Posted by Kimberly on June 16th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
For two little girls without Dads, The Ladies had a pretty fabulous Father’s Day.
A trip to the good park with the geese and the fish and the really great playground. A spontaneous jaunt to the beach for sandcastles, burgers, and greasy fries. THREE turns each on the rides. Ice cream.
Yeah, I don’t think they really missed out on the fun by not having a Dad. Especially since they do have a Dad–MY Dad, who was with them every step of the day. From the playground where he divided his time between riding the rocking dinosaur, pushing the swings, and, most importantly, lifting them up to The Zipper and giving them the confidence to fly on their own, to the beach where he willingly chased the waves with them even though he had neither suit nor towel, to the Fry Shack where he happily fed loonies into the rides and treated them to ice cream even though it was supposed to be his special day, my Dad and my Ladies were inseparable.
I sometimes get asked if I feel my kids are missing out because they don’t have a father. And I can answer in all honesty that I do not believe they are. Because of my Father, who, although he is not theirs, has such a presence as a Grandfather that he utterly overshadows any possible void left by the absence of their DNA donors in my children’s lives. In fact, far from being deprived due to their lack of a paternal presence, I think my daughters are incredibly lucky that they get to share in the awesomeness that is my Daddy. The same man who took me to work on quick calls just to show me off, who proudly displayed every school picture on his toolbox, who once sat on a dozen little chairs in a dozen ladies dressing rooms watching me try on Prom dresses now patiently allows my children to “help” him around the house, takes them on trips to Home Depot, and spends hours teaching them to ride their bikes and scooters. Every time I watch the very special bond my Dad has with my daughters I am reminded of what it felt like to be Daddy’s Girl–to be his Little Chickadee–and far from feeling regret that my girls don’t get to have that experience, I feel grateful that they do–they may not be Daddy’s Little Girl, but both of them are Grampa’s Girls, his Babydoll and Babycakes.
So no, no regrets here on Father’s Day, and no looking at half empty glasses or thinking about what my children don’t have. Because what they do have is so much larger than that, and so much more important that mere DNA. They’ve got the Best Dad In the World in their lives. And even better, he’s there because he wants to be, not because he feels like he should be.
This Father’s Day that even though my girls were the ones giving the cards and presents, they–and I–are the ones who have truly gotten the greater gift. Even better, ours is not just limited to one day of the year.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 4th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
It was not by accident that I christened Sabrina “Diva Girl” when I started my first anonymous blog way back when. From the moment she arrived–with bright, curious eyes and a definite pout–my firstborn child was “ON.” And turned to 11.
We used to joke about it when she was a baby–how alert she always was, how she always seemed to be in perpetual motion, still only in sleep–but eventually, life with Sabrina settled into a routine and the high energy, non-stop rollercoaster ride became normal. So normal, in fact, that when Regan was born I was convinced that there had to be something wrong with her–I believe the phrase I used was “brain damage”–so very different was this quiet, sleepy baby from my idea of a “normal” newborn. I’ve often wondered if Regan really is as Zen as I think she is, or if she just seems so in comparison to her sister. Either that, or her easygoing, laidback take on life is a brilliant form of self-preservation….
Anyway, eventually I stopped waiting for Sabrina to “grow out of it” and just rolled with it. This was how she was wired–my pirited, volatile, unstoppable Diva Girl. Which is not to say that I didn’t notice that, to put it nicely, my kid was often “more” than the other denizens of the playground; just that it did seem like all that big of a deal anymore–she was doing fine in school, had stopped crying, and had managed to make a couple of friends. If she at times still seemed overly impulsive and emotional, well…She was my daughter, after all. Basically, in the absent of any pressing stimulus, I became complacent in regards to her issues.
I don’t know if it’s the change in school, the surge in pre-pubescent hormomes, or simply the boiling energy that seethes inside Diva Girl finally reaching critical mass, but this year complacency has not been an option. This year, between the return of behaviours I’d thought banished by the end of Grade One, the Laura Incident, and the falling grades, something had to give–and I was afraid that it was going to be me. Or worse, her.
