Snow Day!
You know, I’m not averse to the concept of a snow day;it can be an exciting experience–all of the joy of a day playing hooky with none of the nasty consequences of getting caught.
However….A snow day on the heels of a sleepunder that was preceded by a day of Birthday Hooky seems to be a bit much for a Mom to get excited about, if you ask me.
In the insult to injury category, if Diva Girl still walked to school, she’d be in her desk right now in her new, inappropriately sloganed shirt, eagerly absorbing knowledge rather than parked in front of the Olsen Twin’s Christmas classic “To Grandmother’s House We Go” in her swimsuit, decorating the Christmas tree box. This is all the school bus’ fault. Magic, my ass.
Party People In the House!
We don’t traditionally celebrate Diva Girl’s birthday at this time of year–I mean, we do the family thing and the traditional pilgrimage to be ripped off by see Santa, but we don’t generally do the big birthday party extravaganza right now. After a couple of disasterous attempts I decided that between the snow and the holiday stress, Christmas birthday parties just aren’t a good idea and talked Diva Girl into the Unbirthday concept in which we hold off on her party until June. It’s a system that’s worked out pretty well the past couple of birthdays, but this year Diva Girl wanted to go back to having her birthday ON her birthday.
Specifically, she wanted a birthday sleepover. Now, I have to confess, one of the things I like most about the Unbirthday parties she’s had in the past is that they haven’t involved having a horde of little girls in my house for a seemingly unlimited length of time. The idea of forgoing the expense of a Popcorn Party or a trip to the water park in favour of inviting a group of girls to trash my livingroom didn’t really hold a lot of appeal for me, but it was important to her and i really do want to promote her friendships at this school (even if it means that I have to put up with a group of 9 year old girls dancing around to the High School Musical soundtrack at top volume in my livingroom as I’m trying to write a blog post), so I thought about what I could live with and then told her she could invite no more than three friends to sleepover this weekend. I figured three was a good, safe number because it would create an even, balanced group of girls and cut down on the possibility of the nasty sidetaking, exclusionary behaviour kids can degenerate into when you put them in a group of three. Plus, the idea of more than a group of four made my eye start to twitch.
Aside from a slight bobble during the as yet unblogged drama, Diva Girl has been eagerly anticipating her social debut. The Webkinz, Build A Bears, and Little Pet Shops have been lovingly arranged all week (super fun with a little sister just itching to play with the toys), the DVDs have been stacked at the ready, and the goody bags have been packed all week (Rubik’s Cube, Bead kit, Skittles Lipsmaker and homemade CD featuring the musical stylings of Hannah Montana). And I’ve been quietly dreading it. I didn’t like groups of nine year old girls when I was one, and nothing I’ve seen in the years since has convinced me that my original perceptions were too far off the mark. Plus, it’s a really long time since I’ve been a nine year old girl and I was stressed about what exactly I was going to do with them for roughly twenty-four hours. Add on to that the fact that, what with the school change I don’t actually know the girls she’d invited other than by name, and it was shaping up to be more of a stress over than a sleep over.
In the end, it was a sleepunder–of the two girls who accepted the invitation, one wasn’t allowed to sleepover, and the other one burst into tears wanting her mommy around 11 o’clock*. Which, if it had to happen, was probably the best time for it–far better than the 2 am phone call I could have been making. Plus, it saved me the hassle of the sleep deprivation and the ever escalating “go. to. sleep.!” threats. So, is it terrible that even though Diva Girl was devastated, I was actually relieved that we wouldn’t be running that particular part of the gauntlet?
It was also more successful than I could have hoped for. No, they didn’t want to play the Twister game I’d set up for them, and they never got around to the HSM marathon we’d planned, but they devoured the snacks, played nicely with the Zen Baby and included her in their games, amused themselves and over all required very little supervision or cruise directing over the eight hours or so they were here. In fact, aside from the fact that there were presents, it felt more like a really long (in a good way, not in the “I would gnaw off my own limb to escape this hell” kind of way) playdate than a party.
