Posted by Kimberly on June 25th, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
There she is, my newly minted fifth grader. A far cry from the nervous little girl who stood on the school steps last September, isn’t she?
It’s been a long year for my Diva Girl. Between the adjustment issues that come with changing schools to the sliding grades and finally the diagnosis, it’s been quite a ride on that big yellow bus. But you wouldn’t know it from that picture, would you? That is one happy little girl, thrilled not only with the vast expanse of summer that lies ahead of her, but also with the long stretch of Grade 4 that is now behind her.
And that’s really my goal at this point in the year–to have a child who is proud of what she has accomplished, and who is looking forward to the opportunities and excitement ahead. The report card, for me, is pretty much just a bonus at this point.
Oh what a bonus it was, though!
If ever I needed confirmation that putting Diva Girl on Concerta was the right thing to do, this report card is it. The Cs? A pale memory. In some cases, she went up more than a full letter grade from last term. But even that pales in comparison to the fact that for the first time this year, she didn’t get “Ns” in conflict resolution, co-operation, or problem solving! Which still wasn’t the best part. No…The best part was the final comment:
Sabrina approaches new learning situations with confidnece, and she effectively synthesizes information from all subject areas. Sabrina has demonstrated improvement in her independent work skills, requiring less teacher support during independent work periods Sabrina willingly works with others in class, and is willing to resolve conflicts when they occur. She is doing her class work with more care and attention to detail. Best wishes for success in Grade 5!
That right there is everything I’d hoped for when I first sought the referral to Dr. G. That right there is the Diva Girl I always knew was there, just waiting for the opportunity to shine. That right there is why I know that Grade 5 is going to be everything Sabrina’s smile promises it will be.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 24th, 2008 — Posted in Zen Baby, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
Between getting back into the swing of things at work and starting to get a handle on Diva Girl’s issues, I’ve been letting some things slide around here. Like…um….Kindergarten registration. Which was technically back in February.
Why yes, I have been putting off registering my youngest child for school for the past four months. Is that problematic, do you think?
I didn’t do it on purpose. There was no active plan to avoid the whole thing. It just never really felt like a priority is all. Even when Sabrina came home with a message from the Principal telling me I should “just come on down and sign her up,” it was always something that could happen another day; it didn’t have to be today.
Except today, it kinda did. What with it being the second to last day of school and all. Suddenly, getting the Zen Baby’s papers in order seemed a whole lot more important than it had yesterday.
Unfortunately, the urgency did nothing to lessen the trauma of the event.
My baby is going to kindergarten!!!!!
Ok, sure it’s still 69 days away. But still, MY BABY IS GOING TO KINDERGARTEN.
I know, I know. She’s not the first baby to be headed off to school. But she is my last baby to head off. And somehow, the fact that she’s a full year older than her sister was the first time we packed her Barbie backpack with her brand new pointy crayons and filled her Disney Princess lunchbox with nutritious snacks and headed off to meet her teacher isn’t really making it any easier to accept that my baby is going to school.
Regan is over moon at the idea of finally following her big sister onto the bus. She has been dancing all day, constantly reminding us that after this summer vacation, she gets to go back to school too. No fear or uncertainty here. The Zen Baby is good to go.
Which thrills me, truly. After all, this is the child I used to describe as “painfully shy.” Who had me googling “selective mutism” before she finally started to speak again post tumour. This is the child whose inability to deal with the world at large–and especially all the people in it–made is necessary for me to take an entire year off of work to help her work that out. This is the little girl who literally lived beside my right leg. Even now, I look down, expecting her to be there, right beside me. But she’s not anymore. Now, rather than cringing in fear beside me, or watching from the safety of Mama’s Personal Bubble, she is racing away from me to join in the fray. And nothing quite brings that home like realizing that not only is my baby going to kindergarten, she’s ready for it.
But she’s my baby. And she’s going to kindergarten. And as happy as I am for her, as thrilled as I am that she is not only going to be able to do this, she’s going to rock the socks off of it, I’m allowed to be a little bit sad. Because she’s my baby. And she’s going to kindergarten.
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Posted by Kimberly on June 22nd, 2008 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
What do you when you want to eat the children? Turn them into cotton candy confections, of course!
