Posted by Kimberly on November 30th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, Facebook Guy, The Man I Didn't Marry, NaBloPoMo
I have not one, not two, but three invitations for tonight. Both Facebook Guy and The Man I Didn’t Marry have asked what I’m up to, indicating that they’d be willing to fill any holes in my social calendar. Plus, an old “friend” from school will be in town and wants to take me out to dinner. At a restaurant that doesn’t provide crayons for the patrons. Tempting…
I’ve never been in a situation like this before, so many desirable men all desiring to spend time with me. It’s a pretty heady ego boost, let me tell you. But what’s a girl to do when there are so many choices, but she doesn’t want to choose?
Luckily, I won’t have to make any hard decisions this time; I’ve already got plans. Plans that don’t involve great ass jeans, hair drama, or fancy underwear. Tonight I have a date with The Ladies.
There was a time not too long ago when the idea of another Friday night spent with pizza, pajamas, and picture books seemed like just one more tick on the wall marking time in a life sentence of boredom. But that was before I had options. Somehow, when it’s a choice to stay home, rather than an inevitability, the idea becomes much more appealing. All of my other offers for tonight were tempting in their own ways, but none of them held quite the same allure of curling up on the couch to watch Christmas specials with a daughter on each side of me and bowl of popcorn in the middle.
This is the hidden perk of dating, and one that I just recently realized. I’ve long been a proponent of “me” time. I truly believe that if we don’t get some time away from our kids sometimes that we’re actually doing them a disservice, burning ourselves out in the name of some sort of ridiculously unattainable holy grail of maternal martyrdom. So, last week’s date with myself wasn’t really that far outside the norm.
Much though I enjoyed the opportunity to reconnect with me, though, it’s a fundamentally different experience than connecting with another adult. I’m honestly surprised by how much I’m enjoying that connection (oh, get your minds out of the gutters people! And keep the gutters out of the comments, mkay? My Mom reads here.) I don’t have to put any effort into dating myself. In fact, I’m a pretty bad date for myself–no makeup, comfy jeans, often times more focussed on taking the opportunity to finally scrub the kitchen floor or tackle the toilet without “help” than in participating in a scintillating, mentally stimulating evening. But with another person, that excitement is there. That sense of possibility that leads me to try out new lipstick colours and take the out the hairband. To move beyond myself into new areas interest and fresh topics of conversation. Dating someone else forces you outside of yourself; it’s exhilarating and exciting and the best part is, that feeling spills over into real life, making that time that you do spend engaged in every day drudgery just a little bit more exciting.
My routine Friday night isn’t quite so routine anymore. I now know that just because I’m spending tonight in momsville doesn’t mean that I’m destined to spend all of my nights there and that makes it so much easier to embrace this life, to curl up on the couch with the remote and the bickering over the popcorn and just let everything else go for a night. There’s always next weekend, after all.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 29th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
Diva Girl has been letting me for at least a week that she’s singing with the choir today at the school mass. At first it was subtle things, like a note in the agenda. Then it progressed to a red circle on the calendar. And then, finally, the multiple times a day reminders that Thursday is the big day, and parents are welcome to attend. I get the feeling she wanted me to be there.
Me? I could think of lots of other things I’d rather do on a windchilly (totally a word in Canada. If you lived here, you’d understand) morning than hike a sick Zen Baby on two buses up to the school to sit on a tippy folding chair in the gym listening to a off key choir provide accompaniment to a mass presented by a bunch of barely reading first graders. I mean, I usually get paid to sit through that;the idea of putting out all that effort to do it for free wasn’t exactly filling my heart with song. But, it was important to Diva Girl–she’s never been in the choir before; that’s a privilege reserved for the big kids in grade 4 and up–and really, this is supposed to be one of the reasons why I supply teach, so I can take the time to do things like this and be present in The Ladies’ lives in a way that you can’t when you’re working a fulltime job. So, we bundled up, took the buses, and sat in the gym with the other Mommies, discreetly waving at Diva Girl as we followed along with the overheads.
