Posted by Kimberly on March 24th, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
We saw Regan’s paediatrician today. Technically, she doesn’t have a paediatrician anymore, but back when she was in the hospital, Dr. Yang was in charge of the non-cancer, non-surgical aspects of her care. We haven’t seen her in years, not since the day I happily skipped out of the hospital, my miracle baby held safe in my arms. Today, we ran into her in an elevator while making one of our semi-annual follow up visits to the hospital.
I recognized her instantly, but it took her a few minutes to place us. Not surprising, given the changes we’ve undergone in the last couple of years. The gaunt, silent, critically ill baby who was her patient bears little resemblance to the round cheeked, vibrant preschooler standing before her. Gone were the iv pole, the multiple tubes, the look of absolute terror in her eyes, replaced by a child filled with humour and curiosity. And me? Well, sure I’ve cut my hair, but more than that, I’m no longer shell shocked, clearly keeping it together by sheer force of will. Today I’m confident, relaxed, smiling, and I’ve got great hair.
A few key words refreshed her memory–”baby,” “giant tumour,” “nearly coded,” “miracle”–and her face lit up, then clouded with concern. After I assured her that we were fine, and that our presence in the hospital was merely routine, Dr. Yang relaxed and smiled at Regan, complimenting her glowing picture of health. As the elevator doors opened onto the paediatric floor, she thanked me for introducing ourselves, for reminding her that sometimes miracles happen and that even here, under the worst of circumstances, there can still be happy endings.
This part of our story isn’t quite over yet. There will be another year or so of tests and visits, but I can live with that. Because I know I’m not looking at a happy ending so much as a very bright beginning.
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Posted by Kimberly on March 21st, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Did you know today is Single Parents’ Day? How cool is that, that in addition to Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, we get another day all to ourselves?
In honour of Single Parents’ Day, I present my long overdue review of Rachel Sarah’s memoir, Single Mom Seeking.
Every mother has a story. A narrative of how she came to be in the place she is in, the person she is. Yet even though many of these stories bear striking similarities, they also have their differences. Rachel Sarah and I are, superficially, very similar mothers. We’re the same age. Our daughters are very nearly the same age. And we are both solo mothers.
That’s where the differences begin. Differences in circumstance. In attitude. In approach.
Rachel Sarah never intended to be a solo mom. She and her boyfriend, Eric, were going to raise their daughter together, forming a perfectly balanced family triangle. And then she came home from Thanksgiving Dinner, their seven month old daughter in her arms, to find that triangle shattered, left listing to one side in the face of his sudden and total absence from their lives.
I never intended to be a solo mom, either, but I knew even before the stick turned blue that I would be. That my family would consist of myself and my daughter, balancing each other, perhaps imperfectly, but balancing nonetheless.
When Rachel began her life as a single mom, she was so overcome by the shock, and the stigma, that at first she couldn’t even utter the words. She shied away from the definition, unwilling to announce to the world a fact that she was barely willing to acknowledge to herself. Now, nearly seven years into this existence she never chose for herself, Rachel has come to terms with her single mom status, going so far as to title her memoir, “Single Mom Seeking.”
I like Rachel. I like her in person (or whatever the internet equivalent of that is), and I liked her on paper. Which is what made parts of the book hard for me to take; at times, I just wanted to reach into the pages, shake her, and ask “what are you thinking?” Given that it is a memoir, we are treated to some of her thoughts on her various relationship misadventures, but not enough for my taste. To be honest, I would’ve liked to hear more about the single mom aspect of her life, and less about the seeking.
But maybe that’s because I get it when Rachel writes about being a single mom. I recognize the heaps of laundry. I’ve lived the exercise in military planning that a trip to the drugstore to buy tampons can become. And I certainly understand the desire to just fedex a guy from boyfriendstore.com, not to mention the need to entertain him in the living room. I just don’t get the seeking part.
I’m sure part of that is because I never was very good at dating anyway, so the idea of having binders full of blind dates is, to me, the equivalent of the third circle of hell. But it’s more than just distaste for dating; I do have 2 children after all. It’s also a difference in philosophy and approach. Where Rachel saw her two person family as broken, I have always seen mine as intact. That fundamental difference in perspective has shaped us both, as parents and as people.
While I may occasionally share my bed with a man, my life—and more importantly, my daughters’—is another story. In my story, happily ever after happens without the Prince Charming, and there are no “uncles” or stepfathers, wicked or otherwise, in the cast of characters. Rachel and I agree that the life of a single mom need not resemble that of a nun, but that’s where we part ways. In my life, I’ve made a conscious decision to keep my social life separate from my children; in Rachel’s, they are often tangled together, including a memorable occasion where her daughter, Mae, is brought along on a date from hell that shows Rachel once and for all that there are worse things in life than being a single mom.