I’ve had some Hannah Montana Hair Colour Sticks tucked away for a while now. When I bought them, I thought that it would be a fun First Day of Summer Vacation project to (temporarily and with a product guaranteed to wash right out) dye The Ladies’ hair funky colours. Last night, as I was contemplating eating my own young, my gaze fell on these stick and I thought, “why not.”
Yes, I was still Very. Angry. with Diva Girl. Forget ebay, I would have happily PAID to have her tweenilcious self taken off my hands. But seething anger and resentment wasn’t really getting either of us anywhere, and I didn’t really see that ending soon without one of us making some sort of grand gesture to end the hostilities. And I think we all know that it wasn’t going to be her; even if she had, if we’re being honest here, it’s not like I was in any mood to accept any sort of peace offering anyway. So, it was up to me to make the move and pull us all out of the pit into which we’d descended over the course of one spectacularly crappy day.
One would think that showering a child whose staggering sense of entitlement and lack of gratitude had caused many of the day’s conflicts would be counterintuitive, but it seemed to work. United in our common project, the stresses, slights, and slurs of the day fell away. She remembered that in addition to being the Meanest. Mom. Ever. I can also be the most fun and I remember that in addition to being a raging brat, my oldest daughter is also funny, fun, and kind of cool.
Regan was just happy that the yelling stopped. The pretty colours in her hair were just gravy, so far as she was concerned.
So yeah, no regrets over either giving one more gift to a child who didn’t seem able to appreciate what she already had, or about turning my children into something more likely to be found in a circus tent than a schoolroom Not even when Diva Girl reminded me that her class will be presenting the end of school mass on Tuesday. At which she’s doing the reading.
Because could there be a more literal representation of the direction “Be joyful in hope” than these two? What’s more joyful than being allowed to dye your hair hot pink and electric blue three days before school ends? And what’s more hopeful than the mother who allows it?
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Posted by Kimberly on April 3rd, 2008 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
I’ve noticed in the past year or so the term “Helicopter Parent” has become part of the parenting lexicon, a label used to describe those overly invested parents who micromanage their kids’ lives–and especially their schoolwork–to the point of pretty much doing everything for them. Other than rolling my eyes at the idea, I’ve pretty much ignored the phenomenon because, well, clearly that’s not me: I’m a very hands off parent, especially when it comes to school; I’ve always believed in allowing Diva Girl to succeed or fail on her own merits rather than making it all about me.
It’s been a conscious choice, this hands off policy I have towards Sabrina’s academic achievement. I recognized early on that one of the more complicated aspects of balancing my career with my children–beyond the daycare juggling, working mom guilt, and other every day concerns of every working mom–would be resisting the impulse to turn my daughter into my student.
Teachers are in a uniquely difficult position when it comes to the education of their children–we have an insider’s understanding of the system and what is required to succeed, which makes it that makes it that much more difficult to refrain from stepping in to ensure that our little preshus gets the best grade possible. It’s a very tempting, very slippery slope, and one that I have no desire to slide down, so I’ve always made an effort to keep home and school separate when it comes to Diva Girl.
For the most part, it’s worked pretty well. Sure, I’ve been tempted to get involved in an assignment or two, confident that I could make it that much better, but the ability to recognize how fundamentally wrong that statement is has always been enough to stop the helicopter blades from rotating before they achieve lift off. Of course, the fact that Diva Girl has always shown herself capable of getting her As and Bs all on her own has made it easier for me to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground and focus more on encouraging her to do her best than what that best is deemed to be.
Until now.
For the first time, Sabrina has brought home a report card filled not with As and Bs, but with Cs and it is challenging everything I believed about myself as the parent of a school aged child. I used to believe that I didn’t put a lot of stock in grades, that Diva Girl’s willingness to put forth her best effort in any given area far outweighed any achievement in my eyes. How then to reconcile a report card that was–to my mind at least–not good enough with my oft-spouted philosophy that your best is always good enough, no matter what the numbers say? Especially when I do believe that despite the lackluster results, she is trying. However I also believe that my daughter is not a C student–two facts that unfortunately seem to be in direct contradiction with each other, given the evidence marching down the report card page.
All of my self-delusions about my lack of unhealthy investment in Sabrina’s school progress came crashing down as I held that report card in my hands, speechless in the face of this unexpectedly lackluster achievement. To be perfectly honest, each C felt like a personal affront–as though they were an indictment of my ability to parent rather than an assessment of Sabrina’s math and reading ability. In other words, as I processed that report, my maternal rotors started turning.
