney Juggernaut; in fact, if anything, I'm sort of charmed by it myself. The franchise reminds me of the heyday of the Disney empire--wholesome teen stars like Annette Funnicello in fluffy, wholesome films. In the era of teen queens like Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan ruling the media waves, it's refreshing to see a nice, clean cut, multi-ethnic cast dancing around singing snappy positive message bubblegum pop. So it's not an objection to High School Musical per se. It's more an objection to the state of Diva Girl's room that lead me to ban the kiddie crack.
Instructions, demands, bribes...nothing was making a dent in the debris covering Diva Girl's floor. It was time to bring out the Big Guns. So I informed Diva Girl last week that I was done with this particular power struggle. I expected the room to be clean, and if it wasn't by the day of the premiere, she wasn't watching it. Period. And the room wasn't cleaned. In fact, it was messier than ever owing to a frantic search for her Build-A-Bear High School Musical tee shirt--Brown Sugar Puppy needed to be appropriately attired for the event, you know. Too bad she missed it because Diva Girl has the meanest mother in the whole wide world. And the messiest room.
Thank goodness for Tivo, though. Diva Girl may have missed out on how Gabriella and Troy spent the summer, but I've been humming "What Time Is It" while writing this post. Because I am mean like that.
I'll give you a hint: I'm at Vodkarella's
Sisters
The Ladies have been trying lately. Trying to make me crazy by the end of summer vacation, I am convinced. They get along for brief periods of time--usually involving some sort mess and mayhem--which intersperse the fighting. Fighting over space on the couch, over which show to watch on television, over who gets to stir the mac and cheese or use the blue crayon. The fact that there are quite possibly a thousand other blue crayons in the box is not the point; the point is not even the blue crayon. The point is that she has it, and she wants it (which "she" is which is irrelevant in this equation). Because she has it, not because it is blue. They are, you see, sisters.
This sisterhood seems to be made both deeper and more complicated by the five year age gap between my Ladies. Every day, Regan comes more and more into her own as a person. And yet, even as the Zen Baby races wildly into her own girlhood, the distance between herself and her sister the Diva Girl becomes more and more pronounced. Sabrina is also growing up, and for every step my younger daughter takes to plant herself more firmly in within the boundaries of childhood, my older daughter takes another, leaving them behind. It can be fractious, this ebb and flow between Backyardigans and Hannah Montana, Littlest Pet Shops and Little people, books with boards and books with chapters. But it can be marvelous too. And sometimes, in the spaces in between, there are small moments of grace where the girls come together and they are sisters in more than just name or accident of birth, but in their souls.
Now is one such moment.
The Ladies are sitting together quietly on the couch--a space over which they have warred for the last week. I glance over to see Diva Girl is seated with her legs wide apart, her Zen sister between them. The older one is braiding the younger's hair. There is silence as they both concentrate on the task at hand, not even aware of my gaze, or of the love for both my children that swells within me at this unexpected sight. They are sisters, and my heart both clenches and expands to fill my chest to see them so.
I think about reaching for my camera, to attempt to capture this moment of connection, but am reluctant to break the spell of sisterhood that surrounds them.
And before I can decide, the spell breaks on its own. Diva Girl issues increasingly imperious (and hauntingly familiar) commands to "SIT STILL!" while Zen Baby, decidedly unzen, wails that she doesn't want ponies in her hair after all. The noise and the friction builds as their opposite goals rub against each other, and the fighting begins again.
Of course. Because, you understand, they are sisters.
Cognative Dissonance
I come from a fairly multiethnic city. It's certainly no Toronto in terms of its ethnic diversity, but it's not nearly as lilywhite as you might expect. In particular, we have a strong Arab population here which means that it's not unusual to see women wearing everything from the hijab with jeans to a full on chador that borders on burqua. In fact, several women in my building wear varying degrees of muslim dress, and other than to compliment their choice in fabric, I barely even notice.
Today though, I noticed. Because I wasn't in the laundry room, or at the pool, or walking down the street. I was at the lingerie store. And if there is one place you don't expect to see a woman in a burqua, it's standing in line at La Vie En Rose with a handful of lacy thongs.
