Posted by Kimberly on May 31st, 2006 — Posted in The Man I Didn't Marry, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
Nine years ago today, I didn’t get married.
I was supposed to. The church was booked, the hall reserved. The menu was set and the flowers were chosen. The invitations were printed and addressed, but never mailed.
I didn’t exactly leave him at the altar, but it was close.
I knew the Man I Didn’t Marry for two years before we dated. And we dated for three years before he asked me to marry him. I wore his ring for a year before I gave it back, five weeks before the wedding.
Leaving that relationship wasn’t an easy or capricious decision. It was incredibly hard, and made more difficult by the fact that I did love him, and he was (and is) a good man. He wasn’t abusive. Or even mean. He made it clear that he loved me. But in the end, none of that was enough. Sometimes, it’s not.
Eventually I realized that the person I would become if I became his wife was not a person I wanted to be. I couldn’t do that to either of us. Become someone I wasn’t, someone who would make both of us miserable, simply because I wasn’t brave enough to face the truth and bear the consequences. That, much though we both wanted it to be, it just wasn’t right.
So I did possibly the hardest thing I have ever done in my life: I told him I wouldn’t be marrying him afterall.
It was the best decision I have ever made. I wouldn’t be the person I am now, or have the life that I do, had I ignored what I knew to be true and just gone through with it. I like who I’ve grown into over these past nine years. I am very close to being the woman I knew I could be, the woman I knew I’d never have a chance to be if I had said, “I do.” I can imagine my life many other ways, but none of them appeal to me. This, right now, is where and how I want to live. I have no regrets about not getting married. I’m sorry the man I loved was hurt in the process (and that my parents lost their deposit on the hall), but it was the right choice to make. It was so right, it really wasn’t a choice at all.
To quote Norma Kelly in Chicago (which I bough myself as a little present today) : “Oh, I’m no one’s wife/but oh, I love my life/and all that jazz!”
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Posted by Kimberly on May 26th, 2006 — Posted in The Agony and The Entropy, Kipple, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
It wasn’t like I was unaware. I was paying attention. I was watching where I was going. I saw it sitting there. I even stopped for a moment and considered the ramifications of my actions.
And then I vacuumed up that Polly Pocket horseshoe without an ounce of pity or remorse.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 23rd, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
“What did you learn in school today, Sabrina?”
“I learned that Dylan has head lice!”
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Posted by Kimberly on May 22nd, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
Today is Victoria Day, the final day in the first weekend of the summer season. Although its stated fucntion is to honour the birthday of Queen Victoria, its unofficial name more accurately describes how it’s celebrated in my neck of the woods. Around here, we call it the May 2-4. That’s “‘’two/four,” like the slang for a case of beer. And that pretty much sums up the point of the holiday right there: Camping and beer.
Well, it used to, anyway. I remember a time when this weekend was one of breathless anticipation. Skipping school to get a good spot in the campgrounds. Pitching a tent without bothering with timewasters like groundclearing, tarps, or any clue as to how the poles aligned to create a working structure. And drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.
These day, not so much. These days, my holiday weekend is a lot more reminiscent of my childhood than my misspent youth. Because what idiot decided that the third weekend of May would be the perfect camping weekend? Did I mention that this is Canada? And that we sometimes still measure the temperature in windchill at this time of year?
I remember enjoying huddling together for warmth inside a nearly collapsing tent, listening to the rain drip into the corner where the tarp hadn’t been properly secured. I remember not minding so much being woken up at the crack of dawn by the incessant twittering of birds, knowing that I could simply pull the pillow over my head and sleep off the hangover. Somehow my adult self refuses to believe that these activities could possibly be fun.
Partly it’s the knowledge that unlike nature, small children cannot be ignored in favour of recovering from indulging in the previous night’s excesses. It’s just a fact of life as a solo mom: No matter what you did the night before, you’re still the one who is going to get up with the kids. And everyone knows, the hour they wake up is inversely proportionate to what time you went to bed. But even without the partying, I’d rather stick flaming toothpicks in my eyes than brave the elements with a bug phobic Diva Girl and a barely pottytraining Zen Baby. So now, instead of campfires and cute outfits and drinking ’til dawn, it’s sparklers and jammies and bed by ten. And really, I’m ok with that.