Even though ostensibly what she’s seeking is a man to complete her life—to take the “single” out of her single mom–the true story that shines through each tale of dating disaster is Rachel’s quest to find herself, and who she is as both a woman and a mother.
When she first decides to jump back into the dating pool, she claims that she’s only in it for the sex, telling friends it’s “no problem!” when they warn her not to get attached, that their fix up is only one night stand potential. Of course, it is a problem as Rachel begins spinning happily ever after fantasies before the second date—which ends with him sneaking out at 3 am, effectively ending happily ever after before it’s even begun.
Her next attempt turns out a little better— Three weeks after meeting Victor, eighteen month old Mae is playing right along with Rachel’s fantasies of balanced triangles and instant families to replace the one she’s lost, calling him Daddy. The situation becomes complicated when the real daddy makes one of his intermittent appearances, however, and three weeks later, Victor and Eric have both disappeared, leaving Rachel and Mae alone to balance each other once again.
The decision to move back to California changes the dynamic as, with the addition of her father and a cadre of single moms who tell it like it is, Rachel’s broken triangle is reshaped into a circle of family and friends who help her find her feet and keep her balance, even when she’s wearing her first date skirt and heels. There are still losers aplenty, especially when she takes the plunge into the world of online dating, but now there are also voices of reason, such as her friend Siobhan, who teaches Rachel the mantra “never go back for more where there is only less.”
Rachel does eventually learn to make better choices, and to see her family more clearly for what it is and not for what it isn’t. She learns to stop seeing her family as less, even while she continues to search for more, and eventually manages to let go of her fantasies, raise her standards, and stop confusing Mr. Right Now with Mr. Right.
What is hardest about reading a memoir like this that it’s not fiction. In fiction, we can be comfortable that the choices made by a character weren’t real and didn’t actually mess anyone up, but this is a memoir, which means we are talking about the real lives of real people. And in the real world, all choices have consequences, so I just can’t feel completely comfortable with Rachel learning how to protect herself from the emotional turmoil of adult dating when so much of the book consisted of leaving her daughter so very vulnerable to repeated abandonment by one man after another.
I will compliment Rachel for her brave portrayal of a woman who was traumatized by her sudden change of circumstances, floundered for a time, and then found her strength and integrity again. I won’t say the portrayal was unflinching. There were times when I was left unsatisfied by the details left out and the thoughts not followed to their conclusion. It’s not that she’s not entitled to her privacy, but rather that the point of a memoir is to make the reader understand a life, and even though our lives are similar in so many ways, there were many times that I simply didn’t understand.
I’m trying to, though. Single Mom Seeking has made me reflect about my own values, and some of my prejudices, about dating and motherhood. I realized that I’m not entirely certain which is which. Kids benefit from having a lot of influences in their lives, and from mothers who are vibrant, fulfilled women. But they are also vulnerable to the damage of abandonment that is the almost inevitable result of a failed relationship. How each mother balances those issues is an intensely personal decision, and I’m not sure there is one right answer to the questions the subject brings up. I am glad that Rachel decided to tell her story, and to get us all thinking about them.
Now it’s your turn. What did you think about Single Mom Seeking? What do you think about dating with kids? Write your own post and link to it, or put your thoughts in the comments below. Rachel and I are eager to hear what you have to say.
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Posted by Kimberly on March 15th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, iVillage
One of the perks of being a teacher is that you share holidays with your school age children. Not only does it cut down on the daycare costs to be off at the same time, it also opens up the vacation possibilities. Unfortunately, circumstances over the past few years (birth of a baby, tumour, and poverty in consecutive years) have prevented me from taking advantage of the opportunity and going on holiday over March Break.
This year, though, circumstances are different: No one is being born or having major surgery, and I’ve been working fairly steadily this past month. Steadily enough that when my parents suggested that we get away for a couple of days, I was able to leap at the offer. I think I was as excited as the Ladies at the prospect of hitting the open road and heading out into adventure, which is how I found myself wedged in the backseat of my parents’ car with the booster seat, the car seat, and the dvd player, heading of to Niagara Falls.
Not exactly your traditional vacation spot for a Canadian family on a March Break getaway, and it certainly had the potential to end very badly: Vast expanses of water, Marineland, and one of of the tallest ferris wheels in North America–pretty much all of my greatest fears, conveniently located in a few blocks radius from our hotel. However, from our room overlooking the dinosaur mini golf on campy Clifton Hill to the butterfly conservatory, to the absolutely perfect weather for walking the Falls, it was a perfect trip. The Ladies even got to ride the dreaded skywheel, and I didn’t even have to take them. My dad, forever cementing his position as Best. Grampa. EVER. took them up. My dad, who hasn’t been on a ferris wheel in roughly 30 years–ever since vowing “never again” after taking me up on one. Ah, the things we do for love.
