Posted by Kimberly on October 31st, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies
Unless you’re a particularly neurotic thoughtful parent, you don’t spend every moment absorbed by your child’s development into a human being you’d be proud to claim in the candy aisle of the grocery store. Sure, we all make decisions every day based on how we want to shape our children into thoughtful, thinking adults. We impart values along with our breakfast cereal choices, the clothes hanging in the closet, and the random crap stuff things we buy to fill up the toybox, and at some point we probably sat down and thought about what values we wanted to impart and how the things in our homes accomplished that. And then, of course, we actually had kids and got so busy keeping our heads above water we didn’t have time to endlessly navelgaze about what message the Barbie pool sends anymore.
Children are in many ways the ultimate forest/trees experience. Oftentimes we are so busy raising them, it’s hard to stop and really see who they’re turning into. We hope, of course, that we’re doing it right. We’re certainly trying our best. But sometimes it’s just really, really hard to tell if the lessons you’re trying to teach are really making their way in there. Sometimes though, the most unexpected of moments can give you that insight and let you know that in spite of the million moments a day that you screwed it up, overall, you’re doing ok.
I never expected Hallowe’en to be one of those moments.
The Ladies have been planning their costumes since July–some highly elaborate princess confection involving crowns, wands, stuffed unicorns, and a wagon doubling as a royal carriage. I don’t know. Frankly, beyond confirming that these plans involved only items already in the tickle trunk and therefore required no new expenditures from me, I didn’t pay much attention. I’m pretty shameless, so the prospect of herding a Disney and a Barbie princess through the neighbourhood didn’t particularly phase me. I mean, if I were the one doing the choosing I would have probably gone in a different direction, but I didn’t care enough to try to talk them out of it.
Nor did I agonize too much about what these choices say about their self esteem and body images. They are, afterall, just costumes, and I think that my daughters are more charmed by the fluffy, sparkly skirts than the anorexic, vapid image that the feminist media tells me are the stereotypes for these characters.
When Diva Girl came to me last night to ask for a change in the costume plan, I was initially annoyed. I know it’s a rite of passage to change your idea the night before, that all kids do it, but for crying out loud it was the night before. Then I heard their new idea and immediately threw myself into figuring out how to make it happen for them. My daughters, you see, have rejected Barbie and Belle in favour of……Hairspray.
That’s right. Instead of being perfectly thin, perfectly stereotypical girls, Diva Girl and the Zen Baby want to be the fat chick and her slightly odd friend. And inside I’m cheering. For myself.
In spite of the fact that I didn’t follow feminist party protocol and ban the Barbie, in spite of the fact that in flagrant violation of crunchy mama protocols we have a full library of Disney movies, my daughters still chose to reject conformity and embrace a different standard of cool. It’s one of those moments where I think maybe, just maybe, I might be doing something right.
Now, let’s just hope that I can overcome my hairspray impairment and do their hair right as well.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 30th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
There are few things that will make a mother’s heart start pounding as quickly as the realization that her child is not where she is supposed to be. Especially when where that child is supposed to be is in an environment where there should be no room for doubt, like oh, say, a school bus. Add to that scenario the fact that said child is currently the centre of some rather delicate court proceedings, and her mother only has de facto custody, and you’re taking the terror alert level up to puce.
As a compromise between Diva Girl’s desire to walk home on her own and my lack of comfort with that scenario, I’ve been holding off on meeting her bus lately. I still go to pick her up from her stop but I time it so that rather than standing there waiting for her when the bus pulls up, I run into her on the path. It gives her a greater sense of independence and I don’t have to wonder if she crossed the parking lot safely. It’s win-win, really.
Except that today, I didn’t run into her along the path. And she wasn’t taking advantage of the beautiful Fall weather, dwadling along or playing tag with her friends. She quite simply wasn’t there. The other kids were there, slowly trickling home, just not my daughter.
Standing there, straining to see her, hoping that she was playing a prank, hiding behind a fence the better to pop out and scare me, my heart started pounding and my palms started sweating. I knew, you see, that she wasn’t playing hide and seek, that she wasn’t there. Which begged the unthinkable question: Where. Was. My. Baby? One of her bus friends must have seen the look of panic and despair on my face because she came over and told me that Sabrina hadn’t been on the bus at all.
With that information my personal terror alert level was downgraded from rising hysteria to mild annoyance. It was certainly irritating that Sabrina had missed the bus, leaving me to scramble to make alternative arrangements for her, but it wasn’t a terrifying situation by any stretch of the imagination. I headed home, fully expecting to find a message on the machine detailing the comedy of errors that lead to this situation and already planning to call in the cavalry (my dad) to help fix it.
