Posted by Kimberly on June 25th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
There she is, my newly minted fifth grader. A far cry from the nervous little girl who stood on the school steps last September, isn’t she?
It’s been a long year for my Diva Girl. Between the adjustment issues that come with changing schools to the sliding grades and finally the diagnosis, it’s been quite a ride on that big yellow bus. But you wouldn’t know it from that picture, would you? That is one happy little girl, thrilled not only with the vast expanse of summer that lies ahead of her, but also with the long stretch of Grade 4 that is now behind her.
And that’s really my goal at this point in the year–to have a child who is proud of what she has accomplished, and who is looking forward to the opportunities and excitement ahead. The report card, for me, is pretty much just a bonus at this point.
Oh what a bonus it was, though!
If ever I needed confirmation that putting Diva Girl on Concerta was the right thing to do, this report card is it. The Cs? A pale memory. In some cases, she went up more than a full letter grade from last term. But even that pales in comparison to the fact that for the first time this year, she didn’t get “Ns” in conflict resolution, co-operation, or problem solving! Which still wasn’t the best part. No…The best part was the final comment:
Sabrina approaches new learning situations with confidnece, and she effectively synthesizes information from all subject areas. Sabrina has demonstrated improvement in her independent work skills, requiring less teacher support during independent work periods Sabrina willingly works with others in class, and is willing to resolve conflicts when they occur. She is doing her class work with more care and attention to detail. Best wishes for success in Grade 5!
That right there is everything I’d hoped for when I first sought the referral to Dr. G. That right there is the Diva Girl I always knew was there, just waiting for the opportunity to shine. That right there is why I know that Grade 5 is going to be everything Sabrina’s smile promises it will be.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 24th, 2008 — Posted in Zen Baby, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
Between getting back into the swing of things at work and starting to get a handle on Diva Girl’s issues, I’ve been letting some things slide around here. Like…um….Kindergarten registration. Which was technically back in February.
Why yes, I have been putting off registering my youngest child for school for the past four months. Is that problematic, do you think?
I didn’t do it on purpose. There was no active plan to avoid the whole thing. It just never really felt like a priority is all. Even when Sabrina came home with a message from the Principal telling me I should “just come on down and sign her up,” it was always something that could happen another day; it didn’t have to be today.
Except today, it kinda did. What with it being the second to last day of school and all. Suddenly, getting the Zen Baby’s papers in order seemed a whole lot more important than it had yesterday.
Unfortunately, the urgency did nothing to lessen the trauma of the event.
My baby is going to kindergarten!!!!!
Ok, sure it’s still 69 days away. But still, MY BABY IS GOING TO KINDERGARTEN.
I know, I know. She’s not the first baby to be headed off to school. But she is my last baby to head off. And somehow, the fact that she’s a full year older than her sister was the first time we packed her Barbie backpack with her brand new pointy crayons and filled her Disney Princess lunchbox with nutritious snacks and headed off to meet her teacher isn’t really making it any easier to accept that my baby is going to school.
Regan is over moon at the idea of finally following her big sister onto the bus. She has been dancing all day, constantly reminding us that after this summer vacation, she gets to go back to school too. No fear or uncertainty here. The Zen Baby is good to go.
Which thrills me, truly. After all, this is the child I used to describe as “painfully shy.” Who had me googling “selective mutism” before she finally started to speak again post tumour. This is the child whose inability to deal with the world at large–and especially all the people in it–made is necessary for me to take an entire year off of work to help her work that out. This is the little girl who literally lived beside my right leg. Even now, I look down, expecting her to be there, right beside me. But she’s not anymore. Now, rather than cringing in fear beside me, or watching from the safety of Mama’s Personal Bubble, she is racing away from me to join in the fray. And nothing quite brings that home like realizing that not only is my baby going to kindergarten, she’s ready for it.
But she’s my baby. And she’s going to kindergarten. And as happy as I am for her, as thrilled as I am that she is not only going to be able to do this, she’s going to rock the socks off of it, I’m allowed to be a little bit sad. Because she’s my baby. And she’s going to kindergarten.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 22nd, 2008 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
What do you when you want to eat the children? Turn them into cotton candy confections, of course!
I’ve had some Hannah Montana Hair Colour Sticks tucked away for a while now. When I bought them, I thought that it would be a fun First Day of Summer Vacation project to (temporarily and with a product guaranteed to wash right out) dye The Ladies’ hair funky colours. Last night, as I was contemplating eating my own young, my gaze fell on these stick and I thought, “why not.”