In spite of my apparent bad attitude, it was good. Better than good even. Watching Regan’s awe and wonder as she explored the “big kids school” and pondered the idea that someday soon she too would walk these halls took me back to my own preschool days, when I I used to accompany my mother on visits to my brothers’ classes. And seeing Bree’s face light up when she walked into the gym and saw us there was worth every second we spent standing at the bus stops. Visiting school before I was old enough to attend, and then having a mom who was present and involved in my classrooms are some of my most treasured memories of my early years, and really speak to me about what it was like to grow up with a stay at home mom and the security that came from knowing that she was always there.
I’m incredibly lucky that I’ve managed to find a balance that allows me to pursue a career and motherhood in equal measure, and I’m glad that I had the opportunity to be reminded of that today. It helps to put into perspective the restlessness and longing I’ve been feeling since my job interview yesterday.
Yes, you read that right. Yesterday I had an interview for a year long contract teaching English at the local high school. And even though I haven’t been looking to change my career path, even though I’ve been really happy with the balance I’ve achieved between home and work, I want this job. I really, really want it. Ever since leaving the interview yesterday a small voice in the back of my head has been chanting “ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease!” I want the universe to acknowledge that it’s my turn, that I’ve been a good sport, made lemonade and lemon meringue pie out of the lemons I’ve been given, and reward me for that. I was surprised,actually, by how much I want this job. Not just for the money, which would be great, or the opportunity, which would be very good for me, but for the experience of once again being back in my own class, teaching my own students. I’m a great sub, I’m good at it and I enjoy it. But being a sub is not always synonymous with being a teacher. Sometimes it is–and those times are amazing–but a lot of the time, it’s crowd control. And me? I’m a teacher.
I’m also a mother, however. And today gave me a chance to remember that, and to realize that even if I don’t get this job (ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease!) that it’s not the end of the world. I will still have this life, this life that is already balanced, and full, and as near to everything I could want as I can imagine.
But I still really want to get that job.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 28th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
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Posted by Kimberly on November 27th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
As you might have gathered from the ratatouille incident, Diva Girl is not exactly a voracious or adventurous eater. In fact, “picky” does not even begin to describe Diva Girl’s eating habits. “Maddening” would be a better description. Or maybe “infuriating.” Dinner time with Diva Girl can be nothing short of torture with the battle lines clearly drawn between, “I’m not eating that” and “you MUST eat!”
Or they used to be, anyway. Now, while they’re by no means a relaxed affair and there can still be enough whining to drive Mother Teresa to drink, they’re generally tolerable.
What changed, you ask? Did Diva Girl suddenly develop a palate that moved beyond peanut butter, white rice, and cauliflower to embrace some of the more challenging flavours, like sauce on pasta and meat and vegetables that actually touch? Uh, no. I just stopped caring about it so much.
Contrary to my daughter’s firmly held belief every time she beholds a dinner plate filled with something other than pasts, this does not mean that I completely disregard her food preferences and cook things willy nilly with nary a thought to how she’ll like it. It just means that I am no longer willing to be held hostage to her firmly held beliefs about what foods are icky and which ones are edible. Now, I have simple system in place at dinner time, and it goes a little something like this:
1. I cook dinner (sometimes with assistance, sometimes not. It all depends on my patience level on any given day.)
2. I serve dinner.
3. I eat dinner, and occasionally assist the Zen Baby in the consumption of hers.
3 a. I turn a deaf ear to any and all complaints, entreaties, and accusations hurled across the dinner table.
That’s it, it’s that simple. I realized that, in putting nutritious, edible food on the table I had met my part of this particular parenting contract. I’ve done my part. Sabrina is free to eat the food in front of her or not–I won’t hector or berate the child into eating–but, once the food has been cooked and served I consider my role in this particular drama to be over. Meaning, once dinner is served I refuse to set foot back in the kitchen for any reason other than washing the dishes.
