Posted by Kimberly on November 5th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, NaBloPoMo
Usually I’m pretty good at parsing out the non-sequiters The Ladies pop out with. Most times, it doesn’t take me much to figure out what has sparked their nonsensical outbursts and wring sense from their seemingly random observations. I can often even do it while keeping a straight face. Sometimes, however, they catch me by surprise.
Like last night, when apropos of nothing Diva Girl suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! I know what they needed! Money or underwear!”
Huh?
I have to admit, I had no idea what she was talking about, who “they” were, or what they could possibly need with money and underwear. And Diva Girl’s explanation didn’t do much to clear it up for me.
“It’s in their jeans, Mom! And what’s in your jeans except for money and underwear? So that must be what they needed!” It was adorable to see how pleased she was with herself for solving this puzzle, but I still had no idea what we were talking about.
The penny finally dropped when she elaborated, “They said they needed something in our jeans and that’s why they sent the Mimzy back.” It all came clear at that point. Last week for Movie Night The Ladies and I watched The Last Mimzy, in which a dying future society sends a series of “mimzies” into the past looking for the key that will save them–a key that can be found “in their genes.” Although she hadn’t said anything at the time, Diva Girl had apparently been puzzling over this strange statement ever since, trying to figure out what they could possibly want with our jeans.
I tried–in between giggles–to explain to her the difference between “jeans” and “genes” and that they were in search of DNA, not spare change and underwear, but it’s a difficult concept to grasp when you’re only 8 years old and only have a rudimentary understanding of the whole process anyway.
Homophones are hard.
[Ed. Note: I swear I’m not playing fast and lose with NaBloPoMo. I wrote this yesterday and accidentally hit save instead of publish.]
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Posted by Kimberly on October 30th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat
There are few things that will make a mother’s heart start pounding as quickly as the realization that her child is not where she is supposed to be. Especially when where that child is supposed to be is in an environment where there should be no room for doubt, like oh, say, a school bus. Add to that scenario the fact that said child is currently the centre of some rather delicate court proceedings, and her mother only has de facto custody, and you’re taking the terror alert level up to puce.
As a compromise between Diva Girl’s desire to walk home on her own and my lack of comfort with that scenario, I’ve been holding off on meeting her bus lately. I still go to pick her up from her stop but I time it so that rather than standing there waiting for her when the bus pulls up, I run into her on the path. It gives her a greater sense of independence and I don’t have to wonder if she crossed the parking lot safely. It’s win-win, really.
Except that today, I didn’t run into her along the path. And she wasn’t taking advantage of the beautiful Fall weather, dwadling along or playing tag with her friends. She quite simply wasn’t there. The other kids were there, slowly trickling home, just not my daughter.
Standing there, straining to see her, hoping that she was playing a prank, hiding behind a fence the better to pop out and scare me, my heart started pounding and my palms started sweating. I knew, you see, that she wasn’t playing hide and seek, that she wasn’t there. Which begged the unthinkable question: Where. Was. My. Baby? One of her bus friends must have seen the look of panic and despair on my face because she came over and told me that Sabrina hadn’t been on the bus at all.
With that information my personal terror alert level was downgraded from rising hysteria to mild annoyance. It was certainly irritating that Sabrina had missed the bus, leaving me to scramble to make alternative arrangements for her, but it wasn’t a terrifying situation by any stretch of the imagination. I headed home, fully expecting to find a message on the machine detailing the comedy of errors that lead to this situation and already planning to call in the cavalry (my dad) to help fix it.
There was no message. Nor was there a missed call on my cell phone. Twenty minutes after dismissal, at least fifteen since someone should have realized that my daughter was not where she was supposed to be, and no one had called to tell me where she actually was. The easy confidence I’d felt walking home from the bus stop was rapidly being replaced by icy terror as I frantically began trying to contact the school.
It’s hard to dial in a blind panic, particularly when you are dialing an unfamiliar number you’ve thankfully never had occasion to use before. Finally, after five long minutes that included being hung up on by the information operator unable to find the number and a quick tour through the board website, I reached the school and, in what I felt was an admirably calm voice, inquired as to the whereabouts of my daughter.