Yes, I was still Very. Angry. with Diva Girl. Forget ebay, I would have happily PAID to have her tweenilcious self taken off my hands. But seething anger and resentment wasn’t really getting either of us anywhere, and I didn’t really see that ending soon without one of us making some sort of grand gesture to end the hostilities. And I think we all know that it wasn’t going to be her; even if she had, if we’re being honest here, it’s not like I was in any mood to accept any sort of peace offering anyway. So, it was up to me to make the move and pull us all out of the pit into which we’d descended over the course of one spectacularly crappy day.
One would think that showering a child whose staggering sense of entitlement and lack of gratitude had caused many of the day’s conflicts would be counterintuitive, but it seemed to work. United in our common project, the stresses, slights, and slurs of the day fell away. She remembered that in addition to being the Meanest. Mom. Ever. I can also be the most fun and I remember that in addition to being a raging brat, my oldest daughter is also funny, fun, and kind of cool.
Regan was just happy that the yelling stopped. The pretty colours in her hair were just gravy, so far as she was concerned.
So yeah, no regrets over either giving one more gift to a child who didn’t seem able to appreciate what she already had, or about turning my children into something more likely to be found in a circus tent than a schoolroom Not even when Diva Girl reminded me that her class will be presenting the end of school mass on Tuesday. At which she’s doing the reading.
Because could there be a more literal representation of the direction “Be joyful in hope” than these two? What’s more joyful than being allowed to dye your hair hot pink and electric blue three days before school ends? And what’s more hopeful than the mother who allows it?
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Posted by Kimberly on June 21st, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
You wanna know the really, truly crappy thing about being a solo parent? The thing that pretty much encapsulates all the suckitude of being the only adult in the family?
Being the only adult in the family. Always having to be the grownup, no matter how much you don’t want to be.
I don’t mean having to wait on your ice cream being the grown up. I mean always having to step up even when you just want to step off, never having anyone to back you up no matter hard you about to fall being the grown up.
Diva Girl is outdoing herself today and frankly, right now, the last thing I really want to do is be her mother. The actual litany of offenses doesn’t really matter, aside from the fact that she’s finally hit the wall of rude and defiant tween behaviour and I. Am. DONE. I do not want to stop and think about why she is being an ungrateful little snot and I certainly don’t want to sit and reason with her about it in a calm and rational manner. What I really want to do is to walk away. To take five to get myself back under control before I address her rage. I want to be able to go for a walk, clear my head, and come back refreshed and able to deal with this in a calm and rational manner.
Instead, I’m trapped here, dealing with her rage and resentment on top of my own.
The last thing I want to do right now is help Sabrina to calm down. I do not WANT to put aside my resentment. I am, after all, the wronged party here. I am the one who deserves the righteous indignation, the slamming doors, the sulking and the sucking up. But I’m it. I’m all there is. I am the only one here to diffuse the situation, to make things right and put our little storm tossed family back on an even keel.
So instead of blowing off my anger with a half hour in the tub or a walk around the block, I have to be the one who talks about it. Who cuddles the kid and talks us all off the ledge. Because no matter how childish I am feeling, I am the only grown up here; sometimes, I just don’t feel like I’m enough. And that is the really, truly crappy part of being a solo parent.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 20th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl
I decided after last night’s epic meltdown–the kind of tantrum where when you give in and do what the kid wants she gets more out of control–to change Diva Girl’s dosing schedule in an attempt to avoid the twelfth hour crash we’re currently experiencing. I have been giving her the pill between 7:30-8:00 so that it has time to both kick in before school and wear off before bed, but clearly that’s not working out so well on the homefront. Or maybe a little too well. I don’t know. I just know that I’m not prepared to deal with a toddler in nine year old clothing much longer.
I figured since the meds are quite obviously wearing off after almost exactly 12 hours, I would push back the time I give them, thereby getting more at home benefit: If I gave them at 8:30 instead of 7:30, we’d only have a half hour of unmedicated time to deal with, versus the hour and a half of holding on by our fingernails (or not) that we’re doing now.
So, today was to be the dawn of a whole new era in calm. Diva Girl would have the tools to be her charming, funny, in control self, I would be relaxed and easy going with the tantrum alert level reduced to a pale yellow, and everyone would join hands, sing kumbaya, and get to bed on time with no whining.
Things were on track for that, too. I reached for the pill bottle at 7:30, just like usual, and then remembered my new resolve and put it back to wait another hour. And then I forgot about it.
Yep. You heard me. Instead of giving Diva Girl her meds an hour later, I just didn’t give them to her at all. Which, I suppose alleviates the whole crash issue, if not exactly in the way I’d planned. Good thing she doesn’t have any tests today. Or oral reports to do.
