post at the tail end o' the week I survived...

This week has been... well... a total shit-show.  But I did it. Without quitting either motherhood or school. (Though, to be fair, I've tried resigning from the motherhood gig a few times before and no one would let me, so apparently it's not actually a feasible option). I *did* miss one class for the sick child. And I didn't get to hang out at the conference I went to for as long as I'd have liked.  But whatevs. It's motherfucking Friday, people. I'm not even close to being in any kind of clear, here.  But I made it through this week, and that's at least one hurdle I  won't go ass-over-tea-kettle over and fall on my ass. There'll be plenty of other weeks/hurdles for that, I'm fairly certain.

So - Boy-o couldn't go to school today, and thusly Girlio didn't want to go to daycare. Emphatically. After hastily hooking up some childcare for Boy-o for the morning so I could go to the conference for the morning (it really does take a freaking village, people... and I thank my lucky stars for the amazing peeps in mine everyday.  This is not an exaggeration. Someday, perhaps, I'll be able to articulate in a rational, calm way the extent(s) to which this single mom gig can often be lonely and terrifying. But I actually can't right now).  Anyhow - Girlio was really sad and pissed that she wasn't getting the morning 'off'.  So - like the exhausted mom I am - in order to disengage the velcro like suction hold between me and her small, wailing body at daycare, I promised (read: bribed) I'd pick her up early and if Boy-o felt up to it, we'd go to the movies in the afternoon.

And movie-go we did. We went to see Escape from Planet Earth, a flick about some aliens stuck on the dark planet and held captive at Area 51 by a dastardly human. And who are kidding - us humans are pretty freaking dastardly. It was funny and managed to stay awake, mostly, - the kids had a blast. But holy crap. The mom stuff!

Before the movie even starts, this ad comes on. About how too many kids lose their moms to heart disease and stroke. And they throw on these statistics set against the image of a small boy sitting alone (alone, people!) in a hospital hallway. By the time the violin music begins and their cut the the Mother's Day assembly where school aged tots tell their moms sitting in the audience why they love and value them (think 'I love you because you touch my hair when you tuck me in at night. I love you because we talk about stuff on the way home school) I am already crying. Seriously. Like, a lot. Like, my sassy new purple (actually, Amethyst if you wanna get particular) liquid eyeliner is all over my face, so instead of racoon eyes, I have friggin' Barney the Dinosaur eyes. This is NOT pretty, in case you were wondering. And yes - I am way, way and well beyond the point of tired. I look about a hundred years old, I'm so tired. But those mofos at Becel have just invoked one of my worst, worst fears in the world. In a gross, crass way. In order to get me to buy their shitty-assed margarine. And it was all couched in that kind of maternal goodness and morality stuff that I cannot, under the very best of circumstance, stomach. Ugh. Argh. And ack. And me, bawling. No - I will NOT buy your shitty margarine ever, ever again. Because you made me cry in public, pissed me off AND effed up my GD eyeliner. Not cool, Becel. (insert glare)

And then the movie itself. It was entertaining. It felt really good to laugh. So, yay movie! The adult humour was clever (ish) in spots - especially a montage about how the aliens see people on earth as the only devolving species.  But there are two female lead(ish) characters - one, a stay-at-home mom and the other, the head of operations at BASA (yes, the alien planet's version of NASA) and childless, consistently jab at each other in ways that invoke the 'mommy wars'.  The 'career' woman continually makes bids the SAHM going home and staying there since she bailed on her career to have kids.  Like, more than once. And then later, when the villainous career woman is taken down by the mom, mom snarks "What did you think? Just because I pop out a few kids, I can't take you down? Pfffffft."  And yeah, ok, I giggled a bit at the latter, 'cause I've felt like that a time or two (or ten, who's counting?!) but really?? Not sure that kinda shit belongs in a kids movie. Or anywhere, for that matter. 

And then, like ALL kids films, like ever... the movie has to end with a fucking wedding.  What the hell? What the hell hell? This drives me bloody bonkers and mad and mad-bonkers.  I'm fine if my small people grow up and decide they want to marry someone. Whatever. But do we really need to *train* them to believe this is somehow inevitable? Are we really still there?  So, as we're walking out, we start talking about the movie. the kidlets chat about what they liked, and then (ever so politely, I might add) ask me what I thought. I tell them that I liked it, and it was nice to laugh after such a busy week. I also tell them that I don't really understand why every kids movie needs to end in a wedding. 