They put me on hold.
Let me repeat that: Instead of immediately telling me where my child was and what had happened to cause her not to be where she was supposed to be, they put me on hold. To give themselves time to find out. Indicating that they didn’t know what had happened or where she was, either. Then, after two minutes that felt a lot closer to eternity, they came back on the line with a cheery, “Oh, she missed the bus. Can you come get her?”
Every parent knows that there is a thin line between fear and fury and that once the crisis has passed all that adrenaline pumping through the system has to be channeled somewhere. Mine latched on to the fact that for the past twenty minutes or so my child had, for all intents and purposes, been missing and the adults who should have informed me otherwise didn’t bother to do so. I wanted to know why. (And frankly, I wanted an apology).
“Sabrina doesn’t know her phone number.” Her classroom teacher informed me when she finally came to the phone.
blink. blink blink.
I didn’t even bother pointing out that multiple contacts for Diva Girl should be available with only a couple of clicks of the mouse. We’re new to the school and sometimes things happen with computers and information doesn’t show up where it’s supposed to. In fact, that very situation occurred at our old school back when she was in Kindergarten, resulting in her cooling her heels (or, you know, sobbing hysterically) in the office for half an hour one day because no one bothered to ask her if she knew her phone number. Which she did. And does.
“Did you ask her?” Clearly, they couldn’t have. I couldn’t think of any other way that they’d be under the impression that she didn’t. My tone must have indicated my gobsmacked disbelief because the teacher got a bit huffy at this point, informing me that of course she had asked her, but Diva Girl had just spouted off a random list of numbers that didn’t even start with a proper area code. In a tone that implied that Sabrina must not be nearly as bright as they’d thought and that I must clearly be a defective parent for not ensuring my 8 year old had her phone number memorized.
Now, this is where you need to know that a year ago (!) our city got a second area code–there was a whole ad campaign and everything about it at the time–and that my cell phone number, which Sabrina can rattle off from memory, is one of the ones assigned the new code. Based on what the teacher was telling me, it was clear that Diva Girl, assuming I’d be at the bus stop and not at home, had tried to reach me on my cell and had been prevented from doing so by the teacher.
To confirm my suspicions I rattled off the number, asking if this was the number Sabrina had provided. The teacher then made a vindicated sound and reiterated, “When I saw that she wasn’t even dialing a real number I told her to hang up and that she’d have to wait to phone home until I had the time to look up her number.”
I’m actually not sure which part of that pisses me off more, that the teacher arbitrarily (and incorrectly) decided that she knew everything and dismissed Sabrina’s knowledge out of hand, or that she apparently decided to punish her by not bothering to inform me of my child’s safety and whereabouts in a timely manner. I just know that I’m livid about the whole thing. And the fact that she didn’t offer up so much as an apology when informed that Sabrina had had the right of it all along, instead choosing to defend her actions based on her ignorance of the area code change and her belief that the child could not possibly have been correct isn’t really helping me to get over it.
Neither is the reason why Diva Girl missed the bus in the first place. Or should I say, reasons.
You see, in talking with the teacher, I was informed that a drama over a lost webkinz caused Diva Girl and four other little girls to miss their bus. Based on this description of events I was left with the distinct impression that the entire incident was all Sabrina’s fault. Needless to say, I was deeply embarrassed and apologetic that my daughter had been the cause of such a massive inconvenience and was even starting to wonder if perhaps I was being unreasonable about the delayed notification. But then Sabrina came home with a tale that varied from her teacher’s in some key information. Like the fact that the entire class had been “contained” after dismissal because the boys were swordfighting when they were supposed to be getting ready to go. And when they finally were allowed to leave, they were dismissed one by one with no consideration as to who was a bus person and who was a walker.
So, I suspect the truth of the matter lies somewhere between the two stories: That the misplaced webkinz did indeed cause Sabrina to miss the bus, but that it wouldn’t have been an issue if not for the fact that she hadn’t actually been dismissed on time. And you know what? Stuff happens. That’s not what I have a problem with here. What I have a problem with is that while my 8 year old daughter has acknowledged her responsibility in this fiasco (and agrees that webkinz are best left at home form now on), the teacher has, through a sin of omission, completely avoided hers.