That was what really tipped the scales for me, Sabrina herself. Sure, I felt pretty confident that she would sort it all out eventually–the crying and class disruptions had already fallen off, she’s friends with Laura now, and I was fully confident that the poor grades were in no way a reflection of her intelligence or actual abilities. But was “eventually” really good enough? What about the now? Didn’t she deserve to be the best she could be now, while she was waiting for eventually to kick in?
That was my “A-Ha Moment.” The moment I realized that I didn’t want to be responsible for my daughter being less than she could be. So, I took some advice (some of it from some of you), did some research, and acknowledged what I’ve known since before Diva Girl’s first birthday–That she has always exhibited many of the signs of ADHD and despite the charm, intelligence, and sparkle that help her to offset that, not only was she not outgrowing them, she appeared to be growing into them more and more. And it was time that I started taking some steps to help her with that.
After some serious tap-dancing around my family doctor’s anti-ADHD bias (she’s in the bad parenting/just set tougher limits camp, apparently), I got us a referral to THE ADHD Guy in our city The Guy the SPSTs all speak of with respect. The Guy who doesn’t simply “push pills” to “shut parents and teachers up.” The Guy I felt confident would would look at all the evidence and help me figure out how best to help my difficult, complicated, wonderful daughter meet her full potential without any agenda of his own getting in the way of that goal. Turns out he was also The Guy who would change everything and restore my faith in myself as a parent and in Sabrina as a child.
I’m not a bad, permissive, or lazy parent. Diva Girl is not a bad, out of control kid.
After a 90 minute appointment in which he assessed everything from her motor skills to her reading ability, The Guy–let’s call him Dr. G–told me he felt confident in diagnosing Diva Girl with a very profound case of ADHD. In fact, he was a bit shocked, given the depth of her issues, that we’d managed to make it all the way to the end of the fourth grade without the school initiating the assessment process. In his opinion, her ability to charm, coupled with reading and math skills a full two grade levels above her age (take that, report card Cs!) allowed Diva Girl to fall through the cracks until now. Now though, she’s hit a safety net, and hopefully that will make all the difference in helping my daughter become the happiest, most successful Diva Girl she can possibly be.
I never set out to label my kid. That is truly what that process was about for me. I simply wanted to understand her so that I could do a better job parenting her. But I have to say, having that label has provided me with a world of relief. It’s not that the ADHD is an excuse for Sabrina’s less than charming behaviour, but it can be a reason for it; that is enough to allow me to step back off the parenting ledge and, instead of continuing to pound my head against the wall, remember that she’s often not doing it on purpose and that if she could stop, she would.
That’s the name of the game these days–putting brakes on the runaway train that is Diva Girl without losing any of her natural sparkle or verve in the process. It a tricky process, and one I’m still learning to navigate. But I’m hopeful that the more Sabrina and I figure this thing out, the more fabulous my Diva Girl will be.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 29th, 2008 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple
I’ve never participated in the Shape of A Mother project. I’ve read the stories and seen the pictures and applauded the idea of taking pride in our postpartum bodies as they are and not as the media would like us to believe they should be, but I’ve never felt compelled to submit my own struggle to embrace my maternal self.
Mostly, I guess I figured that I didn’t really have any issues. Not that I don’t have the same stretch marks, widened hips and residual 5 lbs that nearly every mother carries with her–I ballooned from 117 to 168 lbs with Diva Girl so trust me, I’ve got stretchmarks! It’s just that as a former “Fat Girl” gone tiny, I’d worked through a lot of my body stuff before I ever got knocked up. Or, at least I thought I had; the fact that nearly a decade later I still have total recall of those two numbers might possibly tell a different tale–one that is written by the stretchmarks scrawled across my belly.