And if that means that Diva Girl doesn’t eat her dinner? That she goes to be hungry? Well, those are the consequences of her choices, and in all reality, they won’t kill her. But I might have, had I had to deal with many more dinner time meltdowns.
It’s not a perfect system. Sabrina certainly doesn’t think so. But it’s better than the alternative of turning every single meal into a battlefield.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 26th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, NaBloPoMo, iVillage
I finally posted my notice over at iVillage. With a little more than two weeks to go until I’m no longer an unwilling participant at The Daily Mom, I figured Thanksgiving was a perfectly symbolic time to inform whatever readers are left over there that I was abandoning ship leaving (and take the opportunity to direct them over here, of course).
I worked really hard on that post, searching for just the right tone that would make my disgust with the whole situation clear without being insulting or petty. I wasn’t willing to pretend that everything was copacetic, that I hadn’t been screwed over by iVillage, that I wasn’t angry about the way things went down and the way they’ve been since (oh, the stories I could tell!), but I was trying to keep the flamethrowers off of the bridge. I thought I’d done a pretty good job of it too, right down to editing out the part about my disgust with nasty judgmental rude “Funny” Mom being the main reason I was unwilling to play ball when the Daily Mom change went through. I wouldn’t have been happy regardless, but I probably would have gone along with it until the end of my contract without the added pressure of being forced into the same mold as Odious Mom. But I didn’t say any of that over there; instead, I kept it all about me and my dislike of being a team player. I was very diplomatic (well, for me I was!).
So why do I feel bad about that post today? Because Laurie, the other blogger, commented on my farewell. I have no issues with Laurie. I’ve read Embedded in the Burbs (which is a brilliant title, btw) and enjoyed it; it certainly never provoked the eyerolling and cringing the other blog did before I finally decided to be kind to myself and stop reading it. Laurie was very gracious in her comment, and even let drop that she wasn’t happy with the new format either. So why do I now feel like I’ve tarred her with the same brush and hurt her feelings by making it clear that I don’t want to be a part of the group? Probably because, even though I try, I’m still enough of a girl to worry that I was mean, that it wasn’t ok for me to express my displeasure at the situation at the risk of offending someone else.
So, Laurie, if you’re reading, it’s not you, it’s them her me.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 25th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
Once Diva Girl and the Zen Baby were successfully packed off on their sleepover, my Saturday stretched before me, a veritable embarrassment of riches. What to do with all those hours? Be virtuous and clean the house? Be indulgent and do a little shopping somewhere other than the grocery store for once? Be luxurious and take a nap? Or, be utterly decadent and take myself to the movies? The possibilities were endless.
Eventually I decided on a combination of activities to fill my empty hours–a little shopping, a little surfing, and enough scrubbing to leave me feeling like I deserved a treat, in this case a movie far,far removed from my normal “G” rated fare. What I really wanted to see was Beowulf, but that (obviously) wasn’t playing at the $3 Theatre next door, so I settled for The Kingdom. I wasn’t dying to see it, but I wasn’t averse either, especially when my other option was Superbad.
Remember last time I went to the movies? With the talking and the talking and the oh my god the talking? I’m trying to decide if last night’s adventure in rudeness tops that or not. This time incessant chatter wasn’t the issue; our ill mannered couple were quiet enough, while still showing absolutely no sense of rudimentary theatre etiquette. The theatre was essentially empty; apparently the 9:30 showing of The Kingdom wasn’t too popular since I counted three other people there when I chose my seat in the middle of the very last row and settled in to enjoy my small popcorn and complimentary movie mag. So I don’t understand why the couple who came in next decided to sit right in front of me.
Seriously. When they first stopped at my row and the woman made to head on down, I was a bit puzzled. Surely she couldn’t intend on sitting there, so close to me when the entire theatre was hers for the choosing? Her companion didn’t seem to think so, heading up another row before she called him back. Even as they made their way along the row, I comforted myself with the fact that there was no way that, in a deserted theatre, she would choose to sit directly in front of me. And she didn’t. She saved that spot for her very tall companion.
