I Have a Cold

so you get a quiz.

(courtesy of Mary P.)

An Open Letter To The Couple Sitting Behind Me At The Movies Last Night

Hi there. First off, let me start by saying how utterly adorable you were with your snuggles and your giggles and your little whispers of nothing. You looked such the picture of new, young love--complete comfort without the complacency that familiarity often breeds--that you warmed the cockles of my cold, dead heart.

And then proceeded to fan that spark into a towering inferno of annoyance.

Look, I'll lay it out for you. Unlike you, I was not at the cheap theatre catching the 9:00 showing of Pirates of the Caribbean 3 because I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. Ok, sure, Facebook Guy was cryptic and ambiguous when faced with the possibility of making plans, leading me to decide that an actual date with myself was preferable to a psuedodate with him, but that's not the point here. The point is, it took me four months for the planets to align and time and space to fold in on themselves in such a way that sitting in the theatre ogling Johnny Depp as a sexually ambiguous yet still shower nozzle worthy pirate was actually an option for me. And then you two decided that you were bored, and hey, why not go to the movies? After all, the cheap theatre is only $3 now. You can't rent a new release for that!

What I'm trying to say here is that I did not pay that teenager thirty bucks for the privilege of sitting in your livingroom.

You're into each other. I get it. You're interested in what each other thinks and feels and that's great. And really, it's lovely that you want to make sure that neither of you misses anything of importance while taking their turn to gaze adoringly at the other. The running commentary you've mastered to avoid this pitfall is really quite convenient. For you. For those of us who don't suffer from similar distractions, however, it's a wee bit irritating to be subject to the SAP setting. Especially when we've shelled out thirty bucks (plus pop, chips and pizza) for the opportunity to pay full snackbar prices at the $3 theatre to see a movie that will probably be out on DVD by the end of the month.

For you, this was just another Saturday night. But for me, this was Saturday Night. Next time, please be aware of the distinction and plan your evening accordingly.

Best Mommy Ever

I am hereby claiming the title of "Best Mommy Ever" for myself. What did I do to earn such an auspicious honour, you ask?

Well, I'm pretty sure I clinched it when, after about half and hour of listening to Diva Girl natter on about her plans for playing "princess fairies" at her sleepover tomorrow, I finally snapped during the detailing of why each crown went to each particular girl and said "I don't care anymore."

Let me just explain here that the explanations of this particular game were endless. And exhaustive. And repetitive. And there is really only so much "The blue crown is for water, the red jewel is fire, the green one is for earth, and the yellow is for air" combined with "let me show you how I make them fairies with my wand" and rationalizing of why only half of the fairy contingent gets wings that a mother can take before the brutal honesty slips out.

And lest you all think that I've forever damaged her fragile self esteem with this example of quality parenting, I'd like to assure you that after a few brief moments of injured silence, the Queen of the Fairies was back to happily planning out exactly how she would boss her minions around tomorrow. Using the exact same words.

I'd think that maybe I was trapped in some level of hell, if not for the knowledge that tomorrow I get to live this experience. Complete with unwilling minions who might just not be as eager to submit to the endlessly detailed rules of this game in person as they were in absentia. So this is not in fact hell, it is merely the previews.

Thank goodness I've already hired a babysitter.

See? I told you I was the best mommy ever!

If you think you're the Best Mommy Ever, write a post telling everyone why and then head on over to Kate's blog and claim your trophy.

Sunshine and Rainbows and Sweet Puppy Kisses.

I've already waxed poetic about my love of Diva Girl's new school, but please indulge me a little bit more. Because I am just loving all the changes switching schools has brought (and I'm not even being sarcastic there).

First, there's the bus. It's still a little odd to be sending her off like that, but it gets easier every day. Especially when I consider that what was once a 45 minute round trip that included crossing a major street during rush hour traffic has morphed into a two minute game of tag through our back yard.

Then there's the social aspect. Diva Girl has friends. As in plural. And not just casual, situational acquaintances or girls who she simply thinks are her friends. Real live actual friends. Who invite her to birthday parties, and on play dates, and call her on the phone just to chat. There is something incredibly painful in listening to a couple of eight year olds chat on the phone, especially when you factor in a baby sister screaming for her turn, but the look of joy oh Sabrina's face each time she realizes that the phone is for her is worth my bleeding ears.

