Posted by Kimberly on November 30th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, My Addiction
What is it about the word “lice” that its mere mention causes the skin to start crawling?
Sabrina brought The Note home from school today. The note no parent wants to pull out of the backpack. The Prelude to the Apocalypse note.
I suppose it coud have been slightly worse. It wasn’t the “You Might As Well Shave Your Head Now” note. It was the slightly less terrifying, but still scratch inducing The “We Regret to Inform You That Your Child’s Playmates Are Infested WIth Nasty Itchy Bugs That Will Never Go Away” Note.
The Note wasn’t the only thing in the backbpack today. The Scholastic flyer was in there as well (yippee! Too bad The Lousy Week wasn’t one of the featured selections.)
The other piece of paper that came home today almost made up for The Note, and at least briefly distracted me from my psychosomatic itching. Diva Girl got a Proud Pick* this month. For Friendship. After the rocky start to this year, I am thrilled that of all the awards she could have won, she got this one. So is she, which is really the important thing. It’s a nice recoginition of how far she’s come this year, and the lessons she’s learned about compassion and kindness in the process.
Now please excuse me; it’s hard to type and obsessively scratch at the same time.
*Proud Picks are monthly awards given out by Diva Girl’s school. Each month the school focusses on a different area: Respect, Organization, Homework Completion, etc. At the end of the month they have an assembly and hand out awards to the students who best exemplify that month’s focus.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 25th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
Walking home from the grocery store, Diva Girl began The Conversation. The one I’ve been dreading, hoping the subject wouldn’t rear its ugly head, yet certain that sooner or later, we were going to have to talk about It. It’s a hot topic of conversation among her friends right now, with many of them eager to earn playground cred by sharing all the awful truth with their less informed peers. Fortunately, Sabrina and I have a pretty open relationship and she’s still comfortable coming to me with her questions rather than just taking the word of a bunch of third grade experts. Still, this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. She’s not even 8 years old yet! We’re just not ready.
“Jesse says that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.” She informs me. Balancing along the curb, she doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in my reply, but I know it’s just an act. It’s not the first time we’ve encountered an unbeliever, but the rising number of kids who are too cool for Claus has Sabrina thinking about the whole thing a little more critically than she did last year.
My palms begin to sweat a bit, and I try hard to remain nonchalant. “Really?”
“Yeah. So I’m gojng to ask Santa for proof to show Jesse that he is real.”
I admire her ingenuity, and am relieved to be spared the Big Question, but I don’t think I can let this go. “Well, Santa doesn’t really do proof, Bree. You either believe in him, or you don’t.”
“But, if I have proof, Jesse will have to believe in him!”
“Santa doesn’t want people to believe because he proved it to them; he wants them to believe because they do. That’s what makes it magic.” And nothing is quite so magical as a child’s wholehearted, uncomplicated belief in Santa Claus. The shining look of wonder when faced with the “magical” presents under the tree the first Christmas that she actually understood the whole Santa process, the intense concentration that goes into writing the letter, her incredible excitement the year Santa “forgot” his jinglebells, and the reverent care she took of them before leaving them beside the milk and cookies on Christmas Eve, these are all memories I treasure, and experiences I’m not quite ready to give up yet.
“Well I believe!” She stoutly declares, as though daring anyone to challenge her on the subject. I relax and continue to push the shopping cart, my attention diverted from the dicey talk of truth and reality by the Shaolin Toddler’s excitement over the decorations she sees shining on the neighbourhood houses. So I’m not really prepared when she hits me with the bullet I thought I’d so easily dodged, “Do you believe in Santa Claus, Mama?”
I answer without thinking. In fact, I don’t even realize what I’m saying until the words are out of my mouth, too late to take back. Thinking about them, though, I know that I wouldn’t even if I could. It’s an important question, and one that deserves an answer worthy of the trust she’s shown in me by asking it.
I stop for a minute, and think about how much more Christmas means to me now that I can share it with her. About how much I love finding the perfect thing for her; she’s always amazed by how well Santa knows her, that even though he rarely sticks her list, she always gets exactly the right thing–something she didn’t even know she wanted, and yet, once it appears, she knows she could never have lived without. I think about my own thrumming excitement on Christmas Eve as I carefully arrange the presents under the tree, gleefully stuff the stockings full of goodies, and choke down one of the Pillsbury Cookies I don’t actually like, yet have somehow become part of our Christmas tradition. Mostly I think about how much more magical Christmas is, now that I share the season with The Ladies and Saint Nick. Then I repeat my answer, just for emphasis:
“Absolutely I believe in Santa Claus.”