Except for the sparklers part. No sparklers here this year. I’m a pretty laid back mom, but I kind of draw the line at giving toddlers fire to play with. I’m mean that way. (Or at least, that’s what Sabrina tells me.)
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Posted by Kimberly on May 19th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
The only differences between my Friday nights now and my Friday nights at 15 are that now I have to buy my own damn chips and I already know what’s in the medicine cabinet.
And at least then I got paid to watch crappy tv.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 15th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
Sabrina is happily pawing through her dressup box, searching for the perfect costume. All thoughts of last week’s heartbreak are forgotten in the face of her exciting news: Her class is putting on a play and she gets to be The Princess!
In case you haven’t figured it out, the teacher and I had a little chat this morning before school. It went well, I think.
Being a teacher myself, I always feel caught between the proverbial rock and hard place in these situations. On the one hand, I know how hard the job is, and I know the party lines (no small parts…learning to accept disappointment…teamwork). I also know how “That” parent–the one who doesn’t seem to grasp that her child is unique, just like everyone else’s– is talked about in the staffroom. But on the other hand, my child was the one reduced to tears, a fact that requires some sort of response even if it does place me in the ranks of “That” parent.
To make it worse, I like this teacher and I’ve always gotten the sense that she genuinely liked my high energy, high strung, high maintenance daughter. Which made confronting the apparent favourtism of the casting of the prinary productions all the more difficult. I truly did not want to be making the accusation that I appeared to be making, but didn’t see how I could possibly call myself Sabrina’s advocate if I didn’t address the issue.
Turns out that the teacher immediately agreed that the situation had been unfair. The music teacher had made the final casting call and Mrs. N didn’t realize until it was too late that the same core group of children had once again been given the lead roles. Among other things, this revelation certainly sheds some light on Diva Girl’s newfound dislike for music class. On a professional level, Mrs. N. did bring out the arguements of learning to accept disappointment and work as a team. On a personal level, however, she aacknowledged how difficult it is to watch your child be passed over when you know how desperately she wants her chance to shine.
I really respected Mrs. N for being willing to acknowledge the unfairness. Her stock rose even higher with me when I heard her plan to make it right. She had been planning to do a reader’s theatre literacy centre of The Little Red Hen. After thinking about all the kids who had been forced to be happy (or not) with the chorus due to the lack of parts in the play, she added The Chicken Princess to the playbill and decided to present them on stage and invite parents to watch.
Apparently she told Sabrina she would make an excellent Little Red Hen, but bowed to Diva Girl’s preference for the princess role. Because really, who wants to dress up like a chicken when there are sparkly crowns and floorlength gowns to be worn?
I may very well be “That” Parent. But I’m that parent who is watching her daughter shine with the excitement of playing the lead in the class play, so I think I can live with it.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 14th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, Oncology Odyssey, Blah Blah Blog, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
I had planned a post for today about Mother’s Day as a solo mom. About getting “Mom and Me (aka Make your own) Cookies” and crafts made at Brownies that need “some parental assistance” to put together at home and breakfasts in bed that require that you get up to supervise the burning of the toast and the scrambling of the egg shells before rushing back to bed to be “surprised” by your lovingly prepared feast.
And then I learned that Cancerbaby died this week. And the highs and lows of doing this motherhood thing on my own just didn’t really seem all that important anymore.
Cancerbaby was one of my favourite friends I’ve never met. We are friends in that peculiar way that bloggers sometimes are. We never knew each other’s names or saw each other’s faces, but we shared each other’s lives. Through posts, comments, and email we supported each other through our struggles, cheering on victories and commiserating over defeats.
I like to joke that The Universe is out to get me. That these past few years struggling with a seeming incredible confluence of bad luck have been the repayment of some sort of gigantic Karmic debt. But really, Cancerbaby’s story puts my life into stark perspective.
