motherhood

Mothers Like Me


I didn’t take the easy road to motherhood. The one we all learn about in health class during junior high. Insert part A into part B then wait nine (ten really) months and baby will emerge (not exactly but I decline to be one of those moms who holds that ordeal over her child’s head). Consequently my feelings on the subject and the holiday in its honor are decidedly mixed.

Until today I have never really celebrated Mother’s Day in a greeting card family sitcom kind of way. Circumstances have been such that it wasn’t a priority or even a big deal. My daughter would cart home the obligatory art projects and frankly that was enough. Last year was the first year a “dad’s” input on the matter even came up. Rob was away on a golf holiday in B.C. with some buddies and apologized profusely for not being there to “help” and by that I took it to mean – take the child out shopping – but it really didn’t matter that much to me. I like the cards and strange gifts that her teachers dream up for her to put together and give to me. She is always so excited and loves to keep the gift a secret until I see it. This year her class is having a Mother’s Day Tea complete with musical numbers and treats on the Monday following and she is beside herself with glee. What more could a mum need?

Saturday Rob took Katy shopping for Mother’s Day. He asked me for ideas and I gave him a few. He then asked if my list (a very short one by the way) was an “either/or” or an “all of the above”. At which point I reminded him that Mother’s Day is a made up holiday that has too many consumer origins to make it as important as a birthday or a wedding anniversary or remembering loved ones who have died. Priorities. But I ended up with a pink Timex sportswatch. Waterproof with cool timing features. I also scored two yoga tops from my favorite store, Lululemon. I didn’t need any of those things. Well, the watch because time is starting to be an issue. I never get anywhere anymore unless I am late or just squeaking in at the last minute. Rob explained that the gifts were catching me up for Mother’s Days past. He is sweet like that, don’t ya think?

At one point in the not so distant past, I wondered if I would ever be a mom at all. There were days that followed when I worried that I wasn’t worthy and was certain that I was ruining my child with my ineptitude and failings. With almost six years of this mothering thing under my belt, I am pretty sure I am not the worst mother on the planet in any era nor am I a candidate for mother of the year. Like most women I fall somewhere in the middle and consider myself in very good company.

My Child


I knew before she was even born that my daughter was going to be difficult. Some might say that the fact that she is challenging is a bit of self-fulfilling prophecy, but I don’t. She was stubborn and defiant and determined, and I could feel that in her long before I even knew what she looked like. Her personality was so strong it just radiated through me. And she has done nothing to dissuade me from this stance even once in the last five years.

Sometimes I wish, as much as I love her, that she was like other people’s children. You know, the children who are sweet and easy-going. The one’s that sleep through the night from month one and were never bothered by tags in their clothing or socks that weren’t put on just right. These children were perfect angels in public regardless of the circumstances, went to bed on time without struggles every night by 7 even though they took three hour naps every afternoon. They weren’t messy at the table and didn’t mark every inch of the living room with toys. Never grumpy or sassy, they were just joyful sources of pride that validated the great parenting they were receiving.

Katy never slept more than a few hours at a time when she was a baby and the situation hasn’t improved much in the ensuing years. Tags, creases, long sleeves, fabric, just being dressed in general can still send her into a tizzy. At one time she did go to bed early, but she has never willing napped – ever. She is the messiest eater and like a tomcat she claims space with her markings – toys. Toys are everywhere. She is grumpy in the morning (just like her dad which is ironic since she never knew him as a well man) and she is as sassy as I am, which I don’t find the humor in as often as I should. All in all, I feel like a pretty crappy parent about half the time.

This morning’s attack of grumpiness and the tantrum/tears that ensued when she was sent to her room is a direct result of Christmas hyper-stimulation and sleep-deprivation, but it doesn’t make it easier to deal with or make me feel better. When I finally went up to check on her (Rob went initially until it was time for him to go to work) she tried to play the grief card on me and blame her tantrum on being “sad about Daddy Will being dead”.

I really hate when she does that because she knows what she is doing, and I will not allow her to grow up to be one of those people who blames ever misfortune, or just a bad day, on past grief. She is too little to know that it hurts me when she does this, but she does know it generates sympathy, and in the past as allowed her to have her way. It’s hard to know however when she is truly grieving or just playing the card.

I told Rob that I understood why my own mom hated Christmas vacation more than she hated summer vacation.