And finally, there is the lunchbox issue. Today, Diva Girl took a peanut butter sandwich in her lunch! Peanut butter! To school! I am positively giddy! I know that Melissa Summers has been working hard to show us all that there are many, many exciting alternatives to ye olde PB&J, but when you've spent the last 5 years at a peanut free school, in a daily struggle between what your incredibly picky daughter will eat and what you are allowed to send, the freedom to blow right past the "may contain" warning and into the land of ACTUAL nut products is a luxury that should not be underestimated.

I'm not naive enough to think it's all smooth sailing--the nightly tears over the french homework and the epic weekend meltdowns are certainly enough to keep me grounded in the reality that change--even good change--is hard. But when you've got school buses and friends and peanutbutter to balance things out, it all seems so much more manageable somehow.

Groovin'

In spite of all my handwringing about it, I'm still on the Supply Teachers List this year, and I have to confess, I feel pretty good about it. I probably would have taken a fulltime job if one had been offered, but it wasn't and I'm ok with that. The fact that I didn't have a cell phone for them to call me on and was in PEI when the major hiring was done might have had something to do with it, but such is life.

I'm especially ok with it because being on the supply list means that unlike Diva Girl, I didn't start back at school a day after getting home from our trip. While I think that the quick turn around was the right decision for her, I'm glad to have the extra time to settle into a new routine before adding work to the mix. The Zen baby and I finally getting into a groove without Diva Girl around--she still misses her sister and remains jealous that Diva Girl gets to head off on the school bus each day while she stays home with mom, but the lures of Super Why, outings to Grandma's house, and all the toys to herself are making it a bit easier to bear. And I'm finally getting everything unpacked and put away without turning around to find the room I've just tidied has somehow morphed into something that would make FEMA cry in my absence.

My two favourite things this September are Super Why and the School Bus.

I don't know if I have the words to describe how much I adore Princess P and the gang and the uninterrupted half hour they give me every morning. Regan has embraced this show with a passion not seen since she first discovered the Wonder Pets. Her day is not complete without Super Why, and since it gives me time to blog without the constant interruptions, mine isn't either. Would it be wrong to tivo it? I can barely even imagine the possibilities of a whole hour (or more) to myself in the middle of the day.

As to the school bus, let's just say that I've finally found a relationship that I can commit to. I looooove the school bus. No more hour roundtrip to drop Diva Girl off at school. These days, it's a two minute game of tag and then home before we would have even left to get to the old school. And picking her up is now a five minute affair, not a 45 minute production. Nearly a whole other hour added to my personal time in a day, all thanks to that shiny yellow bus. It really is magic, you know!

Diva Girl is settling into her new school better than I ever could have hoped for. Sure, there was last weekend's whole Exorcist reenactment, and yesterday there was wailing and gnashing of teeth about the French homework, and she cannot seem to remember to bring home her lunchbox more than 50% of the time, but other than that, I think it's going well. She's (mostly) happy to get on the bus in the morning, and (mostly) happy when she gets off in the afternoons, which is really all you can hope for once you send your kids out into the world, I think.

It may be that new kid cachet protecting her, but I haven't heard tell of any Heathers on this this particular playground. That doesn't mean that they're not there; of course they are. One of the things that you learn as a woman is that Heathers are an inevitable fact of life--sort of like periods, pimples, and guys who don't call when they say they will. Diva Girl, however, doesn't know this yet. She thinks that the move to a new school has solved everything and that she will no longer be subjected to the "very special" attention that only a friend like a Heather can give you. I wonder if I should clue her in, let her know that it's just not that simple, but after years of being at the mercy of Heather's whims and moods, I'm enjoying the break from this particular drama at least as much as Diva Girl is.

It's hard, as a mother, to watch your child struggle socially. To desperately want to make friends, but not know how. To continually misread social cues and to rush headlong into disappointment time after time. So I'm nearly as excited as she is by the fact that today, along with various and sundry papers and bits of homework, Diva Girl brought home something truly exciting in her backpack. No, not the Scholastic flyer, although that would have been awesome. This was even better though: She had a birthday party invitation. I know it doesn't really mean anything, and for all I know this little girl's mother made her invite all the girls in the class, but it's still tangible proof that she's included in the group. That at the very least they are willing to tolerate her presence and maybe, possibly, want to be her friend.

I'm usually not above holding party invitations hostage--making attendance at the event contingent on good behaviour--but this time, I'm giving her a free pass. Even if we have a repeat of last weekend's Omenlike antics, I'm going to let her go to this party and make friends with these new girls. Clean rooms and less backtalk are important, but so is being included, and this weekend I'm making my social caterpillar the priority.