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Posted by Kimberly on November 24th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage
Some women arrive at the salon with a clear vision of what they are looking for. They have detailed instructions for the stylist, complete with visual aids. These are the women who understand hair. They know what looks good, and even more importantly, they know how to achieve that. They have an arsenal of product in their bathrooms, and are smiled upon by the many armed appliance goddess. And then there are the women who break out in a cold sweat at the very idea of of sitting in the stylist’s chair. Women who are left tonguetied, staring like a deer in headlights when faced with the question: What are we doing today?
Guess which category I fall into.
I had no real idea what I wanted when I walked into the salon. All I knew was I didn’t want the hair on my head, but I also didn’t want a repeat of the “70s lesbian punk rock shag” disaster. And that I was somewhat at a loss as to how to keep that from happening without devolving into momhair. The sum total of my contribution to the consultation was, “I want it shorter, but I want to keep some of the length. But I don’t want momhair. I’m a solo mom with 2 kids, and I work as a substitute teacher; I don’t have a lot of time to fuss around with a hairstyle. I’d like something wash and wear, but not momhair. Oh, and I’m not very good with the whole blowdrying thing, either.”
I’m sure I was her favourite client ever.
Tanya was a pretty good sport about it though, making suggestions and genuinely listening to my tales of hairstyling ineptitude as she tried to achieve a short, sassy, sophisticated cut that I could actually cope with. I was thrilled with just about everything she did, including the bangs, which were a late addition. In the orignal incarnation, the hair at the front had all been left the same lenght, and a fairly large strand kept getting in my face. When I pointed this out, Tanya’s explanation was “I left it long like that so that you’d have the option of tucking it behind your ear.” “But, the whole point of the haircut was to eliminate the tucked behind the ear thing!” I protested. “If you leave it like this, I give it a day before I’m back to stealing my 7 year old daughter’s headbands.” Tanya agreed that tthat was a fate worse than momhair. Hence, the bangs, much though I was looking to avoid them. Bangs have never been my friend, always too heavy and overpowering my face. These bangs though! Are light! And wispy! The bangs I’d given up all hope of ever having. And now I do!
I’m still in the getting used to it stage, where you catch a glimpse in a window and don’t quite recognize yourself, but do know that you approve of that woman’s hair. We’re in that fresh from the salon honeymoon period; I haven’t washed it yet, thereby requiring me to replicate Tanya’s magic on my own. I’m a little nervous about that–there was a hairdryer, a round brush and a flat iron involved, but Tanya assured me that even if I just wash it and leave it alone, it should be ok.
I guess I’ll just have to try it and find out. Here’s hoping it doesn’t suddenly morph into momhair. If it does, I’ve got a supply of mulitcoloured hairbands at the ready.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 21st, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage, At Least It Wasn't A Gerbil
I killed the fish.
I finally got around to cleaning his bowl this week. And I had the brilliant idea that maybe he’d like some more space than what’s provided in the teeny tiny little $3.00 cannister we bought to hold him. With the plant I got him to jazz up the place last time I was at the pet store, you can hardly see him swimming around in there so I got down a large glass vase and put him in that (after taking appropriate measures, of course).
At first I thought that Princess Sparklefairy was so delighted by his new digs that he was darting to and fro, enjoying the freedom. Turns out I was witnessing his deaththroes. Maybe the drastic change in environment was too much for him and he had a heart attack?
No way to hide this one from the Shaolin Toddler, either. She was right there with me, “helping” to take care of the fishy. Worse, she was a horrified witness to Princess Sparklefairy’s final indignity: In attempting to rescue him from his watery grave, I accidentally dumped the fish down the sink.
So. That’s two down. Do we try this again, understanding that Princess Sparklefairy lost a considerable amount of his sparkle the minute the furball made an appearance, or do we rechristen the kitten in honour of her fallen comrade and keep the memory (if not the actual fish) alive?
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Posted by Kimberly on November 17th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage
I think I need a haircut. No, that’s not true. I know I need a haircut; I think I might be ready to get one. Seeing as how my last foray into the world of hairdressing was over 18 months ago, and ended with my bestfriend randomly hacking off bits of hair in a desperate attempt at some sort of fix, this newfound willingness to return to the scene of the crime is a big deal. Or a pretty strong indicator of how much I hate my hair right now.
