Posted by Kimberly on December 1st, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, iVillage
So, it’s not bad enough that iVillage took away my blog, forced me into linking my name with a woman that I can best describe as “odious,” and then fired me for complaining about that and other slights (let’s not forget the complete rewriting of my entire philosophy of life and personality to fit their construct of the perfect single mom: A pathetic, lonely woman bravely making the best of a bad lot as she desperately searches for Mr. Right. blech). Now, they’re not even paying me anymore.
For the longest time, iVillage and I used to do a little dance where they would fail to send a cheque for a month or three and I would finally work up my courage to get past my innately Canadian distaste for confrontation, particularly confrontation over money (how unseemly) and politely ask them if they could please look into the issue if it wasn’t too much bother. And they would come back with a story about the accounting department in India, and you how that goes and then finally get on with it and issue me a cheque. This went on for just about ever. Then two things happened: 1) I stopped being such a girl about the whole thing and left the apologies behind. Instead of a weak, apologetic email, I began to simply inform them of the problem and my expectation that they fix it immediately (I also started posting only memes and blogthings until I received payment) and 2) They started trying to soften me up for The Daily Mom blow. At that point, they actually amended my contract to state that I must be paid within 30 days of receipt of invoice and all was good and the cheques began arriving like clockwork.
Except, no cheque this month.
hmmmmm.
Now, really, the thing to do would be to stop work immediately. To refuse to post until I’m paid. But, I’m pretty sure that that’s what Girl Genius did, and those of you who follow iVillage saw how that worked out (within 24 hours, iVillage had pulled her blog and her archives off the site.). It’s definitely a way to go, but the thing is, I think it’s what they want me to do; if nothing else, it gets them off the hook for paying me for December, plus they don’t have to put up with me anymore. I’m not into giving them the satisfaction, so instead, I’m planning a week of memes.
So, tag me! You’ve got a meme out there? No matter how asinine, boring, or lame, tag me! I’ll do over at The Daily Mom, make my post commitment, and make a statement about getting what you pay for. (Not that Funny Mom doesn’t do that on a regular basis…..)
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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 October 5th, 2007 — Posted in Uncategorized, Kipple, iVillage
Today is a doors and windows kind of day.
The doors, they are closing.
First, iVillage fired me. Ok, not a huge shock there, given what I’ve said about them here. And it really wasn’t that much of a blow. My contract did not allow me to quit, so getting fired was the only way out of my contract, and one that I’ve pretty much been encouraging them to take ever since they made it clear that Sanity and the Solo Mom was going to become part of The Daily Mom with or without my consent. But still, nobody really likes to be fired, no matter how much they were asking for it.
Then, I had a business call. I was pretty nervous because it was my very first business call for a blog idea that I thought of and developed all by myself. A big step in the life of a budding freelancer. On some levels–the ones where I didn’t sound like a blithering idiot–it was a very successful experience. They thought the idea was great, and that it would be a wonderful fit for their company. Unfortunately, they’d just spent a tonne of money on a redesign of their site and just didn’t have it in the budget to take on my idea right now.
So, in addition to getting fired, I didn’t get hired. Yep, that’s the sound of doors closing, alright.
The windows, however, don’t seem to be flinging themselves open quite yet. Maybe I just have to be patient. Man, I hate that.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 3rd, 2007 — Posted in Uncategorized, Kipple, iVillage
One of the basic concepts of blogging is the construction of identity. Every blogger creates one, an online persona that reflects those aspects of themselves that they choose to reveal in the blogosphere. We are all to some extent constructs, and one of the great freedoms of the blogosphere is that we all get to decide on our own pigeonholes, rather than allowing other people to decide who we are and where we belong.
The other basic concept is one of authorship. In the blogosphere, everyone is a writer and everyone has the opportunity to tell their own story. This is why plagiarism is so frowned upon in the blogging community–it’s understood that we all tell our own stories here, not someone else’s. The corollary is that we also understand that we are the ones telling our stories; while the idea of a ghost writer might seem attractive when staring at a blank computer screen with no idea how to fill it, it’s understood that this is not kosher. Guest blogging, by all means. But ghost blogging? Not so much. It’s a violation of the basic agreement, that while the blogger may not be giving you a completely factual account of reality, what she is writing is, at its core, real.
