Posted by Kimberly on February 13th, 2007 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
Valentine’s Day, for me, falls into the same category of holiday as Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve: High pressure media dominated pseudoevents I would happily ignore, if not for the fact that I have children. One school aged child in particular, who has been fully indoctrinated into the codes and customs of our culture, including the dreaded Valentine.
I’m not really that opposed to Valentines in theory. In theory, they are a lovely idea. In practice, however, not so much. In practice, there’s the whole branding issue. The endless debate over the relative merits of Strawberry Shortcake vs Barbie valentines. The questions about why the Justice League pack has more Superman and Batman than Wonder Woman, and no Supergirl representation at all. Which of course leads to the issue of gender stereotypes, because boys don’t want Barbie valentines, but the girls won’t like Cars, so we should probably buy both. And then the agony of addressing the valentines once they are finally chosen: “Heather needs the best one because she’s Heather. Eric is mean, so we’ll just scribble his name. Derek gets two stickers because he lets me win at Around the World, so Alexis doesn’t get any, but that’s ok because I don’t like her anyway….” All this, for little bits of paper that will only be thrown in the garbage anyway. And really, with the Shaolin Toddler still lingering on the edges of potty training, I’m already throwing enough of my hard earned money directly into the trash, thank you very much.
So, how to indulge Diva Girl’s need to participate in this passive aggressive paperchase without actually participating? Well, I might not have the extra cash to throw away on silly rhymes by Spongebob or declarations of eternal devotion from the Disney Princesses, but I do have a craft box stocked with fancy scissors, festive foamies, and, of course, glitter. Martha would be proud; Diva Girl and I went Old School with the handmade hearts this year. There were still questions of how much glitter was enough for Heather’s valentine and too much for Alexis’ and whether she could put extra foamies on Derek’s valentine by giving none to Eric, but somehow it was easier to take, watching the Shaolin Toddler gleefully cover her valentimes (and the cat) in golden glitter.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on January 26th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, iVillage
Tickets to Charlotte’s Webb: $11.00
Mini Combos for everyone: $15.00
Dinner at McDonalds: $12.00
The Ladies’ decision to give their dinner to the homeless man at the bus stop: Priceless*
*Well, not exactly. In reality it cost me another $10.00 to buy him a sandwich and a coffee from the Tim Hortons down the street, but it was worth it give my daughters in a real life lesson in generosity and in being part of the solution, not the problem.
We are very lucky, The Ladies and I. According to any sort of financial definition, at best we qualify as “working poor;” we have more than we used to now that I’m working again, but like most single parent families, we don’t have a lot of money. Thanks to a phenomenal support system, we do have enough, however. More than enough, really. Our family is incredibly generous, showering The Ladies with cool toys and cute clothes for Christmas, birthdays, and sometimes “just because.” Handmedowns from friends, and even classmates, mean that their wardrobe is quite possibly nicer, and definitely more expensive, than mine. So, I never really worry that The Ladies will have to go without toys or nice clothes while I struggle to make the rent or put reasonably nutritious food on the table (and the occasional pizza).
Diva Girl doesn’t really get it, the financial realities of our lives. Which is great; I really don’t want her to be burdened with the type of responsibility that comes with knowing where the money comes from and where it goes. I mean, I’d like her to appreciate what she has, of course, but I don’t want her childhood to be tainted by my adult responsibilities. What I do want is for her to grow up knowing that she has a responsibility to her community. To confront the problems she sees and seek solutions rather than simply accept that this is the way things are.
We all had a lesson in that tonight as I try to rush us past a panhandler on our way to the movies. Clutching our fast food bags, pressed for time and half frozen, I barely noticed the man, simply shaking my head “no” as we hurried past his doorway. Sabrina saw him though, and wanted to know what he was doing, sitting out there in the cold. She was shocked to find out that that was his home, that he didn’t have a nice apartment, a warm bed, and good, warm food to eat; in her childish innocence, she thought that everyone had that. I was shocked when, after digesting this information, Diva Girl demanded that we return to the man, so that she could give him her Happy Meal.