And then my Diva Girl brought me crashing back to Earth with one simple question, “Are you disappointed in me?”
Normally by now I would have already told her how proud I was of her and commented on her various achievements as reported by her teachers. Clearly th fact that I hadn’t done that this time spoke of my disappointment as loudly as if I’d shouted it at her. And looking at all those Cs, I thought about shouting. Looking into those big hazel eyes, however, I thought about how, in the grand scheme of things, a couple of Cs on a fourth grade report card isn’t really that big of a deal and about how my sense of self worth as the parent of a Good Student paled in comparison to my child’s sense of self worth as a Good Person, regardless of her achievements as a student.
I don’t want this not even failure to define my daughter’s sense of who she is and what she can accomplish when she puts her mind to it. While I clearly do not want her to believe that she is a C student, I also don’t want her to think that a C isn’t good enough when she’s giving it all she’s got.
So that’s what we talked about this time–what she thinks she can accomplish and how she can better meet those goals. And of course, as always, we talked about how proud I am of her and how confident I am that she can conquer the world if only she puts her mind to it. What we didn’t do was climb on board my mommycopter –not because I didn’t want to enact a rescue mission, but because even though it’s what I want, I’m still rational enough to know that it’s not what she needs.
Sure, I want to see Sabrina take to the skies and soar, but only if she’s the one at the controls.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 10th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
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.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 5th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
Diva Girl woke me up a the crack of dark this morning, complaining of a stomach ache which, within a few short minutes, progressed to barfing all over my bed. Just the way every mom wants to start the day.
I had been consoling myself with the fact that the Zen Baby doesn’t seem to have been infected with whatever ubergerm seems to have taken up residence in her sister, but that was before I realized that it’s not really that warm in here.
So, Sabrina is sick. Bucket toting, random barfing, running to the bathroom sick. And I’m sick. Achy, hot, roiling stomach sick. And Regan? Is totally chipper and ready to go sledding. No, seriously, she has her boots on and everything.
It’s going to be a very long day. On a brighter note, at least the pounding in my head has driven out the “ohpleaseohpleaseohplease” running through my brain.
At this point, I’m all but sure I didn’t get the job–but oh, how painful that “all but” bit of hope is! It’s like a loose tooth, hanging on by that last stubborn thread, or a phantom stone in your shoe that you can feel but can never find. Still, I’m starting to let go and accept the fact that they aren’t going to be calling to tell me to start dusting off my lesson plans. And I’m mostly ok with that. I mean, I really, really wanted that job, but I’ll get over it.
What I’m not getting over, and am not ok with, is the fact that they aren’t calling to tell me I didn’t get it. That’s just plain rude. I’m insulted that they are treating me–and I assume the other unsuccessful applicant–this way, particularly since unlike most HR situations, it’s not like they aren’t going to have to see us again. We’re subs; the odds are very good that we will be in this school, sooner rather than later. And then, instead of the awkward phonecall, the VP will be faced with the uncomfortable prospect of having to look us in the eye as we all avoid the elephant in the office. Bad form if you ask me.
There should be some coherent way to wrap this up, but I feel too much like warmed over crap to figure it out. So, I’m off to move the freshly washed sheets to the dryer, peel the snowpants off of the Zen Baby, hand Diva Girl a fresh bucket, and then maybe, just maybe, lie down before I pass out.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 3rd, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
I’m not a particularly patient person. I mean I can be, but not when it comes to waiting for something. Waiting is hard for me. I like to know things, and I like to know them now. So waiting to hear about this job interview is just about killing me.
Thursday was ok. I didn’t expect to hear Thursday. I mean, it would have been nice, but I was fine with the silence. That just meant that they hadn’t picked someone else yet.
Friday was harder. They said they’d make a decision by the end of the week. Friday is the end of the week. I spent the day in a tightly wound ball of tension, that “ohpleaseohpleaseohplease” refrain echoing through my head as I puttered around, trying to keep busy in an effort to fool myself into thinking that I wasn’t thinking about it. By four o’clock, though, I’d traded my optimism for resignation. They hadn’t called me, which meant that they must have called someone else.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around that all weekend. To understand why they choose a different candidate. Which, really, is just another way of saying I spent the weekend going over the many ways I must have messed up the interview, longing for a chance to do it over and beating myself up for my inarticulate stupidity. All of which was made worse by the fact that it was slowly dawning on my that applying for this job wasn’t just a whim. I really wanted it. More than I’d even realized.
