(courtesy of Mary P.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!)

Taken at Avonlea Village, PEI.

Yes, it was as cool as it sounds.

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.

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?