We didn’t give him her chicken nuggets. Or Regan’s either, although she offered. We did buy him a dinner of his own, however. Because, even though it was a pain in the ass to go back, and it nearly made us miss our show, Diva Girl was right: We had a responsibility to do something. To see this man and acknowledge his value. To commit a small act of kindness that shows him that he matters, that we care. And I had a responsibility to my daughters. To live the way I want the world to be. To show them that convenience should never trump conscience and that what we can do, we should do. Which, I’ll admit, is not how I always live my life. But I’m going to do better now. I owe to The Ladies, and to every person who has ever helped me to keep me from struggling to provide a good life for them.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on January 20th, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, iVillage
I never intended to be a co-sleeping parent. In fact, for the first two years of Diva Girl’s life, I wasn’t. She had her own crib in her own room and she happily slept there every night. Then came the toddler bed, and the end of bedtime as I knew it. Gone were the days of popping a sleepy baby into her crib at 7 pm, turning out the light with a cheerful “night night!” and then happily going about my business for the rest of the evening. Instead, I now spent what seemed to be all night, every night, trying to get Sabrina to stay. in. that. bed.
It soon became clear, however, that the only bed Diva Girl would sleep in was mine. I could have continued the fight to force her to sleep in her own bed–in fact I did for awhile–but. . . I’m nothing if not a pragmatic mama, and I realized fairly quickly that I cared a lot more about getting a good night’s sleep than I did about where Sabrina slept. And after all, it’s not like there wasn’t enough room in the bed for her. It did get a wee bit crowded when we added the Zen Baby to the mix, until I had the brilliant idea of shoving Sabrina’s unused twin bed up against my overloaded double. After that there may not have been much room to move around the bed, but there sure was more than enough room on it. I’ve tried a couple of times over the years to get Bree into her own bed, but no dice. Finally, I decided that she’d let me know when she was ready and left it at that.
The upside to this arrangement–aside from the uninterrupted sleep–was that I got to use the second bedroom as a playroom. It may not have kept all the toys out of the livingroom, but believe me, when you are trying to cram all the stuff accumulated by two very lucky little girls into a small apartment, every little bit of space helps. So, even though I wasn’t planning on sharing my bed with a growing Diva forever, part of me was sort of dreading the loss of playroom square footage that would inevitably accompany regaining my bed. Until I discovered the loft bed, that is. A bed of her own for Diva Girl and the floor space; once again, what is not to love about Ikea?
Well, aside from that whole pesky assembly thing. We all know how much I love that. I have to admit, this time I wussed out and called in reinforcements: Faced with an overwhelming array of pictograms and parts, I asked my dad to do it. And not only did he put the bed together, he let the Ladies help. He let an overexcited 8 year old and her not quite three year old sister help put together Ikea furniture. The man is a saint. And the only casualty of the experience was a light fixture that I never really liked anyway.
It’s a little strange, having a room to myself again after 6 years of co-sleeping. When I first looked at my bed, sitting all alone in the middle of my room, it seemed so small–lonely even. Sleeping in it, however, was another story; it felt huge. Empty, even. After so many nights spent sleeping with 2 warm little bodies pressed against mine, dreaming of the luxury of an entire bed to myself, I find myself tossing and turning all night, unsure of what to make of this new space. I think I’m lonely. I knew that moving The Ladies into their own beds would be a transition. I just didn’t know it would be for me.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on December 19th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage
It may not show up in the pictures I post, but Diva Girl is a small kid. Tiny even. Half of the Grade Ones are bigger than she is, and even some of the Kindergarteners. Because she’s so little, it’s pretty much a given that in any grouping, she’ll be placed in the bottom row. But not this time. This time, she got to stand on the top riser. It wasn’t quite as good as getting to sing a solo, but it was still a pretty big deal to a kid resigned to life in Shrimp Row.
I ended up deciding not to be “That” parent. I didn’t talk to the the music teacher afterall. It was a difficult choice; nobody likes to see their child disappointed, and I really do think the teacher is wrong. But in the end, I didn’t see how Mommy rushing in to fix things would help Diva Girl learn to deal with the many injustices life will throw her way or to stand up for herself when it inevitably happens. So, instead of talking to the teacher myself, I encouraged Sabrina to speak for herself.
We spent a couple of days brainstorming what she should say, and then after she’d worked up her courage, Diva Gril went to the music taecher and asked her why some kids always get the good parts, no matter what. She didn’t really get a satisfactory answer, and she didn’t get a solo, but she did get the sense of accomplishment that comes from standing up for herself. And honestly, that makes me more proud than any solo in a Christmas concert ever could have.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on December 16th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple
Diva Girl is eight years old. How in the world did that happen?