I’d thought that I was ok with my job as a supply teacher. Happy with it even; I could certainly rattle off all the benefits of subbing over classroom teaching without needing to stop and think very long about the differences. I’d definitely achieved a balance in my life between what I wanted and what I had. Or, at least, I thought I had. But that’s one of the things about hope, it comes out of nowhere and knocks you off balance. It makes you look at your life differently and think about it in new ways. It makes you want things you don’t have.
By Sunday I thought I’d gotten myself back on an even keel. It was ok that I didn’t get this job. That just meant that it wasn’t the right time. And really, it doesn’t quite fit in with what I need out of life right now. In fact, it’s pretty selfish to even think of upsetting the applecart at this point. I resolved to not exactly put it behind me–I’ll certainly be taking the opportunity to form some kickass answers to those interview questions that don’t leave me feeling like I was a babbling idiot, drowning in a sea of my own words, desperately searching for the life preserver of a coherent thought next time–but to move on from the experience. To reembrace my life, the one I have worked so hard to build for my family these past few years.
Hope is a pernicious thing, though, and this morning I’ve been consumed by the fact that while no one has called with a “yes,” they haven’t called with a “no,” either. So now I’m back to a sense of optimism and possibility sitting in my stomach like a lead balloon as I offer up a final plea of “ohpleaseohpleaseohplease.”
I just hope it’s not too late to do any good.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 17th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, NaBloPoMo
It seems to be one of those weeks when your past and your present overlap, giving you new insights into yourself and your own life in the process. I guess the odds on that are increased when you’re a substitute teacher in the town where you grew up, but it’s still a bit odd to keep running into these people. Tuesday it was a former student; today it’s an old teacher who has me reexamining my perceptions.
Everyone has had at least one of those teachers who really stand out–who, for whatever reason, make such an impression that their memory stays with you long after you’ve left your school days behind you. Mr. Stracuzzi was one of these–a quirky looking man with an odd name and an intellect ill suited to highschool kids, he probably would have stood out even without the antics that defined his tenure. I don’t think anyone who had Mr. Stracuzzi for Grade 11 English ever forgot the experience.
When I think back on high school (an exercise I generally try to avoid at all costs), I think of Grade 11 English as “My Lost Year” because I really couldn’t tell you what I learned semester.I remember the class vividly–I remember a brutally boring novel told from the perspective of a bird (I never read it), a seemingly endless epic poem that sucked every bit of excitement out of the story of the Titanic (I read about half of it), and not being aware that Lady Macbeth had died (you do the math)–but I don’t remember actually learning anything. What I do remember is the out of control chaos that was Mr. Stracuzzi’s room. I remember the nervous tick (um, like, you know) that punctuated his speech to such an extent–even when reading aloud–that we used to bet on the number of utterances per class, the game we made out of seeing how long we could keep him going defining a string of words, and, my personal favourite, The All Annoying Noise Band. We weren’t quite as bad as the other class, who used to turn out the lights and mug him for his chalk when he walked in, but we were close.
As you’ve probably guessed, Mr. Stracuzzi was no Mr. Chips. Well, maybe Mr. Chips in the early years would be a better description, since he never had time to grow into a beloved eccentric old teacher; in the year and a half he was at my high school, he earned a solid reputation as the least respected teacher ever. Which is saying something given that our principal was getting arrested for hanging out in public washrooms long before George Michael and Larry Craig made it cool, another English teacher was dating a student, the head of the History Department was having a “clandestine” affair with the Girls Gym teacher that everyone in school knew about, and the French teacher was a flamboyantly gay man long before that became socially acceptable.
When Mr. Stracuzzi was fired over Christmas break in his third semester we all thought that he’d left teaching forever. If we’d thought of him as real person at all, that is, and not as a caricature. He didn’t though; apparently he’s spent the last twenty years as a substitute teacher. As I found out today, when I ran into him in the staffroom of the school where we were both supplying.