Yeah, as an ADHD mom, clearly I RULE.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 19th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple, Blah Blah Blog
Some of you out there in the blogosphere might have noticed a bit of love bombing going on in your comments sections. About that…..
One of the worst things about The Darkness of this past season has been that in addition to barely writing my own blog, I pretty much stopped reading all of yours.
I’m sorry.
It wasn’t intentional, and it wasn’t because I didn’t care about what was going on in your lives anymore and wasn’t moved by the ways you tell your stories. It just sort of happened.
One day I didn’t open my Bloglines. And then I didn’t open it the next day, either. And then a week had gone by. Then a month. And then it all got so overwhelming what with the missed posts and the not commenting and it just seemed easier to avoid the situation altogether, so I just sort of started avoiding the Bloglines.
Does anyone remember the picture book The Story About Ping, by Marjorie Flack?
Ping was a duck on a Chinese fishing boat. Every day the ducks would be let off the boat, and at the end of the day when they returned, the last duck up the ramp got a spank. One day, Ping is the last duck. But he doesn’t want the spank. So instead, he hides. Rather than face his fear, Ping simply abandons the situation.
Ping was one of the two book I wore out when I was in Kindergarten. I took it out every time I found it in the library. Rare was the week that I did not have Ping tucked into my bookbag. I really, really identified with Ping. Something about the way that little duck ran away from all he knew and loved in order to avoid embarrassment spoke to me back then and, if I’m being honest, still speaks to me today.
Which is a roundabout way of explaining how I have avoided my bloglines for the past six months and now, as a result, am faced with 1387 unread posts.
At first I figured I’d just delete them all. Start fresh. Brand new day with a clean slate. Then I thought, just one post–but I won’t comment. Which lead to just the first page, and maybe one comment. And now? Well, now I’m making my way through the backlog and leaving comments all over. But you saw that coming, didn’t you?
So, if you notice me clogging up your inbox in the next week or so with comments on old posts, take pity on me and welcome me back into the fold–just like Ping.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 18th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
I don’t want to say that Diva Girl is a different kid since our first visit to Dr. G, because she’s really not. She’s still the same sparkly, energetic, enthusiastic, dramatic daughter she’s always been. But she’s also more than that–in a good way for once.
Lord knows she’s always been “more,” but lately her “more” is also “less.” She’s more able to settle and focus and less willy nilly and restless than she’s been in the past. As counterintuitive as it sounds, I think that by making her “less more,” the drug she is on is allowing her to be more herself, and not less.
Since she’s been taking the meds, she’s brought home level 4 math tests, mastered her math facts, had a perfect reading assessment, and had her teachers–who don’t know about the diagnosis or the medication–go out of their way to tell her what a great day she’s had at school.
She’s even reading now. She’s always liked books and stories, and she’s always had the ability to read, but she could never settle in and just read a book before. Now she reads 150 page novels in one sitting. And then goes looking for more.
It’s not perfect. There are still moodswings and meltdowns. Some pretty epic meltdowns, actually. And giving a lifelong insomniac and incredibly picky eater a medication that lists its most common side effects as sleeplessness and appetite suppression definitely isn’t ideal. But even with these drawbacks, it’s been worth it. Watching Sabrina finally have the chance to be who she is has been worth the sandwiches that come home at the end of the day untouched, the dinners she doesn’t want to eat, and the long, long nights we endured while she was adjusting to the medication.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 17th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
It’s been a while since I’ve replenished the old panty drawer (or pockets, as the case may be), and it’s been time for a while now. I keep putting it off though, because really, unless there’s a new man involved, who wants to spend that much time thinking about the size of your ass? But, after months of procrastination, I finally got around to buying new underwear–Nothing silky or lacy or frilly, just plain old serviceable, comfy undies. You know, the kind you wear when you just don’t want to deal with all the hassle. Which pretty much sums up my entire state of mind lately.
Usually, it takes some sort of event to inspire me to cruise the unmentionables section–either a need for “occasion” undergarment, or a desire for something pretty to wear under my clothes. Lord knows there’s not been a lot of need or desire this winter, so what finally made the underpants a priority purchase you ask? Well…..Lately I’ve noticed a fair bit of creepage with the butt coverage…Enough to move the issue from the area of occasional nuisance into a routine annoyance. And nobody enjoys that. So, I figured Father’s Day was the perfect excuse to deal with the issue and get myself some new underpants.