I mean, I know how it happened, technically. The whole birds and the bees thing followed by the bad skin, enormous belly, pushing a fully functioning human being out of my body trick, and then that business of the earth having rotated 2920 times since then. But really, how did my baby get to be eight?
One of the best things about having a family of your own is the traditions–some fondly carried over from your own childhood, others that you create yourself as you go along.
From my own childhood, I’ve taken the cupcakes and a second verse to the “Happy Birthday” song that I’ve never heard outside of a family celebration. Diva Girl’s holiday birthday lead to the traditional Santa photo (always taken on December 14), and the nontraditional unbirthday celebration. And this year, the Shaolin Toddler’s inability (or unwillingness) to grasp the “Birthday Girl” concept has started a new tradition: the family birthday.
I guess the seeds of this particular tradition were planted during Regan’s second birthday, when I allowed Diva Girl to have her very own candle on her cupcake. They took root this year when, seeking to head off a toddlerific meltdown over the presents, I gave the Shaolin Toddler a gift of her own to open.
We’ve been working on the concept of birthday with Regan for a while leading up to her sister’s big day. Each time we talked about it, telling her that her sister’s birthday was coming up, she would chime in “yeah. And my birthday too!” To help give her a sense of time, we would then list off all the birthdays that happen between now and then until she was able to recite it as her personal birthday mantra: “First S’Bina, then Mummy, then Tyler, then REGAN!” I honestly thought she understood, until the big morning when she answered my announcement that it was Sabrina’s birthday with, “And Mummy’s. And Tyler’s. And mine.”
The entire day, Regan remained convinced that it wasn’t just Sabrina’s day, it was the whole family’s. Which really, when you think about it, is a pretty awesome way to look at it. Unless you’re the person whose birthday has been co opted, that is. But the Diva Girl was surprisingly zen about the whole thing. I thought she’d lose her cool when, after the second special verse of “Happy Birthday” was finished, Regan demanded “my turn!” She didn’t though; she drew a big breath and started to sing. And then they each blew out the candles on their respective cupcakes. After which Regan announced, “soon it’s my birthday. And Mummy’s. And S’Bina’s.”
I think we’ll be following this tradition for years to come.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on December 14th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
don’t usually participate in things like Love Thursdays, but these cupcakes demanded it. These cupcakes are love. They are everything I feel about being Sabrina’s mother, every little ounce of maternal feeling I have, iced and topped with a Smartie.
We all have those non-negotiables; those purely personal markers we cling to to reassure ourselves that we are doing a good job, that we are good mothers. I’m not talking about the external things, the things that strangers see–a meltdownfree trip to the mall or a good report card. And not the intangible “raising positive human beings,” either. I mean that thing that deep in your mind you believe represents your success as a mom. I mean the one thing, no matter how frivilous or trivial, that you believe real mothers do, and that you yourself must do in order to be a “real” mother.
For me, it’s the cupcakes. You see, I hate cooking. And baking. The cooking is somewhat non-negotiable (although I’m not above caging meals off of my mom to avoid it), but the baking? The baking is utterly negotiable. But not really, because I pretty much only bake 4 times a year: Cookies for Thanksgiving, brownies for the class bakesale, and birthday cupcakes to take to school and share with the class. That’s it. Any other time of the year, and I’m all about the storebought.
But, for me, “real” mothers bake for the bakesale, and they certainly don’t send in storebought treats to celebrate their daughter’s big day. Real mothers bake cupcakes, even if they end up accidentally starting a fire in the kitchen (everyone’s fine! no damage to speak of.) or teaching their toddlers an exciting new word after burning themselves on the oven for the third time. Real mothers have beaters and bowls and spoons to be licked, creating sticky faced memories that will last long after the treats themselves have been devoured. Real mothers go the extra mile and add the candy on top of the icing , declaring to the world that these cupcakes are special.
I dread the annual baking of the cupcakes. It’s time consuming and messy and something inevitably goes wrong. But year after year, I pull out the bowl and the measuring cup, dust off the mixer, and bake cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. Enough for every kid in Diva Girl’s class to have one. Enough for her teacher. Enough for her grandparents and sister and whatever aunts and uncles and cousins might be celebrating with us. By the time I’m done, I’ve had more than enough of cupcakes, but I make one for me too.