I have to confess I was shocked, and not just because I’d never expected to be haunted by this particular ghost from my misspent youth. My first thought was to rather arrogantly wonder, “If he couldn’t hack it as a regular teacher (and I should know), how on earth can he function as a sub?” Colouring that surprise was a sense of embarrassment because, even though I never expected to ever meet Mr. Stracuzzi again, I’ve thought about him more than once since I became a teacher myself. I’ve always regretted the way we treated him; even if the books were awful, even though he completely destroyed Macbeth, we had no right to treat Mr. Stracuzzi with such a total lack of respect, or to steal his dignity at every opportunity.
I could have just kept my head down and pretended that I didn’t know him. I’ve changed a lot since I was 16 and I doubt he would have recognized me. Instead, I gathered up my courage and apologized for my teenage self. It was strange and more than a little bit awkward, dredging up the sins of the past, but in the end I was glad that I’d done it–and not just because confession was good for my Catholic soul.
In stepping out of my caricatured perception of Mr. Stracuzzi, the teacher for whom I’d had neither empathy or respect, I got to meet John, a colleague for whom I have both. Sitting next to him in the staffroom was an incredible eyeopener as I discovered that this man–the butt of so many of our jokes–has a sly wit and a quick sense of humour. It was a bit of a headspin to realize that the man who had so often bored me to tears (and new heights in bad classroom behaviour) was actually interesting. I liked talking to him. In fact, I’m looking forward to having the opportunity to do so again.
Now, that’s something I never would have predicted in a million years–wanting to be in the same room as Mr. Stracuzzi. Maybe he did grow into a slightly quirkier Mr. Chips after all.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 14th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, NaBloPoMo
There are few homework assignments that inspire as much excitement in kids as The Collage. After all, what’s not to love about ripping up magazines and then gluing the resulting scraps of paper to something? That’s not homework; around here, that’s a rainy Saturday afternoon! So it’s no wonder that Diva Girl bounced off the bus this afternoon, filled with enthusiasm for her project.
At first, it seemed like a pretty straightforward affair: Create a monochromatic collage. I was even charmed by the colour Diva Girl had chosen to work with: Orange. Sure, it probably wasn’t the most common or popular colour palette in the magazines lying around the house, but I was sure we’d come up with enough pictures to fill the 8.5X11 piece of cardboard she’d been given.
Then came the catch. There’s always a catch. The pictures in the collage needed to represent “natural sources and stuff.” So, given her colour scheme, Diva Girl was essentially planning an homage to orange juice. Possibly with a nod to the carrot, and maybe even the pumpkin, if I happened to have any fall magazines lying around. Not that she realized that, of course. Wrapped up in the excitement that comes from actually being allowed to rip up the magazines, she attacked the project with abandon. Given that most of her supply were out of date fashion magazines (heaven forbid she sacrifice her beloved Chickadees to the project), she was actually doing pretty well. If you ignored that pesky “natural source and stuff” stipulation, that is.
Somehow I don’t think jumpsuits and swoopy capeythingies really fit the teacher’s definition of “natural source.” Although I suppose you could make the argument that cotton and wool would reasonably fall into that category. Which I actually did when it came to a pair of panties with a giant orange flower on the front. Flowers are epitome of nature, after all. And the leather purse totally falls into the category of “and stuff,” right? Using my rather loose definition of the assignment criteria–aided and abetted by my fourth grader’s fuzzy memory and failure to bring home an instruction sheet–we finally ended up with a fairly respectable pile of orange bits to glue to her sheet.
This is where the assignment got tough for me. I could see all of the pieces we’d assembled, how in helping her look for pictures I’d carefully guided her to a mix of different hues and textures within her required colour and how, with a little effort I could create a distinctive and visually stimulating masterpiece from these bits of glossy paper. It’s so easy to hover over a project like this. To, despite your best intentions, focus on the end product and take over the entire process in order to make sure it ends up being “perfect.”
So, maybe Diva Girl’s collage does look a bit better than it would have had I not been the one wielding the glue stick, but I don’t think it looks too much better. For the most part I managed to restrain myself and stick to sticking things where she told me to. And in doing so, I got a rather pleasant surprise: While the gluestick mastery required to meet her vision definitely was definitely beyond Diva Girl’s skill, she did, in fact, have a vision. I’d been expecting random bits of paper glued all over the page, and instead was presented with a fairly sophisticated collage along with a lecture about focal points and the importance of overlapping. Given her obvious understanding of the concepts in play and how frustrating I was finding it to stick those little bits down exactly right, I feel absolutely no remorse over doing this part for her. I just wasn’t up for that kind of meltdown tonight and if the price of avoiding it was gluey fingers and the stifling of my own creative vision, it was one I was willing to pay, especially since I got to learn something important in the process: My kid really doesn’t need me to get that “A” for her; she can manage it just fine all on her own.