The First Day of School


My little girl started kindergarten yesterday. She has been itching to be a kindergartner since her first year in preschool two years ago. I can remember her tears of frustration because the kindergarten students in her multi-age room got to attend writers’ table when she had to go to nap-time. She has always wanted to write. More than she wants to read really. She has filled many a pad of paper with line after line of scribble. When she finally managed to break her preschool teacher down last year and join the kindergarten students at writers’ table, she was so happy. It didn’t last long however. She expected to be able to write, like I do on the ‘puter, instantly and was miffed when she realized that there was work involved. She hasn’t give up though and still practices. Her Grandma Gerry, Rob’s mom, sat with her nearly every day on her last visit, helping Katy with her letters. Chip off the old block. I can remember being in the second grade and teaching myself cursive. I was always in a hurry to be older too. She is so much like me that it never fails to catch me off grade when I see faint hints of her father mixed in and drowning in my DNA.

 

She was a bit apprehensive when we pulled up to the school. So was I, truth be told. I wasn’t sure where to park and Rob had managed to scare me throughly with tales of traffic violations in school zones because it seems that Canadians actually enforce school zone speed limits. Once we were inside, and one of the school secretaries had escorted us to the kindergarten room, things were back on familiar ground. At least for me. Twenty years of teaching have made the rituals of the first day of school practically a reflex even if I am the parent now and not the teacher. 

 

The teacher was “wee” as Jordan would say. I find it interesting that so many of the teachers I have met who teach preschool and kindergarten are themselves quite short. It certainly puts the children at ease. They also have this very young sounding, sing-song voice that little ones love but could very slowly drive an adult insane. She introduced herself, got me going on the paperwork, of which there will be a steady and endless stream until the end of June, and invited Katy to roam and play with anything she took a fancy to. My cautious child spent a good amount of the next ten minutes observing and poking about. She is so like me in the way she stands back and assesses and big-toes the water before jumping in. Unlike me however, when she jumps, she is in. She has her dad’s ability to attract and make friends. It is something I have improved upon with years of trial and error practice, but I am still socially somewhat retarded by my inherent shyness. 

 

A tour of the building followed, and Mrs. Thompson made wonderful use of a variety of hand gestures, signing for the children many of the things she was explaining to them. She wisely took advantage of the tour to point out all the washrooms and drinking fountains and asking the children if anyone needed to make use of either or both each time. And someone always did. When we arrived at the main office, she took the little ones in to meet the vice-principal, leaving us parents to stand awkwardly in the hall to stare at each other. One of the more chatty mothers asked about start and dismissal times and was told that afternoon kindergarten began at 12:19 and ended at 3:12 to which she joked; “ What ever happened to 12:15 or 12:30.” She then proceeded to talk about her high schooler’s classes being 81-minutes in length and asked, “Who thinks this kind of thing up?” Another mother replied that it was just a way that teachers could justify their paychecks. Everyone else nodded and I bit my tongue. Not for the first time either. Just a week earlier I had listened with quiet amazement as mommies picking up their children from the child-minding at the fitness center moan about buying school supplies. One was incensed that she was expected to send a box of pencils to school with her son. “I wrote a note to the teacher saying that I was sending just five and when he was out, she should let me know and I would send 5 more.” I am glad I wasn’t that boy’s teacher. What a pain in the ass that woman must be. I have taught classes of 30 kids or more 6 times a day and can’t imagine having to keep track of the supply levels for 180 children. That, by the way, is the reason supply lists ask for boxes of pencils or reams of paper because teachers can’t keep track of every child’s supply level nor do they have spares enough of everything to give (because children of any age “take” as oppose to “borrow”) to students when they lose things or run out. 

 

At the end of the two hours, we all joined our kids on the alphabet carpet for a story. Katy made sure we sat in the first row. It pleases me to no end to have a child who chooses to sit up front because that is something I never had the confidence in myself to do. 

 

I had to hold back tears more than a few times yesterday. In part, I think, because this is a new school and I don’t know any of the people to whom I am about to entrust my child, but there was a a part of me that marveled at what a big girl she has become. Smart. Well-behaved. Inquisitive. Beautiful. And I did that. I raised her. Which is what hurts. The things that I see in her occasionally that are her father’s, well, they are there by some miracle and not  because he had an opportunity to actively shape her. I try not to let this overshadow important moments like these, but it is always there, back in the far corner of my mind.