I make them because I love my daughter. Because being her mother is the central core of who I am. And so long as those homemade cupcakes are iced, topped, and ready to take to school on the birthday morning, I can assure myself that I’ve got it together, that I’m not doing too badly at this whole motherhood thing. Because real mothers bake cupcakes, and if the cupcakes are baked, that must mean I’m a “real” mother, even if the kitchen is a mess.
(Sorry about the crap picture. I was working with an unfamiliar camera.)
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on December 8th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Diva Girl, Zen Baby, Kipple, iVillage
As part of our Snow Day fun, we’ve been using the snow on the balcony to make candy. Diva Girl is about to head out to get another batch, and in deference to the elements, she’s decided to put on some PJs first. The Shaolin Toddler wants to go too, but is unwilling to change from her natural state of au natural to something slightly more weather appropriate.
With nearly 8 years of parenting experience to my name, I have a black belt in Toddler Fu; so I know that if I insist on the jammies, The Toddler Formerly Known As Zen will commit to her nakedness with a conviction that would boggle the mind of the most rabid religious fundamentalist. I must be crafty to accomplish my goal; I have to make it seem like I don’t really care either way while convincing her that walking outside into the snow without a stitch on really isn’t the best idea. While I’m pondering my strategy, Diva Girl takes matters into her own hands.
“Regan, if you go outside like that, you’ll freeze your butt off!”
“Yeah. But then I will pick it up and put it back on again.”
It’s really, really hard to argue with logic like that. Mostly because I’m laughing so hard.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on December 7th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, Heathers
Things have been going really well for Diva Girl at school lately. Her grades are good, she’s been happy, and she even got the Friendship Award last month. Not too shabby, considering how we started this year.
There was a small bobble a couple of weeks ago when she announced that Heather was “losing friends.” At first I thought that Heather was finally getting her comeuppance, and I’ll confess that I didn’t feel too badly for the Queen B. Turns out that Heather herself had decided it was time to lose some friends–seems she felt she just had too many, and needed to cull the herd. That part of the story made me roll my eyes. The part where Sabrina told her that it was ok if she didn’t want to be her friend anymore, that she understood and would be sad but not mad, brought tears to them. The fact that Sabrina made the cut didn’t really do much to change my opinion about the whole affair, but other than that incident, things have been so quiet that I stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And then came the Christmas concert.
Guess who has a solo. For the third time in a row. And guess who isn’t very happy about it.
It’s a tricky situation. On the one hand, this isn’t Heather’s fault. For once, I don’t believe her manipulations have much to do with the situation. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that the music teacher has a habit of playing favourites, arbitrarily assigning the plum roles to the same students, year after year. It wouldn’t be fair under any circumstances, but in a primary choir it seems to be a particularly odious practice. If ever there was a time to allow every student who wanted the opportunity a chance to shine, this would be it. After all, it’s awfully hard to get across the message that you have to do the best with the gifts you have, even if sometimes that means shining in the chorus, when the kids see same people singled out every. single. time. As a teacher, I’d be very disturbed by what is going on here, even if my child wasn’t the one singing the “it’s not fair!” blues.
As a mom, I’m not sure what to do here. I do not want to be That Parent. You know, That Parent who is always complaining. The squeaky wheel parent who is convinced that without her vigourous defense, her child is destined to get the short end of the stick. That Parent who goes into to school and makes the teacher take the part away from Heather and give it to her child. That is exactly the parent Diva Girl wants me to be, though.
She wants me to “fix” this. And while I know that in her view, fixing it means telling the music teacher to give her a solo, I’m not sure that would really fix anything. Even if the teacher did bow to my will, it would simply be trading one injustice for another. And that’s not fair to anyone.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on November 30th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, No Pudding Until You Finish Your Meat, iVillage, My Addiction
What is it about the word “lice” that its mere mention causes the skin to start crawling?
Sabrina brought The Note home from school today. The note no parent wants to pull out of the backpack. The Prelude to the Apocalypse note.
I suppose it coud have been slightly worse. It wasn’t the “You Might As Well Shave Your Head Now” note. It was the slightly less terrifying, but still scratch inducing The “We Regret to Inform You That Your Child’s Playmates Are Infested WIth Nasty Itchy Bugs That Will Never Go Away” Note.