Shortly after she and her husband decided that they were ready to start their family, Cancerbaby began to have symptoms. As is so often the case, by the time the correct diagnosis of Ovarian Cancer was made her reproductive system–and her dreams of having a baby–were sacrificed to save her life. Her blog chronicled her journey to accept this. To incorporate this devastation to her being into her sense of self. To survive it and own it. Cancerbaby spoke intelligently and passionately, and often hilariously about the state of cancer in America. She was heartbreaking and inspiring in her eloquence.
And she appeared to be thriving. To have embraced her life and begun making plans for a future. A future that would include children and motherhood, regardless of her cancer-induced infertility. I and many others were exicted for her. She so deserved this chance at happiness, at having some variation of the life she’d dreamed of.
Then the rug was pulled out from under her again. The cancer recurred. And in spite of all the latest and best treatments, the cancer killed her.
I first “met” Cancerbaby when my own Zen Baby’s tumour was diagnosed. I was tickled and moved by a brilliant post railing against the “mood oglers” of the world, those people who exhort you to “cheer up” or “smile” without having any clue as to your personal circumstance, just a feeling that your emotions–or their perceptions of them–are ruining their day. I was moved enough to make my very first comment ever on a blog. In it I briefly referenced Regan’s cancer diagnosis and how it had redefined my own response to mood oglers.
I was shocked when later that day Cancerbaby emailed me to ask how my daughter was doing. That first email began a correspondence between us that was at times made awkward by my guilt at my daughter’s miraculous survival, and even her very existence, in the face of Cancerbaby’s own tragedies, but was always smoothed over by her generosity of spirit. She acknowledged with shocking honesty that, as an infertile woman who bore a certain amount of healthy bitterness about her state, she didn’t particularly relish conversations with friends about their children. But she made an exception for Zen Baby, counting her among her own personal ranks and cheering on milestones both extraordinary and mundane. She expressed as much joy and interest in Regan’s first steps as she had at her successful debulking surgery. She truly cared about me and my daughter, and I cared about her.
Her death was not a surprise. Certainly by the end, every one who followed her blog knew that it was coming. Even before it got really bad, before she stopped posting because between the pain of her disease and the pain of its treatment, simply living life took so much effort that there was nothing left for publicly private reflection. Cancerbaby knew, and had accepted her fate. One of our last email exchanges was about this newfound attitude of peace she seemed to have found. She certainly wasn’t willing to lay down and allow the cancer to claim her, but she had a calmness about the prospect of it. A feeling that she had made sense out of her journey and could see the end, one that wasn’t what she had hoped for, but one that she thought she could accept for herself.
Cancerbaby’s journey is done now. I do not have the words to express how saddened I am by that. But I feel priviledged that I was allowed to share in it along the way. She was an extraordinary woman, and she will be missed.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 13th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
I was supposed to be at Sabrina’s school play tonight. Instead I sat on my couch in my jammies, cheering on a little car with big personality while stuffing my face with candy and potato chips. And while I really don’t mind being spared the horrors of the Grade School Band, or having to listen to the same songs I’ve been hearing around the house for a month now, I am pissed off at how we came to be sitting in our living room watching a movie rather than in the high school auditorium watching the primary division put on a play about saving the environment.
Two long months of hard work and disappointment came to a head last night. As we were getting ready to head out, Sabrina sat in my lap and sobbed, finally exhausted by her prolonged effort to put a good face on the sheer injustice of it all. Diva Girl, you see, didn’t get a part. While this was assuredly an injustice (more on that later), it would have hardly lead to our catastrophic meltdown. The problem was that, trying to placate Diva Girl after crushing her by not giving her a part, The Teacher made her The Understudy. Of every part in the class.
Sabrina is a fairly optimistic and naive little seven year-old. And she likes her teacher, who talked up the honour and responsiblity of being The Understudy. As a result, Diva Girl was proud of her “important” role in the play, and set about doing it justice. She learned “her” lines — all of them, for all 7 parts. She stepped in for rehearsals when one of the actors was absent, and eventually tried on every role. She preferred the Butterfly or Owl parts, but happily confided in me that she didn’t mind if she ended up being Skunk or Beaver. I don’t think she ever really understood that in real life, The Understudy rarely gets a chance to jump in and save the show.