In all honestly, as frustrated and angry as I am, I’m not quite sure what to do in this situation. My initial reaction is to write a note to the teacher indicating I feel we need to discuss the situation further, and possibly even involve the principal. If she were still at her old school, that is exactly what I would do. But she’s in my school board now, and that adds another level of complication to the dynamics.
Not only do I have to worry about Diva Girl being singled out if I get on the wrong side of her teacher, as a supply teacher I’m trapped between the conflicting roles of mother and colleague. My desire to advocate for my daughter at odds with my need to pay the rent and I have to weigh the possible ramifications to my job prospects if I choose to make waves over this. This is why she was in the other school board to begin with, and while I don’t miss the Heathers or the crazy babysitters chasing me through the playground or any number of other things, I do miss feeling that I have the freedom to be Sabrina’s mother in every situation.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 15th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl
It was just a simple interim report–a series of checkmarks on a sliding scale from 1-5–but it opened my eyes to the ways I parent sometimes, the lazy shortcuts and the easy ways out.
Diva Girl’s first report was excellent, nothing below a three and mostly resting solidly in the four category. She’s settling in to this new situation incredibly well, and finally, after 5 long years, flourishing in school the way I always knew she could. Looking at this tangible evidence of that, I was really proud of her.
But when Sabrina asked me what I thought of her report, I didn’t see her shining, eager face; I saw those 5 little checkmarks in the “Satisfactory” column:
“I think it’s great, honey. But I want to talk about those level threes.”
And that is where the lesson comes in, because I overlooked the excellent to focus on mediocre. I breezed right past her accomplishment in my haste to get to the correction, the parenting. But while a big part of parenting is about setting up the expectations and talking to the kids about meeting them to the best of their potential, it’s also about celebrating the achievements along the way.
My daughter taught me that when she answered my dismissal of her achievement–10 level fours and 2 level fives–with, “Ok. But what about the fives? Are we going to talk about those, too?”
I’m ashamed to admit that she stopped me cold. Because no, I hadn’t really planned to get into the level fives. They’re fives, for crying out loud. Excellent. Couldn’t do any better. Did we really need to talk about them? Especially when there were the threes in “listens attentively” and “neatness” to deal with?
Well, yes. The fives deserve just as much attention as the threes, when you think about it. But we rarely give it to them. We’re so concerned with doing our job, with teaching the children, that we constantly focus on how they need to improve. Very rarely do we take the time to put the spotlight on what they’re doing right. I mean, they’re already doing it, so why talk about it seems to be the default so many of us fall into.
It’s easy to remember with the toddler and preschooler set and cheer them on as they master each new milestone. Somehow along with way, they become kids and we start to expect things; the accomplishments become less exciting and the failures are more glaring. Their accomplishments still need to be celebrated and reinforced, though, and our kids need to know that we’re just as interested in what they can do as what they can’t.
So, instead of talking about those level threes, Diva Girl and I talked about the whole report–the good, the excellent, and the satisfactory. We talked about those level threes and how she could do better with the paying attention in class and putting in her best effort with her printing. But we also talked about her level fives and how great she is at oral reports and class discussions. We talked about transferring those skills to help her in other areas, but we also just celebrated them for the achievements they are.
The best report cards should provide teachable moments. This one certainly did. Who would have thought that a child’s report card could be the lesson in parenting I needed?
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Posted by Kimberly on October 10th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple, Oncology Odyssey
Even though I breastfed The Zen Baby into preschoolerhood, finally weaning her around 40 months, I don’t consider myself a lactivist. I don’t believe that formula is poison, that silicone nipples make the baby Jesus cry, or that bottles mean braindamage. I do, however, believe that “breast is best” and that no woman should be made to feel ashamed of the choice to feed her child according to her conscience.
I have a been a bottle feeder and a nursing mother, and I don’t think one choice was more right than the other. Each decision was dictated by circumstance, and was made with the best interests of that particular child in mind.