Replacing the panties is always a crapshoot–you never know how they’re going to fit until they’re actually touching the ladybits, at which point you’re pretty much committed. I thought I had it all in the (shopping) bag, though. It seemed like such a simple plan–Just buy the same stuff I already had, only in the next size up since I’ve been putting the problem down to a combination of worn out elastic and dryer shrinkage. I figured it couldn’t hurt too much to swallow my pride and move up a size, just to leave a little wiggle room.
Then I discovered that they’d changed the sizing since the last time I’d been shopping and my previously simple SML formula had morphed into a complex mathematical equation. And to top it off, even if I could have accurately translated the letters into numbers, I couldn’t remember which letter was currently creeping its way up my arse, thereby making X an unsolvable proposition (especially since there was no way in HELL I was buying X!).
In the end I did when ever confronted with a particularly thorny algebra problem: I guessed. I was feeling pretty good about that strategy, too…Until I got home and took my new duds out of the package and saw just how much wiggleroom I’d just bought myself. I’d tried to err on the side of caution, but looking at the swathe of fabric in my hands, I realized I’d far overshot the mark. Still, better too big than too small, and I figured I could always intentionally shrink them in the wash rather than going through the supreme hassle of trying to return them.
So, with those optimistic, glass half full thoughts in mind, I tried on a pair of the giant panties–just to get a sense of exactly how much I would have to shrink them to have them fit my ass. And got the shock of my life when I discovered that it wasn’t the underwear that needed to shrink.
Imagine my horror when I realized that the ginormous underpants actually. fit. With no wiggleroom. At all.
I blame the school bus.
I know, I know. I’ve long professed my love of that yellow enabler, and I freely embraced the lazy, sedentary lifestyle it lulled me into with its minimal transportation effort. I was naive not to realize that by cutting out the roughly 60 minutes a day I spent walking to and from Diva Girl’s school, I was cutting out 60 minutes of exercise and that that was bound to have an impact. Somehow, it didn’t really feel like exercise when it was a necessary chore, but it sure feels like it when I have to voluntarily get up off my ass and get moving. And not in that good virtuous way, either.
I suppose I have two choices here. I can embrace my new, supersized behind , or I can break up with the bus. To be honest, I’m not really fond of either option. But since I’m even less fond of self inflicted wedgies, I suppose the choice is clear….I should definitely line dry my lingerie from now on, even the 100% cotton articles.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 16th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
For two little girls without Dads, The Ladies had a pretty fabulous Father’s Day.
A trip to the good park with the geese and the fish and the really great playground. A spontaneous jaunt to the beach for sandcastles, burgers, and greasy fries. THREE turns each on the rides. Ice cream.
Yeah, I don’t think they really missed out on the fun by not having a Dad. Especially since they do have a Dad–MY Dad, who was with them every step of the day. From the playground where he divided his time between riding the rocking dinosaur, pushing the swings, and, most importantly, lifting them up to The Zipper and giving them the confidence to fly on their own, to the beach where he willingly chased the waves with them even though he had neither suit nor towel, to the Fry Shack where he happily fed loonies into the rides and treated them to ice cream even though it was supposed to be his special day, my Dad and my Ladies were inseparable.
I sometimes get asked if I feel my kids are missing out because they don’t have a father. And I can answer in all honesty that I do not believe they are. Because of my Father, who, although he is not theirs, has such a presence as a Grandfather that he utterly overshadows any possible void left by the absence of their DNA donors in my children’s lives. In fact, far from being deprived due to their lack of a paternal presence, I think my daughters are incredibly lucky that they get to share in the awesomeness that is my Daddy. The same man who took me to work on quick calls just to show me off, who proudly displayed every school picture on his toolbox, who once sat on a dozen little chairs in a dozen ladies dressing rooms watching me try on Prom dresses now patiently allows my children to “help” him around the house, takes them on trips to Home Depot, and spends hours teaching them to ride their bikes and scooters. Every time I watch the very special bond my Dad has with my daughters I am reminded of what it felt like to be Daddy’s Girl–to be his Little Chickadee–and far from feeling regret that my girls don’t get to have that experience, I feel grateful that they do–they may not be Daddy’s Little Girl, but both of them are Grampa’s Girls, his Babydoll and Babycakes.
So no, no regrets here on Father’s Day, and no looking at half empty glasses or thinking about what my children don’t have. Because what they do have is so much larger than that, and so much more important that mere DNA. They’ve got the Best Dad In the World in their lives. And even better, he’s there because he wants to be, not because he feels like he should be.