All of this philosophizing is to place in context the very real sense of violation I felt when I realized that iVillage had taken it upon themselves to create an identity for me by rewriting my bio page without my knowledge or consent. I never would have known if Eden hadn’t emailed and asked if I’d suffered some sort of traumatic brain injury.
I didn’t know they were redoing the bios. Nobody asked me for a new one, so I’d just assumed that they’d use the same old one they’ve always had up. To be honest, it’s not like I much cared. But I do care about being misrepresented, which I have been. Grossly. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if they’d written the thing in the third person, but instead they cannibalized just enough of my original blurb to make it seem like I’m the one speaking.
The problem is, whoever tried to impersonate me has clearly never met me, and quite probably has never read Sanity and the Solo Mom. If she had, I’m reasonably certain that ridiculous statements like these wouldn’t have made their way into my About Me:
“Parenting without a partner is quite the adventure and, like other solo adventures, it’s a bit scarier to do alone. Sometimes it would be nice to have someone to share the adventure with, but mostly it’s exciting to hike up the mountain, carrying all your gear, knowing that you did it by yourself.”
“Having no one to share it with, well, it’s a mixed blessing.”
“I say Solo Momming is a fair bit like the regular kind of Momming.”
On some level, each one of these statements flies in the face of who I am, what I believe, how I live my life, and the entire philosophy behind the old Sanity and the Solo Mom, which is clearly even less in line with its host company than I’d always suspected.
For one thing, I’ve never said “Solo Momming is a fair bit like the regular kind of Momming.” I don’t believe that. The entire theme of my blog works against that concept. It’s always been my contention that the “momming” is what we have in common, it’s not what sets us all apart. There’s no such thing as “regular momming;” we’re all moms. Period. Not to mention the fact that as an English teacher I’m not that into random capitalization and I’d never use an inane pseudoword like “momming,”
I’ve also never said “having no one to share it with, well, it’s a mixed blessing.” While I’m gratified that that sentence is at least well written, it’s still a misconstruction of what I said in my very first post for iVillage. Essentially, what I said there was that it’s hard, knowing no one will ever love your kids as much as you do, that there isn’t anyone as invested in those small, seemingly insignificant moments that comprise the fabric of family as you are, but that the flip side of that is the complete control you have over the definition and shape of that family. I never said it was a blessing, mixed or otherwise. It’s not. It simply is what it is.
The worst though is that whole part about “scarier to do it alone” and “would be nicer to have a partner.” That just pisses me the hell off. Anyone who has talked to me about parenting, family, and my life for ten seconds would know that that is not me.
First of all, I find the idea of parenting with a partner both incomprehensible and terrifying. I LIKE being a solo parent, and the shape that gives to my life. Furthermore, since I’ve always parented my children alone, I have no idea if it’s scarier or not. Personally, I think not; the idea of sharing those responsibilities and adding another personality into the complex arrangement of parenthood and family leaves me in a cold sweat.
And for the record, I don’t think “it would be nicer to have a partner.” If I wanted a partner, I’d have one. Unlike my unnamed ghost writer, I feel no need to get my ticket to respectability and to get my ass on the ark. I like living alone. I like being alone. Even on the rare occasions when I do go out on a date, it’s really less about him, and more about me. I’m not looking for mate when I go out with Facebook Guy; I’m looking for an opportunity to go out and enjoy the woman behind the mom. Really, the gender of the companion pales in comparison to the quality of the company so far as I’m concerned. Boyfriend, girl friend, for me, it’s just about an evening out, not about freeing myself from my pathetic state of spinsterhood.
As you can see, the person I am and the persona iVillage has decided to package me as are not exactly in agreement. In fact, I’m not sure I even like that woman. Which is kind of a problem, seeing as how I like me a great deal. Yet another good reason why I have this space of my own, I guess, where I can continue to be me, regardless of the changes iVillage would like to make to my lifestyle and self esteem to make me better fit their construction of what a single mom should be.
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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 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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