The Computer Gods Are Angry
It's been a bad week for the internet, it seems. I've lost track of the dead laptops and fried hard drive tales of woe at this point, but one thing is obvious: the Computer Gods must be angry, judging by the technological misfortunes running rampant in the blogosphere right now. The question is, how to propitiate them? Because I really need to get some work done.
I have lost the same post about five times now. Between accidental shutdowns, stupidly surfing away from the page without saving, and the gobbledygook issue that occurred after the Preschooler Occasionally Known As Zen dumped Cherry Kool Aid on my keyboard, it's not been a very productive week here.
All I can say for sure at this point is that red dye #14 does not appear to be the nectar of the gods.
I'm So Glam
"Mommy! Mommy! Come and look at this giant poo!"
At least it was in the toilet, so she wasn't asking me to clean it up. There's that.
Easy Rider
Like everyone else from the momosphere who recently spent four days in Chicago, I returned home to different children. They'd grown--both physically and intangibly-- in the time I'd been away. Since I'm not exactly new to this parenting thing, I knew they were going to change in my absence and I thought I was prepared for it. Until my dad showed me this.
When Regan started calling me "mother" and telling me her souvenirs were "so cute!" and "thoughtful" I grinned at my mom and laughingly told her she'd broken my baby. I'd expected that she would seem like a completely different person, you see. It's a phenomenon that we're all familiar with, that babies and toddlers morph into different beings at the speed of light. Blink and you'll miss something wondrous. The thing with second children, though, is that you get that, and you're okay with it. Not that their moments don't matter; they do. But they're often just not quite as....momentous as the first time around. It's somehow easier to let them slip by and to simply pick up in this new space. You know, with second children, that you were there for all those long moments that lead up to that leap that happened while you were looking away, and that makes it ok to take the big things in stride, knowing that even if you don't remember them, you had all the myriad little ones along the way.
First children, however, are different. They are, well, first. This means that by definition, every new stage for them is truly new. None of it has been seen before and all of it is eagerly awaited. First children are also older children, and It can be harder to see their metamorphoses happening in the moment. Unlike their younger siblings, their changes often occur as gradual, incremental movements between stages, and not as seismic shifts in character. And then one day you come home from a trip and find that the wobbly, tentative girl who couldn't even balance on a two wheeler has become a confident rider in your absence and you realize that she went and did it again--grew up when you weren't looking. Only this time, you don't even have the thousands of moments that went before to console yourself.
When I left on Thursday, Diva Girl and her bike had yet to achieve any sort of symbiotic relationship. Each turn of the pedals, every second of precarious, upright motion was a hard fought three way war between her body, the machine, and that eternal archnemesis, gravity. By Monday, she'd sped beyond the fledgling rider in the video, nearly unrecognizable in her mastery of her wheeled steed. And I'd missed it all.
I confess, mingled with my joy and excitement was a wistful little nugget of...something. Hurt? Regret? Envy? I'm not sure, I just know that when Diva Girl greeted my return home with "Guess what!!! I can ride my bike!!!!" my heart gave a little squeeze.
And then it let go as I looked at my father, beaming in the background. I realized that not only was it okay that she had mastered this skill in my absence, it was right. After all, this wasn't my parenting moment, it was my dad's. He was the one who logged the long hours holding her up, racing along beside her, shouting encouragement, and catching her when she fell. He was the one who taught her to ride, so it was only right that he was the one with her when she finally found her wings and soared (or wobbled) down the pavement on her own.
I'm just glad he shared it with me.
The Highlights
Ok, I swear, this is it. No more talking about BlogHer. After, of course, I tell you all the best parts.
The only way rooming with Lady M could have been been any better is if she'd brought the petticoats. I had a blast with her. It wasn't weird or awkward meeting her in person, it was more like reconnecting with an old friend from college. She is exactly like her blog--warm, welcoming, thoughtful, kind, and just a lot of fun.
I was twice rescued by kind strangers who took pity on my wallet full of Canadian money. First, Barbara took pity on a fellow citizen and traded me so that I could pay for my business cards (I have business cards!) and stop feeling like a dork every time someone handed me her card and politely waited for me to reciprocate. Then, after I crashed Carrisa's dinner, CPA Mom insisted on trading me an American twenty for "the blue one and the purple one" out of my wallet even though I tried to convince her that even without the exchange it was a very bad deal (she got $15 Canadian dollars). Apparently she didn't know our money comes in a variety of colours and just liked it. Plus, her husband collects currency, so I guess she can use it as his souvenir.