There was no message. Nor was there a missed call on my cell phone. Twenty minutes after dismissal, at least fifteen since someone should have realized that my daughter was not where she was supposed to be, and no one had called to tell me where she actually was. The easy confidence I’d felt walking home from the bus stop was rapidly being replaced by icy terror as I frantically began trying to contact the school.
It’s hard to dial in a blind panic, particularly when you are dialing an unfamiliar number you’ve thankfully never had occasion to use before. Finally, after five long minutes that included being hung up on by the information operator unable to find the number and a quick tour through the board website, I reached the school and, in what I felt was an admirably calm voice, inquired as to the whereabouts of my daughter.
They put me on hold.
Let me repeat that: Instead of immediately telling me where my child was and what had happened to cause her not to be where she was supposed to be, they put me on hold. To give themselves time to find out. Indicating that they didn’t know what had happened or where she was, either. Then, after two minutes that felt a lot closer to eternity, they came back on the line with a cheery, “Oh, she missed the bus. Can you come get her?”
Every parent knows that there is a thin line between fear and fury and that once the crisis has passed all that adrenaline pumping through the system has to be channeled somewhere. Mine latched on to the fact that for the past twenty minutes or so my child had, for all intents and purposes, been missing and the adults who should have informed me otherwise didn’t bother to do so. I wanted to know why. (And frankly, I wanted an apology).
“Sabrina doesn’t know her phone number.” Her classroom teacher informed me when she finally came to the phone.
blink. blink blink.
I didn’t even bother pointing out that multiple contacts for Diva Girl should be available with only a couple of clicks of the mouse. We’re new to the school and sometimes things happen with computers and information doesn’t show up where it’s supposed to. In fact, that very situation occurred at our old school back when she was in Kindergarten, resulting in her cooling her heels (or, you know, sobbing hysterically) in the office for half an hour one day because no one bothered to ask her if she knew her phone number. Which she did. And does.
“Did you ask her?” Clearly, they couldn’t have. I couldn’t think of any other way that they’d be under the impression that she didn’t. My tone must have indicated my gobsmacked disbelief because the teacher got a bit huffy at this point, informing me that of course she had asked her, but Diva Girl had just spouted off a random list of numbers that didn’t even start with a proper area code. In a tone that implied that Sabrina must not be nearly as bright as they’d thought and that I must clearly be a defective parent for not ensuring my 8 year old had her phone number memorized.
Now, this is where you need to know that a year ago (!) our city got a second area code–there was a whole ad campaign and everything about it at the time–and that my cell phone number, which Sabrina can rattle off from memory, is one of the ones assigned the new code. Based on what the teacher was telling me, it was clear that Diva Girl, assuming I’d be at the bus stop and not at home, had tried to reach me on my cell and had been prevented from doing so by the teacher.
To confirm my suspicions I rattled off the number, asking if this was the number Sabrina had provided. The teacher then made a vindicated sound and reiterated, “When I saw that she wasn’t even dialing a real number I told her to hang up and that she’d have to wait to phone home until I had the time to look up her number.”
I’m actually not sure which part of that pisses me off more, that the teacher arbitrarily (and incorrectly) decided that she knew everything and dismissed Sabrina’s knowledge out of hand, or that she apparently decided to punish her by not bothering to inform me of my child’s safety and whereabouts in a timely manner. I just know that I’m livid about the whole thing. And the fact that she didn’t offer up so much as an apology when informed that Sabrina had had the right of it all along, instead choosing to defend her actions based on her ignorance of the area code change and her belief that the child could not possibly have been correct isn’t really helping me to get over it.
Neither is the reason why Diva Girl missed the bus in the first place. Or should I say, reasons.
You see, in talking with the teacher, I was informed that a drama over a lost webkinz caused Diva Girl and four other little girls to miss their bus. Based on this description of events I was left with the distinct impression that the entire incident was all Sabrina’s fault. Needless to say, I was deeply embarrassed and apologetic that my daughter had been the cause of such a massive inconvenience and was even starting to wonder if perhaps I was being unreasonable about the delayed notification. But then Sabrina came home with a tale that varied from her teacher’s in some key information. Like the fact that the entire class had been “contained” after dismissal because the boys were swordfighting when they were supposed to be getting ready to go. And when they finally were allowed to leave, they were dismissed one by one with no consideration as to who was a bus person and who was a walker.