Traveling with my parents again after so many years brought back memories of many other trips sandwiched into the back of many other cars. Some, like the tour around the Great Lakes as a sullen teenager who would have much rather stayed home, and made no bones about it, came back with total clarity. Others, like a half-remembered ride on a ferris wheel, crouching in terror behind my brother’s legs, or the dreamlike impression of pink elephant footprints that my mother assures me signify a trip to the Detroit Zoo, are so hazy as to be almost mythical. All of them are treasured, though; reminders of a childhood that was filled with adventure, love, and large older brothers crowding the backseat.
I wasn’t sure how it was going to be, travelling with The Ladies, and I’ll admit I was pleasantly surprised. The novelty of the attractions cut down on a lot of the whining I think, and, thanks to that portable dvd player, we were only treated to a couple of courses of “Are We There Yet?” sung in the Key of Diva. Having my parents along also meant that I got to spend some one on one time, something that doesn’t often happen when you’re a solo mom with two kids. But with Gramma and Grampa there to wrangle the Toddler Formerly Known As Zen (I am in deep denial and refuse to acknowledge her new preschooler status), I was able to spend some one on one time with Diva Girl, watching her strut her stuff in the pool and hanging out on Clifton Hill after dark were highlights of the trip not for the huge excitement or fun factor of the activity, but because it gave us a chance to just have fun together without any distractions. And, cute though she is, making sure that the Baby doesn’t drown in the pool is nothing if not distracting.
I’m so very glad I took my mom up on her suggestion of a March Break getaway. The escape from our ordinary lives was a refreshing change of pace, and a far more pleasant way to spend the week than refereeing sibling wars, negotiating tv time, and generally dealing with the fallout of a week of disrupted routine. Sure, the routine was disrupted anyway–it’s not everyday that Regan naps while touring the Falls–but it’s somehow easier to take when it’s my choice, and not the inevitable fallout of having Sabrina home for more than a couple of days at a time.
Pleasant though our flight from reality was, we’re back in the real world now. The world of responsibilities, deadlines, mealtimes, and laundry. I’ll try to do the Bookclub post tomorrow or Saturday at the latest, but I won’t apologize for the delay; I wouldn’t have missed those rainbows for the world.
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Posted by Kimberly on March 9th, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
The test itself barely registers as an event anymore. Now that Regan is old enough to understand, and we don’t have to hold her down to get it done, the test is no longer something to be dreaded or endured. By now, 2 full years into this particular drama, we’ve got it down to a routine: In the days leading up to the appointment, play “hobstible” with the dollies. Scan their bellies with the doctor equipment, and talk about how it doesn’t hurt them. Talk about the “tickle” and the “slimy.” Remind Regan that soon she gets to go to the “hobstible” so that the doctor can look at her tummy. Make it sound like an adventure.
She lies still for the scan now, holding on to me instead of forcing me to hold her down. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t fight it, either. Gone are the days when I had to get on the gurney with her; now I sit in the chair beside her and hold her hand while the technician glides the various instruments over her small body. While I praise her for her bravery and compliance, I keep an eye on the monitor, making small talk with the tech as I watch for abnormalities. I’m by no means an expert, but I’ve seen enough of these pictures by now to fool myself into thinking that I have some idea of what I’m looking at.
This is all the easy part. It’s what comes next that’s hard. The wait.
Usually, it’s not too bad. Usually, I’ve chatted up the technician enough that they give me the “all clear” before they even leave the room to check the films. Not this time though. This time, she leaves to get Regan a finger puppet reward and to “check some measurements,” leaving us waiting in the darkened room.
At first, it’s not too bad. The time is taken up with wiping the goo off of Regan’s belly and high fives for a job well done. But, as the minutes stretch on, and the woman doesn’t return, I start to wonder exactly how long it takes to get a finger puppet. I start to remember the last time I was left to wait this long in one of these room, and resolutely refuse to think about it. I know Regan is healthy now, just like I knew something was wrong then.
But then, what’s taking so long? Seriously, how long does it take to find a finger puppet? Or is it something more? Did she find something else? Is she waiting for the radiologist? Why would she need to do that, if the films are clear? My breathing starts to speed up, and I will myself not to hyperventilate, to concentrate on the obviously healthy child who is surfing on the gurney. The waiting, though, it gives you time to think.
What if it’s started to grow back? I haven’t noticed anything, but what if that’s because it’s still small? Well, that would be good, right? Small would be ok, early detection and all that. What’s the worst that would happen, that they’d open her up and take it out again? That wouldn’t be so bad.
Except, it was hard enough with an infant who was too little to put up much of a fight–although she tried; good lord how she tried. How much harder to go through it with someone who understood? Who knew what was happening to her. Did I have it in me to do it all again?
And then, before I have to answer that, the technician is back with a finger puppet and a clean bill of health. Turns out the finger puppet wasn’t really worth the wait; Regan would have rather had a sticker. The all clear, though, that’s something worth waiting for.