I tried to breast feed Diva Girl, but threw in the nursing towel after about three months. It just didn’t work for us, and we were both happier and more relaxed once I finally admitted that and stopped trying to force both of us into a dynamic that just didn’t work. Diva Girl on breast milk was a fussy, uncomfortable, unhappy baby with the worst case of acne I have ever seen. For her, the switch to formula was magical. Suddenly, I had a happy, content infant in my arms rather than a flailing, angry demon. I threw away my cheap, uncomfortable nursing bra, gave away the expensive yet awkward breast pump, and started buying formula by the case at Costco. I’ve never looked back.
Clearly, my experience with The Zen Baby was the polar opposite. With Zen Baby, the issue wasn’t the boobs, it was the bottle. I taught summer school when she was 4 months old–when she was busily growing the tumour that would cause so much heartache, but before it had made its insidious presence in her belly known. During the month I worked, Regan nursed all night and refused all forms of nourishment during the day–it didn’t matter that the bottle contained the exact same nectar that mommy provided, she wasn’t having that thing in her mouth.
Tired, frustrated, and at a loss of what to do with my tiny girl, I consulted our pediatrician, who advised me to stop nursing the 4 month old baby altogether.
“Starve her for a couple of days,” she advised, handing me a free sample of formula. “She’ll finally give in and take a bottle.” I smiled and thanked her for her advice, privately vowing to ignore, or at least modify it.
During the day while I was at work, my mom worked hard at getting a bottle into Regan. Once I got home in the afternoon, she pretty much latched on and stayed there for the rest of the night. And still, her weight gain dropped to ounces, not pounds. The medical solution? Once again, “stop breastfeeding.” This time, however it wasn’t offered as a convenience solution, but as a medical necessity shrouded in blame and judgement. Clearly, my boobs were defective. The baby was starving to death, and it was all my body’s fault.
Again, I declined to follow the doctor’s advice to the letter; I began feeding Regan solid foods, but I also, against her recommendation, continued to nurse her. I did the same thing two months later when I was advised by another doctor to give up breast feeding because “she didn’t need it anymore.” and place Regan on a high fat diet. Had I followed that advice, at best, Regan would have suffered far more lasting effects from her tumour, as it starved her body of nutrients–primarily the fat I was directed to feed her–and severely limited her stomach capacity.
I truly believe that breastfeeding saved my daughter’s physical and emotional health, first by providing her overtaxed system with easily digestible nutrients, and then by giving her traumatized little psyche the safe haven and comfort it needed to heal. And that’s why I’m joining in today. Not because I think bottles are bad, but because I think children have a right to what they need to thrive, and that mothers have a right to provide it for them without shame, ridicule, or judgment.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 5th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
The idea that in some corners of the world, malnutrition is rampant, and children go hungry not because they’ve turned up their noses at what mom has prepared for dinner, but because there is no dinner is a hard concept to grasp when you’re not old enough to watch the evening news. If it can be imagined at all, it’s as some mythical “over there,” a place far removed from the comforts of Western life in the Twenty First Century. The idea that these starving children might live, not in some remote African village, but in the apartment next door is nearly incomprehensible.
My children are lucky. Despite our occasionally precarious situation, they have always been well cared for. We have never been homeless. They have nice clothes and toys to play with. They have always had enough to eat.
Except for today. Today, Diva Girl will not have enough to eat. Today, she will be hungry.
Her lunchbox is sitting here on the counter, not filled and forgotten, but empty and left behind, just like the lunchboxes of all the other students at her school. Today for lunch they aren’t having PB&J or cheese sandwiches or even Lunchables. Today, Sabrina’s school learns what it is to not have enough food. Today they learn about hunger.
Social justice is a very big part of the Catholic curriculum, and it’s something that they want the kids to live, not simply learn. So today they are having a “hunger lunch” as an object lesson in the impact of poverty.
They won’t be completely starved–the school is providing each student with a bowl of soup to get them through the day–but there are no granola bars, cheese and crackers, dunkaroos, or juice boxes. Not even a piece of fruit to help get them through the day. Soup and bread, that’s it. And that’s still more than many children have, when you think about it.