I'm also about to give a whole new set of mommies a headache as I kill two birds with one stone and buy a birthday present guaranteed to shake things up a bit at school.

Torn

"Ok Regan, listen to me very carefully." I hear Sabrina whisper in the other room. Of course, I immediately engage my bionic mom-hearing, the better to uncover my daughter's latest nefarious plot. I suspect a ploy involving cookies, but am willing to be wrong on this.

And I am. For once, Diva Girl is not plotting to use her little sister as a decoy, sending her in to beguile me out of cookies, or pizza, or extra Webkinz time with her preschooler wiles. No. This time the target is, in fact, her willing accomplice.

"This is very important Regan. We don't like Dora." A-ha! She's after the Zen Baby's tv time. Hoping to indulge in something a little more risque than the antics of Swiper the Fox, I imagine.

The brainwashing continues, "Dora is dumb. It's a baby show. And we're not babies, right?"

She's pulled out the big guns, and Regan rushes to agree. "Yeah! We're not babies!" she sneers, "Dora is dumb. We don't want to watch that."

I stand on the other side of the wall, torn by indecision. Do I step in and put a stop to this, defending Regan's right to age appropriate educational programming, or do I allow Sabrina's scheme to succeed? Yes, she's being manipulative, exploiting her sister for her own ends, but if those ends are freedom from the tyranny of Dora, who am I to complain?

Smoking In the Girls Room

Apparently I forgot to tell you all about my date. oops! Sorry.

It was a nice date. Not a raging hormones, boiling chemistry kind of date. It was more of a hanging out kind of date. But it was a date. I think.

I had a moment of panic when I arrived at the club to find a long line of people snaking down the street, but no Facebook Guy. At 6'4" he's hard to miss, so that sent the little hamster in my brain into overdrive as I started to convince myself that he'd changed his mind and stood me up, leaving me to wander aimlessly downtown in my hot-ass jeans and 3 inch red patent peeptoes. I knew he wasn't really standing me up, but after the second time walking down that long line of talking, laughing people, people who were clearly with somebody, it was harder to hold that neurotic little hamster in check. And then I saw him lounging against a doorway eating a sandwich and all was well.

You know how Jerry Maguire had that solo mom at hello? Facebook Guy had me at "would you like to pop by the comic shop before the doors open?" His stock only rose higher as he stood there patiently while I geeked out about variant covers, upcoming story arcs, and new writers with the comicbook guy. Honestly, for me, if the evening had ended there, it would have been perfect.

But it didn't end there. From there we went to get in line for the club, since the doors were due to open any moment. And then waited. And waited. And waited. In my 3" heels. On a cobblestone street. Charming to look at, but hell on heels. The club opened 2 hours after the scheduled time, and by then, I was in agony. Not that I wasn't enjoying having a get to know you conversation while surrounded by a couple hundred restless alternative music fans, but my feet were killing me and I was desperately looking forward to sitting down at a table. So, when I walked into the club and found that all the tables had been removed to make room for the crowd, I nearly cried at the thought of spending another two hours standing on concrete.

Ok, yes, he did tell me it was a sneakers type event. And I could have listened to that, worn my adorable ballet flat sneakers and been infinitely comfortable. But did I mention that he's 6'4"? And that I am....not? Trust me when I tell you that awkward conversations are only made more awkward by the participants' need to either squat or stand on tiptoe in order to facilitate the exchange. So, I made the strategic choice to wear the heels. And while my feet may regret it, I don't; it was easier to talk when not engaged in some strange stretch and bend ballet. And I looked super cute.

The music? enh. There was some, and I didn't hate it. That's about as much as I can say, but then again, that's about all I have to say about most music. I'm neutral on music; it's a by product of growing up as the youngest child, I think. With four older brothers always in charge of the stereo, you learn to adapt and to accept/enjoy pretty much everything. What you don't do--well not if you're me anyway--is develop your own musical personality. I mean, there's stuff I like more than other stuff, and stuff I just don't get (that whole Because of You song, for example. Seriously, someone explain that to me because I do not get it. And I have a degree in English. I can read poetry.), but mostly I'm just willing to go with the musical flow.

And the company was....nice. Pleasant. Enjoyable, even. A good thing, on a date, I think.

And then the clock struck midnight and this Cinderella turned back into a pumpkin. With a screaming banshee daughter instead of a wicked stepmother to bring her back to reality.

*ok, I want to go on record here stating that I do not now, nor have I ever smoked. Not even in highschool. But the title just seemed so perfectly highschool that I couldn't resist using it.