Now, the question is, how long do I have to wait before the waiting simply becomes another part of the routine?
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Posted by Kimberly on March 5th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
While the theatrics and the tears are part of the reason I call Sabrina “Diva Girl,” they are not the only aspect of her personality that earned my daughter that particular nickname. The flip side of the theatrical meltdowns is her distinct dramatic flair, and while her mood is often stormy of late, the inherently gregarious, sunny disposition underneath is something to behold. It’s been dulled a bit recently by tweenish battles over homework, bedtimes, and use of the computer, but Diva Girl has an undeniable sparkle about her.
I got a welcome glimpse of that Diva Girl on Sunday when, as a celebration for their shared birthday, I took The Ladies to see Seussical.
Both of The Ladies love musicals–the costumes, the music, the dancing–the sheer spectacle of it all enthralls them: Chicago, Rent, Grease, and Bride and Prejudice are all in heavy rotation on our dvd and cd players, so when I saw that a local community theatre group was putting on Seussical this weekend, it seemed like the perfect outing.
Sitting in the darkened theatre, watching how enthralled Sabrina was, was everything I’d hoped it would be. The moment where she caused the entire audience to erupt in laughter, though, was something I never could have imagined. It was nothing short of magical.
Caught up in the play, Diva Girl blurted out the perfect closer to a line into a silent moment on stage. She didn’t shout it out to be disruptive or to seek attention; she was simply so delighted with the onstage shenanigans that she couldn’t couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. When the entire audience erupted into laughter around her, she thought she’d missed the joke; she didn’t realize that she herself was the joke.
I knew it though. And, sitting there, watching my Diva’s sparkle light up a darkened theatre, I glowed with maternal pride.
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Posted by Kimberly on March 3rd, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Oncology Odyssey, iVillage
I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that my Zen Baby is 3.
It’s similar to the same sort of “where did the time go?” wonderment that I felt when Diva Girl turned 8, but tinged with a sense that every single one of those 1095 days were hard won. I don’t really dwell on it anymore, but sometimes, especially on days like this, I’m reminded that there was a time when I wasn’t certain I’d be celebrating Regan’s third birthday. So, all the gifts aren’t necessarily for the Birthday Girl; the mere fact that we have a Birthday Girl is a gift in and of itself.
And what a girl she is! This newly minted preschooler bears only a passing resemblance to the Zen Baby of a year ago. Last year, Regan was silent, rarely speaking above a whisper, and then only to a select few–her grandparents, her sister, me. Now, she is a boisterous chatterbox, full of ideas and almost always engaged iin a running commentary of her thoughts and actions. She used to be pathologically shy, unwilling or unable to interact with friends she saw nearly every day, let alone people she didn’t know. These days, she happily chats with random strangers in the elevator and she delights in introducing me to her friends.
It’s been a long time coming, this transformation from silent observer to boisterous participant, and like most incremental changes, it’s happened so slowly as to be unremarkable, at least in the day to day living of our lives. The differences however, in who she is, and in how we live, truly are dramatic. I notice them, of course, but like all changes, they quickly get folded into the rhythm of our lives and, if not exactly forgotten, accepted as the norm.
I was reminded how far she’d come a couple of weeks ago, when I knocked her down at my nephew’s party. Intimidated by the strange surroundings and the horde of unknown people, Regan had reverted to a longheld security measure and took up residence about an inch from my right leg. There was a time when Regan’s position there was simply part of my own body awareness, when her presence was just a part of me, and I didn’t even need to think about where she was. There was a time when I never would have knocked her down by turning too swiftly, forgetting that I would need to compensate for her. I would have just known she was there, hovering silently, and I would have instinctively moved with that awareness.
Those days are long gone. It began slowly, subtly moving farther and farther away to explore the world around her–trailing behind me at the mall, playing on her own at playgroup…baby steps for the Zen Baby. Now, Regan almost always occupies her own space, not mine. And so, I was unprepared for her presence at the party, unused to this quiet creature who I used to know so well. This shy child, looking up at me from where she’d fallen, was both achingly familiar and wonderfully foreign. I remember that little girl, so serious and silent, and even think of her fondly, but I don’t miss her.
Happy Birthday, Regan! You’ve come a long way, baby! And I can’t wait to see where you go next.
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Posted by Kimberly on March 2nd, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple, iVillage
It’s cupcake time again.
This time they’re for the Zen Baby, who already understands the importance of The Cupcakes. For the past week, whenever I have asked her what she wants for her birthday, her answer has invariably been, “cupcakes.” Which I swear, I did make for her.
But my mom got her a cake and you have to check out my newly minted three year old daughter blowing out her candles. After you do, I’m sure you’ll have a better grasp of my affinity for the birthday cupcake.
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