I have nice enough hair. It’s very healthy and very thick, with the kind of waves that come from years of being too long and too heavy to follow its natural inclination towards curl. What I don’t have is an actual hairstyle–unless you call “tucked behind the ears/sloppy ponytail” a hairstyle. Which, for some, really is a cute look. But me? It looks like I just gave in, pushed it behind my ears, and then stole one of Diva Girls innumerable ponies to keep the whole mess out of my way. Which I totally did. Because I am hairstyle impaired.
Back in high school while other girls were mastering the mysterious arts of the curling iron, hairspray, and the dread blowdryer/brush combo, I was simply mystified. I imagined these girls to be akin to some sort of many armed Hindu beauty goddess, wielding a whirling arsenal of product, brushes, and appliances to create fabulous hairstyles. Hard as I tried, my bangs never achieved that high, graceful fall over the forehead; the closest I ever got was “poofy,” which may or may not have been a step up from my usual look, best described as “heavy and flat.” Other girls had flips, mushrooms, long bangs, feathered locks, and spiral perms; I had waist length hair that generally ended up pulled into a ponytail, or, if I was feeling fancy, a french braid. I didn’t even own a hairdryer, much less know how to use one in conjunction with a round brush.
Needless to say, my formative hairstyling years left me woefully unprepared for a lifetime of haircare. I mean, I can wash my hair ok. But anything beyond that is essentially beyond me. And, sadly, you just can’t go with the long, blunt cut look forever. Well, I suppose you can, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I’ve gotten somewhat more adventurous from my first foray into the realm of the actual hairstyle–a shoulder length bob that I’m not sure even really qualifies. I’ve even bought a hairdryer, and had some success in using it. I’ve experimented with bangs and layers to varying degrees of success, but somehow I always end up back in a ponytail.
After the “70s lesbian punk rock shag” debacle of 2005, I was more than happy to retreat to my safety zone. I was comfortable in my headbands and ponys, and it’s not like I was trying to impress the other moms at playgroup. Now that I’m working agian, however, I’ve started to feel a little selfconcious utter lack of a hairstyle. Finding myself once again surrounded by groups of teenage girls who clearly understand the mysteries of mousse, I am inspired to venture back into the land of the coiffed and at least make an attempt at worshiping at the alter of that many armed hairgoddess.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 12th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, iVillage, At Least It Wasn't A Gerbil
The furball has come out from under the bed. She’s not quite ready to join the family yet, but she’s making it known that she will not be ignored, either. She’s more than happy to hide, tantilizingly out of reach, so long as she’s got an audience. But, should we have the audacity to get on with our lives, she sudden appears, with a mew that is an endearing combination of indignant, piteous, and imperious, to put us in our places.
She’s still without a name; it appears I used up all my whimsy and creativity on the less cool pet, which, come to think of it, seems only fair. The Ladies’ rather uninspired suggestions of “Blackie” and “Fluffy” were summarily rejected, and I was unable to convince them that “Sheba” or “Pagan” would be the perfect name for our little black ball of fluff. They were equally unimpressed with my fallback suggestion of “‘George.” At one point, Diva Girl suggested that we rename Princess Sparklefairy and bestow her moniker on the cat. I feel dirty to say that I considered it, but ultimately decided that the only thing the poor fish has going for it in the face of such undeniable cutelness is its cool name.
Right now we’re leaning towards “Nyx,” but much though I love the name, I’m not sure if I’m committed yet. But if we don’t come up with something soon, the poor thing is going to think “here, kitty kitty!” is actually her name. Who knew naming a pet would be so hard? I sure didn’t have this much trouble with The Ladies’ names!
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Posted by Kimberly on November 11th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage, At Least It Wasn't A Gerbil
Last week, there was a crack in my “no pets” armour, and we got a fish. Today, the walls came crumbling down: We got a kitten.
Yeah, I didn’t see it coming either. I figured we’d bask in the clammy glow of fishy ownership for a while and then maybe start entertaining the possibility of a hamster or some other, cooler rodent (but not a gerbil. I am firmly anti-gerbil and no amount of warm fuzzies is going to change my mind on that one).
But…Then there were a bunch of kittens rescued by Animal Alert. And they needed homes, desperately. So, flushed with the success of Princess Sparklefairy 2.0 (the original Princess having been simply flushed), I volunteered to foster a kitten.