I wasn't at the party where they put the panties on Her Bad Mother's head, but I was at the one down the hall where we taught Lady M and Jenny how to let the bubbles melt, shot a vaguely pornographic promo for MBT, and got our second warning from hotel security before we were even aware we'd gotten our first.
I saw Her Bad Mother wearing a McDonald's bag like a tiara and not only did she know who I am, she announced to the hallway that I was going to join MommyBlogsToronto I was flattered, but put it down to the cocktails and the love. But since she just said it again in the comments, I am making an official announcement before she can come to her senses. I'm going to write for MBT!!!!
Izzymom bought me a drink. And I didn't even spill it on myself when she told me she'd read my blog.
I skived off of the final session each day in favour of primping for the cocktail parties, because I'm vain like that. I don't get to get dressed up very often--my look varies between "Mom" and "Teacher"--so I was not about to miss the opportunity to go to cocktail parties looking my best (for those of you who saw me there, that's it. That's the best I can do.). Of course, this meant that I missed the Momosphere session, which was a bummer, because I heard great things about it. But the tradeoff was that I looked pretty good in my own version of the Traveling Pants ($5 at the thrift store and they give me the ass I will never bother to work out for and legs that are way longer than mine really are) and Payless sandals. With apologies to Catherine, Chris, and Lena, it was totally worth it.
I didn't bring my camera, but there are pictures of me all over flickr. Most notably my feet--I have a tendancy to take my shoes off in just about any situation. It's a quirk--and my ass. Seriously, it looked awesome in those jeans.
I met Scholastic people! Let me repeat that. I met Scholastic people.Like, people who work for Scholastic. At their head office in New York. I had lunch with them, and partied with them and they gave me their emails, totally unaware that I will now stalk them. Well, not really. But maybe....Scholastic, people!
Ok, I promise not to blather on anymore, but I had such a great four days I couldn't not give you the highlights. Man, I hope I can go back next year!
Panic! Joy!
Those two words pretty much sum up the BlogHer experience for me. From the drive to the conferences and the cocktail parties, it was all panic and joy.
The first panic was the drive--wondering exactly what I'd gotten into, committing to a fourteen hour round trip with a virtual stranger (and I know Karen was wondering the exact same thing). That is quite a leap of faith, and I think we were both overjoyed to find that instead of awkward, uncomfortable silences, we talked so much that we lost all track of the exits we were supposed to watch for. Thus, our joy in finding a kindred spirit was nicely balanced by the panic that were were lost somewhere in the wilds of Michigan, destined for a bad end before we'd even braved Gary, Indiana which , according to our rental guy, is the murder capital of America and should be avoided at all costs. I'd like to think that he was concerned for our safety, but I suspect that he just didn't want anything bad to happen to the car. Then we realized that MapQuest is just the internet's version of a practical joke, chucked the exits in favour of following the big sign that said "Chicago" and we were back to joy.
Until we got there, and realized that we were driving aimlessly around Chicago without a clue as to where we were or how to get to where we were going. Then we saw the sign for the South Side YMCA and panicked a wee bit. I don't know anything about the South Side of Chicago except what's been portrayed in the media--which frankly makes me think it might not be the best place for a couple of displace Canadians to wander about, lost and confused--but I did know that we wouldn't find the W there. That was the panic--which, as navigator, I quietly kept to myself. The joy was realizing that my default navigational choice--hereafter known as the Big Building Navigational Method--was totally effective. Seriously. You may scoff, but by just aiming for the big buildings, Karen and I managed to end up downtown.
Which meant we were there. At BlogHer. So then I panicked about that for a little bit because while Karen was incredibly generous with the introductions, the last thing I wanted to be was a glommer. The joy of BlogHer, however, is that it is nearly impossible to be a glommer--Everyone was kind and welcoming and just so happy to be a part of something that we all understood that the lines were blurred, the cliques were opened, and everyone was free to be a part of the party. And if that's not joy, I don't know what is.