So, I suspect the truth of the matter lies somewhere between the two stories: That the misplaced webkinz did indeed cause Sabrina to miss the bus, but that it wouldn’t have been an issue if not for the fact that she hadn’t actually been dismissed on time. And you know what? Stuff happens. That’s not what I have a problem with here. What I have a problem with is that while my 8 year old daughter has acknowledged her responsibility in this fiasco (and agrees that webkinz are best left at home form now on), the teacher has, through a sin of omission, completely avoided hers.
In all honestly, as frustrated and angry as I am, I’m not quite sure what to do in this situation. My initial reaction is to write a note to the teacher indicating I feel we need to discuss the situation further, and possibly even involve the principal. If she were still at her old school, that is exactly what I would do. But she’s in my school board now, and that adds another level of complication to the dynamics.
Not only do I have to worry about Diva Girl being singled out if I get on the wrong side of her teacher, as a supply teacher I’m trapped between the conflicting roles of mother and colleague. My desire to advocate for my daughter at odds with my need to pay the rent and I have to weigh the possible ramifications to my job prospects if I choose to make waves over this. This is why she was in the other school board to begin with, and while I don’t miss the Heathers or the crazy babysitters chasing me through the playground or any number of other things, I do miss feeling that I have the freedom to be Sabrina’s mother in every situation.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 29th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Blah Blah Blog
Back when I first started writing for iVillage one of the major perks of the job was the fact that not only were they paying me, they were paying me in American Money!
American money is big thing to Canadians because our entire consumer lives are dictated by it. We’re big fans of cross border shopping, for example, because goods in Canada are priced to reflect the mark up that comes from purchasing from the manufacture in a lower dollar; essentially that means that oftentimes it’s cheaper to buy things in the States, even when you factor in the exchange rate.
And when you get paid in American money, it means that you’re essentially getting a $25-$30 bonus every month (well, the months that they bothered to send the cheques, anyway).
Or at least, that’s the way it used to be. Ever since this summer, however, there’s been a change in the dynamic. Our dollar has been climbing, which means that when you gp to buy American money for that cross border trip, you spend less of your own. That’s pretty cool. Unfortunately, it doesn’t really translate into lower prices on this side, making cross border shopping even more attractive than usual.
But that’s not the worst part. Not even my dwindling bonus is the worst part. After all, I did agree to work for $250 a month, so I can’t really complain that that’s what I got paid. Today, however, I’m complaining. Because today, that lovely American money is worth .95 on the Canadian dollar.
Not only do I have to submit to the joy that is The Daily Mom experience, not only do I have to put up with comments on my posts being sent to the Junk folder for no reason, now I’m taking a paycut for the privilege of appearing on the same page as Funny Mom as well????
Salt? Meet wound.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 28th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Blah Blah Blog
Once upon a time, Mommy Blogs Toronto asked me to write a single mom column for them. You can imagine how excited I was, since the MBT writers are wicked cool. Plus, any time I get to address the stereotypes that surround single motherhood and bring a different voice to the table, I am so there.
Or, well, I would be, if I had a name. Can’t have a column without a name. That would be weird.
I used to have a name. Parenting Without A License was a supposed to be an MBT blog. But then iVillage went to the Daily Mom format and you guys know the rest. So, here I am with an awesomely named (if perpetually under construction) blog with a wicked tagline, which is great. But I have nothing for MBT, which is not. Because even though I claim to be an outsider and whatever, I really, really want to be part of MBT (see above re: Wicked cool chicks).
So I decided to run a contest on iVillage to get a name. But my comments on iVillage are at best described as wonky–as in, most of them apparently don’t actually show up on site for whatever reason. That’s where this post comes in. If you’ve popped by from iVillage, this is where you give me your brilliant suggestion. If you haven’t popped in from iVillage (and I know some of you are boycotting, which is cool) this is where you don’t get left out.
Can’t wait to see what you guys come up with. Cuz frankly, I got nuthin’.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 28th, 2007 — Posted in The Agony and The Entropy, Kipple
What is it about laundry day that turns my house upside down and inside out? Shouldn’t the ritual gathering of the clothing strewn willy nilly throughout my apartment lead to a tidier environment?
So why is it that instead, the place now looks like the aftermath of a particularly devastating natural disaster? A tsunami of mess, if you will
The laundry tide has receded, leaving behind a debris field comprised of pennies, orphan Barbie shoes, stray Cheerios, scraps of paper, tiny beads, and abandoned ponytail holders in its wake. And wee red and green plastic houses. Monopoly, the game that keeps on giving.