Eep!

There are a lot of awards that float around the blogosphere. Perfect Post, Thinking Blogger, Nice Blog, Rockin' Blogger Chick, Blogger Most Likely to Blog (ok, I made that last one up. But you get the idea). I never, ever get these awards. I don't even get nominated. Which is mostly ok, because I wouldn't be able to put the cool little buttons in my sidebar, anyway. But still, it's hard, sitting on the sidelines month after month, watching to cool kids fling around their fun tags.

Actually, it's very much like high school, now that I think of it. Always hanging on the outside of the cliques, but never quite making it into the inner circle. Embracing the outsider status and cultivating an attitude of being above it all as a way to cope.

All of which came crashing down around my ears, because I have to confess, I was inordinately pleased when Lady M awarded me a Power of Schmooze Award.

The definition of this award: Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly comments, happily making new friends along the way.

Ahem.

Not that I want to quibble with the loverly Lady M, but I have to confess, of all the awards out there, this would be the one I'd vote "Least Likely to Give to Kimberly." I mean, I'm flattered, and thrilled, and pleased, but also feel like a bit of a fraud. In the Breakfast Club of the Internet, I don't see myself as a Claire; I'm the Ally Sheedy character, uttering an alarmed "eep" at the prospect of interacting with my peers.

I mean, I do try to do be a generally positive force in the blogosphere (recent behaviour excepted), and follow the old axiom, if you can't find anything nice to say, don't say anything at all (again, this being the exception, not the norm). But I'd hardly call it effortless. I have to push myself to get out there, to raise my head and call attention to myself, to pull the hair back out of my face and let the cool kids see the person under the aloof facade. And I've been kicking myself for not doing a very good job of it, for not commenting enough, for lurking when I could just as easily pipe up and let you know I'm there.

So I'm going to try hard to earn this award after the fact, to feel like I deserve it. Because there's no way I'm giving it back.

The rules are as follows.

1) If you get the The Power of Schmooze Award, write a post with links that schmoozed you into submission.

I'm going to nominate Ann Adams and Eden for this award. Not because they schmoozed me--that honour I think goes to Kate, who has commented on at least 90% of the posts here, and become a good friend in the process. Ann and Eden get the nod for the way they schmooze on their own blogs. I'd be hard pressed to find to more supportive bloggers. They are always free with the linky love, and because they don't comment all the time, you know that when they do, the sentiment is genuine.

2) Link to this post and Mike so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

3) Optional: Proudly display the “Power of Schmooze Award” with a link to the post that you wrote.

Well, I would if I could, but like I said, I can't. Nothing personal, just the combination of not owning the space or having the technical knowhow. Bummer, because that shiny button sure would look cute.

It's For Me To Know And You To Find Out

If you've ever wonder how exactly I became a solo mom instead of being just a garden variety mother, you might want to check this out over at Work It, Mom!

And then, um, maybe vote for me?

(Edit: Ok, yes, you have to register. But it only takes a minute, and it's actually a great site. I think you guys will find a lot to keep you coming back beyond my contributions there. And thanks, Ann!)

Just For Shayna (But the rest of you can peek too!)

Taken at Avonlea Village, PEI.

Yes, it was as cool as it sounds.

Update

Thanks everybody. I can't tell you what it meant to come home from my date and find so many people cheering me on. I really did debate going, but Diva Girl seemed more upset at the idea of missing out at going to Gramma's than at my going out. And, to be totally selfish, I wanted to go. Even if it wasn't a date, I wanted to go out, on my own, to an event that was designed strictly with grownups in mind.

Yes, I did go. And it was a date. At least, I'm pretty sure it was a date. It was just the two of us and he bought tickets; that makes it a date, right?

Just to clarify, I'm not always quite this much of a dork, but the last two times we went out he also provided the tickets, but they were free passes, and we always ended up in a group of his friends.

Oh, what? I forgot to mention that we've been out twice before? Um, yeah. We've been out twice before.

The first time we went out, we saw Chuck and Larry and Becoming Jane. It was just supposed to be Chuck and Larry, but then he asked if I was up for seeing Becoming Jane because he had free tickets. We saw the first movie on our own and had a pretty good time in spite of the fact that my jeans were soaked from a slide in a puddle on the way to the meet. Then two female friends joined us for Becoming Jane, which was also a good experience, even if I did end up blubbering and had to be surreptitiously passed a napkin so that I could blow my nose. Fortunately, that was after the nacho cheese covered popcorn we were sharing was gone, so it was slightly less embarrassing than it could have been.

