Posted by Kimberly on September 30th, 2007 — Posted in Uncategorized, Kipple, iVillage
I’m not ashamed to admit that I made it all the way through my American Lit course in university without making it all the way through Moby Dick. It’s not that I’m opposed to long books in principle, or even in practise. And I like seafaring tales–Mutiny on the Bounty and Captains Courageous are two of my favourite books. But I just couldn’t do Moby Dick. Maybe it’s that the story of that white whale is so imbued in the threads of our cultural consciousness that everyone knows about Ishamael, Captain Ahab, and the fruits of obsession that I didn’t feel the need to actually discover the tale for myself. Maybe it’s that I’m terrified of whales. Or maybe, it’s just that it’s a long, boring story filled with the digressions characteristic to the time period. Whatever it was, I never did garner a deep appreciation for that particular classic.
Which is not to say that I don’t like Melville.
I may not have been too impressed by his magnum opus, but I loved his shorter works. Particularly Bartelby the Scrivener, the tale of a clerk who would “prefer not.”
Lately at iVillage, I’ve been feeling a lot like Bartleby. Changes are being made, and I sit on my stool, quill in hand, and think “I would prefer not.” Unlike Bartleby’s employer, who develops a sort of grudging respect and sympathy for Bartleby and his passive resistance to the expectations placed upon him, however, I don’t think iVillage would respond too kindly to my preference; their recent change in format seems to bear out this assumption.
Much though I like and admire Bartleby and his stubborn insistence on sitting quietly on his stool, I’ve realized that I don’t choose to mimic his approach to the odious proposition of doing the work I am contracted to do. Not completely, anyway. For one thing, as previously mentioned, I don’t think my employer would be quite as understanding as the unnamed Narrator in Melville’s story. More importantly, while I’m not particularly keen about writing under the current circumstances, assurances that it’s “a good thing” to the contrary, I do like writing.
All of which is a very roundabout way of saying,Welcome to Parenting Without A License, my very own little corner of the internet. I’ll still turn up at iVillage’s The Daily Mom my requisite three times per week, but from now on, I consider this space my true home, where I most certainly do “prefer to.”
I hope you’ll all prefer it too and visit often.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 25th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple
Today I bought Lunchables for my daughter.
Not for a special occasion, or a field trip, or because I was out of both groceries and time to fill her lunchbox with a nutritious, well balanced meal. No. I bought more than a week’s worth of these nutritional abominations, and I did it with, if not a song in my heart, very little remorse because they were cheap.
I usually avoid the lure of the Lunchable. It’s not too hard, even given all the whining and begging in the grocery store. For one thing, with their admission of trans fat and 13 grams of sugar, they are a nutritional nightmare. For another, they don’t really taste that good. I mean, seriously, what arcane process is involved in doing that to cheese? Add to that the fact that they’re expensive, and it’s easy to avoid putting those little boxes in my cart. I’m not going to say I’ve never bought them, because I have (I’m a big fan of sending a Lunchable on fieldtrips and saving myself the headache of wondering if the lunchbox will make it home), but I don’t make a habit of it.
So why then did I chuck six Lunchables into my cart, wishing all the while that I could get more? Because they were a dollar a piece. I cannot buy meat, cheese, and crackers to put in my daughter’s lunch for a dollar. But….these are Lunchables, and regardless of their claim of containing 3 of the 4 major food groups in addition to the transfats and the sugar and the mini chocolate bar, they are anathema to the concept of a healthy, well balanced lunch. But they’re also on sale for a buck a piece. And the grocery budget, she has been stretched a wee bit thin by the not working and the back to school shopping.
I know this is where a lot of people shake their heads and tsk and say, “yes, but even for a dollar…it’s a Lunchable. I would never stoop to sending Lunchables in my child’s backpack. Perfectly healthy lunches aren’t that expensive, if you just try.” And I agree, mostly. It’s not that expensive to eat healthy, if you try. But if you’re trying on a monthly budget of roughly $1500, it does up the difficulty level a bit.
So, when the Lunchables were included in the Dollar Days sale at No Frills, I was torn. On the one hand, they are evil incarnate. But cheap, edible evil. And while perhaps not the very best choice that could ever be made, they’re not poison. Taking plasticy cheese rounds and sticky ham circles to school probably isn’t going to kill Diva Girl. If anything, it would up her lunchroom cool and make me the best mom in the class. And, let’s not forget the price; the simple fact is, no matter how creative a shopper I am, no matter how much I try, I cannot fill a lunchbox for a dollar.