Like many women, I’ve dealt with this scarred swathe of skin through the simple expedient of hysterical blindness. It’s not that I’m in denial about those sagging abdominal muscles and the roadmap of white lines that criss cross the; I know they’re there all right. But much like my red hair, freckles, and the mole behind my right knee, they are simply a part of the natural landscape of my body–something so familiar that I barely notice it anymore.
Regan, however, is four and therefore honourbound to notice everything–including the lines marring my belly that serve as a permanent reminder of the time I carried her (and her sister) under my heart as well as in it.
“What’s that?” She asks, pointing to the ruined skin.
How do you explain stretchmarks to preschooler? Especially one who bears her own scars on her belly?
“That’s where you pushed out all the skin when you were inside my fat tummy!” I answer with a smile and a tickle.
She giggles at this image, charmed as all children her age are that someone as big as themselves once lived in there. Then, in a gesture that takes my breath away with its gorgeous simplicity, she leans over and kisses those marks–and in doing so, heals wounds I didn’t even know I had.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 28th, 2008 — Posted in The Ladies, The Agony and The Entropy, Kipple
I didn’t really mean it the other day when I said I had too many shoes. Really, how can anyone have too many shoes? It’s just not possible! Unless, maybe, the shoes in question no longer fit the feet for which they are intended. Then there might possibly be an issue–especially if the owner of said shoes is unwilling to part with them, despite their apparent loss of functionality.
It’s been well documented over the years that I have a bit of a thing for shoes. What has been less apparent–although will probably come as no surprise–is that this fetish of mine extends beyond myself to include the feet of my children as well as my own. In fact, The Ladies might possibly have cuter shoes than I do. The problem is, unlike me, they keep outgrowing theirs. And therein lies the problem.
The very idea of simply throwing them away strikes me with the same visceral reaction that some other mothers have when it is suggested that they really need not save the baby teeth (ew!); what your baby’s molars and incisors are to you, my baby’s outgrown sandals and sneakers are to me. Except that baby teeth are so much easier to simply tuck in the back of your jewelry box.
So, what to do with the wee footwear that I can no longer force onto tiny feet, but also cannot force myself to part with? Well, used to be that I simply left it all in a heap on the bottom of the hall closet, but my recent organizational spree has eliminated that as an option. And somehow, storing non-functional items in the Magical Pockets of Delight seems….wrong.
Putting them on display so that I can continue to enjoy their form long after their functionality has fallen by the wayside, however? Seemed like the perfect idea. And so, the red dinosaur rainboots Diva Girl refused to take off in the store, the strappy rainbow sandals I loved so much I’ve bought a similar pair every year since, the sparkly pink jelly shoes that have long since faded to orange, the ladybug shoes that marry two of my favourite things, and the matching pairs of Irish dance slippers (No, they don’t dance; I just liked the shoes) now reside in style on shadow boxes on the wall outside the bathroom door rather than gathering dust in the back of the closet.
It pleases me to have them out on display like this, these random talismans of my children’s childhoods. It’s possibly a bit odd, creating wall art out of outgrown shoes, but it’s a lot less icky than putting a bunch of lost baby teeth on display.
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Posted by Kimberly on May 26th, 2008 — Posted in The Agony and The Entropy, Kipple
Wow. I’ve been a terrible blogger. It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve even logged in here to blather on about the minutiae of my life. And more like a month since I’ve actually done so. Not out of any plan or design…It’s not like I’m in any kind of self imposed internet exile or anything (at least, not consciously). I just…haven’t. Which sucks. I miss this place.
So, what have I been doing with all that time I haven’t been spending in the blogosphere? Believe it or not, I’ve been cleaning the house.
No, seriously.
And not just cleaning it–organizing.
I know…I know…It’s hard to believe. ME, the Queen of Domestic Chaos, on an organizational spree worthy of a TLC franchise, but there it is. I have fallen under the spell of Debbie Travis. If it weren’t for her and her damn home design collection, I wouldn’t be constantly scanning my apartment, wondering what I can contain next.
My obsession started innocuously enough, with too many pairs of shoes, a thwarted trip to Ikea, and a bored glance through the Canadian Tire flier. It’s just sort of spiraled out of control from there.