The second time we went out was also to the movies--an advance screening of The Last Legion. But again, we were with friends of his, so it was sort of hard to figure out exactly what the dynamic was. It was a good movie and a good time, but I wasn't sure if we were on a date or just hanging out. I liked the no pressure aspect of it all, but at the same time, sometimes it's nice to know where you stand--or sit, as the case may be.

And now there was this--an invite to a club that occurred more than 4 hours before the event, and just the two of us. So that's progress, right?

What's not progressing well is Diva Girl's mood. Yes, she wanted to go to Gramma's house last night, but that does not mean that she wanted me to go out while she did. And today, I'm paying the price. Diva Girl is miserable in both senses of the word--I believe her sadness is genuine, but she is also being genuinely unpleasant. Demanding, defiant, picking fights with both me and her sister, and losing what little self-control she has the instant things don't immediately go her way. I'm trying to be tolerant and empathetic, but to be honest, I was up way too late last night to have the patience required to deal with Defcon 1 behaviour.

Waiting For The Other Shoe To Drop

So far, the switch to the new school has been going better than I could ever have hoped for. There have been no tears, no tantrums, no tales of Heathers Heartbreak. Yet. I'd love to believe that that's it, that she's settled in that easily, but I know my Diva Girl, and I just can't believe that it's really going to be that simple.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'm definitely enjoying the peace and the happy, bubbly girl who cannot wait to get on the bus every morning and comes home thrilled by her day, but I just can't believe that it's going to last. Sabrina just doesn't cope with change and loss this well and I cannot believe that I am such a fabulous, brilliant parent that I have singlehandedly navigated us past this without a single sob.

Not that I haven't tried, mind you. I've done my level best to stack the deck in favour of an easy transition. Back to school shopping, planning our vacation for the last two weeks of August so that she didn't have time to stress, booking a playdate with Madyson on Labour Day--all moves designed to soften the blow. And they seem to be working. So far.

* * *

Do I know my daughter or what? I wrote the above piece this morning. This afternoon, tears. The bus was too early and she almost missed it. She forgot her lunchbox. Someone stole her snack. There wasn't enough time to change her shoes. Her teacher didn't listen to her. Another kid pushed her. Nobody knows what Webkinz are. She didn't get a library book because she's new and not on the list yet. Her teacher doesn't like her. The other kids are mean. And the list goes on and on as the sobbing gets more and more hysterical and out of control.

My poor Diva Girl. She was doing so well, keeping it together this week. At least I have the weekend to put her back together.

Which leads me to a somewhat selfish thought: Does this mean I have to cancel my date tonight?

Yes, Facebook Guy and I finally of sort of got it arranged. He was asking if I wanted to go to the club. Or at least, when I indicated interest, offered to pick me up a ticket and meet me there. That's a date, right? My chin sure seems to think so, given the size of the zit that erupted on it this afternoon.

But, with Diva Girl finally crumbling from the pressure of a new routine and all this change, do I cancel, or send her to hang out with Grandma as planned? Is it giving her too much power to give her the option to decide? Why does it all have to be this hard?

Meet Me Behind The Lockers After Gym Class

Okay, this whole boy/girl thing is waaaay too complicated. To quote the Lethal Weapon Franchise, "I am too old for this shit." And yet, witness the following exchange between Eden and myself as we try to decode the secret language of boys.

me: ok, I'm going to tell you about an exchange with Facebook Guy, and you have to tell me if he's asking me on a date
Eden: k
me: because we are in high school, apparently :)
me: ok, so we were talking about getting together so that I can loan him some dvds and he can loan me his blackberry (long story, but teh awesome, no?) and I asked what would be good. He asked if I was free for lunch this week.
Eden: that's a date meal = date
me: hang on, there's more. So I tell him I busy until Friday. And he asks what time I was thinking because he's going to see a band at this club at 9. What happened to lunch???? first we were talking lunch, and now this! so confused. Is it a flyby? Fishing for dinner? An invite to the club???? What????
Eden: I think so. Ask. say, "Should I wear my dancing shoes?"
me: oooh, that's good!
Me: I said "I dunno...should I wear sneakers or my dancing shoes?"
Eden: does he like you or does he like you like you?
me: I don't know. My friend Ethel put a note in his locker to ask him.
(seriously. She messaged him)
5 minutes later
Me: and there is now an ominous silence from facebook guy
Me: what happened to "hey, would you like to go out with me?" Didn't boys used to do that?
Eden: I did the "do you love me? check yes or no" in 2nd grade

About three hours later, I got this reply from Facebook Guy: I think it would be more of a sneakers type event.