Who does that?
I could have sat there and looked around his giant head. I could have moved over one seat and stared daggers at her all night, sticking little mental pins in the voodoo doll in my mind. I could have let it ruin my hard earned movie night. And if I’d been on a date with anyone but myself , I might have suffered in silence. The beauty of dating yourself, however, is that you’re not trying to impress anyone. You already know just how intolerant, judgemental, and crabby you are, so there’s nothing to stop you from acting on your impulses.
So I moved seats. To the one directly in front of her. And I enjoyed every second of my movie.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 24th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, NaBloPoMo
Diva Girl doesn’t do well with the concept of “ish.” She’s an all or nothing kind of kid–there are no shades of grey in her world. Specificity and routine are the keys to a happy Diva Girl, something that I know all too well and should have remembered today. I don’t know what I was thinking when I told her her friend’s mom would pick her up at noon for her sleepover today–especially considering that said mom is working on “newborn” time at the moment–but I suspect it had more to do with how I would fill all those glorious childfree hours than with the hours I would have to spend with said child leading up to the big event.
Needless to say, twelve o’clock came and the little timer in Sabrina’s head went “ding.” There was no reasoning with her using vagaries like “about” or “ish.” It was noon, and that meant that it was time for them to be here, period.
And thus began over two hours of utter hell. Not even Dante could have devised the pure torture that is Diva Girl, forced to wait for an unspecified amount of time. Imagine an unending game of “Are we there yet?” without the fun of an actual trip or any idea of exactly how long it’s going to be. This? Made that look fun.
My lack of patience with her impatience didn’t exactly help matters, either. I could have handled it so much better, been the supermom and done a craft or played a game or read a book to help pass the time. But I didn’t. I’d have been far better equipped to handle the grey period if I didn’t need this break as much as she did, but the truth is, I’ve been feeling pretty burnt out lately. I find myself being snappish when I don’t mean to be, and less fun than I want to be. It’s been a while since I had a chance to recharge my mom batteries, so instead of just rolling with it I was crabby, feeling the knots all down my spine pull a little tighter each time she asked when they would be here or if they were here yet. I wanted to miss her, I was looking forward to missing her, but the fact that she continued to just be there, chattering in my ear, whining and speculating about the delay, well, I wasn’t missing her.
Sitting here, seven hours after she finally got picked up, at least sixteen hours before I expect her home, I miss her. Funny how that goes, eh?
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Posted by Kimberly on November 23rd, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, NaBloPoMo
I am not a foodie. In fact, I’m not a big fan of food. I hate preparing it, and I’m not even much for eating the stuff. Not that I’ve got some sort of eating disorder; I just don’t get a lot enjoyment out of food. If someone would just get around to inventing those meal replacement pills that the 1960s sci fi writers promised we would all be popping by now, I’d be in heaven. (Willy Wonka’s magical gum is not an acceptable substitute, and not because I don’t want to end up as another Violet Beauregarde. All that chewing seems to defeat the purpose, if you ask me.)
As a mom, I feel guilty about my anti-food bias. I know that I should be modeling good nutritional habits, that I should cook homemade meals more often, that mac & cheese is not a food group, but sometimes it’s just all so much effort when really, all they want are lunchables anyway. It doesn’t help that I am a crappy cook. I don’t mean just that I’m uninspired in the kitchen–although that’s true and I’ve got the seemingly steady diet of chicken and pasta to prove it–I’m also just a bad cook. Even when diligently following the recipe, there are no guarantees that things are going to work out the way they’re supposed to when I’m the one helming the stove. Add to that the fact while I’m theoretically cooking for 3, realistically I’m the only one who will be really eating what’s prepared and it’s even hard to talk myself out of just popping something from the Lean Cuisine food group in the microwave for me while their fourth pasta dinner of the week boils on the stove.