First, the shoes were finally all neat and tidy and not cluttering up anywhere! I could find them! Any pair I wanted! It was a dizzying feeling of exhilaration.
Then I started looking at all the hats and scarves and mittens that needed to be packed away…And that was another set of pockets filled.
For a while, I was content like that. I, one of the most cluttered people on earth, had decluttered the front hall and I was feeling pretty darn proud of myself. But everywhere I looked, I kept seeing more and more stuff. Stuff that could go in pockets. Like, the sunglasses, sunscreen, skipping ropes, and other seasonal crap that replaced the mittens and hats that had been safely stored away and were now messing up my newly neat front hall.
And, if I hung the pocket on the outside of the broom closet, it would all be within easy access for the summer! Even better, I could put the swim suits, ballet gear, and Guide uniform there! Sure, doing so would deprive me of the opportunity to play the ever popular “Where’s My…..?” Game, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make in the name of Debbie and magical pockets.
Slowly but surely, all the available doors in my apartment have been taken over by my new addiction. Makeup, hair accessories, Groovy Girls, underwear…all that random crap that never has a real place of its own is finally contained in what I once thought was that mythical state of being known as “a place for every thing, and everything in its place.”
What’s even more amazing? They’re staying there!
I don’t know if it’s the novelty of actually knowing where things are, or the see through pockets making it that much easier to find things, or simply the magical pixie dust Debbie Travis sprinkles over all her products, but for once, The Ladies actually seem to be on board with the organizational plan. For once, they are not only getting thing from where they go….they’re putting them back.
I’m not saying that there’s not room for improvement. Or even that there’s not still a significant amount of kid rash covering the surfaces of our home. What I’m saying is that for the first time, I think I may have hit on a real life workable strategy for dealing with it.
All I need is a few more doors…..
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Posted by Kimberly on May 12th, 2008 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple
Mother’s Day really isn’t a big deal to me. I of course make sure to honour my own mother with a specially chosen mushy card and token of my affection, appreciation, respect, but for myself the day is a bit of a wash. Solo moms are rarely gifted with tiny velvet boxes and our kisses tend to begin with the kids, not Kay, so the anticipation factor tends to be fairly low–limited to whatever teacher generated craft has come home this year.
Not that the crafts aren’t lovely, wonderful, meaningful, blah blah blah…But really….It’s not like the kid thought this stuff up on her own. And after the “Mom&Me Cookies” debacle back in the first grade, when I was presented with a jar of dry ingredients, a recipe, and an overexcited six year old who spent the entire day nagging me to essentially make my own damn gift, I’ve kinda been soured on the whole teacher-driven maternal appreciation thing.
So, since it seems somehow tacky to encourage the children to remember to tell me how much I rock, I pretty much just let Mother’s Day go except for using it as an excuse to buy myself something pretty. It’s not like I really need the cards and flowers to know that I’m a great mom and they love me, and really, if I have to ask for them, I don’t want them at all. Needless to say, my expectations for this year were, as always, fairly low. I was planning on calling it a red letter day if I got to sleep past 8.
Motherhood is nothing if not surprising, however. And sometimes, even when they make you cry, they are even good surprises.
That, my friends, is my Diva Girl, growing up before our very eyes. Up until now, she’s been reasonably oblivious to the whole Mday experience; like most kids, any occasion that is not designed to culminate in her being showered with gifts doesn’t tend to figure high on her list of priorities. This year, however, for the first time my daughter celebrated Mother’s Day without any external prompting. According to my Mom, who witnessed this little project in the making, it was all Diva directed–she decided on the shape and picture for the card, and then spent an hour with the Zen Baby working on her sister’s poem before creating her own ode to my maternal awesomeness.
You know, little velvet boxes are nice (I got one of those too–also Sabrina’s idea), but they really can’t hold a candle to the genuine love that shines through a poem that contains a line thanking you for letting the kid play in your room. I never really realized just how much I’ve missed getting a Mother’s Day card all these years until I held that painstakingly created cardboard butterfly in my hands on Sunday morning. But that’s ok, because those two poems, a decade in the making, were totally worth the wait.
