Posted by Kimberly on August 26th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
If you heard that loud popping sound around 1pm yesterday and were wondering what the heck it was, my apologies. That was the sound of one of my apron strings popping.
In my construction of single parenthood, there’s no visitation. No “every other weekend and two weeks in the summer” type of arrangement. I’ll confess that sometimes, when I’ve felt overwhelmed and utterly exhausted, I’ve watched my solo mom friends send their kids off for a weekend with Dad with a tinge of jealousy. But on the whole, I’ve been pretty content with the 365 day a year routine that’s been my life for the past seven years.
It’s not like Bree has never been away from me before. I’ve left her with Gramma and Grampa for the odd weekend over the years, and when she was three my parents took her with them on a ten day trip to the east coast. Even now, four years later, I’m still hearing about Peggy’s Cove . She had a blast, and honestly, so did I. Sure, I missed her, and it was a big step to let her go, but I was also pretty confident and unconcerned–afterall, she was with my mom and dad, people who had literally known her for entire life.
Yesterday, Sabrina got into a van and headed off on fabulous adventure–a weekend of camping in one of the province’s nicest provincial parks. Without me. Or any family member. Even though it’s only a four day trip this time, I somehow found it harder to let her go.
It’s not that I don’t trust who she’s going with–I’m very confident that this woman will take very good care of my Diva Girl. Afterall, she’s our babysitter as well as our friend. And I have no worries about Diva Girl’s behaviour–well, not many. It’s just that I’ve never sent my baby out into the world like this before.
I know that she’ll be fine. Better than fine, even. And that she’ll come home filled with excitement, stories, and probably pinecones she’s picked up along the way. But it’s hard. It’s another step in the slow process of my daughter slipping out of my grasp to create her own life. It’s a good thing, really.
But I still want to squeeze her harder, not open my arms wide to the world. Hence the “pop.”
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Posted by Kimberly on August 21st, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, iVillage
I have a very large family. Well, not my immediate family; that’s pretty small–just the three of us. But my family is huge. I’ve got 4 older brothers, 8 neices and nephews, and countless aunts, uncles, and cousins. When my paternal grandmother died 3 years ago, she was personally responsible for adding 100 people to the global population count; I’ve lost track of the number of births in the family since then.
But I haven’t lost track of the family That’s because no matter where we go or how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other, everyone knows that on the third Sunday in August we can show show up at Uncle Brian’s place and reconnect with family.
It’s a family tradition that’s been going on for nearly as long as I can remember, this annual gathering of the clan. Over the years we’ve watched Brian turn a few barely cleared acres of land out on the edge of nowhere into his own personal paradise. What started out as a trailer sitting in the middle of the forest has morphed into an entire compound filled with play equipment, volleyball and badminton courts, mobile homes galore, firepit and even a personal pond/swimming hole. What hasn’t changed though is the swarm of children fishing off the dock, eating coutless ears of corn, and clamouring for just one more wagon ride around the complex.
Oh, the children themselves have changed, of course. That’s just the way life works. But the fact that there are still sticky faced children racing through the clusters of lawnchairs is a testament to the permanance of Family. We may not see each other often–sometimes not even annually–and we may not be able to immediately put a name to each and every face, but we keep coming back to join in and reaffirm that we are family, and no matter how tenously, we are connected.
When these annual reunions began, I was one of those children. I was one of the little ones left in the care of older cousins while my parents kept a slightly less watchful eye–free to socialize with the Adults knowing that the children were with family. As the years ran on, I became one of the cousins, happily tending to the babies of the cousins who had minded me. Babies like Taylor, the girl in the picture who is clearly not a baby anymore. Now, I bring my own 2 girls to Uncle Brian’s and confidently leave them in Taylor’s care, knowing that they will be safe and well cared for by this girl I’ve watched grow up, one Sunday in August at a time.
There’s something very settling and reassuring about the sense of permanence this event brings to my life. That life may feel like an ever changing dance, but some steps, at least, repeat. Someday I imagine Taylor herself will arrive on the third Sunday in August with her own children in tow. And then Regan and Sabrina will be the girls on the wagon ride keeping the little ones occupied and safe. Because on this one day, we are all connected regardless of how disconnected we may be in our everyday lives.
I couldn’t ask for a better family. Or a better wya to spend the third Sunday in August.
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Posted by Kimberly on August 13th, 2006 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple, iVillage
It’s been coming for a while now, but I just didn’t want to face it. No matter that I knew it was unavoidable or that I’ve had months to brace myself for the coming storm, I’ve been happily living in the land of denial.
But no longer.
After today’s headspinning, pea soup spewing, exorcist worthy tantrum over, of all things, the return of her stinky diaper, I am forced to admit that the Zen Baby has become a Shaolin Toddler.
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Posted by Kimberly on August 11th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, The Man I Didn't Marry, Scarlet Letters, iVillage
I inadvertently offended a friend’s father the other day. It absolutely wasn’t my intent to do so, and in fact I didn’t even realize I had until my friend mentioned it, but an offhand remark I made about my relationship to the state of matrimony left him deeply offended. While I’m sorry he interpreted my innocent comment to be a denigration of his 30 year marriage, I’m not sorry I made it. To be honest, I’d do the exact same thing again in similar circumstances.