This Father’s Day that even though my girls were the ones giving the cards and presents, they–and I–are the ones who have truly gotten the greater gift. Even better, ours is not just limited to one day of the year.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 4th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
It was not by accident that I christened Sabrina “Diva Girl” when I started my first anonymous blog way back when. From the moment she arrived–with bright, curious eyes and a definite pout–my firstborn child was “ON.” And turned to 11.
We used to joke about it when she was a baby–how alert she always was, how she always seemed to be in perpetual motion, still only in sleep–but eventually, life with Sabrina settled into a routine and the high energy, non-stop rollercoaster ride became normal. So normal, in fact, that when Regan was born I was convinced that there had to be something wrong with her–I believe the phrase I used was “brain damage”–so very different was this quiet, sleepy baby from my idea of a “normal” newborn. I’ve often wondered if Regan really is as Zen as I think she is, or if she just seems so in comparison to her sister. Either that, or her easygoing, laidback take on life is a brilliant form of self-preservation….
Anyway, eventually I stopped waiting for Sabrina to “grow out of it” and just rolled with it. This was how she was wired–my pirited, volatile, unstoppable Diva Girl. Which is not to say that I didn’t notice that, to put it nicely, my kid was often “more” than the other denizens of the playground; just that it did seem like all that big of a deal anymore–she was doing fine in school, had stopped crying, and had managed to make a couple of friends. If she at times still seemed overly impulsive and emotional, well…She was my daughter, after all. Basically, in the absent of any pressing stimulus, I became complacent in regards to her issues.
I don’t know if it’s the change in school, the surge in pre-pubescent hormomes, or simply the boiling energy that seethes inside Diva Girl finally reaching critical mass, but this year complacency has not been an option. This year, between the return of behaviours I’d thought banished by the end of Grade One, the Laura Incident, and the falling grades, something had to give–and I was afraid that it was going to be me. Or worse, her.
That was what really tipped the scales for me, Sabrina herself. Sure, I felt pretty confident that she would sort it all out eventually–the crying and class disruptions had already fallen off, she’s friends with Laura now, and I was fully confident that the poor grades were in no way a reflection of her intelligence or actual abilities. But was “eventually” really good enough? What about the now? Didn’t she deserve to be the best she could be now, while she was waiting for eventually to kick in?
That was my “A-Ha Moment.” The moment I realized that I didn’t want to be responsible for my daughter being less than she could be. So, I took some advice (some of it from some of you), did some research, and acknowledged what I’ve known since before Diva Girl’s first birthday–That she has always exhibited many of the signs of ADHD and despite the charm, intelligence, and sparkle that help her to offset that, not only was she not outgrowing them, she appeared to be growing into them more and more. And it was time that I started taking some steps to help her with that.
After some serious tap-dancing around my family doctor’s anti-ADHD bias (she’s in the bad parenting/just set tougher limits camp, apparently), I got us a referral to THE ADHD Guy in our city The Guy the SPSTs all speak of with respect. The Guy who doesn’t simply “push pills” to “shut parents and teachers up.” The Guy I felt confident would would look at all the evidence and help me figure out how best to help my difficult, complicated, wonderful daughter meet her full potential without any agenda of his own getting in the way of that goal. Turns out he was also The Guy who would change everything and restore my faith in myself as a parent and in Sabrina as a child.
I’m not a bad, permissive, or lazy parent. Diva Girl is not a bad, out of control kid.
After a 90 minute appointment in which he assessed everything from her motor skills to her reading ability, The Guy–let’s call him Dr. G–told me he felt confident in diagnosing Diva Girl with a very profound case of ADHD. In fact, he was a bit shocked, given the depth of her issues, that we’d managed to make it all the way to the end of the fourth grade without the school initiating the assessment process. In his opinion, her ability to charm, coupled with reading and math skills a full two grade levels above her age (take that, report card Cs!) allowed Diva Girl to fall through the cracks until now. Now though, she’s hit a safety net, and hopefully that will make all the difference in helping my daughter become the happiest, most successful Diva Girl she can possibly be.
I never set out to label my kid. That is truly what that process was about for me. I simply wanted to understand her so that I could do a better job parenting her. But I have to say, having that label has provided me with a world of relief. It’s not that the ADHD is an excuse for Sabrina’s less than charming behaviour, but it can be a reason for it; that is enough to allow me to step back off the parenting ledge and, instead of continuing to pound my head against the wall, remember that she’s often not doing it on purpose and that if she could stop, she would.
That’s the name of the game these days–putting brakes on the runaway train that is Diva Girl without losing any of her natural sparkle or verve in the process. It a tricky process, and one I’m still learning to navigate. But I’m hopeful that the more Sabrina and I figure this thing out, the more fabulous my Diva Girl will be.
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