Which is how I came to have an adorable little bit of black fluff hiding under my bed and two little girls sprawled on the floor debating names.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 10th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
Thursday was a big day at our house. In addition to the arrival of the still nameless furball, Susan came back to town for a visit, and she brought the whole familiy with her. One of the things I love about being a substititue teacher is that I was able to take the afternoon off to hang out with them.
That flexibility of schedule, and the freedom it gives me to keep my priorities straight while still doing a job I love is the reason that I am in no hurry to return to a regular classroom. I’ve done the classroom thing, with the name on the door and the report cards and the pizza lunches and the bulletin boards and the coaching, and it’s just not where I am in my life right now. I love teaching, but I don’t love all the extras that go with it–the parents, the administrivia, the stress. Teaching is an incredibly stressful job, and it’s one that doesn’t end with the 3:30 bell. The students don’t really leave after the classroom empties; they’re still there in the lesson planning, the marking, and the emotional investment a teacher makes in her class.
When I decided to become a teacher, it was a very naieve, spur of the moment decsion. It was based not on a lifelong dream to be a teacher (I wanted to be many things when I grew up–a magazine editor, a writer, a paleontologist–but I don’t recall any deep burning passion to become a teacher), but on what career I thought would be most accomodating to my imminent status as a solo mom. On my own and pregnant with Sabrina, I sat down and really thought about my options for the first time since calling off my wedding the year before. Teaching seemed like a logical choice: Pretty good pay, awesome pension, hours that would certainly suit–especially once the kid was in school–and no worries about what to do about school vacations. It wasn’t until later that I realized that I love teaching.
It also wasn’t until later that I realized how utterly naieve I’d been. Much though I love teaching, it’s not conducive to the whole solo mom lifestyle. It seems like it should be, what with the easy hours and all, but that doesn’t take into account all the behind the scenes stuff–the endless marking and reportcard writing, all of which are done during those huge chunks of free time I thought I’d be spending with my kid. I aslo hadn’t considered the fact that having the same schedule as my child would mean, well, having the same schedule as my child. My parents brough Diva Girl to her very first day of school ever, and that’s a piece of mommy guilt I’ll be carrying around for the long haul.
Last year was an epiphany of sorts for me. I took Brina to school and picked her up. I attended numerous school assemblies and saw her read a poem for Remembrance Day, watched her deliver her lollipop speech in the gym, taped her class play, and was there when she got her “Proud Pick.” I supervised fieldtrips and went to playgroups. I was really present in my girls’ lives, and while I sometimes longed for the stimulation of work, I also savoured the relaxed rhythm of our family life. When it was time to look at going back to work this year, I realized that I wasn’t willing to give that up.
Nobody goes to school to become a substitute teacher. In a profession that is defintely lacking in glamour lately, it’s often seen as the least attractive option–the dumping ground for teachers who couldn’t hack it in a “real” classroom. The reality is oftentimes a little different. Supply teachers have the same training as regular classroom teachers, and a far greater range of experience. Classroom teachers deal with the issues and personalities in one room; supply teachers take on those same issues and personalities in many classrooms. And where the regular teacher has weeks to build rapport with her students, a substitute has minutes. Plus, she’s also often teaching outside her specialty area, taking on everything from kindergarten to calculus over the course of the week. These are all truths that I discovered when I became a substitute, and they’re what I hold on to now that I’ve returned to that and have to see the looks on collegeaues faces when they ask what I’m doing now.
Last time I found myself on the supply list, it was because there were no fulltime jobs to be had. This time, I’m there because it’s where I want to be. Really, it’s the best of both worlds: I get to do something I love, but I also get to fully present in my kids’ lives. I go into schools and teach my classes, but when the bell rings at the end of the day, I leave it all there behind me on the teacher’s desk. And, when something truly important comes up (like a playdate with Susan), I have the flexibiity to make the choice to put my family life first and not go into work at all.
It’s not the career path I envisioned when the stick turned blue and I decided to be come a teacher, but it turns out that it was what I was looking for all along.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 1st, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, iVillage, At Least It Wasn't A Gerbil
Well, that was quicker than even I expected.
Princess Sparklefairy, sadly, is no longer with us. It appears that while we were making our daily commute to school, he was making an ill advised bid for freedom. We came home to find his shrivelled remains lying next to his bowl.
Note to self, next time (because you just know that we’re going to have to replace the fish asap) do not fill the bowl high enough to allow a successful suicide attempt.
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