The Note wasn’t the only thing in the backbpack today. The Scholastic flyer was in there as well (yippee! Too bad The Lousy Week wasn’t one of the featured selections.)
The other piece of paper that came home today almost made up for The Note, and at least briefly distracted me from my psychosomatic itching. Diva Girl got a Proud Pick* this month. For Friendship. After the rocky start to this year, I am thrilled that of all the awards she could have won, she got this one. So is she, which is really the important thing. It’s a nice recoginition of how far she’s come this year, and the lessons she’s learned about compassion and kindness in the process.
Now please excuse me; it’s hard to type and obsessively scratch at the same time.
*Proud Picks are monthly awards given out by Diva Girl’s school. Each month the school focusses on a different area: Respect, Organization, Homework Completion, etc. At the end of the month they have an assembly and hand out awards to the students who best exemplify that month’s focus.
No Comments »
Posted by Kimberly on November 25th, 2006 — Posted in Diva Girl, Kipple, iVillage
Walking home from the grocery store, Diva Girl began The Conversation. The one I’ve been dreading, hoping the subject wouldn’t rear its ugly head, yet certain that sooner or later, we were going to have to talk about It. It’s a hot topic of conversation among her friends right now, with many of them eager to earn playground cred by sharing all the awful truth with their less informed peers. Fortunately, Sabrina and I have a pretty open relationship and she’s still comfortable coming to me with her questions rather than just taking the word of a bunch of third grade experts. Still, this wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. She’s not even 8 years old yet! We’re just not ready.
“Jesse says that there’s no such thing as Santa Claus.” She informs me. Balancing along the curb, she doesn’t seem to be particularly interested in my reply, but I know it’s just an act. It’s not the first time we’ve encountered an unbeliever, but the rising number of kids who are too cool for Claus has Sabrina thinking about the whole thing a little more critically than she did last year.
My palms begin to sweat a bit, and I try hard to remain nonchalant. “Really?”
“Yeah. So I’m gojng to ask Santa for proof to show Jesse that he is real.”
I admire her ingenuity, and am relieved to be spared the Big Question, but I don’t think I can let this go. “Well, Santa doesn’t really do proof, Bree. You either believe in him, or you don’t.”
“But, if I have proof, Jesse will have to believe in him!”
“Santa doesn’t want people to believe because he proved it to them; he wants them to believe because they do. That’s what makes it magic.” And nothing is quite so magical as a child’s wholehearted, uncomplicated belief in Santa Claus. The shining look of wonder when faced with the “magical” presents under the tree the first Christmas that she actually understood the whole Santa process, the intense concentration that goes into writing the letter, her incredible excitement the year Santa “forgot” his jinglebells, and the reverent care she took of them before leaving them beside the milk and cookies on Christmas Eve, these are all memories I treasure, and experiences I’m not quite ready to give up yet.
“Well I believe!” She stoutly declares, as though daring anyone to challenge her on the subject. I relax and continue to push the shopping cart, my attention diverted from the dicey talk of truth and reality by the Shaolin Toddler’s excitement over the decorations she sees shining on the neighbourhood houses. So I’m not really prepared when she hits me with the bullet I thought I’d so easily dodged, “Do you believe in Santa Claus, Mama?”
I answer without thinking. In fact, I don’t even realize what I’m saying until the words are out of my mouth, too late to take back. Thinking about them, though, I know that I wouldn’t even if I could. It’s an important question, and one that deserves an answer worthy of the trust she’s shown in me by asking it.
I stop for a minute, and think about how much more Christmas means to me now that I can share it with her. About how much I love finding the perfect thing for her; she’s always amazed by how well Santa knows her, that even though he rarely sticks her list, she always gets exactly the right thing–something she didn’t even know she wanted, and yet, once it appears, she knows she could never have lived without. I think about my own thrumming excitement on Christmas Eve as I carefully arrange the presents under the tree, gleefully stuff the stockings full of goodies, and choke down one of the Pillsbury Cookies I don’t actually like, yet have somehow become part of our Christmas tradition. Mostly I think about how much more magical Christmas is, now that I share the season with The Ladies and Saint Nick. Then I repeat my answer, just for emphasis:
“Absolutely I believe in Santa Claus.”
No Comments »