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Posted by Kimberly on April 17th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
One of the unexpected bonuses of changing schools this year has been the discovery that there really are kids around here. A whole neighbourhood of them, actually. And right in our backyard!
In the four years we’ve lived here, who knew?
Well, I suppose I always knew there were kids around here, but up until now Diva Girl’s social life has always taken place on the other side of the street–the drawback of a school boundary waiver being that nobody lives where you do. Our top floor address has probably also kept Sabrina out of the mix around here. Not that living in the penthouse makes us too cool to play with the other kids; it’s just darned inconvenient to introduce your daughter to the neighbourhood kids when your baby needs to nap and the big kid just isn’t quite big enough to be out on her own.
Now, however, there is a whole complex full of kids Sabrina knows–kids who are in her class, kids she rides the bus with, kids she sees on the playground, everywhere we turn, more kids. And with the warm weather here and the sun finally making an appearance, they are all outside the minute they drop their backpacks and grab an afterschool snack.
Best of all, Diva Girl is right out there with them.
This year I’ve been trying to loosen the apronstrings enough to at least give the appearance of freedom and responsibility, so I have on occasion allowed her to go out an play without my direct supervision. She’s not really unsupervised–there are a couple of moms out there watching the smaller kids. Moms I’ve talked to enough at the bus stop or while watching our children playing together to feel confident that Brina will be safe while skipping or playing tag outside, even if mine is not the maternal eye under which she is being watched.
Diva Girl doesn’t know that, however. To her mind, she is finally Big Enough to be a Big Kid and she is thrilled. These days she can barely wait to get out and get playing with her friends–There are balls to bounce, places to hide, ropes to jump, and bikes to ride. What there is not is time to wait for her mom and pokey baby sister to tag along with her. She’s much too cool for that now.
I thought it would be harder, watching her run away from me like this. Mostly though, I’m happy for her. Watching her run and shriek and laugh with a gaggle of other children, my heart swells and any sadness over my baby growing up and leaving me behind is wiped away by my satisfaction with how she is growing up–happy, healthy, and unfettered by most of the baggage that comes from living in the 21st Century with a mom who is parenting without a license.
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Posted by Kimberly on April 16th, 2008 — Posted in Kipple
One of the perks of being an adult is supposed to be finally having the ability to eat what you want, when you want it. I mean, who among us has not indulged in popcorn for dinner or pizza for breakfast? What nobody tells you about though is The Kid Clause.
Sure, you can eat whatever you want while you’re living the Carrie Bradshaw life, but once kids enter the picture–and get old enough to notice what Mommy is up to–it’s a whole new ballgame of modeling good eating habits and making sure that Hostess, Lays, Hagen Daz, and Hershey aren’t the names of your four basic food groups. Suddenly it’s all breakfast is the most important meal of the day and dessert after dinner.
We’re having one of those dinners tonight. You know the kind–even though the kids choose the menu, they’re still being pains about eating it. Whining about it. It doesn’t “taste” right. It’s tuna. From a can. How “not right” can it taste??? And of course, with at least half of the dinner I slaved over still on the plate (seriously, that can opener is hard to turn!), they have the nerve to ask for ice cream.
It’s not just that they’re asking for ice cream. Really, that’s just par for the course. The problem here is that I also want ice cream. But, since they can’t have ice cream until they finish their dinners, I can’t have ice cream.
And I finished my dinner. It’s not fair!
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Posted by Kimberly on April 14th, 2008 — Posted in Zen Baby, Kipple
The Zen Baby has a boo boo and apparently it is all. my. fault.
I never told her, you see, that it is a bad idea to stick your finger on a lightbulb.
How could I possibly have been so negligent?
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Posted by Kimberly on April 1st, 2008 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
The Man I Didn’t Marry gave me a ring for my birthday.
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