At yesterday’s dress rehearsal, all the leads were present and accounted for and Diva Girl spent the entire show as a member of the chorus. It was then that she started to get the idea that she wouldn’t be playing Butterfly, or Owl, or even Skunk. That she would be expected to simply wear her white shirt without any sort of special animal hat and blend in with the crowd. You might already realize this from her name, but Diva Girl? Not a fan of the blending.
So she embraced denial. At dinner she listed off for me all the different colours of shirt she needed to bring to make sure she was appropriately attired no matter what part she was called upon to take. When she went to her dress up box to dig out her butterfly wings “just in case,” I knew I had to step in and burst her bubble.
“You know honey, I think you’re just going to wear your white shirt. That’s what the note said to wear as your costume.”
“But Mama! That’s just if I’m only in the chorus! If I’m Beaver or Owl I’ll need a brown shirt. For Skunk we need to bring a black one! I need my green one for Frog. Wanna hear my French accent?”
“I’m sure you have a great French accent, baby. But I don’t think you’re going to need those costumes. And if you do, I’m sure Mrs N. can work something out.”
My unwillingness to pack a large duffel bag fill of costume changes that she wouldn’t need was the final blow to her reality distortion field, and she threw herself into my lap sobbing, “It’s not fair!”
I tried to soothe her, using all of the proper adult arguments and rationalizations for such situations:
“Not everyone can have a turn.” “Heather and Zoe and Sarah had turns last year and this year!”
“Lots of people wanted roles. You’re not the only one left out.” “Matty didn’t want a role! Mrs N. made him do it! And Madison didn’t even have a part to start!”
“I’m really proud of you. You worked really hard on this.” “I did, Mama! I did work really hard. Harder than anybody else. And it’s NOT FAIR!!!!”
The rub was, I agree with her. It wasn’t fair that Heather and Zoe and Sarah got the leads two years in a row. It wasn’t fair that she, who so desperately wanted a chance to shine, was passed over in favour of shy little Matty “because he needed it more.” Even the kids like Diva Girl who naturally shine need a chance to be validated for it sometimes. And she did work harder than anyone else–she memorized the entire play. It wasn’t fair.
And she was looking to me to make this right for her.
“Do you want me to talk to your teacher and tell her how you feel?” I asked her, wincing at the prospect of being “that” parent, but knowing that she needed to see me doing something.
“YES!” She turned her little tearstained face to me, her eyes alight with hope. “Let’s go right now! And tell her to let me be the Butterfly.” Clearly we had different ideas about the intent of the conversation, and it’s probable outcome.
“I can’t do that Diva Girl. I can tell her how upset you are that you don’t have a part. But it wouldn’t be fair to Heather to take away her part. She worked hard on it too.”
“But not as hard as me!!! And I don’t want to be in the chorus!!!”
I didn’t know what to do to lessen the sting. I could see that this had to the potential to be her first defining Moment. You know the ones. The ones you can recall with total clarity and a visceral feeling of despair the unfairness of it all. The stories you tell your friends when you’re sharing the ice cream container and the damage of your childhoods. I didn’t want this to be her Moment.
“Well, you don’t have to be in the chorus.”
“Yes. Make Mrs N. give me part.”
“I can’t do that Sabrina. You can go to the play and maybe have a part, or be happy as part of the chorus. Or, you can stay home and we can have a movie night.We’ll go out and get some chips and you can have Kool-Aid and maybe stay up late.”
She chose the movie night. Not out of pique or a sense of punishing them by withdrawing her presence, but because the option of staying up past her bedtime, gorging herself on junk food, and watching a *gasp* PG movie was far more attractive to her than standing in the background singing her little heart out. Which is what I was banking on when I made the offer.
In the end, we had a really great night. I turned off the computer and refused to answer the phone. We hung out and connected in a way that wouldn’t have happened if I’d been sitting in the audience and she’d been on stage. I know she would have been happier if I’d been cheering her on, but cheering on Herbie together was almost as good.