I hope Diva Girl does think about it. I’ve always prided myself in the fact that Sabrina doesn’t know we’re poor, but today when she brings her grumbling belly home I think I’d like her to begin to understand that but for the grace of God, a generous family, and an adequate social safety net, that empty feeling would be something she’d be very, very familiar with by now, and not some sort of radical school experiment.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 14th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple
One of Diva Girl’s few complaints about her new school is that no one there knows what Webkinz are.This time last year I too was blissfully ignorant of the time sucking, multiplying evil joy that is Webkinz. And now we own ten of them*.
Different schools have different cultures, and fads hit at different times. Diva doesn’t know what the “in” thing is at this school, but she does know that when she talks about Webkinz everyone’s eyes glaze over (and not for the same reasons mine do). Apparently interactive web based toys haven’t hit this particular playground, leaving Sabrina once again on the outside of cool.
Not for long, however, as fate has intervened in the form of a birthday party invitation. Since I don’t know this little girl at all, and have no idea what is cool at school, I’ve decided to do a bad, bad thing and kill two birds with one stone. Yes, I’m buying the birthday girl her very own Webkinz so that she too can whine for computer time be indoctrinated into the cult play online (hopefully with Diva Girl, who signed the card with her screen name).
Oh yeah, we’re going to be soooo popular here. I can feel it.
*OK, I feel the need to point out that I only bought two of those Webkinz. That’s it. One for each of them. Two. The others just sort of…arrived. I think they breed or something. And believe me, I’m deeply embarrassed by the plethora of pets here. I don’t believe a kid really needs more than one of these toys, but the Webkinz marketing machine is a mighty force.
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Posted by Kimberly on September 13th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl
As part of their Back To School icebreaker activities, Diva Girl’s class did a “Mystery Friend” writing activity. This was especially exciting to Sabrina because she’s new to this school, and she was eager to show me what her friend had written about her when we went to the School Open House yesterday.
“Can you tell which one is me, Mama?” She asked, bouncing with excitement as she pointed to the brightly coloured puzzle pieces adorning the bulletin board.
I have a mystery friend. She has straight brown hair. She doesn’t have a dad. She has a sister and a mother. She has a cat. She lives in an apartment. She has some freckles. She has a very nice smile and is always kind. She is very silly. She doesn’t wear glasses. Her talent is doing the monkey bars. She likes to read. Sometimes she’s good at math. She should work on making sure that people don’t boss her around. She likes to run in the classroom. Sometimes she needs reminders of the rules. Sometimes she rushes. We are good friends. Do you know who my mystery friend is?
Yes, I can tell which one is her.
Diva Girl does have a nice smile, and she is generally kind. She does have a tendency to allow the other girls to boss her around, and she does rush through things sometimes. And yes, she doesn’t have a dad. But I don’t think that’s her most recognizable feature.
In fact, I wonder why that’s on there at all. I don’t mind that it’s there, exactly. It’s just that I don’t think it’s relevant. How is that an important part of her personality? How does the fact that her father has never met her contribute to who she is as a person in a meaningful way? If I’m being honest, it’s a bit frustrating to me, that someone who hasn’t even been here for the past nine years of tantrums, laughter, and tears should be given status like this. But that’s making it about me, and not about her, which was the point of the exercise.
Anyone who has ever been tagged as “so and so’s mommy” at the playground knows that we are simply in some way, we are merely appendages to our children. We are the adjuncts, not important in and of ourselves in their world but only in how we relate to the personal infrastructure. So I suppose that while this deviation from the accepted family norm isn’t relevant to me, or even particularly to my daughter, it would be a point of interest to her new friends, right along with her cat, her freckles, and the fact that she doesn’t wear glasses, either.
The more I think about it, the more I actually smile at this piece of information tucked in amongst the laundry list of physical characteristics and personal traits that define Diva Girl. Because this absence in her life does inform who she is, but it doesn’t define her and the very fact that it’s up there for everyone to see tells me that I’ve done right by my girl. That while it’s a point of interest that she doesn’t have a dad, it’s also okay. It’s not a deep, dark secret or a source of shame, it just is.