Forget rolling boulders. There is no more sisyphean task than doing housework with small children.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 25th, 2007 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple
I know the whole idea that the full moon has a freaky mojo over people is supposed to be worthless superstition, but I have to admit that after more than eight years as a parent, I’m a believer. It’s the only explanation I can think of for the fact that The Zen Baby is having more of an Exorcist moment right now, and I find myself saying in my most soothing voice:
“I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, but it is not ok to put nailpolish in Mummy’s hair.”
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Posted by Kimberly on October 24th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, Facebook Guy
Trying to make plans with Facebook Guy can be maddening. Witness the following exchange as I try to ask him to lunch:
Kimberly: oh, hey! Are you free for lunch on Wednesay? (note how smooth I am with the “Oh hey!” Like it just popped into my head or something)
Facebook Guy: Sure am. (That’s it. Just a “yes.” Which, ok, it was a yes or no question. But seriously!)
K: Are you interested? (I probably should have just taken Yes as “let’s make plans,” but I was fishing for compliments, ok? Sue me.)
FBG: Who wouldn’t be interested in lunch? Its my favourite middle meal of the day (Clearly, Facebook Guy isn’t biting. He is baiting, though)
K: lunch with me? (Yes, I am a shameless hussy. But at this point I wanted to see exactly how far he’d take this.)
FBG: sure, if you’re free 
(yep, he took it that far. I thought about saying, “actually, I have plans that day,” But I think we’re dysfunctional enough as it is. Plus, I really wanted to go out for a Wally Burger–peanut butter and bacon on a burger. Yum)
And after all that, we went Dutch. Yes, I know I asked him out and then made him pay; it wasn’t intentional, it was just that I didn’t look at my bank account until after I issued the invitation. I never claimed to be good at this dating stuff, remember.
Still no definitive word on whether or not it was a date, but he was late getting back to work and he initiated the goodbye hug, so that’s progress, right?
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Posted by Kimberly on October 21st, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry, Blah Blah Blog
Red alert! Red Alert! Danger Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!
This is why I don’t drink.
Apparently, feeling all relaxed and good about the world, I really, really let my guard down. I was prepared to go into the past. To talk about things that we never really talked about before. To finally talk about why I had to give the ring back, and why I couldn’t just postpone the wedding instead of calling it off. But I wasn’t prepared to to give The Man I Didn’t Marry an all access pass to my life. Which I did.
I gave him the url for Parenting Without A License.
Yeah, I don’t know why I did that either. I mean, it’s not like I’m blogging anonymously anymore; I am googleable now.. And the url is listed in my Facebook profile. But The Man I Didn’t Marry is not the most computer savvy guy and while there was definitely a trail of breadcrumbs, I doubt he would have bothered to follow it. A big, blinking neon sign is a whole different story, however. Anybody would follow that.
And before you all start rushing to reassure me that it’s all ok, that I’m probably blowing this all out of proportion, that he won’t bother to go read my blog, he already has. I know that, because he told me. And he commented.
I’m trying to decide how I feel about this new development. Does it really change things? Lots of people I know read my blog–my parents, my family (Hi Aunt Debbie!), various RL friends….Heck, Diva Girl’s biological father reads (long story, and no, not one I’m going to tell you. Not even when the ink dries on the court orders). So, does this make all that much of a difference? I don’t know. I hope not.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 21st, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
I’m not drunk blogging tonight, but I’m not exactly sober, either. Even though I’ve had a few glasses of girlie vodka drinks tonight, I’m actually not much of a drinker. It’s really not an indulgence you can afford when you’re a single parent; all it takes is one episode of parenting through a hangover to convince you that there are much better ways to unwind. Sometimes, however, exceptions need to be made. Like when you sit down with your Ex for the first time in ten years and talk about how you got there.
So, yeah. After exchanging a few virtual drinks on Facebook, The Man I Didn’t Marry and I figured that maybe a few real ones were in order. So tonight, for the first time since the night I refused to take back his ring, he and I went out. Together.
You’d think that it’d be easier, figuring out all of the hidden currents and unspoken codes with someone you know, but really? Not so much. Somehow, in the face of this new challenge, all that handwringing over Facebook Guy seems kind of minor. Not that I won’t continue doing it, mind you. I’m just saying that figuring out what to wear to go out to drinks with the guy you left at the altar is a whole new level up from figuring out what to wear for an evening out with a guy you think maybe you might like to date, but aren’t sure you actually are.