Monday I’m going to the school, and I’m going to try very hard not to be “that” parent. But Diva Girl is right. It’s NOT fair. And nobody makes my baby cry.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 10th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
Today I got exactly what I’ve always wanted for Mother’s Day: A Day to myself. A day to slough off the constraints of motherhood and just be Kimberly for a while. Not that I’m not always me; for good or bad, my insistence on being true to myself is one of my defining characteristics. But I am almost always being some variation of the Mommy Kimberly. You know how it is, even when the kids are at school, or asleep, or playing nicely in the other room, you are still on mommy duty. And when you’re a solomom, there really isn’t anyone to hand off to at the end of the day. So, I am always on.
Except, not today. Today I played hooky from motherhood. Today I pulled the parenting equivalent of Senior Skip Day. Today I dropped off the Ladies (Diva Girl at school; Zen Baby at Gramma’s) and then I hit the road with one of my best friends.
Not once during the 90 minute trip to the happiest place in the world did anyone ask, “Are we there yet?” complain that someone was touching them, or demand to stop at McDonalds for a potty break. And that wasn’t even the best part of the day!
We wandered through at a leisurely pace. I took as long as I wanted looking at things. Picking up objects, touching fabrics, and, I confess, even hugging this rug.Without having to worry that anyone was going to break anything or listen to any whining about how boring this whole day is. In the rougly two hours it took us to tour the store, not once did I utter any of the following phrases:
“Don’t touch that.”
“Put that back.”
“Come back here please.”
“Please Keep up.”
“No, I’m not buying that.”
Pure bliss. But that wasn’t even the best part.
The best part was that I didn’t even realize it. Not in that “didn’t recognize how great it was until it was over” way, but in that “so thoroughly enjoying the moment I have no time to stop and analyze the moment” kind of way. I was too busy talking and laughing with Karla about anything and everything in our lives to even realize that I had let that constant mom-vigilance go. That absloutely no part of me was not fully present in my conversation with my friend. No part of me was tracking Sabrina, or searching for a sippy cup for Regan, or frankly, thinking about my kids at all.
All I was thinking about was my unabashed love of polkadots and talking Karla into getting the perfect bedding to inspire a whole new room. The shiny, pretty, cheap things at Ikea inspired me to really put some thought and effort into my home. To put my stamp on this bland beige box of a space and make it a home rather than simply a place to sleep and store our stuff.
The changes in our home aren’t just limited to decor, though. It’s a whole new attitude. Even though we were only gone a few hours I arrived home a renewed mother. One who is excited, relaxed, and refreshed. And that–the space to reconnect with myself that allowed me to rekindle my enthusiasm for my life, all of my life–is the best Mother’s Day present ever.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 8th, 2006 — Posted in Zen Baby, iVillage, Sanity and the Solo Mom
My Zen Baby has discovered the concept of “scary.” Which, given the last two years of her life, is hardly surprising. Of course, she’s probably had the concept mastered for a while; now, however, she has the words to go with it.
“Mama I skeered,” she tells me, looking at the old lady lingering in the foyer of our buliding.
“Ssssh, Baby. There’s nothing to be scared of’,” I quietly reassure her, searching for my keys.
“No Mama! That skeery. I skeered!” She insists, pointing at the woman, who looks like Central Casting’s idea of a wicked witch.
“It’s ok, Regan.” I tell her, mentally smacking myself for not having the key ready when we came in the door. I saw the woman there. I thought to myself for at least the thousandth time how stereotypically frightening she looks with her small, shrivelled frame, her babushka and shawl, her hooked nose so prominent in a sunken face endlessly folded with wrinkles. I even wondered if Zen Baby would comment on her, given her toddler-driven impluse to narrate her experiences. But then I dismissed the possiblity for such a social faux pas as unlikely. For one thing, we’ve passed this woman hundreds of times since we’ve lived her, and Regan hasn’t ever given any indication that she is even aware of her. And, more importantly, my daughter doesn’t speak in front of strangers. At all. It’s one of the constants of life with Zen Baby.
Except, not today.
“No!” She tells me forcefully. It NOT okay. That lady skeery!”
Well, there goes any hope that the “Skeery Lady” isnt aware of our conversation. Isn’t that just the way with kids? I spend the past year hoping that Regan will overcome her shyness and talk openly in public. And now? Now I just want her to be quiet.
“Hey!” I say brightly, finally wrestling open the heavy door. “Wanna push the elevator button?”
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