That’s all I ever really wanted to accomplish when it became apparent that I’d be raising Sabrina on my own. To raise a strong, confident daughter who was secure in her place in the world. I wanted to raise a whole person, someone who was unencumbered by guilt and self-blame. I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to accomplish that, just that I knew I had to try. This little piece of purple construction paper makes me believe that I may have solved that puzzle without even realizing it because clearly it’s no mystery to Sabrina who her family is: She has a mother and a sister and a cat. And no dad. And that is just fine.
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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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Posted by Kimberly on February 23rd, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, Blah Blah Blog, iVillage
There are many things I love about blogging. The immediacy of it. The opportunity to express ideas both silly and serious. The conversations that spring up and the sense of community that gets created with bloggers and readers.
I’ve met some very cool people through blogging. People I never would have had a chance to meet without an internet connection and a chance to speak. Although it’s a little frustrating to make even more friends who live thousands of miles away from me, it’s also exciting and strangely satisfying. It’s odd, having these friends I’ve never met, but it’s comforting as well.
Tonight was not a good night chez solo mom. It was a very bad night on the heels of a difficult day where Diva Girl was off school and seemingly hell bent on making my life a living hell. One of those days where if I said “up,” she would say “down.” If I spent half an hour cleaning a room, she’d follow behind me and in 30 seconds make it look like I hadn’t done a thing. By 8 o’clock, I was ready to kill her, and she wasn’t too fond of me, either.
And then Kate popped up online. If you read the comments, you know Kate. She’s a solo mum from New Zealand who always has a kind word or a funny anecdote to share. She’s been one of my most loyal readers since this blog started, and she’s also become a friend.
When Kate asked “how’s your day been?” the damn burst and I poured out all of the day’s frustrations. I told her about Diva Girl’s inability to appreciate my need to clean up the crap on my floor, about her inability to appreciate the difference between beside the garbage and in the garbage, about my inability to keep from yelling at her for it. And Kate said, “put her on with me.” She didn’t judge. Didn’t tsk. Didn’t lecture or make me feel worse than I already did. She said, “go make yourself a hot chocolate and let me talk to Diva Girl.” Then, for the next 20 minutes, she struggled through my 8 year old daughter’s hunt and peck typing. She joked with her, gently chastised her for making her mother mental, and brought calm to my chaotic home, all from a world away.
I am very lucky to have this blog. To have a place where I can stay connected to old friends and make new ones. I’m lucky to have this life–crap strewn rug and all–and people I’ve never even met to share it with. And that’s what I love most about blogging.
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Posted by Kimberly on February 16th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
I got a real treat at work today: I got to go back to the school where I taught 5/6 for a year and reconnect with the people I’d known there. One very special person in particular: My daughter.
In addition to being the school where I had my very first full time classroom, it’s the school where Diva Girl did her Junior Kindergarten year. At the same time. It was quite the year, both of us figuring out the school thing together–me how to juggle being a teacher and a mom, and her how to negotiate all of the social and academic expectations that come from dipping your toe into the big wide world. And it certainly set us apart, us attending school together; it made us stand out a bit. She would hang out in the staff room with me before school–even came to a couple staff meetings–and every teacher in the school knew who she was.
I was asked about her repeatedly today. Nearly every teacher I talked to was interested in what she was doing now, and astonished that wee little Sabrina has grown into a third grader. They shared memories of my Diva Girl–her boundless energy, her joie de vivre, her excitement and enthusiasm and just all around sparkle.
It was really nice, hearing all of these people speak so warmly about my Diva Girl. Not just because it’s always nice to hear people say complimentary things about your kid, but because, listening to them, I got to see her through fresh eyes. Instead of a tween who has spent more than her fair share of time whining and complaining about homework and money and the general unfairness of the world lately, I was able to see that other Sabrina again–the positive side of the Diva Girl. The girl who lights up the room with her smile, whose laugh is literally irresistible. The girl who is brimming with ideas, and questions, and optimism, and just plain life. I got to see her sparkle again. It had been dulled recently by battles over homework, or chores, or just the beginning skirmishes in the the process of growing up, but today, in speaking with these people who remember her from a different time, it was blindingly bright.
Today reminded me of a lot of things; mostly that I’m very blessed: To have a job I love. Colleagues I like and respect. And Diva Girl to come home to at the end of the day.
(Thank Kate for the title. I was going to be lazy and not bother with one.)
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