And then launch into an explanation of my reasoning that goes something like - "in your life you are probably going to love lots of different people at different times. You might even love lots of different people at the same time.  And you may want to get married or you may not.  Have you noticed how they only ever show boys and girls getting married? That's just silly. Because you might love boys and you might love girls and you might love boys and girls....."

Somewhere around there, I trail off, because I see the glazed over look on both of their faces.  

But Boy-o does actually respond. He says: "Yeah yeah yeah. I know. I can love whoever I want."  

"OR - you could maybe decide to just love yourself for awhile?" I try hopefully."You know, on account of being six?"  "And some people aren't in love with anybody. And that's ok.  It's ok to be alone. Like Mama. You don't *have* to be with someone."

And then... this little miraculous soul looks up at me with a look of such utter gravity and says: "Oh Mama!!! You aren't alone.  I love you."  

I can't... I don't... I can't even....

Oh. My. Heart.  

What was left of my Amethyst eyeliner never stood a chance. 

Thoughts for my daughter heading into International Women's Day

http://www.dailylife.com.au/life-and-love/parenting-and-families/the-problem-with-raising-good-girls-20130122-2d461.html

Dearest Girlio -

May you always be the bossy, bad-ass person that you are right now. May you always be this fierce and passionate. May you never even come close to being the people-pleaser your mama has been, and always recognize the importance and strength of you.  May you always be as aware of your sense of safety and personal boundaries as you are at 3 years old.

And (even though, I'm kinda screwing myself over here, parentally speaking, may you never, never, never be, or feel pressured to be, a 'good girl.'


All my love,

Your bad-girl Mama

p.s. Of course, I wish all of these things for your brother, too. But we live in a world in which taking up space will be expected of him, and not of you.

sometimes....

So - I'm sitting here in a state of...what?  Overwhelmedness. Tiredness. Trying not to cry-ness. Trying to breathe-ness, This is a week of supreme and wild busy.  The kind of week I dreaded going into this school venture.  The kind that made me believe it wasn't really do-able. The kind that makes me still wonder, now and again, if I am not entirely bat-shit crazy for thinking divorce and single parenting and heading into phding made any kind of good sense.  For the record, it does *not* make any kind of good sense. Though that won't stop me from trying my very best.

Anyways - this week. On top of having assignments on top of assignments mounting for the week - I also agreed to do two guest lectures on queer parenting and early childhood education tomorrow. And to be a respondent on a panel at a conference on Friday. I *want* to do these things. I *can* do these things. They are fun things. But they add to the frey of an already overwhelming week.

Enter call text from L this morning. Boy-o has been up all night barfing. So my week with babes starts early. With a poor, fever-y bub.  And of course, I'm immeasurably glad that I can be here for him. That I can snuggle him and care for him. He is my *most* important priority. This goes without saying.  But the level of overwhelmedness just increased a gazillion-fold. Exponentially. 

What do I do if I can't get any work done? What do I do if he's still sick tomorrow? Or Girlio comes down with it? Or me? 

Days like this make me think I'm a total moron (or at the very, very least - incredibly naïve) for thinking this can be done...

Hopefully by tomorrow I will remember why I thought it made sense.

Wednesday Poem - Dionne Brand reads "thirsty"

Wednesday poem - Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

WILD GEESE – by Mary OLIVER You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-- over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

TV's Single Mothers and the Dudes Who Think They Know What's Best For Them | Bitch Media

TV's Single Mothers and the Dudes Who Think They Know What's Best For Them | Bitch Media

Clearly, I need to watch these shows...

queer parenting, the lecture

So, on Thursday I'm off to give my second annual guest lecture(s) for some Early Childhood Education classes at one of the local universities. I did three of them last year as well, and I've revamped and updated it a bit. But it's still nerve-wracking. More than it might be if I was just going in to do a lecture on some other random topic I've been working on. Nerve wracking a bit, because it's, well, my life - and my kids' lives - that I'm going to talk to them about. Yes - there's some good old theory involved. Yes, it's a lecture. But it also feels like a whole lot more than that. And much more vulnerable-making.