What happened was this: We were having brunch and somehow the conversation turned to the question of why the third finger of the left hand is the wedding ring finger. My friend’s 13 year old daughter, knowing that my lint trap of a brain is chock full of useless knowledge, asked me to clear up the question. My flippant reply, “I don’t know. I try to know as little about marriage as possible,” was apparently seen as an attack on marriage in general, and a devaluing of his in particular.
Let me be clear here that I am not anti-marriage. I have nothing against marriage per se. In fact, I firmly believe that marriage is an institution should be open to anyone who wants to experience it. I just have absolutely no interest in experiencing it myself. And I’m a little sensitive about that.
You see, we may very well be living in the 21st century, and statistics might support the idea that there are a heck of a lot of solo moms out there, but our society is still programmed to assume that all women are either married, or want to be. For example, a moms board I belong to recently added a “Single Moms” section. The first post? A married woman inviting the other married ladies to discuss where they’d met their “dh,” the better to help all us old maids find our own Prince Charmings. Personally, I quite often get called “Mrs.” at parent-teacher conferences, the automatic assumption being that if I have a child, surely I must be married. I’ve endured my share of well meaning friends trying to set me up on blind dates, unwilling to believe that I’m single because I choose to be, not because I can’t find a man. I’ve heard joking comments about finding a rich husband to better support my children and, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t amused.
It’s not that I don’t respect my friend’s father’s choice to marry; it’s that I often don’t feel like my choice not to marry is given the same due. So, yeah, I guess I can be a bit defensive when it comes to the issue of marriage. And we all know what they say about a good offense, right?
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Posted by Kimberly on August 10th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, iVillage
you’re the one making the “It’s in her nature” and “circle of life” arguments as the children (and you) stare on in horror while the family cat happily decapitates a chipmunk.
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Posted by Kimberly on August 6th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, iVillage
Most mornings the girls are up early–8 am would be considered sleeping in. And they’re not shy about letting the grownups know that they’re up and about. Even when they aren’t jumping up and down beside the bed claiming imminent death by starvation, they are hardly discrete about their wakefullness. The loud “whispered” conversations about whether or not they should forage in the cupboards (a big no), the “accidental” blaring of Hilary Duff as they try to find an acceptable volume on the CD player, the “I’m tellings” threatened as wars erupt over the coveted marker colours…all are tip offs that they are up and ready for what the day has to offer them.
Except, oddly enough, on Sundays. On Sunday mornings, the house is deathly still. Not a peep is heard from the children who are usually so exuberant in their desire to greet the day. In fact, when a bleary-eyed grownup finally stumbles out of bed around 9ish, marvelling at the late hour, she might be fooled by the utter silence into believing that the little angels remain safely tucked away in their beds, visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.
A quick check, however, will reveal that this is not, in fact, the cause for the eerie, unusual silence. The bedclothes are rumpled, to be sure, but there is no sign of blissfully slumbering bodies wrapped inside them. Reconnaissance of the livingroom reveals none of the chaos and debris normally associated with the early morning wakeup call. The kitchen is similarly untouched, leaving only one option.
There they are, quiet as churchmice as they sit in the rec room, the volume on the television set turned so low as to be nearly inaudible. Three innocent faces turn around and greet the interloper, “Oh. You’re up. We thought it would be nice to let you sleep in this morning.”
How very generous of them, no? And how very, very disappointed they are going to be when they find out that there’s another Mass at 11 am.
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Posted by Kimberly on August 1st, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
I’ve always loved the beginning of the school year–even before I was old enough to go to school. For me, that magical Tuesday after Labour Day was an eagerly anticipated Event, not a dreaded return to enslavement and drudgery. One of my first memories is the sense of betrayal I felt waking up on my fourth birthday to be met with the information that I still had to wait 8 whole months before I too could finally head off with my older brothers to school.
Maybe that’s why I’ve never really understood why the new year is marked by some arbitrarily chosen date in the middle of winter. Really, what makes January 1 all that different from December 31 other than the fact that you have to put up a whole new calendar instead of just turn the page? If not for the hangover and the holiday, would anyone really notice the change?
I think the new year really starts in September. Unlike New Year’s Day, the first day of school is a legitimate marker of a new phase of the year. In September, something new and different happens that marks a clear distinction between the “Then” and the “Now.” “Then” was swimsuits and barbeques; “Now” is school clothes and bedtimes. What could be a more obvious indication of the change in circumstances than that, I ask you?
When you think about it, September, not January, is a time of new beginnings. September is a clean slate; the time when you leave the past behind you and embark on a new phase in your life. It’s all about that feeling of promise and posssibility that courses through your veins and gives you butterflies in your stomach when you think about your new class, your new school clothes, fresh notebooks, sharpened pencils, and crayons that have yet to be reduced to naked little fragments smooshed haphazardly into a crushed cardboard box. January is just dirty snow and back to the regular grind.
There are few things more evocative of a fresh start than a backpack filled with empty notebooks and markers that still have all their lids. As a kid, I liked to get out my pencil case and just look at the wonders it held, imagining the exciting year ahead. Actually, I still like to do that; a visit to Staples is better than a trip to the candy store for me. All those gel pens and notebooks and overhead markers to choose from! It makes me positively giddy to contemplate. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to head out and get ready for a whole new year; I have really high hopes for it.
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