The best part was that I got to see Diva Girl in action with actual friends, and I found that I liked what I saw. They enjoyed each other’s company. They played. They compromised. There was no drama, no whining, no competition. Just three little girls running through the apartment enjoying each other’s company. Watching them over the course of the day–staying out of their way when I could and stepping in on the few occasions when they needed a adult to control the activity–was a treat rather than a torture for me. I liked them, I really liked them, and it makes me happy to think that maybe, just maybe, after all this time Diva Girl might finally have a wee group of genuine friends of her very own.
I’m even going to overlook that they both gave her Bratz dolls. After all, nobody’s perfect, but these are perfectly nice friends for my daughter even if their moms and I do have some fundamental differences in our idea of what makes an appropriate toy for our daughters.
*Hooray for creative parents! When A decided that she just couldn’t do the sleepover thing, it looked like it was all over. Sabrina was in tears because her party was ruined! There would be no fun to be had on Sunday! A was in tears because even though she hated disappointing Sabrina and she wanted to have fun on Sunday, she wanted her mommy even more. It could have ended very, very badly. Until A’s parents and I hit on the idea of the sleepover split. Dad came to pick A up at 11:30 so that she could sleep in her own bed, and then Mom drove her back over at 9 so that the girls could resume their fun. All they really missed was me yelling at them to shut up and go to sleep, and nobody really wanted that anyway, so it was a total win-win!
To top it off, A’s mom not only braved a blizzard and an unplowed parking lot this morning to make this happen, she also brought me Timmies. It’s official, Diva Girl is not allowed to have any other friends; I’m in love with these ones
Ho Ho Ho! Merry Birthday
This is our tenth visit to Santa, nine of which have occurred on December 14th–the first one was December 16, 1998 and it was basically a very nervous looking Santa holding a tiny pink bundle (I’d post a picture, but see above re: WordPress suckiness). The first visit Diva Girl ever made, back when she was a Diva Newborn (and she was! The child was born pouting! true story!), was to see Santa. It didn’t mean much to her back then, but it set the stage for a tradition that has continued up to today. We don’t see Santa when he arrives after the parade. We don’t see him when we’re in the mall and he’s there doing is thing. We see Santa on Sabrina’s birthday.
It’s always made the day just a little bit more special, combining it with this seminal childhood memory. It’s a tradition we look forward to all season, from the moment Santa arrives back on the radar we talk going to see him on Sabrina’s birthday; it’s a way to acknowledge the fact that her big day is so close to The Big Day and to make the experience special for everyone.
A little bit too special, maybe. Today, before we left, the Zen Baby asked me if we could ask Santa to come back for her birthday. In March.
( yeah, I did spring for the Rudolph and Clarice Build A Bears. And no I don’t feel embarrassed. It’s like owning a piece of the movie! I totally would have made the Bumble for myself if it had been there.)
(I won’t password the whole blog, just one post. And I’ll pretty much be giving out the password to everyone I recognize or who shows me they’re a long time reader, or who leaves me a valid email and preferably a blog link. The person I would be passwording for no doubt knows who he is–hi!–and could quite possibly make his way around it, but if I’m going to post–and I think I am–it’s just one that, given current circumstances, I don’t feel comfortable having completely out there. And I won’t be getting to it before Sunday–Somehow I lost my mind and told Diva Girl she could have a sleepover birthday party tomorrow. Oy!)
Things You Don’t Realize You’ll Be Saying As A Parent (Holiday Edition)
“Cheese is not a decoration.”
“Do NOT pee on your sister.”
The Inevitable Cupcake Post
There’s a post coming. A big one. I just have to decide f I’m going to make use of Wordpress’ nifty password protect feature or not before I publish it. And I can’t really think about that until I get the damn cupcakes ready for tomorrow.