Nor can I pass up the possibility of doing so when there is rent to pay, other groceries to buy, utility bills, new clothes, and the various and sundry expenses involved in raising children to consider. So, I bought the Lunchables. Not the first time money has made a decision like this for me, nor, I’m sure, the last. This is what it’s like as a welfare mom–constantly weighing your convictions against your bank account, and often finding that your convictions come up short. Convictions, after all, won’t fill a lunchbox and leave money left over for fresh veggies, real juice, and maybe a pair of gym shoes. And neither does Welfare.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 14th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
One of Diva Girl’s few complaints about her new school is that no one there knows what Webkinz are.This time last year I too was blissfully ignorant of the time sucking, multiplying evil joy that is Webkinz. And now we own ten of them*.
Different schools have different cultures, and fads hit at different times. Diva doesn’t know what the “in” thing is at this school, but she does know that when she talks about Webkinz everyone’s eyes glaze over (and not for the same reasons mine do). Apparently interactive web based toys haven’t hit this particular playground, leaving Sabrina once again on the outside of cool.
Not for long, however, as fate has intervened in the form of a birthday party invitation. Since I don’t know this little girl at all, and have no idea what is cool at school, I’ve decided to do a bad, bad thing and kill two birds with one stone. Yes, I’m buying the birthday girl her very own Webkinz so that she too can whine for computer time be indoctrinated into the cult play online (hopefully with Diva Girl, who signed the card with her screen name).
Oh yeah, we’re going to be soooo popular here. I can feel it.
*OK, I feel the need to point out that I only bought two of those Webkinz. That’s it. One for each of them. Two. The others just sort of…arrived. I think they breed or something. And believe me, I’m deeply embarrassed by the plethora of pets here. I don’t believe a kid really needs more than one of these toys, but the Webkinz marketing machine is a mighty force.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 13th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl
As part of their Back To School icebreaker activities, Diva Girl’s class did a “Mystery Friend” writing activity. This was especially exciting to Sabrina because she’s new to this school, and she was eager to show me what her friend had written about her when we went to the School Open House yesterday.
“Can you tell which one is me, Mama?” She asked, bouncing with excitement as she pointed to the brightly coloured puzzle pieces adorning the bulletin board.
I have a mystery friend. She has straight brown hair. She doesn’t have a dad. She has a sister and a mother. She has a cat. She lives in an apartment. She has some freckles. She has a very nice smile and is always kind. She is very silly. She doesn’t wear glasses. Her talent is doing the monkey bars. She likes to read. Sometimes she’s good at math. She should work on making sure that people don’t boss her around. She likes to run in the classroom. Sometimes she needs reminders of the rules. Sometimes she rushes. We are good friends. Do you know who my mystery friend is?
Yes, I can tell which one is her.
Diva Girl does have a nice smile, and she is generally kind. She does have a tendency to allow the other girls to boss her around, and she does rush through things sometimes. And yes, she doesn’t have a dad. But I don’t think that’s her most recognizable feature.
In fact, I wonder why that’s on there at all. I don’t mind that it’s there, exactly. It’s just that I don’t think it’s relevant. How is that an important part of her personality? How does the fact that her father has never met her contribute to who she is as a person in a meaningful way? If I’m being honest, it’s a bit frustrating to me, that someone who hasn’t even been here for the past nine years of tantrums, laughter, and tears should be given status like this. But that’s making it about me, and not about her, which was the point of the exercise.
Anyone who has ever been tagged as “so and so’s mommy” at the playground knows that we are simply in some way, we are merely appendages to our children. We are the adjuncts, not important in and of ourselves in their world but only in how we relate to the personal infrastructure. So I suppose that while this deviation from the accepted family norm isn’t relevant to me, or even particularly to my daughter, it would be a point of interest to her new friends, right along with her cat, her freckles, and the fact that she doesn’t wear glasses, either.
The more I think about it, the more I actually smile at this piece of information tucked in amongst the laundry list of physical characteristics and personal traits that define Diva Girl. Because this absence in her life does inform who she is, but it doesn’t define her and the very fact that it’s up there for everyone to see tells me that I’ve done right by my girl. That while it’s a point of interest that she doesn’t have a dad, it’s also okay. It’s not a deep, dark secret or a source of shame, it just is.
That’s all I ever really wanted to accomplish when it became apparent that I’d be raising Sabrina on my own. To raise a strong, confident daughter who was secure in her place in the world. I wanted to raise a whole person, someone who was unencumbered by guilt and self-blame. I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to accomplish that, just that I knew I had to try. This little piece of purple construction paper makes me believe that I may have solved that puzzle without even realizing it because clearly it’s no mystery to Sabrina who her family is: She has a mother and a sister and a cat. And no dad. And that is just fine.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 8th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies
While I’m willing to talk about a lot of things related to being the solo mom of two, how I got here doesn’t tend to be one of them. Frankly, it’s really not anyone’s business (except possibly my daughters’, and I’m not altogether certain of that). That’s not to say that people don’t occasionally ask intrusive questions or make rude remarks about how my family came into being; it just means that I’ve never particularly felt the need to acknowledge them when they do.