So, any ideas? Did he ask me out? Invite me to the club? And if he did, is it a date? Not a date? Just Friends? Any one of which is cool, I'd just like to know what underwear to wear.

Excuse me while I go buy a YM magazine and try to figure this out.

Speechless

Apparently, today is a day for my children to let go and move confidently into the world without me. Diva Girl isn't the only one growing up; today, Zen Baby cut some apron strings of her own. She talked to her surgeon.

To understand how huge that is, you need to understand a little bit about the Zen Baby. The quick recap is that when she was a baby, Regan pretty much stopped gaining weight after 4 months; from that point on, her weight gain was measured in ounces, not pounds. No one quite knew what the issue was (although of course, breastfeeding was blamed), and thus began our monthly visits to the pediatrician as I struggled to put some weight on her tiny frame and avoid a Failure To Thrive diagnosis.

Those visits were hellish for a couple of reasons. First of all, there was Regan herself, who was more Exorcist than Zen Baby during the exams. The shrieking, the flailing, it was brutal. Agonizing to endure as her mother. Each appointment left us both exhausted, weeping messes. And then there was the guilt and the stigma. Let me tell you, there is quite possibly nothing in the world that will make you feel more like a failure as a mother than being told that your baby is listed as Failure To Thrive. It's a scary, heartbreaking diagnosis. FTT babies are not deeply loved, well-cared for infants, coddled and cooed over and showered with affection and attention. FTT babies are neglected. Abused. Their parents are at best clueless, and at worst cruel. I felt like I was failing my daughter in my body--a feeling that was definitely encouraged by the medical establishment--and in my self. If she wsn't growing, it must be something I did, right? After all, everyone knows that happy, normal babies won't willingly starve themselves. To say I felt some guilt over Regan's issues would be an understatement.

Turns out, it wasn't my fault Regan wasn't gaining weight. Nor was it hers. It was the undiagnosed tumour that was slowing growing in her belly--bullying her organs all out of shape and stealing the vital nutrients she needed to thrive. A tumour that grew to a fantastic twelve centimenters in diameter before it was found by me, not the medical professionals whose care of my daughter had caused me so much anguish and anxiety. (A note here: a cancer researcher friend of mine assures me that 12 cm is a massive size tumour--nearly unheard of--for a full grown adult, let alone a 17 lb infant.)

So, there was a tumour in her belly. Which explained a lot. Her small size. Her negligible weight gain. Her crabbiness. Her hatred of tummy time. And the fact that it sounded like she was being murdered each and every time she was put in her car seat. While there a certain amount of relief in identifying an actual medical cause that wasn't bad parenting, the very real possibility that my baby had a horribly aggressive form of cancer and would likely die sort of took that shine off.

I'm incredibly lucky. Thanks to the combined forces of the Universe and the Canadian Health Care System, my daughter survived. The tumour wasn't cancerous--and in fact is such a freak of nature that it's still being intensively studied--and as a Canadian citizen, I was never once asked how I was planning to pay for the exemplary care my daughter received. Less than a month after the medical establishment stopped blaming me and started listening to me, Regan left the hospital, cancer free, but carrying more scars than just the one down her belly.

Regan was never a very sociable baby. Regan mostly liked Mama. She was a carrying baby; she didn't play peekabo, smile at strangers, babble for attention or do any of those social baby things. She was a pretty content, easygoing kid, but she was shy. And then she entered the hospital and endured a whirlwind round of invasive tests and major surgery. A critically ill 12 month old baby who had no idea what was happening to her. An infant just beginning to test out the uses of language, who found it useless when it came to the word "NO."

The first few days, whenever a nurse or doctor would have anything to do with her, she would scream "No!" as she thrashed and wailed, making her lack of consent clear. And I held her down, and helped the doctors to poke and prod her, murmuring nonsense and endearments as my heart shattered. By the end of the first week, she was no longer screaming "No", but she was still shaking her head. By the end of the second week, she was just screaming. Language and any attempt at communication had been abandoned, and it would be a long time before she was willing try again. When I took her home, my quiet baby had become a silent one.

She eventually started to talk again. First to her sister, and then to me. And gradually, she even became somewhat of a chatterbox, happily babbling about her thoughts and ideas throughout the day. But it took a long time before she would speak in public--long enough that I'd started googling "selective mutism" actually. These days, she often not only speaks to me in public, but will address her remarks to random strangers. In fact, it's become so common place that I hardly notice it anymore.