Yep, it’s that time of year again when I dust off my mixing bowl (literally) and track down the muffin tins–the drawer thingy under the stove seems such an organic place, I can’t believe I didn’t think of looking there before I tore my entire kitchen apart–and preheat my oven.
Between tonight’s school Christmas concert, the sisyphean task of readying the house for Diva Girl’s birthday sleepover party, and the aforementioned but as yet unposted drama, I was less inclined than usual to do the ritual baking (and I think we all know that I’m never inclined to bake). But bake we did; as I write this 48 mini chocolate cupcakes all iced and decorated with not one but two Smarties a piece are sitting amid the debris on my kitchen counter just waiting for me to figure out exactly how they’re going to travel on the school bus without becoming one giant smooshy mess.
Much though I dread this annual event and grumble about it, it’s comforting I suppose, to have the rituals. Even the ritual complaining. Sometimes, when this motherhood thing leaves you feeling like you’re rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, or maybe already in the soup, the rituals are all we have to cling to. Those moments of stability inside the swirling chaos.
I know that while I don’t remember every brutal moment of my own growing up, I do remember that I had cupcakes to take to school for every birthday. I’m hoping that when all is said and done, Diva Girl has that same experience. That along with the battles both big and small that we waged on the way to her adulthood, that in spite of the myriad ways I let her down over the years, that no matter how hard it got, that one of the things that stands out for her is that there were always cupcakes, even when I didn’t feel like baking them.
Gimme More
Between a glitch in my daycare arrangements and the plague, today was my first day back in a classroom since my interview. Even though it’s not at the school I interviewed at, it was harder than I thought it would be, sitting in the staffroom listening to the banter of colleagues and not being a part of that camaraderie. Oh, they’re always nice enough, including the subs in their conversations, but we all know that we’re the outsiders here–not really one of the team. It never used to bother me–after all, not being part of the team was one of the perks, not a drawback–but today I felt very much like the Little Match Girl, pressing my nose against the glass as I stare at all the delights denied to me.
I spent the day imagining that the classroom I’d been assigned was mine. My posters on the wall, my students’ work displayed on the bulletin board, my photos and knick knacks arranged around the computer on the desk.
I wanted to be teaching these kids, not just providing crowd control. But instead, I spent the day writing a blog entry about my desire to teach while they worked quietly at their desks and chatted amongst themselves. It’s my job, and I’m obviously doing it well, but today it just didn’t feel like enough.
It’s never really been enough, if I’m honest. Working in the elementary schools can often be an awful lot like teaching (and sometimes even is), but high school has always been like this–I’m more of a glorified hall monitor than a teacher here. It was easier before, though, to look at the benefits of being paid fairly well for what is oftentimes very little actual work and convince myself that I didn’t want the hassle of that work anyway. Part of that’s true–my job has worked very well with my family situation to provide us with the best of both worlds, and I’m certainly grateful for the flexibility it’s afforded me these past few years–but the truth is, I miss the rewards that go hand in hand with the hassles of a full time teaching contract.
I’m not talking about the money, or even the stability. Those things would be nice, but really, they wouldn’t make much difference to our lives. I’m talking about the relationships with the students. The exhilaration of knowing that I’ve made a difference, touched a life, taught at least one person the proper use of the comma so that she can take that knowledge and spread it out into the world. I want to connect with colleagues, challenge my professional learning, and grow outside of this vacuum I’m stuck in right now.
Sitting in that classroom today only reinforced those feelings, making it harder than ever to focus on all the things I do have–a good paying job, a chance to catch up on my reading and blogging at work (the ultimate in multitasking), and flexibility for my family at a time when my kids are young and I need it–when all the things I don’t have but so desperately want –my own classroom, professional respect, intellectual stimulation–are so close, and yet still out of my reach.