How dressy is too dressy? Would jeans and a tee shirt be too casual? Would it send the wrong message to wear the great ass jeans? What is the message here, anyway? It’s kind of hard to dress the part if you can’t quite figure out what part it is you’re playing. Look too good, and he’ll think you think this evening is more than it is; don’t bother putting any effort in and he’ll think that it just wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe I should just stay home in my jammies. That would solve the whole problem nicely.
(For the record, I wore the jeans. And the boots with the 2 inch heel. Because I’m vain. But cute. It’s all about the priorities.)
He came bearing gifts–Not flowers, which are so not me–a beautifully bound copy of The Scarlett Letter he’d found today while inventorying an estate. I nearly laughed when I saw the title, but that would have been cruel, particularly when I was genuinely touched by the gesture. You see, he didn’t choose it as some jab at my parental status. In fact, I don’t think he even realized that that meaning could be inferred by his choice. He gave it to me because I made him sit through the terrible Demi Moore movie the year I studied American Lit, and finding it in one of the boxes reminded him of me.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but once we were in the car, we were at a loss as to what to do next. Like two newly legal kids out on the town for the first time, we had no real clue where to go to sit and have a few drinks. Unlike those hypothetical kids, we weren’t looking for a hot spot or a great party, just a quiet booth where we could sit and share a few old memories. And alcohol. Because this trip down memory lane was going to require some liquid courage on both of our parts.
We found a place–an old haunt from the days when I was defined by “and” not “mommy,” and beleve me, I could feel the irony swirling and the universe chuckling as we walked in–and finally sat down to Talk About It. We came up for air over 4 hours later, a little older, a little wiser, and a little more at peace with ourselves and our lives I think.
It wasn’t easy. At times it was downright awkward, balancing that odd combination of distance and closeness that marks our relationship now. There’s a formality between us, born not of hurt feelings, but the desire not to hurt. The care and respect we have for each other is its own barrier as we try to explain and understand what happened, and to keep from hurting each other more than we already have in doing so. And it was very weird in some ways, talking about these lives that are so similar–each of use with two children, both sets of similar ages–and so close to what WE had planned together. And yet, so remote from each other, and not at all the same.
I know, I know, you want me to stop rambling. Get to the good stuff. Dish the dirt. So, was there still chemistry? Yeah, I think so. I may not be able to make heads or tails out of Facebook Guy, but this man? I know this man. He’s certainly changed and grown in the past decade, but at his core? He’s still the same man. And being held in his arms? I still fit there, and it still feels like a safe place to be.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 19th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
This whole Man I Didn’t Marry thing is really throwing me for a loop. I don’t know why, exactly. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, it’s really not that big of a deal. So my ex is on Facebook. Lots of people’s exes are on Facebook. I’m hardly unique or special in this. Plus, it’s not like I’ve thought about him much in years.
I certainly don’t regret not marrying him. I mean, I have regrets, but I always felt it was the right decision, for both of us. Much though I loved him, much though I wanted to , I just wasn’t ready. I wanted to be ready; it would have made things so much easier if I had been. But in the end, I just couldn’t put either of us through that. I could live with not marrying him in the first place, but I couldn’t bear the idea that I would be his ex-wife someday. I never wanted to hurt him like that.
I never wanted him hurt like that at all, and not just because it gave me a certain amount of comfort to think of him happily married and living the life he always wanted. I don’t have that anymore. And all the regret, all the sorrow and confusion I’ve held at bay for the last decade–that I really didn’t even know I had– is rushing in and threatening to pull me under.
And now, I find I can’t stop thinking about him. Memories that I never even knew I had are rolling about in my brain, and in the sneaky way of nostalgia, it’s only the good ones I keep pulling up: The sound of his laugh, his easy, laidback attitude, the way it felt to be held in his arms…
On the advice of our mutual friend, I did end up sending him a message on Facebook. I thought about what to say for a few days before I eventually worked up the courage to hit send, and finally settled on, “um…hi?” I figured that was enough of an opening to let him know I was interested in talking if he wanted to without being pushy or leaving me open to feeling like a giant tool if he ignored me. Which, to be fair, he would have had every right to do.
He didn’t ignore me, and we’ve talked a bit. It’s strange to be so formal and awkward with someone with whom you used to be so close. But really, when you think about it, for all our shared history, for however much we once meant to each other, we’re essentially strangers now. I used to be ok with that. Never even thought of it, in fact. But now, I’m not. I miss The Man I Never Married.
I don’t miss him because he was The One. I’m not sure that he was. I mean, if he were, he wouldn’t be The Man I Didn’t Marry, would he? I miss him because in addition to being my lover, he was once my friend. And I think, maybe, that part of me has missed him all along.
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