Except today. Today I noticed. Because today, for the first time in two and a half years, Regan spoke to her surgeon. It was a tiny voice, and little more than a hello and a goodbye, but in my eyes it was quite possibly as great an achievement as her first word and her first steps (taken with the aid of an iv pole, incidentally). Maybe greater.

Unravelling

I didn't think it would be such a big deal, putting Diva Girl on the bus this morning. I mean, I knew it was a big deal for her, but I didn't understand what it meant for me until the big yellow bus turned the corner and I was left behind with just a quick glimpse of her bravely smiling face as it flashed by on the way into the unknown.

I didn't expect to feel this sense of disconnect, like I've somehow been left out of the loop. Which, really, I have. Riding the school bus isn't just a big step for Brina, it's a big change for both of us. I'm used to knowing the names of the kids on the playground, having at least a passing acquaintance with the parents, and being able to put names to faces with most of the teachers--not too surprising when you consider that for the past six years, I've been a pretty regular fixture at drop off and pick up at a small neighbourhood school. I suppose I still technically dropped her off, since I saw her onto the bus but it feels different, leaving before I see her safely in the door.

I know, I know, she's nearly nine years old and certainly doesn't need me to hold her hand all the way to her classroom anymore. And I certainly don't tend to think of myself as a protective or helicopter parent. But I guess there are still a few apron stings left to untie, because let me be honest here, I'm probably more unsettled than she is by this whole bus thing this morning.

First there was the panic to get there--it's only a 5 minute walk from our house, but still, there's really not the laissez-faire option of "meh, I'll just take you in for a late slip" if we time it wrong. We didn't, and ended up spending about 10 minutes playing tag before I waved her on her merry way, but still, we could have (and knowing us, probably will) missed it. Then she was gone, and I found my head crowded with all sorts of what ifs: will she have someone to sit with? Will they be nice to her? Will she know what to do when she gets off? Will she get into school ok? I know it's silly--there will either be someone to sit with or there won't; they will be mean or they won't' and really, how difficult is it to get off a bus and hang out in the playground? I'm pretty sure a fairly bright fourth grader can manage it. But how will I know? How will I know that she got to her classroom safe if I don't watch her go? I guess I'll just have to take it on faith.

Good thing she's going to a Catholic school now.

New Beginning

The first day of school is always a big deal around here, but this year it was extra exciting. For one thing, my baby started grade four today. Grade Four! As she informed me this morning, that's older than Arthur! Even bigger however, was the fact that she left the primaries behind at a new school.

No, not that one. The waiting list still stands, and frankly I think we're both reconciled to the fact that that particular ship sailed without Diva Girl--a pill made both more difficult and yet easier to swallow by the knowledge that Heather was on board. She's going to a different new school. One a little farther from home--she'll bus rather than walk now--and yet in our boundary area whereas her old school was not. I'm pretty sure that Buddygate didn't have anything to do with our loss of a boundary waiver--that decision was made months before I was chased across the schoolyard by a screaming ex-babysitter--but it, and the principal's response to the harassment Diva Girl endured as a result of the situation certainly played a role in my decision to simply enroll Diva Girl in the local Catholic school rather than pursue the matter with the school board.

It's a pretty big step, changing schools, and I agonized over my decision--especially about moving her from the public to the Catholic board--but in the end, I was confident that I made the right choice. Diva Girl, however, was less sure. After all, the devil you know and all that. But eventually she resigned herself to the prospect. There were some tears, to be sure, but not as many as I might have expected from my deeply emotional, resistant to change girl. And this morning she was up, bright eyed, bushy tailed, and eager to face this new day. Of course, her super trendy new outfit, spankin' Groovy Girls messenger bag, and deeply coveted new Sktechers might have had something to do with that, but I never claimed not to be a clever mama. It's hard enough going into a strange new world, without looking looking like the dork whose mom buys cast offs from 1997 off the sale rack when you do it, so Diva Girl was perhaps a wee bit more tricked out than she would usually be for the first day of school. But that little bit of psychology worked, because she couldn't wait to get ready for school.

Going to school, however, was a slightly different prospect. I mean, she was game enough, but not so secretly relieved when a snafu with our bus assignment lead to Grandpa driving us to school this morning. To be completely honest, I didn't much mind the mix up either; it let me ease my comfort level by seeing her safely settled in her new space without bruising her dignity by implying that she just wasn't quite ready for the whole school bus experience. This way I got to introduce her to the principal, who in turn introduced her to a whole group of Grade 4 girls and had a buddy all picked out for her long before the first bell rang. When I left, she was still silent and shy (a nearly unheard of state for the Diva Girl), but clearly starting to bask in her "new kid" cachet.