Last year, I had one pretty great class response, one reasonably good class response, and then one shit-assed class response (which admittedly was marred by one very, very vocal objector). Students were, on the whole, receptive and responsive. But that one very, very vocal objector objected in a way that was mildly venomous. And when she said over and over again that she didn't see why she should have to make exceptions for those kinds of kids, what I heard was (and also a part of what she was saying) was that she didn't see why she should have to go out of her way for my kids.

And when you hear things like that, spoken in reference to ones' children, when one has gone out on a limb and gotten a bit vulnerable to speak about their experiences, the growly-mama-bear (she's fucking fierce - I don't recommend messing with her) in me made it exceedingly difficult not to leap out of my chair and kill her (all Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls style). You will all be relieved to hear that I did *not* kill her (or even just slightly maim her), though I did perhaps quietly note, after listening as calmly as I could to a very long homo and trans phobic diatribe, that she might be better off in the Catholic school system. (Um, ooooops). I will endeavour to quell the mama bear this go-round.

Here's hopin'.

Pema says this

So, one of my quandaries vis-a-vis the workings of the world lately has been about pain avoidance.  I mean this in the emotional rather than the physical sense - though I've never really been particularly good at avoiding either one, to tell you the truth. (So, so, so many sets of stitches, me, and the dubiously proud owner of a silly-as-hell heart that just seems to love putting itself out there). And for awhile there, I was starting to believe that things like trips to the hospital for stitches and sundry, and getting my heart smooshed were a result of some kind of intrinsic carelessness on my part. After all, I, like most people, do not particularly relish pain, generally speaking. (And no - remarkably - I'm not going to get more specific there). But lately, in my spare time - I've been reading some Pema Chödrön.  She's a Buddhist (which might make her surprising reading material for yours truly. But what can I say? I'm going through a phase. *Not* a Buddhism phase.  Just a phase-phase. I think it's probably clear that I'd make a rather shitty Buddhist), and just generally a smarty-pants in the department of emotional intelligence (which is the nuts and bolts of why I like her). (And also, in the way of further, further digression - how amazing and cool would it be if universities actually had departments of emotional intelligence?! Hmmmm. Then one would surmise, we could have departments even *less* funded than arts ;) ).  

Anyhow - she writes about many wonderful love-y sorts of things - amoung them the silliness of our penchant for pain avoidance. And what can I say? I'm struck. Perhaps I'm not a masochistic nut bar. (Or not *just* a masochistic nut bar?) Perhaps - I might even be on the right track, if such a thing exists. Who knows. It just resonated, is all.  

On that note, Pema says this:

"To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that’s all that’s happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction. On the other hand, wretchedness–life’s painful aspect–softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody’s eyes because you feel you haven’t got anything to lose–you’re just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We’d be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn’t have enough energy to eat an apple. Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together.” ~Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living by Pema Chödrön

(Though none of this helps me at all with my penchant for finding physical pain. Sadly, I'm still pretty much just a clumsy goof.) 

and while on the subject of self care....

You should go check out this link of 55 ways to take care of yourself when you are crazy-assed busy. I, personally, would like to add putting on lipstick to the list.

your mom was right, you should always wear clean underwear

Wake up calls take all kinds of forms. They can be subtle, barely noticeable and gradual.  They can also be enormous, in the smack you across the face sort of way. And, because I veer towards the, um, intense, my wake-up call involved an ambulance ride.  It's taken me awhile to be able to process and write about it, as it was a terrifying event for me and, really unfortunately, also for my kiddos. 


It had been a bad month. (Okay - maybe a bad couple of months, but who's counting?) Bad in the I'm barely making it through the day, I hope my kids can't hear me crying in the shower, lose 15 lbs in a crazy short period of time sort of way. 

I'd been trying to work, and was gearing up for the end of the day kid pickups when I started to feel some abdominal pain. I ignored it. Listening to your body is a nice thought and all, but when you're a single mama who needs to get the kids from daycare, you need to get the kids from daycare. End of story. 

So, I headed out to Girlio's daycare. By the time I got there, it was noticeably worse, but I was still managing. I kept telling myself I just had to make it to get Boy-o and I could lie down with the heating pad and order the kids some pizza so I didn't have to stand up and cook dinner. And the daycare run doesn't do itself.  Onward mama march. But by time time I hit Boy-o's school, I was nearly doubled over and having a really hard time walking. I managed, somehow, get him from the classroom to his cubby in the hallway, in a cold sweet, body going numb, roaring in my ears, before leaning against the wall and sinking to the floor, dizzy, and in a boatload of pain.  