Before that interview I had a Plan. I would stay on the supply list until Regan was in school full time, then I would pursue a class of my own. It was a good plan, based on solid thinking, past experience, and the particular needs of my family. Subbing through kindergarten would leave me free to participate in Regan’s early school years, something that it is important to me not to miss–leaving Diva Girl at the door of her first classroom to head off to my first classroom is a piece of mommy guilt that is indelibly imprinted on my heart, and not an experience I want to repeat with her sister. Daycare and transportation wouldn’t be issues with both of The Ladies at the same school fulltime. And Sabrina would be 12, more than old enough to take on a bit of responsibility around the house. All good, solid reasons why supplying for the next three years makes sense.
And none of which take into account the simple, selfish fact that I want more.
The Third Law of Maternal Dynamics
Illness can be neither created nor destroyed, it can only be transferred.
In layman’s terms, if you mock the barf gods by noting your good fortune in having been spared their most recent visitation, they will make you pay. And pay hard.
I honestly thought I’d dodged this particular bullet. In fact, I was so sure that I was in the clear that, once it looked like the Zen Baby was well and truly on the road to recovery, I sent The Ladies to my mom’s for the night and went ahead with my original plan to go out for dinner and a movie with The Man I Didn’t Marry. And I was fine. Maybe a little tired, but we both put that down to my extended stint as Florence Nightengale, not the onset of the plague.
So, um, sorry about that, MIDM. The puking and moaning that are probably tearing their way through your house right now? Totally my bad.
On the upside–if there can be an upside to repeated attempts to catch a glimpse of your own liver–I at least didn’t barf all over the sheets. Thank goodness, because I don’t think I could have handled the laundry room on top of everything else. At least this way, in between visits to worship at the altar of the porcelain god I was able to lose myself in the sweet unconsciousness that can only come from freshly washed sheets.
Switch
So, I never did come down with what Diva Girl had. I felt vaguely crappy for a couple of days, but it was nowhere near the clammy, pastyfaced barffest that she endured, thank goodness. I know that sounds harsh and all, but really, if someone is going to get sick around here, better them than me. At least when they’re sick, there’s someone around to fetch the gingerale, fluff the pillows, and hold the bucket steady–all while administering cool compresses to the brow and other bits of motherly TLC, of course. When I’m sick? The gingerale gets spilled all over the kitchen floor, they constantly interrupt any napping or lolling on the couch with sweet yet maddening attempts to make me feel better, and they tend to stand over me as I heave, offering a bizarre colour commentary on the contents of the toilet bowl. So really, it’s better this way.
Speaking of better, Diva Girl is. Maybe not all better, but better enough to raise a whining ruckus over the possibility of not going to the PD Day program she’s been looking forward to for a month–Bee Movie, and then swimming at the Y. Last night I told her that she could definitely do the movie portion, and we’d see about swimming in the morning. But that was before her sister took her place clutching the barf bucket.
When Regan woke up around four am making ominous rumbling sounds, I had two competing coherent thoughts:
1) But I’m out of laundry money!!!!
2) Sabrina is going to be so pissed off.
Fortunately, my dad was willing to drive Sabrina to her program, solving at least one of my problems. But that doesn’t help with the fact that for the second time this week one of my children has thrown up all over my bed, and this time I’m out of loonies.
We Are Family
“Yours can be the mum, Mummy, because you’re the Mum. And mine will be the baby because I’m the baby.”
We have a lot of books depicting all types of families, but the simple fact of the matter is, the overwhelming majority of children’s media promotes the traditional nuclear family concept: Mommy, Daddy, and Baby are clearly the main components of the family unit. One of the fun things about being part of a less than traditional family structure is watching how the standard taxonomy is often co-opted and manipulated to fit the experience of family the child understands, rather than those that are more commonly described. Regan has obviously internalized the accepted construct, but she’s clearly applying it according to her experience, in which family is a very female affair:
“And Bina’s can be the Daddy. You know, the girl daddy, because she’s a girl.”