That glow lasted long beyond the final bell; when I picked her up, the reticent, unsure little girl had been replaced by a beaming ball of energy who simply could not stop talking about how much she loved her new school. The little knot of worry I've carried around since enrolling her in May finally popped then, and the tiny voice that has been whispering "are you sure this is such a good idea?" all summer is finally silent. I've never seen Sabrina so enthusiastic about a first day of school. Now, let's just hope that enthusiasm is still there when it's time to start the homework.

5 500 Kilometres and 65 hours in the Van Later

5 provinces, 4 states, 6 capital cities, and numerous natural landmarks adds up to one heck of a two week vacation.

When I first climbed into the van my dad had rented for our trip to the East Coast, I had one of those waving my cane moments. Staring around at all the space, the two captain's seats with a foot of space between them, the cupholders, and the dual dvd screens attached to the headrests, I flashed back to the car trips of my childhood--cramped quarters in the back of the station wagon, wedged in between my five very big big brothers, the only air conditioning the open window, the entertainment varying between "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and "Elbow Room"--and was torn between relief that I wouldn't be repeating the experience with The Ladies and jealousy that they would be spared the indignities of the travel equivalent of walking uphill both ways.

But the more things change, the more they stay the same. I know it's a cliche, but cliches are cliche for a reason: they're true. Brutally, repetitively true. Apparently, captain's seats do not prevent intermittent bouts of "She's touching me!!!" and not even "High School Musical" (any edition) is proof against a rousing chorus of "Are we there yet?" Which is sort of reassuring, actually. Irritating, definitely. But also nice, to think that The Ladies didn't completely miss the road trip experience, plugged in and pampered as they were.

In addition to indulging in the age old pursuit of irritating the grown ups, I sure hope that The Ladies managed to tear their eyes away from the screen long enough to look out the windows every now and again, because the scenery was amazing. We're from Ontario. Southwestern Ontario. Which is vaguely rural, but still fairly civilized. And by civilized I don't mean urbane, but urban. Tame. Sure there are rolling fields and woodlots, but it's not too hard to see the human footprint across our landscape. Plus, it's flat. The east cost, however, was a completely different experience. Mountain ranges. Ocean views. Forests. Not the tame, piddly things those of us who live in cities have come to call forests, but Forests. It's the kind of landscape that makes you see the majesty of this country--and this planet. It gives you some sense of what the explorers and the early settlers must have felt, looking out at these vast tracts of unspoiled wilderness. There is possibility here, although I sincerely hope that it remains unfulfilled and untouched by the ravages of progress and civilization. Out here, you can feel how small we humans really are, and how insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

This vacation was an achievement of sorts--only the second one I've taken with The Ladies over the years. Two years ago we went to the west coast to marvel over the mountains and beauty there and dip our toes into the Pacific Ocean. This year we headed in the opposite direction and frolicked in the Atlantic. I am inordinately proud of the fact that my daughters have now seen both oceans, something I didn't accomplish until I was in my thirties. Although we spent the majority of the trip at a cottage on Prince Edward Island, it was by no means uneventful; we crawled on the rocks at Peggy's Cove, saw low tide at the Bay of Fundy, marveled again at the majesty of Niagara Falls, and walked the streets of the city where our nation was born. And, of course, combed the beaches for shells and built things out of sand.

All in all, an excellent vacation, even if most of our souvenirs did come from the Shopper's Drug Mart, what with the killer mosquitos, Diva Girl's tumble down the stairs, and Zen Baby's unexpected bout of car sickness. Even with all that, though, it was a nice break from reality, and a chance to unwind from the whirlwind of swimming lessons and summer camp that formed our summer before flinging ourselves back into the rush and push of the school year.

We're happy to be home now though, and not just because I have a well stocked medicine cabinet. Two weeks on the road, while exhilarating, is also exhausting. Our last day on the road, Diva Girl actually burst into tears at the thought of yet another meal eaten under the glow of the Golden Arches. You know the party is over when the eight year old cries at the prospect of a Happy Meal for dinner. So, here we are, itchy, grubby, and a wee bit worse for wear from our fast food diet, but also happy, relaxed, and ready to face the next adventure--even if we do have to walk uphill both ways to get there.