I had the foresight (?) to realize that I wasn't going to be able to get the kids safely home from daycare at this point and pulled out my phone to call L., hoping she was still close by or at work and could get them. She asked me if I needed an ambulance.  I was still "me" enough at this point to recoil in horror at this thought. Making that kind of spectacle of myself is, in so so many ways, my worst nightmare.  I'm the kind of person who shrivels inside at the thought of restaurant birthday singers. People will *stare* at me. NO! I don't need an ambulance. Just some help getting the kids home. But two seconds after hanging up the phone, things got worse, my panic grew, my breathing got really laboured, and my hands seized up completely. I could hear Boy-o trying to talk to me, and Girlio running up and down the empty hallway - but everything had turned blurry and hazy and I was too lost inside of my body to be able to respond.  

At some point, one of his daycare workers came out. I felt her hand on my knee, it was gentle and so comforting, and heard her telling me that she was calling an ambulance.  I was too out of it at the point to feel any residual horror at this plan of action.  And then there were more daycare workers, and they were crowded around me, like the freak show I was.  Somehow - and this is my one mama-bear-super-hero moment - I managed to point in the general direction of my terrified children and croak out "kids!"  And miraculously, my wee ones spent the next I'm-not-sure-how-long, in an office full of toys being entertained by three daycare workers.  Phewf!  L arrived before the ambulance, was comforting and wonderful, and called my friend to meet me at the hospital.  And I, I took my very first ambulance ride. The ambulance dudes arrived, and very sweetly told my panicking self that my hands were seizing up because I wasn't breathing properly. Then they asked me to rate my pain on a scale. I couldn't answer them. But L. told them I gave birth twice, like a trooper, with no epidural or gas.  Wisely,at this juncture, they loaded me up on a gurney and carted me off to the ambulance.  Where I got my first sweet, sweet taste of morphine. Oh morphine - where have you been all my life? 

My dear friend J got to the hospital pretty quickly. Because she is a total goddess.  And I hadn't realized how scared I was until I saw her face - and promptly started crying.  Ahhhh yes.  Nothing like the seeing the face of someone you love to make you realize that you are now safer in the world.  My body was shaking so violently, they kept piling blanket after blanket on me (they were deliciously heated) until the blanket pile was close to being bigger than me. (I want a blanket heater for home, now!)

My wait was long. The hospital gown was hideous.  Really.  Not so fashionable, my friends. The morphine was fantastic.  And J kept me laughing as we checked out hot ambulance drivers in between waves of pain. Somewhere in there, the pain began to subside. J says she knew I was feeling better when I started fussing about my 'outfit', the fact that my socks didn't match, and asking if my make-up was a total mess.  Always a femme, even in the hospital!  They checked me out.  They x-rayed every part of me. They told me I was fine, and needed to drink more water.  Actually, they told me I was constipated. How about 'dem apples? How's that for a little humility? I thought I was dying. My kids thought I was dying. And the hospital sends me home and tells me to poop.  True story.

My own doctor, however, told me that I was likely severely dehydrated and hadn't been eating enough - which caused cramping, and given the stress-load I was carrying, my body had a trauma response to the pain.  

WAKE-UP CALL!  Yes - I don't like to do things half-assed. And the wake-up call was this. No matter what, I have babies who depend on me. I depend on me. I'm important in their world and I need to be important in mine, whether I want to be or not. And as it turns out, self-care isn't just a hippy-assed catch phrase. Sometimes, a girl like me needs a slap in the face (or a $400 ambulance ride) to remind herself that if she doesn't take care of herself, some bad shit happens.  Sigh. I always did veer towards the dramatic.

And sometimes, a face-slappy wake-up call is just what you need to turn things around. The last few months have been an exercise in self-care. I've been chilling out. I've been doing yoga (I know, right?!). I've been eating and drinking, I've been trying to focus on school, I've been trying really hard to nurture myself (which has never been my strong suit) and spending sweet time with people who love me, hopeless flaws and all. And lately, I've been waking up pretty darned content.  Lesson learned. 

(The horror of being caught in mismatched, inside out socks...)