Today, however, I’m going to violate my personal rule and talk about how I became a solo mom. Twice. Partly because it’s good blog fodder, especially for an inaugural post, but mostly because this comment left in response to Kate’s post on the topic over at Sanity and the Solo Mom: “Or funny how life throws us birth control too.” Because all solo mothers are just immoral sluts who can’t keep their legs shut and only breed for the Welfare money, don’t you know.
Kate dealt with this beautifully at her own blog, but the thing about motherhood is that we all have different stories of how we got to the place we’re in, and Kate’s story is not my story just like my story isn’t your story. I’m hoping that maybe in sharing our stories we can open some eyes, close some mouths, and continue forcing people to reconsider their perceptions of the average solo mom.
So, my story…
It’s actually kind of funny, in a cosmic, the Universe is clearly toying with me kind of way. I call my daughters Diva Girl and the Zen Baby, but I could just as easily have christened them “Ortho” and “Depo” since in a very real way, that’s who they are.
I was taking ortho tri-cyclen when I got pregnant with Diva Girl. I was also taking antibiotics. Not a good combination apparently. Especially not when you and the Rebound Guy have just mutually decided that you’re not willing to continue wasting your time with each other anymore.
Three weeks after the Rebound Guy and I bid an indifferent adieu, the stick turned blue. Fabulous timing. I’m sure the Universe was enjoying the joke, even if I wasn’t.
Given the relationship status of the non-relationship that had produced that thin blue line, I agonized over what, if anything, to tell the Guy. It wasn’t like we were going to have some tearful reunion and decide this was a Sign that we should be together or anything. Plus, he’d moved out of province. It would have been easy to just…not. To carry on with my life, whatever shape I decided it would take, and leave him to carry on with his. But then there was that whole pesky sense of morality that got in the way, and I told him.
Before I took the plunge into that conversation, I thought long and hard about this new family I was about to create, and about what shape it would possibly take. I was committed to being a single mom at that point, but not a solo one. I made it clear to Rebound Guy that if he wanted to be a Dad as well as a father, I would support that. Shared holidays, family birthday parties, neighbouring apartments support it.
He wasn’t interested. He didn’t want the baby. Felt it would detract from his relationship with the child he already had, that that daughter needed to be his priority. He didn’t even want to be notified when the baby was born.
And thus began my life as a solo mom. Just me and my baby, no daddies in sight or mind. And it was good. Sure, it had its hardships and stresses, but it also had giggles and kisses and a sense of contentment and accomplishment.
Fast forward four years and Diva Girl was yearning for a baby sister to call her own. In fact, her fantasy life was so rich that I had to have a meeting with her Kindergarten teacher to assure her that there was no way the stork was coming to our house any time soon.
I was sure you see, because I was on depo provera now. It was the perfect no fuss, no muss option for a solo mom on the go. Just pop by the doctor’s office every three months and Bob’s your uncle. Or your Daddy, because three months and twelve weeks are not the same thing. Who knew? Well, Diva Girl, apparently.
I’m pretty sure that the Universe peed its collective pants this time, watching me find myself in a nearly identical situation five years after I theoretically should have known better. Once again, a casual affair led to an uncomfortable conversation and it was deja vu all over again. Solo Mom times two.
One thing about having two children on your own without employing the turkey baster method is that people feel that they have the right to ask invasive questions or to make snide comments regarding your inability to grasp the fundamentals of birth control. They don’t really do that with the first one, you know. The first time around, everyone is very supportive. Nobody really asks what you were thinking with your first one, or questions your ability to read the instructions on the condom wrapper, or implies that you just can’t keep your legs shut. And nobody really congratulates you when you announce you’re having your second. They do with your first one, after the shock wears off; with the second, there are words and murmurs, but none of the excitement that normally accompanies this type of announcement.
Another thing that’s different–for me anyway–is that the rejection of your child stings less the second time around. I’m not quite sure why that is, other than the fact that after five years it seemed perfectly normal and reasonable that I would have that baby on my own. And if I’m being truly honest, I’ll admit that by this time, I preferred things that way for a variety of reasons and was a little relieved when The Pirate, as I affectionately call this man, chose not to be a part of the picture.
So, yes, it is funny how life throws birth control at us. But it’s downright hilarious when it turns out to be a curve ball that sneaks its way over the plate. That’s why, even though I consider myself to have a pretty healthy sense of humour, I’m not ready to commit to Mirena just yet. The Zen Baby has an imaginary baby sister, you see.
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