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Posted by Kimberly on November 1st, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, NaBloPoMo
I’m still coming off of last night’s sugar rush–both mine and The Ladies–so today’s entry is going to be more of a bunch of unrelated snippets than a cohesive narrative.
Trick or treating was a little strange for us this year. Because I only take The Ladies to houses I know and our route is designed so that we end up at Grandma’s house, we ending up cruising the “old neighbourhood” surrounding Diva Girl’s former school. I used to do this trip four times a day, minimum, but I have to confess, the walk to her old school just about kicked my ass. Other than that it was mostly a treat, seeing the familiar faces we’ve been missing since we stopped hanging out on this side of the street. More often than not The Ladies were greeted with hugs to go along with their Hershey’s Kisses and more than one mom slipped them an extra helping of candy before we headed off to the next house.
Negotiating the Old Babysitter’s house was a bit tricky, though. I thought it would be weird to make The Ladies skip it altogether, especially since we don’t really go to all that many houses, and in past years she’s just left a bowl full of candy on the porch while she and Buddy went out, so I figured it wouldn’t be too much of a drama. I was wrong. When we turned on to their street we could see the bowl sitting there, waiting for the pirates and princesses roaming the neighbourhood to help themselves. Unfortunately, we could also see Buddy and the Babysitter in the window. Which wasn’t the most awkward part. That came when The Zen Baby admonished, loud enough for all the assorted trick or treaters and their chaperones to hear, “You stay back here, Mummy. We don’t want you to get into another big fight with Buddy’s Mom!” before running up to collect her candy. I have never in my life wished so hard that I was wearing a costume that included a full facemask. She made up for it when she offered to share her candy with me though. Poor, naive child. She has no idea that I’m totally going to steal it while she’s sleeping.
On the school front, Diva Girl’s teacher apologized to her yesterday. I hadn’t yet stormed the office filled with righteous maternal indignation (the principal was away at a conference), and with this new development I have to rethink that approach. If she hadn’t acknowledged that she’d been wrong in preventing Diva Girl from calling home I would have been all over demanding a meeting (and possibly her head on a platter), but she did and that changes things.
At this point I think I’m comfortable sending an email (cc’d to the principal) that at least on the surface seeks to inform and not blame in this situation. Although I’m pretty sure they’ll get the threat implied in the statement, “should this situation occur again, Sabrina will most likely have to wait until I can make the 2 bus trip up to the school to get her.” As to the custody stuff, I’m still undecided. One of the sucky things about changing schools is having to run through all the solo mom stuff again–mail addressed to “Mr. & Mrs. Rastin,” fielding the “where’s your dad?” questions, and explaining de facto custody. I may just save that one for the Parent-Teacher interview.
I’m sorry that this isn’t the best start ever to NaBloPoMo, but I promise I’ll try and do better from now on. Oh, and speaking of NaBloPoMo, did you see the snazzy badge over there in the sidebar? I put it there all by myself and I didn’t even break the blog. It doesn’t link to the actual site, but you know, baby steps. I’m not convinced that NaBloPoMo itself is a baby step, or even a good idea for me–I’ve never been very good with either deadlines or self discipline–but I’m trying to break out of the box a little this year and try some personal growth. Sure, it’s nearly a decade too late to help me with that procrastination problem I had in University, but I like to believe that every prof who ever granted me an extension (which would, um, be every prof I ever had) is cheering me on.
I wonder if moving the old Sanity and the Solo Mom archives over here counts as posting? No? I didn’t think so. Still, I’ll be doing that this month, so if your feed reader starts going crazy, just relax. I’m not going to bring everything over–the work to rule memes and the Daily Mom content can languish in whatever sort of internet purgatory iVillage deems appropriate–but there are many posts that I’m proud of and would hate to lose. They’re not letting me bring the comments though, so if you happen to see something in the old stuff that catches your fancy, feel free.
I’m off to raid the peanut butter cups.
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