I do try though. Much though I hate cooking it, and lord knows they (or, to be fair, Diva Girl) hates eating it, I do at least attempt some sort of homecooked meal a few times a week. Given my level of culinary skill and interest and Sabrina’s incredible pickiness, this usually translates into “chicken, bland vegetable, and starch, all served independent of each other.” Sometimes, however, I try to break outside of the KD box.
Like tonight, for example. Tonight, we made ratatouille. The Ladies have been enjoying the movie, and they’ve been wondering what the heck ratatouille is anyway. So, I seized the teachable moment to expand their palates and hopefully make up whatever vegetable deficit they’re running right now.
I had a whole plan. First, I tracked down a recipe that both claimed to be incredibly simple and seemed to follow through on that claim. This one, which appeared to pretty much consist of “chop up veggies and throw them in the oven,” looked perfect. So, I announced to The Ladies that tonight, we cook!
They were thrilled. From the trip to the grocery store for eggplant, zucchini and incredibly exotic items like olive oil and balsamic vinegar through the prep stage that involved chopping (me) and tossing (them) vegetables with wanton abandon, The Ladies were wildly enthusiastic about our project. So much so that, as I supervised the measuring of the spices and the whisking of the marinade, I wondered why we didn’t do this–cook as a family–more often. There was something satisfying about knowing that we’d created this meal together, something incredibly familial about the bustle and activity in our normally barren kitchen. It was even, dare I say it, fun. Plus, I was counting on the fact that they were invested in this meal to overcome their natural reluctance towards eating anything that hadn’t been given the Chef’s seal of approval.
It seemed to be working. They fluttered around the kitchen, commenting favourably for once on the smells emanating from there and demanding to know when it would be ready to devour. When my dad came over to do some winterizing work on the apartment, Regan proudly announced, “We made radatootie!” before scampering off to peer through the stove window at their masterpiece. I was gratified and optimistic, already planning all sorts of future culinary experiments.
And then I opened the oven door.
“Ew! I’m not eating that!” Diva Girl insisted, pointing at the roasting pan filled with colourful, succulent vegetables. No amount of reasoning, wheedling, cajoling, or threatening could budge her from her stance. And of course, Zen Baby, usually so adventurous in her food choices, followed her big sister’s lead.
You know what the worst part of serving them jungle pancakes for dinner was? That ratatouille was actually good. The one time I actually create something in the kitchen that goes beyond the merely edible, and I’m the only who knows. Oh well, more for me, I guess.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 22nd, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
Gratitude fever is sweeping the internet today. Almost everywhere you turn in the blogosphere, there’s a post about how thankful people are. It’s American Thanksgiving and it’s an event like no other. Even though the Thanksgiving holiday exists in other countries–in Canada we eat ourselves into a coma on the second Monday in October–I think Thanksgiving may be the uniquely defining American experience. The pomp, the mythology, the balloons!!!
Whereas where I’m from Thanksgiving is pretty much a long weekend with pie, in the States it’s a celebration of national identity. There are the nation building plays celebrating the historic meeting of the Pilgrims and the Indians, the recycling of the building blocks of cultural identity, the reaffirmation that no matter how far away from the original vision you’ve strayed, you are still as American as the apple pie you’ll be serving for dessert.
Canadian Thanksgiving is quite probably my least favourite holiday, but I love watching the American version. The gluttony of green bean casseroles topped with marshmallows (wtf?), the orgy of shopping (which reminds me, tomorrow is Buy Nothing Day you know), the parade with the giant balloons, and most of all, the way every family seems, if only for a couple of hours, to believe that they could possibly be the Waltons…all of it charms me in a way that “Monday off with pie” does not.
So, Happy Thanksgiving, America. I’m thankful that even in the midst of all the swirling controversy and animosity in the world today, you can still inflate those balloons, toss around those pigskins, and celebrate your mythical origins with pride (and pie).
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Posted by Kimberly on November 21st, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, NaBloPoMo
Truly, what is there to say? Other than the fact that that picture makes me all squishy inside.
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